Fugitive

CHAPTER 10

Minutes before Crazy Freddy Clayton started his hare-brained attempt to escape from the state prison, he and Charlie Marsh were working on a writ of habeas corpus at a table in the rickety wooden stacks that held the prison library’s woefully inadequate collection of legal texts. The cellmates were best friends and a truly odd couple. They were dressed in identical prison Levi’s and blue work shirts, and they were both a shade under six feet but that was where the similarities ended.

Charlie had blond hair and no tattoos. Freddy had shaved his head and resembled an art gallery when naked. Charlie was looking at parole in a few weeks on a three-year sentence for credit card fraud. Crazy Freddy was serving consecutive twenty-year terms for attempted murder and armed robbery and would be using a walker by the time he left the prison. Charlie had pumped a little iron since beginning his incarceration but the muscle he’d added to his slender frame was difficult to discern. During his many incarcerations, Freddy had developed bulging, well-defined lats, abs, pecs, and biceps by following a workout regime that bordered on the psychotic. Crazy Freddy was psychotic so the effort hadn’t cost him much.

While Freddy lived for violence, Charlie was a pacifist for practical reasons; he was a coward who had lost almost every fight in which he’d been involved. In fact, if it weren’t for Freddy, Charlie would have been one of the most picked-on boys in school and someone’s bitch in the prison. But Freddy had grown up next door to Charlie and they’d been best friends since elementary school. Charlie hid Freddy in his house whenever Clayton’s drunken father went on a rampage, and he’d helped Freddy-who was not too bright-with his schoolwork from day one. Freddy reciprocated by beating the crap out of anyone who dared to pick on his friend. It was amazing, but Freddy-a true paranoid-trusted Charlie. When he found out Charlie was headed for his lockup, he’d made certain that the inmates knew that his pal was off-limits and he had arranged to bunk with him.

Like most sociopaths, Freddy was convinced that he was highly intelligent and he was constantly coming up with “brilliant” ideas for overturning his convictions. These were the kind of ideas that never held up under close scrutiny, but Freddy rarely had his ideas scrutinized, because no one had the courage to argue with him. Debate was useless anyway, since Freddy would pound his critic into pulp when Freddy grew frustrated over his inability to understand the critic’s logic. Charlie never suggested directly that his friend’s ideas were stupid. Freddy had never touched him in anger during all the years they’d been pals, but it was always better to play it safe where Freddy was concerned.

“I’m not finding anything,” Charlie said. He’d been reading cases in which the courts overturned convictions because of incompetence of counsel.

“Look harder. There’s gotta be something about it in them books.”

“I don’t know, Freddy,” Charlie said cautiously. “I just don’t see the Supreme Court overturning your conviction because the guy peed a lot.”

“Listen, man, you ever have to go real bad?”

“Sure.”

“How well are you thinking when you got to go real bad?”

“It is distracting.”

“That’s my point. The motherfucker was peeing at every recess, and those court sessions were long. How the fuck is he gonna be concentrating on my case when he has to pee so bad? When that snitch motherfucker Jermaine was testifying against me, my lawyer was twitching and wiggling around so much I thought he was gonna fall off his motherfucking chair. I bet he didn’t hear a word that lying motherfucker said. Now that’s motherfucking incompetence, ain’t it?”

“Well, yes, it would be like falling asleep. There are cases where the courts have held that a defendant didn’t receive an adequate defense when his lawyer fell asleep during the trial.”

“See, now you’re thinking.”

“An incontinence defense would certainly be revolutionary.”

“A what?”

“Incontinence. It means the guy can’t hold it in, he wets himself. This might lead the Supreme Court to order all lawyers to wear Depends.”

Freddy smiled. “I like that.”

It was at this moment that warden Jeffrey Pulliams entered the library with prison guard Larry Merritt and three librarians from the county library system-Mabel Brooks, Ariel Pierce, and Jackie Schwartz. Warden Pulliams was a chubby, balding optimist who believed in rehabilitation. During his tenure, he had striven to build ties between the prison and the community to aid the transition of ex-convicts from incarceration to a productive life in society. This tour was part of the warden’s outreach program. It was his hope that the librarians would not only send books to the prison, but would also help promote the literacy and creative writing courses he had introduced into the prison curriculum.

Freddy Clayton was well known to the warden. They’d had a heart-to-heart talk each time the inmate had been released from solitary. The warden believed in the basic goodness of man and he never gave up on one of his charges. He was very pleased to find Freddy in a library. Of course, Crazy Freddy was not interested in outreach or broadening his mind. His main interest in life was getting out of prison in any way possible. He believed that the fortuitous appearance of the three lady librarians presented him with a faster way of achieving this goal than pursuing a writ of habeas corpus through the courts.

“Ladies,” Warden Pulliams said, “I’d like you to meet Frederick Clayton and…?”

“Charles Marsh, sir,” Charlie said when it was obvious that the warden had no idea who he was.

“Of course, Mr. Marsh. These women are librarians and I’m giving them a tour of our facility. Would you like to explain how important this library is to you?”

Charlie stood up but Freddy stayed seated.

“A well-stocked library is essential in a prison,” Charlie said. “As you may imagine, ladies, prisoners have a lot of idle time, and idle hands are the Devil’s workshop. This library enables us to put our idle time to good use.”

While Charlie’s bullshit answer was enchanting the warden, Freddy bent down and pulled a shiv out of his sock.

“I couldn’t have expressed it better, Mr. Marsh,” the warden said with a wide smile, which vanished instantly when Freddy yanked Jackie Schwartz away from the group and pressed the razor-sharp blade of his prison-made knife against her jugular vein.

“What are you doing?” Charlie yelled.

“I’m getting me the fuck out of here,” Freddy told his friend. Then he turned his attention to the warden.

“I’ll gut this bitch if you don’t do exactly what I say. Do you understand me, motherfucker?”

“Mr. Clayton…” the warden began.

“Shut the fuck up. I do the talking here. Anyone says a word and I start cutting. Now get the fuck over to the storeroom.”

Freddy nodded his head toward the far wall, where a door opened on a storage area that contained cleaning supplies, extra books, and odds and ends.

The guard started sliding his hand toward his nightstick.

“I saw that,” Freddy said, sliding his blade an inch to the right. A thin trickle of blood dribbled down the hostage’s throat. Mabel Brooks gasped.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch, and you, drop the stick and start moving. Next time you move funny she dies and I just start stabbing until someone brings me down.”

The warden had read Clayton’s file several times and knew he would kill without remorse.

“Do as he says,” Pulliams ordered in a shaky voice as he started walking toward the storage room.

The other inmates who were using the library had heard the commotion and they wandered over as Freddy herded his hostages through the stacks.

“Get out,” Freddy commanded. “You don’t want to be in here.”

The men didn’t stop to think. Charlie started to follow them but Freddy stopped him.

“Not you, Charlie. I need you with me, bro.”

Charlie’s heart sank. He was just weeks away from parole. Now Freddy was making him an accomplice in crimes that could keep him behind bars forever.

As soon as the hostages were inside the storeroom, Freddy looked around. His eyes stopped on a large spool of cord.

“Tie them up, Charlie.”

“Maybe we should…”

“Nah, we got to tie them up so they won’t cause trouble.”

Freddy used the shiv to cut several lengths of rope. While Charlie was tying up the hostages, Freddy’s eyes roamed the room. When everyone but Jackie Schwartz was secure and seated on the floor, Freddy turned the quivering woman over to Charlie and inspected several cans of paint that were stored in a corner of the room. Next to the paint cans were several tins of paint thinner, which bore labels warning that the product was hazardous and flammable.

Freddy searched the warden and the guard but didn’t find what he was looking for. Then he collected the women’s handbags and searched through them. He smiled when he found a pack of cigarettes in Mabel Brooks’s bag and grinned broadly when he discovered her lighter.

“This is just what I need,” Freddy said. He walked over to the painting supplies and carried one of the tins of paint thinner over to the spot against the wall where Charlie had lined up the hostages.

“This here’s my insurance,” Freddy told Charlie. Then he turned to the hostages. “You all are gonna get a bath. I see anyone try to escape…”

Freddy flicked the lighter. Mabel Brooks stared at the tiny flame and started to weep, and Jackie Schwartz was white-faced from shock.

Freddy opened the tin and doused the woman. Then he moved to the next hostage. When he was done, Charlie pulled him aside and whispered so the hostages wouldn’t hear him.

“Freddy, this isn’t good. Maybe you should stop now. No one’s been hurt too badly. Maybe we can convince the warden to let bygones be bygones if you let everyone loose.”

“Warden ain’t gonna forgive and forget, are you?” Freddy asked Pulliams. The warden didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought. Nah, Charlie, we’re in this for the long haul. It’ll be freedom or death.”

“I got freedom coming up, Freddy. I’m gonna get paroled real soon. How about letting me walk on this?”

“Can’t do it, bro. You know I ain’t good at expressing myself.”

“You talk fine. You’re a bright guy.”

“Not like you, Charlie. I wouldn’t know the words. I’m gonna need you to talk for me.”

Charlie glanced over at the women. They were terrified. The guard was trying hard to stay cool, but Warden Pulliams was sweating badly. Charlie felt sorry for them. He also felt sorry for himself and pissed off at Freddy for getting him into this mess.

Charlie’s relationship with Freddy was complicated. They were best friends, but Charlie disapproved of almost everything Freddy did. If it weren’t for the bonds they’d forged since childhood, Charlie would have stayed miles from Clayton. Still, there was no denying that he would have been badly injured several times if Freddy hadn’t protected him, so he did owe Freddy for that. If Freddy released him to negotiate he could run, but that would probably mean that the hostages would die or a SWAT team would come in blazing and Freddy would die, and he didn’t want that on his conscience.

“Okay, bro. I’ll help you out here, but you have to promise me that you won’t hurt anyone.”

“Hey, if someone gets out of line, I’ll draw the line.”

“True enough, but I’ll have a hard time selling your program if I can’t assure the negotiators that all of the hostages are unharmed.”

“I see your point.”

“Great. So, what’s your plan?”

This was a difficult question for Freddy to answer, since he had acted on impulse without a strategy.

“Well, we tell the motherfuckers to let us out of here or we kill these motherfuckers.”

“Okay, that’s a start, but where do you want to go once you’re out?”

This was an even tougher question. Freddy hadn’t been too many places besides prison. Then he remembered a television show that had featured a hostage situation.

“A tropical island, man. I want to go to a tropical island. And I want a jet and one million…nah, make it two million dollars.”

Charlie nodded several times. “That sounds doable,” he lied.

A tentative knock on the storeroom door startled everyone.

“Get the fuck back, motherfucker, or I’ll start cutting on these bitches,” Freddy yelled.

“It’s me, Jack Collins,” the trustee librarian answered in a shaky voice. Collins was a seventy-year-old lifer who had been a fifty-two-year-old bookstore owner until he shot his brand-new, twenty-year-old wife and her lover. “They told me to talk to you, Freddy.”

“What do they want?” Freddy asked.

“They want you to let everyone go. They won’t hurt you if everyone’s okay.”

“You tell them I ain’t letting anyone out until my demands are met. If they don’t meet my demands, people are gonna die. I got them all covered with paint thinner. If I don’t get what I want we’re gonna have an old-fashioned barbecue in here.”

“What…what do you want?”

“My man, Charlie, knows our demands. Who’s out there with you?”

“Nobody. Just me.”

“You better be telling the truth or we’re gonna have crispy-fried librarian for dinner.”

“Don’t hurt anyone, Freddy. Okay? I’m the only one in the library.”

“I’m sending out Charlie. He’ll tell them what we want. And I’d better get it.”

“IS FREDDY INSANE?” Collins asked when he and Charlie were far enough from the storeroom so Freddy couldn’t hear him through the door.

“Are you referring to his mental state or his plan?” Charlie answered bitterly.

“The question was rhetorical,” said Collins, who knew that Freddy was a head case and that Charlie knew what “rhetorical” meant.

“I don’t know why Freddy does this shit,” Charlie complained. “But then neither does he, half the time.”

“Well, you better do something. McDermott’s in charge. He’s got the prison locked down and SWAT is on the way.”

Michael McDermott, the assistant warden, was a deeply religious man, who had started as a guard and worked his way up to his present position as second in command. McDermott despised Warden Pulliams and he hated the inmates. He had no faith in rehabilitation and viewed incarceration as punishment for sin. The assistant warden longed for the good old days when flogging, chain gangs, and sweatboxes were the rage.

McDermott was waiting outside the library door, cradling a shotgun across his massive forearms and glaring down at Charlie from six feet five inches above ground. Several armed guards stood behind him, but none were as big. McDermott was a bull with a thick neck, broad shoulders, and tree-trunk torso and legs.

“Who’s this?” McDermott asked Collins.

“Charlie Marsh, sir,” answered the trustee, his voice quivering. “He’s Clayton’s cellmate.”

“Okay, Marsh. What’s going on here?”

“Mr. McDermott, sir, I just want to say that I had nothing to do with this. I’m up for parole in…”

“Did I ask for your life story, Marsh?” McDermott said in a tone that would have been a bone-chilling growl if it had come from a rottweiler.

“No, sir. I just wanted you to know that this was all Freddy’s idea. See, he doesn’t think so well at times, and this is one of them. We were working on a legal writ when Warden Pulliams stopped at our table with these three ladies. Next thing I know, Freddy’s got a knife and he’s threatening to kill one of the women if the warden doesn’t do what he says. Now, the warden, the women, and a guard are tied up in the storeroom.”

“Let’s go in and take him out,” suggested a buzz-cut guard who was almost as big as McDermott.

“With all due respect, sir, that might not be wise,” Charlie said. “Freddy doused everyone with paint thinner. He’ll set them on fire if you storm the room. But listen, I think there’s a way out of this.”

“Talk,” McDermott ordered.

“Freddy and I grew up together. We’ve been close since elementary school. I know exactly how his mind works. Freddy has a short attention span, real short. He gets crazy ideas and acts on them without thinking, but he loses interest fast. You can get everyone out of this unharmed if you have a little patience.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Freddy’s got demands. He wants a jet plane to fly him to a tropical island and two million dollars.”

McDermott laughed harshly. “Where’d he get that from, TV?”

“Probably, or some movie. But he’s fixed on these demands, and once Freddy is fixed on an idea there’s no way to change his mind until he gets bored. So we have to make him think you’re trying to put the deal together and let me work on him. I’ll try to get as many people out of there as I can, and I’ll try to talk Freddy out as soon as I see he’s losing interest.

“I don’t want anyone hurt. Freddy is my best friend. He had a real rough time growing up and it screwed up his mind. Also, he’s not too smart. If it’s possible, I want to keep him, the warden, the guard, and those ladies alive.”

“What’s in this for you?” McDermott asked.

“Nothing. I’m only in on a credit card fraud beef. I’m up for parole real soon. I just want everything back the way it was before Freddy went off on those people.”

“All right. Tell Clayton I’m working on getting him the plane and the money.”

“The hostages will need food soon, and water.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” McDermott said. “And you’re doing the right thing by helping us, Marsh. I remember cons who do the right thing.” He paused. “And I particularly remember those who don’t.”

The assistant warden waited until Charlie reentered the library. Then he turned to the guard with the buzz cut.

“Find out where the SWAT team is and let’s get some more men up here.”

“Are you going to wait for Marsh to work on his buddy?”

“I’ll give him some time, but not much,” McDermott answered, his close-set eyes concentrating on the library door as his mind swept through various scenarios, all of which ended with Freddy Clayton’s bullet-riddled body being dragged out of the storeroom by his heels.

A RABID CONVICT holding three helpless women and a prison warden hostage is the answer to a twenty-four-hour news station’s prayers, but there was no television or radio in the library, so Freddy was unaware of the media circus that had sprung up around the prison. Charlie knew about the news coverage because McDermott had given in to requests to let a pool of reporters from the papers and television into the prison. The lights on the TV cameras would flash on whenever he stepped out of the library door to continue his dialogue with McDermott.

During the next two days, Charlie shuffled back and forth between the storeroom and the hall outside the library as Freddy’s patience dwindled to almost nothing. As it turned out, the assistant warden and Crazy Freddy had about the same tolerance for inaction. Charlie was constantly talking his friend out of cutting throats and McDermott out of sending in the troops. An arson expert had informed McDermott that the flammable qualities of the paint thinner would dissipate over time, upping the chances that the SWAT team could prevent major injuries if they acted fast enough. Charlie found out about this plan and squelched it by telling McDermott that Freddy kept dousing the hostages with more fluid whenever he grew bored.

The prison standoff came to a head on the third day. The close air in the storeroom stank of sweat, fear, and paint thinner. The hostages were exhausted, frightened, and depressed, and Freddy was at the end of his rope. He hadn’t slept for more than twenty minutes at a time since precipitating the hostage crisis and his nerves were completely frayed. Charlie watched him pace back and forth in front of the hostages, the shiv clutched in one hand and the lighter in the other. Freddy would tense every time a “thump-thump-thump” signaled a helicopter passing overhead and grow even more tense when there was silence, which he took as the lull before a SWAT team stormed the storeroom.

“This is it, this is it,” Freddy mumbled under his breath. His eyes were bloodshot and his jaw was clenched so hard that his skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones.

“Be cool, Freddy,” Charlie said, trying to sound confident through his exhaustion.

“The motherfuckers are stalling. The SWATs are coming any minute. I can smell them.”

“I don’t think so. I really believe they’re getting the money together.”

Freddy stopped pacing and stared at Charlie.

“Bullshit.”

Normally, Freddy yelled and ranted, but now his voice was calm and pitched low. His self-possession terrified Charlie.

“They’re not sending a plane. They’re playing you. It’s time to show those motherfuckers I mean business or they’ll lose respect for me. Once that happens it’s the SWATs for sure.”

“They’ll definitely send in the troops if you send out a body. You’ll be giving them no choice.”

Freddy’s shoulders sagged and Charlie knew that his friend had given up all hope of lying on the beach of a tropical island.

“I don’t give a fuck anymore. The SWATs come in, I’m a dead man. I go out there, I’m a dead man. You don’t think some accident is gonna happen to me somewhere down the line if I survive today? Sending a body out is my only chance.”

Freddy turned away from his friend and studied the hostages. Most of them were too tired and hungry to show emotion. Larry Merritt was the only one who had the courage to meet Freddy’s eyes. Freddy pointed at the guard.

“I’ll slit his throat and you’ll drag him out. Tell McDermott that a hostage dies every hour the plane and the money aren’t here.”

“No, Freddy. Don’t do this.”

“I gotta, bro. Ain’t no other way.”

“If you kill him you’re killing me, too. They’ll come in shooting and no convict is gonna walk out alive.”

“You can hide behind that,” Freddy said, pointing to a broken, three-legged office desk that canted sideways, one corner touching the floor. “Then you surrender. You’re smart. You can talk your way out. Me, I gotta act.”

Freddy started toward the guard. “Say good night, motherfucker.”

Freddy started his downward thrust and Charlie hurled himself between the prison guard and Freddy’s knife.

“What the fuck!” shouted Freddy as the shiv buried itself in Charlie’s shoulder blade. Charlie was sprawled across the startled guard. Freddy jerked the knife out of Charlie’s back and Charlie rolled sideways so he could see his cellmate.

“Shit,” he groaned. “You stabbed me, Freddy.”

“What the fuck were you doing?” asked his shocked friend.

“Saving your life.”

Charlie pulled himself into a sitting position and gathered his courage, still keeping his body between Freddy and Merritt. What he wanted to say was hard for a man to express.

“I love you, Freddy.”

“What?”

“Not like that. I’m not queer. I love you like a brother. Hell, we are brothers. We don’t have the same mother or father, but we’re more brothers than natural brothers. You hear what I’m saying?”

Freddy looked stunned. Outside of bitches in the throes of passion, who he knew were just after his dope or money, no one had ever told him they loved him.

Charlie reached over his back and felt blood leaking from the knife wound. He grimaced.

“You okay?” Freddy asked with genuine concern.

“No, man, I’m not okay. You fucking stabbed me. But I’d let you kill me if it would save your life. That’s why I couldn’t let you off the guard. If he died, you’d be a dead man for sure.”

“You’d die for me?” Freddy said, trying hard to get his mind around the fact that Charlie was willing to take a bullet for him.

“To save you, yeah. Hell, how many times have you rescued me? I can’t count them. It’s time for me to pay you back.”

“Oh, man, you don’t owe me shit. You’re my friend, Charlie, my only friend.”

Freddy’s eyes filled with tears, something that hadn’t happened since he’d built an iron shell around his feelings to shield himself from his father’s vicious abuse.

“Naw, Freddy, you got plenty of friends,” Charlie lied, embarrassed by Freddy’s unexpected and unprecedented display of emotion.

“You’re lying, bro, but I ain’t mad. I know you just want me to feel good, but I don’t. I know plenty of people fear me, but you’re the only one who cares. You protected me from my old man when he, well, when he done that shit.”

Charlie felt a spasm of pain and moaned. Freddy knelt next to him and looked at his shoulder. The back of the blue prison-issue shirt was turning red. Freddy helped Charlie take it off, then made a compress by folding the shirt and tying it in place over the wound with his own. As he helped Charlie to his feet, Freddy noticed an empty liter bottle of cola that had rolled against the wall. A wave of strong emotion swept through him as he realized what he had to do. Then he threw his arms around Charlie and hugged him.

“I’m sorry I got you involved in this,” Freddy said when he’d released his friend. “I wasn’t thinking. You could have been killed, but I was just thinking of myself.”

“Hey, man…”

“Don’t say nothing, Charlie. Let me talk. You always think about me, man, but I’m a selfish bastard. It’s time I did something for you. I’m setting everyone free. You’re gonna take them out of here. Tell McDermott I’m gonna surrender and face the music. I fucked up and I gotta pay.”

“That’s great, Freddy. You’re doing the right thing.”

“Yeah, bro, I believe I am. Cut them loose and get your ass out of here.”

Charlie felt lightheaded from his wound but he knew he had to move fast, before Freddy changed his mind. Charlie used the shiv to cut everyone’s bonds. Then he gave it back to Freddy and led the hostages out of the storeroom.

“It’s Charlie Marsh, Mr. McDermott,” he shouted through the library door. “I’ve got the hostages with me. They’re free and unharmed. Don’t shoot, we’re coming out.”

The door opened and the hostages rushed into the corridor. Some were sobbing; others were too exhausted to show emotion.

“Mr. McDermott, Freddy wants to surrender. If you go in now he’ll give up,” Charlie managed. He was feeling dizzy from blood loss and the pain was making it hard to think. Suddenly, Charlie staggered and collapsed to the ground next to Warden Pulliams.

“Get a medic,” the warden told McDermott. “This man was stabbed saving Larry’s life. He’s a hero.”

The captain of the SWAT team sent a medic over to Charlie. Then he and McDermott and several members of the SWAT team entered the library. The point man led them through the stacks until they could see the door to the storeroom. The captain used hand signals to place his men where they would have a clear shot.

“Mr. Clayton, this is Assistant Warden McDermott. We’re grateful that you’ve released the hostages unharmed. Please come out now and we’ll take you into custody. I assure…”

The storeroom door burst open to reveal Crazy Freddy Clayton. He was stripped to the waist and his sculpted body gleamed with sweat. In one hand he held his shiv; in the other he held the soda pop bottle. The bottle was filled with paint thinner. A rag had been stuffed through the neck and into the liquid. Bright flames were eating away at the rag.

“FREEDOM OR DEATH!” howled Freddy as three shots fired simultaneously by members of the SWAT team caught him in the chest.

Freddy staggered a step and the Molotov cocktail exploded, bathing him in flames.

CHAPTER 11

Charlie Marsh had always been a nobody; an insignificant member of the human race who had left no mark on history during his time on Earth. Now he was a hero and, as Warden Pulliams was quick to point out to anyone who would listen, walking proof that the warden’s theories of rehabilitation worked. What better example could there be than Charlie’s willingness to sacrifice his life for that of his jailer?

The warden was wise enough to realize that many convicts would not view Charlie’s actions in a positive light and would consider Freddy Clayton, who had died in flames rather than knuckle under to The Man, as the true hero of the prison standoff. To protect Charlie from those inmates who had not yet turned a moral corner, the warden sent Charlie to the county hospital to recuperate while he arranged for an early release, an appropriate reward for his gallantry.

The first evening Charlie spent on clean sheets in the air-conditioned luxury of his hospital room, the nurse tuned his television to the national news, where the prison standoff was the lead story. It was surreal, watching himself stagger out of the library behind the hostages and collapse to the floor while Mabel Brooks told the world:

“That guard wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Mr. Marsh. None of us would be alive. He threw himself between that knife and Mr. Merritt. And he kept that animal from setting us on fire. I know we’d all be dead if Mr. Marsh hadn’t protected us. God bless him.”

Charlie should have felt proud of his heroic actions and elated by his proximity to freedom, but the primary emotion he experienced was guilt. Was he really a hero? Had he thrown himself between Freddy’s knife and Larry Merritt’s body to save an innocent man or to save himself from being charged as an accessory to murder? And why had he told Freddy he loved him? Had he spoken from the heart or was he trying to distract Freddy to keep himself from being murdered for interfering with his lunatic friend’s insane plan? Charlie had been living the con for so long that it was hard at times for him to divine his own motivations.

Life moved quickly for Charlie. While the parole board considered Warden Pulliams’s recommendation for early release, he waded through offers from literary agents and movie producers. The offers were a surprise, and the fact that he was going to make a huge profit from Freddy’s death increased his guilt. An image of Freddy Clayton in flames seared his brain whenever he thought about the money he was going to make. This image didn’t deter him from hiring an agent or accepting a seven-figure movie deal and another seven-figure book deal for his autobiography, but it kept him from experiencing unfettered joy at his sudden reversal of fortune.

Freddy’s death was the only downer for Charlie in the whirlwind that became his life after prison. Within days of his release he was on Oprah and the Today show, and he learned that Tom Cruise was interested in playing him in the movie. No longer did Charlie sleep in the upper bunk of a prison cell; now he slept on silk sheets in a Manhattan apartment that his publisher let him use while he was working on the book.

Charlie stayed away from drugs, which were offered at the many parties he attended, and he didn’t get drunk, because he liked to keep his wits about him, but he did not stay away from the ladies. Charlie could not believe the variety of women who begged him to take them to bed. There were black women, white women, and Asian women. There were blondes, brunettes, and redheads. There were women who were attracted to celebrities; there were women who wanted to have sex with a rich man; and there were women who were fascinated by dangerous felons, which was how Charlie began portraying himself. No one in his new circle of acquaintances had ever heard of him or Freddy before the prison standoff, so they accepted his new and improved version of Charlie Marsh, the extremely violent felon who had experienced a miraculous conversion.

Mickey Keys, his newly acquired agent, a fast-talking, red-haired, freckle-faced man of forty-two who was frenetically cheerful, had given him the idea when he joked that it would help sell books if Charlie had a more exciting name. As soon as his agent made this comment, Charlie realized that not only was his name as dull as the image a marsh conjured, but so was his life story. His parents had been decent, hardworking folks whose only sin was spoiling their only child. Charlie had turned to crime because he was lazy, and the only violence his escapades ever caused occurred when he was beaten up by a mark who caught on to his scam.

On the other hand, Freddy Clayton’s life resembled a Shakespearean tragedy or a really good soap opera. Freddy had been an abused child. Television talk show hosts loved that dysfunctional-family shit. Freddy had committed murders and armed robberies. He’d had hairbreadth escapes from the law, and violent fights. Few people beside Charlie knew the facts of Freddy’s life-or his, for that matter. Who could contradict him if he took a few incidents from Freddy’s saga and claimed them for his own? Their parents were dead, and so were many of the witnesses to Freddy’s deeds. Oh, there was the odd living acquaintance, but most of those in the know had prison records. Who would take their word over a hero’s, and how many of them had outstanding warrants that would be executed if they stepped forward? Charlie convinced himself that his book would be a homage to Crazy Freddy if he claimed his friend’s life as his own.

Most of his interviews had focused on the prison standoff, and Charlie had been vague when an interviewer asked him about his past. He hadn’t started working with the ghostwriter who would actually write his book, either, so no one knew what he was going to say in his autobiography. Charlie spent the next month revising the outline his agent had suggested he write. By the time he met the ghostwriter, his autobiography contained accounts of knife fights and bare-fisted brawls, in which Charlie emerged victorious, as well as murders and other illegal endeavors. In his introduction, Charlie explained that the details of these incidents had to be kept vague because of potential criminal liability. There were also hints of a childhood in which he had been physically-and perhaps sexually-abused. Charlie knew that this would make his innocent parents look bad, but they were dead, and anyway, wouldn’t a parent be willing to tarnish his or her name a little bit if it helped their child succeed in life after a rocky start?

Of course, the book had an uplifting ending. Charlie talked about the Inner Light” that had infused him during his near-death experience, and how being filled with this light had led him to renounce crime and vow to help everyone else on earth find their own Inner Light”. Getting a trademark for this phrase was another idea of Mickey Keys’s.

There hadn’t really been any light, inner or otherwise. Charlie didn’t have a clear recollection of what had happened during the insane moment when he’d thrown himself between the guard and the shiv. The inner-light business had been Mickey’s suggestion, too. Well, not an outright suggestion, more a “memory” of Charlie’s that had been elicited by some very pointed questions, such as “Did you have any religious experience when you were stabbed? You know, some people who’ve had near-death experiences claim to see a blinding light. Something like that? That would be great, because talk shows love it when you have a religious conversion or a near-death experience.”

Charlie announced the formation of Inner Light, Inc., at the press conference heralding the publication of The Light Within You, which had been hurried into print while the action at the prison was still fresh in the public’s mind. At that conference, Charlie also announced that henceforth he would refer to himself as Gabriel Sun, a new name that would commemorate the death of the bandit Charlie Marsh and his rebirth as a bringer of light.

Charlie’s autobiography became an instant best-seller. It began in his deprived childhood, detailed the way poverty and abuse had made him a criminal, and explained how his experience with his Inner Light while saving Larry Merritt-and Warden Jeffrey Pulliams’s belief in him-had restored his faith in the goodness of man. Charlie told the attending media representatives how he looked forward to holding seminars in the cities on his book tour so he could help troubled people find their Inner Light. There would be a nominal fee for attendance but, Charlie promised, the benefits to an attendee’s personal and spiritual development would far outweigh the price of admission.

The seminars and the concessions that hawked Charlie’s book, CDs featuring Charlie’s words of wisdom, T-shirts, and other Inner Light paraphernalia produced a river of cash. Charlie had made a living swindling people out of their money, and he found a kindred spirit in Mickey Keys. The agent and his new client began sending the cash in the accounts of Inner Light, Inc., to secret bank accounts in Switzerland as quickly as it came in. Mickey, who had an accounting background, worked up a second set of books for the IRS, and Charlie and Mickey’s real financial picture looked very healthy even as it appeared to be anemic in their ledgers.

Charlie held his seminars at each stop on his book tour. They were attended by members of the middle class who longed to be wealthy and successful, and people with wealth who were troubled by their success. If the opportunity presented itself, he would fuck any rich woman who wished to purge her guilt by servicing an all-wise and dangerous ex-con. On occasion, he would have sex with one of the less well off groupies who hung around his book signings. That’s what he was doing after a very lucrative seminar at Yale University when he was startled in mid-thrust by Mickey Keys’s unannounced entry into his hotel bedroom.

“What the fuck!” Charlie shouted, furious at being interrupted. The coed he’d been banging was as delicious as a peach and as tight as a drum.

Keys ignored Charlie and turned on the television. “Watch this.”

“It better be great.”

“It’s better than great, Charlie. Now, pay attention.”

It was night on the screen. Flames could be seen flicking out of a few barred windows, and the spotlight of a police helicopter illuminated the prison grounds and the National Guard and state troopers massed before the high walls.

“Why did you need to interrupt the best fuck I’ve had all year to show me a prison? I’m trying to forget prison.”

“You’ll want to get reacquainted when you hear my idea. This is a shot of the Oregon State Penitentiary. Early this morning, a fight erupted between a Latino gang and members of the Aryan Brotherhood. When guards tried to intervene, several were taken hostage and the fight turned into a full-scale riot.”

“What’s your point?” Charlie whined, upset that his boner had begun to wilt.

“We’re going to Oregon, where you will offer your services as a negotiator to help end the insurrection at the prison.”

“Oregon? I don’t even know where the fuck that is.”

“The national press knows where it is. This is the lead story on every network and all the cable news shows.”

“Mickey, you don’t know squat about this kind of shit. The authorities aren’t going to let me anywhere near the prison.”

Mickey smiled. “That’s probably true but you’ll get tons of free publicity if they do. And if the governor won’t let you talk to the rioters, you look like a good guy who’s just trying to help. No matter how the riot ends, you come out smelling like a rose and you get tons of free air time.”

“What about the book tour?”

“I talked to your publisher. They agree that you should go. They’re already setting up a seminar at the home of a lawyer who published a book with them.”

Charlie lay back in bed. The coed was clutching a sheet to her chest and listening intently to the conversation.

“All right, when do we leave?”

“In about two hours.”

Charlie smiled at the girl. “That gives us enough time to finish what we started, sweet thing.

“Turn off the set and let me get back to my business,” Charlie told Keys.

The agent shook his head and left the room. Charlie felt under the sheets until he found a hot, soft place between the coed’s legs.

“I see you haven’t cooled down.”

The coed rolled over until she was breast-to-breast with Charlie.

“Fuck me hard, Charlie,” she whispered, “and when you’re done, take me with you to Oregon.”

“What?” Charlie said, pulling away a little.

A hand wrapped around his penis.

“I’m wasting my time in college. I’m so unhappy here. I want you to teach me the path to inner peace.”

Charlie wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical discussion. He also didn’t want this broad tagging along to Oregon, even if he had been sincere when he praised her sexual abilities to Mickey Keys.

“I hear you, sister, but…” Charlie started, when the soft, rhythmic motion of her hand made him forget what he was going to say.

“Please, Charlie, let me come. I’m smart. I can help, and there are other things I can do for you.”

Charlie knew he should say no, but the girl ducked beneath the sheets and the touch of her lips banished all knowledge of the English language from his brain.

CHAPTER 12

Dunthorpe was an affluent community on the outskirts of Portland, and Charlie’s seminar had been hosted in a Tudor mansion surrounded by several acres of lawn and trees. The mansion was bigger than some he’d been in since he’d become a celebrity and smaller than others. When he was in these penthouses, mansions, and estates, he felt like Alice in Wonderland. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams, but since he’d started holding his seminars he’d met people compared to whom he was a pauper. Where did all this money come from?

There was something else that seemed surreal. Charlie had grown up poor. There were evictions, there were times when there wasn’t enough food, and there was violence in his neighborhood and his life. He’d always thought that his problems would be solved if he were rich, but these people were rich and they looked to him for help in finding happiness. He didn’t get it.

Charlie was rarely alone during his year and a half in prison or the whirlwind his life had become since regaining his freedom, and he’d come to treasure the rare moments of peace and quiet he was able to salvage from his hectic existence. As soon as he finished signing copies of his book, Charlie slipped through the French windows in the library to get a breath of fresh air. There was a flower garden on the far side of the spacious lawn. Charlie wandered across the manicured grass in its direction. Delmar Epps, a muscular ex-heavyweight boxer Mickey Keys had hired, followed far enough behind to give Charlie the illusion of privacy and close enough to fulfill his duties as a bodyguard.

Everything had gone as Mickey had predicted. The authorities had refused to let Charlie be involved in the negotiations with the prisoners, so he shared none of the blame when two guards and several inmates died in a bloody shoot-out. Charlie was able to go on television and pontificate about the way things might have ended if he had been allowed to bring inner peace to the rebellious souls of the prisoners. As a result of the publicity, Charlie had packed the convention center for a citywide seminar that had brought in a tidy sum. They had also done well in Dunthorpe at this second seminar aimed at a more select audience.

After initially bitching and moaning about having to fly to the boonies, Charlie had finally conceded that he was glad Mickey had dragged him to Portland. Oregon had been a revelation for a man who had been reared in bleak, urban poverty and had just emerged from the gray of prison to take up residence in the concrete caverns of Manhattan. There were clear blue skies here, emerald green grass, and a never-ending vista of trees and flowers. The summer air was warm and unpolluted, and Charlie breathed it in, savoring a gentle breeze as he crossed the lawn.

A high hedge of arborvitae divided the lawn from the garden and muffled a spirited conversation. Charlie wanted to be alone, so he started to change direction. He stopped when a woman’s voice rose in anger. Charlie took a step into the garden and peered around the hedge. A man in tan slacks and a forest green polo shirt was arguing with a woman in a light blue dress held up by spaghetti straps.

The man, who looked to be in his late twenties, was tan and fit, with the wide shoulders and slender waist of an athlete. Charlie didn’t recognize him. But the woman was definitely familiar. She’d stood behind most of the guests at the seminar, wearing a bemused smile that told him she wasn’t buying one word of his bullshit. Charlie also remembered the woman because she was stunningly beautiful, with caramel-colored, shoulder-length hair and blue eyes that reminded him of the clear Caribbean waters he’d seen in a television commercial.

“You’re not listening, Tony,” the woman snapped. “I don’t want you bothering me. Do I have to talk to someone at the club to get you to leave me alone?”

The woman started to leave, but Tony grabbed her wrist.

“Brushing me off isn’t going to be that easy, Sally.”

Sally stopped and turned slowly until her face was inches from his.

“Take your hands off of me,” she said, emphasizing each word in an icy tone that would have frozen fire.

Emboldened by Delmar’s presence and the possibility of getting in the blonde’s pants, Charlie decided to inject himself into this volatile situation.

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Charlie said in his best prison don’t fuck-with-me voice. “Unhand the lady.”

Tony took one look at Charlie’s unimposing appearance and laughed.

“‘Motherfucker’? My, my, and here I thought you were in favor of peace and love, Swami.”

Thanks to Freddy Clayton, Charlie hadn’t been in any fights in prison and very few on the outside, but he’d seen quite a few and had made a mental list of what worked and what didn’t. Charlie shot a fast right over Sally’s shoulder and connected with the tip of Tony’s nose, a very delicate part of the anatomy that hurts like hell when mashed. Tony’s hands flew up to his nose just as Delmar imposed his bulk between Charlie and the wounded man. The ex-boxer grabbed the fabric at Tony’s neck in one massive fist and twisted.

“This gentleman bothering you, boss?” he asked Charlie as he peeled back his jacket with his free hand so Tony could see the fancy, ivory-handled revolver wedged in his waistband.

“No, he isn’t bothering anyone anymore,” Charlie answered. “Send the gentleman on his way, Delmar, and see to his nose if it’s broken.”

Delmar dragged Tony out of the garden and Charlie turned toward the woman.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she answered coolly, “and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Charlie was surprised. He’d assumed that a society woman would be terrified and sexually aroused by violence, but this one seemed more amused than horrified. She tilted her head and studied Charlie for a moment.

“I assume these heroics were a prelude to an attempt to fuck me,” she said.

“What?!”

“Didn’t any of the ninnies at the seminar want to jump in the sack with you after hearing your patter about inner lights and personal peace?”

“I don’t…”

The woman laughed. “Looks like I’ve got you rattled.”

“Hey, when you’ve done the things I’ve done and made it through prison in one piece, nothing rattles you,” Charlie said, trying to recapture some of the high ground.

“Do tell, tough guy. Well, we’ll see. Witnessing these manly fisticuffs has made me hot,” she said in a voice devoid of sexual desire. “Think you’re ready to prove how manly you really are or do I have to hunt up someone else?”

“Yeah, okay, I’m with you,” was the best he could come back with. Charlie was usually the animal prowling the jungle for pussy. But this woman made him feel like prey.

“Then let’s get out of here. Tony’s such a jackass that he might call the cops, so it’s better if you’re not around.” She tossed him her car keys. “These are for my Porsche. You drive.”

SALLY POPE’S HOME wasn’t as grand as the mansion they’d just left but it wasn’t a shack either.

“Nice digs,” Charlie said as soon as Sally turned on the lights so he could see the stone entryway and the curved staircase that led to the second floor.

Sally didn’t waste time replying. She dropped her purse on a small table near the door and moved in on Charlie. He could feel the firmness of her breasts against his chest. Her hand slid down to his crotch and he was starting to lose it when he noticed a catcher’s mitt and a plastic bat lying on the entryway floor.

Sally felt him tense and stepped back. She saw where he was staring.

“That’s Kevin’s. He’s four, and you don’t have to worry. He’s at a sleepover, so we won’t be disturbed.”

“What about your husband? Is he at a sleepover, too?”

Sally closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Look, Charlie, do you want to fuck or learn my family history?”

“Hey, sorry, none of my business.”

“Let’s get this out of the way, okay? My husband is United States Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. and he’s in Washington, DC, tonight, saving the country from liberals, abortionists, and criminals like you. Now, if that frightens you so much that you can’t get it up, leave. If you’re still interested in a roll in the hay, can the questions.”

“WHO WAS THAT guy you were arguing with, tonight?” Charlie asked. They were lying in the wreckage of Sally’s marital bed, lathered in sweat and resting for round three.

“A nobody, Tony Rose. He’s the tennis pro at the Westmont Country Club. He thinks we’ve been having an affair, but that term is a tad more sophisticated than I’d use to describe what we’ve been doing.”

“Why was he so pissed off?”

“I dumped him and bruised his ego.”

“You gonna dump me?” Charlie asked with a grin.

Sally rolled over so she was facing Charlie, and raised herself up on an elbow.

“Let’s get this straight, Charlie. You’re a good fuck. If you’re game, and the opportunity presents itself, we’ll meet again while you’re in Portland, but that’s it. I love my son and my husband and I’m not going to leave either one.”

Charlie was confused. “If you love Arnie Jr., how come you’re here with me?”

For the first time that evening, Sally Pope looked flustered. “That’s none of your business.”

She got out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and slammed the door. Charlie scrambled after her.

“Hey,” he said through the locked door, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so nosy. Come on out and I won’t ask any more questions, promise.”

The toilet flushed and the door opened. Sally had regained her composure. She touched Charlie’s cheek.

“This has been nice, Charlie, but I’m tired. Do you mind?”

“I’m bushed too,” he said, though she’d excited him enough that he wouldn’t have minded another tussle in the sack. “I’ve got TV, radio, and another book signing in Seattle. We’re driving up in the morning, so I should get my beauty rest.”

Sally took her hand away and smiled, though her eyes were sad.

“You know,” Charlie said, “I’m going to be back here after Seattle and I’ll have a few days before we go to San Francisco.”

Sally looked thoughtful. “How would you like to hold one of your seminars at the most exclusive country club in Oregon?”

“Sounds good.”

“Let me work on it. I’ll get back to you.”

“I’ll be at my hotel again on Thursday for a book signing. You want to drop by?”

“I can’t be seen with you. You understand that?”

“Sure, but I can fix it so you can slip up without anyone seeing you.”

“I assume this is from experience?”

Charlie grinned. “I have a foolproof system. I’m in the penthouse suite and there’s a back elevator. Only one who’ll know is Delmar, and he’s already seen us together.”

“Let me think about it.”

“Great. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you my cell phone number. Call me in Seattle about the seminar and anything else you can think of.”

Charlie phoned Delmar and told him to meet him on a corner a quarter-mile from Sally’s house, so no one would see him outside. While he waited in the warm night air for his limo to arrive, Charlie tried to figure out Sally Pope. He decided that she was a sad and bitter woman. Why else would a congressman’s wife with money and looks drag him, Tony Rose, and-he guessed-a slew of other men into her bed? He felt sorry for her, but that wasn’t going to keep him from enjoying another night in bed with the woman if the opportunity presented itself.

CHAPTER 13

Life was a smooth ride for Charlie until everything went to hell on the day of the seminar at the Westmont. He hit the first bump in the road on a sunny afternoon in a bookstore in Portland. He was sitting at a table piled high with copies of The Light Within You. Delmar Epps stood a few steps behind Charlie, trying-and failing-to be inconspicuous. Seated beside Charlie was Mickey Keys, who was dressed in a tan suit, white shirt, and red tie, and looked as happy as can be. It was unusual for him to accompany a client on a book tour but Keys didn’t think of Charlie as a client; he thought of him as a gold mine and he wanted to keep a close eye on his mother lode.

In front of the table was a line that stretched around the store. It was composed of excited customers eager to purchase Charlie’s book so they could learn how to ignite the light within them and find wealth and inner peace. When a fan reached the head of the line, Charlie would smile and ask to whom he should inscribe the book. Then he would make a cheerful, positive remark while he wrote “Never stop until you’ve turned on your Inner Light. Peace, Gabriel Sun.”

After the first few customers, Charlie went on automatic pilot. That was why it took him a second to recognize the next two men in the line.

“Hey, Charlie, long time no see,” said Gary Hass, the late Freddy Clayton’s most intelligent criminal associate. Gary was so ordinary-looking that witnesses had a hard time identifying him in a lineup. This made him markedly different from the tattooed, pierced, and steroid-inflated Werner Rollins, who stood at Gary’s shoulder and would have been perfectly at home in any barbarian horde. Unfortunately for humanity, Hass’s scarred and deformed psyche was the exact opposite of his bland appearance. A slender, if wiry, five foot seven, Gary wasn’t physically imposing but he was ruthless and he never forgot a slight, no matter how small. Gary also had the gift of patience. Get the better of him today and he would exact revenge by tying you to your bed and burning down your house long after you’d forgotten you’d ever had a run-in with him.

“Great book,” Gary said.

“Glad you liked it.”

“I liked it so much I read it more than once; especially the parts about your exciting experiences in the world of crime. Know why I had to read those parts so many times?”

“Uh, no.”

“I found them confusing, Charlie. Many of your exploits sounded both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I mean, I seemed to remember some of those events but not exactly the way you remembered them. For me, it was like watching a science-fiction movie where people go into a parallel universe that’s a lot like the Earth we know, but different. Like where the South wins the Civil War. You know it didn’t happen that way but if the writer is very skilled it seems realistic. See what I mean?”

“Not really. Look, it’s good seeing you but there’s a long line. I’m not supposed to talk to any one customer for more than a few minutes.”

“Hey, Werner and I don’t want to be a problem so why don’t we get together for coffee when you’re finished.”

“I don’t know, Gary. I’m awfully busy.”

“I’m cool with that. If you don’t have time for coffee we’ll fly back East and see if an investigative reporter at the New York Times wants to discuss our confusion about the book over a double decaf mocha. To tell the truth though, we’d rather spend our time reminiscing with a pal about the good old days.”

Charlie felt sick. A sheen of sweat formed on his forehead. “Maybe I can spare some time when I’m done.”

“Great! There’s a restaurant two doors down. Werner and I can’t wait to hear all about the exciting life you’ve been leading. See you soon.”

“Who were those guys?” Mickey Keys asked when Gary and Werner left without buying books.

“Acquaintances from the old days. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee with them after the signing.”

“Do you want me to come along?”

“No. You and Delmar go back to the hotel.”

“You sure you want to be alone with them?”

“Positive. Believe me, Mickey, the less Gary and Werner know about you, the better off you are.”

CHARLIE FOUND THE odd couple sitting in a booth in the back of the restaurant. Gary was nursing a cup of black coffee while Werner wolfed down a slab of pie. A plate with the cannibalized remains of a burger and fries was also sitting in front of the Neanderthal.

“My man,” Gary said as Charlie slid into the booth. “You not only survived the big house but you’re looking prosperous.”

Charlie shrugged. “The book’s only been out a few weeks. There’s no telling what might happen.”

“Hey, don’t be modest. Newsweek reported you got a seven-figure deal for the book and another mil or so for the movie. Say, have you met Tom yet? What’s he like in person?”

“That stuff about Tom Cruise is Hollywood bullshit, Gary. They’re negotiating. He hasn’t committed.”

“That fucker can act,” Werner opined between mouthfuls of pie.

“Yes, well, how are you? It’s been years.”

“About five,” Gary said. “Werner and I took off after that muffed bank job. What a cluster fuck that was; one dead guard, one dead civilian, and no money.”

Gary shook his head sadly. Then he perked up. “You know, there’s an incident in your book that vaguely resembles our fiasco. Werner and I got a kick out of the part where you dive behind that car, guns blazing. It reminded me of a scene in a John Woo flick. In fact, it’s almost identical to a scene in one of his movies. Funny thing though. Werner and I remember Freddy going into that bank with us but we don’t remember seeing you there. Of course, you were probably describing another bank job you pulled with Freddy and some other guys where a guard and a customer were killed.”

“Well, you know, I had to disguise the events so the cops couldn’t use the book as a basis for an indictment.”

“Yeah, I get that. The thing is Werner and I think some big publisher might be interested in our life stories now that your book is selling so well. It can be a whole new genre, Criminal Confessions. The only thing holding us back is our concern for you. If we tell our stories, some of our reminiscences might contradict your version of events. We’d feel real bad if our success created difficulties for you.”

Charlie sighed. “Okay, Gary. Let’s stop fucking around. What do you want?”

“A small piece of the pie, an opportunity to dip a crust of bread into the gravy train, a…”

“Can you cut the crap? I get it. What do I have to do to get you and Werner to go away?”

“We don’t really want to go away, Charlie. A big star like you should have an entourage.”

Charlie snapped his head back and forth. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“Sure it is. We figure we can testify at these seminars about how we were terrible criminals, corrupt to our very souls, until you helped us find our inner lights.”

“No way.”

Gary’s affable demeanor faded away. “Do you know what plagiarism is? Werner and I feel that you plagiarized our lives. That’s a crime, Charlie, and you know what they say: ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.’ There’s also ‘Crime does not pay.’ It all boils down to the fact that there are consequences for bad acts. The consequence in your case is a tax on profits. You’ll pay a bit of it now and we’ll tag along to keep an eye on the receipts so we can decide how much the tax will be in the future.”

“I’m not gonna do it. You go to the Times and see what they say. Who’s going to take your word over mine? I’m a hero, Gary. I saved a guard’s life.

“And how are you going to prove I made this stuff up? A reporter will want specific facts about murders, armed robberies, and other crimes that would send you away forever. But say they believe you committed these crimes. That wouldn’t prove I made up the incidents in the book. I’d just say that my crimes were different from what you say you did. In my introduction I said I made the events vague and changed names and places to protect myself from getting charged with the crimes. So do your worst.”

Gary turned red, which meant he was pissed off. Charlie had forgotten for a moment who he was dealing with, but he remembered now. Gary leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

“If you think talking to a reporter is the worst thing I can do to you, you must have forgotten some of the things you’ve seen me do. Fuck with me and you’ll have to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life.”

Gary leaned back and let what he’d said sink in. “I’m going to forget how rude you’ve just been. We’ll see you tonight at your seminar at that fancy country club. That’ll give you a few hours to think.”

Gary nodded to Werner, who vacuumed down what was left of his pie.

“Pick up the check, will you?” Gary said.

Charlie watched them leave. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled. How could he be so stupid? He’d been so full of himself lately that he’d forgotten what the world was really like. People like Sally Pope lived in Camelot, but he lived in the jungle, where he was prey and people like Gary and Werner were predators.

CHAPTER 14

Are you out of your mind?” Moonbeam asked Charlie, who was in the bedroom of his hotel suite, killing time before the seminar at the Westmont Country Club by quick-drawing a Ruger.357 Magnum Vaquero revolver. The engraved, stainless steel, ivory-handled gun weighed more than two pounds, had a six-inch barrel, and was a gift from the twentysomething wife of a septuagenarian Texas oilman. She had given it to Charlie after a night of intimacy following an Inner Light” seminar in Austin.

“Relax, Moonbeam,” said Charlie, who almost choked whenever he used her “mystical” name.

When they were in New Haven, Charlie had told “Moonbeam” that she could come to Oregon with his entourage. Now he deeply regretted the words he’d moaned in the heat of passion and he had decided to dump her when they moved on. “Moonbeam” might be great in bed but the rest of the time she was a bossy pain in the ass. The broad had also shaved her head, because she’d concluded-for reasons Charlie never understood-that her hair was impeding her spiritual growth. Charlie was definitely not turned on by bald women and he’d said so.

“You’re an ex-con,” she persisted. “Having a gun violates the conditions of your parole. What if someone sees you?”

“Do you think I’m stupid enough to carry in public? Delmar totes my piece when I’m out and about and he’s licensed to carry.”

Charlie’s bodyguard was slouched on the sofa reading a sports magazine with an NBA star on the cover.

“Haven’t you heard of the right to bear arms, bitch?” Delmar asked without looking up from the article he was reading. “Or didn’t you study the Constitution at your fancy Ivy League college?”

Before Moonbeam could answer, the door to the suite opened and a waiter rolled in a serving cart with Charlie’s dinner. Charlie froze in mid-draw. The waiter stared at the gun. Charlie whipped it behind his back.

“Don’t they teach you to knock?” he shouted at the flustered server.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did knock on the door to the suite. The man said I could…”

“Yeah, yeah, just leave it,” Charlie said. Mickey Keys was out in the sitting room. “Have my agent sign for this.”

“Thank you, sir,” the waiter said as he backed out of the bedroom.

“Have I made my point?” Moonbeam asked. “If he talks to your parole officer, you’ll be putting on your seminars for the prisoners at the state pen. And there’s something else. You have to stop sleeping with that woman.”

“Whoa, who I fuck is none of your business. I warned you I wasn’t a one-woman man when you insisted on following me out here.”

“I know, Charlie, but it doesn’t look good. She’s married and she has a kid, not to mention that her husband is a powerful politician who can seriously mess you up.”

“How do you think we got this gig at the Westmont? I’m just using her for her connections, baby. If you’re too jealous to see that, maybe you should just go back to your rich friends.”

Moonbeam looked frightened. “Don’t send me away, Charlie. I only want to help.”

“Well you’re not helping by nagging my ass every five minutes.”

Moonbeam moved close to Charlie. “I’m sorry. You know I’m just worried about you.”

Charlie felt the heat and remembered what the girl looked like naked, hair or no hair. He glanced at the clock and saw that there was still time before they had to leave for the country club. He put his arms around Moonbeam.

“I know you care about me, baby,” Charlie said in a voice that oozed concern. “Just don’t worry so much.”

Moonbeam looked down and Charlie lifted up her chin until he could see her eyes.

“You don’t have anything to worry about. Sally can’t touch you in bed, and that’s what counts between a man and a woman.”

Charlie released the girl’s chin. “Why don’t you take five, Delmar?” he said as he fondled her small, firm breasts.

The bodyguard looked at his watch. “We’re heading out in three quarters of an hour.”

“That’s cool. See you then.”

Delmar left. Charlie scooped up Moonbeam in his arms and carried her to the bed. His timing was perfect. When his bodyguard rapped on his door three quarters of an hour later, Charlie was refreshed, fed, and ready to bilk the members of the Westmont Country Club.

CHAPTER 15

Shortly after sunset, on the evening Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. was murdered, Sally Pope stood next to John Walsdorf, the manager of the Westmont Country Club, and watched a line of expensive cars drive toward the entrance to the Westmont’s sprawling fieldstone clubhouse. The caravan snaked along a wide, tree-lined lane that ran by a few of the golf holes. There was no moon, so the lush emerald green of the fairways was left to the imagination.

Some of the cars turned left at the end of the lane and drove past the pro shop into the outdoor parking lot that bordered the driving range. The rest went right and discharged their passengers at the club entrance after circling a large grass turnaround decorated with flower beds. Illumination from the clubhouse spilled onto the turnaround, fading as it crossed to the far side.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Tony Rose asked Sally Pope just as the limousine carrying Charlie Marsh, Delmar Epps, Moonbeam, and Mickey Keys drove into view.

“Not now, Tony. I’m busy,” Sally said, annoyed that Rose would pick the moment when the guest of honor arrived to speak to her.

“When, then? We have to talk.”

“We don’t have anything to talk about,” Sally whispered angrily. “And I don’t think hashing out any problem you might have in front of John would be a good idea, do you?”

Rose suddenly noticed Walsdorf, who had the power to fire him. Frustration and anger made his face flush. He started to speak, then thought better of it. The tennis pro shot Sally an angry look and walked toward the parking lot just as Charlie’s limousine stopped at the clubhouse entrance. The chauffeur ran to Charlie’s door. Before he could grip the handle, Werner Rollins stepped in front of him. The driver took one look at the Visigoth and skidded to a stop. This gave Gary Hass the opportunity to open the door to the limo.

“Hey, Charlie,” Gary said, flashing a wide smile.

Delmar Epps got out of the limo and put a hand on Gary’s chest.

“Step back, sir,” Charlie’s bodyguard commanded in his most intimidating tone. Werner started toward Delmar but Gary waved him off.

“I’m an old pal, right, Charlie?”

“It’s okay, Delmar,” Charlie answered nervously as he emerged from the car.

John Walsdorf was uncomfortable with activity that was far better suited to a lower-class tavern than a country club that catered to his refined clientele, but Sally Pope was unfazed. She walked over to the limousine, distracting the testosterone-charged men just as Mickey Keys emerged from the car. Keys took one look at Werner Rollins and edged away from him.

“This is John Walsdorf, Charlie,” Sally said. “He manages the club.”

Behind the club manager were two hefty security guards dressed in blue blazers, black turtlenecks, and gray slacks. They fixed on Delmar and Werner, who paid no attention to them.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sun,” said Walsdorf, a short, balding man with a narrow mustache, whose paunch was hidden under a buttoned suit jacket. He eyed Charlie’s bodyguard and Gary’s scary companion nervously.

“It’s a privilege to be invited to speak at this august institution,” Charlie brown-nosed.

“We’ve already got a good crowd,” Walsdorf told him.

“Great,” Mickey Keys chimed in.

“Why don’t I show you where you’re going to speak?” Sally offered.

She started toward the front door of the clubhouse, then froze. Walsdorf followed her gaze and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man bearing down on them from the direction of the parking lot. He recognized him immediately.

United States Congressman Arnold Pope Jr. was an ex-Marine and he looked like he was still in training. His stride was purposeful and his brown eyes were fixed on his wife. The open top button of his dress shirt, the tie that hung at half-mast, and the congressman’s flushed face were hints that Pope was not in full control of his emotions.

“Is this the latest boyfriend?” Pope barked angrily.

Sally stared at him with disdain. “I didn’t know you planned to join us, Arnie.”

“Caught off guard?” Pope said.

“Not in the least, dear. You know you’re always welcome to join me. The only surprise is that you’ve shown up at something I’m hosting. I see so little of you.”

Pope shifted his attention to Charlie. “You’re the guru, right?”

Charlie laughed nervously. “That’s what the newspapers are calling me.”

“What does your religion say about adultery?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me, you little prick.”

“Do we have to do this here?” Sally asked.

“Where do you want to do it, in our bedroom or this punk’s hotel room?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sally answered coldly.

Pope pulled an envelope from his suit jacket’s inside pocket and took a stack of photographs out of it. Pope held up a snapshot that showed Charlie and Sally groping each other in the foyer of the Popes’ home. Seconds after Sally realized that the shot had been taken through one of her front windows, Pope threw the photographs at her. Then he punched Charlie in the face.

The limo driver rushed out of the way. Charlie staggered into Delmar. Delmar pulled Charlie behind him and hit the congressman in the solar plexus. Pope dropped to one knee seconds before one of the security guards slammed into Delmar, who brought his knee up between the guard’s legs. The guard turned pale and Delmar swung him into his partner, who crashed into Werner Rollins.

John Walsdorf scurried to safety and tripped, tumbling to the ground. Delmar and Werner Rollins were fighting with the security guards in the area between the turnaround and the parking lot. The crowd cleared a space around them. Charlie and Gary Hass backed around the traffic circle until they were far enough from the fight to be cloaked in shadow. Walsdorf saw Rollins knock one of the guards to the asphalt, making sure the guard was down, before joining Gary and Charlie.

Seconds later, Walsdorf saw Delmar Epps deliver a high karate kick to the head of the other security guard. Delmar watched the guard crumple to the pavement, then joined the group standing in the shadows just as Arnold Pope swore at Charlie and charged.

“Don’t, Arnie!” Sally yelled.

The club manager saw flame flash from the general area where Charlie was standing just before Sally reached the congressman. An instant later a gunshot silenced the crowd. Arnold Pope stopped moving. He looked stunned. Then he staggered forward a few paces, wobbled in place, and stared at his shirt-front, which was slowly turning red. Pope dropped to his knees. A woman screamed. Sally ran to her husband. Delmar yelled, “Go, go.” Walsdorf heard car doors slam. Seconds later, the limo drove away but Walsdorf didn’t look to see where it was going. He was staring at Arnold Pope Jr., who showed no signs of life.

Twenty-five minutes later, John Walsdorf learned that one of the officers had found an ivory-handled Ruger.357 Magnum Vaquero revolver lying in the shadows where Charlie Marsh had been standing.

CHAPTER 16

The Westmont Country Club complex straddled two counties. Most of the members lived in populous, urban Multnomah County, but most of the club grounds, including the clubhouse, were in Washington County, where sprawling bedroom communities, high-tech companies, and large areas of farmland coexisted uneasily. Karl Burdett was an athletic thirty-two-year-old with sandy blond hair and a confident smile. The newly elected district attorney for Washington County, a staunch conservative, had narrowly defeated a moderate candidate in last fall’s election. His most important backer was Arnold Pope Sr., and Burdett had jumped into his car as soon as the wealthiest man in the county summoned him.

Of course, Pope had not summoned the DA himself. The call had come from Derrick Barclay, Pope’s personal assistant, a pompous little man whose presence set Burdett’s teeth on edge. Barclay had not told the district attorney why his employer wanted the audience and had not bothered to inquire whether the suggested time was convenient. He had assumed-quite correctly-that Burdett would cancel any conflicting appointments.

Even though Barclay had not stated the reason for the meeting, Burdett knew why Pope wanted to talk to him. The district attorney was charged with convicting Arnold Pope Jr.’s killer, and the old man was going to demand to be involved in the prosecution. Senior would never be put off by the quaint idea that the manipulation of the justice system by a private citizen was highly improper.

Senior had constructed his manor house of slate-gray Tenino sandstone on a high bluff overlooking the Columbia River. With its roof of red tile and parklike grounds, the mansion looked friendly and noble and had none of the personality of its owner. The grounds were surrounded by an ivy-covered brick wall that kept out the riffraff. Burdett used the call box at the gate and was admitted to the grounds. Derrick Barclay was waiting at the carved-oak front door. He was five feet eight, narrow, and had a pale complexion. Barclay’s lips were forever pursed, as if to let the world know that he found everything he encountered distasteful.

“Mr. Pope will see you in the study,” he said in a clipped, British accent. Burdett was tempted to answer, “Jolly good,” until he remembered that Barclay had the ear of his biggest campaign contributor.

Arnold Pope Sr. was pacing back and forth on a Persian rug when Barclay showed the DA into a high-ceilinged, book-lined room. A stone fireplace occupied one wall and a leaded-glass window looked out on a garden. Pope was a bear of a man, who had invested the money he made in timber in several fledgling high-tech companies that were now industry leaders. When the timber industry took a nose dive, Senior didn’t blink.

“Do you have him?” Pope asked without preamble.

“No, sir, but every law enforcement agency in the country is looking for Marsh. He won’t stay lost long.”

“What about that woman? Is she in custody?”

Burdett’s brow furrowed. “What woman?”

Pope stopped pacing. “That gold-digging bitch he married, the person who’s responsible for my son’s murder.”

“Sally Pope?” Burdett asked, puzzled by the suggestion that Junior’s wife had anything to do with the murder. “A number of very credible witnesses saw her when the congressman was shot. No one saw her with a gun.”

Pope glared at the district attorney. “Please don’t play stupid, Karl. You do know about ‘aiding and abetting’ and ‘conspiracy,’ or didn’t you pay attention in your criminal-law class?”

Burdett flushed. “I know you’re upset but you don’t have to insult me.”

“I’ll do more than insult you if the people who killed my boy escape justice.”

“I can’t just arrest Sally, Mr. Pope. There’s no evidence indicating that she’s guilty of murder.”

“Then you haven’t heard about the note?”

“What note?”

“The one found in my son’s Washington, DC, office.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You do know about the photographs?”

“Of course. We collected all of them from the crime scene.”

“They were sent to Arnold along with a note. His aide delivered the envelope. My son left the note on his desk when he rushed to the airport. The FBI has it.”

Burdett didn’t bother to ask how Senior knew about an ongoing FBI investigation about which he-the head law-enforcement official in the county and the person in charge of the murder investigation-knew nothing. Senior didn’t just contribute to local political races. His tentacles reached to the top tiers of the Washington hierarchy.

Pope pressed a button on his desk and Barclay hustled in, carrying a fax. Pope nodded toward the district attorney and Barclay handed the document to Burdett. It was a photocopy of a note constructed from letters cut out of magazines and pasted onto a piece of paper. The note read: THEY’LL BE TOGETHER AT THE WESTMONT TOMORROW NIGHT AT THE GURU’S SEMINAR.

“I don’t see how this note implicates Sally Pope,” Burdett said after studying the fax. “The pictures show her having an illicit relationship with Marsh. Why would she send it?”

Pope smiled, but there was no humor in his smile. “You don’t know my daughter-in-law very well, Karl. She is a devious, scheming whore. She knew you would see it this way. Who could suspect her of tipping off her husband about her affair?”

The smile disappeared. “Think, Karl. She used the note and the pictures to enrage Arnold, knowing he would rush back to Oregon to confront her. They set him up to be killed. And she set up Marsh to take the fall for her.”

“That’s an interesting theory, but I can’t arrest Sally without proof.”

Pope’s smile reappeared. “Oh, there’s proof that she was a conspirator in the plot to kill my boy. There’s more than enough proof. The FBI found fingerprints on the note. Guess who they belong to?”

CHAPTER 17

In his youth, Frank Jaffe had been a brawler and carouser; a man’s man with a ruddy complexion and the thick muscles of a stevedore. He believed wholeheartedly that a woman’s place was in the home, where she did womanly things like cooking and raising the children. Men, on the other hand, worked long hours to support their families and played with their children when time permitted. Then his world turned upside down.

Samantha was twenty when she died giving birth to Amanda. How did a man raise a baby-and a girl baby at that-when he didn’t even know how to change a diaper? That was just one of a thousand questions Frank had asked himself during the grief-filled days that followed his wife’s death and his sudden plunge into fatherhood. Frank had to answer these questions quickly. When a baby is screaming there’s not much time for in-depth research.

Frank was a great father, even during the insane years when he was attending law school at night, working all day, and thanking God that his parents were overjoyed to babysit Amanda. When he started Jaffe, Katz, Lehane and Brindisi with some classmates from law school, he had nothing in his life except work and his daughter. Frank never remarried, because he’d never had the time for a serious relationship and he’d rarely found anyone who could measure up to Samantha. On the one occasion he’d come close, his devotion to his work and his child had created a rift that could not be mended.

Frank had written off romance by the time he entered the fourth decade of his life. Then his secretary ushered Sally Pope into his office and Frank felt like a virginal teenager who has just been introduced to the head cheerleader.

“I assume you know who I am,” Sally said as soon as they were alone.

Frank smiled. “Anyone who watches television or reads a newspaper knows who you are, Mrs. Pope. You are notorious.”

Sally laughed and Frank heard church bells chime. Her eyes laughed, too. Her caramel-colored hair shimmered.

“I guess I am notorious,” Sally said. “The papers talk about me as if I’m one of those femme fatales from the old black-and-white films.”

“Mary Astor in The Maltese Falcon or Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity,” Frank agreed.

Sally looked directly into Frank’s eyes. “There is one difference between me and those ladies of the cinema, Mr. Jaffe. I am not a murderer.”

“Does someone think you are?”

“My father-in-law, Arnold Pope Sr., is doing everything in his power to see that I’m charged with murdering my husband. And-before we go any further-I need to know if that’s a problem.”

Frank was confused. “If what’s a problem?”

“If you take my case, you’ll have to go up against Senior. He’s a formidable opponent. I know that from experience. He also owns a lot of people. I need to know if he owns you or if you’re afraid of him.”

“I barely know Mr. Pope.” Frank smiled. “We don’t exactly run in the same circles. And, from what I’ve heard, I doubt I’d like him very much if I did get to know him.”

“Then you’ll take my case?”

“Is there a case? Have you been charged?”

“Not yet. But I have friends who have friends and I’ve been warned that Karl Burdett has convened a grand jury with me as its target.”

“Have the police or a prosecutor tried to speak to you?” Frank asked.

“I was interviewed at the club when Arnie was shot. It never entered my head that I’d need a lawyer, then. A detective came to my house yesterday but I’d been alerted to the investigation so I refused to talk to him. That’s when I asked around and got your name.”

“Before we go any further, we need to discuss the business side of my representation. Are you aware of the expense involved in defending a murder case?”

“I don’t care about the expense.”

“I’ll need a $100,000 retainer for my fees, investigation, and expert witnesses,” Frank said. “The case could get even more expensive.”

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll bring in a cashier’s check tomorrow.”

“Okay. Now that you’re officially my client, it’s time for me to give you my lawyer speech. I give it to every client and you shouldn’t take anything I say personally. But you should take what I say to heart because misunderstanding our relationship as attorney and client can land you in a lot of trouble.

“Now, anything you tell me is confidential with only a few exceptions which we can talk about later. So, if you tell me you did kill your husband…”

“Which I did not.”

Frank nodded. “But if you did and you confessed to me, I would never tell anyone what you told me. On the other hand, I’m an officer of the court, so I can’t let you commit perjury. If you tell me you did kill Congressman Pope I can’t let you get on the stand and swear you were in Idaho at the time of the shooting. I wouldn’t tell on you, but-if you refused to recant-I’d be forced to drop your case and I will keep your retainer.”

“Mr. Jaffe, let’s get this out of the way once and for all. I did not kill my husband or have anything to do with his death. Anyone who says I did is lying. If any evidence implicates me, you can be certain it’s been fabricated. I am completely, one hundred percent innocent.”

“Then why is Karl Burdett convening a grand jury?”

“I honestly don’t know. All the newspapers say that Charlie Marsh shot Arnie.”

“Maybe Burdett is working on a conspiracy or aiding-and-abetting theory. If Charlie Marsh fired the shot that killed your husband but you assisted him in his plan, the law considers you to be as guilty as the person who fired the shot.”

“Charlie and I never discussed murdering my husband.”

“Then you know Marsh?”

Sally paused. “I’m not a good person, Mr. Jaffe. I’ve cheated on my husband many times. I was cheating on him with Charlie Marsh. But I loved Arnie. I know that sounds contradictory but our relationship was complicated, and Senior is responsible for that.”

“Why don’t you explain what was going on.”

“I’m what people of breeding call trailer trash.” Sally laughed bitterly. “The description is pretty accurate. A good part of my early years was spent in trailer parks. My father was someone passing through town, so I have no idea who he is. My mother was a drunk, but in a dark tavern, after a guy had downed a few, she was an attractive enough drunk to catch a few men before they realized how bad a bargain they’d made. Then she’d be out in the cold again, looking for shelter and the next bottle.

“I grew up fast. I know now that I’ve got a pretty good mind, but while I was growing up the boys were never interested in that part of my anatomy.” Sally laughed again, self-consciously. “My mother was my role model. I was the high school slut and a high school dropout, and I used sex to get what I wanted. The one thing I did right was waiting to get knocked up until I met someone with money. And that’s where Arnie comes in.

“Senior convinced him to enlist after college because being a Marine would look good when Arnie ran for office-something Senior started working for on the day Arnie was born. But Senior screwed up. When Arnie went into the Marines it was the first time in his life that he was out from under his father’s thumb.

“Arnie was at Camp Pendleton completing his Marine Infantry Training. I was working in a restaurant near the base. He came in a few times on leave and we started dating. Freud might say that our courtship was Arnie’s way of rebelling against his father. I was a waitress with no education to speak of, someone he knew his father would loathe.”

Sally looked very sad. “I told you I’m not a good person. Our marriage is proof of that. As soon as I found out who Arnie was and how much money he had I tricked him into getting me pregnant. It wasn’t hard. He said he loved me. I think he did. When I told him I was pregnant he seemed happy. He’s the one who said we should get married. I don’t think he thought about the consequences.”

“Did you tell his father?”

Sally shook her head. “We went to Las Vegas over a weekend. Senior didn’t know until it was too late.”

“How did he react?”

“Not well. He tried to get the marriage annulled but Arnie stood up to him. It was probably the only time in his life that he showed any backbone. That’s when I fell in love with him.” She shook her head. “I have to admit, it took me by surprise. I went into the marriage for the money, but Arnie was this big, sweet kid, and I really started looking forward to having a baby.”

“Did Arnold Sr. mellow when the baby was born?”

“Not one degree. Senior is relentless when he wants to get his way. When Arnie wouldn’t file for divorce, he poisoned him against me by spreading rumors that I was sleeping around; rumors that had no basis until Senior got to me.”

“How did he do that?”

“By beating down Arnie until I came to despise both of them. Senior couldn’t control me. I was too tough for him. So he wrecked our marriage by constantly making Arnie choose between us. Arnie was so whipped he sided with his father rather than face him like a man. That’s when I started sleeping around. I just wanted to wake him up and that was the only way I could think to do it. I never enjoyed the affairs. They were just a way of fighting back. I wanted him to stand up to someone, even if it was me, but he didn’t have the guts.”

A tear rolled down Sally’s cheek. “Until the night he died, that is. That was the first time in a long time that he acted like a man.”

Frank’s client looked down at her lap, where her clenched fists lay.

“I know I hurt him-and there were times when I despised him-but I really loved him.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her suffering brought back the pain Frank had felt when Samantha died.

“Do you want some water?” he asked.

Sally shook her head but she still couldn’t speak. Frank waited patiently. When she was calmer he asked a question he hoped would take her mind off her husband.

“Does anyone know where Marsh is?”

“There are rumors that he’s somewhere in Africa-a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S.-but the rumors haven’t been confirmed as far as I know.”

Frank made some notes. “I think this is enough for today,” he said when he was through. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that you shouldn’t discuss your case with anyone but me or my investigator-and I mean anyone. No one but me, or someone who works for me, can use the attorney-client privilege to prevent being compelled to testify against you. If a reporter, detective, anyone, approaches you about the case, just tell them your attorney has directed you to refrain from commenting. That’s it. Just cut them off.

“Meanwhile, I’m going to let Karl Burdett know that I’m your lawyer and you’re off-limits. I’m also going to try to find out what the evidence is that has him believing he can convince a jury beyond a reasonable doubt that you’re guilty of murder.”

CHAPTER 18

A week after Sally Pope hired Frank, she was charged with murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Two days after Sally’s arraignment and release on bail, Frank was cross-referencing phone calls made by a heroin dealer in a federal narcotics case when Herb Cross stuck his head in the door. A few years back, Cross, a slender, bookish African-American, had been mistakenly identified as a robber by a white convenience-store clerk. He told Frank he had an alibi but Frank’s investigator was new and inept and had failed to locate any of the people Cross swore could clear him. Frustrated by the investigator’s incompetence, Cross went off on his own and located the men. After the DA dismissed the case, Frank refunded Cross’s retainer, fired his investigator, and offered Cross the job.

“I’ve been through the discovery in Pope,” Cross said. “You busy or do you want to go through it now?”

Frank rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He pointed at the paperwork that covered his desk.

“This has to be the most boring case I’ve ever worked on. I can use the break.”

“Pope isn’t boring,” the investigator assured him. “I’ve got everything spread out in the conference room.”

Frank brought his coffee across the hall to a long table covered with photographs, police reports, and files.

“Give me the Reader’s Digest condensed version,” Frank said as he took a sip from his mug. “I’ll go through everything myself, later.”

“Okay, well, Burdett has Charlie Marsh pegged as the shooter.”

“Because?”

“They found a fancy, ivory-handled.357 Magnum at the scene. It’s a custom job, very distinctive, and it belongs to Marsh. A waiter at Marsh’s hotel saw him playing with it earlier in the evening and his agent, Mickey Keys, saw the gun in the limo that took Marsh and his entourage to the Westmont.”

“Was Marsh carrying it?”

“No, Keys told the police that Marsh’s bodyguard, Delmar Epps, liked the gun and carried it in his waistband when Marsh was in public. Epps was playing with it in the limo but Keys doesn’t know what happened to the gun once Epps got out of the car.”

“And the Magnum is definitely the murder weapon?”

Cross nodded. “The lab made a positive match. The bullet that killed the congressman was fired from Marsh’s gun.”

“Are Marsh’s prints on the weapon?”

Cross shook his head. “Someone wiped it down.”

“Did someone see Marsh shoot the gun at Pope?”

“They have a witness.” Cross handed Frank a crime scene photo. “Marsh was standing in a group on the other side of this turnaround.”

Frank wasn’t a member of the Westmont but he’d been there several times. He guessed that the police photographer had been standing under the portico at the main entrance and had shot across the turnaround toward the pro shop. Even though it was a night shot, Frank could see the side of the turnaround closest to the entrance with enough definition to make out a section of a flower bed that had been trampled underfoot. But the light from the club entrance faded out midway across the turnaround, leaving the far side in shadow. The pro shop, which was about twenty-five yards back from the road on the side away from the club, was almost impossible to see.

“Where was Marsh supposed to be standing?” Frank asked.

“See the road leading from the main street?” Cross asked, pointing at the far side of the turnaround.

Frank nodded.

“He was a little bit in from where the road bends toward the parking lot, sort of a straight line to the edge of the pro shop.”

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

Frank studied the picture. “There’s not a lot of light on that spot. How do they put Marsh with the gun?”

“Several witnesses will testify that they saw a muzzle flash from the area where Marsh was standing, but the key witness for the state is Werner Rollins. He’s an ex-con and Burdett is holding him on an outstanding warrant. Rollins is an acquaintance of Marsh who was at the seminar with another ex-con, named Gary Hass. A fight broke out after the congressman hit Marsh. Rollins got into it with a security guard. He ended up in the group on the other side of the turnaround. Then he took off when Pope was shot. The police picked him up a few hours later. He’s cut a deal with Burdett and he’s going to testify that he saw Marsh shoot Pope.”

“What does his buddy, Hass, say?”

“He’s not in custody but they do have Delmar Epps. It looks like Epps drove Marsh from the scene. He was also involved in the fight. Word is they’re cutting a deal with him, too.”

“What does he say happened to the gun?”

“He says Hass opened the limo door when the car stopped. When Epps realized the limo driver wasn’t opening the door he thought there might be trouble-a fan, paparazzi-so he says he got out to deal with Hass and left the gun on the seat.”

“So we have Marsh in the car with the gun.”

Cross nodded.

“Where’s Marsh now?”

“My latest information is that he’s sought asylum in Batanga, which doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States.”

“Doesn’t a cannibal run that country?”

“So they say.”

“Okay, so we have Marsh as the shooter. Why does Burdett think Mrs. Pope is involved?”

Cross pointed at a Xerox copy of a group of photographs. “The day before he was shot, someone sent these pictures and an anonymous note to the congressman’s office. The pictures show our client and Charlie Marsh in compromising positions in her house and they show Mrs. Pope at night going into and out of the elevator that went to Marsh’s penthouse hotel suite. The note said that Sally Pope and Marsh were going to be at the Westmont on the following evening. The note was made by pasting letters cut from magazine ads onto a sheet of white paper. Sally Pope’s fingerprints are all over the paper and on some of the pasted letters. Mrs. Pope subscribes to the magazine from which the letters were cut. I think Burdett is going to argue that our client lured her husband to the club from DC so Charlie Marsh could shoot him.”

“Do we know where the paper is from?”

“Similar paper was found during a search of the Pope residence.”

Frank studied the pictures of Marsh and his client in flagrante. He looked troubled for a moment. Then he brightened.

“Someone took the pictures of Marsh and our client making out. Find the photographer, Herb. He’s the key to this case.”

“Do you have any idea who might have hired the photographer if it wasn’t our client?”

“I’ll ask her for ideas, but the obvious suspect is Arnold Pope Sr.”

Frank told his investigator about Senior’s relationship with Junior and his daughter-in-law.

“Do you know-off the top of your head-what law firm Senior uses for his legal work?” Cross asked.

“I think it’s Reed, Briggs. Why?”

“Investigators who do surveillance work are a special breed. They’re usually loners who earn a living by spending eight to twelve hours a day with their camera staking out workmen’s comp claimants or plaintiffs in personal injury cases to see if they can catch them malingering. They’re frequently social misfits who can’t take regular office work. They don’t like routines or bosses looking over their shoulder. Firms don’t carry these guys on their payroll like they do in-house investigators, but they have a list of people they’ll contract with for odd jobs when the need arises. If Arnold Sr. hired the photographer he may have gotten the name from someone at Reed, Briggs.”

“Get on it, then. If we can prove that Senior hired the person who took the photos we’ll tear a huge hole in the state’s case. Have you found anything else that could cause us problems?”

“I’m not certain. There are two witnesses listed on the indictment who don’t match up with a police report.”

“Who are they?”

“Otto Jarvis and Anthony Rose.”

Frank frowned. “I don’t recognize Rose. I’ll ask Mrs. Pope if she knows him. Jarvis is a lawyer.”

“Is he with a big firm?”

“No, he’s a bottom-feeder. He does court-appointed criminal cases, but nothing big. Misdemeanors, shoplifts, drunk drives. I’ve heard that he does a lot of divorce work. If I’m not mistaken, he’s had a few problems with the bar, so check to see if he’s had ethics complaints filed against him.”

“Will do. Should I see if he’s connected with Senior? Maybe he’s the one who set him up with the photographer.”

“That’s a good idea,” Frank said. Then he went quiet. When he spoke again he looked worried.

“What concerns me, Herb, is the absence of a police report for these two witnesses. That usually means a DA is setting up a surprise, and I don’t like surprises when I’m in trial.”

CHAPTER 19

As Highway 26 heads west from Portland toward the Pacific Ocean, the urban landscape gives way quickly to suburban shopping malls and green spaces dominated by sprawling, glass-and-chrome office complexes housing high-tech companies. Frank Jaffe was already in farm country when he took the exit to Hillsboro twenty minutes after leaving the city.

Frank looked forward to the drive to and from the courthouse during the trial, because he was alone with Sally Pope. Much of the time, Frank discussed trial strategy or gave Sally his impressions of the way the trial was going, but sometimes they talked about things that had nothing to do with the law, and those were the times Frank treasured the most. He knew the ethics rules prohibited him from having a romantic relationship with a client, but spending an hour a day alone with Sally was the next best thing.

If Frank had to use one word to describe Sally Pope’s demeanor during her trial, it would be “composed.” It would definitely not be “serene,” because Frank knew that there were times when she was boiling mad, but Sally never let anyone but Frank see this side of her and she only let her emotions show in the privacy of Frank’s office or in his car.

The grayish white, neoclassical Washington County courthouse took up a block on the outskirts of city center in Hillsboro. Each morning, when they arrived for court, reporters hurled questions at Frank and his client as he escorted Sally between the fluted columns at the main entrance. And each day they ignored the press and hurried up the stairs to the courtroom of the Honorable Dagmar Hansen in which Mrs. Pope’s future was being decided.

Judge Hansen, a dirty-blond, cigarette-smoking hard case in her mid-forties, had made her bones defending insurance companies. She was a political conservative who was very smart and tried to be fair. The judge had made enough money in private practice to be immune to a bribe and she had enough integrity to stand up to a bully. Frank was confident that Arnold Pope Sr. would not be able to get to her.

The courtroom was packed from the first day, and seated directly behind the prosecution table every minute court was in session was Arnold Pope Sr. Sally made a point of ignoring her father-in-law and the hateful stare he directed at her every time she passed him.

It took a week to pick a jury, because of the publicity the case had received. As soon as the jurors were sworn, Karl Burdett gave an opening statement in which he claimed that the evidence would show the defendant had designs on her husband’s money from the start and had tricked him into marriage by getting pregnant. The DA displayed a sample of the photographs the congressman had received the day before he died. Then he argued they were the bait the defendant used to lure Junior to his death so she could inherit millions from his estate and collect additional millions from the insurance policy on the congressman’s life. During his harangue, Burdett referred to Sally Pope as a gold digger, a black widow, a harlot, and a harridan. Frank wondered if the DA had assigned a deputy to make a list of every derogatory term that could be used to describe a woman.

Frank’s opening statement was brief, dwelling on each juror’s obligation to wait until all of the evidence was in before drawing any conclusions about guilt or innocence and their obligation to acquit if the prosecution did not prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt.

As soon as court adjourned, Frank summoned Amanda from the back of the courtroom and introduced her to Sally. Frank had urged his daughter to enjoy her summer break by hanging out with her friends, but Amanda was a courtroom junkie who planned to go to law school after college, then practice criminal law, like her dad. There was no way Frank could talk her out of sitting in on the biggest case of his career.

“What did you think of the opening statements?” Frank asked as he packed up his papers.

Amanda cast a nervous eye at Frank’s client. “Can I be honest?”

“Please,” Sally said.

“Burdett kicked your butt, Dad.”

Frank responded with a hearty laugh. Sally seemed amused by Amanda’s cheeky reply.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Frank said.

“Hey, I call ’ em like I see them.”

“You called this one correctly.” Frank sighed. “My statement was vague because I’m still in the dark about the state’s case and I didn’t want to commit to a defense theory that Burdett can destroy.”

“I thought the DA outlined his case pretty thoroughly.”

“He’s holding something back. There are two witnesses on his list who don’t have police reports and I’m scared to death of what they’re going to say.”

“Who are they?”

“Tony Rose and Otto Jarvis. Jarvis is a lawyer. He refused to meet with Herb, and Mrs. Pope has no idea who he is.”

“Who’s the other witness?”

“Tony Rose, the tennis pro at the Westmont Country Club.”

Now it was Frank’s turn to hesitate.

“Go ahead, Frank,” Sally said. “Your daughter seems pretty savvy.”

“Rose and Mrs. Pope had a…relationship. That might be why Burdett is going to call him. But Rose refused to talk to Herb even after Herb told him that we knew about the affair. That makes me very nervous.”

DURING THE FIRST week of the trial Burdett called witnesses who established that Junior married Sally Pope after she became pregnant. Then he proved that Sally’s affair with Charlie Marsh started shortly before Junior was murdered, by using the testimony of Delmar Epps, who told the jury about Marsh’s trip to the Pope home on the evening of the Dunthorpe seminar and her visit to Marsh’s penthouse suite. Epps corroborated the testimony of the waiter who saw Marsh with the ivory-handled Magnum at the hotel and said he left the gun in the limo when he got out of the car.

Next, Burdett called John Walsdorf, who told the jury how the fight between Congressman Pope and Charlie Marsh started and how Delmar Epps, Werner Rollins, and the security guards were involved. While cross-examining Walsdorf, Frank established that the manager of the Westmont watched his client during the melee and saw her running toward her husband when the shot that killed him was fired.

After Walsdorf testified, the prosecutor proved that Charlie’s Magnum fired the fatal bullet. Witnesses from the Westmont told the jury that they had seen Charlie standing in a group on the other side of the turnaround. Some of these witnesses saw a flash come from that area just before they heard a gunshot and saw the congressman collapse. Werner Rollins testified that he was standing near Marsh and saw him fire the murder weapon.

Frank didn’t ask many questions during this phase of the case. Charlie had plenty of reasons to shoot Junior that had nothing to do with a complex murder plot. Arnie Jr. had punched him in the face and was running toward him to do more damage when the fatal shot was fired. In closing, Frank planned to argue that Charlie Marsh acted alone.

EARLY ON THE fifth day of trial, Burdett called Otto Jarvis to the stand. Jarvis did not look well. He was fat and sloppy and he had a waxy complexion. His sparse gray hair was arranged in a bad comb-over and his white shirt bore faint coffee stains. Jarvis’s hand shook when he was sworn in and the lawyer looked away when Frank tried to make eye contact.

“Mr. Jarvis,” Burdett asked, “what is your profession?”

“I am an attorney-at-law,” Jarvis said with as much dignity as he could muster.

“How long have you been in practice?”

“Thirty-five years.”

“Where is your office?”

“In Portland.”

“Do you specialize in any area of law?”

“Yes, sir. About three-quarters of my practice involves family law.”

“Does a lawyer who practices family law represent parties who wish to obtain a divorce?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Jarvis, were you acquainted with the deceased, United States Congressman Arnold Pope Jr.?”

“I was.”

“When did you become acquainted with him?”

“About two weeks before he died,” the lawyer answered.

“Where and when did you meet?”

“We met at three in the afternoon on a Wednesday in a tavern in Tualatin,” Jarvis said, naming a suburb a short ride from Portland.

“That seems like an odd place for a member of the United States Congress to confer with an attorney.”

“Yes, well, Mr. Pope didn’t want anyone to know about the meeting.”

“Why is that?”

“He was thinking of getting a divorce and he didn’t want the press-or anyone else-to find out.”

“Was there anything unusual about the way the congressman was dressed when he met you?”

“Yes. He was disguised. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He had on old, baggy jeans and a jacket with the collar turned up and sunglasses and a baseball cap. He kept on the jacket, cap, and glasses all the time we were talking.”

“Was there one person in particular Congressman Pope wanted kept in the dark about your meeting?”

“His wife.”

“The defendant, Sally Pope?” Burdett asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t he want his wife to know?”

“He was afraid of her…”

“Objection,” Frank said.

“Goes to state of mind, Your Honor,” Burdett said.

“I’ll allow the question,” Judge Hansen ruled.

“You were saying?” Burdett continued, flashing a smirk at Frank.

“He was afraid of what she would do if she found out he was going to divorce her.”

“Was he specific about his concern?”

“Yes, sir. He said he was afraid she would have him killed.”

“Objection,” Frank boomed.

“Yes, Mr. Burdett,” Judge Hansen told the prosecutor. Then she turned her attention to the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am striking that last answer. You are to disregard it.”

Fat chance, Frank thought.

“What happened at the meeting?” the prosecutor asked.

“We talked about the financial ramifications of the divorce and custody. The Popes had a young son.”

“Did the congressman make a decision about what he was going to do at the meeting?”

“No. Just before he left he said he’d get back to me.”

Burdett turned toward the defense table. “Your witness, Mr. Jaffe.”

“Mr. Jarvis, did you tell anyone about this secret meeting with Mr. Pope?”

“No.”

“So, only you and the congressman knew about it?”

“I don’t know if the congressman told someone about it, but I didn’t.”

“Mr. Jarvis, how many people are in your firm?”

“I’m a sole practitioner. So it’s just me.”

“You said that the congressman discussed the financial ramifications of a divorce from Mrs. Pope.”

“Yes.”

“There would have been several million dollars involved, wouldn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“How much money were you discussing?”

“Uh, I don’t recall exactly.”

Frank leaned back and smiled at the witness. “In the past, oh, say, five years, how many divorce cases have you handled involving many millions of dollars?”

Jarvis flushed and looked down. “Uh, I’m not certain.”

“Maybe I can help. If I told you that I had my investigator review every divorce case you’ve filed in the past five years and he told me that he could only find six such cases, all involving sums of less that two million dollars, would that surprise you?”

“Uh, no.”

“You don’t normally handle big-ticket divorce cases, do you?”

“No, not normally.”

“And you don’t normally represent prominent members of the Oregon community, do you?”

“No.”

“So the congressman would be quite an unusual and exciting client for you, wouldn’t he?”

“I…yes.”

“And the sum of money involved would be way more than you normally deal with, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you want this jury to believe that you can’t remember how many millions of dollars were involved?”

“I, um, it just slips my mind, at the moment.”

“Or, perhaps, you don’t know how much money was in his estate because you never met with Mr. Pope.”

“I definitely met with him. I just don’t remember how much money he had.”

Frank noticed a few jurors taking notes. He moved on.

“Are there Oregon firms that routinely represent parties in divorces who are wealthy?”

“Yes.”

Frank rattled off the names of several law firms in the metropolitan area.

“Any one of those firms would be used to handling cases with assets in the millions of dollars, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“During your years in practice, have you had ten complaints filed against you with the Oregon State Bar?”

Jarvis flushed. “I’ve had some complaints filed. I don’t remember the number.”

“Have you been suspended by the state bar from the practice of law for six months on two occasions for ethics violations?”

“Yes,” Jarvis answered angrily.

“Mr. Jarvis, do you still want this jury to believe that a man like Arnold Pope Jr., with all the contacts he had, chose to consult about his divorce with a lawyer who has rarely handled a society divorce or a divorce with these kinds of assets and who has bar complaints filed against him and who has been suspended several times for being unethical?”

“I…he didn’t tell me why he chose me. Maybe he was afraid that it would get back to his wife if he went to one of the big firms.”

“How did Mr. Pope arrange to meet you at the tavern?”

“He phoned my office.”

“Was there anything that would have prevented Mr. Pope from calling someone at a big firm to arrange a secret meeting at the tavern where you and he allegedly met?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Do you bill by the hour, Mr. Jarvis?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“So, you can produce a record of the initial call from the congressman if I subpoenaed it?”

“No. I don’t think there is a record.”

“There must be a record of the time spent during this conference. You can produce the file, can’t you?”

“I didn’t make a file. The congressman didn’t hire me. We just consulted.”

“But he paid you for the consultation? There’s a check, isn’t there?”

“He…he paid me in cash. He didn’t want any record of the meeting his wife could discover.”

“I assume you recorded the transaction somewhere so you’d remember to report the fee as income on your taxes?” Frank asked with a sweet smile.

Jarvis looked like a deer caught in very bright headlights. “Uh, I may have forgotten.”

“I see,” Frank said. “So, let me get this straight: there are no witnesses to this meeting, no records, no proof that it ever happened, except, of course, for your word?”

“Why would I lie?” Jarvis asked, but he sounded desperate.

“Good question. Did Arnold Pope Sr. pay you for your testimony?”

Jarvis shot an involuntary glance at Senior then pulled his eyes away as soon as he realized what he’d done. Frank couldn’t see Senior’s reaction but he did notice several jurors look in Senior’s direction.

“No. That’s not true,” Jarvis answered.

“Then can you explain where you got the money you used last month to pay off the several thousand dollars in debt on your credit cards?”

“I was in Las Vegas recently and I did very well at the tables,” Jarvis answered lamely.

“Did you report your winnings to the IRS, or did you forget to make a note of them like you did the fee Congressman Pope allegedly paid you?”

“I…I will at the appropriate time.”

“Good for you, Mr. Jarvis. No further questions, Your Honor.”

“THE STATE CALLS Anthony Rose, Your Honor,” Karl Burdett said as soon as Otto Jarvis fled the courtroom.

While one of Burdett’s deputies ducked into the hall to summon the witness, Frank reread the meager investigative report Herb Cross had put together. Rose had gone to high school in Sisters, Oregon, a small town in the center of the state. He’d been a star on the tennis team but his grades weren’t good enough for a college scholarship, so he’d enlisted in the army. Rose had made an attempt to get into the Rangers but had not been selected. Herb had talked to a few of Rose’s acquaintances, who said he’d told them he’d made jumps from airplanes and excelled in marksmanship but washed out because of a hostile officer. Rose was honorably discharged from the military and enrolled in college at Ohio State, where he’d excelled on the tennis team, making the quarterfinals of the NCAA tournament his senior year. After a brief flirtation with professional tennis, Rose returned to Oregon, where he was hired as the club pro at the Westmont.

The courtroom door opened but Frank waited for his first look at Sally’s lover until Rose raised his hand to be sworn. The tennis pro looked like a poster boy for a country club gigolo. He was handsome, athletic, and dressed in a navy blue blazer, neatly pressed tan slacks, and a sky blue shirt that was open at the neck enough to show a tuft of chest hair. Frank noticed that his smile caused the face of every woman on the jury to light up.

“Mr. Rose, are you acquainted with the defendant?” Burdett asked after a few preliminary questions. Rose locked eyes with Sally. With his head turned, the jurors didn’t see him smirk.

“You might say that,” Rose answered.

“In what capacity have you known her?” the prosecutor asked.

“In several capacities. She was my student-I gave her tennis lessons-I like to think we were friends and we were definitely lovers.”

There were murmurs in the spectator section. Frank saw several jurors scrutinize Sally Pope in a distinctly unfriendly manner at the mention of a second extramarital affair.

“How long did your sexual relationship with the deceased’s wife go on?”

“A few months.”

“Why did it end?”

Rose paused for dramatic effect before answering.

“She wanted me to murder her husband and I refused.”

Frank heard gasps from the gallery and saw shocked expressions on more than one juror’s face.

“That’s a lie,” Sally whispered vehemently.

“Can you relate the conversation in which the defendant asked you to kill her husband?” Burdett asked as he struggled successfully to stifle a triumphant smile.

“Certainly. We were at a gathering on an estate in Dunthorpe at which Charlie Marsh, or Guru Gabriel Sun, or whatever he was calling himself, was lecturing about inner peace or some such nonsense. Mrs. Pope asked me to go outside after the lecture. She led me to a secluded spot in the garden. As soon as we were alone and out of the hearing of the other guests, Mrs. Pope asked me if I would like to earn a quarter of a million dollars. I asked her how I could do that. She said her husband was planning to divorce her. There was some kind of contract the congressman’s father had insisted Mrs. Pope sign under the threat that he would disinherit his son if she didn’t. I don’t remember all of the details but the one that worried Mrs. Pope left her in bad shape financially if there was a divorce. But if her husband died before a divorce was final, she would inherit a fortune. She also said there was a life insurance policy for several million dollars. She sounded desperate.”

“What did she suggest you do to help her avoid the consequences of a divorce?”

“She wanted me to take care of her husband before he could file.”

“What did she mean by ‘take care of’?”

“Kill him. Murder him.”

“There’s no question in your mind about that?”

“None. She said she wanted him dead and how I did it would be left up to me.”

“What was your response to Mrs. Pope’s request that you assassinate a member of the United States Congress?”

“I told her she was nuts; that I wasn’t going to kill anyone, no matter how much money she offered me. Especially not a member of Congress. I mean, I’d have the whole federal government after me: the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service.

“To tell the truth, I was also offended that she had such a low opinion of me that she thought I’d kill somebody for money. And it was pretty clear that she was using me. I mean, she acted like she loved me and she hinted that we could get married after Junior was out of the way, but I know she didn’t have any real feelings for me.”

Rose shrugged. “She was great in bed, but she lost interest as soon as she climaxed, if you know what I mean.”

Burdett chose to move on rather than follow up on that topic.

“How did the defendant act after you refused to help her murder her husband?”

“She was very upset. She called me names, insulted my manhood.” Rose shrugged again. “Mrs. Pope was used to getting her way with men and I think she was shocked that any man could refuse any request she made, no matter how crazy.”

“Did anything happen while you were arguing?”

“Yes, sir. Charlie Marsh showed up. It was obvious that he wanted to impress Mrs. Pope by coming to her rescue.”

“What happened?”

“He hit me when I wasn’t prepared. Then he had his bodyguard rough me up.”

“Did the bodyguard display a weapon?”

“Yeah. I didn’t get a good look at it but there was a gun in his waistband. He made sure I saw it.”

“Was there anything distinctive about the weapon?”

“I do remember a fancy handle.”

Burdett asked permission to approach the witness and showed Rose the murder weapon.

“Is this the gun Mr. Marsh’s bodyguard was carrying?”

Rose took the revolver and examined the grip. “I can’t be certain,” he said. “I only saw the handle for a second. But this could be it.”

Burdett returned the exhibit to the table holding the evidence, before continuing to question the witness.

“Did you hear anything Mr. Marsh said to the defendant or anything she said to him after you fought?”

“No. The bodyguard hauled me away and threatened to beat me up if I didn’t leave immediately. To tell the truth, after my conversation with Mrs. Pope I was pretty anxious to get as far from her as possible.”

“Did you have any more contact with the defendant after your argument?”

“No, sir. She did cancel her tennis lessons, but she did that with the pro shop.”

Burdett consulted his notes. Then he addressed the judge.

“No more questions on direct, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Jaffe?” Judge Hansen asked.

Frank had no idea how to cross-examine Rose, so he did the only thing he could think to do.

“It’s getting late, Your Honor,” Frank said. “I wonder if we can recess for the day?”

Judge Hansen glanced at the clock. It was 4:45. “Very well, Mr. Jaffe. We’ll reconvene in the morning.”

Frank had maintained a stone face during Rose’s devastating testimony. As soon as the jury left the courtroom, he leaned over to his client.

“He made that up,” Sally Pope said before Frank could get a word out.

Her voice was tight with anger.

“It’s a crime to commit perjury. He could go to prison if I prove he’s lying. Why is he doing this?”

“I can think of two reasons he’d lie under oath. One is revenge. When we went into the garden, I told Tony I didn’t want to see him anymore. He was upset when I broke it off.”

“Rose doesn’t strike me as the type who’d lose sleep over a woman telling him their affair was over. No offense, but I’m guessing you’re not the first club member he’s seduced.”

“I know for a fact I’m not. And, for the record, I seduced him. But Tony is used to being the one who breaks off the affair and I think I bruised his ego.”

“What’s your other idea?”

“Senior got to him just like he got to Jarvis. Tony’s not real big on ethics. He’d have no compunction about lying under oath if he was paid enough. Hell, if I had offered him a quarter million dollars to kill Arnie I bet he’d have done it.”

Frank was about to say something else when Herb Cross pushed through the courtroom doors, sporting a wide smile.

“What’s up?” Frank asked.

“I found the photographer.”

“Great work. Have you talked to him yet?”

“No, but I know where he lives. I figured you’d want to come along.”

CHAPTER 20

Hey, is this Jack Rodriguez?” Herb Cross asked as soon as someone answered the phone. Cross was calling from Frank’s car, which was parked across the street from a poorly maintained rental home in a rundown section of North Portland. Weeds outnumbered grass in the overgrown postage-stamp front lawn, and the small Cape Cod hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in recent memory.

“Who’s this?” was the cautious answer.

“Are you the private detective?” Cross asked, trying to sound as paranoid as the man to whom he was speaking.

“Yeah,” Rodriguez answered, perkier now that he smelled a buck. “What can I do for you?”

“Look, I don’t feel comfortable talking on the phone, if you know what I mean.”

“Certainly. I definitely understand the need for confidentiality. So, where do you want to meet?”

“Do you have an office?”

“No, I find it’s better not to draw too much attention to myself.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Mr. Jarvis told me you don’t have an office. I forgot.”

“Who?”

Cross heard panic in the PI’s voice.

“Otto Jarvis, the lawyer. He gave me your number. He said you do really good work.”

There was dead air. When Rodriguez spoke, he sounded very nervous.

“Here’s the thing. I just checked my calendar and I forgot about a project that’s going to take me out of town for a while. So I don’t think I can do anything for you right now.”

“Oh man, that’s disappointing, because Mr. Jarvis said you’re the go-to guy if someone thinks their wife is, uh, you know what I mean.”

“Not really, and I think you have the wrong guy, anyway, because I don’t know this Jarvis guy. So, good luck with your wife.”

The moment Rodriguez hung up, Cross called Frank, who was stationed near the back door of the PI’s house.

“He denied knowing Jarvis, but he got very panicky as soon as I mentioned his name. I figure he’ll be coming out any minute. I’ve got the front.”

Cross put the cell phone in his pocket and started across the street. He saw a curtain move. He hoped Rodriguez would make a break for it so they wouldn’t have to figure out how to get in his house. He also hoped the PI didn’t have a gun.

FRANK HAD SWAPPED his suit for a black leather jacket, a black turtleneck, and black slacks, which-along with his thick upper body and broken nose-made him look like a thug. As soon as he heard the back door open and close, he stepped around the corner of the house and into Rodriguez’s path.

“Where you headed, Mr. Rodriguez?” he asked as the PI skidded to a stop. Rodriguez was skinny and about five foot seven. His long black hair was greasy and unkempt and Frank saw acne scars on his sunken cheeks. The lawyer didn’t think Rodriguez would try to fight but he looked like he might be fast, so Frank clamped a hand on his forearm.

“Who the fuck are you?” Rodriguez asked, trying to sound tough and failing miserably.

“Why don’t we tell you inside,” Frank said as Herb Cross walked up behind the PI.

Frank’s investigator had his hand stuffed in his jacket pocket as if he were holding a gun. Rodriguez’s eyes darted between his captors. While the PI was making up his mind, Herb opened the back door and Frank made the choice for him by pushing Rodriguez inside.

The blinds were down and a low-wattage bulb in a standing lamp cast a sickly pale light over a disgustingly dirty living room. Soiled clothes, skin magazines, and dirty dishes were strewn around. The smell of stale pizza and sweat made Frank wince. He decided that calling the house a pigsty would insult swine everywhere. The only neat spot was a corner of the room given over to a computer, printer, fax, and telephone. Frank guessed that this oasis of cleanliness served as Rodriguez’s office.

“How do you live here?” Frank asked.

“Fuck you,” the PI answered without much conviction.

Frank shoved Rodriguez onto the couch and stood over him, because he was afraid to sit on any of the furniture.

“What’s this all about?” Rodriguez asked.

“We know you took the pictures of Sally Pope with Charlie Marsh,” Frank said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rodriguez said as he folded his arms across his chest and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to look at Frank.

“Explain how he fucked up,” Frank said to Cross.

“You made a really amateurish mistake, Jack,” Frank’s investigator said. He handed the PI one of the photographs that had been shot through the windshield of a car.

“I’ve never seen this before.”

“Then someone stole your ride. A VIN number is a seventeen-character alphanumeric code specific to each vehicle.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Rodriguez said, but he was staring at a section of the photo and he’d started to sweat.

“The VIN is mounted on a strip where the dashboard and the windshield meet on the driver’s side. Yours is reflected in the picture. Like I said, an amateur’s mistake. I traced the VIN back to you, Jack.”

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Frank said. “I’m sure you know that Sally Pope is on trial for killing her husband.”

“What’s that have to do with me?”

“Do you know the DA’s theory? He thinks your photos were used to lure Congressman Pope to his death. That makes you an accessory to murder.”

“Bullshit.” Rodriguez hugged himself tighter. “I want a lawyer.”

“Cops have to get suspects lawyers. I’m not a cop.”

“Then who the fuck are you?”

“Your savior, Jack. The man who can keep you from facing a murder charge.”

CHAPTER 21

Karl Burdett was in a great mood when he led his trial assistants into the courtroom the next morning. Frank Jaffe was supposed to be a hot shot but Karl felt that he had him on the ropes. True, Jaffe had scored some points with Otto Jarvis, but he didn’t think he’d lay a glove on Tony Rose. If the jurors believed Rose, the case was over.

“Mr. Burdett,” Judge Hansen’s bailiff said while Karl was swinging his attaché case onto the prosecution table, “the judge wants you in chambers.”

“What’s up?”

“I don’t know, but Judge Hansen, Mr. Jaffe, his client, and two other men are waiting for you.”

Karl frowned. He told his assistants to get his files ready and walked toward the judge’s chambers. He didn’t like surprises.

“Morning, Karl,” the judge said. She hadn’t donned her robes yet and was wearing a black pants suit and white silk blouse. Even though it was illegal to smoke in a public building, Hansen was on her third cigarette and the room stank from cigarette smoke.

Karl recognized Herb Cross, who was sitting on a couch against the wall next to a scrawny, unkempt man who looked to be in his late twenties and was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes.

Judge Hansen pointed at a chair. It was across the desk from her and next to Frank, who was seated next to his client. The only other person in the room was the judge’s court reporter, which meant they weren’t going to have an off-the-record chat.

“Mr. Jaffe has brought some very unsettling information to me and I’m trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation,” the judge said.

“What situation? I don’t know what’s going on.” The DA cast a quick glance at Jack Rodriguez. “If it involves a new witness, Mr. Jaffe hasn’t given me notice as required by the discovery rules.”

“It does involve a witness but Mr. Jaffe didn’t learn about him until last night. That’s why we’re meeting. However, before we discuss Mr. Rodriguez’s testimony, I want to make certain that I understand your case. You’re not going to argue that Mrs. Pope shot her husband, are you?”

“No. Charlie Marsh shot him.”

Judge Hansen nodded. “Okay, so, if I’ve got this right, you’re going to argue that Mrs. Pope and Mr. Marsh conspired to kill her husband.”

“Right.”

“Then Mrs. Pope got someone to take photographs of her and Mr. Marsh in compromising positions and sent these pictures to her husband to make him angry and jealous so he would come to the Westmont Country Club where Mr. Marsh could kill him.”

“That’s our case.”

“Mr. Jaffe, let’s put Mr. Rodriguez’s testimony on the record,” the judge said.

“I object to this…this procedure. I really don’t…”

“Relax, Karl,” the judge said. “I’m taking this testimony in chambers so the press won’t hear it. That would be pretty embarrassing for you. You’ll catch on once you hear what Frank’s witness has to say.”

Frank turned his chair toward the PI. “The judge swore you earlier, Mr. Rodriguez, and you’re still under oath. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Rodriguez answered reluctantly.

“Are you a private investigator?”

“Yes.”

“Have I shown you state’s exhibit thirteen, the photographs that were sent to Congressman Pope?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take the pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Please tell us why you were following Mrs. Pope and Mr. Marsh and taking photographs of them.”

“I got a phone call.”

“From who?”

“A man.”

“Did he tell you who referred him to you?”

“I do work for the Reed, Briggs law firm every once in a while. He mentioned a lawyer over there.”

Frank turned to the judge. “If I may, Your Honor, I’m prepared to prove that the Reed, Briggs firm handles Arnold Pope Sr.’s legal work.”

“Whoa, wait a second. What’s going on here?” Burdett asked, alarmed by anything that could damage his relationship with his largest contributor.

“Relax and you’ll find out,” the judge told the DA. “Proceed, Mr. Jaffe.”

“Okay. Now, Mr. Rodriguez, was there anything unusual about the voice of the man who contacted you?”

“He had a British accent.”

“Did I have you call a number, last night?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you call?”

“You said it was the unlisted number at Arnold Pope Sr.’s estate.”

“Was there anything familiar about the voice of the man who answered the phone?”

“Yeah. It was the guy who’d hired me.”

“You’re certain?”

Rodriguez shrugged. “Well, I never met the guy but it sounded just like him. He had that British accent. And when I told him who I was he got very panicky and refused to put me through to Mr. Pope.”

“Did he hang up?”

“Yeah.”

“Your Honor,” Frank said, “Derrick Barclay, Mr. Pope’s personal assistant, has a British accent. I made a recording of the call and Mr. Barclay sounds pretty rattled on it.”

“Very well. Go on.”

“When you were hired, what were the terms and what were you told to do?” Frank asked.

“The guy with the accent wanted me to follow Mrs. Pope and take pictures if I caught her doing something she shouldn’t.”

“How were you paid?”

“Upfront into my bank account.”

“Did you ever learn the name of the man who paid you?”

“No.”

“Did you have more than one conversation with this man?”

“Yeah. He called a little after Mrs. Pope was arrested.”

“During that phone conversation did the man ask for the name of a divorce attorney who wouldn’t mind bending the rules a little?”

“Yeah. He said he’d heard that I did work for small firms and solos and he said he needed a guy who could use some dough and wasn’t picky about what he had to do to earn it.”

“Did you give him a name?”

“I told him about Otto.”

“Otto Jarvis?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you give the pictures that were sent to Congressman Pope to someone?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did you do with them?”

“I sent them to a PO box.”

“That’s all, Your Honor.”

“Would everyone but Karl please leave my chambers,” Judge Hansen said.

“I don’t think…” the DA started.

“I think it would be better for you if we talked without an audience,” Judge Hansen said. “Mr. Jaffe, you don’t mind if Mr. Burdett and I have an ex parte conference, do you?”

“No, Your Honor.”

As soon as they were alone, Judge Hansen took a drag on her cigarette. Then she shook her head.

“I thought this case smelled as soon as I heard your theory.”

“Those pictures…”

“If Mrs. Pope didn’t hire Rodriguez to take them, the only thing they prove is that she was set up.”

“Marsh could have faked a British accent to make everyone think that Derrick Barclay made the call,” Burdett persisted.

Hansen leaned forward and fixed Burdett with a hard stare.

“I’ve heard the tape of Rodriguez’s call and I know how Barclay’s voice sounds. I’ve also heard scuttlebutt around the courthouse that you had no intention of charging Sally Pope until you came back from a meeting with Arnie Sr. Is there any truth to the rumors?”

Burdett shifted uneasily in his seat. “The grand jury found…”

“The grand jury will find anything you want them to. We both know that, so don’t give me that shit. I have half a mind to haul Derrick Barclay and his boss in front of a grand jury and ask them about those photographs.”

The blood drained from Burdett’s face.

“Now, I’m going to assume you didn’t know that Jarvis was committing perjury before you put him on, but you have to believe that none of the jurors are going to credit his bullshit story about the so-called secret meeting. And Tony Rose is so slimy I’m surprised he didn’t slide off the witness chair. The whole prosecution stinks, and the question for you to ponder is who will be in the shit when the smoke clears.

“If you go forward, Frank’s going to drag Senior and that little weasel Barclay into court, and I promise you this. If they lie under oath in my court, I will put them in prison along with anyone who was their knowing accomplice. So, here’s my suggestion. You ask for a dismissal with prejudice and I’ll grant it. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

KARL BURDETT TOOK several hours before returning to court to tell the judge that he was going to dismiss the case against Sally with prejudice. Most of that time was spent in his office with Arnold Pope Sr. and Derrick Barclay, trying to explain the consequences they would face if their complicity in luring Arnold Jr. to the Westmont was made public and they had any part in shaping the testimony of Otto Jarvis or Tony Rose. Some of the time was spent weathering Senior’s tirades.

As soon as Arnold Pope stormed out of his office, Burdett drew up a motion to dismiss with prejudice. When the paperwork was completed, Judge Hansen ordered the dismissal in open court. Then Frank and the DA held a press conference at which the prosecutor said that evidence had come to light that raised reasonable doubts about Sally Pope’s guilt. Burdett refused to answer any questions about the evidence, claiming there was an ongoing investigation that could be jeopardized if he disclosed what he’d learned. At Judge Hansen’s urging, Frank agreed that he would not reveal the evidence that had led to his client’s exoneration, so Frank simply thanked the prosecutor for having the courage to change his mind when justice demanded it. Burdett claimed the high ground by saying that the prosecution always wins when justice is served.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE it’s over,” Sally said an hour after Frank drove away from the courthouse. They were seated across from each other in Sally’s living room, drinking her scotch. Her son, Kevin, was staying with a friend who had been taking care of him during the trial. “I’m only sorry that the jury didn’t say I wasn’t guilty.”

“A dismissal with prejudice is the same as an acquittal,” Frank reminded her. “The DA can never charge you with your husband’s murder again.”

“There are people who will think I got off on a technicality.”

“Those people would always have questions no matter how the case ended. You’re just going to have to ignore them.”

“That bastard,” Sally muttered. “I wish there was some way to get back at him.”

“You’re going to have to ignore Senior, too.”

“That won’t be easy. I know him. He’ll go after me as long as he’s alive. He can tie up Arnie’s estate, and he swore he’d try and get custody of Kevin.”

“Senior won’t succeed if he tries either of those ploys. He could face criminal charges if it came out that he bribed witnesses to lie about you and you’d have one hell of a lawsuit.”

“I don’t want to file a lawsuit. I just want to be left in peace.”

“I’ll do my best to see that it happens.”

Sally shifted her gaze from her glass to her lawyer. “You’ve been wonderful.”

Frank felt uncomfortable. He wanted to look away but felt he would reveal his emotions if he did. Instead, the blush that colored his cheeks served that purpose.

“It was easy. I believed in you.”

Sally didn’t speak for several heartbeats. Then she said, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. I want you to stay with me.”

All of the confidence Frank had demonstrated in court deserted him.

“I can’t, Sally.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t want to.”

“You’re a client. The rules of ethics…”

“Don’t mean a damn thing if two people care about each other. I’ve seen the way you look at me. You didn’t work as hard as you did to free me just because I paid you.”

Frank knew there were a million reasons he should stand up and leave, but he didn’t.