Part of an attorney's training was never to show surprise, and Knowles did not. Just the same, he hesitated perceptibly before asking, "And by what piece of wizardry could your client do that?"
"He has, safely hidden away where even a search warrant won't reach, two documents that incriminate Ms. Ernst, but also more important a tape recording. Unedited. On that recording is every bit of evidence you'd need to convict, spoken in Cynthia Ernst's own voice and words.''
Cruz went on to describe, from notes made earlier, a broad outline of what the tape contained concerning Cynthia, though he omitted any direct reference to Patrick Jensen or to the wheelchair murder. Instead, Cruz said, "There is also on the tape, and I suppose you could consider it a bonus, the name of another individual who is guilty of another, entirely different murder, so far unsolved."
"Is your client involved in both of those additional crimes?"
Cruz smiled. "That is information which, in my client's interest, I must withhold for the time being."
"Have you listened to this alleged tape recording yourself, counselor? Or seen the documents, whatever they are?"
"No, I haven't." Cruz had anticipated the question. "But I have confidence in the accuracy of what has been described to me, and I remind you that my client is well versed in words and language. Furthermore, if you and I reached an agreement and the evidence fell short of what was promised, anything we had arranged would be renegotiable."
"It would be null and void," Knowles said.
Cruz shrugged. "I suppose so."
"But if everything did work out the way you say, what would you want in return?"
"For my client? Taking everything into account allowing him to plead manslaughter."
Knowles threw back his head and laughed. "Steve, I really have to hand it to you! You have the most incredible balls. How you can ask for a slap on the wrist in these circumstances, and do it with a straight face, I really don't know."
Cruz shrugged. "Sounded reasonable to me. But if you don't like the idea, what's your counteroffer?"
"I don't have one, because at this point you and I have gone as far as we can," Knowles told him. "Any decisions from here on must be Adele Montesino's, and she may want to see us together, probably today." The attorney turned to Ainslie. "Malcolm, let's break this up. I need to use a phone."
* * *
Knowles had left for the state attorney's headquarters, while Stephen Cruz returned to his downtown office, agreeing to be available when needed. Meanwhile, Newbold, aware that the Police Department's role was becoming more complex, had advised his superior, Major Manolo Yanes, commander of the Crimes Against Persons Unit, of the broad issues pending. Yanes, in turn, had spoken with Major Mark Figueras, who, as head of Criminal Investigations, summoned an immediate conference in his office.
Newbold arrived, along with Ainslie and Ruby Bowe, to find Figueras and Yanes waiting. Seated around a rectangular conference table with Figueras at the head, he began vigorously, "Let's go over everything that's known. Everything. "
Normally, while general Homicide activity was reported to superiors, specific case details seldom were on the principle that the fewer people who knew the secrets of investigations, the more likely they would stay secret. But now, at Newbold's prompting, Ainslie described his early doubts about the Ernst case, followed by Elroy Doil's confession to fourteen killings but his vehement denial of having killed the Ernsts. "Of course we knew Doil was a congenital liar, but with the lieutenant's approval, I did more digging." Ainslie explained his search through records, the inconsistencies with the Ernst murders, and Bowe's research at Metro-Dade and Tampa.
He motioned to Ruby, who took over, Figueras and Yanes following her report closely. Ainslie then summarized: "The test was had Doil told me the truth about everything else, apart from the Ernsts? As it turned out, he had, which was when I really did believe he hadn't killed the Ernsts."
"It's not proof, of course," Figueras mused, "but a fair assumption, Sergeant, which I'd share."
It was apparent that the two senior of firers were looking to Ainslie as the principal figure in the discussion, clearly regarding him with respect and, strangely it seemed, at moments with a certain deference.
Next, Ainslie had Bowe describe her examination of the boxes from the Ernst house, the revelations about Cynthia's childhood, and, finally, the discovery of the evidence proving Patrick Jensen a murderer, evidence that Cynthia had concealed all of that detail so new that it had not, until today, progressed beyond Homicide's domain.
Following it all was the arrest of Jensen earlier that day, prompting Jensen's accusations against Cynthia Ernst, and the promise of documents and a tape recording.
Figueras and Yanes, though accustomed to a daily diet of crime, were clearly startled. "Do we have any evidence," Yanes asked, "anything at all, linking Cynthia Ernst to the murders of her parents?"
Ainslie answered, "At this moment, sir, no. Which is why Jensen's documents and tape if they're as incriminating as his lawyer claims are so important. The state attorney should have everything tomorrow."
"Right now," Figueras said, his glance including Newbold, "I'll have to report this to the top. And if there is an arrest of a city commissioner it must be handled very, very carefully. This is beyond hot." He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and muttered, "My father wanted me to be a doctor."
* * *
"Let's not waste time playing games," Florida's state attorney, Adele Montesino, said sternly to Stephen Cruz. "Curzon told me about your fantasy that your client plead guilty to manslaughter, so okay, you've had your little joke. Now we'll deal with reality. This is my offer: Assuming the documents and the tape recording offered by your client are as good as he claims, and he is willing to testify confirming what is there, for him we will not seek the death penalty."
"Whoa!" Raising his voice, Cruz faced her squarely.
It was late afternoon, and they were in her impressive office, with its mahogany-paneled walls and bookcases laden with heavy legal volumes. A large window looked down on a courtyard with a fountain; beyond were office towers and a seascape in the distance. The desk at which Montesino sat, if used as a dining table, would have seated twelve. Behind the desk, in an outsized padded chair capable of tilting and swiveling in all directions, was the state attorney short and heavyset, and fulfilling once more her professional reputation as a pit bull.
Stephen Cruz sat facing Montesino, Curzon Knowles on his right.
"Whoa!" Cruz repeated. "That's no concession, none at all when what my client is being held for is a crime of passion . . . you remember passion, Adele love and haste." A sudden smile accompanied the words.
"Thank you for that reminder, Steve." Montesino, whom few presumed to address by her first name, was noted for her sense of humor and a love of bandying words. "But here's a reminder for you: the possibility, which you and your client raised voluntarily, that he may be involved in another crime the Ernst murders, a case which is clearly murder one. In that event my offer not to seek death is generous."
"An interpretation of generosity would depend on the alternative," Cruz countered.
"You know it perfectly well. Life in prison."
"I presume there would be a rider a recommendation at sentencing that after ten years, clemency might be recommended to the governor."
"No way!" Montesino said. "All of that went out the window when we abolished the Parole Commission."
As all three knew, Cruz was indulging in rhetoric. Since 1995 a Florida life sentence had meant exactly that life. True, after serving ten years a prisoner could petition the state governor for clemency, but for most especially if the conviction had been for first-degree murder any hope would be slim.