“Skip that for now,” I said. “What happened to the girl?”
“Her date, Derek Patel, brought her to the house party. The elder Champlins were away for the weekend, and such parties aren’t uncommon. Their daughter, Sara, was present, as well as a number of exchange students, all of whom are of age—”
“What exchange students?” Harvey Bemis asked.
“Jocks, Harvey,” I explained. “They attend Vale Junior College on sports scholarships.”
“They keep the school competitive and give Mark a new audience for his highlight reel every year,” Todd added. “Cut to the chase, Jason. Who doped the punch?”
“Joey Champlin,” Avery said simply.
The room went dead still. No one spoke for a moment.
“The... handicapped kid?” I said at last.
“I’m afraid so. Last evening, Joey was watching TV with the exchange students when his older sister ordered him to bed. The boy took offense. He has a history of difficulty with impulse control. He broke into the playroom, grabbed a fistful of pills, and dropped them in the punch as a prank.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Todd said, looking away.
“The boy had no idea what the pills were, or what the consequences might be,” Avery continued. “Joey confessed to his sister this morning. He’s very sorry, but...” He opened his hands expansively. “I doubt the boy’s capable of comprehending the damage he’s done.”
“How old is this boy?” Harvey asked.
“Sixteen,” Avery said. “His IQ is in the mid sixties, which places him in legal limbo between juvenile court and adult incapacity. I doubt he can be tried.”
“He can’t just walk either,” Todd said grimly. “What are you offering, Jason?”
“There’s a bit more to it,” Avery said. “Vale Junior College is being vetted at the state level to become a fully accredited four-year institution. I don’t have to tell you what a blessing this would be for the north shore. Kids who lack the resources to pursue a higher education downstate could live at home, attend school here.” He glanced pointedly at me.
“That’s good news,” I conceded. “How is it relevant?”
“Mark Champlin is heavily involved in those negotiations. A scandal at this time could derail the process, perhaps permanently.”
“The snow angel isn’t a scandal,” I said. “She’s a homicide victim.”
“Snow angel?” Bemis echoed, frowning.
“Julie Novak,” I said. “When we found her in the snow, that’s how she appeared.”
“By whatever name, her death was inadvertent,” Avery said. “A regrettable accident.”
“Or negligent homicide,” Bemis countered. “A mentally challenged kid made an awful mistake. Fine. He can plead to it, the judge will place him in a state institution for evaluation—”
“And any hope for his future will disappear,” Avery shot back.
“Joey Champlin’s record will clear at twenty-one,” I pointed out. “Julie Novak isn’t going to see twenty-one.”
“The point is moot,” Avery said. “The Champlins are unwilling to ruin the boy’s life for what was, in every sense, a juvenile mistake.”
“We might be open to a compromise,” Bemis said, glancing at Todd. “If one of the parents pleads to negligence—”
“To be held up to public ridicule and shame?” Avery asked.
“Somebody damn well should be ashamed!” I snapped.
“Dylan’s right, Counselor,” Todd said. “My office can’t just write this off. Especially since Mark and I are friends. You have to give me something, Jason.”
“I’ve been authorized to offer a hundred thousand dollars,” Avery said.
No one spoke for a moment.
“A hundred for what?” I asked.
“Joey’s a mentally challenged minor, with emotional problems,” Avery said quickly. “No good purpose will be served by trying him. The Champlins offer fair compensation instead. Joey will be placed in a secure facility, for appropriate treatment. The Champlins will issue a public statement of regret for the incident and, privately, will proffer a financial settlement to the girl’s family. One hundred thousand.”
Bemis glanced nervously at Todd. The prosecutor’s face showed nothing.
“If, on the other hand, formal charges are brought,” Avery continued, “my admission of Joey’s involvement and the offer of compensation will vanish. The Champlins will resist any attempt to incarcerate the boy, and they have formidable resources. We’re dealing with a tragedy, not a crime.”
“That’s for the courts to decide,” I said.
“You can pursue legal action, of course,” Avery nodded. “But what can you win? Joey will most likely be remanded to counseling and the Novak family will get nothing. Are you willing to risk that, Todd?”
“As a friend of the family, I can’t be a party to this,” Todd said. “It’s your call, Harvey.”
“I... sympathize with the Novak family, of course,” Bemis said, reading Todd’s eyes as he spoke. “But there’s not much point in convicting a mentally handicapped minor of a charge hell barely comprehend. And a court fight could be disastrous for the college.”
Bemis paused, waiting for his boss to comment. Todd didn’t.
“Let’s make it two hundred thousand,” Avery said. “That’s my final offer and it expires in sixty seconds.”
Bemis glanced at Todd, who gave a barely perceptible nod.
“All right,” Bemis nodded. “We can live with that.”
I wasn’t sure who “we” were, but he didn’t speak for me.
“Slow down,” I said. “Before we agree to a settlement, shouldn’t we consult the Novak family?”
“Sorry, but that’s out. They can’t know about Joey,” Avery said. “And an offer of compensation could be interpreted as an admission of guilt. Any approach must be made unofficially, without revealing any part of this discussion. Mr. Novak works as a logger. He might be more receptive if the offer came from one of his own.” He glanced pointedly at me.
“You’re kidding,” I said. “You want me to sell this to Novak? Without telling him anything?”
“He’s free to decline, of course,” Avery said. Taking a checkbook out of his vest pocket, he jotted in a few figures, then slid the check to me.
“This is drawn on my personal account, Detective. Two hundred thousand dollars. When Mr. Novak cashes it, he’ll be given a release to sign, acknowledging it as a final settlement.”
“This is a mistake,” I said. “At least let me tell Novak the truth about what happened.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not an option,” Avery said. “It would violate privilege and open the Champlin family to litigation. I can’t allow it.”
“Novak could be facing felony charges for assaulting the Patel boy,” Harvey Bemis added. “Remind him of that, Dylan. Given a choice between a paycheck and jail time, he’ll do the right thing.”
“Right for who?” I asked. “Novak’s a wood-smoke stud. He’s used to getting up off the deck to come back at you. He won’t take this.”
But I was wrong.
By the time I got back to Hauser Justice Center, Carl Novak had been cooling off in an interview room for over an hour.
Locked up alone in a ten-by-ten concrete box, he had time to absorb the death of his daughter. And to consider a future that could include months, even years, locked in rooms like this one.
He was seated at a small steel table, bolted to the floor in the center of the room. I took the chair facing him. It was just us. Off the record. No one observing from the other side of the two-way mirror, no recorders, no video-cams.
Novak was dressed for work, in a faded flannel shirt, bib overalls, and cork-soled boots. His shoulder-length shaggy hair was shot with gray, his face seamed and weathered by the wind. His knuckles were oversized, scarred from rough labor.