Guilt

But the good humor seemed to have left her. 'You're Wes Farrell? Oh my God, I can't believe this.'

'This what? What are you-?'

'What am I? What are you?'

'What am I what? Come on, Sam, don't-'

'Don't you don't me.' She was up now, grabbing a robe from a hook behind her on the wall. Pulling it around her – covering up – she turned and faced him. 'You're the Wes Farrell who's defending that scumbag Levon Copes, aren't you?'

'How do you know?'

'Don't worry, I know him.' She was fully engaged now, slamming her fists against her thighs, the bed, whatever was handy. 'I knew it, I just fucking knew it. God, my luck. I should have known.'

'Sam…'

'Don't Sam me either!' Walking around in little circles now. 'I'm sorry, but this just isn't going to work. I want you to go now. Would you please just leave?'

'Just leave?' But he was already sitting up, grabbing his pants from the floor.

''Yes. Just leave. Please.'

'Okay, okay. But I don't know why…'

'Because I can't believe you'd do what you're doing with Levon Copes, that's why – trying to get him off. I can't believe this is you. Oh shit!'

'It's my job,' he said. 'I'm a lawyer, it's what I do.'

That reply stopped her dead. Suddenly, the energy left her. She let out a frustrated sigh and whirled around one last time. 'Just go, all right?'

He had his shoes in his hands, his shirt untucked. 'Don't worry, I'm gone.'

It had been more than an hour, and Ahmal had gone, too.

Mark and Sheila Dooher had said no more than a hundred words to each other all night. She had made the traditional New England boiled dinner which he normally loved, but he'd only picked at the food. At dinner, he'd been polite and distracted and then he'd excused himself, saying he felt like hitting a few balls at the driving range – he'd been playing more golf lately, an excuse to stay away from home longer, go out more often. He'd even asked her if she wanted to accompany him, but he really didn't want her to – she could tell – so she said no.

Now, near midnight, he was still up, reading in the downstairs library, a circular room in the turret, under her own office. When he got home from the driving range, he'd come in to say good night, kissed her like a sister, saying he had work to do. Would she mind if he went to the library and got some reading in, some research?

She couldn't take it anymore.

She stood in the doorway in her bathrobe. He'd lit a fire and it crackled faintly. He wasn't reading. He was sitting in his green leather chair, staring at the flames.

'Mark?'

'Yo.' He looked over at her. 'You all right? What's up?'

'You're still up.'

'The old brain just doesn't seem to want to slow down tonight. So I thought I'd just let it purr awhile.'

She took a tentative step or two into the room.

'What's it thinking about?'

'Oh, just things.'

Another step, two more, then she sat sideways on the ottoman near his feet. 'You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is.'

He took a moment. 'I played squash with Wes this morning. Went over and picked him up at the hovel he calls home. You know what he told me? That you'd told Lydia you thought I was suicidal. That our marriage was on the rocks.' He leveled his gaze at her. 'Imagine my surprise to get it from Wes.'

He was being a good listener, leaning forward now, holding both her hands. He couldn't help but notice the hands. They really did age quicker than everything else – you couldn't fake hands. The hands gave her away.

He really wished she wouldn't cry, but she was. Not sobbing, but quiet tears. '… no looking ahead, no laughs.'

'I know,' he said. 'It's my fault, too. I suppose I let your depression get to me. I shouldn't have done that. I should have said something.'

'But you tried, and I pushed you away.'

'I still should have.'

'It wasn't you, Mark, it was-'

'Wait, wait. Let's stop who it was. It doesn't matter who it was. We're talking about it now. We'll fix it starting now, starting today.' He leaned over and kissed her. 'We've just gotten into some bad habits. You feel like a nightcap?'

She hesitated, then decided. 'Sure, I'd like one. One light drink isn't going to hurt me.'

'You're right.'

She held on to him. 'I love you, Mark. Let's make this work, okay?'

He kissed her again. 'It will. I promise.'

CHAPTER NINE

Wes Farrell exited the crowded elevator into the familiar hallway madness -cops, DAs, reporters, witnesses, prospective jurors, hangers on.

It was just after 8:00 a.m. and the various courtrooms wouldn't be called to order for at least another half-hour. Farrell knew that a lot of legal business got done here in these last thirty minutes – pleas were agreed to, witnesses prepped, lawyers hired and fired.

This was also the moment when negotiations about plea bargaining got down to tacks. If you were a defense attorney, as Wes was, and you had a losing case, you didn't really want to go to trial. But your client generally didn't like the prosecution's offer of jail-time -only ten years didn't tend to sound like a deal except when you compared it to the twenty-five you'd do if you got convicted. Maybe somebody's mind would change and your client would get off with a fine. Maybe world peace was just around the corner.

So you played the game and hung tough for your client, bluffing that you really would put the prosecutor's office through the time and expense of a jury trial. But at some point – such as now when you were in the hallway waiting for trial – this was when you folded your cards and took the plea.

But that wasn't Farrell's intention this morning. He wasn't here to run a bluff. He was here with the outrageous intention of talking the DA into dropping murder charges against Levon Copes right now or, failing that, deliver the message that Levon was prepared to go to trial. Of course, Levon had already pled not guilty at pre-trial, but that had been more or less pro forma.

This was different.

Wearing a black silk blouse and one of her trademark miniskirts, dark green today, Amanda Jenkins was leaning against the wall enjoying this morning's special entertainment. Decked out in fezzes and robes, a dozen or so representatives of the Moslem mosque were protesting the arrest of one of their members for bank robbery, and were performing a hucca – a ritual dance derived from the old whirling dervishes. They were jumping up and down and chanting, 'Just-us, just-us.' Several uniformed cops were available to maintain a semblance of order, but it probably wasn't going to get out of hand. These things happened every week in the Hall. To Farrell, it was almost more amazing that no one seemed to think it was that odd.

He came up to Jenkins. 'With a couple of instruments, they could take it on the road. It'd really go better with music, don't you think?'

She considered it seriously. 'Accordion and tuba. Alternating bass notes. Oom-pa, oom-pa. It's a good idea.'

They discussed variations on the theme until they located an empty bench far enough away to hear themselves talk, and Farrell went into his pitch.

'You can't be serious?' she said when he wrapped it up. 'You're saying you expect us to simply drop this?'

'Like the hot potato it is. I don't really expect it, but you don't have a case, and your boss seems to know it.'

'I'm sorry he gave you that impression and I'm sure he would be, too. I just talked to Art this morning before coming down here and he is totally committed to this prosecution.'

This was a lie, but Amanda delivered it straight.

'Murder One?'

She nodded. 'With Specials.' Meaning special circumstances – in this case murder in the course of a rape. The state was going to ask for LWOP – life in prison without the possibility of parole.