Guilt

'I'm sorry,' Gorman said. 'I…' He didn't know what else he could say, and left the sentence unfinished, hanging in the room.

Flaherty waited for more, but it didn't come. 'You're sorry?'

'Yes.'

'Sorry doesn't seem like quite enough, Gene.'

'I'm sorry about that, too, Your Excellency.'

Flaherty cocked his head. 'What's going on here? You two have a disagreement, a fight?'

'No.'

'Do you want to talk to me about anything else? I checked your most recent reports, and things at the parish seem to be going along smoothly. Am I wrong about that?'

'No, Your Excellency.'

Flaherty tapped the table. 'Let's drop the Excellency. I'm Jim Flaherty. We've known each other a long time. Is there something going on in your parish?'

Gorman knew what he was asking – was he having an affair, was there a scandal brewing? He shifted his burning eyes to the ceiling, to the sides of the room. 'I do feel like I'm under a lot of stress lately. I'm not getting much sleep. I…'

Again, the rogue syllable, and again it hung there.

'What would you like me to do, Gene? Would you like some time off? A short retreat?'

'Maybe so, Jim. Maybe that would help.'

The Archbishop sat still a minute, lips pursed, eyes unwavering. 'All right,' he said at last. 'Let's give that a try.'

Farrell knew he was fouling the air. The Upmann Special tasted delicious, and normally he made it a point not to smoke cigars in small offices, but he didn't much like Craig Ising, and it gave him some pleasure to realize that Ising was going to have to get his suit cleaned to get the smell out. Farrell thought it was a fair trade – he felt dirty near him, but he was a client and your clients were not always people you admired.

'But I didn't do anything wrong. This isn't even a crime in Nevada!'

Farrell coughed, then blew a vapor trail into the air above them. 'We've been through that, Craig. You should've been in Nevada when you committed it.'

Thirty-six years old, physically fit, nicely tanned, Ising had told Farrell all about the suit that he would soon have to clean. It had set him back $450 in Hong Kong. A silk blend that supposedly felt even better than it looked. If you could get it in America, it would go for more than a grand.

Farrell had spent most of the day in this tiny conference room in Ising's plush Embardacero office, the two men discussing a plea so Ising wouldn't have to go to jail. That was the hope, anyway. And Farrell was ready to go home.

Ising's position, early on in the day, was that he was a businessman and all he'd done was take advantage of an investment opportunity. He'd been making some pretty serious money at this particular endeavor for the past couple of years. The investment was straightforward enough – Ising had been buying the insurance policies of people infected with AIDS, in effect becoming their beneficiary when they died.

In Ising's views, everyone benefited by this arrangement. The AIDS patients sold their discounted policies for cash which they needed for their medical bills – normally sixty percent of the value of the policy – and their policies were then sold by middlemen to investors like Ising, who paid between $6,000 and $200,000 for the policies, based on the patient's life expectancy.

Ising had gotten lucky with the first couple – the patients had died almost immediately and he'd cleared nearly half a million dollars in less than a year. Unfortunately for him, the State of California regulated this particular investment (by outlawing it) and Ising was looking at two to five years in state prison and a six-figure fine.

'This doesn't bother you at all, does it, Craig?'

'What bothers me is they're trying to take me down for it. That's what bothers me. Other guys have done a lot worse.'

This was inarguable, so Farrell didn't push it. Instead, he got down to tacks. 'You're lucky, you know. The DA's taking heat for the court's dragging along on violent crimes, so he gets the idea he wants to clear some massive backlog on these white-collar cases, get 'em processed out without taking up court time. You fall in the crack. Otherwise, you'd be looking at hard time. This is actually a sweet offer.'

Ising rolled his eyes. 'It's so sweet, why don't you put up the money?' The deal was a fine of half a million dollars earmarked for AIDS research and two hundred hours of community service for Ising. 'And the time. Where am I supposed to get two hundred hours?'

Farrell shook his head. Two hundred hours is five weeks full-time, Craig. You get the minimum prison time and it's two years. Five weeks. Two years. Think about it.' He sucked on his cigar, keeping it lit. The air in the room was getting as opaque as fog. 'But hey, it's your decision.'

'It's robbery is what it is. We ought to sue them.'

'Sue who?'

'Whoever passed this law. It's criminal. No wonder this state's down the tubes. A man can't make any kind of living.'

Farrell didn't know exactly what Ising had made last year, but the rent here in the Embarcadero highrise was not close to cheap, and Ising had personally ponied up nearly $30,000 for Farrell's legal fees in the past year, so it was a little hard for Farrell to work up much sympathy for how difficult it was for an entrepreneur without morals to make a living in California. 'What's the matter, Craig? You afraid this community service is going to put you in contact with the riff-raff?'

'Yeah, among other things. You got a problem with that? You get your commoners out there rubbing shoulders with me and they find out who I am and next you know I'm getting hit up for money. You wait, you'll see. It'll happen.'

'Does that mean you're going with the plea?'

Ising pulled at his upper lip, drummed his fingers on the table in front of him. 'Damn,' he said.

'I didn't know if I should call. I was worried about you.'

'You've always been able to call, Christina. I appreciate it. But there isn't anything to worry about. I'm a big boy. I'll be all right.'

'I'm not trying to argue with you, but you don't sound all right. And Saturday…'

'I thought Saturday I was pretty good.'

'But it was an act. I could see that.'

'Well, yes. But what was I going to do with everybody there? I couldn't very well sit in a corner and cry, could I?'

'No. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…'

'I know what you meant, Christina, and I thank you. You're right. You're saying it's okay if I show it a little. People aren't judging me so hard right now. Is that it?'

'Of course you see it. You see things.'

'Still, it's good to remember. And I'm very glad you called. A time like this, you don't want to… you don't want to push yourself on your friends. The house has seemed to get pretty big…'

'Mark?'

'I'm still here. I'm thinking maybe I should just sell the damn thing.'

'I don't think I'd make any decisions like that for a while. Give yourself a little time.'

'For what, though?'

'For things to become clearer.'

'Oh, they seem clear enough now. That's almost the problem. Everything's crystal clear. This is just the way things will be from now on.'

'Time will make it better, Mark. Eventually, it will. It does.'

'Okay.'

'I'm sorry. I'm not saying it's not horrible now.'

'No, I know, that's all right. Well, listen, I'm not much for conversation right now. And I do thank you for calling me. Really. I'll be back in the office in a couple more days. I'll see you there?'

'Sure.'

'Okay then. Take care.'

She put the phone down gently, stood looking out at the traffic passing by her front window, then picked it up and hit the redial button.

'It's me again.'

A surprised chuckle, wonderful to hear. 'How've you been?'

'I've been insensitive.'