Davis edged forward to take the podium. 'John, I have to agree with Captain Walsh,' he began, and Brinkley looked up, listening. He'd never heard a D.A. admit he was wrong and couldn't believe he was about to hear it from Davis, in front of everyone. It was one thing to fess up in a hospital cafeteria and another to do it in public. 'My prosecution of Mr Newlin was a complete miscarriage of justice, and the fault is entirely mine. I am announcing effective today my resignation from the Office of the District Attorney.'
Brinkley looked over, stunned. Davis had changed his view of lawyers in one shot. Almost.
'I was overzealous in this case and I think it's time for me to take a breather. Beyond that, I have no further comment.' Davis stepped away from the podium, as strobe lights flashed like gunfire.
The reporters immediately began shouting again, and Captain Walsh picked one in the back of the room. 'You have the last question, Bill;'
'Thank you, sir,' the reporter said. 'What's the latest on DiNunzio's condition?'
EPILOGUE
Sunlight filtered through oak trees in full leaf, and Jack felt the late-summer sun on his shoulders through the worn cotton of his oxford shirt. He crossed his legs on the park bench, gazing across Logan Square at the Four Seasons Hotel. In one hand he held the red tape leash of a fuzzy golden retriever puppy, who was chewing happily on the looped shoelace of Jack's sneaker. The traffic around the hotel flowed steadily on this Saturday afternoon, affording him and his partner on the bench, Lou Jacobs, a decent view of the restaurant.
'I remember the day I was here, with Mary,' Lou was saying. His eyes looked flinty in the sun, and his tanned hands rested on the pressed crease of his khaki pants. His white polo shirt was a neat concession to Philadelphia's humidity. 'It was right after she met you, on the case. She was tellin' me about the fountain.'
'Swann Fountain?' Jack looked behind him. The fountain spurted and bubbled at the center of the cobblestone plaza, sending graceful arcs of frothy water into the circular pool and misting the air with cooling droplets. 'What about the fountain?'
'She liked it.'
'I can see why.' Jack smiled at the sight. Two little boys played in the fountain in front of an indulgent mother, squealing with each cold splash. At the sound, the puppy's neck swiveled and his wavy-haired ears lifted to attention. Jack breathed in the fresh smells of the greenery and the faintly chlorinated scent of the fountain water. He had so much to be grateful for and so much to regret. 'Tell me what she liked about it. Do you remember?'
'Sure. The statues around the fountain are a man, a woman, and a young girl. See?' Lou's eyes remained fixed on the hotel. Filaments of his silvery hair caught a passing breeze. 'Mary said it reminded her of you, your wife, and your daughter.'
'She said that?' Jack felt touched that Mary had been thinking of him even then. He had been thinking of her that early, too, but he had been lonelier than she, he just hadn't known it. 'What's going on now?' he asked, turning to the hotel.
'Hold on.' Lou raised the binoculars to his eyes and aimed them at the hotel restaurant. The baby shower, taking place two months after the baby had arrived, was going on inside, and through the window he could see the hen party was breaking up. 'Finally they stopped yapping.'
'It's sports, they're crazy about sports,' Jack said, standing up and eyeing the hotel entrance. He could barely see inside the restaurant. Paige was hostessing the shower, for the baby's adoptive mother. 'Seems stupid they don't let men into these things, still.'
'Nah, who wants to go? Not me.' Lou stood up, too, and let the binoculars hang at his neck. 'I'd rather sit out here and tell dirty jokes.'
'Agreed,' Jack said, with a smile. He watched the hotel entrance, and Judy came out first, her height helping him identify her even across the street. She would be wanting her puppy back, and he would happily off-load it. Raising a daughter, especially belatedly, was enough for him. He'd spent the last few months trying to undo his past mistakes with Paige. 'You see my kid yet?'
'There.' Lou pointed as Paige appeared. Her new haircut, a shiny red wedge, was a bright spot in the sunlight. Her arms were full of baby gifts, which she was loading into the couple's minivan. The baby was at home with his adoptive father, a teacher. Jack's heart warmed at the thought. Paige had grown up so much in the past few months and with counseling had taken the hardest step
of her life. She'd decided the most responsible thing she could do as a mother was to offer her baby to a couple who could love and raise him. Jack hadn't disagreed with a word.
'There's Mary!' Lou said, with a smile, and Jack looked over.
Mary had managed to abscond with not one, not two, but with five centerpieces of roses, daisies, freesia, and even an orchid or two. She moved with the bouquets like the most petite float in the Mummers Parade. Jack smiled. 'Why do women take center-pieces?'
'Because they can,' Lou said, and they both laughed.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
They call publishing companies 'houses,' and I have only recently come to understand why. I have written seven novels, including this one, for the same publishing house, HarperCollins, and it has come to feel like home to me. Not because I can finally find it in New York (though that helps) but because of the caring people who reside within, and I owe them all a huge debt of gratitude.
Thank you so much to Jane Friedman, President and CEO, who has imbued the house with her warmth, grace, and wisdom, and has mothered me from the day we first met. Thank you so much to Cathy Hemming, who took the time not only to improve this manuscript, but has even come – slinging a backpack of manuscripts – to one of my signings. Heartfelt thanks, as always, to Carolyn Marino, my editor, who is completely invaluable for her expertise, taste, and friendship. If you like my books, it's because of her. If you hate them, it's when I didn't listen.
It takes a village to raise an author. Deep thanks to my wonderful agent, Molly Friedrich, who is the truest sort of intellectual. She loves books without pretense and cares about them with passion. I am forever grateful to be one of her charges, and she is the most fun mom an author could ask for. Thanks, too, to Paul Cirone, for his advice, help, and good looks.
I need help with the facts, too, though when I get them wrong the blame is on me. For this book I turned first to Commissioner John Timoney of the Philadelphia Police Department, who let me follow him around for a day. Commissioner Timoney is rightfully a hero in my city, and I consider the good cops in this book a thank-you
to him and to all of those who serve and protect. Thanks to Lieutenant Martin O'Donnell and the officers of the Civilian Police Academy; my baseball cap is off to you.
Thanks, too, to Art Mee of the District Attorney's office, for his good-humored advice and sartorial splendor, and to Glenn Gilman, public defender extraordinaire. For estates advice I turn to the expert, Robert Freedman of Dechert, Price amp; Rhoads. There is none better, nor more generous with his time and expertise.
Personal thanks and all my love to my family: my husband, daughter, and stepdaughters Sarah and Elizabeth. And to return briefly to the importance of mothers, my deepest thanks go to the best one of all. Mine.
Thanks, Ma.
