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  It was a convincing performance. He turned from the jury and gave Liv a smirk neither the jury nor The Duchess saw, although two of JTJ’s cameras picked it up.

  Liv stood and walked slowly toward the jury box, giving them time to put Brent’s statement in the past, giving them time to be ready to hear her.

  She acknowledged Charley Wayne Dukes had confessed to killing Congressman Barnes. But not the way most confessions were obtained, not by sweating the defendant and threatening him (Chief Gardner, sitting behind the prosecution table, frowned deeply at this), but of his own free will, as if recognizing for the first time what he had done, and how deeply it mattered, both to the Congressman’s family and to the community, and immediately regretted it.

  Charley Dukes had mental problems, she continued, had diminished responsibility, knew what he was doing but couldn’t think it through, couldn’t know, in advance, what a terrible thing he was going to do and had done. The various stories he gave to the police were the result of confusion. They are evidence of incapacity, of mental disturbance. We know that because these stories were unbelievable, nothing the defendant could have carefully plotted out in advance. And even these stories were not meant to absolve him. No, he confessed immediately and never recanted.

  “But what had he confessed to? A killing. But a killing is not always murder, and in this case, where the defendant is partially mentally incapacitated, justice can be best served by finding the defendant guilty of manslaughter. He will then be confined to one of the State prisons. You should note the defendant, although having a criminal record, was never convicted, or even accused, of a crime of violence before. Let’s save murder verdicts for the cold-blooded killer, the killer with one death after another on his record, the husband who kills his wife, the bank robber who shoots the teller. Not this man. Thank you.”

  Liv returned to the defense table. She hadn’t been convincing, but in these circumstances, she thought, no one could have been. She looked at Charley. He didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was sweating. She tried to say something comforting to him but Charley didn’t look at her. He might not, she thought, even have heard her.

  Judge DuCasse announced that the jury’s deliberation might last long enough to warrant an overnight recess, therefore she was instead postponing it until the next day. Unless there were last-minute motions, then, day five would consist solely of her charge to the jury, the jury’s deliberation and its verdict, and the sentence if there was to be a sentence.

  With that, she adjourned court for the day.

  Charley refused to speak with anyone on his way back to the county jail. He sat down on the bunk in his cell and went over and over what Chief Gardner had testified. He hadn’t fired. Neither had Barnes’ security man Jerry Sullivan because there was a dense crowd, and Gardner’s gun hand was wounded, anyway.

  Charley’s first nervous shot had missed Barnes, hit Gardner’s raised hand. His second, better aimed, had hit Barnes in the shoulder. And then there was that third shot, the one that had killed Barnes, the shot he was pretty sure George had made.

  Yes, Charley thought, he hadn’t killed the politician. But he had intended to and tried to, so he deserved to go to prison for a long time. That’s what George wanted, and he and George had a deal: hands off Charley’s daughter and grandson, and Charley would take the rap.

  But George had tried to kill him. He knew that now. That was the fourth shot. Charley had told the police he’d fired “two-three shots, maybe more,” and that way he’d covered for George, the one who made the third shot. Charley would take the rap for that.

  He’d assumed Sullivan or Gardner had shot at him when he was running to escape, pushing through and past the crowd, almost at the corner of that building. But, as he’d found out that morning, it wasn’t that way. Both Sullivan and Gardner said they had never shot at Charley or anywhere else that day. That was why he’d startled, gaped, almost stood up when he learned neither the security man nor the cop had shot at him.

  But he realized he could never say anything about this revelation. It was George. It must have been George. George had planned to waste him all along. That son of a bitch.

  He should tell his lawyer. Or the prosecutor. But then he remembered Darlene and the kid. Screwed one way or another. How stupid he’d been! Maybe those psychologists were right. Now he couldn’t say anything, give any hint. His lawyer had noticed him startle and start to get up, she had given him a firm but comforting smile. But then after adjournment, she hadn’t said anything about that startle, so she must have forgotten.

  Charley turned over in his bunk and had the worst night of his life. So far.

  Day five of the trial was over in six hours. Judge DuCasse read a set of instructions, citing four possible verdicts:

  .. Guilty of murder in the first degree, with capital punishment

  .. Guilty of murder in the first degree, without capital punishment

  .. Guilty of murder in the second degree

  .. Guilty of manslaughter.

  .. Not guilty

  She informed the jury each of verdicts two, three, and four would involve long prison sentences, although of varying lengths. She would decide on the most appropriate sentence considering the verdict and the circumstances.

  After five hours and a few minutes, the jury filed in. A bailiff took a slip of paper from the foreman and handed it to the judge. The judge nodded sagely and handed it back to the bailiff, who handed it back to the foreman.

  Murder in the second degree.

  Liv saw Brent was clearly annoyed. Although she had argued for manslaughter, she never thought it would sell, and so she was relieved the jury had not gone for First Degree, which was of course what Brent had been aiming at.

  After the verdict was read, Charley thanked Liv for her work; then he was cuffed and escorted out of the courtroom, head down on his chest as Liv watched. Liv followed Charley to jail and commiserated with him as best she could. Then she went home and had four aspirins and two jiggers of bourbon, and overslept the next day. Then she visited Charley briefly, more as a courtesy than anything else, to see how he was holding up. He finally admitted he’d been promised money, but that wasn’t the reason he killed Barnes, which reason he wouldn’t say.

  If normal procedure were followed, Charley would remain in the county jail for two or three days and then be transferred to a state prison. The nearest prison was in Frackville, about an hour’s drive north of Grantwood. The townspeople there were tired of jokes about the town’s name, first owing to Battlestar Galactica and then to shale mining. There had been efforts to change the name of the town, but no two citizens could agree on a new one.

  Sebastian George’s usually steady nerves were severely frayed for fear a conspiracy theory would be, even if not taken seriously, publicized. He wasn’t worried he would be tagged as ‘Art’ by anyone; and even if he were, there wouldn’t be enough evidence to locate him, much less to arrest him. No, he was worried about Haskin. Charley was supposed to be dead after all, not in prison. Haskin would not be pleased. Was not pleased, he was sure.

  Ordinarily, disappointing a client in some slight fashion (after all, the target had been killed as promised) would not have worried George, just given him a few minutes of self-deprecation. But in Haskin’s case – her connections were very high up, he was sure. Senator Conning? Yes, he’d suspected that. But perhaps even higher – and more dangerous.

  He waited for Haskin to call him, worried what she would say. But she didn’t call. That worried George even more.

  And what about Charley? Well, George thought, if he hadn’t talked by now, he wasn’t apt to later. Nevertheless, it would be a good idea to keep an eye on him. George made a few calls to people he knew in the Pennsylvania State Prison System – people who could be bought, cheap.

  Sybille Haskin had been following the trial as well. In person, actually, in the courtroom, seated among the spectators as if she, like they, were innocent of a large conspiracy of wh
ich the murder of Ezra Barnes was just one small piece.

  Like George, she was relieved a conspiracy theory had not been suggested, and Charley had not taken the stand, therefore couldn’t have given anything away or made up any crazy new stories. Her employers would not have liked this very public trial to have included any hint of a conspiracy, even if no one had believed it. This concern was the reason why she, unusually, had appeared in Grantwood in person. She had noted the presence of cameras, but her alarm at this was assuaged when she found out it was only a junior college media class on a field-trip assignment.

  George, therefore, had accomplished his two major goals, although not cleanly. There was still great risk. It was obvious that Charley had no idea what had been going on; but he could still implicate George, and possibly her as well, if George had made an unprofessional slip.

  It would be best to have Charley killed. She knew people who could make that happen. After all, if you’re looking for a violent felon to commit a violent felony, what better place to look than a prison?

  Thomas Conning was acutely aware that Dukes trial had been proceeding, but it bothered him so much he avoided hearing about it, didn’t watch the evening webV news shows. He hoped Dukes couldn’t implicate his ConDyne contact, because that would lead straight to the Russell Senate Office Building, and to him. If that hadn’t happened by now, it wasn’t likely to, ever. But as long as Charley was alive, he’d be a threat. My God, he thought, what am I thinking here! Another murder on my conscience? For the next few days, he struck his staff and colleagues, as even more pale and withdrawn than usual.

  JTJ began assembling the trial footage in two different ways. First, to show her Media class examples of good and bad technique; and second, to be the great classic documentary film of the great courtroom drama, emphasizing the conflict of personalities and the agony of the defendant, and how the valiant defense attorney had, verdict to the contrary, won a kind of victory. If front of her eyes she saw the premiere, the red carpet, the adulation and Oscars. Or, more modestly, she could settle for a spot at the Cannes festival where she would be courted by several of those Frenchmen whose mouths look so funny when they try to pronounce their language.

  Jillian Hall, in Pimmit Hills, Virginia, was only dimly aware a man had been tried for murder in Grantwood, Pennsylvania, for killing Ezra Barnes, M.C. She did not make it a habit to listen to an allnewsradio station, or read a newspaper: she concentrated all her efforts on her challenging job, on her friend Ellie, and on what the hell to do with her husband Roger, that fraud, bastard, adulterer, and coward.

  Chapter 17: Five Months After the Assassination

  Arriving at the law offices of Holmes & Epperly the day after the trial, Liv Saunders was immediately summoned into Belinda Chase Epperly’s office. “OK,” Epperly said. Liv knew whenever Belinda began a sentence with “OK,” nothing was OK.

  Epperly began without additional prologue. “We’ve kept you on until the conclusion of the trial, but it’s over.” Liv said nothing, but knew “over” didn’t just refer to the trial.

  “There’s a matter of temperament here, and likability, and failure to focus on important matters, that is, the well-being and profitability of the firm. You could have used this pro bono as an opportunity to reach out to clients who could be paying us. And the drinking – yes, I’ve heard about that, and gathering evidence like you were some kind of private detective in one of those bad thriller novels.

  “I will say, you handled the Dukes case as well as anyone could in the circumstances. That is, you argued capably in a lost cause, did well in cross, made thoughtful and warranted objections, swayed the jury for second degree murder instead of first degree, and all that. But you didn’t get Holmes & Epperly the kind of notice you could have in this very public trial. To be broadcast on webV at some point, apparently, thanks to that junior college woman. You missed a great opportunity here, one the firm may never see again, to praise and spread our name far and wide. How many times did you speak with the press? And when you did, you never once mentioned the name of our firm. Never.”

  “Therefore, Ms. Saunders, as you are an at-will employee, I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate you, effective immediately. We’ve deposited a month’s salary into your bank account in lieu of notice.” She got up from her chair. “Maggie has your cardboard box of personals ready. She’ll be at the elevator by the time you get there. Thank you for all your fine work on behalf of the firm.”

  Epperly held out her hand. Liv ignored it, turned and left her office. She took the cardboard box from a sad-looking Maggie, who was trying to express something as Liv pressed the down-button and walked into the arms-wide elevator. Liv had always been uneasy around people who were trying to express something; elevators were more predictable.

  Liv climbed the creaky wooden stairs, entered her apartment, and placed the cardboard box on the first table in sight. The apartment building was an old place, but those who occasionally visited called it “picturesque” and “charming” and “airy,” although sometimes they worried it might be a fire-trap. When entering her apartment, visitors saw a narrow but very long room, the walls and ceiling in pure white, windows on each end. Doors on the right-hand side led to a small bedroom, a small bathroom, and a small kitchen.

  She sat down at the table that served for dining and computing and daydreaming and everything else. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to feel, painfully, how unemployed she was.

  She mulled her prospects. She had money in the bank, for she seldom bought anything, even the occasional dinner out. Check. She could be unemployed for several months and never notice the difference. Financially anyway. Check. Especially, if she gave up those infrequent dinners out.

  She was an experienced attorney, had handled both civil and criminal work. Still kept in contact with a few law-school professors (now retired) who would say a good word about her. When she felt like working again, she might be able to find a new job in a few weeks, although likely a very ordinary one.

  Who would hire her? Well, she had those contacts. And if nothing came of them? Perhaps some public interest group for a few bucks a week. She drank up, envisioning a much lower quality of bourbon in her future, and that future would begin as soon as her current glass was empty.

  Finally, she let herself understand the really awful thing. Not being unemployed, but having been fired. Got the boot. Got the axe. Canned. Shit-canned. Shit-shit and O, Shit! Canned! Several more synonyms occurred to her, including “transferred to the special-projects department” – the one with white porcelain furniture.

  She got angry. Her breathing deepened and then fragmented. She lay her head on the table and tried to sob, but nothing came. After a while she stopped trying.

  So let’s think positive shall we! Positively, and all that BS. Maybe it was too early to think. Maybe she should just pour herself two more jiggers of Knob Creek and get dizzy and curl up.

  She did that.

  Three hours later she felt better, made a mental list of people she could call. She knew some people at Fogle Harsh Weaver – a CPA firm, small but stable, and they frequently used attorneys. Or she could call Brent – an idea that made her smile. Well, she was pretty sure Brent respected her legal skills. He encountered numerous criminal-law firms in the course of screwing their clients, so he could give her some leads, and maybe a reference as well.

  Over the next few days, Liv slept late every morning. What would she do next, even if she found a job? She had a sister in L.A. she sent a gift to every year, no one and nothing else. Except Charley and the people at the Stirrup.

  She should visit Charley, she thought. She’d see him again once he as was settled down at Frackville state prison. He’d been convicted, escaped death, would have a long time to think it over. Maybe now he’d be ready to tell her what the killing of Congressman Barnes was all about, who’d paid him or otherwise persuaded him to commit the crime.

  Or maybe Charley knew more than he knew
he knew.

  What good would that do? None for him. But she wanted to see him again, at least to apologize for his sentence but remind him it could have been a lot worse without her. Okay, she’d do that. Charley should have been processed into his new home by then, installed there to gather dust and be forgotten.

  But first, one more try to interest Brent Nielsen in the big picture.

  Two days later, as the sun was setting over Grantwood, Liv caught up with Brent Nielsen just as he was leaving his office. He attempted to hurry by her, but she stepped in front of him and said, nose to nose, “Fifteen minutes. Then you can go home.” Her boldness startled him, and he nodded. They retreated to the Not Another Continuance!, a bar across the street from the courthouse. Liv ordered a bourbon on the rocks; Brent asked for water.

  “Look, Brent,” she said, “When I visited Charley in jail, he admitted he took money for Barnes’ death, as I suspected.”

  “A little late for a confession,” Brent retorted.

  “He admitted he was paid, or was promised to be paid but never got the money, except just a few hundred.”

  “OK,” said Brent, “But now Dukes is convicted and locked up, and you’re not going to appeal – are you? Especially since you don’t represent him anymore, so I guess not. If there’s someone who ordered the hit and you can prove it, yes, I’d be delighted to go after him. Now I’m ready for that step, if it really amounts to anything, since I’ve got my man securely behind bars.

  “So,” he said, taking a sip of water, “who do you suspect? The mysterious man Charley met a few times in the bar? But if he was connected to the crime, he was probably just an agent for someone else. It’s the kingpin I want, if I’m going to get involved and spend resources on this.”