Damage (3 page)

“And last time, was he in fact released on bail?”

“No,” Cliff said. “That fascist Thomasino”—a highly respected superior court judge—“denied the bail anyway.”

“He was prejudiced against Ro,” Theresa added. “All through the trial, every decision he made, it was obvious to everybody.”

“And so this time ... ?”

“This time,” Cliff said, “since bail is legally permissible, we’d just like to make a personal appeal to you, Wes, to step in if you catch wind of any early sign of judicial activism. At the very least, keep it away from Thomasino. Or maybe even put the word out that you’ll allow a reasonable bail before the matter even gets inside a courtroom.”

“It wouldn’t have to be a public statement,” Theresa said. “The important thing is the result.” And then, shifting into a less strident tone, she added, “Now that he’s out of prison, Wes, we’d just love to have our boy back with us at home.”

Farrell’s own personal idea of hell was to have any of his own three grown children come and stay with him and Sam for more than a long weekend, but here was a chance to sound cooperative, if not conciliatory, and maybe bring this uncomfortable interview to a close. “I understand how you can feel that way,” he said. “And I promise you I’ll review the case closely and do everything I can to address your concerns.”

Which, he knew, would be precious little.

But the finality in his tone conveyed his intended signal. Theresa smoothed her skirt and stood up. “That’s all we ask, Wes. Really.”

Cliff stared disconcertingly into Farrell’s eyes for another second or two—threatening?—but then he, too, got to his feet. “It’s good to know who your friends are,” he said. “And you know that the
Courier
’s been good friends with a lot of politicians in this town.”

“Well, I’m not much of a politician, as the election made pretty clear,” Wes said. “But I do hope I can keep trying to do the right thing.”

Theresa took his proffered hand and gave him a prim little nod. “That’s all we can ask for. Thanks for sharing so much of your valuable time.”

“My pleasure. To both of you. My door’s always open.”

Just down the hallway from his own office, Farrell knocked on the open door of his chief assistant, Amanda Jenkins.

Despite a long history together—or maybe because of it—theirs was an awkward relationship. The conflict might have been purely endemic—Jenkins was historically prosecution and Farrell was dyed-in-the-wool defense. More personally, in the sensational murder case that had made his bones in the city, Farrell had gone head-to-head against Jenkins and beaten her in court, getting a clean acquittal for his client.

Then last year, Jenkins had been considering a run for district attorney herself. But the powers that had eventually settled on Wes Farrell as their candidate made it clear that they felt that she was a bit too much a one-trick pony—her issues were women’s issues, period. She was insufficiently left wing in other respects, believing, for example, that a period of house arrest was probably not the answer to violent crime. But in the immediate aftermath of Farrell’s victory, those same power brokers had promoted Jenkins’ cause as chief assistant—she had the prosecutorial chops, the administrative experience, the in-depth familiarity with the DA’s office personnel, and at least in feminist circles the correct politics. So now they were four days into their respective new jobs, and this was the first time Farrell had seen her since his inauguration ceremony.

Jenkins looked up from the pile of work surrounding her on her desk and straightened in her chair. “Sir?”

Farrell half turned as though looking around behind him. “There’s no ‘sir’ here, Amanda. It’s just me, Wes. I was ‘Wes’ when we were colleagues at the bar. And even running against each other. Remember?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, Wes.”

She took a breath. “Okay. Wes.”

“Good. At ease.” He came into the room. “Got a sec? Mind if I get the door?”

Jenkins was a career prosecutor, always professionally turned out with the possible exception of the trademark short skirts she wore to accentuate her truly show-stopping legs. Now she threw a slightly harried look at her new boss and shrugged, indicating her workload, but then pushed her chair back a bit and linked her hands on her lap. At his service. “What’s up?”

Farrell closed the door and pulled a chair around. “I just had a chat with the Curtlees. Both of them.”

“That was fast,” she said, her eyes suddenly alive. “And let me guess. They wanted you to decline to retry Ro and, failing that, then let him out on bail.”

“You got a bug in my office?”

Jenkins was deaf to humor. “I hope you told them to take a flying.”

“Not in so many words. I said I’d look into the matter and try to do the right thing.”

“There’s nothing to look into. Their boy, Ro, is a monster.”

Farrell held up a hand, waiting while she huffed out a breath or two. “I’ve already done some looking. Since you prosecuted that case, I thought you could catch me up quicker than reading the transcript all the way through.”

Jenkins, smoldering, blew out again. “You see what they let him out on, those lunatics? The victim’s family wore badges with her picture on it, so quote federal constitutional error must have permeated the proceedings unquote. Have you ever heard such horseshit? I mean, even for the Ninth Circus, this is out there.”

Farrell let her rave.

And she went on, “I hope one of those judges has a daughter and Ro gets out and finds her and . . . no. No, I don’t hope that. But Jesus Christ. The guy’s got to stay in jail. What did you tell them? The Curtlees?”

“Nothing, really. I wanted to get your take.”

“My take.” She sat back, closed her eyes briefly. “Keep him in jail. Get him back at trial as soon as you can. This is a no-brainer, Wes. The guy raped at least eight women, beat three of them, and finally succeeded in killing one.”

“Eight?”

“At least eight, Wes. At least. All housekeepers brought up from Guatemala or El Salvador by the company who screened the Curtlee family’s entire workforce. All of them here on a work visa. All who originally said they’d testify, and then six of them got bought off to the tune of like a hundred grand each.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“One hundred percent. They were honest about it. In our lovely state, you know you can’t make a rape victim testify if she doesn’t want to. She can just refuse to get on the stand. And all these women preferred to take the hundred grand. There was nothing we could do.”

“And all these women reported rapes with Ro?”

Jenkins’ mouth closed down to a thin line. “These were women who
were raped
by Ro, Wes.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Farrell kept his tone nonconfrontational. “But I was asking if any of these women had reported these rapes when they happened.”

No answer.

“Amanda?”

Her eyes flashed. “They were scared to death of Ro, Wes. To say nothing of the Curtlees, who had absolute power over their lives. Plus, they didn’t think anyone would believe them.”

“So I’m taking that as a ‘no.’ Nobody reported. Is that right?”

Jenkins gave Farrell the thousand-yard stare, her face set in stone. “I really hoped we wouldn’t be having this kind of conversation.”

“What kind of conversation?”

“Temporizing over violent crime just because of the political climate.”

This criticism knocked Farrell back in his chair. Shaking his head, adjusting his bearings, he came back at her. “So I ask one question to clarify if these women reported their rapes and suddenly I’m the enemy?”

“I spoke to these women, Wes. I know them. No question they were raped.”

“All right,” Farrell said. “Fine. Let’s all agree on that.”

“Let’s also all agree, since we’re being honest here, that the Curtlees were pretty big fans of yours all through the campaign, and that maybe you feel you might owe them a little ... cooperation.”

“That’s just not true, Amanda. I made no promises of any kind to the Curtlees. As far as I know, Ro’s in custody and should stay there until he gets his new trial. Certainly I’m not planning to do anything that’ll let him get back on the street. That’s the truth, Amanda. And regardless of what you might think, I don’t take orders from the Curtlees or anybody else. Except sometimes Sam.” He took a breath to calm himself, shaken at how far this had already gone, and with so little warning. “That’s just not how I operate, all right? I’m a pretty up-front guy, actually.”

She took a long beat, pursing her lips now. “They’ve hated me since I sent their fair-haired little boy off to prison. It’s a miracle I have any kind of a career left after all they’ve tried to do to me.”

“And yet here you are at number two, appointed by the very guy they supported. So who’s the winner in that picture?”

“Number two isn’t number one.”

“True. But it’s not hardly a dead career, either, is it? And you’ve got more years left on the planet than I do, so I wouldn’t give up hope. And if I were you, I certainly wouldn’t get mad at your boss for something he’s not going to do.”

She hung her head for another second. “I didn’t believe you’d be able to resist them, or even want to. I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

“This one time only,” Farrell said, “I’ll forgive you.”

Farrell had a gap in his appointment schedule, providing time for him and his administrative assistant, Treya Glitsky, to unpack more boxes. Treya was a strong, attractive woman of mixed ethnicity—mostly black with a hint somewhere of an Asian blood-line. She was married to the city’s head of homicide, Abe Glitsky, and had three children—Raney off at college and Rachel and Zachary, six and three, at home.

Farrell sat on the edge of his desk, not being particularly helpful on the moving front. “No, I’m serious,” he was saying. “I really shouldn’t be here. I’m not cut out for this job. Maybe I ought to resign before I do too much damage.”

Treya stopped moving books from the packing boxes onto his bookshelf and turned around, looking at her watch. “That could be a record. I think it took Clarence a week before he thought he ought to quit.” She was referring to Farrell’s immediate predecessor and her own previous boss, Clarence Jackman. “And he wound up staying nine years.”

“That’s not me,” Farrell said. “I only ran for this thing to keep the Nazis from taking over, mostly as a favor to Sam and her women friends.”

“And the Latinos, and the gays.”

“Okay, some of them, too. And don’t forget those crucial votes from a hundred straight old white guys. My margin of victory.” Farrell swung his legs, kicked his heels back against the side of his desk. “Is that true? Clarence really wanted to quit, too?”

“At first, every day, for a couple of months. But don’t worry. You still hold the record for least days in office before expressing the famed desire to retire.”

“That’s a relief. But why didn’t he quit, then? Clarence.”

Treya paused. “He got addicted to the naked wielding of power.”

“No, really.”

“You asked me. That’s my answer. Power.”

Farrell chortled. “Well, that’s not me. That couldn’t be further from me.”

“No.” Treya chortled right back at him. “No, of course not.” She leaned over and grabbed another stack of books.

“That ‘of course not’ sounded a little sarcastic.”

“It’s the acoustics in here.” Placing the books on their shelf, she half turned back to him. “So would you like me to go talk to Amanda?”

“No. I think we got it worked out. I’m not going to stab her in the back on this Ro Curtlee thing. Or anything else. That ought to be clear enough.”

“Let’s hope,” Treya said.