Waiting for Morning (14 page)

Edward never got the chance.

The summer after he graduated law school, he attended a wedding where the air-conditioning broke down during the reception. Hundred-degree temperatures had people sweltering in the ballroom, and Edward spent much of his time camped out at the punch bowl. From everything Matt had heard, Edward Finch had never been a drinker, and he didn’t know until the third glass that the punch was spiked. Of course, after that it didn’t matter. With all the dancing and mingling, there was only one way to cool down … so Edward drank crystal goblets of punch until he lost count.

Apparently Edward’s young wife tried to talk him into calling a cab or getting a room at the hotel, but Edward wouldn’t hear of it. So they got in the car. Halfway home there was a police officer pulled off the road, writing someone up for speeding. Drawn by the flashing lights, Edward let his car drift off the road—until he rear-ended the police car, narrowly missing the officer. No one was injured, but the officer took the accident personally. According to court records, the officer later testified that Edward had acted in a “belligerent manner,” that he’d been clearly intoxicated and said, “Next time I drive drunk, I’ll take better aim.”

Edward swore up and down he’d never said anything of the sort, but his trial took place three weeks after a well-publicized incident in which a young mother had been killed by a drunk driver while walking her daughter to school. The jury made an example of Edward Finch, and he received a one-year sentence in county jail.

Midway through the term, his wife left him. When he got out of prison, he was a broken man, a convict with no apartment, no money, no license to practice law, and no chance at his much dreamed-about career. From everything Matt heard, Harold did what he could to help his brother, suggesting odd jobs and encouraging Edward to appeal for reinstatement with the California Bar Association. But depression set in, and Edward began drinking in earnest.

Last anyone had heard, the man roamed the streets in urine-drenched rags, slept under park benches, and was hopelessly addicted to alcohol. A victim of unjust circumstances—at least, that’s how Harold saw it.

Matt understood Harold Finch better after finding out all of this, and in some very small way he pitied the man. The knowledge of Finch’s past made him human.

Wrong, but human.

In the wake of what had happened to his brother, Harold Finch changed gears and apparently decided that the best wrong he could possibly right was the wrong done to his brother. He would help drunk drivers if it took a lifetime to establish their rights. Early on, so it was said, Finch had been utterly sincere.

“You know the old saying—” Finch was famous for telling jurors as he cocked his head and linked his fingers over his extended belly—“ ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ ”

But somewhere along the road of defending DUI offenders—many of whom were responsible for tragic deaths and mayhem—Finch had changed. Gone was the lawyerly attitude and appearance. In their place was the look and demeanor of a pimp, complete with pinstriped suits and vests with shiny gold buttons that strained against the man’s sizable gut. Finch also began calling himself Deuce Dog, a play on the slang for DUIs: deuces.

High profile drunk driving cases always seemed to wind up in Finch’s hands, and between appointments he strutted through the courthouse, chest puffed out, brimming with confidence and pride.

Matt figured Finch was a case of someone who’d grown callused, hardened to the devastation he defended so well. Bad company had finally corrupted what were, at the beginning, good intentions. The way Matt saw it, Harold’s brash and cocky attitude was probably a cover-up for the pain he felt for his brother. Nevertheless, Matt did not want to lose to him.

Not this time.

Matt had gone toe-to-toe with Finch on many cases, and most resulted in plea bargains. Matt hated plea bargains. He’d agreed to dozens of them over the years, but only because he knew the system as well as his opponent did. Sometimes it was better to plea-bargain and send a defendant away with community service obligations, a fine, and a mark on his record. Especially when the alternative was to waste valuable court time prosecuting a case that could very well result in a not-guilty verdict.

Only twice had Matt and Finch battled it out before a jury. Both times Matt had won convictions. The first involved an elderly woman who suffered major head injuries after a drunk driver had run her down while she was carrying a gallon of milk home from the market. Finch’s client was convicted of reckless driving and received two hundred hours of community service along with a fifteen hundred dollar fine. Hardly satisfying, considering that the last time Matt had checked, the elderly woman remained in a vegetative state, strapped to a hospital bed at a sour-smelling nursing home.

The second case involved a nineteen-year-old boy who drove his fifteen-year-old cousin home from a party. The nineteen-year-old misjudged the lane boundaries and hit a hundred-year-old maple tree at fifty miles per hour. His cousin had died on impact. Both boys had been legally drunk.

Finch’s client was convicted of reckless endangerment, and because it was the boy’s first offense, prison time was waived. He, too, received community service and a fine.

Although Matt had won convictions in both cases, clearly Finch had been the victor. His clients were not confined to a nursing home or a graveyard. Their lives went on as they had before, without even a single night in prison to remind them of the consequences of their choice to drink and drive.

Matt gritted his teeth. He’d spent years prosecuting drunk drivers, but still jurors had never connected driving under the influence with intent to kill.

Until now.

Matt’s jaw tensed. God willing, he—and the case against Brian Wesley—were about to change that fact.

A blast of cheap cologne filled the room, and he glanced up to find Finch standing there, the ever-present cocky smile on his face.

“Well, well—” Finch tossed his martini business card across the table—“guess we got ourselves another plea to work out, eh, Bronzan?”

Matt met the man’s gaze steadily. “Not this time.”

Finch’s expression changed. “A bit jumpy today, aren’t we?” He let loose a tinny chuckle and pulled a document from the stack before him, eyebrows raising a fraction as he studied Matt. “Read it, counselor.”

Matt leaned back against the hard wood chair and crossed his arms. “Your client is a repeat drunk driver who caused two previous collisions despite alcohol education. And now he’s killed two people. His blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit.” He fixed Finch with a hard stare. “There will be no plea … 
counselor.”

Finch paused, and a knowing look danced in his eyes. “Perhaps,
Mr
. Bronzan, you should read the plea before summarily dismissing it.”

Matt glanced at his watch and pulled the document closer. “Unless Mr. Wesley plans to admit to murder, we don’t have much to talk about.”

Finch was silent while Matt scanned the document. He sucked in a deep breath. The plea was brilliant, of course. Matt had expected nothing less from Finch. Dime-store cologne and gold vest buttons aside, the man knew his stuff. Had the plea been for reckless driving or any such minor charge, Matt could have rejected it easily. But Finch had upped the ante. His client was willing to plead guilty to vehicular manslaughter. Even more, he was willing to serve thirty days in jail for the offense.

In all Matt’s years of prosecuting, he’d never seen such a
serious crime admitted by way of plea bargain.

There was only one reason his opponent would present such an offer. Matt studied Finch’s beady eyes, and what he saw there confirmed his suspicions.

Harold Finch was scared.

Glancing at the document once more, Matt thought of the heartache a trial would cause Hannah Ryan and her surviving daughter. He thought of the many times a jury had refused to convict a drunk driver of even second-degree murder, let alone first-degree. The Ryans would suffer indescribable pain if the jury let Brian Wesley leave the courtroom a free man.…

Then he thought of Tom and Alicia … of the family broken apart, destroyed by Brian Wesley’s choices. He remembered others like the Ryans who had been dragged through the criminal justice system only to be let down when penalties were inadequate. No, there would be no plea bargain this time. This was the case he’d been waiting for.

Finch looked pleased with himself as he cleared his throat and motioned toward the plea bargain. “Well, Bronzan, do we have a plea?”

Matt slid the document across the table and watched it settle in front of Finch.

“No. We want a trial.”

Finch chuckled and looked down the bridge of his fleshy nose at Matt. “Now, I’ve worked with you for many years, Bronzan. And even though we’ve been on opposite sides of the courtroom, I’ve always taken you for a smart lawyer. Clear on the ways of justice. But if I’m not mistaken, I do believe you’re losing your edge.”

Matt ignored the comment. “Tomorrow this office will officially charge your client with first-degree murder. At that time he can choose to plead guilty or not guilty.”

Finch’s laughter died abruptly and his gaze hardened. “I don’t need a lesson on law, counselor. Look, we’re offering prison time here.”

“When I’m finished with your client, we won’t be talking thirty days jail time, we’ll be talking five years in the penitentiary. Maybe more.” Matt considered his opponent and how he’d changed over the years. “There won’t be a plea, Finch. You can’t change my mind.”

Finch waited, but when Matt remained silent his eyes narrowed angrily. “Most generous plea I’ve ever made.” He sighed dramatically as he collected the document and stuffed it into his briefcase. “Next time we offer less. Much less.”

“There won’t be a next time. Not on this case.”

Finch arched an eyebrow. “That right? You’ll see, counselor. You’ll get in court and start talking first-degree murder, start making the vehicle out to be a weapon and Mr. Wesley out to be a killer. Then you’ll see the faces on those jurors and you’ll panic. A third of the folks in this great nation drink and drive, my friend. And that includes jurors.” He studied Matt. “They won’t give you first-degree murder. It’s drunk driving, after all. Guy goes out, drinks a few beers, has a little fun with the boys, and drives home. The accident was just that.
Any
jail time is out of line as far as I’m concerned.” Finch slammed his briefcase shut. “But in this case my client and I have tried to show compassion for the victims. We offered thirty days in good faith.”

Matt remained seated, his arms casually crossed. “Thirty days? In exchange for a husband and father, a daughter on the brink of adulthood? Thirty days for two lives?”

“Thirty days is better than nothing, Bronzan. The victims’ family would have been happy with that.” Finch shrugged. “Now you’re going to drag them through a messy court battle. A battle you’re going to lose, counselor. And they’re going to lose, too.”

Matt stood and stretched, and suddenly a mountain of anxiety rose within him.
How can I turn down voluntary jail time? What if Brian Wesley walks?
He released his breath slowly and waited as Finch continued relentlessly.

“Turn down a manslaughter plea and you have nothing left.” He shook his head. “First-degree murder? Huh! My client will walk, Bronzan, mark my words.”

“The only walking he’ll be doing is from his cell to the yard and back.”

“You could take the plea and still come out the winner, here, Bronzan. It’s not too late.”

Matt straightened. “Are you finished?”

Finch shook his head sadly. “You really have lost it, counselor. No way a jury’s going to make drunk driving a murder-one issue. Not in the great state of California.”

Matt waited, silent, as Finch headed for the door.

“I’ll be asking for a delay.”

Matt cocked his head. “Just one?”

Finch’s eyes grew cold. “One per month until we run out of reasons. By the time this thing takes the floor, the world will have forgotten all about Tom and Alicia Ryan.”

Matt thought of the pictures, photos taken at the accident scene. Broken glass and blood and camping gear spilled onto the road. He thought of the young girl laid out on a stretcher, her body stilled forever … so reminiscent of another whose life had been wasted …

He leveled a look at Finch. “Not me. I’ll never forget.”

The defense attorney studied him as if he were a curious oddity. “You’ve forgotten the first rule of law, counselor, don’t get emotionally involved. First-degree murder?” He scratched his head, his face contorted in disbelief. “You’re out of your mind.”

Finch left the room and shut the door behind him. Matt stood there, staring after him, his hands in his pockets.
Finch is worried. He’s afraid I’m right
. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply
. Please, Lord, let me be right
.

After tomorrow there would be no turning back.

Twelve

This is why I weep and my eyes overflow with tears
.
No one is near to comfort me
.

L
AMENTATIONS
1:16
A

Hannah smoothed a hand over her black rayon slacks and straightened her short-sleeved blouse. The hearing was in two hours, and she planned to be early. She walked briskly down the hallway toward the bedroom.

“Jenny? Are you up?”

Silence.

Hannah sighed. Since their disagreement the day before, Jenny had hidden away in her room, even refusing dinner. Hannah strode up to her daughter’s bedroom door and knocked twice. No response.

“Jenny, open the door right now!” Hannah shifted her weight and began tapping a steady rhythm with the toe of her shoe. She could hear Jenny moving on the other side of the door and finally it swung open.

“What?” Jenny’s eyes were tear stained; her voice sounded thick, as though she were fighting a cold. She was dressed in rumpled pajamas and fuzzy, Dalmatian slippers.