This was David’s play. He’d been running this scenario through his mind for a little while.
“Sell it to the FBI. I want all charges dropped and my name cleared. That’s my bottom line. I won’t plead guilty even if it means I don’t do any time in jail at all. Pleading is not an option. I didn’t do it. If I plead, I’ll lose Reeler. I spent forty, fifty hours at a time, at my computer in my little dorm room at college, dreaming that someday I would make it. I had a stroke at sixteen. Did you know that? A seventy-three-hour coding marathon for the launch of Reeler. One minute I’m really blasting it on my laptop, and the next—I wake up in the hospital and I can’t feel my right leg. When the paramedics brought me in, I had my life savings in my pocket—twenty-three dollars and seventy-eight cents and a forty-thousand-dollar bank loan that I couldn’t repay. Three days later I launched Reeler from my hospital bed. A couple weeks after that I’m out of the hospital, fully recovered, Reeler’s got nine hundred thousand users, and it’s the fastest-growing social network in history. I risked everything, my health, my money, my sanity. And it paid off. I … I can’t lose that.”
He took off his glasses and set them on the table. From a case in his pocket, he produced a silk cloth and began cleaning the lenses. Quick, almost frantic strokes.
“The problem is that the evidence says you killed Clara. Given time, I can work on it. My wife doesn’t have that kind of time, David. Help me, and I’ll give you my word I’ll help you.”
“If this goes to trial, my reputation is ruined anyway. I need this kicked out now. Make the deal.”
“Believe me, I want this case dead just as much as you do. But what if I can’t do it? And making a deal—you know, the city doesn’t let murderers walk, even if they are helping the FBI bust the biggest money-laundering operation in US history. They think you’re guilty, and they have the evidence to prove it. I can’t get a deal that lets you walk.”
“Then prove I’m innocent at the preliminary hearing.”
I let out a long sigh and rubbed my temples.
“The prelim’s in two hours. All the prosecution has to do is prove that there’s an arguable case against you. We’d have to damn near prove that you’re innocent. And there’s no jury; a single judge decides.”
Child folded the silk cloth, placed it carefully into his glasses case, and snapped the lid shut.
“Nothing’s impossible. I’m innocent; we just have to show that.”
“It’s not that simple,” I said. The pain behind my eyes spread over my skull and dived into my neck muscles.
“But it is that simple.”
I got the impression that for David, things were very black or white, clean or dirty, guilty or innocent; gray lines didn’t enter into his consciousness. He had a literal thought process that was cast in stone, or green hooded tops, gray sweatpants, and red Nikes.
“You don’t believe I’m innocent, do you?”
Always the easiest question for a lawyer. The answer is that it doesn’t matter what the lawyer believes; it’s not our job to believe anyone—all we have to do is represent the client and make the jury believe in the client. David needed more than a stock answer—he needed to trust me—so I told him what he wanted to hear.
“I don’t think you’re a killer, David,” I said.
My gut told me he was innocent. My mind found it hard to ignore the evidence.
He looked confused.
“If you don’t think I’m a killer, then prove it in court. You said we’ve only got two hours before this thing starts. Shouldn’t you be researching case law, or something?” said David. He hadn’t listened to a word I’d said. Even so, I admired him. The strength of his belief in his innocence kept me open-minded.
“No, I don’t need to do any legal research. I just need to read everything again, watch the DVDs, and find a way in.”
“A way in to what?”
“A way to prove that you were set up,” I said.