CHAPTER 37

Things moved like clockwork. They offered me a public defender but I hired my own lawyer, a smooth-faced man who made a habit of defending people who were, as I was, fucked. He visited me at the jail and asked me if what they were charging me with was accurate.

I said nothing,

“You must understand,” he said, “that whatever you tell me is privileged.”

“I understand,” I said. “I prefer not to say anything.”

“If I am to defend you, I need to know everything. Things you keep back make it impossible for me. I have to create a story that will cause doubt or cast a different light on what you did. But refusing to tell me the details puts handcuffs on me. I will be as shackled as you are,” he said, pointing at the chains between my ankles.

So I told him. He took notes and when I was finished, he said, “What they have is circumstantial. Make no mistake, people get convicted on circumstantial evidence. But they don’t have anything that will directly connect you to those crimes. They have no witnesses. They have no physical evidence. What they have is a chain of events that points a finger at you, All it would take is one juror who decides that it isn’t conclusive. Beyond all reasonable doubt. That’s what the judge tells them. But they have your attempt on Earl Winslow. You forced him into the sea at gunpoint, but he didn’t drown. They have no direct evidence of any bomb, no fingerprints, no residue to tie you to that explosion. Yes, you bought the same caliber gun as the one that killed two men. But thousands of people buy such a gun. Yes, you showed up at a place where explosives are stored and there was a subsequent break-in, but no one saw you steal dynamite and there’s no physical evidence that the theft was yours. You were arrested driving the vehicle of a man who was shot to death. It’s possible that you came across the vehicle and exchanged your worn out car for his. There’s nothing to connect you with his death, other than a suspicious coincidence. Your actions are suspicious. But you can’t get convicted of suspicious actions.”

He paused. He tapped his pen on the table, then said, “I take that back. A jury could decide that it was you. I would believe it. The chain of circumstances is believable. Juries do that sort of thing. They sometimes even defy logic. So it’s not a slam dunk for the DA. But he knows what I will do with this, and he knows what happens when a juror decides that it isn’t ironclad. and my guess is that he’ll go for what he can easily get. Which is why a bargain is possible.”

“What kind of a bargain?”

“422 PC, threat of bodily harm. It’s either a misdemeanor or a felony, but he’ll go for felony. That way he can put you in prison. The threat to Winslow was real, sustained, certainly not vague and he had reason to fear for his safety. The fact that he was a good swimmer is irrelevant. You didn’t know that. You forced him into that dangerous surf with the intent that he drown, and under those circumstances, it’s a reasonable assumption you wanted him dead.“

“So I’ll ask for that. As a felony, it’s four years, plus one for the gun. If you keep your nose clean, you won’t do the full five years. The other deaths remain open cases, so if they ever find direct evidence, they’ll charge you with those deaths. But right now, they’ll go for what they can get. Five years for sure is better than a hung jury.“

“Doesn’t it bother you that I would skate on four deaths?”

He tapped the pen again, a kind of Morse Code that only he understood.

“I don’t get bothered by anything any more. I’ve dealt with shitbags who make you look like Mary Poppins. But these other cases will remain open, and there’s no statute of limitations on them. Fuller is a pit bull; he’ll clamp onto your leg and chew until it comes off. And there’s nothing I can do about that. You’re going to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life. You’ll find Fuller in your rear view mirror no matter which way you turn.”