Chapter Ten

“Is that the entire deal?” Jackson finished writing conditions of an offered plea bargain and intercepted the gaze of the county prosecutor.

The other man nodded an instant before pushing out his chair. “It is. You have fifteen minutes to discuss it.”

Jackson assessed his client across a corner of the rectangular table in the small courthouse conference room. Today Mr. Clark wore civilian clothes—clean khakis and a dark-blue button-down shirt. Long sleeves almost hid the handcuffs until he moved his arms. Too bad there hadn’t been time to arrange a haircut. The offer of a plea deal had arrived ten minutes after the law office officially opened this Monday morning. Two hours later, they were rapidly approaching an appearance before the judge.

“What if I change my mind? Risk a trial.” Mr. Clark rubbed a recently shaved jaw.

“I strongly advise against it.” Jackson drew a line between two lists on his legal pad and turned it for the other man to see. “I would remain your lawyer. If you decide to continue. And I’ll work diligently to give you the best defense possible. You’re up against some difficult odds. Look at this quick comparison.”

Clark leaned forward and tapped the bottom of the yellow paper. “What’s all this?”

“Plea deal and hearing basics. This column on the left? That’s what the prosecutor is offering. You admit to these three charges, and he proposes minimum sentences to run concurrently. If the judge accepts it, you’ll serve fifteen years. Less for good behavior.”

“It’s still prison.”

“Yes, it is.” Jackson couldn’t see a way around Mr. Clark spending several years in a state prison.

“I’ll be an old man when I get out. Do you think I’m guilty?”

Jackson sighed. “My personal opinion doesn’t matter. What’s important is that with the evidence we have, I believe a jury will find you guilty of these”—he pointed with his pen at the second column—“greater charges. No light sentencing recommendation from the prosecutor. Flip a coin over concurrent or consecutive. That adds up to at least three times the number of years as accepting the offer.”

“What about the girl? Didn’t she support my alibi?”

“We went over this in our last meeting.” Jackson fought against the image of Sylvia nudging into his internal view. “Her statement doesn’t agree with the other customers or the bartender.” Or her own from the day before. “The receipt and surveillance tape place her at the gas station. Your truck isn’t seen on any footage, either entering or leaving the lot.”

“You saying she lied to you?”

Too many times to count. “I’m telling you she’s a poor witness. The prosecutor will rattle her, probably have her either arguing or crying after three questions. Juries like it when witnesses agree. At least on the major points.”

Clark mumbled curses at Mr. Marsh’s character. “How long to decide?”

“We’ve used ten minutes of fifteen. Hearing’s scheduled to start at eleven.” Jackson held back impulsive words reminding his client of their Friday discussion of possible plea arrangements. The one in front of them was on the generous side of the scale.

The handcuff chains clinked as Clark rubbed his chin. “Don’t see any choice at this point. How do I put my nephew in charge of selling my house? I won’t have any use for it. I expect most of the proceeds will end up in your pocket.”

Jackson turned to a fresh page on the legal pad. “We’ll draw up a durable power of attorney for your nephew. This is what it will contain.”