head until he thought the skin would start to peel away under the
pressure his fingers were exerting.
He watched from the tiny, dirty window as the vanity plates disappeared
into the blur of snow. He sat down, looked at the headlines again.
Luther wanted to cut a deal but there was no deal to cut.
The stage was set. Everyone wanted to see this trial. The TV news had
given a detailed analysis of the case; Luther’s photo must have been
seen by several hundred million people. They already had public opinion
polls about Luther’s guilt or innocence, and he was running far behind
in all of them. And Gorelick was licking his chops thinking that this
was the vehicle to catapult him into the Attorney General’s office in a
few years. And in Virginia, Attorneys General often ran for, and won,
the Governor’s Mansion.
Short, balding, big-voiced, Gorelick was as deadly as a rattler on
speed. Dirty tactics, questionable ethics, just waiting to bury the
knife in your back at the first opportunity.
That was George Gorelick. Jack knew he was in for a long, tough fight.
And Luther wasn’t talking. He was scared. And what did Kate have to do
with that fear? Nothing was adding up. And Jack was going to walk into
court tomorrow and plead Luther not guilty when he had absolutely no way
to prove that Luther wasn’t. But proof was the state’s job. The problem
was they probably had just enough to put them over the top. Jack would
peck and chip, but he had a three-time loser as a client, even though
the record said Luther had remained clean for the last two decades. They
wouldn’t care about that.
Why should they? His guy made for the perfect ending to a tragic story.
A poster boy for the three-strikes rule. Three heavies and your life is
over, starring Luther Whitney.
He tossed the newspaper across the room and cleaned up the broken glass
and spilled beer. He rubbed the back of his neck, felt the underused
muscles in his arms and went to his bedroom and changed into sweats.
THE YMCA WAS TEN MINUTES AWAY. AMAZINGLY JACK found a parking space
right in front and went inside. The black sedan behind him wasn’t as
lucky. The driver had to circle the block several times and then pull
down the street and park on the other side.
The driver wiped his passenger-side window clear and checked out the
front of the Y. Then he made up his mind, climbed out of his car and ran
to the steps. He looked around, glanced at the gleaming Lexus and then
slowly walked inside.
Three pickup games later, the sweat was pouring down Jack’s body. He sat
down on the bench as the teenagers continued to run up and down the
court with the inexhaustible energy of youth. Jack groaned as one of the
lanky black kids dressed in loose gym shorts, tank shirt and oversized
sneakers tossed the ball at him. He tossed it back.
“Hey man, you tired?”
It No, just old.”
Jack stood up, rubbed the kinks out of his aching thighs and headed out.
As he was leaving the building he felt a hand on his shoulder.
JACK DROVE. HE GLANCED AT HIS NEW PASSENGER.
Seth Frank looked over the interior of the Lexus. “I, ve heard great
things about these cars. How much it run you, if you don’t mind my
asking?”
“Forty-nine-five, loaded.”
“Like hell! I don’t even come close to making that in a year.”
“Neither did I until recently.”
“Public defenders don’t make the big bucks, I’ve heard.”
“You heard right.”
The men fell silent. Frank knew he was breaking more rules than they
probably had written down and Jack knew that too.
Finally Jack looked at him. “Uok, Lieutenant, I’m assuming you didn’t
just come out here to check my taste in automobiles. Is there something
you want?”
“Gorelick’s got a winning case against your guy.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not throwing in the towel if that’s what you’re
thinking.”
“You pleading him not guilty?”
“No, I’m gonna drive him down to the Greensville Correctional Center and