by Lee Child
‘They have four witnesses who say you bent down to it.’
Reacher said nothing.
She said, ‘Why were you there?’
‘There were thirty people in that plaza. Why were any of them there?’
‘The evidence shows the boy ran straight towards you. Not towards them.’
‘Didn’t happen that way. I stepped into his path.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You think I’m guilty.’
‘Doesn’t matter what I think,’ she said again.
‘What do they claim was in the bag?’
‘They’re not saying yet.’
‘Is that legal? Shouldn’t I know what I’m accused of?’
‘I think it’s legal for the time being.’
‘You think? I need more than that.’
‘If you want a different lawyer, go right ahead and pay for one.’
Reacher said, ‘Is the kid in the sweatshirt talking yet?’
‘He claims it was a simple robbery. He claims he thought the girl was using the bag as a purse. He claims he was hoping to get cash and credit cards. Maybe a cell phone. The state agents see that as a rehearsed cover story, just in case.’
‘Why do they think I didn’t run too? Why would I stick around afterwards?’
‘Same thing,’ she said. ‘A rehearsed cover story. As soon as it all went wrong. You saw them grab your pal, so you both switched to plan B, instantly. He was a mugger, you were helping law enforcement. He would get a trivial sentence, you would get a pat on the head. They anticipate a certain level of sophistication from both of you. Apparently this is a big deal.’
Reacher nodded. ‘How big of a deal, do you think?’
‘It’s a major investigation. It’s been running a long time.’
‘Expensive, do you think?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘At a time when budgets seem to be an issue.’
‘Budgets are always an issue.’
‘As are egos and reputations and performance reviews. Think about Delaney and Cook. Put yourself in their shoes. A long-running and expensive investigation falls apart due to random chance. They’re back to square one. Maybe worse than that. Maybe there’s no way back in. Lots of red faces all around. So what happens next?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Human nature,’ Reacher said. ‘First they shouted and cussed and punched the wall. Then their survival instinct kicked in. They looked for ways to cover their ass. They looked for ways to claim the operation was in fact a success all along. Agent Delaney said exactly that. They dreamed up the idea the kid was a part of the scam. Then they listened in when Aaron was talking to me. They heard me say I don’t live anywhere. I’m a vagrant, in Aaron’s own words. Which gave them an even better idea. They could make it a twofer. They could claim they bagged two guys and ripped the heart out of the whole damn thing. They could get pats on the back and letters of commendation after all.’
‘You’re saying their case is invented.’
‘I know it is.’
‘That’s a stretch.’
‘They double-checked with me. They made sure. They confirmed I don’t carry a cell phone. They confirmed no one keeps track of where I am. They confirmed I’m the perfect patsy.’
‘You agreed with the idea the kid was more than a mugger.’
‘As a hypothetical,’ Reacher said. ‘And not very enthusiastically. Part of a professional discussion. They flattered me into it. They said I know how this stuff works. I was humouring them. They were making shit up, to cover their ass. I was being polite, I guess.’
‘You said it was possible.’
‘Why would I say that, if I was involved?’
‘They think it was a double bluff.’
‘I’m not that smart,’ Reacher said.
‘They think you are. You were in an elite MP unit.’
‘Wouldn’t that put me on their side?’
The lawyer said nothing. Just squirmed on her stool a little. Uneasiness, Reacher figured. Lack of sympathy. Distrust. Even revulsion, maybe. A desire to get away. Human nature. He knew how this stuff worked.
He said, ‘Check the timing on the tape. They heard me say I have no address, and the mental cogs started turning, and pretty soon after that they had hijacked the interview and were in the room with me. Then they left again later, just for a minute. For a private chat. They were confirming with each other whether they had enough. Whether they could make it work. They decided to go for it. They came back in and arrested me.’
‘I can’t take that to court.’
‘What can you take?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Best I can do is try for a plea bargain.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Completely. You’re going to be charged with a very serious offence. They’re going to present a working theory to the court, and they’re going to back it up with eyewitness testimony from regular Maine folk, all of whom are either literally or figuratively friends and neighbours of the jury members. You’re an outsider with an incomprehensible lifestyle. I mean, where are you even from?’
‘Nowhere in particular.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘West Berlin.’
‘Are you German?’
‘No, my father was a Marine. Born in New Hampshire. West Berlin was his duty station at the time.’
‘So you’ve always been military?’
‘Man and boy.’
‘Not good. People thank you for your service, but deep down they think you’re all screwed up with trauma. There’s a substantial risk you’ll be convicted, and if you are, you’ll get a long custodial sentence. It will be far safer to plead guilty to a lesser offence. You’d be saving them the time and expense of a contested trial. That counts for a lot. It could be the difference between five years and twenty. As your lawyer I would be delinquent in my duty if I didn’t recommend it.’
‘You’re recommending I do five years for an offence I didn’t commit?’
‘Everyone says they’re innocent. Juries know that.’
‘And lawyers?’
‘Clients lie all the time.’
Reacher said nothing.
His lawyer said, ‘They want to move you to Warren tonight.’
‘What’s in Warren?’
‘The state pen.’
‘Terrific.’
‘I petitioned to have you kept here a day or two. More convenient for me.’
‘And?’
‘They refused.’
Reacher said nothing.
His lawyer said, ‘They’ll bring you back tomorrow morning for the arraignment. The courthouse is in this building.’
‘So I’m going there and back in less than twelve hours? That’s not very efficient. I should stay here.’
‘You’re in the system now. That’s how it works. Nothing will make sense ever again. Get used to it. We’ll discuss your plea in the morning. I suggest you think about it very seriously overnight.’
‘What about bail?’
‘How much can you pay?’
‘About seventy bucks and change.’
‘The court would regard that as an insult,’ she said. ‘Better not to apply at all.’
Then she slid down off her stool and picked up her overstuffed bag and walked out of the room. Reacher heard the steel door open and close. The cell block went quiet again.
Ten minutes of your time. What’s the worst thing could happen?
Another hour went by, and then the young cop came back in. He said the state had authorized the same six dollars and fifty cents for dinner that the county would have spent. He said that would get most anything on the diner’s menu. He recited a list of possibilities, which was extensive. Reacher thought about it for a moment. Chicken pot pie, maybe. Or pasta. Or an egg salad. He mused out loud between those three. The cop recommended the chicken pie. He said it was good. Reacher took his word for it. Plus coffee, he added. Lots of it, he emphasized, a really serious quanti
ty, in a flask to keep it warm. With a proper china cup and saucer. No cream, no sugar. The cop wrote it all down on a slip of paper with a stub of a pencil.
Then he said, ‘Was the public defender OK?’
‘Sure,’ Reacher said. ‘She seemed like a nice lady. Smart, too. She figures it’s all a bit of a misunderstanding. She figures those state guys get a bit over-enthusiastic from time to time. Not like you county people. No common sense.’
The young cop nodded. ‘I guess it can be like that sometimes.’
‘She says I’ll be out tomorrow, most likely. She says I should sit tight and trust the system.’
‘That’s usually the best way,’ the kid said. He tucked the slip of paper in his shirt pocket, and then he left the room.
Reacher stayed on his bed. He waited. He sensed the building grow quieter, as the day watch went home and the night watch came in. Fewer people. Budgets. A rural county in an underpopulated part of the state. Then eventually the young cop came back with the food. His last duty of the day, almost certainly. He was carrying a tray with a china plate with a metal cover, and a white fluted fat-bellied plastic coffee flask, and a saucer topped with an upside-down cup, and a knife and a fork wrapped in a paper napkin.
The plastic flask was the key component. It made the whole assemblage too tall to fit through the horizontal pass-through slot in the bars. The kid couldn’t lay the flask down on its side on the tray. It would roll around and the coffee would spill out all over the pie. He couldn’t pass it upright on its own through a regular part of the bars, because they were too close together for its fat-bellied shape.
The kid paused, unsure.
Twenty-four years old. A rookie. A guy who knew Reacher as nothing worse than a placid old man who spent all his time on his bed, apparently relaxed and resigned. No shouting, no yelling. No complaints. No bad temper.
Trusting the system.
No danger.
He would balance the tray one-handed on steepled fingers, like a regular waiter. He would take his keys off his belt. He would unlock the gate and slide it open with his toe. His holster was empty. No gun. Standard practice everywhere in the world. No prison guard was ever armed. To carry a loaded weapon among locked-up prisoners would be just asking for trouble. He would step into the cell. He would hook his keys back on his belt and juggle the tray back into two hands. He would turn away, towards the concrete desk.
Which relative positioning would offer a number of different opportunities.
Reacher waited.
But no.
The kid was the kind of rookie who got his car stolen, but he wasn’t totally dumb. He put the tray on the floor outside the cell, just temporarily, and he took the coffee pot off it, and the cup and saucer, and he placed them all on the tile the wrong side of the bars, and then he picked up the tray again and fed it through the slot. Reacher took it. To get a drink, he would have to put his wrists between the bars and pour on the outside. The cup would fit back through. Maybe not on its saucer, but then, he wasn’t dining at the Ritz.
The kid said, ‘There you go.’
Not totally dumb.
‘Thanks,’ Reacher said anyway. ‘I appreciate it.’
The kid said, ‘Enjoy.’
Reacher didn’t. The pie was bad and the coffee was weak.
An hour later a different uniform came by to collect the empties. The night watch. Reacher said, ‘I need to see Detective Aaron.’
The new guy said, ‘He isn’t here. He went home.’
‘Get him back. Right now. It’s important.’
The guy didn’t answer.
Reacher said, ‘If he finds out I asked but you didn’t call him, he’ll kick your ass. Or take your shield. I hear there are budget issues. My advice would be don’t give him an excuse.’
‘What’s this all about?’
‘A notch on his belt.’
‘You going to confess?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You’re a state prisoner. We’re county. We don’t care what you did.’
‘Call him anyway.’
The guy didn’t answer. Just carried the tray away and closed the steel door behind him.
The guy must have made the call, because Aaron showed up ninety minutes later. About halfway through the evening. He was wearing the same suit. He looked neither eager nor annoyed. Just neutral. Maybe a little curious. He looked in through the bars.
He said, ‘What do you want?’
Reacher said, ‘To talk about the case.’
‘It’s a state matter.’
‘Not if it was a simple mugging.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘You believe that?’
‘It was a credible way to beat surveillance.’
‘What about me as the second secret ingredient?’
‘That’s credible too.’
‘It would have been a miracle of coordination. Wouldn’t it? Exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.’
‘You could have been waiting there for hours.’
‘But was I? What do your witnesses say?’
Aaron didn’t reply.
Reacher said, ‘Check the timing on the tape. You and me talking. Picture the sequence. Delaney got a hard-on for me because of something he heard.’
Aaron nodded. ‘Your lawyer already passed that on. The homeless patsy. Didn’t convince me then, doesn’t convince me now.’
‘Beyond a reasonable doubt?’ Reacher asked.
‘I’m a detective. Reasonable doubt is for the jury.’
‘You happy for an innocent man to go to prison?’
‘Guilt and innocence is for the jury.’
‘Suppose I get acquitted? You happy to see your case go down in flames?’
‘Not my case. It’s a state matter.’
Reacher said, ‘Listen to the tape again. Time it out.’
‘I can’t,’ Aaron said. ‘There is no tape.’
‘You told me there was.’
‘We’re the county police. We can’t record a state interview. Not our jurisdiction. So the recording was discontinued.’
‘It was before that. When you and I were talking.’
‘That part got screwed up. The previous stuff got erased when the recording was stopped.’
‘It got?’
‘Accidents happen.’
‘Who pressed the stop button?’
Aaron didn’t answer.
‘Who was it?’ Reacher said.
‘Delaney,’ Aaron said. ‘When he took over from me. He apologized. He said he wasn’t familiar with our equipment.’
‘You believed him?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
Reacher said nothing.
‘Accidents happen,’ Aaron said again.
‘You sure it was an accident? You sure they weren’t making a silk purse out of a pig’s ear? You sure they weren’t covering their tracks?’
Aaron said nothing.
Reacher said, ‘You never saw such a thing happen?’
‘What do you want me to say? He’s a fellow cop.’
‘So am I.’
‘You were, once upon a time. Now you’re just a guy passing by.’
‘One day you will be, too. You want all these years to count for nothing?’
Aaron didn’t answer.
Reacher said, ‘Right back at the beginning you told me juries don’t always like police testimony. Why would that be? Are those juries always wrong?’
No response.
Reacher said, ‘Can’t you remember what we said on the tape?’
‘Even if I could, it would be my word against the state. And it ain’t exactly a smoking gun, is it?’
Reacher said nothing. Aaron gazed through the bars a minute more, and then he left again.
Reacher lay on his back on the narrow bed with one elbow jammed against the wall and his head resting on his cupped hand. Check the timing on the tape, he had said. He ran through what he remembered of his first conversation with Aa
ron. In the green bunker-like room. The witness statement. The preamble. Name, date of birth, Social Security number. Then his address. No fixed abode, and so on and so forth. He pictured Delaney listening in. A tinny loudspeaker in another room. In other words you’re homeless, Aaron had said. Delaney had heard him say it. Loud and clear. How long did he take to spot his opportunity and come barging in?
Too long, Reacher thought.
There had been the bravura bullshit about PTSD and the 110th, and some lengthy dickering from Aaron about whether his testimony would be helpful or hurtful, and then the testimony itself, careful, composed, coherent, detailed, clear and slow. Then the private chat afterwards. After Bush had left the room. The speculation, and the semantic analysis backing it up. You said, Thank you very much for helping us out with that. And so on. All that stuff. Altogether seven minutes, maybe. Or eight, or nine.
Or ten.
Too much time.
Delaney had reacted to something else.
Something he heard later.
At ten o’clock in Reacher’s head there was the heavy tramp of footsteps in the corridor outside the steel door. The door opened and people came in. Six of them. Different uniforms. State Police. Prisoner escorts. They had Mace and pepper spray and tasers on their belts. Handcuffs and shackles and thin metal chains. They knew what they were doing. They made Reacher back up against the bars and stick his hands out behind him, through the meal slot. They cuffed his wrists, and held tight to the link, and squatted down and put their hands in through the bars, the same way he had poured his coffee, but in reverse. They put shackles around his ankles, and linked them together, and ran a chain up to his handcuffs. Then they unlocked his gate and slid it open. He shuffled out, small clinking steps, and they stopped him at the booking desk, where they retrieved his possessions from a drawer. His passport, his ATM card, his toothbrush, his seventy bucks in bills, his seventy-five cents in quarters, and his shoelaces. They put them all in a khaki envelope and sealed the flap. Then they escorted him out of the cell block, three ahead, three behind. They walked him around the dogleg corners, under the low concrete ceilings, and out to the lot. There was a grey-painted school bus with wire on the windows parked next to the wrecked SUV in the far corner. They pushed him inside and planted him on a bench seat in back. There were no other passengers. One guy drove and the other five sat close together up front.
