'What will I do, Mr. Reynolds?'
'You'll do what you have to to make a life for yourself. You won't stay in prison forever. You'll be paroled. Your parents love you. They'll be there for you when you get out. And while you're in, you can take college courses, get a degree.'
Matthew went on, trying to sound upbeat, wanting Joel to have hope and knowing it was all a lie. Prison would be hell for Joel Livingstone. A hell he would survive, but one from which he would emerge a far different person from the boy he was today.
Matthew Reynolds and Tracy Cavanaugh had been in court for three solid days of pretrial motions when Joel Livingstone's lateafternoon guilty plea abruptly ended the case. As the judge took the plea, Tracy had glanced at Joel's parents, who were elegantly dressed, barely under control and totally at peace in the Fulton County Circuit Court.
Bradford Livingstone, a prominent investment banker, sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap, uncomfortable in the company of cops, court watchers and other types with whom he did not normally associate. On occasion, Tracy caught Bradford staring at his son in disbelief. Elaine Livingstone pulled into herself, be coming more distant, pale and fragile every day. When the judge pronounced sentence, the couple seemed to age before Tracy's eyes.
After court, there was a tearful meeting between Joel and his parents, then an exhausting meeting between the parents and Matthew, which Matthew handled with great compassion.
It was almost seven when Tracy joined Reynolds in the hotel dining room for their final dinner in Atlanta. Tracy noticed that Reynolds was indifferent to food and every night had ordered steak, a green salad, a baked potato and iced tea. This evening, Tracy was as disinterested in food as her boss. She was toying with her pasta primavera and replaying the events of the day when Reynolds asked, 'What's bothering you?'
Tracy looked across the table. She knew Reynolds had said something, but she had no idea what it was.
'You've been distracted. I was wondering if something was wrong,' he said.
Tracy hesitated, then asked, 'Why did you convince Joel to take the deal?'
There was a piece of steak on Reynolds's fork. He put the fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair. 'You don't think I should have?'
Reynolds's tone gave no clue to what he was thinking. Tracy had a rush of insecurity. Reynolds had been trying cases for twenty years. She had never tried a case and she had worked for the man she was questioning for all of one week. Then again, Reynolds struck her as a man who welcomed ideas and would not take offense if she had a sound basis for her views.
'I think Folger made the offer because he was afraid he might lose our motion to suppress the confession.'
'I'm sure you're right.'
'We could have won it.'
'And we could have lost.'
'The judge was leaning our way. Without the confession, we might have had a shot at manslaughter. There's no minimum sentence for manslaughter. Joel would have been eligible for parole anytime.'
'There's no minimum sentence with death either.'
Tracy started to say something, then stopped. Reynolds waited a moment, then asked, 'What was our objective in this case?'
'To win,' Tracy answered automatically.
Reynolds shook his head. 'Our objective was to save Joel Livingstone's life. That is the objective in every death case. Winning is one way of accomplishing that objective, but it must never be your main objective.
'When I started practicing, I thought my objective was always an acquittal.' Reynolds's lips creased into a tired smile. 'Unfortunately, I won my first three murder cases. It's difficult to avoid arrogance if you're young and undefeated. My next death case was in a small eastern Oregon county. Eddie Brace, the DA, was only a few years older than I and he had never tried a murder case. The rumor was that he'd run for DA because he wasn't making it in private practice. The first time we were in court, Brace stumbled around and spent half his time apologizing to the judge.
'The night before we were to start motions, Mr. Brace came to my hotel, just like Folger did. We jawed for a while, then he told me flat out that he felt uncomfortable about asking a jury to take a man's life. He wanted to know if my client would take a straight murder if he'd give up the death penalty. Well, I had a winnable case and I'd gotten not-guilty verdicts in every murder case I'd tried, so I figured what you figured with Folger, that Brace was afraid to lose. I knew I was so good I'd run right over him.'
Reynolds looked down at his plate for a moment, then directly at his associate.
'The worst words a lawyer can hear is a verdict of death for his client.
You don't ever want to hear those words, Tracy. I heard them for the first time in the case I tried against Eddie Brace.'
'What went wrong?'
'Only one thing. Brace stumbled along, I tried a brilliant case, but the jury was for hanging. They really wanted to see my client die. With hindsight I could see that it really didn't matter who tried the case, my man was going to die if a jury was deciding the matter. Brace knew that. He knew his people. That's why he tried so hard to convince me to take the deal. Not because he was afraid he would lose, but because he knew he couldn't lose.'
'But Joel's case... It's different. The judge might have . . .'
'No, Tracy. Not while there was any kind of argument on Folger's side.
I know you don't believe that now, but you will after a while. What's important is that I know the judge would have found a way to keep the confession in and the jury would have no sympathy for a spoiled rich kid who took the life of that lovely girl.'
Reynolds looked at his watch.
'I'm going to take a walk, then turn in. There'll be a limousine waiting to take us to the airport at seven. Get a good night's sleep.
And don't let this case keep you up. We did a good job. We did what we had to do. We kept our client alive.'
Matthew Reynolds closed the door to his hotel room and stood in the dark. The sterile room was immaculately clean, the covers on his bed neatly tucked in at the corners, a chocolate mint centered on the freshly laundered pillowcase. It looked this way every night.
Reynolds stripped off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair.
The conditioned air dried the sweat that made his shirt stick to his narrow chest. Outside the hermetically sealed window, Atlanta sweltered in the sultry August heat. The lights of the city flickered all around.
This was the last time Reynolds would see them. Tomorrow he would be home in Portland and away from the reporters, his client and this case.
Reynolds turned away from the window and saw the red message light blinking on the phone next to his bed. He retrieved the message and punched in Barry Frame's number, anxious to hear what he had uncovered in the Coulter case. 'Bingo!' Frame said.
'Tell me,' Reynolds asked anxiously.
'Mrs. Franklin hung a picture over the bullet hole. This horrific black velvet Elvis. The cops never thought to move it because they have no aesthetic taste. Fortunately for Jeffrey Coulter, I do.)
Frame paused dramatically.
'Stop patting yourself on the back and get to it.'
'You can relax, Matt. We don't have to worry about this case anymore.
I' guarantee Griffen will dismiss once she reads the criminologist's report. See, the picture was too high. No one would hang it like that.
Not even someone with Mrs. Franklin's awful taste. It bothered me in the crime-scene photos and it was worse when I walked into the hall.
'In Jeffrey's version of the shooting, he fell back when Franklin pulled out the gun. When he tripped, Franklin's shot missed him. Jeffrey is tall. If Franklin shot for the head, he'd be aiming high. We found a snapshot in the family album showing the hallway three months before the shooting with the Elvis on another wall. I moved the picture and there was a freshly puttied hole. We've got everything on videotape, as well as stills. We dug out the putty. The
