bottom drawer. He poured a stiff drink, downed it and poured another. The whiskey burned and the numb feeling wore off and was replaced by rage.
It was Shan, his first wife, who had talked him into investing in Mountain View, filling him with tales of the millions they would make. Then, the bitch bailed out, leaving him to face financial destruction. She'd probably known this would happen all along. He could imagine her laughing at him when she read about the collapse of Mountain View. Mancini's stomach knotted and pain ripped through his skull. His hands squeezed together and the whiskey glass shattered, spraying scotch and blood onto the carpet.
'Donna Harmon is here to see you, Mr. Hale,' Clara said over the intercom.
'Send her back,' Peter answered, relieved that Clara had not buzzed him to say that Amos Geary was on the line. Peter had spent the day in torment as he pondered his decision to leave Amos Geary. He had come to work late, timing his arrival to coincide with the start of court in Cayuse County, and had been out of the office during every conceivable time that Geary could call. Clara had given him several messages from his boss, each longer and more threatening, but Peter had returned none of them.
'Hi,' Peter said when Donna stuck her head in the door. She looked excited.
'I think I found some good cases about tricking people into confessing,' Donna said, thrusting a manila envelope at Peter.
'Sit down. Let me take a look.'
Peter pulled out copies of the cases and articles Donna had photocopied for him.
'There's a great sentence in Miranda v. Arizona,' Donna told him, referring to her copy of the famous United States Supreme Court case that established the rule that police had to warn suspects about their constitutional rights to remain silent and to have counsel before questioning them. 'It says that even a voluntary waiver of your rights is no good if the accused was threatened, tricked or cajoled into giving the waiver.
And listen to this from a University of Pennsylvania Law Review article about 'Police Trickery in Inducing Confessions.'
'The author says that 'A form of deception that totally undermines the Fifth and Sixth Amendment protections available to an individual occurs when the police deceive a suspect about whether an interrogation is taking place.' That's what Downes did. He made Gary think there was no interrogation. He made him believe he was a detective.'
'You're pretty good,' Peter said with genuine admiration after he skimmed the material. The cases were old and the Law Review article had been written in 1979, but they would make it easier for him to zero in on more recent cases.
'Thanks,' Donna answered, blushing from the compliment.
'When did you do this?'
'During lunch.'
'Well, I couldn't have done better in that amount of time. This will really help.' You think so?' Donna asked hopefully.
'Definitely.'
Donna's features clouded. 'Have you talked to Gary?' she asked.
'Not since yesterday. He's doing pretty well, under the circumstances. He seems to have accepted the jail.'
'He would. Gary never complains about anything.'
'You really love your brother, don't you?'
'I love him very much. We all do,'
'it must be hard with his being, uh ... so slow.'
Donna smiled. 'You mean 'retarded'?'
Peter flushed. 'I didn't mean 'No, that's okay. I'm used to it. People always think t that a person who's 'retarded' is harder to love, but that's not true. When Gary was small, he was so much fun. You know how handsome he is. Well, he was a beautiful little boy. Always running and laughing. it wasn't until he was older that we realized how dreadfully slow he was and how hard it was for him to learn.
One day Mom came back from school. It had never been official before. just something weknew, but never admitted. Mom told us what Gary's teacher had said about a special class with other 'slow learners.' Then, Mom said that Gary was God's child like everybody else and that was all she was interested in. If Gary needed extra help he would get it, but she was not going to treat Gary differently because of his intelligence. As far as sh was concerned, Gary was a kind and moral boy and that was all that mattered.
'I never loved Mom more than I loved her when she said that. It shaped Gary's life. We never made him feel like a freak or demanded less than he could accomplish.'
Donna paused. Her features were set in stone.
'He is a good boy, Peter. A good, simple boy, just like Mom said. He's always been like that. He couldn't do what they're saying.'
Peter wanted to say something to reassure Donna, but he knew that anything he said would sound wrong.
Donna took a deep breath and stood up. She was embarrassed by her sudden display of emotion.
'I ... I'd better go. I have to shop for dinner.'
'Thanks for the cases.'
'I hope they help,' Donna said as she left the office.
Peter closed the door behind Donna and wandered I th u back to his desk, lost in ought. Donna really tr sted him, so did Gary. They believed that he would set Gary free. Was their faith misplaced?
Peter remembered his phone conversation of the day before with Amos Geary.
His boss had told him bluntly that he was not competent to try an aggravated murder case. Was Steve Mancini mistaken in his belief that Peter had the tools to handle a capital murder? Was Peter fooling himself? What if a death case was too complicated for him at this stage of his career? What did he really know about trying a charge of aggravated murder? It occurred to Peter that he should talk to someone with a little experience in this area in order to get some idea of what he was getting into.
Peter looked up the phone number for the Oregon Criminal Defense Lawyers Association. The secretary at the OCDLA gave him the names of three experienced death penalty attorneys. Peter decided not to call the first two names on the list. They practiced in Portland and he was afraid they would know who he was. Sam Levine was a Eugene attorney and he was in.
'So this is your first death case,' Levine said after Peter explained why he was calling.
'First one.'
'I remember my first. I'd tried about seven, eight murder cases and I thought I was a hotshot.' Levine chuckled. 'I had no idea what I was getting myself into.'
'Why is that?' Peter asked nervously.
'No other case is like a death case. They're unique.
The biggest difference is that you have to prepare for two trials from the get-go. The first trial is on guilt and innocence. If your guy is convicted of aggravated murder, there is a whole second trial on what penalty he should receive.
'With your usual case, you don't think about sentenc A ing until your client is convicted. With a capital case, you have to assume he's going to be convicted even if you're personally convinced you're going to win, because the penalty phase starts almost immediately after a conviction in front of the same jury that found your client guilty and you won't have time to prepare for the penalty phase if you wait until the last minute.' Peter asked question after question and felt more and more insecure with each answer. Levine explained the special jury selection procedure he should request and told Peter that there was an entire body of law peculiar to capital murder cases. After three quarters of an hour, Levine said that he had to meet a client, but he told Peter he would be glad to speak to him again.
'Thanks. I really appreciate the time you've taken.'
'You'll learn that there's a real fraternity among death penalty lawyers. I always call other attorneys for help. You've got to. When you try a driving while suspended, you can afford to fuck up. What are they going to do to your client, give him a weekend in jail? But with a death case, you have to be perfect. If you make one small mistake, the state eats your client.'
