foolhardy,” Jesse said. “And, of
course, he didn’t know what Pennington did in college.”
“Be hard to demonstrate that he did,” Rita said.
“Ethically.”
“Ethically?”
“I know, it’s embarrassing, but
…” Rita shrugged. “It will
be difficult to enlist a jury’s sympathy for Bo Marino.”
“Who is, you will note,” Jesse said,
“bigger than Pennington. So
is his father.”
“Noted,” Rita said and finished her wine and waved the empty
glass at the waiter.
They ate in silence for the short time it took the waiter to replace Rita’s glass.
When he was gone, Rita said, “This isn’t a winner for our side.
I’ll persuade my clients to drop it.”
“And if they don’t?”
Rita smiled.
“They’ll drop it,” she said.
Jesse nodded and ate his club sandwich.
“So,” Rita said, “off the
record, what really
happened?”
“Off the record?”
“Between you and me, only,” Rita said.
“Pennington smacked the crap out of Bo Marino and his old man,
and I let him.”
“I’m shocked,” Rita said.
“It’ll be our secret,” Jesse
said.
“Perhaps,” Rita said, “before
we’re through there will be
several more.”
Jesse looked at her and she looked back. There was promise in her eyes, and challenge, and a flash of something so visceral, Jesse thought, that Rita may not have known it was there.
“Wow,” Jesse said.
47
Jesse was on the phone with the state police ballistics lab, talking to a technician named Holton. Suitcase Simpson sat across the desk from him, drinking coffee and reading the Globe.
“No match,” Holton said, “on the
murder bullets and the
Marlin.”
“I didn’t expect any,” Jesse
said.
“Maybe you should wait and send us something that you expect to
match,” Holton said.
“Got to eliminate it,” Jesse said.
“Well, you can eliminate this one,” Holton said. “Far as I can
tell, it’s never been fired.”
Jesse was silent, sitting back in his chair, staring out the window.
“You still there?” Holton said.
“Sorry,” Jesse said. “I was just
thinking.”
