“But . . .” I said.
“But,” agreed Jason, “a couple of weeks later, I ran into that cop, and he told me that he was sure the detective had spoken to Waggoner before the arraignment, which means that Phil was in possession of that little nugget of information before he demanded that my client go directly to jail. The bastard just didn’t want to admit in open court that a mistake had been made.”
Jason leaned back and stretched, locking his hands behind his head. He was only about five-nine, maybe one-hundred-sixty-five pounds, but if you had to be in that proverbial dark alley, Jason was one of the people you’d want covering your back. He looked at Denny and me.
“Look,” he said, “I’m not gonna tell you guys that my client was beaten up or anything the night he spent at Shuman, ‘cause he wasn’t, or that he went through some sort of traumatic experience, ‘cause I don’t think he did.”
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table.
“It’s just that there was no reason for Elliott to spend a night in jail. He’s a good kid.”
Jason shook his head.
“No reason at all.”
The three of us were quiet for a minute, until the silence was shattered by a loud voice from the doorway.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
It was ADA Waggoner.
His very own self.
Chapter 43
Phil Waggoner was a big guy, close to Denny’s size, the difference being that Denny’s two-hundred-forty-pounds were mostly of the fat-free variety, whereas Phil appeared never to have met a dessert tray he didn’t like. His suit looked expensive, and fifteen pounds ago, it had probably done a good job of concealing his considerable bulk. Now, though, everything looked a little tight on him, including the collar of his shirt, giving his face a sort of permanent semi-flushed appearance. I’d heard that Phil’s wife had money, somewhere in the three-to-four-million dollar range, and it was no secret that he had plans to run for mayor in two years. Everything he did was funneled through a chute that led to that political end. Now, he stood in the doorway and looked at Jason, then Denny, and, finally, moi.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked me.
“I stop in occasionally,” I said, “to pick up crime-stopper tips and whatnot.”
Phil scowled at me, then directed his gaze, which I assumed he thought was withering, at Denny.
“Are you responsible for this, Detective?”
“I heard you wanted to talk with Mr. Barnes, and since he and I were sharing a morning repast, I thought I’d escort him over here. You know, doing my duty and all.”
Phil started to say something, changed his mind and sat down opposite Jason and me.
“I know you?” he asked Jason.
“We’ve crossed paths once or twice,” said Jason. “Jason Dean, representing Mr. Barnes.”
Phil looked at Denny again.
“Has this guy been Mirandized?”
“Sure,” said Denny, and when I looked at him over Phil’s shoulder, he just shrugged.
Phil pulled a small tape-recorder out of his briefcase and placed it on the table, then looked across at Jason, who glanced at me and then nodded his okay.
After identifying the date and time and location and everyone in the room, Phil got right down to it.
“I’ve been told, Mr. Barnes, that you pointed a gun at the head of Mr. Tyrone Nichols just hours before he was shot to death. Care to explain that?”
“Are you familiar with the term mitigating circumstances?” I asked.
Ignoring that, Phil said, “Had Mr. Nichols directly threatened you in any way, Mr. Barnes?”
Before I could respond, Jason sighed and said, “Cut the crap, Phil. You’ve got the police report in front of you, so you know damn well that my client had reason to feel threatened that morning.”
“This is the second shooting death your client’s been involved in during the past six months,” said Phil. “That’s quite a coincidence.”
“First,” said Jason, “there’s no evidence whatsoever linking Mr. Barnes to last Friday’s shooting. Second, I assume the other shooting you’re referring to is that incident in the park last spring, and if memory serves, it was a city police officer who did the actual shooting.”
Phil looked at his notes for a moment, then said, “Speaking of last Friday, where were you that night, Mr. Barnes?”
“I was with a friend,” I told him.
He looked up.
“A woman?” he demanded.
“Yes,” I said.
Phil leaned back in his chair and sneered, “Lemme guess. You were banging some broad that night.”
The room got very quiet. Jason looked from me to Phil and back to me again. No one moved. Then Denny said, “Watch your mouth, counselor.”
Phil’s eyes grew wide, and he looked somewhat confused as he turned and said to Denny, “What did you say?”
“Said watch your mouth,” Denny repeated. “I know the lady in question. If she says Mr. Barnes was with her, he was.”
Phil was speechless for a minute, no mean feat for him, I suspected. Then he said, “I’ve heard about you, Detective. Rumor has it you think you’re rich enough to walk away from the Job anytime you feel like it. So, whaddya got, couple-hundred thousand, maybe half-a-million? Lemme tell ya, that won’t go anywhere near as far as you think it will.”
Phil didn’t get it, of course. Anything Denny said or did had no connection at all to the balance in his bank account. Instead, it had everything to do with the way he’d been raised. With Denny, it was all about honesty and integrity and loyalty, concepts that were foreign to ADA Waggoner.
Denny just kept staring at Phil, not saying
