would not. Energized by a quiet Sunday, and facing a mountain of work, Robbie pushed the troops to prepare for an assault on various fronts. Top priority was the civil litigation. Robbie was determined to file suit that day, both in state and in federal court. The state action, for wrongful death, would be a shotgun blast aimed at the City of Slone, its police department, the county and its district attorney, the state and its judges, prison officials, and appeals court justices. The members of the judiciary were immune from liability, but Robbie planned to sue them anyway. He would sue the governor, who was absolutely immune. Much of the lawsuit would be dismantled and eventually dismissed, but Robbie didn't care. He wanted revenge, and embarrassing those responsible and forcing them to hire lawyers were things he relished. He loved bare-knuckle litigation, especially when he was throwing the punches and the press was watching. His clients, the Drumms, were sincerely opposed to more violence in the streets, as was Robbie, but he knew how to create violence in the courts. The litigation would drag on for years and consume him, but he was confident of prevailing eventually.
The lawsuit in federal court would be a civil-rights action, with many of the same defendants. There, he would not waste time suing the judges, justices, and the governor, but would hit hard at the City of Slone, its police, and Paul Koffee. In light of what had become obvious, he foresaw a lucrative settlement, but far down the road. The city and county, and, more important, their insurance companies, would never run the risk of having their dirty laundry aired before a jury in such a notorious case. When they were fully exposed, the actions of Drew Kerber and Paul Koffee would terrify the well-paid lawyers for the insurers. Robbie was obsessed with revenge, but he also smelled money.
Other strategies on the table included an ethics complaint against Paul Koffee. A win there could mean disbarment and further humiliation, though Robbie was not overly optimistic. He also made plans to file a complaint against Chief Justice Milton Prudlowe with the State Commission on Judicial Conduct, but this would take more time. So few of the facts surrounding the aborted filing were known. It appeared, though, as if the facts would be forthcoming. Something akin to a hornet's nest of reporters was already attacking the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals. Robbie was content to sit back and watch the press flush out the truth.
He contacted the Justice Department in Washington. He took calls from death-penalty opponents around the country. He chatted with reporters. His office was chaos, and he thrived on it. – The law office Keith and Dana walked into Monday morning was far different from the last one Keith had seen. The Flak Law Firm had been filled with people, tension, and activity. The office of Elmo Laird was small and quiet. Matthew's scouting report described Elmo as a sole practitioner, a sixty-year-old veteran of the criminal courts who dispensed solid advice but rarely went to trial. He and Matthew were friends, and, more important, Elmo played golf with the district attorney.
'I've never had a case like this,' Elmo admitted after listening to Keith for a few minutes. He had done his homework and, like everyone who enjoys the morning paper, knew the basics of the Drumm mess down in Texas.
'Well, it's something new for me too,' Keith said.
'There's no clear statute on point. You provided assistance to a man who was determined to violate his parole anyway by leaving this jurisdiction. It's not exactly a major crime, but you could be prosecuted for obstruction of justice.'
'We've read the statutes,' Dana said. 'Matthew sent them over, along with a few cases from other states. Nothing is clear.'
'I haven't been able to find a similar case in Kansas,' Elmo said. 'Not that that means anything. If the district attorney chooses to prosecute, then I'd say he has a pretty good case. You're admitting everything, aren't you?'
'Sure,' Keith said.
'Then I suggest we explore the possibility of a plea agreement, and the sooner, the better. Boyette is on the loose. He may strike again, maybe not. Perhaps this week, maybe never. It's to your advantage to cut a deal, a good deal, before he makes any more trouble. If he hurts someone, you become more culpable, and a simple case could get complicated.'
'What's a good deal?' Keith asked.
'No jail and a slap on the wrist,' Elmo said with a shrug.
'And what does that mean?'
'Not much. A quick court appearance, a small fine of some sort, certainly no time in jail.'
'I was hoping you would say that,' Dana said.
'And after some time, I could probably get your record expunged,' Elmo added.
'But the conviction would be a public record, right?' Keith asked.
'Yes, and that is worrisome. Boyette was front-page news this morning here in Topeka, and I suspect there will be more about him in the coming days. It's our own little connection to this sensational episode. If a reporter sniffs around, he might stumble across your conviction. It's a pretty good story, if you think about it. Local minister gives assistance to the real killer, and so on. I can see a big splash in the paper, but no permanent damage. The bigger story will be written if and when he commits another crime. Then the prosecutor will take some heat and might be harder to deal with.'
Keith and Dana exchanged uncertain looks. It was their first visit to a law office together, and hopefully their last. Keith said, 'Look, Mr. Laird, I really don't want this hanging over my head. I'm guilty of doing what I did. If I committed a crime, I'll take my punishment. Our question is simple: What now?'
'Give me a few hours to talk to the district attorney. If he agrees, then we cut a quick deal and get it over with. With some luck, you'll slide under the radar.'
'How soon could this happen?'
Another shrug. 'This week.'
'And you promise he's not going to jail?' Dana asked, almost pleading.
'No promises, but it's very unlikely. Let's talk first thing in the morning.'
Keith and Dana sat in the car outside Laird's office and stared at the side of his building. 'I can't believe we're here, doing this, talking about pleading guilty, worrying about going to jail,' she said.
'Isn't it great? I love it.'
'You what?'
'I gotta tell you, Dana, other than our honeymoon, this past week has been the greatest week of my life.'
'You're sick. You've spent too much time with Boyette.'
'I sorta miss Travis.'
'Drive, Keith. You're cracking up.' – The governor was officially hard at work grappling with the state's budget. He was too busy to comment on the Drumm matter; the case was closed as far as he was concerned.
Unofficially, he was locked in his office with Wayne and Barry, all three dazed and hungover, eating ibuprofen, and bitching about what to do next. Reporters were camped outside the building-they'd actually filmed him as he left the Governor's Mansion that morning at 7:30 with his security detail, something he did five days a week, as if such a movement were now breaking news. The office was being flooded with calls, faxes, e-mails, letters, people, even packages.
Barry said, 'It's a shit storm, growing worse by the minute. Thirty-one editorials yesterday, coast-to-coast, another seventeen today. At this rate, every newspaper in the country will take a shot. Nonstop yakking on cable, experts popping up by the dozens with advice on what to do next.'
'And what should we do next?' the governor asked.
'Moratoriums, moratoriums. Give up capital punishment, or at least study it to death.'
'Polls?'
'The polls say we screwed up, but it's too early for something like this. Give it a few days, let the aftershocks die down, then we'll ease back into the market. I suspect we'll lose a few points, but my guess is at least 65 percent are still in favor of the needle. Wayne?'
Wayne was buried in his laptop, but not missing a word. 'Sixty-nine, still my favorite number.'
'I'll split it,' the governor said. 'Sixty-seven. All in?'
Barry and Wayne gave a quick thumbs-up. The standard polling bet was now in play-each of the three with $100 on the line.
The governor walked to his favorite window for the hundredth time, but saw nothing outside. 'I gotta talk to someone. Staying in here and ignoring the press makes me look like I'm hiding.'
