24
WES FARRELL BELIEVED that the hierarchy imposed by the desk and the prearranged seating in front of it was the enemy of communication. So after his election, he’d furnished his office with some library tables against the walls, to which he’d added a couple of distressed tan leather sofas and six or eight folding chairs that found their resting places in various permutations, depending on who and how many guests were visiting. Adding to the relaxed tone was a dartboard by the door, a Nerf basketball net hanging off the bookshelves, a chessboard—with a game in progress—on one of the coffee tables, four baseball bats piled in a corner, and an ancient poster of Che Guevara tacked to the wall.
Fancy it was not.
This afternoon Wes had a couple of guests; he started off, trying to put them at ease, by ceremoniously unveiling today’s T-shirt, which read “Indifferent to the whole apathy thing.” Now, sitting on one of the library tables, he was buttoning up his dress shirt.
It wasn’t a good sign that neither of his two guests broke a smile. Frank Dobbins, his chief investigator, sat back comfortably enough on one of the couches, but he was clearly marking time until Wes got down to the purpose of the meeting.
The second visitor, a DA investigator named Tom Scerbo, perched on the very front edge of one of the folding chairs. Scerbo, in his early thirties, wore a wary expression. He had never been summoned to Farrell’s office, and clearly, in spite of the initial banter and the T-shirt moment they’d all shared, there was tension in the room, and now a small silence. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to rush anybody, but are we all here because I’m in trouble?”
“Why? Do you think you should be?” Farrell asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Good. You’re not, then,” Farrell said. “But I did want to let you know in person that we’re going to be taking another look at Alanos Tussaint.”
His wariness increasing, Scerbo cocked his head. “What about him? There wasn’t any case.”
“Really? My understanding is that there was and then it disappeared.”
“Right. Leaving us with nothing.”
“Maybe. But I believe we may have something there to pursue, if we go about it a little differently.” Farrell continued, matter-of-fact. “Bottom line is that we’ve got big problems at the jail with guards and excessive force, among a host of other issues, and I believe that Burt Cushing’s in the middle of all of them. If that’s so, this office should be building a case against him and these guys, not giving them a free pass over there. What do you think?”
“It’s a noble idea, Wes,” Scerbo said, “but we’ve had some difficulties executing it in the past, as you well know. Alanos Tussaint being a prime example. If you remember, we had a righteous witness to that beating . . .”
Wes nodded. “Luther Jones.”
“Right. It was pretty straightforward. Luther saw the whole thing and told Homicide all about it. Homicide came to me about what kind of a deal they could give him and how they could hide him after he testified and got out of jail.”
“That’s what I understand, Luke, and it’s why I invited you to be part of this. This is no reflection on your handling of that last case, but we may not be so far beyond it that we can’t try to resurrect it.”
Scerbo leveled his eyes at Wes. “You got another witness?”
“No. We’re putting somebody else inside who’s going to try to get back to Luther.”
Scerbo was shaking his head in disagreement. “Even if you do, he’s recanted once already. His testimony will be all but worthless.”
Dobbins said, “Not if we can make the guard’s threat to him part of the case. He’s still the most likely place to start.”
Scerbo wasn’t buying it. “We can do anything we want with Luther Jones,” he said, “but getting him to talk again is going to be some kind of magical trick. And I don’t blame him. Those guards play for keeps. Luther had just seen a guard kill Alanos. He didn’t have much doubt they’d do the same to him if he got . . . troublesome.”
“Troublesome,” Farrell said. “There’s a good word.”
“It is a good word,” Scerbo replied. “Trouble is what these guys in the slammer want to avoid. And okay, Luther forgot that for a minute. He thought that he was a human being with rights, when in fact he was just another animal in the zoo. Cushing’s the zookeeper, and he’s got a long reach.”
Farrell made a face. “I’ve got a long reach, too,” he said. He looked from one investigator to the other. “Look, guys, as we all know, Luther’s in for carjacking, firearm enhancement, second strike. He’s looking at prison after his trial, so we’ve got leverage on him.”
Scerbo said, “Prison is better than dead. We’ve got nothing while he’s in jail.”
“Trust me, Tom, we do have something. Frank and I have brought somebody on, and we’re confident she can get to Luther. Under Cushing’s nose.”
“Okay,” Scerbo said. “But even then, what?”
“Then we get Luther on board with us again. We keep him around in another jail—Alameda, Santa Clara, anywhere—and protected as a witness until he testifies about Alanos. Then get him in a program that lets him disappear.”
Scerbo asked him, “You really think this will work?”
Farrell nodded. “I think it’s as good a chance as we’re likely to see. In any event, it’s my call, and I’m making it.”
Frank Dobbins dragged a British accent up from somewhere and said to Farrell, “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, sir.”
“Bite me, Frank. Just bite me,” replied Wes with a tired smile.