Kleimer consciously willed his heart to slow. “I suppose you’ve been following the Diego developments.”
Ferris nodded benignly.
“Then you must know,” Kleimer continued, “that a Father Carleson has been arrested and charged with the murder?”
Ferris nodded again. “The news beat you here by only a few minutes.”
For a moment Kleimer pondered the speed of sound. He could scarcely compete with that. Nonetheless, since the chief had just gotten the word, there couldn’t have been any applicants ahead of him.
“Just as a matter of curiosity,” Ferris said, “how did you happen to know about this? I mean, I only just now got the word.”
“One of the Homicide guys needed some direction on procedure.”
“Oh? Who?”
Kleimer needed no time at all to come up with a name. “lieutenant Quirt,” he lied. Quirt would know enough to back him.
“Quirt. Hmmm.” Ferris was noncommittal. He rearranged several objects on his desk without any apparent purpose. “Looks heavily circumstantial.”
“True. We’ve had lots stronger cases. We’ll have to use every advantage we can.” Actually, Kleimer considered the case to have many strengths.
“I wonder …” Ferris looked at the ceiling. “It’ll be tough finding the right person to try this case.” He looked at his desk. “But I’d better come up with someone soon … very soon.” Ferris was having difficulty keeping a straight face.
“Well …” Kleimer stood and began to pace. “… I was thinking: I’ve already been helping them on the case. I’m most familiar with it.” He looked at Ferris. “I’d like to try it.”
There it was, out on the table.
“You!?” Ferris treated Kleimer’s offer with the astonishment it should not have merited.
“Yes, me.” Kleimer was nettled by the chief’s reaction. “As you’ve said, this is going to be a tough one. Well, right off the bat, I’ve got an arm and leg up on any of the special-assignment prosecutors. I’ve been in on this almost from the very beginning.”
Ferris’s eyes widened. “Just how much procedural direction did the Homicide guys need!”
“Well, you know how it is. One thing leads to another. Anyway, I was present while suspects were interrogated. And I’m well aware of who the various suspects are. And I can tell you straight out that this Carleson is a good arrest. Just let me get to that jury and that priest will be spending the rest of his life behind bars. No parole!”
“Murder One! Think we should go for the first degree, eh?”
“Absolutely.” Kleimer returned to his seat. “Murder One. And I’ll nail him.” He leaned forward. “I don’t need to remind you my record is pretty impressive …”
Ferris studied Kleimer. “I do believe you’re right, Brad,” he said at length. “Barring any complication-and I don’t foresee any-you’re the logical choice to handle this trial. So, let’s go with this. And Brad” — his gaze pinned Kleimer-” keep me informed: about everything- everything … understand?”
Kleimer was on his feet. “Yes, sir. I’ll get on this right away. Nothing to worry about.” Kleimer’s expression was one of simultaneous reassurance and gratitude. “And Chief: Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
The two men shook hands. Kleimer departed.
Ferris gathered the documents he would take home for study. His mind wandered over this meeting with Kleimer. He was reminded of something conductor Zubin Mehta once said about Richard Wagner, the ethnically prejudiced German composer: that he was a fourth-class human being but a first-class musician.
Something on that order could be said of Brad Kleimer.
As far as Ferris could tell, Kleimer had only one moral code-if one could speak of it in terms of morality-and that was self-advancement.
Ferris did not relish dealing with Kleimer. But one thing Kleimer had proven repeatedly was his skill in the courtroom. He could charm and sway a jury, sometimes even a judge. As long as the judge and jury did not have to live with the man, Kleimer would be effective. But so far, no one had had the stomach to stay with him for the long run. It was no surprise to anyone when his marriage had collapsed. If anything, Kleimer’s colleagues were astounded that it had dragged on as long as it did.
So the bottom line was that Kleimer was the logical choice for this trial. And he would’ve gotten it without groveling.
The position of chief trial attorney had been created under a previous prosecutor’s administration. It had been his responsibility-the position had never been filled by a woman-to handle high-visibility cases. Kleimer lusted after that position. The present prosecutor had strong convictions that there should be, if the case warranted, a top female assistant prosecutor a top black assistant prosecutor, a top white assistant prosecutor, and so on.
This case involved a white and a Hispanic. So it could have fallen under either heading. But since the alleged perpetrator was white, in all probability it would be given to a top white assistant prosecutor.
Under that category, Kleimer was qualified.
And if Kleimer had not fit the appropriate niche, Ferris had been prepared to refuse him steadfastly.
Lately there had been a considerable intrusion by Kleimer into, for him, marginal categories. In his own obtrusive way, he had begun to insinuate himself into cases more suitable for others. In effect, Kleimer was trying to refashion the function of the office of chief trial attorney and fill it himself. Along the way, he was alienating a lot of fellow attorneys and making not a few enemies.
Whatever, the Carleson-Diego case was now his.
Ferris was torn. On the one hand, he wished Kleimer good fortune. After all, the business of this office was to get convictions. On the other hand, Ferris quietly hoped that this case would prove to be Kleimer’s launching pad to fame and would get him the hell out of the prosecuting attorney’s office.
Ferris was about to extinguish his office lights and finally head for home when one final question came to mind.
He dialed Homicide and got his answer: The priest would spend at least this night in a holding cell. Ferris was surprised. Locking up a priest before arraignment! Was nothing sacred any longer?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Don Carleson sat on the edge of his cot. He was the sole occupant of the cell. Probably, he thought, a special favor arranged by the officer in charge. He must be a Catholic; he had “Fathered” Carleson to pieces.
Favor or not, he was grateful. He’d had some little experience in like surroundings. This was not Father Carleson’s first time being locked up.
But it had been so long ago.
Noisy. His small space was invaded by the sounds of men in other cells. Some were angry, some crying, some hallucinating. Some were trying to climb the walls in search of some substance that would open for them a door to blessed oblivion.
It hadn’t been like this the other time, the first time.
Carleson lay down on the cot and freed his mind to return to that other time.
It had been warm. Hot. Not cold and damp, as it was now.
Many years ago. In Nicaragua. In a tiny village called Sandego near the banks of the Rio Coco on the border of Honduras.
The village was so insignificant and remote that he had actually felt insulted when he first laid eyes on it. What must his superiors in Maryknoll think of him to send him to such a godforsaken spot?
Then he began to learn that his little town actually was the antithesis of a place abandoned by God.
The inhabitants were Catholic … Catholics with simple, childlike faith. They had been promised that a priest was being sent to them. So they had pooled their meager resources and put together a makeshift but practical chapel.