Guilt

'So why are we having this discussion?'

Amanda straightened her skirt, pulling it down to within four inches of her knees, a move she was unaware of. It didn't escape Farrell's notice, however. Neither did the clearing of her throat. The woman was a nervous wreck. 'You called Art.'

'True. But then he called me back, said maybe we had something to talk about after all. If your best offer is life, I think all in all I owe it to my client to try to get a better deal.' He paused. 'Especially since you can't convict him, not on the discovery I've seen. He's gonna walk, Amanda, and you know it. Drysdale knows it. You guys fucked up.'

'We drop the Specials. You plead Murder One straight up, twenty-five to life.'

Farrell cast his gaze down the hallway, up to the ceiling. 'How can I phrase this? No chance.'

Amanda was trying to get some satisfaction out of this. Drysdale had told her she was going to have to drop the charges, an extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime decision in a rape/murder case. This just didn't happen, ever. Except now, it was happening, and Amanda was in the middle of it.

The only chip the DA wanted to play was to use its slight remaining leverage, if any, to avoid embarrassment in the press. Jenkins, who took this stuff personally, was hoping to salvage a little more.

'Wes, your client killed this woman.'

'My client is innocent until you prove he's guilty.'

'Oh please, spare me. What do you think? Really?'

'I just said what I think.'

Jenkins took in a breath and held it for a long moment. 'Murder Two,' she said at last. 'Fifteen to life. He'll be out in twelve.'

Farrell crossed his arms, gave her a worldly look. 'Amanda, please.'

'What?'

'When's'the last time you went to a parole board hearing? Out walk five people who've read the police report, hate your client, and figure he's done it before. At least one is there from some victims' rights group. Your client comes in, says he's sorry – hell, he's really sorry – and they say thanks for your time, see you in another five years.'

Amanda repeated it. 'Still, he'll be out in twelve on Murder Two.'

'He'll be out in twelve weeks if we go to trial.'

'I guess we'll let the jury decide then. We're not going to simply drop these charges, Wes, and if we go to trial, it's One with Specials. That's putting your client at tremendous risk.'

Farrell nodded, stood up, grabbed his briefcase. 'I'll discuss it with him. See you in ten seconds.' He held out his hand. 'I'll be in touch.'

He'd gone about ten steps when the prosecutor called after him. 'Wes?'

He stopped and turned. He was almost tempted to go back and put an arm around her shoulder, tell her everything was going to be all right. This was just a job, a negotiation, nothing to take so seriously.

A vision of Sam from St Patrick's Day – when it had been personal to her, too. What was with all these women?

Amanda Jenkins's eyes showed her concern, even panic. The woman was deeply conflicted, but she forced a weak smile. 'Nothing,' she said, 'forget it.'

'I had to try, Art.'

'No, you didn't, Amanda.'

'Farrell's going to talk to Levon right now, this morning. Levon knows he did it. He's looking at LWOP if he doesn't plead. We've got some leverage here.'

'We don't have the evidence. Farrell appears to have a pretty good understanding of that.'

'He's got to convey our offer to Levon. If he takes it, we win. It was worth a try.'

Drysdale picked up the telephone on his desk. 'All right, you had your try. You got Farrell's number?'

She argued for another five minutes, but it did no good, so she made the call and told Farrell the People were moving to dismiss the charges on Levon Copes to permit the time for further investigation.

Victor Trang made Dooher drive half an hour out to Balboa Street to meet in some dive named Minh's, decorated mostly in yellowing strips of flypaper which hung from the ceiling.

Dooher hated the smell of the place. His Vietnam hitch had been the low point of his life, and since he'd returned he hadn't put much effort into developing any taste for the culture.

He didn't see Trang right away – Dooher had to walk along a counter and endure the suspicious eyes of the proprietor and of the four other customers who sat hunched over their bowls.

Trang sat in a booth at the back, papers scattered around him, his calculator on the table so he'd look busy. There was a cup of tea in front of him, and some dirty dishes still on the table, pushed to the side. He wore the same suit, the same skinny tie, as the last time they'd met.

Dooher slid in across from him and Trang, punching the damn little machine, held up a finger. He'd be with Mark in just a minute. Finally – a whirr of number-crunching – he looked up. There was a smile, but it lacked sincerity.

He began briskly enough. 'I'll be filing the amended complaint next Monday, which gives us a week to reach a settlement agreement, if you're still interested. If not, I'll go ahead sooner.'

Dooher tried to run his bluff. 'I did tell you that our offer expired the day after we met. When I didn't hear from you…'

'And yet you're here.'

'The Archbishop thought it was worth another try.'

Trang stared at the ceiling behind Dooher. At last, he put down his pencil, brought himself back to the table. 'Here's the situation, Mr Dooher. First, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop insulting me with this talk about the Archbishop's concern for my well-being. I've got a lawsuit that's going to do his diocese a lot of harm and incidentally might smear him with the runoff. He knows it, I know it, you know it.'

'All right.' Dooher wore his poker face. 'I didn't know you. I mean no insult. Some people hear the bluff and cave early.'

Trang seemed to accept that. He shuffled some of his papers around, appearing to look for something specific. Finding it, he pulled the page toward him and read a moment. 'I've got, let's see, twelve names here.'

'Twelve people? You're telling me Slocum was involved with twelve people?'

Trang's self-satisfied smile remained in place. It was getting to Dooher. 'I've got twelve people, so far, who are willing to allege a relationship with a priest in the Archdiocese. Three different parishes. It's a widespread problem, as my amended complaint contends. Clearly, there's a policy of toleration beginning at the very top…'

Dooher took the paper and glanced at the list. 'All of these names seem to be Asian.'

'That's correct. Most are Vietnamese.'

'An interesting coincidence.'

Trang shrugged. 'These refugees came to this country as displaced people. They turned to their spiritual advisers to help them through the many adjustments they had to make, and many of these advisers – these priests – betrayed them, took advantage of their weakness and vulnerability.' He shook his head at the tragic reality.

Dooher had a different interpretation. 'We'd depose every one of these women. You understand that?' – telling Trang what he suspected, that the charges were bogus. Trang had recruited a dozen liars to trade their accusations for a fee – some tiny fraction of the settlement he hoped to get.

But Trang had another card. 'They're not all women.' Another meaningless smile. 'This is San Francisco, after all.' So now Trang had priests seducing young men as well, with Flaherty consistently looking the other way. 'And of course there'd be depositions. My clients would want to reveal the whole truth, if only to warn others who might be in their positions.' He made a little clucking noise. 'This is the kind of story that will be all over the newspapers, though of course we'd try to contain that.'

This, Dooher knew, was the real issue. Trang was running a scam, pure and simple. He was threatening to foment a scandal, and what made it viable was that it wasn't all made up. Undoubtedly, Mrs Diep and perhaps her daughter had been wronged by Father Slocum. Perhaps there was another victim, maybe two.