“I got this bad feeling,” I said. “Like he knew Ian did it-”
“And was covering for him?” Bailey looked incredulous.
“You gotta be kidding, Rache,” Toni said. “Denial’s one thing, but deliberate cover-up-about the murder of his only child? Uh-uh. You know I’m always down with believing the worst, but that’s just…”
“A bridge too far,” Bailey filled in. “Even for me, I think. What gave you that idea?”
“We know Russell called Ian right after he got that first text from Hayley’s phone saying that Hayley’d been kidnapped. So when I went out there to tell him about Ian’s arrest, I’d planned to get Russell to confirm that he told Ian about the kidnapping during that call. No big deal, really. Ian’s his best friend; it made sense he’d have thought it was safe to tell Ian, right?”
Bailey nodded.
“Except that the minute I got the words out of my mouth, Russell denied it-”
“So?” Toni challenged. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe Russell didn’t tell him.”
“But he didn’t just deny it. He said, hollered actually, that I could never prove it. Why, of all things, would he say that?”
They both shook their heads. The table was silent for several long beats.
“Could just be guilt,” Bailey said. “Russell didn’t want to believe he’d set the wheels in motion…”
But there was a note of doubt in her voice. Toni stared down at her drink.
“Right,” I said. “See what I mean?”
50
It was a soul-shaking thought: that a father might cover for the murderer of his child. If it was true, Russell Antonovich deserved a far worse fate than the legal system could deliver. But at this point there was nothing we could do. We needed proof, not just suspicion, that Russell knew what Ian had done. That we did not have. I could only promise that if the evidence existed, we’d find it. And use it to put Russell away for as long as possible.
Right now, I had a more immediate lion to beard. Literally. I had to play “Let’s Make a Deal” with Terry Fisk. I placed the call bright and early Monday morning, so I’d be sure to catch Terry before she went to court. “I’d like a meeting with you and your client. I want to talk about a deal.”
“You don’t talk to my client until we have a deal.”
“Terry, your client is looking at life without the possibility of parole. I’m prepared to offer him a substantially lesser sentence that’ll let him parole out in a few years. But I’m not going to do it unless I can make this offer to him personally. I need to get a feel for whether he’ll give us something worthwhile-”
“No way. No one talks to my client but me until everyone’s signed on the dotted line.”
“You want to stand in the way of a sweetheart deal just because I want to look him in the eye when I make the offer? Because if you do, I’ll want to put that on the record in open court.”
There was a beat of silence as Terry considered the ramifications of what I’d just said. If I took the deal off the table because of her refusal to let me make the offer in person, and he got convicted, she’d never live it down. There was no valid tactical reason for her to refuse my request. It wasn’t as though I were asking to take a statement so I could use it against him later. And if Averly was convicted of murder, even if an appellate court didn’t find her incompetent, she’d be the jerk who tanked her client’s chance to beat a life sentence.
“Why do you need to see him? I mean really?”
“Because I want to make sure he understands what I’m offering.”
What I didn’t say was that I didn’t know whether I could trust her to relay the offer. It wouldn’t be the first time an attorney withheld an offer to prevent a client from being a “snitch”-or, in a high-profile case, to keep the case alive so the lawyer could grab more limelight. Added to those possibilities was the potential pressure from the co-defendant’s side, in this case Ian, to prevent that client from testifying, which could significantly increase the odds that any offer might be “forgotten.” Though Terry wasn’t the type to cave in to pressure from anyone, with a major player like Ian Powers and his supporters in the mix, I couldn’t take any chances.
“No questioning.”
“No.”
Terry exhaled loudly. “When?”
“In one hour.”
“Make it two; I’ve got an appearance in Judge Henley’s court in fifteen minutes.”
“See you there.”
Bailey drove us to the Men’s Central Jail on Bauchet Street, where Jack Averly was housed and undoubtedly making all kinds of new friends. The largest county jail in the world, it’s a concrete mushroom of a building that squats across three square blocks and emanates a gray, hopeless despair. As we put our guns in the lockers and passed through security, I held my breath, trying to let as little of the putrid air into my lungs as possible. Bailey went to tell the guards that we needed an attorney room, and I pondered whether I had enough Febreze to get the smell out of my clothes. Terry came through the metal detector and sat down next to me.
“What’s your offer?” she asked.
“One count of murder, I’ll dismiss the other count. It gives him a shot at parole.”
She gave me an incredulous look. “You called me here for that? Forget it.” She started to get up, but I pulled her back.
“Come on, Terry, chill. Where’s your sense of humor? The deal is accessory-providing he gives me the solid truth about everything. No whitewashing bull about how he didn’t do nuthin’ and Ian did everythin’.”
Terry glared at me, but she sat back down. We didn’t speak again until Bailey returned with a guard who said he had a room for us. We entered the tiny glass-walled room and took seats around a metal table. I stared at the windowed hallway Averly would have to pass through to get to us. Within minutes I saw him shuffling in his waist and leg chains, a deputy holding his elbow. When I’d seen him in New York, I thought he had the kind of smart-assy attitude and rangy look that would give him an attractive bad-boy appeal to some. But the county jail had a way of ripping the insouciance out of even the toughest of criminals, and Averly was far from the toughest in this jungle. His eyes were wide and staring and his face looked pinched. So much for the bad-boy appeal. As the deputy chained him into his seat, he barely glanced at any of us, even Terry.
“Jack, the prosecutor says she has a deal for you,” Terry said, jumping in first, no doubt to take control of the situation. “I don’t want you to say a word. Do you hear me?”
He gave a sideways nod, his head tilted away from her, eyes cast down.
“Hey, Jack,” I said, hoping to get him to engage with me.
“Just state your offer. This isn’t a blind date,” Fisk interrupted.
“It kind of is, Counsel,” I said. “I have a feeling Jack didn’t do these murders himself, but I don’t know for sure-”
Jack opened his mouth, but Terry cut him off. “And now you’re baiting him. Make your offer and do it fast or you’re out of here.”
Jack clamped his mouth shut, but a beseeching look flashed across his face. He would’ve gladly taken the bait I’d offered, and he was ready to deal. Just what I wanted to see.
“Here’s the deal, Jack: I’ll dismiss the murder charges and let you plead to being an accessory after the fact for both murders. That means a possible low of sixteen months. As of right now, you’re facing a sentence of life without the possibility of parole. Pretty big drop, wouldn’t you say?”
“He’s not saying anything.” Terry turned to Jack. “Right?”
Jack ducked his head and muttered, “Guess not.”
“What I’ll need from you in return for this deal is your testimony. That means your complete, truthful testimony to everything you know about this case. Do you understand?”