Now, on February 9, Visser estimated that the crate held about forty handguns – everything from little.22 or.25 caliber derringers to Uzi-style repeating pistols, from tape-handled Saturday Night Specials to shining new Glock.38s. Visser knew that by the end of this month, every month, the weapons would be spilling over the top of the crate, clattering onto the tiles. Guns guns guns.
Bellew was delighted with the company – anything to break up his enforced boredom. He and Visser were a couple of kids in a candy store. Picking up one piece, then another, clicking off a bunch of non-rounds, checking actions, dropping the cylinders out of the revolvers, the clips from the automatics. Telling the occasional story behind one of them.
Time was flying they were having so much fun. Then, suddenly, McDougal was at the table with them, delivering the message that Logan and Keene were signing out.
'Eugene!' Logan's voice, calling in. 'Let's roll it out of here.' McDougal, next to Visser, picked up a random revolver from the table, spun the cylinder, pointed it at the 'Safety First' poster on the wall and pulled the trigger, smiling as it clicked.
'Fun stuff, isn't it?' he said.
'I almost feel bad about it.' Visser was fastening the seat belt in Logan's Z3. 'I keep telling myself it just can't be this easy every time.'
The lawyer looked over at him. 'Hey, Eugene, please. The cops let you go. Remember that? You weren't good enough for them.'
'I know, but still. Metal detectors at the doors to the Hall so you can't get a gun in, except you can stroll right out, armed to the teeth. I mean, who's thinking here?'
Dash Logan nearly fish-tailed getting into traffic out of the parking lot. It wasn't convertible weather by a long shot, and he had the top on. His nasal attack appeared to have kicked in again, and he was in high spirits. 'Here's a little well-kept secret, Eugene. You can stroll right in, too.'
'How do you do that?'
No signal, and Dash changed lanes, accelerating to fifty. He passed two cars, ran a red light, swung back into his original lane. He pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger, sniffed back. 'How do you think all those guns in the lock-up get inside the Hall?'
'They're evidence. I've brought a bunch in myself in my time.'
'Right. And what defines evidence?' Dash let him work it out.
It didn't take him long. 'An evidence tag.'
'Correct. A little piece of paper that says evidence on it. You want to bring a bazooka inside the Hall, you put a tag on it, walk right around the metal detector, tell the guard to have a nice day. If we weren't the good guys, I'd say it really wasn't fair. Whoa!' Suddenly, he braked hard and pulled into a spot at the curb. 'Jupiter already.' He flashed a grin at his passenger. 'No wonder they call me Dash.'
Gabe Torrey hung up and immediately started to punch in the numbers for Sharron's direct line, but decided this was important enough to warrant a visit. In half a minute, he was in the anteroom outside her office, where Madeleine, Pratt's secretary, waved him in as a matter of course.
The District Attorney of San Francisco was hard at work – even Pratt's enemies conceded that she was a tireless workaholic. The complaint, if there was one, was that often her work produced no tangible results. But she put in the hours, no one denied that.
She was sitting at the computer next to her desk, her fingers flying over the keys. Hearing the door, she looked over. Torrey saw the telltale ghost of displeasure and impatience playing on her features, but then it flitted away. She didn't like being interrupted, but since it was him.
He closed the door behind him. 'Interesting news,' he said.
'I hate that word, interesting.' With a sigh, Pratt pushed back from the computer. 'You might as well just say bad. Somebody tells you about a movie and says it was interesting, do you want to go out and see it? Never. And if you do, guess what? It sucks.'
Torrey heard out the tirade. 'Is this a bad time?' he asked mildly.
'Not particularly. I'm just trying to get this article written for American Lawyer.'
They had discussed this over the weekend – the magazine was getting input from DAs around the state on the question of how various communities were handling the problem of so-called 'victimless crimes', such as prostitution and drug abuse. Sharron's position was that, basically, you didn't prosecute them, and since the legal community in the state was aware of this, Torrey had been under the impression that he'd convinced her to farm the task out to one of her junior staff people.
'So you are writing it yourself.'
There was no defensiveness in her answer. She had made her decision and it was the right one and that was that. 'I told you I thought it would be better me-'
'Than somebody else who couldn't express it as well.'
'Exactly. I'd just wind up doing it over myself anyway. And if my name's going to be on it-'
'I know. We've been over this. You're wasting your time with this detail work. That's why you have a staff.'
'I'm wasting my time reading incompetent drafts, Gabe.'
'So hire a good writer.'
'I'm a good writer,' she snapped. 'I know what I want to say and I say it well.'
He was never going to win. He nodded with resignation. 'We agree to disagree, OK?'
'Fine.' She bit off the word.
This wasn't the best start for what might prove to be an important and controversial meeting. Torrey considered taking her dismissive tone to heart and making his exit. Leave her to her damned article.
He could come back to it tonight, when she'd be more receptive after a drink or two. But he didn't get a chance to move before she said, 'So what's the interesting news?'
Torrey had no choice. He willed all trace of the earlier tone out of his voice, and delivered it flat. 'Dismas Hardy called me ten minutes ago. He wants to deal.'
Pratt looked at him. 'Actually,' she said, 'that is interesting. What does he want?'
'Murder two.'
'Murder two?' Clearly, it surprised her. She barked a cold laugh. 'He wants to go from death to murder two? The man's got a tremendous imagination. What did you tell him?'
'I told him I had to talk to you.'
Pratt fixed him with a hard eye. 'That's a nice flattering answer, Gabe. But what did you really tell him?'
'That's really what I told him.' He pulled a chair around and sat. 'I said that since you'd made this particular case a campaign issue, it wasn't going to be that simple.'
She frowned. 'But it is that simple,' she said. 'There's no way.'
In fact, Torrey had told Hardy that they would have to work out the details, but in general he thought a reduced charge in return for a guilty plea was a workable idea. After the election, of course. Hardy could waive time for a few months and then, after the dust had settled on the results, they would do the deal. Pratt's administration had grown infamous for its willingness to plead out cases rather than take them to trial. In this regard, it had by far the most lenient record of any jurisdiction in the state. Torrey saw no reason to let the campaign change the basic policy.
So Pratt's refusal here hit him like a broadside. 'There's no way, what?'
'There's no way we cut a deal on this. I've gone on the record saying I want the death penalty in this case.' She came around in front of him and leaned back against her desk. 'I can't believe I have to explain this to you. There's no other option, I hope you see that.'
Her adamance here was what surprised him. Perhaps she just needed him to explain a little further. 'Well, I told Hardy it couldn't be till after the election, of course, but-'
'Even then!' She brought her face down, directly in front of his. 'Gabe, you of all people. You're the one who came up with the idea. I'm expecting our friends at the Democrat' - a small, alternative newspaper sympathetic to Pratt – 'to start beating the drums for it any day now. People hate the death penalty all right, but I'm confident they'll come to hate this kid more. And this crime.'