We wait in the outer office, a vast reception area with two flat desks the size of aircraft carriers in opposite corners. A secretary behind each guards her boss’s office door like a Roman sentry. Behind one of these, in the large corner office, sits the big kahuna, Jim Tate. Tate has been D.A. in this county since before God chiseled the Ten Commandments in stone with a hot finger and gave them to Moses. Tate will tell those willing to listen that he was master of ceremonies for the event. A blustery Irishman with a shocking bush of white hair and a ruddy complexion, Tate spends more time on his boat fishing and on the links playing golf than he does in his office. If they sublet the place, Tate would be last to notice. No one can remember the last time he tried a case. But he is a fixture among the county’s political set. His name shows up at the top of everybody’s list of the usual endorsers when elections roll around.
For all intents the office is run by Tate’s number two, his chief deputy for the last twenty years, Daniel Edelstein. Stein, as he is called by those who know him (Edsel by those who don’t like him), is a steely-eyed survivor of the bureaucracy. He is a man who doesn’t say much at meetings. Instead, he watches the ebb and flow and has a keen knack of always ending up on the winning side of any controversy. He is a master of the subtle illusion of influence. Everybody in town wants his ear, even if one often senses that speaking into it has the same effect as talking to a brick. Anyone seeking success in the prosecutor’s office can never stand too close to Edelstein.
At the moment, Tannery is right in his shadow. In fact, I am surprised when the two men come out of Edelstein’s office together. We get the once-over from Stein, who smiles the kind of simpering grin that tells me we and our case have been the subject of recent conversation. Tannery peels off and comes our way.
“Mr. Madriani. .”
“Make it Paul,” I tell him. “And you know Harry Hinds.”
“Oh, sure.” They shake hands. He is a felicitous soul, particularly for a prosecutor. Tannery doesn’t seem to bear grudges or take himself too seriously, a rare quality for someone in his position.
“I think it is important that we have this conversation,” he says. “In order to clear the air, before we go too much further.”
“Trust you’ll make it worth our while.” Harry’s smiling, as much as to suggest that Tannery owes us something for crossing town and meeting on his turf.
The D.A. smiles but doesn’t reply. We follow him out of the reception area and down the wide corridor outside, away from the bank of elevators. He stops at a set of double doors just a little way away and works a key from his pocket in a shiny lock that looks as if it’s just been fitted in the door.
“One of the conference rooms,” he says. “They put me in here until Dan, Mr. Edelstein, clears his office.”
Inside is a large conference table that Tannery has turned into a desk-cum-storage-area. On one end is his office computer, and a large desk blotter and telephone that he has commandeered from a side table against the wall. On the other is a stack of cardboard boxes filled with mementos, files and books, stuff from his old cubicle downstairs. The conference chairs have been bunched up around the middle of the long table. Harry and I sit on this side while Tannery goes around, stepping over the telephone cord, to the far side. There’s another stack of boxes, three in all, against the wall. He fishes in one of these and comes up with a black-covered three-ring binder. I recognize this as one of state’s trial binders from the case. He sits at the table opposite us and opens it and studies the contents for a moment, then raises his eyes.
“We talked about reduction of the charges some time ago.”
“Manslaughter,” says Harry. “One count, voluntary man.”
“That’s right.”
I nod but don’t say anything.
“It would have been a good resolution of the case; at least I felt at the time that it might have been a fair disposition,” says Tannery.
“Our client is a hard sell,” says Harry.
“Yes. My boss is that way, too. He wasn’t happy, but he allowed me to inquire. Since then, however, things may have changed.”
I can feel the breath go out of Harry.
“In what way?” I ask.
“Information that we are now investigating. Which may come to nothing, but if it pans out there will be no further offer of settlement. In fact, we may have severly undercharged the case in light of this information.”
“What kind of information?”
“We’re not at liberty to disclose right now,” he says. “Not until we’ve had an opportunity to check it out more thoroughly. But if it’s accurate, there’s a side to this case that none of us may have been aware of.”
“What are you talking about? If you have evidence, you’ve got to disclose,” says Harry. “There’s court policy, standing order in this county. If you have relevant information, any evidence, you have to turn it over.”
“It may not be relevant,” says Tannery. “In which case you would accuse us of sending you off on some wild-goose chase to waste your time in the midst of trial. That’s why we intend to check it out first. If there’s anything to it, we’ll get it to you immediately.”
“I see,” says Harry. “Right before we open our case in chief.” Harry is afraid Tannery will blindside us just before we put on our first witness, leaving us no time to prepare.
“I’m telling you now so that this does not come as a complete surprise later.”
“Telling us what?” I ask him.
“That you should be prepared for the possibility of a new element in the case.”
“Is this further incriminating evidence?” I ask him. We are now playing lawyers’ dozen.
“Could be. Goes more to the theory of the case,” says Tannery.
“It’s not documents?” Harry’s thinking the same thing I am. The cops have found the papers Crone claims Kalista Jordan took from his office.
“You’re thinking something specific?” Tannery is now fishing.
“Is it documents?”
“No.”
I could try to get an order from the judge to compel Tannery to turn over whatever he has. It would take me a day, maybe two. By then the cops would no doubt have checked it out. If it’s damaging, they will drop it on us, and the motion or the order would be moot. If whatever Tannery has doesn’t pan out, the entire matter is irrelevant. Tannery would simply have made our blood pressure rise for a couple of days.
Harry will want to go back to the jail and rack Crone, to find out what it is he hasn’t told us this time.
“When did you discover this information?” I ask him.
“Friday.”
“This last Friday?”
“That’s right.”
“Little late in the game, isn’t it?”
“We had no way of discovering this. Witness came to us. Out of the blue,” he says.
“A new witness? Someone not on your witness list?”
He nods.
“We’ll probably object to your putting whoever it is on.”
“We’ll have to thrash that out in court,” he says.
“How credible is this witness?”
He makes a face, shopkeeper assessing the value of goods, looking at the binder propped up against his chest so that I can’t see it. “One of the things we have to check out,” he says. “But we do know that the witness was in a position to know some of the details that have been given to us. It should not take long to obtain confirmation. I feel bad about this,” says Tannery.