She realized at once that she'd gone too far. Jackman's nostrils flared briefly, a tight-lipped smile came and went. "Well…" Rubbing his hands together, Jackman's face cracked in a parody of a smile as he got to his feet. "Maybe mine is just another knee-jerk prosecutor's reaction," he said, "but I only see one suspect in this picture, Gina.
And I also see a defense attorney who's perhaps feeling the pressure of her first murder trial walking a very thin ethical line of her own." "Clarence, I'm not-"
"You're not presuming upon our years of cooperation and friendship and making a personal appeal to the district attorney to subvert the system and dismiss charges that have been brought by this office in a timely and legitimate manner?"
"No, I'm-"
"Ah, good then. I must have been misunderstanding you. I hoped I was." Somehow Gina was standing by now too, and Clarence was moving her, hand on her elbow, toward the door. Then he had his hand on the doorknob. "Show us what you've got at the hearing tomorrow. I'll keep a close eye on the evidence. Your client will get a fair hearing, Gina. That's what he's entitled to, and that's what he'll get."
Twenty-four
Understandably, Juhle's betrayal on the arrest deal also knocked the bottom out of Gina's well of credibility with Stuart. How in the world, he wondered aloud to her in angry terms at his very first opportunity before the arraignment and bail hearing, could she possibly have been ignorant of the fact that Juhle would trace her location by cell phone? Surely this was a standard police procedure, done every day? Surely she should have known about this, and avoided such a telephone call at all costs? And if she did know, why did she trust Juhle not to do it? Was she stupid or naive? Because clearly she was one or the other.
Then, she should absolutely have known that her assurance to him that he would be able to peacefully turn himself in on their timetable was chimerical at best and negligent at worst. Not only was his decision to surrender based on that faulty presumption, but his very life was immediately and directly threatened. If he'd had his wits about him enough to actually reach for the gun right at his tableside,
there was no question either Juhle or one of his backup officers would have shot him dead. Surely, this was malpractice if ever there was such a thing.
As if that wasn't bad enough, she'd talked him into agreeing to something he desperately didn't want to do, and also she'd done it in a way that had actually, and dramatically, hurt his case, and the perception of his guilt. In fact, although Stuart never used the gun, the mere fact of his possession of it created a sea change in the tone of reporting on the case. Why had she not warned him to get rid of the gun before she made the phone call?
Before, the killing was newsworthy because of the personalities and profiles of the principals; Stuart's marginal fame; the usual glamorous smorgasbord of money, complicated business issues, and sex. And although Stuart was clearly the front-running suspect, in most of the early stories, there was a sense of debate: Did he or didn't he? What were the pros and cons? How much evidence, really, was there, and what did it matter?
Since the arrest and its details-the flight to a motel room, registering under a false name, the loaded gun within an arm's reach on a table next to the bed-had become public, the presumption of innocence, or even the suggestion of possible innocence, was no longer in the mix. And this, of course, made it easier to believe in Stuart's "threats" to Bethany, and even in his "threatening" visits to Fred Furth and Kelley Rusnak, in spite of these latter witnesses' statements to the contrary. It didn't matter if they had felt threatened during their talks with him; Stuart's very presence was a threatening act. The talking heads and columnists got it right: an armed murder suspect with an all-points bulletin out on him calls on you while you're working, there's an element of threat.
But beyond even that, the near-ubiquitous perception that Stuart was at the very least no better than every murder suspect the Hall had entertained over the years had other immediate and personal consequences.
The first of these was bail. Normally there is no bail in a murder case, or at least no bail that anyone could reasonably be expected to make. But occasionally, especially when there may be issues of self-defense or of lofty community standing, a judge will grant bail of, say, a few hundred thousand dollars. Which of course in Stuart's case would have been doable. But at the bail hearing, Gina could hardly argue with any credibility that her client wasn't a flight risk. Everybody in the courtroom, and most certainly the judge, knew that he'd already tried that once.
First, the judge simply denied bail. Then, when Gina quite correctly pointed out that some bail was required in a noncapital case, the court promptly set bail at $20 million.
Secondly, and more upsetting especially to Kymberly than almost anything else, was the judge's refusal to allow Stuart, even accompanied by armed sheriff's deputies, to attend Caryn's funeral. From Stuart's perspective, this was pure spite, and an indication of how reviled he'd come to be among the regular denizens of the Hall.
Not that any of this would necessarily be admissible or deemed relevant at the hearing or trial. But for a million understandable reasons it all played hell with Stuart's confidence in his attorney. Also with Kym's and Debra's. After living with his confusion and doubts and anger for nearly two weeks, when he came in to see Gina in the attorney's visiting room at the jail, Stuart had finally made the decision to put it to her directly: Why shouldn't he let her go and get himself another attorney with more experience? Didn't she think it might be better for his chances if she simply withdrew?
So now, having just been chewed up and spit out by her friend the district attorney, Gina found herself fighting for the job she now wanted more than anything else in her career, more than anything in her life, in fact, since she'd prayed for David Freeman not to die.
Stuart's question itself didn't surprise her; she had expected something like it or stronger, an actual dismissal, for some days now. But if he was going to give her a chance to talk herself back into his trust, and the question implied that he hadn't made up his mind definitely to fire her, she was going to take it.
"First," she began, "I admit I screwed up the arrest itself. How it went down was my fault. I should have taken the gun from you, and I should have made the call to Juhle from my office. All of that is true, and I'm sorry."
Stuart sat a few feet down from her on a plain wooden chair, limp as a puppet with cut strings, looking lost in his bright-orange jumpsuit. He had already lost some weight in jail. The deeply tanned skin showed a distinct pallor under the hollowed-out cheeks. "I hired a supposedly experienced criminal attorney who was comfortable enough charging me sixty-five thousand dollars to take the case," he said.
"That's true. But it's also true I told you that I'd been out of practice for a while and that sixty-five is a discounted rate for this kind of case. And by the way, how much of that have you paid me up to now?"
The answer, which they both knew, of course, was-none of it.
"And yet I'm still here, aren't I? Every day." She held up a hand. The point spoke for itself: She was committed to him and to this case. "All I'm trying to say is that a murder case is the major leagues, and once in a while they throw at your head. I didn't expect Juhle to do that, but he did. He won't catch me off guard again."
Gina hated making excuses for herself; she was, in fact, fairly intolerant of them in others as well. David's motto, borrowed from Churchill she believed, and which she'd long ago adopted, had been "Never complain, never explain." And it had served her well too. Yet here she was, begging this man she hadn't known a few weeks ago to understand her and to forgive her for what she'd done.