“The jury is going to come back with a murder one conviction.”
“I don’t think so.” Feigned smugness aside, she didn’t know any more about the trial’s outcome than Levi. Juries could be fickle.
He crossed his leg over his knee and adjusted his cuff. “I want to talk again about a plea deal.”
She’d hoped her summation yesterday might have prompted a deal. “Let’s hear it.”
“Samantha killed her husband.”
“No one is contesting that. The issue at hand is if the killing was cold-blooded murder or self-defense.”
“I’ve read the files, and I know the woman suffered at her husband’s hand. I’m not an unfeeling bastard when it comes to these things. Between you and me, I think his brutality drove her to desperation. But the fact is no one can take the law into their own hands.”
“What are you saying?”
“I want to be generous. Second-degree murder. She does fifteen years with credit for time served.”
Charlotte’s laughter sounded genuine and might have been if she weren’t fighting for a woman’s life. She wiped away a pretend tear. “You know, Levi, I’ve already had a trying day, and I was just thinking how nice it would be to have a good laugh. And bless your heart, you have done just that.”
He arched a brow. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.”
“Of course it was,” she said, letting the humor drain from her gaze. “In fact, I need to believe it was a joke, otherwise I might take it as an insult. Because no one in this town is naïve enough to believe that I am going to let my twenty-nine-year-old client, the mother of an eight- and ten-year-old, spend the next fifteen years of her life in jail and miss every important moment of her children’s lives.”
“I’m sorry for those children. I really am. But she killed her husband.”
“In self-defense. Stan White was a brutal man who systematically abused his wife the entire ten years they were married. When he tried to murder her in cold blood, she defended herself and he died as a result. She does not deserve to serve one more day behind bars. She deserves to be with her children. And judging by the jury’s faces yesterday, she won’t go to jail. She will be acquitted.”
He sat back in his chair, his expression curious and probing. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Defending a nobody. I’ve seen some of the clients you’ve handled. Big bucks. Big money. Why did you ride in on your white horse to defend this woman? You are pissing away your valuable time on Samantha White.”
A nobody. The words rattled in her head. “I appreciate your concern, Levi. But my time is my own to manage as I see fit.”
He leaned forward, a conspirator’s smile on his lips. “I’d hate to think of all the billable hours that went down the toilet on this case. I mean, an office this fancy has got to cost a fortune, and with less income coming in, well, I’m wondering how long you can hold on.”
As long as it takes. “Again your concern touches me so deeply but I can promise you the firm is quite solid and prepared to back Ms. White even through an appeal.”
“An appeal? You’ve got to be kidding. Samantha White is going to do jail time.”
“No, she is not.”
Annoyance flashed in his eyes. “I always figured you for a smart woman.”
“Good for you. Underestimating me is always a mistake.”
He tugged at his shirt cuffs. “Are you going to take the plea deal or not?”
The scrapper in her wanted to reach over the desk and smack him hard. But she’d learned that acting out led to unfortunate consequences. She smiled brightly and rose. “Not.”
For a moment he did not rise but studied her with narrowed eyes. “So you’re going to ride this out to a very bitter and disappointing end?”
“I suppose you will be disappointed when you lose, won’t you?” She moved toward the door. “Now if you will excuse me, Levi, I’ve got work to do.”
He stood, his posture stiff with annoyance. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Have a nice day, Levi.”
“Voluntary manslaughter. Eight years with the possibility of parole in five years.”
She hesitated. He’d sweetened the pot, another indication he was worried. Next year was an election year, and he wanted the conviction on his record.
“You owe it to your client to tell her about this deal. Five years is a hell of a better deal than life.”
Five years would be painful but it wasn’t a lifetime. And she owed it to Samantha to tell her about the deal. “I’ll pass it on.”
“Deal is on the table for twenty-four hours.” He moved past her in quick strides.
When she heard the front reception door close, she gripped the edge of her office door so tightly her knuckles ached. She wanted to slam the door over and over again until the wood splintered. Anger had been a constant in her life, and she’d long ago learned to control it. So, she released her grip, carefully removed her jacket, and hung it on the back of her door.
Angie appeared in her doorway. “So what do you think that house call was all about?”
“He’s scared.”
“He didn’t sound scared.”
“He was. I could smell it on him. He’s offered a plea. Manslaughter. Eight years with the possibility of parole in five years.”
“Damn. That’s a long way from life for murder one. You want to tell Samantha or do you want me to?”
“I’ll do it.” She shook her head. “He’s not usually the kind to cave.”
“If you plea, he has a conviction, and his record remains pristine. He’s got ambitions. And that makes him predictable.”
“Maybe. He said he felt sorry for Samantha.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No.”
Rokov and Sinclair had gone to Diane Young’s apartment but it was locked tight. There were no signs of forced entry or break-in and neighbors had reported nothing out of the ordinary. She ran a business from her house, one neighbor had said, and it wasn’t unusual for her to go days at a time without being seen. Without a search warrant they’d have to wait to enter the apartment.
None of the neighbors had pictures of Diane, so he’d contacted the Department of Motor Vehicles and requested a picture of her driver’s license. The contact at DMV had complained the computers were again down but promised an image by end of business.
Now as the day wound to a close for the nine-to-fivers, Rokov cut down a side street toward the medical examiner’s office. Jennifer Sinclair reached for a power bar in her purse and ripped open the wrapper.
“How can you eat that?” Rokov said.
She glanced at the bar as if searching for a problem. “What? I’m hungry.”
He shook his head. “Do you ever sit and eat a meal?”
“I’m sitting now.”
“At a table.”
“Hey, I’ve conquered half the battle.” She bit into the bar.
“I’m talking about eating at a table with chairs and a hot meal.”
“Please. I’m single. I eat in front of the computer, on the fly, or if I’m lucky, with the television.”
“You never sat down with your family to share a meal?”
“Good Lord, no. Dad and I always ate in front of the television. TV was our version of family interaction.”
“What about discussions on politics or family matters?”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I know you got the Old Country thing going with your family. But that’s not the way of with Clan Sinclair. Dad and I were the masters of avoiding any deep conversation. I’d venture to say if not for the television, World War Three might have erupted in our home between me and my dad.”
“Shameful.”
“Did you and your ex sit at the table?”
He frowned. “Sometimes. But she was on the go with her job, so we rarely were in the same city together.”
She peeled away more of the bar’s wrapper. “
Was it her job that broke you two up?”
He shot her a glance. “Kinda personal, don’t you think, Sinclair?”
She shrugged. “Hey, we’ve been partners over a year, and you’ve never mentioned her.”
He tapped his left hand on the steering wheel. The tan lines of his wedding band had finally faded. It had taken longer because he’d refused to remove the ring until the divorce was final. “She wanted to live in California. She loved her work. And she did not want children. We both realized we wanted very different things out of life.”
“No room for compromise?”
He shrugged, wondering how they’d ended up on this line of conversation. Partners shared more with each other than their own families, but he had never discussed his divorce with anyone. “Not for her.”
“Do you miss her?”