One Shot (6 page)

had been involved in some early minor skirmishing and
that the real work was about to begin. His office would
review

everything

and

make

the

necessary

determinations. And yes, Ms Yanni, because he thought
the circumstances warranted it, certainly he would seek
the death penalty for James Barr.

James Barr woke up in his cell with a chemical
hangover at nine o'clock, Saturday morning. He was
immediately fingerprinted and re-Mirandized once, and
then twice. The right to remain silent, the right to a
lawyer. He chose to remain silent. Not many people do.

Not many people can. The urge to talk is usually
overwhelming. But James Barr beat it. He just clamped
his mouth shut and kept it that way. Plenty of people
tried to talk to him, but he didn't answer. Not once. Not a
word. Emerson was relaxed about it. Truth was,
Emerson didn't really want Barr to say anything. He
preferred to line up all the evidence, scrutinize it, test it,
polish it, and to get to a point where he could anticipate
a conviction without a confession. Confessions were so
vulnerable to defence accusations of coercion or
confusion that he had learned to run away from them.

They were icing on the cake. Literally the last thing he
wanted to hear, not the first. Not like on the TV cop
shows, where relentless interrogation was a kind of
performance art. So he just stayed out of the loop and
let his forensics people complete their slow, patient
work.

James Barr's sister was younger than him and
unmarried and living in a rented downtown condo. Her
name was Rosemary. Like the rest of the city's
population, she was sick and shocked and stunned.

She had seen the news Friday night. And she caught it
again Saturday morning. She heard a police detective
say her brother's name. At first she thought it was a
mistake. That she had misheard.

But the guy kept on saying it. James Barr, James Barr,
James Barr. She burst into tears. First tears of
confusion, then tears of horror, then tears of fury.

Then she forced herself to calm down, and got busy.

She worked as a secretary in an eight-man law firm.

Like most firms in small heartland cities, hers did a little
bit of everything. And it treated its employees fairly well.

The salary wasn't spectacular, but there were
intangibles to compensate. One was a full package of
benefits. Another was being called a paralegal instead
of a secretary. Another was a promise that the firm
would handle legal matters for its employees and their
families free, gratis, and for nothing. Mostly that was
about wills and probate and divorce, and insurance
company hassles after fender benders. It wasn't about
defending adult siblings who were wrongly accused in
notorious urban sniper slayings.

She knew that. But she felt she had to give it a try.

Because she knew her brother, and she knew he
couldn't be guilty.

She called the partner she worked for, at home. He was
mostly a tax guy, so he called the firm's criminal litigator.

The litigator called the managing partner, who called a
meeting of all the partners. They held it over lunch at the
country club. From the start the agenda was about how
to turn down Rosemary Barr's request in the most
tactful way possible. A defence to a crime of this nature
wasn't the sort of thing they were equipped to handle.

Or inclined to handle. There were public relations
implications. There was immediate agreement on that
point. But they were a loyal bunch, and Rosemary Barr
was a good employee who had worked many years for
them. They knew she had no money, because they did
her taxes.

They assumed her brother had no money either. But
the Constitution guaranteed competent counsel, and
they didn't have a very high opinion of public
defenders. So they were caught in a genuine ethical
dilemma. The litigator resolved it. His name was David
Chapman. He was a hardscrabble veteran who knew
Rodin over at the DA's office. He knew him pretty well. It
would have been impossible for him not to, really. They
were two of a kind, raised in the same neighbourhood
and working in the same business, albeit on opposite
sides.

So Chapman went to the smoking room and used his
cell phone to call the DA at home. The two lawyers had a
full and frank discussion. Then Chapman came back to
the lunch table. 'It's a slam dunk,' he said. 'Ms Barr's
brother is guilty all to hell and gone. Rodin's case is
going to read like a textbook. Hell, it's probably going to
be a textbook one day. He's got every kind of evidence
there is. There's not a chink of daylight anywhere.' 'Was
he levelling with you?' the managing partner asked.

'There's no bullshitting between old buddies,'

Chapman said.

'So?'

'All we would have to do is plead in mitigation. If we
can get the lethal injection reduced to life without,
there's a big win right there. That's all Ms Barr has a
right to expect. Or her damn brother, with all due
respect.'

'How much involvement?' the managing partner
asked.

'Sentencing phase only. Because he'll have to plead
guilty.'

'You happy to handle it?'

'Under the circumstances.'

'How many hours will it cost us?'

'Not many. There's practically nothing we can do.'

'What grounds for mitigation?'

'He's a Gulf War vet, I believe. So there's probably
chemical stuff going on.

Or some kind of delayed post-traumatic thing. Maybe
we could get Rodin to agree beforehand. We could get it
done over lunch.' The managing partner nodded.

Turned to the tax guy. 'Tell your secretary we'll do
everything in our power to help her brother in his hour
of need.'

Barr was moved from the police station lock-up to the
county jail before either his sister or Chapman got a
chance to see him. His blanket and pyjamas were taken
away and he was issued with paper underwear, an
orange jumpsuit, and a pair of rubber shower sandals.

The county jail wasn't a pleasant place to be. It smelled
bad and it was noisy. It was radically overcrowded and
the social and ethnic tensions that were kept in control
on the street were left to rage unchecked inside. Men
were stacked three to a cell and the guards were
shorthanded. New guys were called fish, and they were
left to fend for themselves. But Barr had been in the
army, so the culture shock for him was a little less than it
might have been. He survived as a fish for two hours,
and then he was escorted to an interview room. He was
told there was a lawyer waiting there for him. He found a
table and two chairs bolted to the floor in a windowless
cubicle. In one of the chairs was a guy he vaguely
recognized from somewhere. On the table was a pocket
tape recorder. Like a Walkman. 'My name is David
Chapman,' the guy in the chair said. 'I'm a criminal
defence attorney. A lawyer. Your sister works at my firm.

She asked us to help you out.' Barr said nothing.

'So here I am,' Chapman said.

Barr said nothing.

'I'm recording this conversation,' Chapman said.

'Putting it on tape. I take it that's OK with you?' Barr said
nothing.

'I think we met once,' Chapman said. 'Our Christmas
party one year?'

Barr said nothing.

Chapman waited.

'Have the charges been explained to you?' he asked.

Barr said nothing.

'The charges are very serious,' Chapman said.

Barr stayed quiet.

'I can't help you if you won't help yourself,' Chapman
said.

Barr just stared at him. Just sat still and quiet for
several long minutes. Then he leaned forward towards
the tape machine and spoke for the first time since the
previous afternoon. He said, They got the wrong guy.'

'They got the wrong guy,' Barr said again.

'So tell me about the right guy,' Chapman said
immediately. He was a good courtroom tactician. He
knew how to get a rhythm going. Question, answer,
question, answer. That was how to get a person to open
up. They fell into the rhythm, and it all came out. But
Barr just retreated back into silence.

'Let's be clear about this,' Chapman said.

Barr didn't answer.

'Are you denying it?' Chapman asked him.

Barr said nothing.

'Are you?'

No response.

'The evidence is all there,' Chapman said. 'It's just
about overwhelming, I'm afraid. You can't play dumb
now. We need to talk about why you did it. That's what's
going to help us here.' Barr said nothing.

'You want me to help you?' Chapman said. 'Or not?'

Barr said nothing.

'Maybe it was your old wartime experience,' Chapman
said. 'Or post-traumatic stress. Or some kind of mental
impairment. We need to focus on the reason.'

Barr said nothing.

'Denying it is not smart,' Chapman said. 'The evidence
is right there.' Barr said nothing.

'Denying it is not an option,' Chapman said.

'Get Jack Reacher for me,' Barr said.

'Who?'

'Jack Reacher.'

'Who's he? A friend?'

Barr said nothing.

'Someone you know?' Chapman said.

Barr said nothing.

'Someone you used to know?'

'Just get him for me.'

'Where is he? Who is he?'

Barr said nothing.

'Is Jack Reacher a doctor?' Chapman asked.

'A doctor?' Barr repeated.

Is he a doctor?' Chapman asked.

But Barr didn't speak again. He just got up from the
table and walked to the cubicle's door and pounded on
it until the jailer opened it up and led him back to his
overcrowded cell.

Chapman arranged to meet Rosemary Barr and the
firm's investigator at his law offices. The investigator
was a retired cop shared by most of the city's law firms.

They all had him on retainer. He was a private detective,
with a licence. His name was Franklin. He was nothing
like a private eye in a TV show. He did all his work at a
desk, with phone books and computer databases.

He didn't go out, didn't wear a gun, didn't own a hat.

But he had no equal as a fact-checker or a skip-tracer
and he still had plenty of friends in the PD.

'The evidence is rock solid,' he said. 'That's what I'm
hearing. Emerson was in charge and he's pretty reliable.

So is Rodin, really, but for a different reason. Emerson's
a stiff and Rodin is a coward. Neither one of them would
be saying what they're saying unless the evidence was
there.' 'I just can't believe he did it,' Rosemary Barr said.

'Well, certainly he seems to be denying it,' Chapman
said. 'As far as I can understand him. And he's asking
for someone called Jack Reacher. Someone he knows
or used to know. You ever heard that name? You know
who he is?'

Rosemary Barr just shook her head. Chapman wrote
the name Jack Reacher on a sheet of paper and slid it
across to Franklin. 'My guess is he may be a
psychiatrist. Mr Ban brought the name up right after I
told him how strong the evidence is. So maybe this
Reacher guy is someone who can help us out with the
mitigation. Maybe he treated Mr Barr in the past.' 'My
brother never saw a psychiatrist,' Rosemary Barr said.