Wrong, but human.
In the wake of what had happened to his brother, Harold Finch changed gears and apparently decided that the best wrong he could possibly right was the wrong done to his brother. He would help drunk drivers if it took a lifetime to establish their rights. Early on, so it was said, Finch had been utterly sincere.
“You know the old saying—” Finch was famous for telling jurors as he cocked his head and linked his fingers over his extended belly—“ ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ ”
But somewhere along the road of defending DUI offenders—many of whom were responsible for tragic deaths and mayhem—Finch had changed. Gone was the lawyerly attitude and appearance. In their place was the look and demeanor of a pimp, complete with pinstriped suits and vests with shiny gold buttons that strained against the man’s sizable gut. Finch also began calling himself Deuce Dog, a play on the slang for DUIs: deuces.
High profile drunk driving cases always seemed to wind up in Finch’s hands, and between appointments he strutted through the courthouse, chest puffed out, brimming with confidence and pride.
Matt figured Finch was a case of someone who’d grown callused, hardened to the devastation he defended so well. Bad company had finally corrupted what were, at the beginning, good intentions. The way Matt saw it, Harold’s brash and cocky attitude was probably a cover-up for the pain he felt for his brother. Nevertheless, Matt did not want to lose to him.
Not this time.
Matt had gone toe-to-toe with Finch on many cases, and most resulted in plea bargains. Matt hated plea bargains. He’d agreed to dozens of them over the years, but only because he knew the system as well as his opponent did. Sometimes it was better to plea-bargain and send a defendant away with community service obligations, a fine, and a mark on his record. Especially when the alternative was to waste valuable court time prosecuting a case that could very well result in a not-guilty verdict.
Only twice had Matt and Finch battled it out before a jury. Both times Matt had won convictions. The first involved an elderly woman who suffered major head injuries after a drunk driver had run her down while she was carrying a gallon of milk home from the market. Finch’s client was convicted of reckless driving and received two hundred hours of community service along with a fifteen hundred dollar fine. Hardly satisfying, considering that the last time Matt had checked, the elderly woman remained in a vegetative state, strapped to a hospital bed at a sour-smelling nursing home.
The second case involved a nineteen-year-old boy who drove his fifteen-year-old cousin home from a party. The nineteen-year-old misjudged the lane boundaries and hit a hundred-year-old maple tree at fifty miles per hour. His cousin had died on impact. Both boys had been legally drunk.
Finch’s client was convicted of reckless endangerment, and because it was the boy’s first offense, prison time was waived. He, too, received community service and a fine.
Although Matt had won convictions in both cases, clearly Finch had been the victor. His clients were not confined to a nursing home or a graveyard. Their lives went on as they had before, without even a single night in prison to remind them of the consequences of their choice to drink and drive.
Matt gritted his teeth. He’d spent years prosecuting drunk drivers, but still jurors had never connected driving under the influence with intent to kill.
Until now.
Matt’s jaw tensed. God willing, he—and the case against Brian Wesley—were about to change that fact.
A blast of cheap cologne filled the room, and he glanced up to find Finch standing there, the ever-present cocky smile on his face.
“Well, well—” Finch tossed his martini business card across the table—“guess we got ourselves another plea to work out, eh, Bronzan?”
Matt met the man’s gaze steadily. “Not this time.”
Finch’s expression changed. “A bit jumpy today, aren’t we?” He let loose a tinny chuckle and pulled a document from the stack before him, eyebrows raising a fraction as he studied Matt. “Read it, counselor.”
Matt leaned back against the hard wood chair and crossed his arms. “Your client is a repeat drunk driver who caused two previous collisions despite alcohol education. And now he’s killed two people. His blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit.” He fixed Finch with a hard stare. “There will be no plea … counselor.”
Finch paused, and a knowing look danced in his eyes. “Perhaps, Mr. Bronzan, you should read the plea before summarily dismissing it.”
Matt glanced at his watch and pulled the document closer. “Unless Mr. Wesley plans to admit to murder, we don’t have much to talk about.”
Finch was silent while Matt scanned the document. He sucked in a deep breath. The plea was brilliant, of course. Matt had expected nothing less from Finch. Dime-store cologne and gold vest buttons aside, the man knew his stuff. Had the plea been for reckless driving or any such minor charge, Matt could have rejected it easily. But Finch had upped the ante. His client was willing to plead guilty to vehicular manslaughter. Even more, he was willing to serve thirty days in jail for the offense.
In all Matt’s years of prosecuting, he’d never seen such a serious crime admitted by way of plea bargain.
There was only one reason his opponent would present such an offer. Matt studied Finch’s beady eyes, and what he saw there confirmed his suspicions.
Harold Finch was scared.
Glancing at the document once more, Matt thought of the heartache a trial would cause Hannah Ryan and her surviving daughter. He thought of the many times a jury had refused to convict a drunk driver of even second-degree murder, let alone first-degree. The Ryans would suffer indescribable pain if the jury let Brian Wesley leave the courtroom a free man.…
Then he thought of Tom and Alicia … of the family broken apart, destroyed by Brian Wesley’s choices. He remembered others like the Ryans who had been dragged through the criminal justice system only to be let down when penalties were inadequate. No, there would be no plea bargain this time. This was the case he’d been waiting for.
Finch looked pleased with himself as he cleared his throat and motioned toward the plea bargain. “Well, Bronzan, do we have a plea?”
Matt slid the document across the table and watched it settle in front of Finch.
“No. We want a trial.”
Finch chuckled and looked down the bridge of his fleshy nose at Matt. “Now, I’ve worked with you for many years, Bronzan. And even though we’ve been on opposite sides of the courtroom, I’ve always taken you for a smart lawyer. Clear on the ways of justice. But if I’m not mistaken, I do believe you’re losing your edge.”
Matt ignored the comment. “Tomorrow this office will officially charge your client with first-degree murder. At that time he can choose to plead guilty or not guilty.”
Finch’s laughter died abruptly and his gaze hardened. “I don’t need a lesson on law, counselor. Look, we’re offering prison time here.”
“When I’m finished with your client, we won’t be talking thirty days jail time, we’ll be talking five years in the penitentiary. Maybe more.” Matt considered his opponent and how he’d changed over the years. “There won’t be a plea, Finch. You can’t change my mind.”
Finch waited, but when Matt remained silent his eyes narrowed angrily. “Most generous plea I’ve ever made.” He sighed dramatically as he collected the document and stuffed it into his briefcase. “Next time we offer less. Much less.”
“There won’t be a next time. Not on this case.”
Finch arched an eyebrow. “That right? You’ll see, counselor. You’ll get in court and start talking first-degree murder, start making the vehicle out to be a weapon and Mr. Wesley out to be a killer. Then you’ll see the faces on those jurors and you’ll panic. A third of the folks in this great nation drink and drive, my friend. And that includes jurors.” He studied Matt. “They won’t give you first-degree murder. It’s drunk driving, after all. Guy goes out, drinks a few beer
s, has a little fun with the boys, and drives home. The accident was just that. Any jail time is out of line as far as I’m concerned.” Finch slammed his briefcase shut. “But in this case my client and I have tried to show compassion for the victims. We offered thirty days in good faith.”
Matt remained seated, his arms casually crossed. “Thirty days? In exchange for a husband and father, a daughter on the brink of adulthood? Thirty days for two lives?”
“Thirty days is better than nothing, Bronzan. The victims’ family would have been happy with that.” Finch shrugged. “Now you’re going to drag them through a messy court battle. A battle you’re going to lose, counselor. And they’re going to lose, too.”
Matt stood and stretched, and suddenly a mountain of anxiety rose within him. How can I turn down voluntary jail time? What if Brian Wesley walks? He released his breath slowly and waited as Finch continued relentlessly.
“Turn down a manslaughter plea and you have nothing left.” He shook his head. “First-degree murder? Huh! My client will walk, Bronzan, mark my words.”
“The only walking he’ll be doing is from his cell to the yard and back.”
“You could take the plea and still come out the winner, here, Bronzan. It’s not too late.”
Matt straightened. “Are you finished?”
Finch shook his head sadly. “You really have lost it, counselor. No way a jury’s going to make drunk driving a murder-one issue. Not in the great state of California.”
Matt waited, silent, as Finch headed for the door.
“I’ll be asking for a delay.”
Matt cocked his head. “Just one?”
Finch’s eyes grew cold. “One per month until we run out of reasons. By the time this thing takes the floor, the world will have forgotten all about Tom and Alicia Ryan.”
Matt thought of the pictures, photos taken at the accident scene. Broken glass and blood and camping gear spilled onto the road. He thought of the young girl laid out on a stretcher, her body stilled forever … so reminiscent of another whose life had been wasted …
He leveled a look at Finch. “Not me. I’ll never forget.”
The defense attorney studied him as if he were a curious oddity. “You’ve forgotten the first rule of law, counselor, don’t get emotionally involved. First-degree murder?” He scratched his head, his face contorted in disbelief. “You’re out of your mind.”
Finch left the room and shut the door behind him. Matt stood there, staring after him, his hands in his pockets. Finch is worried. He’s afraid I’m right. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Please, Lord, let me be right.
After tomorrow there would be no turning back.
Twelve
This is why I weep and my eyes overflow with tears.
No one is near to comfort me.
LAMENTATIONS 1:16A
Hannah smoothed a hand over her black rayon slacks and straightened her short-sleeved blouse. The hearing was in two hours, and she planned to be early. She walked briskly down the hallway toward the bedroom.
“Jenny? Are you up?”
Silence.
Hannah sighed. Since their disagreement the day before, Jenny had hidden away in her room, even refusing dinner. Hannah strode up to her daughter’s bedroom door and knocked twice. No response.
“Jenny, open the door right now!” Hannah shifted her weight and began tapping a steady rhythm with the toe of her shoe. She could hear Jenny moving on the other side of the door and finally it swung open.
“What?” Jenny’s eyes were tear stained; her voice sounded thick, as though she were fighting a cold. She was dressed in rumpled pajamas and fuzzy, Dalmatian slippers.
At the sight of her disheveled, clearly miserable little girl, Hannah was pierced with guilt and heartache. She stopped tapping and sighed, her voice sadder than before. “Honey, you haven’t said two words to me since yesterday. I need to know your plans. I’m getting ready to leave for the hearing this morning.”
Jenny crossed her arms. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, for starters—” Hannah forced herself to sound understanding, even patient—“are you going to school or coming with me?”
Jenny was silent, her eyes glazed with unresolved anger and grief.
Hannah sighed. “Jenny, I think you should come with me today. Carol Cummins called yesterday. She’s the woman from Mothers Against Drunk Drivers.” Hannah hesitated. “She said sometimes the victims get forgotten in these court proceedings.”
Jenny huffed. “No kidding.”
Hannah frowned. What on earth did that mean? “I’ll ignore that comment. What I’m trying to say is, we need to be there to represent your dad and Alicia. We’re the only ones who can do that.”
“Dad and Alicia are dead.” Jenny turned, plodded across the room, and fell onto her unmade bed. “I’m staying home today.”
Hannah’s heartbeat quickened and she felt her face grow hot. “That isn’t an option. You need to get dressed and make your bed. Then you need to either get yourself to the bus stop or come with me to the hearing.”
“I don’t feel good.”
Hannah’s heart sank. Jenny had always been the picture of health. Before the accident, she was routinely recognized for perfect attendance in school. Now she’d missed twelve days since returning to school, and she rarely woke up enthusiastic about anything. “Honey, you’ve missed too much school already.”
Jenny began crying again. “I thought you wanted me to miss school! So you can haul me off to court and show me off, so everyone can stare at me like … like I’m some kind of freak or something!”
Hannah clenched her fists. Why can’t you understand? Jenny, what’s happening to us? “Never mind. Don’t come to the hearing. I just thought you might feel better if you did something constructive.”
Jenny sat up, her shoulders hunched wearily. “What’s constructive about sitting in a courtroom while people walk around feeling sorry for you?”
“Someone has to represent your dad and Alicia.” Hannah heard her voice getting louder, and she struggled to regain control.
“This isn’t about Daddy and Alicia. It’s about that guy who hit us. You want him locked up and … and you want to use me as some kind of … I don’t know, some kind of puppet to make everyone feel sorry for us.”
Hannah felt as if she’d been slapped. She reeled, taking a step backward. “That’s not fair, Jenny! That man destroyed our family. Yes, I want him locked up. So he won’t do this to anyone else. If our being there could possibly help get him off the streets, then your dad and Alicia’s deaths will not be in vain.”
“That’s a lousy reason to die, Mom. I need them here. I want them here. Besides, I don’t care what happens to that guy. I’m not going to court … not today or any other day! It won’t bring Dad and Alicia back, and that’s the only thing that matters.”
Hannah felt the sting of tears. She wanted to go to Jenny, comfort her, and hold her. Take away the hurt. But Hannah’s own pain seemed to create an invisible wall between them too high to scale. “Fine. Don’t go. But I’ll expect you to get dressed and be at the bus on time.” Hannah glanced at her watch. “You have forty-five minutes.”
“I said I don’t feel good.”
Hannah’s sympathy evaporated. “Listen, Jenny, unless you want to repeat this year, you need to go to school. I don’t feel good, either. It’s part of life these days.”
Jenny was silent again, and Hannah turned to leave. How had this happened? How had she and Jenny grown so distant? If only Tom were here. He would know what to say, how to reach her.…
She collected the photograph of Tom and Alicia and placed it carefully in her day-planner. She had lost so much, and somehow it seemed like the losing had only begun. In the end, when the court proceedings were behind her … would she have lost Jenny, too? Hannah wiped at a single tear, grabbed her car keys, and forced herself to think of the events that lay ahead.
For an instant she considered praying, con
sidered asking God to help Jenny understand. Maybe if she begged him to repair their damaged relationship, he would help them, restore them, so that at least they would have each other. But the thought of praying made Hannah’s skin crawl. It was the same creepy feeling she used to get when she and Tom would see a television commercial for the Psychic Hotline.
That was when the idea came to her. She ignored it for a moment, but it wouldn’t go away. And for the first time in her life, Hannah considered an unthinkable possibility: Perhaps everything she’d ever learned and believed about God was just fable and fairy tale. Perhaps God didn’t really exist at all. At least you could see the Psychic Hotline people, but God … what proof was there?
No God. It was a plausible explanation, and as Hannah tested it in her heart and mind, she felt herself becoming convinced.
Yes, that had to be it. There was no God. No father in heaven who had deserted her, no Lord who had allowed her family to be destroyed. Perhaps all of life was only a random crapshoot.
The idea was strangely comforting, and by the time Hannah climbed into her car and headed for the Criminal Courts Building, she had accepted it as truth.
Brian Wesley sat on a cold wooden chair in a holding room adjacent to Courtroom 201, home of the formidable Judge Rudy Horowitz. He fidgeted with a paper clip, twisting it back and forth until it broke into tiny metal strips. Across the table from him sat his lawyer, Harold Finch.
“You understand the order of events today?” Finch’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. The hearing was in fifteen minutes, and Finch had just arrived to court. Late, as usual.
Brian turned in his chair and studied his trembling fingers. “They charge me with murder. I tell ’em I’m not guilty.”
“Right.” Finch studied him. “Try to sound sure of yourself.”
Brian nodded, his eyes downcast.
“You remember what I’ve told you about Judge Horowitz?”