On the morning of what was going to be his first day at his new job, a good-looking, well-built man with his hair trimmed to just over his ears stood in front of his bedroom closet in a pair of Jockey shorts. He pulled a T-shirt from the top of a large pile of them on their special shelf. Putting it on, he checked himself in the dresser's mirror, sucked in an imagined gut, then turned around with a small flourish. The T-shirt read: SHOTGUN WEDDING: A CASE OF WIFE OR DEATH.
"No." His girlfriend sat up against the bed's headboard. "Absolutely not."
"I like it," he said.
"Wes, you like them all."
"True. It's a foolish man who buys a shirt he doesn't like."
"It's a more foolish man who goes to work as the district attorney of San Francisco wearing a shirt that can only be misinterpreted, and will be."
"By who?"
"Everybody. And all for different reasons."
"Sam." Wes walked across the room, sat on the bed, and put a hand on her thigh. "Nobody's going to see it. It's not like I'm wearing it outside with my tie. And besides, if I have a heart attack and they have to rip open my dress shirt and somebody sees it, so what? It's not exactly inflammatory. It's just a pun, for God's sake."
"It's not just a pun. It's a political statement."
"Saying what?"
"That you're in favor of shotgun weddings. That getting married isn't sacred. That you don't think women are equal. Pick one. That you're not sensitive enough in a general way."
"Well, we already know that."
"You laugh, but it's nothing to laugh at. Everything you do, innocent or not, is going to be a political statement from now on. Don't you see that? I thought you would have learned that during the election."
"Nope. I guess not. And, might I remind you, I won."
Sam made a face. "Wes, you won by ninety votes out of three hundred and fifteen thousand after your opponent died the week before the election."
"As though it's a bad thing. No, listen. It's proof that God wanted me to win. He wouldn't have taken Mr. Dexter back into His bosom if He didn't want me to win. It's self-evident. Maybe even cosmic."
"It's hopeless."
"Well, I hope not that. It's only my first day. I'm sure I'll be way more hopeless as time goes by." He got up and crossed back to the closet. "But if you really think it's going to matter," he said, "I'll consider going with tomorrow's T-shirt instead."
"You're wearing one tomorrow, too?"
"Sam, I wear a T-shirt every day. It provides clues to my secret persona."
"Not so secret. The press is going to start wanting to see it if word gets out."
"Good. That'll just make me more je ne sais quoi. Quirky and lovable. But if you want, for the inaugural, I'll trade out this one with tomorrow's." He turned and held out the next shirt on the pile: HEAVILY MEDICATED FOR YOUR SAFETY.
"Much better. No, really, I mean it." Her head fell forward and she sighed. "Never mind," she said. "Never, never, never mind."
"Hey, Sam," he said. "If you can't have fun with all this, what's the point?" Four days later, the fun part wasn't much in evidence.
Wes Farrell's office on the third floor of the Hall of Justice looked more like a janitor's space. A couple dozen unpacked moving boxes lay stacked by the windows that looked out on Bryant Street. His predecessor's comfortable and elegant furnishings were gone. Meanwhile, Farrell had commandeered a desk and several chairs from some offices down the hall. He'd also brought the Nerf ball basket from his old office and mounted it on the bookshelf.
Sitting in two of the folding chairs across from Farrell, Cliff and Theresa Curtlee had already congratulated him on his election victory. Now they exchanged glances with each other. Owners of San Francisco's number-two newspaper, the Courier, the Curtlees had a lot of experience getting what they wanted in several different businesses-waste management, towing, import/export-and their tag-team approach had a long history of success. For this current campaign, their expectations were high because they had been large donors to Farrell's campaign. Additionally the Courier had run some flattering profiles of him before the election and in the end had endorsed him.
Farrell had done as much homework as he could. The Curtlees' son, Ro, had spent the past nine years in prison serving a twenty-five-to-life term for the rape and murder of one of their housekeepers, Dolores Sandoval. On the day before Farrell's election, the U.S. Supreme Court had refused to review the decision of the federal Ninth Circuit Court of Appeal that had sent the case back to San Francisco for a new trial. The Ninth Circuit had reversed the conviction, overruling both the California Court of Appeal and the California Supreme Court.
Cliff evidently gave Theresa the green light to begin. Her face, rigid with Botox, twitched in a semblance of a smile, and she cleared her throat. "We wanted to talk to you about our son, Roland, as you may have already guessed."
Farrell grinned to make himself look amicable. "I thought that might be what it was."
"What it is"-Cliff came forward for emphasis-"is that he's innocent."
"This whole thing has just been such a travesty of justice," Theresa added, "and we were hoping that with someone new at the helm here, together we could find a way to make up for some of the time we've all lost over his case and possibly give us all a chance for the healing to begin."
"I can appreciate that," Farrell said, "but I don't think too much of what happens next is within my power."
"But it is," Theresa said. "You don't have to try him again. That's within the DA's discretion."
"Yes, well, but… I hope you both understand that I can hardly do that. The victim's family alone…"
Theresa's voice was low pitched, almost soothing. "But she wasn't his victim, Wes. That's the point. He didn't hurt her in any way. If you could make the family understand-"
Cliff huffed and interrupted, "What family? You'd have to find them first wherever the hell they're hiding out in Guatemala, and good luck with that. There's no family to concern yourself over. But there is my son."
Farrell cleared his throat. "I understood that the appeal wasn't based on the evidence presented at the trial." Farrell was referring to the two other women who testified they'd been raped by Ro.
Farrell knew that the successful appeal had been based on the fact that several members of the victim's family had worn a button with a picture of a smiling Dolores Sandoval on it in the courtroom during the trial. This, the Ninth Circuit had ruled, must have hopelessly prejudiced the jury against the defendant. It was as wacky a decision as Farrell had ever heard, even from a court renowned for its bizarre rulings.
Cliff Curtlee waved off Farrell's objection. "The evidence won't hold up in a new trial. You read the old transcript, you'll see. The two other so-called victims. Who are they? They shouldn't have been allowed to testify at all. And Ro admits he had sex with the girl, but she wanted it, too. There's no case anymore. There wasn't any to begin with."
"Well…"
Theresa cleared her throat again. "But whatever you decide on the trial, and I'm sure you'll come to the right decision, at the very least you can recommend a bail figure."
Here Farrell shook his head. "I don't want to seem unsympathetic to your son's situation, but I can't do that. There's no bail in a special circumstances case."
"Ah." The muscles in Theresa's face couldn't get traction and-perhaps to compensate for the lack of expression-she held up her index finger. "But that's the whole point. It's not a special circumstances case. It's never been one."
Farrell showed his confusion. "I'm sorry?"
"It was Sharron Pratt's one concession to us. After all we'd done for her." Cliff obviously didn't harbor any warm feelings for the former DA who'd prosecuted their son.
Well practiced, possibly even rehearsed, Theresa picked up the thread. "The charges were rape and murder, not murder in the commission of rape."
Farrell noted the logical impossibility. If her son did it, the crime had to be rape/murder. But evidently this hadn't bothered Sharron Pratt. "So it wasn't special circumstances," Wes said.
In other words, it wasn't a no-bail case.
Theresa bared her teeth slightly. "Exactly. So he was eligible for bail, and will be again this time."
"And last time, was he in fact released on bail?"
"No," Cliff said. "That fascist Thomasino"-a highly respected superior court judge-"denied the bail anyway."
"He was prejudiced against Ro," Theresa added. "All through the trial, every decision he made, it was obvious to everybody."
"And so this time…?"
"This time," Cliff said, "since bail is legally permissible, we'd just like to make a personal appeal to you, Wes, to step in if you catch wind of any early sign of judicial activism. At the very least, keep it away from Thomasino. Or maybe even put the word out that you'll allow a reasonable bail before the matter even gets inside a courtroom."
"It wouldn't have to be a public statement," Theresa said. "The important thing is the result." And then, shifting into a less strident tone, she added, "Now that he's out of prison, Wes, we'd just love to have our boy back with us at home."
Farrell's own personal idea of hell was to have any of his own three grown children come and stay with him and Sam for more than a long weekend, but here was a chance to sound cooperative, if not conciliatory, and maybe bring this uncomfortable interview to a close. "I understand how you can feel that way," he said. "And I promise you I'll review the case closely and do everything I can to address your concerns."
Which, he knew, would be precious little.
But the finality in his tone conveyed his intended signal. Theresa smoothed her skirt and stood up. "That's all we ask, Wes. Really."
Cliff stared disconcertingly into Farrell's eyes for another second or two-threatening?-but then he, too, got to his feet. "It's good to know who your friends are," he said. "And you know that the Courier's been good friends with a lot of politicians in this town."
"Well, I'm not much of a politician, as the election made pretty clear," Wes said. "But I do hope I can keep trying to do the right thing."
Theresa took his proffered hand and gave him a prim little nod. "That's all we can ask for. Thanks for sharing so much of your valuable time."
"My pleasure. To both of you. My door's always open." Just down the hallway from his own office, Farrell knocked on the open door of his chief assistant, Amanda Jenkins.
Despite a long history together-or maybe because of it-theirs was an awkward relationship. The conflict might have been purely endemic-Jenkins was historically prosecution and Farrell was dyed-in-the-wool defense. More personally, in the sensational murder case that had made his bones in the city, Farrell had gone head-to-head against Jenkins and beaten her in court, getting a clean acquittal for his client.
Then last year, Jenkins had been considering a run for district attorney herself. But the powers that had eventually settled on Wes Farrell as their candidate made it clear that they felt that she was a bit too much a one-trick pony-her issues were women's issues, period. She was insufficiently left wing in other respects, believing, for example, that a period of house arrest was probably not the answer to violent crime. But in the immediate aftermath of Farrell's victory, those same power brokers had promoted Jenkins' cause as chief assistant-she had the prosecutorial chops, the administrative experience, the in-depth familiarity with the DA's office personnel, and at least in feminist circles the correct politics. So now they were four days into their respective new jobs, and this was the first time Farrell had seen her since his inauguration ceremony.
Jenkins looked up from the pile of work surrounding her on her desk and straightened in her chair. "Sir?"
Farrell half turned as though looking around behind him. "There's no 'sir' here, Amanda. It's just me, Wes. I was 'Wes' when we were colleagues at the bar. And even running against each other. Remember?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, Wes."
She took a breath. "Okay. Wes."
"Good. At ease." He came into the room. "Got a sec? Mind if I get the door?"
Jenkins was a career prosecutor, always professionally turned out with the possible exception of the trademark short skirts she wore to accentuate her truly show-stopping legs. Now she threw a slightly harried look at her new boss and shrugged, indicating her workload, but then pushed her chair back a bit and linked her hands on her lap. At his service. "What's up?"
Farrell closed the door and pulled a chair around. "I just had a chat with the Curtlees. Both of them."
"That was fast," she said, her eyes suddenly alive. "And let me guess. They wanted you to decline to retry Ro and, failing that, then let him out on bail."
"You got a bug in my office?"
Jenkins was deaf to humor. "I hope you told them to take a flying."
"Not in so many words. I said I'd look into the matter and try to do the right thing."
"There's nothing to look into. Their boy, Ro, is a monster."
Farrell held up a hand, waiting while she huffed out a breath or two. "I've already done some looking. Since you prosecuted that case, I thought you could catch me up quicker than reading the transcript all the way through."
Jenkins, smoldering, blew out again. "You see what they let him out on, those lunatics? The victim's family wore badges with her picture on it, so quote federal constitutional error must have permeated the proceedings unquote. Have you ever heard such horseshit? I mean, even for the Ninth Circus, this is out there."
Farrell let her rave.
And she went on, "I hope one of those judges has a daughter and Ro gets out and finds her and… no. No, I don't hope that. But Jesus Christ. The guy's got to stay in jail. What did you tell them? The Curtlees?"
"Nothing, really. I wanted to get your take."
"My take." She sat back, closed her eyes briefly. "Keep him in jail. Get him back at trial as soon as you can. This is a no-brainer, Wes. The guy raped at least eight women, beat three of them, and finally succeeded in killing one."
"Eight?"
"At least eight, Wes. At least. All housekeepers brought up from Guatemala or El Salvador by the company who screened the Curtlee family's entire workforce. All of them here on a work visa. All who originally said they'd testify, and then six of them got bought off to the tune of like a hundred grand each."
"You know this for a fact?"
"One hundred percent. They were honest about it. In our lovely state, you know you can't make a rape victim testify if she doesn't want to. She can just refuse to get on the stand. And all these women preferred to take the hundred grand. There was nothing we could do."
"And all these women reported rapes with Ro?"
Jenkins' mouth closed down to a thin line. "These were women who were raped by Ro, Wes."
"I don't doubt it." Farrell kept his tone nonconfrontational. "But I was asking if any of these women had reported these rapes when they happened."
No answer.
"Amanda?"
Her eyes flashed. "They were scared to death of Ro, Wes. To say nothing of the Curtlees, who had absolute power over their lives. Plus, they didn't think anyone would believe them."
"So I'm taking that as a 'no.' Nobody reported. Is that right?"
Jenkins gave Farrell the thousand-yard stare, her face set in stone. "I really hoped we wouldn't be having this kind of conversation."
"What kind of conversation?"
"Temporizing over violent crime just because of the political climate."
This criticism knocked Farrell back in his chair. Shaking his head, adjusting his bearings, he came back at her. "So I ask one question to clarify if these women reported their rapes and suddenly I'm the enemy?"
"I spoke to these women, Wes. I know them. No question they were raped."
"All right," Farrell said. "Fine. Let's all agree on that."
"Let's also all agree, since we're being honest here, that the Curtlees were pretty big fans of yours all through the campaign, and that maybe you feel you might owe them a little… cooperation."
"That's just not true, Amanda. I made no promises of any kind to the Curtlees. As far as I know, Ro's in custody and should stay there until he gets his new trial. Certainly I'm not planning to do anything that'll let him get back on the street. That's the truth, Amanda. And regardless of what you might think, I don't take orders from the Curtlees or anybody else. Except sometimes Sam." He took a breath to calm himself, shaken at how far this had already gone, and with so little warning. "That's just not how I operate, all right? I'm a pretty up-front guy, actually."
She took a long beat, pursing her lips now. "They've hated me since I sent their fair-haired little boy off to prison. It's a miracle I have any kind of a career left after all they've tried to do to me."
"And yet here you are at number two, appointed by the very guy they supported. So who's the winner in that picture?"
"Number two isn't number one."
"True. But it's not hardly a dead career, either, is it? And you've got more years left on the planet than I do, so I wouldn't give up hope. And if I were you, I certainly wouldn't get mad at your boss for something he's not going to do."
She hung her head for another second. "I didn't believe you'd be able to resist them, or even want to. I'm sorry. I was out of line."
"This one time only," Farrell said, "I'll forgive you." Farrell had a gap in his appointment schedule, providing time for him and his administrative assistant, Treya Glitsky, to unpack more boxes. Treya was a strong, attractive woman of mixed ethnicity-mostly black with a hint somewhere of an Asian blood-line. She was married to the city's head of homicide, Abe Glitsky, and had three children-Raney off at college and Rachel and Zachary, six and three, at home.
Farrell sat on the edge of his desk, not being particularly helpful on the moving front. "No, I'm serious," he was saying. "I really shouldn't be here. I'm not cut out for this job. Maybe I ought to resign before I do too much damage."
Treya stopped moving books from the packing boxes onto his bookshelf and turned around, looking at her watch. "That could be a record. I think it took Clarence a week before he thought he ought to quit." She was referring to Farrell's immediate predecessor and her own previous boss, Clarence Jackman. "And he wound up staying nine years."
"That's not me," Farrell said. "I only ran for this thing to keep the Nazis from taking over, mostly as a favor to Sam and her women friends."
"And the Latinos, and the gays."
"Okay, some of them, too. And don't forget those crucial votes from a hundred straight old white guys. My margin of victory." Farrell swung his legs, kicked his heels back against the side of his desk. "Is that true? Clarence really wanted to quit, too?"
"At first, every day, for a couple of months. But don't worry. You still hold the record for least days in office before expressing the famed desire to retire."
"That's a relief. But why didn't he quit, then? Clarence."
Treya paused. "He got addicted to the naked wielding of power."
"No, really."
"You asked me. That's my answer. Power."
Farrell chortled. "Well, that's not me. That couldn't be further from me."
"No." Treya chortled right back at him. "No, of course not." She leaned over and grabbed another stack of books.
"That 'of course not' sounded a little sarcastic."
"It's the acoustics in here." Placing the books on their shelf, she half turned back to him. "So would you like me to go talk to Amanda?"
"No. I think we got it worked out. I'm not going to stab her in the back on this Ro Curtlee thing. Or anything else. That ought to be clear enough."
"Let's hope," Treya said.