21st Birthday by James Patterson (e book reader android .TXT) 📕

Burke was in jailhouse orange with flip-flops and a two-day beard. He looked bad, smelled bad, and I was guessing he hadn’t slept since we booked him two days ago. Whatever thoughts had kept him awake were surely compounded by the awful accommodations offered in our sixth-floor jail. It was dirty, bright lights were on all night, and the other guests were generally foulmouthed, pissed off, and bordering on violence.

For his own safety, Burke had likely slept while leaning against the wall of his cell.

I almost felt sorry for him.

But now he had first-class representation in Newt Gardner and was paying a thousand bucks an hour for the privilege. I’d never met Gardner before, but I’d seen him in front of the courthouse and on late-night news standing with A-list clients, mesmerizing the press with his wit and showmanship and obvious ambition for an ever bigger stage.

As morning rush traffic whooshed past the windows two stories above Bryant Street, Len Parisi sat at his super-sized desk. Above him loomed the red pit bull face of his wall clock. The rest of us, including Burke and his attorney, had pulled up chairs around the desk.

Gardner was wearing a smart gray suit, starched white shirt, and classic black oxfords buffed to a high shine. His head was shaven, making his sharp black eyes his standout feature. He’d asked for this meeting and had one thing on his agenda: to convince Leonard Parisi to drop the “ridiculous” charges against his client before another day had passed, before the world media saw this as O.J. two-point-oh, and had implied that he would put the city of San Francisco through a humiliating trial that it would lose.

Parisi said, “Mr. Gardner. It’s your meeting.”

Gardner said, “Thanks, Mr. Parisi. It’s really very simple. Lucas Burke did not kill his wife and child, and I’m quite sure you know the SFPD has no evidence, none, not a hair or a fingerprint or a speck of DNA belonging to my client on the bodies of the victims. There’s no witness, no video, no nothing. I’m asking you to drop the charges for one simple reason. Lucas didn’t do it and you have zero probable cause to charge him.”

“Okay. Thanks for coming in,” said Parisi, looking at his watch.

Gardner got the slight as it was meant and he took umbrage. “I promise you,” he said, “I’m going to win, Mr. Parisi. I’m going to get my client out of this trap you’ve set for him.”

“Do your worst, Mr. Gardner. That much I expect,” Parisi said, unmoved and unafraid. He knew our case cold.

Gardner wasn’t done. He fixed his bullet eyes on Parisi.

“About now, I should get up and say to my client, ‘Don’t lose any sleep over this, Luke. They have nothing. I’ll see you in a couple of days.’ But I want you to know that along with dismantling your circumstantial case, I’m going to introduce a few dozen character witnesses; educators and neighbors and even a man of the cloth. In short, Len, you have no case. Not a prayer of one. Do you really want to go through the wood chipper? Or would it be better for all concerned if your cops took a little more time and found the real killer?”

Parisi crossed his hands over his large belly and smiled ever so slightly. I had a good idea that he was just fine with Newton Gardner laying out his case.

“And here’s the bonus round,” Gardner continued. “Drop the charges and release my client, now, and we won’t sue the city for police harassment and I won’t get on a soapbox and mock the SFPD for their incompetence. How does that sound?”

Parisi said, “Mr. Gardner. I’ll leave you to froth and wriggle alone. I’m not a stupid man. We’re charging your client with two counts of murder, and that’s a gift. We can prove that he killed his wife and daughter with malice aforethought. And that’s what we’ll be telling the judge at Mr. Burke’s arraignment. The charges stand. And now, I have to prepare for a meeting.”

I wanted to cheer, but exhilaration was premature.

Said Gardner, “I hate to tell you, my friend, but you can’t convict a man because you need to clear a nasty case.”

Parisi said, “That’s enough, counselor. You’ve said more than enough.”

Gardner didn’t turn to his client and say “Let’s go.” Instead he said, “We have something to offer that will unsnarl this whole big ball of nothing.”

“You’ve got three minutes, sir. I have other business to attend to,” said Red Dog Parisi.

What came next was almost beyond my comprehension.

Chapter 53

Newt Gardner leaned against the arm of his chair and whispered into his client’s ear.

Burke nodded, and said, “Yes, yes. Okay.”

Then, he looked up and spoke into an unfocused middle distance between Brady, Parisi, and me.

“I’ve been holding something back.”

Burke had all of our attention. Even Red Dog, who sat in his chair like a stone Buddha, leaned forward.

What the hell was this? I tried to imagine what Burke could have kept from us, but nothing lit up. Not an idea in the world, but I was sure it was going to be bull.

Burke said, “I know full well that what I’m going to tell you is going to sound like I made it up to mislead you. It’s not. I believe I know who killed Lorrie and Tara. And Misty. When I was in your office, sergeant, holding that paper with Misty’s picture, I wanted to scream it. But I can’t prove he did it. That’s why I’ve kept it to myself.”

Brady said, “I’m going to record this. Any objection?”

No one spoke. Brady pressed a button on his cell phone and put it down on Red Dog’s desk.

He said to Burke, “Once again. From the top.”

Burke sighed. But his face was full of emotion. I’d never seen him look like this. Furious, yes. Crushed by events, definitely. But this was different. He looked afraid.

He spoke toward the phone, saying, “I’m Lucas