A Certain Justice

In its own way, this was the most positive thing that had happened to Griffin in three days, since even in today's paranoid world most people did not feel the need to call their attorney to be present at an informal police interview over a self-inflicted shoveling accident.

Given Cohen's presence, Griffin was surprised to be admitted to the house without a warrant. The man was probably the father's business lawyer, not a criminal attorney. If that were the case he wouldn't be up on the rules, which Griffin hoped would prove to be bad luck for Colin.

After a few moments of awkwardness, they got settled in the tastefully appointed front room. A pale mid-afternoon sun came and went through the ancient curved windows that lined the circular room. In spite of a low-burning fire in the grate, the whole place felt cool, and Griffin left his coat on, leading with his best shot. Why, he wondered, had Colin felt the need to invite Mr Cohen to this meeting?

The father, Mr Devlin, was a friendly looking dark-haired man in a Donegal tweed suit and regimental tie. Clearly, he was in control. Though Griffin had not addressed him, he answered. 'Inspector Griffin, let's cut through the malarkey here. As I'm sure you suspect – it's why you're here – my son did not cut his leg the way he told Dr Epps. We don't want to go through the charade of having to produce the shovel and… all that nonsense.' He waved a hand.

'All right,' Griffin said. If they were going to give it to him free, he was going to take it. He shifted his bulk in the creaking bentwood chair and leaned forward. 'What happened exactly?'

The wife, a pretty woman with a lot of jewelry, spoke up. 'Colin didn't mean to-'

'Mary, please.' The husband's imperious look stopped Mary Devlin. He went on. 'We would like assurances that Colin's cooperation with the police…' Unsure of the process he was trying to control, he seemed to run out of steam for a moment, then found his rhythm again.'… that there'll be some quid pro quo.'

Griffin was leaning forward, his hands clasped. 'Cutting deals is up to the DA,' he said. 'Most times, they'll talk about it. How'd you get cut, Colin?'

'I don't even know. Some guy behind me…' The boy's eyes were hollow, his face pale as though he'd worn a beard for a long time and had recently cut it. Maybe in the last half hour.

'Colin, just a minute… I don't think we should talk any more unless you can give us some guarantees,' the father said.

Griffin nodded, stalling. 'If Colin here was at the scene of the lynching, his testimony would be very important. I'm sure the DA would recognize that, put it in the mix.'

Mr Devlin chewed on it a moment. 'We're not trying to duck responsibility here – any that might fall to Colin – but I don't want my boy…' He faltered again. 'Being there at all, being part of it, was unpardonable, I understand that…'

'Dad, I-'

'Colin!'

The boy shut up.

'… and I'm sure that we've been too lax, letting him live at home, giving him an allowance, not insisting he go to work, get some job, but his mother… well, that's going to end. The boy has to grow up, take responsibility for what he does, but he has promised us that he did not touch the man, and I absolutely believe him. He never got close to him.'

At last, the lawyer spoke. 'Bren, I think that's enough. Inspector, what do you think?'

'I'll have to talk to someone downtown, but I think they'll be… receptive.'

'What should be our next step?' Mr Devlin asked.

Griffin stood, pulled down his jacket that had ridden up over his middle. 'I don't want you to take this wrong, sir,' he turned to Cohen, 'or you either, but I think you might want to get yourself an attorney who does this for a living. You might find it makes a difference.'

Jamie O'Toole, jobless due to the loss of his workplace to fire, was bitter and angry. Jamie was a man who had lived in the city his entire life, had gone to Saint Ignatius high school and then done a year at San Francisco State, during which Rhoda (the name alone, he should have known), his girlfriend at the time, had gotten pregnant and he'd married her, which had killed five years dead.

Also, it left him without a college degree, which he would have gotten otherwise, he was smart enough. But the breaks just hadn't worked out for him so he could stay in school. So there he was, needing a job – any job – at the begi

So he'd gotten into bartending – decent tips, most of the money under the table, where he could keep it instead of give it to Uncle Sam or, worse, to Rhoda. Guys had told him, 'Don't get so you're making any money on the books, the ex will just come and get the judgment upped.' And he had listened. Rhoda would do that to him, no question. Same as she wouldn't get married, though she was living with some dweeb in Richmond, because then he'd be allowed to stop his alimony. He supposed the child support would just go on forever, more money out of his pocket, another thing holding him down, keeping him where he was.

They were already giving out some federal emergency money and he had read the guidelines and realized he qualified – government always giving something away to somebody, usually not to him. He'd take it this time.

So he was waiting in a long cold line at the distribution place they had set up on Market Street – place was crawling with low life. Jamie O'Toole hated it, waiting with all those street people, shivering his ass off.

Then some guy, familiar, walks up to one side, and he's got it, he places him – the plainclothes cop, Lanier, that was it.

'How you doing, Jamie?'

'I'm cold, man. Witch's tit out here.'

Lanier was wearing a heavy flight jacket, corduroys, boots. He looked cozy, smiled. 'I was just out at your place. Your old lady said where we might find you.'

'Well, she got something right. Who's we?'

'My partner's parking around the corner. Be here in a minute.'

'I can't wait. Make my day. What do you guys want now?'

Lanier was standing almost on top of O'Toole, backing him away from the line. 'Same as before, just to talk.'

O'Toole went with it, a step at a time. 'What are you doin', man? I been waiting an hour here. This same shit again, Jesus. I'm so tired of this.'

Lanier got him to the corner, a distance off from the rest. O'Toole lowered his voice, punched a finger into Lanier's chest.

'You quit pushing me.'

Lanier smiled. 'You strike a police officer, I'll bust your head open. You think you're tired now…'

There a problem, Marcel?' Ridley Banks had appeared behind O'Toole and thought it seemed like a good moment to make his presence felt. Lanier smiled over O'Toole's shoulder at him. 'No, no problem. We're in the midst of the age of enlightenment here.'

O'Toole whirled around, took a beat noticing that Banks was black, then shrugged. 'Yeah, well, we got nothing to talk about. I told you everything I knew last time.'

Lanier gri

'At least.'

O'Toole twisted his head back from one of the inspectors to the other. 'Well,' he repeated, 'I've enjoyed it. Now I gotta run.'

Lanier stepped in front of him again. 'There was one little thing, Jamie. The other day you said it was Kevin Shea, by himself, as far as you knew, that had done the thing with Wade.'

'I said I didn't know. I wasn't out there.'

'Oh, that's right,' Banks put in, 'I think he did say that.'

'Did he? Was that exactly it?'

'I think so. You wouldn't change your story, would you, Jamie? Where'd he get the rope?'