“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 leveling 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 parole, 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 lockup to the county jail before either his sister or Chapman got a chance to see him. His blanket and pajamas were taken away and he was issued 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 fish 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 defense 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 toward 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 license. 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. Barr 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.
“To your certain knowledge?”
“Never.”
“How long has he been in town?”
“Fourteen years. Since the army.”
“Were you close?”
“We lived in the same house.”
“His house?”
Rosemary Barr nodded.
“But you don’t live there anymore.”
Rosemary Barr looked away.
“No,” she said. “I moved out.”
“Might your brother have seen a shrink after you moved out?”
“He would have told me.”
“OK, what about before? In the service?”
Rosemary Barr said nothing. Chapman turned back to Franklin.
“So maybe Reacher was his army doctor,” he said. “Maybe he has information about an old trauma. He could be very helpful.”
Franklin accepted the sheet of paper.
“In which case I’ll find him,” he said.
“We shouldn’t be talking about mitigation anyway,” Rosemary Barr said. “We should be talking about reasonable doubt. About innocence.”
“The evidence is very strong,” Chapman said. “He used his own gun.”
Franklin spent three hours failing to find Jack Reacher. First he trawled through psychiatric associations. No hits. Then he searched the Internet for Gulf War support groups. No trace. He tried Lexis-Nexis and all the news organizations. Nothing. Then he started back at the beginning and accessed the National Personnel Record Center’s database. It listed all current and former military. He found Jack Reacher’s name in there easily enough. Reacher had entered the service in 1984 and received an honorable discharge in 1997. James Barr himself had signed up in 1985 and mustered out in 1991. So there was a six-year overlap. But Reacher had been no kind of a doctor. No kind of a psychiatrist. He had been a military cop. An officer. A major. Maybe a high-level investigator. Barr had finished as a lowly Specialist E-4. Infantry, not military police. So what was the point of contact between a military police major and an infantry E-4? Something helpful, obviously, or Barr wouldn’t have mentioned the name. But what?