Clive Beaton, senior criminal trial lawyer at Payne, Beaton and Sawyer, New Orlean’s second largest law firm, at which Langfranc was a junior partner. Strange title, ‘junior’, for someone fifty-two years old, Jac had always thought. In a way it further underlined Langfranc’s frustration that he should have been made a senior partner earlier. Perhaps one reason why the two of them had bonded so well, the feeling that the firm’s main head-pats and accolades had gone to others, often less deserving. Though in Jac’s case that was mainly because he’d spent his first years wallowing in corporate and tax law before he’d turned to criminal law. The easy route after his initial years of practice in France; commercial law in Louisiana followed the French Napoleonic code, criminal law didn’t.

Langfranc looked up as the clatter from the general office drifted in.

‘I’ve re-scheduled Donneley for three-fifteen,’ Penny Vance, his PA who Jac also shared as a secretary, said through the half-open door. ‘That will give you a clear hour at Liberty street. Oh, and Jem Payne has called for an update briefing on Borkowski before you head out this afternoon, so you might have to cut lunch short to make the time.’

The information brought a faint slouch, an extra ruffle to Langfranc’s appearance. He always wore the best Versace or Missoni suits with slip-on Italian loafers to match, but with his wild, wavy greying hair, to Jac he still looked somehow unkempt; as if there’d been a strong breeze on his way into work, then the rush of the day simply kept him that way.

‘Thanks.’ Langfranc sighed as the door closed; only ten minutes into the day and already everything was at full tilt. He brought his attention back to Jac and Durrant’s files. ‘It’s a no-goer from the outset. Full confession. Every possible angle exhausted at the appeal. No new evidence since. Your only hope is to try and get our good — or bad — Lawrence Durrant pardoned. Throw all on the mercy of our good — or bad — Governor. The illustrious Piers Candaret. And to a lesser extent, the Board of Pardons.’

Jac’s eyes narrowed. ‘Candaret holds the whip hand?’

‘Without a doubt. He nominates the Board to begin with, and while they’re meant to sift through and review everything on his behalf — when it comes to big cases, he likes to have a hands-on, first look-see. And while he’s also meant to accept their recommendations, in many cases he’s gone his own way. So, you’ll file simultaneously with both of them — but the buck stops with Candaret.’

‘And that’s all there’s left to do — prepare a simple plea letter?’

‘Well, there’s a tad more to it than that. You’re going to have to plough through most of this to get the tone right for the letter. Hit the right notes. Durrant’s apparently very religious. Candaret is too, or at least he pushes Christian and family values at every photo opportunity. And by all claims, Durrant has been a model prisoner. Kept his nose clean. So those are probably good start points. We’re talking about quite a long, considered clemency plea. Six or seven pages, maybe more — plus any relevant file attachments. It might only take a day to prepare the letter, but you could spend a good week in preparation.’ As Langfranc fought to boost the case’s merits, Jac’s quizzical eyebrow merely arched higher. ‘For God’s sake, Jac, this is a big case. For Louisiana murder cases, they don’t come bigger. So don’t make light of it. And whatever might or might not be involved, also don’t lose sight of what’s at stake here. Good or bad or rotten to hell’s core — a man’s life.’

‘I know. I know.’ Jac held up one hand in submission and bowed his head slightly. When Langfranc had first told him he’d be getting the case, he was excited: murder of the wife of Adelay Roche, one of Louisiana’s wealthiest industrialists, the case had occupied more newspaper column inches than any other Louisiana case since the Garrison-JFK investigation. He’d immediately dived into the library on St Charles Street to leaf through clippings. But most of the attention had been at the time of the trial and the appeal. For the past seven years the newspapers, and the world outside, had forgotten about Lawrence Tyler Durrant; though now no doubt there’d be a renewed flurry of media activity. ‘I suppose I’m just disappointed to know that all the main angles have gone, all avenues for appeal already exhausted. All I’m left with is sweeping up the dust of the case.’

‘The only shot at appeal was centred around Durrant’s accident and his resultant memory lapses at the time. And all hopes on that front died seven years ago.’ Langfranc shrugged. ‘And as I said, if there were any angles left, Beaton would have taken the case himself. But it’s still a big case, Jac. The biggest. Life or death for Larry Durrant and every local TV network and newspaper, and some beyond, covering which way it’s going to swing. You might not be Beaton’s golden boy, but the fact that he’s even given you a high profile case like this — even if all that’s left is a clemency plea — means that he’s noticed you. You exist.’

‘Therefore I am.’

Langfranc smiled back thinly. Jac McElroy had set his cap on criminal law with a determination that probably was largely lost on old man Beaton. At thirty-one, with six years practice under his belt, he could have just kept coasting along with corporate law, raking in the big bucks. Taken the easy route. But, no, he’d wanted to do criminal law, so that meant going back to square one and taking a fresh set of bar exams alongside a bunch of fresh-faced graduates while still juggling the remainder of his corporate caseload. So that meant he was either crazy, or it was a real vocation. From Jac’s first ten months of criminal case-handling, Langfranc hadn’t yet made his mind up which.

Jac was thoughtful for a second. ‘What’s Candaret’s track record on pardons and reprieves?’

‘Pardons are rare, and will no doubt now be doubly difficult since the last but one guy pardoned, Aaron Harvey — also African-American, as it happens — killed again just six months back. With commuted to life there’s far more chance, I think running somewhere between one in five or six. But that could be one of the first things to check — along with case histories. Get a feel for what might hit the right note with Candaret.’

‘So, slim chances — but not impossible.’

Langfranc held one palm out. ‘Better than that buffoon in Texas. Like his predecessor, he sends everyone for the chop. No exceptions. Thinks that’s what the public wants, might make him potential White House material. And Florida’s not much better. At least with Candaret there’s some chance.’

Jac studied the files a second longer, then laid one hand firmly on top of them, exhaling wearily. ‘Don’t worry. Slim hopes or not, I’ll give it my best shot. I won’t let Larry Durrant down.’

But belying the brooding look that Jac gave the files, Langfranc caught a fleeting gleam in his eyes — challenge, defiance — that sounded a faint alarm bell. In Jac McElroy’s first year with the firm, Langfranc had often found him sullen and contemplative, which as they’d got to know each other he’d learnt was due to the recent death of Jac’s father — a Scotsman who twenty-odd years ago had taken his family to France to pursue his dream of running an artists’ retreat. But Langfranc had also discovered that nothing lifted Jac out of that slump like a good challenge. Of only eleven criminal cases that Jac had so far handled solo — the most serious a grand-theft auto and representing a colourful local forger, Morvaun Jaspar — he’d turned four of them into major productions. ‘And no grandstanding and glory-searching on this one. No screaming the client’s innocence against impossible odds. That’s not what Beaton wants, nor what the case calls for.’

‘Rest easy, I’ll be a good boy.’ Jac stood up and hoisted the files under one arm, firing Langfranc a strained smile as he took on the extra weight. ‘I’ll do what I’m told and just sweep up the dust.’