Actual Innocence - Couverture rigide

ONE

The phone rang yet again. Greg Monarch reached for it, but his hand
stopped short. His head ached so badly, he could barely see across his
desk. He'd been reading case files since dawn, preparing for three trials
at once. Now he longed only for a dim silence. Closing his eyes, he
imagined himself
back in Pecho Rancho State Park, where he'd spent the week-
end. Eight thousand acres of lost Central California coastland. Hidden
coves, wooded stream canyons, golden poppy fields . . .

At least the phone had stopped ringing.

Greg rose from his chair and walked to the window. Through the pane, he
studied the creek winding past La Graciosa's central plaza. It was dusk,
the sky a pale pink glow. Shoppers and families were gathering on the town
plaza, local farmers were spreading their apples and avocados on the backs
of pickup trucks, children were tossing bread crumbs to ducks at the
creek's edge. Greg turned back to his desk. His head still hurt, but he
could see now.

He almost wished he couldn't. There, on the desk's edge, sat the embossed,
gold-lettered card. The invitation to the Chumash County Criminal Bar
Association's annual awards dinner. And, beside it, the announcement of
this year's Lawyer of the Year: Greg Monarch.

The Sullivan murder trial, the Plaskow business, the Danny McCloud
case-Monarch had cultivated a singular reputation on the Central Coast.
He'd won his share of acquittals, he'd shown his instinct for doing what
was needed, but he'd not lunged for the spotlight. No showboating on TV,
no tell-all books, no unctuous self-promotion. "His efforts have well
served the legal community and the public at large," went
the citation to be presented at tonight's dinner. "Greg Monarch has
provided a standard of excellence for all others in his
profession."

What would he say when it came time for his acceptance speech? Greg
glanced at a legal pad where, during breaks from his trial preparation,
he'd been trying to scribble out some comments. We all play a critical
role, a necessary
role. . . . Without a zealous adversary for the defense, the system breaks
down. . . . What's at stake is the integrity of the law as an institution.
. . . What's at stake is the state's interest in a just society. . . .

It was there Greg had lost his thread. He picked up a pen, started anew.

What's at stake is the mask of propriety. The defense attorney provides
the mask. The defense attorney's unfettered advocacy of his client
validates what the state does. . . . Without the defense attorney, the
state would look mighty bad indeed. . . .

Greg stopped, put down his pen. That wouldn't do. No. He'd have to wing
it. He'd ad-lib from the podium.

Greg was reaching for his coat when he heard a knock
at the door in his anteroom. He ignored it. His office was closed; he was
already late. The knock came again, three
hard raps, insistently. Greg turned toward the door. Four,
five, six.

"Monarch?" The man calling from the street was offer-
ing more a greeting than a question. The voice sounded
patrician, and familiar. "Monarch, I know you're there. Let me in."

Greg wished he could ignore this summons. It wasn't every day, though,
that Judge Daniel Solman came knocking at a lawyer's door. Solman, the
chief federal district judge for the Central California region, could be
found more often at a public podium, speaking before hundreds, if not
thousands. That was so even back at Chumash State, where he and Greg had
been passing friends and classmates, sharing the occasional teacher and
lecture hall. Student government had been Solman's province in those days,
and his stepping-stone. It was a shame really that he'd gotten himself
appointed a federal judge seven years ago, for that development, however
lustrous, had derailed a promising political career. The United States
District Court did not offer Solman enough opportunities to orate.

No, he couldn't ignore Judge Solman. Greg reached for the doorknob.

"Evening, Judge," he said. "I was just heading out."

"Won't keep you long," Solman began, stepping inside without invitation.

Greg studied his guest. The sweeping breadth of the forehead, the mane of
curly gray hair, the cast of the mouth, and the expression in his lively
eyes all portrayed an uncommon flair-hardly the sensibility of a judge.
Without his robes, Daniel Solman suggested a thriving entrepreneur more
than a man of the law. He favored Italian crepe wools, cashmere blazers,
hand-sewn calfskin moccasins. Greg wondered where he bought his clothes.

"In town for the weekend, and on my way to the county bar dinner," the
judge was saying now. "Saw your light still on, so thought I'd stop by.
Just an impulse. Had a notion you might be interested in what's crossed my
desk."

"Did you?"

"Yes. . . . Quite a curious habeas corpus petition. Pro se, handwritten,
pauper, rather hapless. Right up your alley, in other words. Another poor,
vulnerable lass, fighting institutional power."

Greg took a step back from Solman. Despite his flip manner, the judge
didn't appear all that relaxed. It was so unusual for him to show up like
this. "Wouldn't say that's exactly my alley," Greg said. "Why come to me?"

"She needs a lawyer if she's going to proceed." Solman peered at Greg with
curiosity. "And . . . well, Monarch, she's sort of asked for you."

Greg showed only mild interest. So many prisoners sent him urgent pleas
these days. Urgent pleas and densely packed boxes of documents. "Sort of?
What do you mean?"

"She attached a note to her petition, requesting that a copy be sent to
Greg Monarch."

"But her petition has already been written and filed. She doesn't need me."

"This petition won't get her through the door."

"Why do you think anything will?"

Solman's eyes roamed about Greg's small unadorned office. "Well now,
that's just the question. Probably not. Probably she has no chance at all.
Still, the way she puts things, the way she writes . . . Hard to explain.
You'll see if you take a look. No federal judge would act on this as it
is, but-"

"What's she in for?"

The question stopped Solman for a moment. "Murder one," he offered
finally, sounding uneasy with the notion. "Slashed an old man's throat, it
seems, out by a riverbank in the El Nido Valley. One moonlit night five
years ago. She's been losing appeals ever since."

As well she should, Greg reasoned. Why should throat slashers win their
appeals? Why should murderers walk free? "Sorry, Judge, I've had my fill
of death-row cases." He paused. "I've had my fill of defending killers."

Solman looked now as if he regretted this unplanned visit. "I understand,"
he said with sudden conviction. "Don't blame you." He stepped toward the
door. "It was just something I thought you should see. As I say, I stopped
by on impulse. Maybe because of the time issue . . . I'll be off now."

"Time issue?" Greg asked. "What do you mean?"

Solman slowly turned back to him. "She's only six months from the
executioner. They've set the date. This is her last
appeal."

Greg, without thinking, glanced at his watch. Habeas petitions were a
particular quagmire. Unwinding the past with virtually no chance of
getting anywhere. Courts weren't even interested anymore whether your
client was innocent, just as long as the judges and prosecutors dotted all
their i's. Not more than a hundred out of ten thousand federal habeas
petitions even won review each year, and of those, maybe four or five
prevailed. A miserable waste of time.

"Sorry, Judge," Greg said. "Still not interested. My plate's pretty full.
Our dedicated prosecutor here in Chumash County keeps throwing new
criminal cases at me. I take it he's anxious to keep me gainfully
employed. That leaves little time for a no-chance dance down a dead-end
road. Give it to some eager young kid just out of law school."

Solman nodded his agreement but seemed lost in thought. He stood at the
door, hand on the knob, not moving. Greg had never known Solman to
cerebrate like this.

"Tell you what," the judge finally suggested. "I'm going to send this
woman's petition over to your office by messenger. We'll slip it through
your mail slot, despite your full plate. Read it with your nightcap this
evening. Send it back tomorrow morning if you're not interested."

"That's just what I'll do," Greg promised.

California lawyer Greg Monarch was in no mood for visitors. But it's not every day a federal judge comes knocking at his door, especially with a curious request: to review the final appeal of a murderer on Death Row who personally asked for Greg's assistance. Tired of defending killers, Greg has every intention of turning the case down--until he discovers the prisoner is a former lover he hasn't seen in two decades: the fiery, impetuous Sarah Trant.

Her fate determined in a verdict rendered five years before, Sarah was found guilty of slashing an old man's throat in central California's sheltered El Nido Valley. All subsequent appeals have been denied. Now, six months from execution, she turns to the one man she hopes can save her. Greg failed once before trying to rescue Sarah from her private demons. This time, however, the demons may not be just in her head. . . .