Because of the wheelchair problem Mason Germain suggested they try the interrogation room. Sachs shuffled in, wearing the hand and ankle shackles that the deputy insisted on (she had, after all, already managed one escape from the place).
The lawyer from New York had arrived. He was gray-haired Solomon Geberth. A member of the New York, Massachusetts and D.C. bars, he had been admitted to the jurisdiction of North Carolina pro hac vice--for the single case of People v. Sachs. Curiously, with his smooth, handsome face and mannerisms even smoother he seemed far more a genteel Southern lawyer out of a John Grisham novel than a bulldog of a Manhattan litigator. The man's trim hair glistened with spray and his Italian suit successfully resisted wrinkles even in Tanner's Corner's astonishing humidity.
Lincoln Rhyme sat between Sachs and her lawyer. She rested her hand on the armrest of his injured wheelchair.
"They brought in a special prosecutor from Raleigh," Geberth was explaining. "With the sheriff and the coroner on the take I don't think they quite trust McGuire. Anyway he's looked over the evidence and decided to dismiss the charges against Garrett."
Sachs stirred at this. "He did?"
Geberth said, "Garrett admitted hitting the boy, Billy, and thought he killed him. But Lincoln was right. It was Bell who killed the boy. And even if they brought him up on assault charges Garrett was clearly acting in self-defense. That other deputy, Ed Schaeffer? His death's been ruled accidental."
"What about kidnapping Lydia Johansson?" Rhyme asked.
"When she realized that Garrett had never intended to hurt her she decided to drop the charges. Mary Beth did the same. Her mother wanted to go ahead with the complaint but you should've heard that girl talk to the woman. Some fur flew during that conversation, I'll tell you."
"So he's free? Garrett?" Sachs asked, eyes on the floor.
"They're letting him out in a few minutes," Geberth told her. Then: "Okay, here's the laundry, Amelia: the prosecutor's position is that even if Garrett turned out not to be a felon, you aided in the escape of a prisoner who'd been arrested on the basis of probable cause and you killed an officer during the commission of that crime. The prosecutor's going for first-degree murder and throwing in the standard lesser-included offenses: both manslaughter counts--voluntary and involuntary--and reckless homicide and criminally negligent homicide."
"First degree?" Rhyme snapped. "It wasn't premeditated; it was an accident! For Christ's sake."
"Which is what I'm going to try to show at trial," Geberth said. "That the other deputy, the one who grabbed you, was a partial proximate cause of the shooting. But I guarantee they'll get the reckless homicide conviction. On the facts there's no doubt about that."
"What's the chance of acquittal?" Rhyme asked.
"Bad. Ten, fifteen percent at best. I'm sorry, but I have to recommend you take a plea."
She felt this like a blow to her chest. Her eyes closed and when she exhaled it was as if her soul had fled from her body.
"Jesus," Rhyme muttered.
Sachs was thinking about Nick, her former boyfriend. How, when he was arrested for hijacking and taking kickbacks, he refused a plea and took the risk of a jury trial. He said to her, "It's like what your old man said, Aimee--when you move they can't get you. It's all or nothing."
It took the jury eighteen minutes to convict him. He was still in a New York prison.
She looked at the smooth-cheeked Geberth. She asked, "What's the prosecutor offering for the plea?"
"Nothing yet. But he'll probably accept voluntary manslaughter--if you do hard time. I'd guess eight, ten years. I have to tell you, though, that in North Carolina it'll be hard time. No country clubs here."
Rhyme grumbled, "Versus a fifteen percent chance of acquittal."
Geberth said, "That's right." Then the lawyer added, "You have to understand that there aren't going to be any miracles here, Amelia. If we go to trial the prosecutor's going to prove that you're a professional law enforcer and a champion marksman and the jury's going to have trouble buying that the shooting was accidental."
Normal rules don't apply to anybody north of the Paquo. Us or them. You can see yourself shooting before you read anybody their rights and that'd be perfectly all right.
The lawyer said, "If that happens they could convict you of murder one and you'll get twenty-five years."
"Or the death penalty," she muttered.
"Yes, that's a possibility. I can't tell you it isn't."
For some reason the image that came into her mind at this moment was of the peregrine falcons that nested outside of Lincoln Rhyme's window in his Manhattan town house: the male and the female and the young hawk. She said, "If I plead to involuntary how much time will I do?"
"Probably six, seven years. No parole."
You and me, Rhyme.
She inhaled deeply. "I'll plead."