Spring Observation - 1. In Conference

"Right. Got it. So where is the meeting?"

The hand holding the phone twitched, sending a shard of sunlight from a highly polished college class ring roaming about the grey interior of the BMW.

"Okay. Okay, I have that. Three fifteen at Nine Penn Center. No problem. This shouldn't take long. I have a meeting for my pro bono client. Yeah, Ray Ericsson, that's the one. The DA is going to offer another deal. We'll refuse. Then it's a long drive back to Philadelphia."

A comment on the other end of the call caused the youthful face to grimace.

"I know, I can't keep doing this. But I'm going to beat them down – Ray's going to walk."

A glance at a gold Patek Philippe told him to cut the conversation short.

"I've got to go. See you in a few hours."

The connection cut off. The car's occupant retrieved a smart leather briefcase from the passenger seat. He got out; the black coupe locked itself with a surprised bleep. He walked across the pavement, patched and cracked as it was from the abuse of several winters.

"Hello, Counselor Howard. Fancy meeting you here." The greeting from a fellow lawyer did little to brighten the morning.

"Nice to see you, too, Williams."

The man he addressed sighed. Dressed in a rumpled but acceptable grey suit off the rack, he looked every bit the civil servant that he was.

"Carlsberg's finest await us." Williams gestured to a tired metal framed door. "Shall we go in?"

An older uniformed officer at the check-in desk asked for their names.

"J. Preston Howard, from Rutland, Spears in Philadelphia. I'm here representing a client; meeting's in the conference room upstairs's in five minutes."

"Mark Williams, same meeting."

The uniform nodded. The Assistant District Attorney was a familiar face. A log-in book was passed over. J. Preston Howard pulled out a Mont Blanc to ink his name.

"Good morning, Mark. Hope I'm not too late."

Howard stood and turned. His eyes took in a thin, attractive woman; dark, tailored suit, short red hair, bright, alert eyes; briefcase. Another attorney. Instinctively, he ran a hand over his hair.

Before he could gain the advantage, she put out her hand. "Heidi Graber. And you must be Preston Howard."

"Do we know each other?"

"No, but my colleague briefed me on the meeting." She proceeded to check in.

This did not prevent Howard from giving the new arrival a more appreciative once-over, nor from needling his opposite number from the District Attorney's office.

"So, Williams, does your boss think you need backup for your continuing harassment?"

"Actually, I invited myself to the meeting as a friend of the court," Graber joined in quickly. "Hope that's all right by you."

Howard's face took on a predatory grin. "Oh, the more the merrier, that's fine by me. We can wrap this up quickly, and we can grab a quick coffee, if you want." The invitation did not include the Assistant District Attorney. "Anyway, this meeting is a farce."

"Why is that?"

The party proceeded through the fluorescent lit corridors on the first floor toward the stairs.

"Every month, the clowns at the DA's office from Bumfuck County out here bring Ray Ericsson back to Carlsberg. They offer him a cheesy plea deal on a murder charge they can't try, and can't prove. He goes back to the holding center. It's ridiculous."

Graber listened to the younger man's rant. She didn't mention the obvious fact that at he was walking up dingy stairs with representatives of those clowns.

"You're not from around here, then?"

"No. I'm from Philly. Rutland, Spears."

"Oh, wow. Guess I should be honored. How many associates work there now?"

"Two hundred-plus. Mostly, I do corporate stuff; litigation – I'm part of the Dupont case coming up in Federal Court next month. This is a pro bono case I took on for the firm."

"And you seem to have fought my colleague here to a standstill."

"All they can hold him for is a parole violation, and even that's getting old," the Philadelphia lawyer seemed to puff up with a bit of pride.

"It's for child porn, Howard," Williams pointed out.

"Which you haven't proven belonged to my client."

Williams held his tongue. At the top of the stairs, he pushed open a heavy fire door that let into a wide space occupied by a perhaps a dozen battered desks. Light poured in from tall windows set in the wall on two sides of the room, relics of a nineteenth century architect. Three or four detectives and officers worked, brows furrowed in concentration. The scent of stale cigarette smoke still lingered even though it had been more than a decade since smoking was banned in the building.

"It's this way." Howard gestured Heidi Graber to the left, towards a glass-fronted meeting room on the far side.

Mark Williams trailed behind, and J. Preston Howard was perfectly happy with that.

"Where is everyone?" Howard was dismayed at being first to arrive. Not only did that mean he might have spent valuable minutes doing billable tasks, but he also liked to make an entrance.

Williams shook his head and sat at the table, with his back to glass. He began extracting papers from his battered leather briefcase.

"Maybe there was some kind of emergency," Graber offered, preparing to sit next to Williams.

"Sure. Right," Howard sniffed. "In this town?"

"Murders do happen here, Howard," Williams murmured.

"For which Ray Ericsson is not responsible," the other shot back.

"Of course he is."

"Not that you can prove. You have no real evidence."

"Sounds like the two of you have been through this before." Heidi Graber grinned even as she intervened.

"Too many times, Heidi, too many times. Williams here is just too stubborn to know he's got no case, so he keeps my client in jail almost a year, on a nothing charge."

Mark Williams said nothing, but let one corner of his mouth turn up.

Not that J. Preston Howard was watching. He went on. "But I'm putting an end to it, okay? I filed a Habeas motion with the court yesterday. This is going to be our last meeting, Williams. Ray Ericsson walks in two weeks. I guarantee it."

"You can do that?" Graber asked.

"That motion is watertight. Ray may be strange and sketchy, but he can't be held in prison indefinitely on a parole violation." For a moment J. Preston Howard sounded like a veteran defense attorney, and not a junior litigator doing pro bono work. "He'll go free. Maybe with a monitoring device at first, but free."

"You learned all that at Harvard?" Mark Williams asked.

The question goaded Howard. "And you learned the art of stall and delay at which school? Penn State? They also taught you it's illegal, didn't they?"

There was only a shrug for an answer.

"Show me how you can keep – "

Further discussion ended with the arrival of two uniformed guards and the defendant in question, Ray Ericsson himself.

Dressed in prison orange and handcuffed, the prisoner Ericsson showed few signs of wear from his incarceration. In fact, he looked buoyant as he was seated next to his attorney. He could stare at the Assistant District attorney and Graber, and face the window looking into the common area.

Ericsson lifted his hands up to one of the uniformed guards. His cuffs were unlocked; the guards stood back against the wall.

"Hello, Ray. Nice to see you again," Mark Williams spoke with restrained irony.

"Fuck you, Counselor. You've been keeping me locked up in the holding center for nothing. Nothing. And now I have dance to your fucking tune?"

"Easy, Ray, take it easy," his lawyer interposed. "You're angry about being held so long. We all get that. But it's almost over, okay?"

Ray smiled again, directing his gaze at the Assistant DA. "That's right. And I have lots people to visit when I'm out, don't I?"

A moment later, a lanky, grey haired, mustached individual in a tired suit walked in, followed by a shorter, stockier man in white shirtsleeves and blue tie.

Williams and Graber rose to shake hands; Howard did not. "Detective Michailidis, my associate, Heidi Graber." The DA made introductions.

The policemen seated themselves at the head of the table.

"Let's begin," Williams said.

"Look, this meeting is pointless," Howard cut in. "We haven't changed our plea, and we're not taking any stupid deals. Let's cut the crap. You haven't got enough evidence for a murder rap, and there's no grand jury. His parole violation can't hold Ray forever. He's been cooperative and nonviolent. We're petitioning the court for release under supervision. End of story."

The detective, Michailidis, frowned, and looked at his watch.

Williams took a reasonable tone. "I'm not so sure. You may want to hear everything first."

"What's there to hear? You haven't got anything."

"Do you remember a kid named Stephan Ericsson?" The detective spoke for the first time, and directly to the prisoner. "Your nephew, Ray?"

Something like a smile spread across the man's features.

"Don't say a word, Ray," his lawyer cautioned.

"Remember that little boy, Ray? Your brother and sister-in-law's kid?"

"Not one fucking word, Ray. This is bullshit," the exquisitely tailored Howard growled.

Ray just smiled, his smug expression saying everything and nothing.

"He lost his mother, remember? Somebody beat her and strangled her to death and left her body in a drainage culvert," the detective continued.

"Yes, yes, so what?" The defendant's lawyer was the picture of impatience.

"That boy was left all alone in the world with nobody but his father, Ray. And the father had a bit of drinking problem, didn't he? Remember?"

"Look this is all very sad, but none of this has anything to do with – "

"Do you know what happened to that little boy after his mommy was killed, Ray?" The detective went on, ignoring Howard. "Somebody hurt him. Hurt him very badly, Ray. You know what I mean?"

"You're going to make me cry." The lawyer scoffed.

"And then that boy grew up; his father got drunk and beat his own son when he got drunk. Did you know that Ray? And then the father – your brother - turned up dead one day, and boy was gone."

J. Preston Howard's face darkened. "Oh, come off it. Just stop. You can't question Ray without his attorney, and that's me. And we're not saying jack shit about this or any other sob story you want to tell us. So Williams, unless you have something different to say than in all the other fucking useless meetings you've called -"

Somehow, Mark Williams' face changed, becoming harder, stonier. He picked up a piece of paper from the pile in front of him.

"We have plenty to say, and I think you'll find it very different. We're going to charge Ray with murder in the first degree for the death of his brother, Gunnar Ericsson in the spring of last year. We're going to charge him with accessory to murder and obstruction of justice in the killing of Katherine Ericsson in 2008. And we're preparing to charge Ray with thirty-two counts of sexual assault and rape of a minor child."

J. Preston Howard blinked, his tirade interrupted. He wasn't used to dealing with this version of the Assistant DA.

Williams continued. "We'll be bringing evidence and testimony to a grand jury next Monday. The real question is whether your client is interested in a plea deal to avoid a trial which could get him about three hundred years in Waynesburg on conviction. And we mean to see Ray convicted on each and every count."

"What the hell is this?" The big city lawyer tried to bluster.

"It's called doing the police work; justice. Did they teach you that at Harvard, too?"

"And you say you have evidence? Testimony? Why didn't you notify my office?" The Philadelphia lawyer rallied.

"Actually, we did, Howard," Williams replied acidly. "Your secretary told me you were in meetings, and you'd get to the matter as soon as you could. That was on Tuesday."

Howard swallowed and looked away. A vague memory surfaced of that old witch in reception handing him a pink message form. Seeing it was from Williams, he'd ignored it. He tried to return to the offensive. "Well, we're not going to do anything until we see what new kind of evidence there is."

"There's a witness," the detective put in.

"So what? A witness to something a decade ago? Memories change. You can't expect this to be credible."

"I've interviewed him. He's believable. And damning," Michailidis said.

Williams took over. "The alternative is the plea arrangement I have here. There will be no trial, no publicity. We're offering a deal in which Ray pleads guilty to the second degree murder of Gunnar Ericsson, and guilty to accessory in the murder of Katherine Ericsson; he pleads guilty on five counts of sexual assault of a minor – "

"Are you kidding? What kind of deal is that? No way. My client will still be in jail for the rest of his life."

"I'll take it," Ray Ericsson croaked.

J. Preston Howard's artfully coiffed head snapped toward his client. "Ray, what the hell –"

Ray's self-assured smile was gone. The man's eyes bulged, fixed on something beyond the glass wall of the meeting room.

Howard followed his client's gaze. He saw a stocky character in a state cop's uniform sitting at a nearby desk, talking with two young men – seniors in high school, maybe – one blond, the other dark haired. They seemed deep in serious conversation, but their faces were plainly visible, the dark-haired boy more animated, the blond stony faced. Ray was frightened of something, but of what?

"Where are the papers? I'll sign." Ray said, without removing his eyes from the scene outside the window.

"Look, Ray, stop, wait," his lawyer hissed.

Ray ignored Howard as the documents and a pen were slid across the table to him. The places for his signature were conveniently marked.

"You don't have to do this. We can fight this. We haven't seen any of the evidence they're talking about. At least let me read it first." J. Preston Howard felt desperate.

Ericsson grabbed the pen and signed the plea deal with a quick, scribbled signature.

"Thank you, Ray. You did the right thing," said Williams.

The prisoner pushed the papers back and stood, all his previous bravado evaporated. He just wanted to get out of there. The guards stepped forward, and cuffed him again, while his lawyer gaped.

The orange clad man was ushered out of the conference room, but paused at the door. Howard saw him lock eyes with the blond boy seated at the desk. He tried to read the kid's face. Hatred? Determination? He noticed that the other youth had taken blondie's hand. Ray Ericsson looked aside, and the uniforms took him away.

Williams and Heidi Graber both turned to look. Graber smiled. The detectives rose and walked out.

"You ambushed me." Howard spat when the attorneys were alone.

"No, Mr. Howard," the woman spoke, "you weren't ambushed. You just had a lousy client who was guilty as hell."

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" Howard snarled.

"I'm the victim's attorney," she said with composure. "He's sitting out there, by the way. Ray had to know that the boy wasn't scared anymore. He would testify, to the murders, and to the rapes. In that event, Ray Ericsson would have been demolished, completely destroyed in a long and probably very public trial."

There was a silence. The elegant litigator looked deflated.

She continued. "And Ray knows, even if you don't, that a conviction on so many counts of child rape would get noticed: everywhere, including our state penitentiary system. He chose his own safety."

Howard watched as the two boys got out of their chairs and embraced one another.

Williams rose and Graber got up with him.

The DA spoke. "Besides, Howard, just think; Ray did you a favor. A messy loss like that would have been time consuming for Rutland, Spears and a black stain on your trial record."

"Fuck you, Williams."

Williams smiled. "Sorry, Howard. You're not my type, and my husband would object."

The prosecutor walked out to greet justice done.