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Authors: James Patterson
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that this is a young man who turned himself in of his own volition, has never previously been charged with a single significant offense, and has strong ties to the community. For these reasons, Dante Halleyville represents a negligible risk of flight, and we strongly urge that any bail that is set be within the reach of his family’s modest income.”
Dante’s lawyer sits down, and his more-energized adversary jumps up. He is around my age, and with his short haircut and inexpensive suit, he reminds me of half the kids I went to law school with.
“The state’s position is the opposite, Your Honor. Three young men were bound and executed in cold blood. Because of the nature of the crimes and the severe penalties facing the defendant, as well as the fact that before turning himself in he remained at large for several days, we believe he represents a
substantial
flight risk.”
The black-robed judge weighs the relative merits of both arguments for a full thirty seconds. “This court sets bail for the defendant at six million dollars. Two million dollars for each victim.”
Plea to bail, the whole process takes about as long as it does to place and pick up your order at the drive-through window of a McDonald’s. The echo of Judge Barreiro’s gavel has barely receded when the two sheriffs reappear and lead Dante out the side door.
“He’s innocent,” Marie whispers at my side. “Dante never hurt anyone in his entire life.”
Chapter 35
Tom
IT’S MONDAY MORNING, and the only person feeling semi-okay with the world is AP photographer and friend Lenny Levitt. Since the weekend, Len’s moonlight shot of Dante and his grandmother has appeared on the covers of the
Post,
the
Daily News,
and
Newsday.
My minor role in his affair barely rates a mention—in
Newsday
—and I think I have a pretty good chance of crawling back into my old and comfortable, if uninspiring, life.
Even though the only thing I’ve got to do is that real estate closing for my buddy Pete Lampke, I’m parked outside my office at 8:15 a.m. Like every weekday morning for three years, I leave Wingo on the front seat and step into the Montauk Bakery for my Danish and coffee.
Why I’ve been so loyal to the bakery is a mystery. It’s certainly not the flakiness of the pastry or the richness of the coffee. Must be the comforts of consistency and the dependable early morning cheer of owner Lucy Kalin.
Today, the only thing Lucy’s got to say is “two twenty-five.” I guess she had a bad night too.
“I think I know the price by now, Lucy girl. And top of the morning to you too.”
Breakfast in hand, I grab my pooch and head for the office.
Grossman Realty has the ground floor of the building next to mine, and the eponymous owner is also arriving bright and early. Normally Jake Grossman is a sinkhole of bonhomie, upbeat, full of chatter even by the outsized standards of his profession.
This morning, though, the way he reacts to my greeting, you’d swear he’s deaf and blind.
Whatever. I’m still relieved to be back in my office where I can quietly read the papers again before checking in with Clarence.
When I call him, the poor guy’s so twisted up about what’s happening to Dante he can barely talk and admits he had to go to the emergency room in Southampton for sedatives to get through the night. I hope I’m imagining it, but he sounds a little
chilly
too. What’s up with everybody this morning?
I know Marie has to be feeling even worse because she doesn’t even pick up her phone.
When Lampke’s contracts haven’t arrived by noon, I get Phyllis at the broker’s on the line.
“I owe you a call,” she says. “Peter decided to go with a lawyer with a little more real estate experience.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The bad news makes me hungry, but rather than getting shunned across the street at John’s, Wingo and I drive to a little grocery run by a Honduran man and his three daughters at the edge of Amagansett.
As
Dante’s lawyer sits down, and his more-energized adversary jumps up. He is around my age, and with his short haircut and inexpensive suit, he reminds me of half the kids I went to law school with.
“The state’s position is the opposite, Your Honor. Three young men were bound and executed in cold blood. Because of the nature of the crimes and the severe penalties facing the defendant, as well as the fact that before turning himself in he remained at large for several days, we believe he represents a
substantial
flight risk.”
The black-robed judge weighs the relative merits of both arguments for a full thirty seconds. “This court sets bail for the defendant at six million dollars. Two million dollars for each victim.”
Plea to bail, the whole process takes about as long as it does to place and pick up your order at the drive-through window of a McDonald’s. The echo of Judge Barreiro’s gavel has barely receded when the two sheriffs reappear and lead Dante out the side door.
“He’s innocent,” Marie whispers at my side. “Dante never hurt anyone in his entire life.”
Chapter 35
Tom
IT’S MONDAY MORNING, and the only person feeling semi-okay with the world is AP photographer and friend Lenny Levitt. Since the weekend, Len’s moonlight shot of Dante and his grandmother has appeared on the covers of the
Post,
the
Daily News,
and
Newsday.
My minor role in his affair barely rates a mention—in
Newsday
—and I think I have a pretty good chance of crawling back into my old and comfortable, if uninspiring, life.
Even though the only thing I’ve got to do is that real estate closing for my buddy Pete Lampke, I’m parked outside my office at 8:15 a.m. Like every weekday morning for three years, I leave Wingo on the front seat and step into the Montauk Bakery for my Danish and coffee.
Why I’ve been so loyal to the bakery is a mystery. It’s certainly not the flakiness of the pastry or the richness of the coffee. Must be the comforts of consistency and the dependable early morning cheer of owner Lucy Kalin.
Today, the only thing Lucy’s got to say is “two twenty-five.” I guess she had a bad night too.
“I think I know the price by now, Lucy girl. And top of the morning to you too.”
Breakfast in hand, I grab my pooch and head for the office.
Grossman Realty has the ground floor of the building next to mine, and the eponymous owner is also arriving bright and early. Normally Jake Grossman is a sinkhole of bonhomie, upbeat, full of chatter even by the outsized standards of his profession.
This morning, though, the way he reacts to my greeting, you’d swear he’s deaf and blind.
Whatever. I’m still relieved to be back in my office where I can quietly read the papers again before checking in with Clarence.
When I call him, the poor guy’s so twisted up about what’s happening to Dante he can barely talk and admits he had to go to the emergency room in Southampton for sedatives to get through the night. I hope I’m imagining it, but he sounds a little
chilly
too. What’s up with everybody this morning?
I know Marie has to be feeling even worse because she doesn’t even pick up her phone.
When Lampke’s contracts haven’t arrived by noon, I get Phyllis at the broker’s on the line.
“I owe you a call,” she says. “Peter decided to go with a lawyer with a little more real estate experience.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The bad news makes me hungry, but rather than getting shunned across the street at John’s, Wingo and I drive to a little grocery run by a Honduran man and his three daughters at the edge of Amagansett.
As
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