A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(207)

“This isn’t a good place for you to be right now,” Deborah said to her friend as China sat at the end of the room farthest from the judge’s bench. As if Deborah hadn’t spoken, China said, “Holberry told me about the way they do trials here. When I figured I was going to be the one, I wanted to know how things would play out, so I asked him.” She looked straight ahead, as if she could see the scene in front of them as she described it. “Here’s the deal: They don’t use juries. Not like we do. I mean, not like at home. There’s no putting people in the jury box and asking them questions to make sure they haven’t already decided to send someone to the chair. What they use here are professional jurors. It’s their job, like. But I don’t see how you can get a fair trial out of that. Doesn’t it mean anyone can talk to them in advance? And they can read about the case if they want to, can’t they? They can probably even conduct their own investigations, for all I know. But it’s different than at home.”

“That makes it scary,” Deborah admitted.

“At home I’d have an idea what to do right now because I’d know how things work. We could find someone who knows how to scope out jurors and choose the best ones. We could give interviews to the press. We could talk to TV reporters or something. We could mould public opinion in some way so that if it came to a trial—”

“Which it won’t,” Deborah said firmly. “Which it won’t. You do believe that, don’t you?”

“—we’d at least have made some kind of inroad into how people feel and what they think. He’s not without friends. I’m here. You’re here. Simon’s here. We could do something. Couldn’t we? If things were the same, like at home...?”

Home, Deborah thought. She knew her friend was right. What she was having to face would be so much less excruciating if she were at home, where the people were familiar, the objects all round were familiar, and where, most important, the procedure itself—or at least what led up to it—was also familiar.

Deborah realised that she couldn’t offer China the sense of ease that came with familiarity, not in this place that spoke of a frightening future. She could only suggest a marginally less awful environment in which she might be able to comfort the woman who’d been such a comfort to her. She said softly into the silence that followed China’s remarks, “Hey, girlfriend...”

China looked at her.

Deborah smiled and chose what China herself might have said and what China’s brother definitely would have said. “It’s a downer here. Let’s blow this joint.”

Despite her present frame of mind, Deborah’s old friend smiled in turn. “Yeah. All right. Cool,” she said.

When Deborah rose and offered China her hand, she took it. And she didn’t let go till they were out of the courtroom, down the stairs, and out of the building.

In a thoughtful state, St. James rang off from his second conversation of the day with Lynley. Vallera & Son hadn’t been difficult to extract information from, according to what the New Scotland Yard superintendent had told him. Whoever had been at the receiving end of Lynley’s call had apparently not been playing with a full deck of the intelligence cards: Not only had the individual yelled to someone “Dad! Hey! Got a call from Scotland here! D’you believe it?” when Lynley had identified himself after tracking down the business in Jackson Heights, New York, but he had also been cooperatively voluble when Lynley inquired as to the exact nature of Vallera & Son’s professional pursuit.

In an accent worthy of The Godfather, the man—Danny Vallera he said he was called—informed Lynley that Vallera & Son was an enterprise that cashed paycheques, offered loans, and wired money “all around the world if you want. Why? You looking to send some bucks over here? We c’n do that for you. We c’n change stuff to dollars. What you got over there in Scotland, anyway? You guys use francs? Crowns? You on the euro? We c’n do it all. ’Course, it’s gonna cost you.”

Affable to the end and clearly without a grain of sense—much less suspicion—he’d explained that he and his dad wired money in increments of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars—“And you can add the ninety-nine cents if you want to”—with a chuckle—“but that seems like stretching things, don’t it?”—for discriminating individuals who didn’t want the Feds to come knocking upon their doors, which they probably would do if over time Vallera & Son reported wire transfers of ten thousand dollars or more as required by “Uncle Samuel and the Washington jerk-offs.” So if someone from Scotland wanted to send someone in the U.S. of A. anything less than ten thousand buckos, Vallera & Son would be happy to play the middleman in the operation, for a fee of course. In the U.S. of A., centre of politicians on the take, lobbyists on the give, elections fixed, and capitalism gone mad, there was always a fee. And if the amount to be wired was more than nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents, what happened then?

Lynley had inquired.

Oh, then Vallera & Son had to report the amount to the Feds. And what did the Feds do?

Got interested when they got around to getting interested. If your name was Gotti they got interested pronto. If you were Joe Schmo Recently in the Dough, it might take them longer.

“It was all quite illuminating,” Lynley had said to St. James at the conclusion of his report. “Mr. Vallera might have gone on indefinitely because he seemed to be delighted to have a call from Scotland.”