Overkill(19)
“That extra day makes a difference? That’s bullshit justice.”
“Which is why that common law no longer applies. Medical advancements have enabled people to survive injuries that otherwise would have been fatal. There have been cases where the victims of violent crimes remained alive for years before they succumbed.
“The assailant, who might or might not have been convicted of a lesser crime, could, upon the victim’s death, be charged with murder or manslaughter if it’s proved that the injuries sustained during the commission of the crime ultimately cost him his life. Many of these cases have gone as far as the Supreme Court. They’ve been precedent-setting.”
He assimilated all that, then said, “What’s this got to do with Eban Clarke?”
“He committed an act that placed Rebecca’s life in danger. He used his hands, but hands can cause bodily harm or death. Therefore, they’re a weapon. He was charged, tried, and convicted of aggravated assault, a felony.
“But the judge who reviewed the case has determined that since Clarke’s ‘intent’ was not to harm Rebecca, he should have been charged with simple battery, which is a misdemeanor. Misdemeanors are punishable by less than one year’s incarceration. He’s served twenty-six months. Therefore…” She raised her shoulders.
“What kind of fucked-up judicial system would allow him to walk the streets?”
“Well, it might be effed up,” she said, “but we do have a judicial system, and it could be used to see that Eban Clarke receives the punishment he deserves, which I believe should be life imprisonment.”
“I wish. But retrying him for the same crime would be double jeopardy.”
She took a deep breath and in a quiet voice said, “Not if he’s now charged and tried for murder.”
“He can’t be charged with murder as long as Rebecca is still—”
He broke off. It was plain to her that understanding had struck him like a bolt of lightning.
She hoped he sensed the compassion she felt for him at this moment, hoped her voice would convey it. “Eban Clarke can’t be brought to justice as long as Rebecca is still alive.”
Chapter 8
Eban had endured the obligatory happy hour with his father and Upton, but he’d been itching with impatience to make his escape as soon as possible.
He’d fibbed. His friends hadn’t planned this dinner out. He had. And he’d insisted that Cal and Theo join him. “No excuses,” he’d said.
For the occasion, he’d chosen a restaurant that had been one of their favorites. In the heart of Buckhead, it was exclusive, expensive, and hip, a spot in which to see and be seen.
When he pulled up in his new car, the awestruck parking valets motioned him into the VIP space near the canopied entrance. God, he loved being kowtowed to. How he’d missed it! Since the so-called “victim” of his “crime” had been Zach Bridger’s ex-wife, he’d been afforded no deferential treatment from fans of Bridger’s in Reidsville, which had amounted to just about everybody, guards and cons alike.
But Eban Clarke was free and ready to party, and he wanted to blare it to the entire world.
However, upon entering the restaurant, he experienced a crushing letdown. While he’d been away, the place had undergone a metamorphosis. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why the vibe felt different.
Well, actually he could. It no longer had a vibe. It barely had a pulse.
The hostess was a brunette knockout wearing a short, tight, black dress that showed a good two inches of cleavage. But her eyes didn’t light up with recognition when he sauntered toward her. Instead she asked for his name and put it on a list. A list!
The previous bartender, who’d made a perfect dirty martini and told great dirty jokes, had been replaced by an indifferent automaton. He had little to say, and his martini lacked a pleasurable sting.
Eban was becoming depressed.
Then Cal and Theo walked in. The hostess indolently pointed them toward the bar. Eban came off his stool and spread his arms. “Finally! What took you so long?”
He grabbed Theo first and pulled him into a man-hug, thumped him on the back several times, then pushed him away to arm’s length. “Where’s your hair gone?”
“Screw you.”
Eban laughed and turned to Cal. “Come here, you son of a gun.” He gave Cal a similar hug. When he set him away, he said, “Tell me it isn’t so. You got married? Married?”
“That’s right.”
“On purpose?”
“I was afraid she’d never say yes.”
“How is married life?”
“I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”
Eban turned to Theo and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “What else is he going to say?”
Theo chuckled, Cal smiled, but the quip didn’t elicit a swap of good-natured putdowns that Eban had expected it to.
The hostess approached and said, “Your table is ready, sir.”
Sir? How old did she think he was?
She seated them in a semicircular booth, Eban in the middle. They toasted his early release with a round of drinks. But by the time they’d finished their shared platter of raw oysters, Eban was wondering where his playmates had gone and was asking himself who these two stodgy substitutes were.