The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(97)

Jenkins smiled. “Elizabeth.”

“We can call her Lizzie,” Alex said.

“What about Paulina?” Jenkins said. “Maybe for a middle name.”

“The woman from Russia?” Alex asked.

“She’s the reason I’m here, holding our daughter. She never had children. This would be a way for her to live on.”

Alex tried out the name. “Elizabeth Paulina Jenkins. It has a nice ring to it.”

The curtain pulled back and a nurse stood with CJ. Jenkins moved so CJ could climb onto the bed next to his mother. Alex kissed him, and he became a little boy again, snuggling close to her side. Jenkins bent down so CJ could see his sister. “You want to hold her?”

“Can I?”

“Sure. Hold your arms out like this. You need to support her head.”

CJ did and Jenkins placed his daughter in the crook of the boy’s arm. CJ smiled up at them. Then, in a serious voice, he whispered, “I’ll take care of her, Dad. I promise.”

Jenkins smiled back, anything but certain he’d be there, also, to care for them both.





57



A week after Elizabeth’s birth, they all returned to Sloane’s house on Three Tree Point. As part of his bail requirements, Jenkins had to stay in King County, and they all agreed it was safer for him and his family at Three Tree than on the isolated farm on Camano. Sloane’s house was also closer to the courthouse in downtown Seattle, which gave Sloane and Jenkins more opportunities to talk. In between taking care of Alex and the baby, Jenkins made sure CJ kept on top of his homework. The additional responsibilities were a blessing, giving Jenkins something to do, and keeping his mind otherwise occupied, but only to a point.

The trial loomed over him like the glistening blade of a guillotine, even more so now that they had Lizzie.

Thursday afternoon, Sloane asked Jenkins to meet him at the office. Jenkins arrived at four, with dusk settling in. They pulled chilled glasses from the freezer and filled them at a keg in the kitchen, then sat in the main conference room.

“I talked to Maria Velasquez this afternoon,” Sloane said, sounding somewhat hesitant. “In exchange for a plea of diminished capacity, she’ll recommend two years in a psychiatric ward. Then you’re free.”

“They want me to plead insanity?”

“Diminished capacity,” Sloane said.

“I know what it means,” Jenkins said.

“You’d have this behind you. You could all move on.”

Jenkins sipped his beer and set it down on the table. He looked to the silver bracelet on his wrist.

“Until one of the kids at CJ’s school, or a fisherman, tells him that his father was a nut job in addition to being a traitor. I could move on, David, if it was just me. But my kids would have to live with that admission for the rest of their lives. I don’t want to do that to them.”

“If you don’t take the plea, the government will pursue life in prison.”

“We knew that, didn’t we?”

Sloane nodded.

“I know you’re obligated to present the deal to me, and you have, but I won’t agree to any deal that requires me to admit I was crazy.”

Again Sloane did not respond, and for the first time, Jenkins sensed uncertainty.

“Do you think I should consider this?” Jenkins asked.

“We haven’t been able to come up with any evidence to support our position, Charlie,” Sloane said. “And I’m not sure we will. Emerson seems to have vanished. Traeger is cooperating with the government, Goldstone is working on a plea agreement and can’t say anything until it’s finalized, and we can’t get in the polygraph, and we have no documents.”

Jenkins said, “Do you think I’m telling the truth?”

“Whether I think you’re telling the truth is irrelevant, Charlie,” Sloane said.

“Not to me. Do you think I’m telling the truth?”

“Of course, Charlie, but . . .”

“But what?”

“We hired a consultant by the name of Conrad Levy. He’s an ex—”

“I know who he is. He’s the guy who wrote the book about the CIA and sold out about a dozen former agents.”

Sloane told Jenkins the details of his conversation with Levy. Then he said, “Again, Charlie. It’s not about the truth. It’s about what we can prove. What we heard from Levy is likely what we’ll hear from the government. It’s a compelling argument.”

“But it isn’t the truth.”

Sloane nodded. “There may be another way,” he said. “There’s a psychiatrist I’ve used in the past who could do an evaluation. Depending on the results, it might be the best evidence we have to argue you are telling the truth.”

“Then let’s do it,” Jenkins said.



For the next three days Jenkins submitted to extensive interviews and a battery of psychological tests administered by a psychiatrist named Addison Beckman. A woman in her midfifties, Beckman was held in high esteem by the profession, especially in forensic psychiatry.

Sloane and Jake met with Beckman in the conference room before she’d committed her findings to writing. If she told them Jenkins was crazy as a loon, they’d never mention her and her tests at trial. Beckman declined coffee or tea. She seemed eager to talk. When seated at the conference room table she said, “He’s as straight as they come. Too straight. It would be better for him if he’d loosen up a bit.”