The Second Girl(21)
The corrections officer escorts me to the interview room, unlocks the door to let me in. Claypole’s sitting on an old wooden chair, leaning back to rest his large bald head against the dirty white cinder block wall. His goatee has grown. He keeps it well groomed, combed to split into two ponytails with rubber bands wrapped tight at the ends. He’s a big man, taller than me by a couple of inches, and I’m six one. He’s also got me by about a hundred pounds—a prison build. Granted, I’m not in the kinda shape I used to be, but I still have some good weight and can hold my own if I have to.
He’s wearing prison-issue orange pants and a matching short-sleeve V-neck pullover with a white T-shirt underneath. Old biker tattoos cover his neck and most of the space on his arms.
He drops the chair back down on all four legs, gives me an upward nod.
“You looking beat up, Marr,” he says, and then leans forward to fold his arms on the small table.
I sit on a chair at the other end so I can face him.
“I’ll catch up on my sleep over the weekend.”
“You got some news for me?”
“No, but I’m supposed to go over all the details of your case again, maybe see if there’s something useful for trial, something we mighta missed. But we both know that’d be a waste of time, right?”
He tightens his lips, straightens himself in the chair like he’s gonna say something, but doesn’t. I realize that wasn’t a good start to the conversation, so I adjust my tone.
“Ms. Costello thinks that’s what we’re gonna do, and I’d like her to think that’s what we did do next time you two meet.”
“What’s this about, Investigator Marr?”
“I’m hoping to convince you that you’re about to really f*ck things up with your life.”
He clenches his jaw, and the muscles going down his neck tighten, but it’s not a nervous reaction. Then, impressively, he adjusts and relaxes himself. He puts his forearms back on the table and tries to act like he cares about what I’ve got to say.
“You nearly beat that bouncer to death. We’ve been over all that plenty of times before, but I think it needs to be brought up again. There are witnesses who’ll say it was because he was doing his job, not letting you in the club ’cause you already had too much to drink.”
“In his opinion I had too much to drink, which wasn’t the case, and as far as those witnesses go, they all work at the club.”
“Yeah, we’ve been over all that.”
“And what about my witnesses? Dude gave me a hard time just ’cause I was white.”
“Let me finish, here.”
He nods, but just barely, as if I’ve been given approval to continue.
“The government’s gonna have all their witnesses and I’m sure plenty of others that’ll testify that you were disruptive and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They’ll say you threw the first punch. We know that part is true, ’cause you even admit to that.”
“Hell yeah, he put his f*cking hands on me. I had to defend myself.”
“Some will say that he was just trying to escort an unruly man out. But let’s step back and say, like you mentioned, that you threw the first punch ’cause you were defending yourself. A fight ensued and you even took a couple of nice punches yourself. The problem is you kept throwing punches even after the man was down. It ain’t anything like self-defense if you stopped the threat after, what, the second punch?”
He tilts his head, with what I would take as an inappropriate half smile, as if it’s something he’s proud of.
I continue. “The prosecutor’s not gonna have a hard time convincing a jury that he wasn’t a threat after you knocked him down like that. They’ll say all you had to do at that point was walk away. And trust me on this, Claypole—you sure as hell won’t have a chance of beating the charge if you try to make this into a black-white thing. We both know that ain’t true and all that’ll do is backfire on you, make you look like the racist. So, barring some kinda miracle, you’ll more than likely be found guilty. Come sentencing time, you’ll be looking at five to fifteen. With your history, you’ll get somewhere in between.”
“Man, this is some bullshit.”
“You gotta lose that pride, my man. Pick your battles, forfeit this one.”
“Sheeit.”
“What I’m getting at is you might want to consider the offer you’ve been given. You take the plea and you’ll more than likely get out in less than three, with good behavior, of course.”
“And what does Ms. Costello say about this?”
“I told you, she doesn’t know we’re having this conversation. As far as she knows, I’m here in an effort to find something new, something that might help her during trial. In fact, she’s back at her office preparing to go to trial. I’m just saying, based on all my experience, that this is not a case you want to take to trial.”
“Fucking three years?”
“Including the time you’ve been held, probably less. Shit, that’s nothin’ for someone like you. Eat regular, work those free weights, clean out your body and mind.”
“Yeah, a f*cking vacation, right?”
I don’t reply to that.
“Man, I just got back on track with my lady and now this shit,” he says.