The Guilty Plea Read Online Free PDF

hall.
    A few steps in she heard a voice coming from the room. “No. No!” It was Goodling. She was screaming.
    Kwon’s heart beat fast. She kept going. Five more steps and she’d be at the door. Then she made a rookie mistake—she sped up.
    Her quickened pace caught the corner of the bodyguard’s eye. His head jerked around. Moving with surprising dexterity for such a big man, he lunged inside the hotel room.
    He was slamming the door shut. There was only one thing to do. Kwon pressed the Video Shoot button and dove straight ahead, like a goalie in a soccer match reaching for a top corner shot. She heard Goodling scream out something and felt a whoosh of air as the door banged shut.
    Kwon’s chin hit the wood floor and her teeth rattled at the back of her jaw. Then her whole body crashed.
    I really am getting too old for this, she thought, lying spread out in the middle of the empty hallway. She turned the camera toward her and switched it to display mode. A short video of Goodling played on the screen. Kwon played it again, this time frame by frame, like the Zapruder film of President Kennedy getting shot in Dallas.
    Kwon could feel the adrenaline still in her body. Her chest and rib cage were sore, her chin was ripped open, and her back teeth felt tight. But it didn’t matter. She’d hit pay dirt. Without a doubt, right there at frame thirty-four, was the next cover of Faces magazine.

8
    Ari Greene stepped out of the elevator on the eleventh floor of the office building at 350 Bay Street, right across from the Old City Hall courthouse, and checked his watch. It was 9:50. As usual, he was early. A narrow metal sign that read DIPAULO & PARISH, SPECIALISTS IN CRIMINAL LAW , 1105, pointed to his right down a poorly lit hallway.
    The door to suite 1105 was a dull gray, and his opening it triggered an unseen bell that chimed out a high-pitched ding-dong. The law firm’s lobby was a mishmash of old sofas and a smattering of dated magazines. On top of the pile, an issue of The Hockey News from last spring celebrated the Toronto Maple Leafs’ unlikely Stanley Cup win. This summer the team released the veteran goaltender who’d been the surprise hero of the series. Instead they signed a young Swedish goalie. Greene’s father had been apoplectic.
    The reception desk was empty. The window behind it was covered by a dusty-looking blind clamped shut. Greene peeked over the edge and saw stacks of cardboard evidence boxes. An old-fashioned grandfather clock stood on the far wall, ticking as its pendulum swung back and forth.
    “Ari.”
    Greene turned to see Ted DiPaulo striding down the narrow corridor, the top button of his shirt open, his tie askew. The lawyer’s whole face broke into a grin as the two men shook hands. He had one of those winning smiles that lit up every room he was in, which he used like a weapon when he was in court to cajole witnesses, ingratiate himself to judges, and charm juries.
    DiPaulo held out his hand. “Thanks for coming down. You’re here early.”
    “Bad habit,” Greene said.
    He followed the lawyer down the hallway, thinking, as he always did when confronted with DiPaulo, how well the man’s stature matched his big voice and big ego. They passed the office of DiPaulo’s partner, Nancy Parish, who Greene knew from a previous murder trial. Her door was closed.
    Greene well remembered when DiPaulo had been the head of the Downtown Toronto Crown Attorney’s office. He’d been tough, even on the up-and-coming lawyers, who tended to idolize him. And he had loved big trials. The higher the profile the better.
    “How’re the kids?” Greene asked when DiPaulo had ushered him into his office.
    Unlike the barely furnished dinginess of the rest of the office, DiPaulo’s space was beautifully laid out.
    “Growing up too fast.”
    DiPaulo motioned Greene to the far chair near the window and settled himself into the other one. He left the door open behind him.
    “Your oldest must be in