in this county since before God chiseled the Ten Commandments in stone with a hot finger and gave them to Moses. Tate will tell those willing to listen that he was master of ceremonies for the event. A blustery Irishman with a shocking bush of white hair and a ruddy complexion, Tate spends more time on his boat fishing and on the links playing golf than he does in his office. If they sublet the place, Tate would be last to notice. No one can remember the last time he tried a case. But he is a fixture among the county's political set. His name shows up at the top of everybody's list of the usual endorsers when elections roll around.
For all intents the office is run by Tate's number two, his chief deputy for the last twenty years, Daniel Edelstein. Stein, as he is called by those who know him (Edsel by those who don't like him), is a steely-eyed survivor of the bureaucracy. He is a man who doesn't say much at meetings. Instead, he watches the ebb and flow and has a keen knack of always ending up on the winning side of any controversy. He is a master of the subtle illusion of influence. Everybody in town wants his ear, even if one often senses that speaking into it has the same effect as talking to a brick. Anyone seeking success in the prosecutor's office can never stand too close to Edelstein.
At the moment, Tannery is right in his shadow. In fact, I am surprised when the two men come out of Edelstein's office together. We get the once-over from Stein, who smiles the kind of simpering grin that tells me we and our case have been the subject of recent conversation. Tannery peels off and comes our way.
"Mr. Madriani.. ."
"Make it Paul," I tell him.
"And you know Harry Hinds."
"Oh, sure." They shake hands. He is a felicitous soul, particularly for a prosecutor. Tannery doesn't seem to bear grudges or take hirrh self too seriously, a rare quality for someone in his position.
"I think it is important that we have this conversation," he says.
"In order to clear the air, before we go too much further."
"Trust you'll make it worth our while." Harry's smiling, as much as to suggest that Tannery owes us something for crossing town and meeting on his turf.
The D.A. smiles but doesn't reply. We follow him out of the reception area and down the wide corridor outside, away from the bank of elevators. He stops at a set of double doors just a little way away and works a key from his pocket in a shiny lock that looks as if it's just been fitted in the door.
"One of the conference rooms," he says.
"They put me in here until Dan, Mr.
Edelstein, clears his office."
Inside is a large conference table that Tannery has turned into a desk-cum-storage-area. On one end is his office computer, and a large desk blotter and telephone that he has commandeered from a side table against the wall. On the other is a stack of cardboard boxes filled with mementos, files and books, stuff from his old cubicle downstairs. The conference chairs have been bunched up around the middle of the long table. Harry and I sit on this side while Tannery goes around, stepping over the telephone cord, to the far side.
There's another stack of boxes, three in all, against the wall. He fishes in one of these and comes up with a black-covered three-ring binder. I recognize this as one of state's trial binders from the case. He sits at the table opposite us and opens it and studies the contents for a moment, then raises his eyes.
"We talked about reduction of the charges some time ago."
"Manslaughter," says Harry.
"One count, voluntary man."
"That's right."
I nod but don't say anything.
"It would have been a good resolution of the case; at least I felt at the time that it might have been a fair disposition," says Tannery.
"Our client is a hard sell," says Harry.
"Yes. My boss is that way, too. He wasn't happy, but he allowed me to inquire.
Since then, however, things may have changed."
I can feel the breath go out of Harry.
"In what way?" I
For all intents the office is run by Tate's number two, his chief deputy for the last twenty years, Daniel Edelstein. Stein, as he is called by those who know him (Edsel by those who don't like him), is a steely-eyed survivor of the bureaucracy. He is a man who doesn't say much at meetings. Instead, he watches the ebb and flow and has a keen knack of always ending up on the winning side of any controversy. He is a master of the subtle illusion of influence. Everybody in town wants his ear, even if one often senses that speaking into it has the same effect as talking to a brick. Anyone seeking success in the prosecutor's office can never stand too close to Edelstein.
At the moment, Tannery is right in his shadow. In fact, I am surprised when the two men come out of Edelstein's office together. We get the once-over from Stein, who smiles the kind of simpering grin that tells me we and our case have been the subject of recent conversation. Tannery peels off and comes our way.
"Mr. Madriani.. ."
"Make it Paul," I tell him.
"And you know Harry Hinds."
"Oh, sure." They shake hands. He is a felicitous soul, particularly for a prosecutor. Tannery doesn't seem to bear grudges or take hirrh self too seriously, a rare quality for someone in his position.
"I think it is important that we have this conversation," he says.
"In order to clear the air, before we go too much further."
"Trust you'll make it worth our while." Harry's smiling, as much as to suggest that Tannery owes us something for crossing town and meeting on his turf.
The D.A. smiles but doesn't reply. We follow him out of the reception area and down the wide corridor outside, away from the bank of elevators. He stops at a set of double doors just a little way away and works a key from his pocket in a shiny lock that looks as if it's just been fitted in the door.
"One of the conference rooms," he says.
"They put me in here until Dan, Mr.
Edelstein, clears his office."
Inside is a large conference table that Tannery has turned into a desk-cum-storage-area. On one end is his office computer, and a large desk blotter and telephone that he has commandeered from a side table against the wall. On the other is a stack of cardboard boxes filled with mementos, files and books, stuff from his old cubicle downstairs. The conference chairs have been bunched up around the middle of the long table. Harry and I sit on this side while Tannery goes around, stepping over the telephone cord, to the far side.
There's another stack of boxes, three in all, against the wall. He fishes in one of these and comes up with a black-covered three-ring binder. I recognize this as one of state's trial binders from the case. He sits at the table opposite us and opens it and studies the contents for a moment, then raises his eyes.
"We talked about reduction of the charges some time ago."
"Manslaughter," says Harry.
"One count, voluntary man."
"That's right."
I nod but don't say anything.
"It would have been a good resolution of the case; at least I felt at the time that it might have been a fair disposition," says Tannery.
"Our client is a hard sell," says Harry.
"Yes. My boss is that way, too. He wasn't happy, but he allowed me to inquire.
Since then, however, things may have changed."
I can feel the breath go out of Harry.
"In what way?" I
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