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“You ready to help me dispel that bullshit? I’ll even pay you.”
“Always happy to help, John, but no can do.”
“Why not?”
I told him about the custody case.
He said, “Oh…yeah, that could get messy. Were you directly involved in solving it?”
“Depends on how you look at it.”
“Not really, Alex. What exactly did you do?”
“Had a thought and made a suggestion.” I filled him in.
He said, “You really didn’t activelydoanything, you just intellectualized.”
I said, “There you go.”
“It could still get messy, though. The main thing is your name shouldn’t appear in the murder book.”
“I have no problem with that.”
“I’ll call Milo and make sure you’repersona invisibilia.Meanwhile, who would you recommend to evaluate this asshole?”
“There’re plenty of good people, John. I’m sure you’ve used some of them.”
“Good point,” he said. “Have a nice day.”
—
Two good people, both of whom I knew, were contacted. But it never got to the point of a mental evaluation because Conrad Deeb was “utterly repulsed by the notion of being adjudged psychiatrically defective.”
Normally, I’d assume that was lawyer-speak but in this case I suspected a direct quote from the defendant.
In the end, everything resolved as even the worst of crimes often do, after convoluted, legalistic horse-trading.
A ritual. Everyone knew the outcome but criminal attorneys are bred to paw the dirt and lunge for the throat.
In exchange for pleading to first-degree murder to Gannett and Delage, Conrad Deeb received the possibility of parole for each of two life sentences.
Simplifying matters, Nguyen got the D.A.’s in Rochester and Columbus to accept Deeb’s Alford plea. Not acknowledging guilt on Wurtz and Walenska but admitting that enough evidence existed to convict him. Two additional life sentences to be served concurrently.
Deeb’s primary goal: avoiding a trial in Missouri where the death penalty could still mean just that. Walenska’s father objected initially but was won over by his wife, a former Quaker.
Deeb got sent to Pelican Bay where he began to file verbose appeals for himself and on the behalf of other incorrigibles.
Milo said, “He’s gotta be smart enough to know it’s futile.”
I said, “He’s probably concentrating on the other guys. They see him as useful, it’s life insurance.”
“Ah,” he said. He laughed. “I say that a lot when I’m with you.”
He tapped the shiny, scarred wooden bar of the Irish tavern where we’d sat for the past hour. A surface, I realized, not unlike the hickory stick.
He drained his beer and his shot, let out a satisfied breath. “Another Chivas on me?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
