Katherine abruptly stood up and I followed her out. I barely had time to turn around and give Eddie Golden the bird. It was juvenile as hell, but hey; I got swept up in the mood of the moment.

Outside the JAG building, I lost control. I literally grabbed Katherine, picked her up, and spun her around in the air. She smiled and giggled and ordered me to put her down right away or she’d knee me in the nuts so hard they’d pop out my ears. So I did.

“God, that was great!” I yelled, exultant.

“No, that was fun,” Katherine corrected. “Great would be if I could back it up.”

“Good point,” I admitted, starting to come down off my high.

“Boy, he is a slick bastard, isn’t he?”

“Slick? You think that was slick? Wait’ll you see him in court,” I ruefully warned.

We walked to the gate, neither saying a word, just privately mulling.

Katherine finally said, “Why do they want a deal?”

“They want to reduce the risk, especially on this case. And they want to prevent us from humiliating Minister Lee by outing his son. They must suspect we have something.”

“You think your visit to his house might be behind this?”

“Yeah, I think. That must’ve been why Janson was so pissed. Unless I miss my guess, somebody damned important, maybe Brandewaite or Spears, ordered Golden to get a deal. Janson probably argued against it, lost, and got so incensed he decided to take it out on me.”

I kept to myself that Clapper, the chief of the JAG Corps, might’ve authored the idea of a deal because, if we lost, I could always launch an appeal based on command influence, citing him as the cause. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed Clapper was behind it. Boy, would I have liked to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.

She said, “I think you’re wrong. I think they’re afraid of the six hundred protesters OGMM brought in.”

“That could be a factor,” I admitted.

“A factor? They’re scared to death of what we might do next. In fact, I think it’s time to turn up the heat.”

“And what would be the purpose of that?” I asked, sounding edgy and concerned, because I was.

“If things don’t improve in five days, we may have to consider a deal. Let’s see if we can convince them to sweeten the pot.”

“To what?”

“Make them drop the engaging in homosexual acts and fraternization charges.”

“What’s the sense in that?”

“They’re just the two I want dropped,” she said, refusing to elaborate. “Trust me on this,” she continued. “To quote your friend Fast Eddie, if they convict on murder one, the other stuff’s just peachfuzz anyway.”

Knowing Katherine, I didn’t believe for a second she was being anywhere near so arbitrary. I wasn’t sure what she was up to, but she was hatching some plan.

CHAPTER 22

I hit McDonald’s again and picked up four Big Macs to go with the medicinal necessities I’d already bought, which included another six-pack of Molson and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, which, if you don’t know, is the best brand of Johnnie Walker money can buy. And in case you don’t know, it cost a fortune. I almost cried because I wasn’t going to get a drop.

The guard at the desk instantly recognized me, so I didn’t have to pantomime or otherwise act like an overanimated clown to make him understand I wanted to see Whitehall. He went and got the big brute, who walked in grouchy-faced, not the least bit happy to see me.

He ordered me over to a side room, and once we were there, said, “No more contraband may be smuggled in to Whitehall. Open your briefcase so I can search it.”

I did and the odor of the Big Macs poured out. He grinned, then bent over and reached his big paws inside. What he pulled out was the Johnnie Walker Blue, which he stared at like it was the Holy Grail.

“That’s yours,” I announced. “And two of the Big Macs.”

His eyes fixed on mine, he tilted his head sideways, and his shoulder muscles got all bunched up. I couldn’t tell if this was moral indecision or preparation to punch me for so blatantly trying to bribe him.

I quickly said, “You got any idea what a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue costs?”

“Two hundred and twenty-two dollars,” he murmured. Somewhat passionately, too. When it comes to a man’s taste in booze, my prescience can be uncanny. Of course, anybody who looked like him had be a scotch man. He was too damned ugly to sneak up on any other kind of hooch.

He eagerly stuffed the bottle down his shirt, crammed the two burgers in his side trouser pockets, and closed the lid on my briefcase. He handed it to me, then slyly hooked a finger.

When we got to Whitehall’s cell, he opened it and waved for me to enter. “One hour,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied, and he locked the door behind me and disappeared. I turned around. “Hi, Tommy.”

Whitehall didn’t get up. He lay on his back. “Hello, Major.”

I kicked my briefcase in his direction. “Open it. I brought you more treats.”

My eyes still weren’t adjusted to the near-darkness, but I heard him rustle around. The clasp clicked open, and the disruptive odor of fast food again permeated the cell. It was a good thing, too, because once again Whitehall’s cell smelled like human dung, the consequence, I guess, of my earlier visit.

Then I heard him wolfing down that first hamburger. Then a pshht as he popped open a Molson, and another as he opened one for me. I accepted it and leaned smugly against the wall listening to the bestial sounds of him devouring his treats. I needed him in a good mood. I needed him pliant. The time had come for our most important discussion yet.

Finally done with the burgers, Whitehall said, “You seem quiet. What’s the matter? Things aren’t looking up?”

“No, Tommy, they’re not.”

He said, “Ummmh,” which was either a statement of hopeless acceptance, or bland acknowledgment. I couldn’t tell which. Maybe there’s no difference between the two.

“Did you look for the key?” he asked.

“I found it. I went to Minister Lee’s house and discovered it among No’s sealed possessions.”

He fell quiet again. Then, “What’s he like?”

“Minister Lee?”

“Yes, No’s father.”

“An impressive man. Tall for a Korean, maybe five-ten, slender, silver-haired, strong-featured, calm, and uh… I guess stately is the best word.”

“Sounds like No,” Tommy said.

“His mother’s no slouch, either. I’ll bet she was an incredible beauty. She’s still damned attractive,” I said, then added, “the old man’s hanging together, but his wife’s brittle. When we went in No’s bedroom I thought she was going to crumble.”

I wanted to see how he reacted to this, but in the dimness I couldn’t tell. I thought I heard a sigh, but maybe I was just imagining things.

Finally he asked, “But No still had the key when he died?”

“He still had it. The apartment management company still had all their copies, too. Know what that means, Tommy?”

“I didn’t do it,” he said, although in a very resigned tone, like he was tired of saying it and he knew I wouldn’t believe him.

“Katherine and I met with the prosecutor today. He offered a deal.”

“And what was his deal?”

“Plead to all charges and there’ll be no death sentence. You’ll get life.”

“That means no trial, right?”

“There’ll be a quick hearing, followed by a sentencing hearing, but the verdict will be predetermined. We’ll be allowed to present extenuating circumstances and beg for mercy, but the sentence won’t change. The key issue’s this: By pleading, you lose the right to appeal on the basis of flawed procedure, or an unfair trial, or an overly harsh sentence. An appeal will take the discovery of new evidence.”

“And what are the chances of that?”

“It happens sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Occasionally the real perp feels guilty and comes forward and confesses. Sometimes a detective investigating another case stumbles onto something tied to your case. We can look into hiring a private detective to keep digging around. That takes money, though. Lots of it.”