me that his conversation with Cynthia Carelli yielded little. She has remarried and was reticent to discuss her previous husband with a stranger over the phone. Kevin did get her to say that she had no reason to question anything the Army told her about the crash, and he came down on the side of believing her. If we’re going to pursue that further, it will have to be in Seattle.
I don’t get a chance to tell Kevin much about Donna Banks, because we receive a phone call from Daniel Hawpe, the head prosecutor of Somerset County, and therefore Janine Coletti’s boss. He would very much like to meet with me as soon as possible at his office. He has cleared his schedule for the day, so whenever I arrive will be fine.
It is an unusual development on a number of levels. Just the fact that Hawpe, rather than Coletti, made the call is a surprise, but the entire tone is strange. Prosecutors as a rule spend every free minute they have complaining that they never have a free minute. They wear their overwork as a badge of honor, and for someone on Hawpe’s level to clear an afternoon’s schedule for a defense attorney might well get him drummed out of the prosecutors’ union.
Kevin is busy working on some pretrial motions, so I decide to drive down there myself. I arrive at about three o’clock, and Hawpe’s assistant just about lights up when she sees me. “Mr. Hawpe said to bring you right in,” she says. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I’m starting to let this feeling of power go to my head; I almost demand a pipe and slippers. But instead I let myself be led into Hawpe’s office.
There are basically three types of prosecutors. The first group consists of those who love their work, feel that they are contributing to society, and are likely to do this for the rest of their working life.
Then there is the group that sees it as a launching point to the other side, the defense side, where there is more money to be made. Having spent time as a prosecutor gives a defense attorney some additional credibility. It’s like hiring an ex-IRS agent to represent you in an audit. You feel that you’re better off having someone who’s been on the “inside.”
The third group, and the one to which Daniel Hawpe belongs, consists of people who view the prosecutor’s office as a stepping-stone to higher and greater political office. Hawpe is maybe thirty-five, tall, and good-looking and might as well be wearing a sign on his forehead that says, “One day you will be calling me Governor Hawpe.”
But for now he starts off by telling me to call him “Daniel,” and I, ever gracious, give him permission to use “Andy.”
“Andy, I’ve been following your career; you’ve won some great cases. I told Janine Coletti you were going to be a handful at the hearing.”
“Is she joining us for this meeting?” I ask.
“She’s been reassigned. I’m going to handle this from now on.”
This is a surprise, and probably unfair to her. She did a decent, albeit unspectacular, job. “She’s a good attorney,” I say.
He nods vigorously. “Damn good. Damn good. This is no reflection on her; we’re just going to take this case in a new direction.”
“Which direction might that be?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“It’s time to wrap this up, Andy. We don’t need another trial, even though I think we’d win it. And Evans certainly doesn’t need it. It’s time to plead it out.”
I’m not surprised that he’s making the offer, though the speed with which he’s making it is quite unusual. We only got the new trial yesterday. By doing it in this manner, he’s looking more than a little anxious, and thereby hurting his negotiating position. He must know that but clearly isn’t bothered by it.
“What’s your offer?” I ask.
“Time served plus ten. He’ll be up for parole in five, and we won’t oppose it as long as he’s a good boy in prison.”
It’s a shocking offer. In the original trial, the prosecution went for life without the possibility of parole and got it. Now we’ve got some new forensic evidence and a dog that didn’t die, and Richard can be out in five years. It’s generous to the point of nonsensical, and if we accept it, it will be an embarrassment for his office.
“I’ll convey it to my client,” I say. “But he’s already