As expected, the judge takes little time finding probable cause to hold my case over for trial. The court adjourns a moment later. Allison walks over to the prosecutor, Ghadiali. “I want testing on everything found in that trunk,” she says. “The bag, the pills, the lipstick. DNA and prints. I’ll file a motion if you won’t agree.”
“We’re already planning to do that,” he replies. “File a motion if you want.”
Allison nods and returns to the defense table as people filter out of the courtroom.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “What does this mean?”
Allison turns to me. “What does it mean? It means somebody told the cops that the car you were driving contained drugs. It means you were set up, Luke.” She leans in and whispers in my ear. “Still wanna plead guilty?”
18
Allison
“Who? Who would’ve set me up?” Luke asks as we leave the criminal courts building and walk to the parking garage across California Avenue.
“That’s confidential, isn’t it?” says Finley. “I thought they didn’t reveal their sources.”
“Stop it, both of you,” I hiss under my breath. “Not until we’re inside the car. Not another word until then.”
A photographer approaches with a press credential affixed to his coat. I put out my hand like a stop sign. “Could we do that another time?”
The photographer, about to squat down before us, stands and smiles. “Allison, it’s Barry, from the AP.”
Right, the Associated Press photog. “Oh, Barry—good to see you. It’s been a long time. Not since the senator’s trial.”
“You look well,” he says. “Listen, I need a shot today. Those are my orders. We can do it however you want. I just need the photo.”
It’s a tough time for newspapers. An even tougher time for photographers. Plus, he’ll snap the shot whether we like it or not. “Can you give us two seconds?” I ask.
“Will you be in it, too?”
“You wantmein it?”
“Are you kidding? You’re part of the story.”
I sigh. It’s not as if we have a choice. “Promise you’ll make him look good?”
“Promise.”
I turn to Luke. “We do this once and they won’t bother us again,” I say. “Carry my briefcase. You’ll look chivalrous. And turn to me as if explaining something. Explain…explain to me how to throw a changeup. Don’t smile, don’t frown, just look matter-of-fact. We’ll just walk and talk like the photog isn’t there. It will be over before you know it.”
Luke takes the briefcase from my hand. “They teach you that in law school?”
Finley pulls away from us. Luke and I walk toward California Avenue while the photographer snaps away.
“…It looks like a fastball in all respects,” says Luke, “but you don’t snap your wrists. So if you do it right, it should come in about eighty-five, ninety percent of the speed of your fastball.”
“All done,” the photographer calls out. “I’ll use a good shot, Allison.”
We get inside the car, Finley the driver, while I sit in back with Luke.
“I don’t get it,” says Luke. “Who would set me up? Can we find out?”
“I don’t think so,” says Finley. “Cops don’t have to reveal confidential sources, do they?”
“Let me talk, please.” I put out my hand. “In terms of what we can find out—generally speaking, we aren’t allowed to learn the name of a confidential informant. There is an exception to that rule if the C.I. was a participant in the crime itself, because then they’re a material witness, and the prosecution is required to give us the informant’s identity. But that’s not the case here. You were alone in the car. All the informant did was provide a tip from a distance. Whether you’re guilty or not has nothing to do with him. So they’re never going to disclose the identity. I can try to find out, but no judge is going to give us that information. The law protects C.I.s scrupulously.”
Luke shakes his head. “That’s ridiculous. Anyway, Trinity would never do this to me.”
