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“But you’re sort of stuck with me, right? If you want to get these cops, you need me.”

“No. I don’t need you. Judge McCandless remanded to custody eleven individuals such as yourself. We need only two of them to cooperate. You do not have to be one of the two. The only reason I spoke with you now is because you were one of the first to be rearrested.”

“Meaning what?”

“You are in no position to bargain, Mr. Brownlee. You can either cooperate or not cooperate. The choice is yours. What’s it going to be?”

Baby Brownlee considered that for a moment.

“I think I want to talk to my lawyer,” he said.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Brownlee,” Washington said, and walked out of the interview room, closing the door behind him.

There were four Highway patrolmen in the office, and sitting in a row of wooden armchairs along one wall, five prisoners, among them Mr. Amos J. Williams.

Detective Summers came out of the room adjacent to the interview room.

“Didn’t work, huh, Jason?”

“Oh, ye of little faith!” Washington replied.

He motioned to a Highway Patrol sergeant.

“This is the script,” he said softly. “Each detail is important, and please try not to overact. First, you, Sergeant, will go to Mr. Williams and inquire if he is ‘Williams, Amos.’ When he replies in the affirmative, you will unshackle him from his chair, ask him to stand, handcuff him behind his back, and then move him to one of the chairs against the opposite wall, to which you will handcuff him.”

“Okay.”

“Then you will bring . . .” he paused as he looked carefully at each of the remanded prisoners “. . . the beady-eyed specimen second from the right, handcuffed in front, and stand him near the door to the interview room.”

“Okay.”

“I will then announce that I am about to answer nature’s inevitable summons, and exit stage left—in other words, in the direction of Captain Quaire’s office,” Washington went on. “You will then enter the interview room, free Mr. Brownlee from the chair, handcuff him, again behind his back, and lead him out of the room, carefully holding his chained wrists. You will stop at a position from which Mr. Brownlee can clearly see the specimen whom you have moved to the position indicated. At that point, you will turn to Detective Summers and inquire, ‘Where does the boss want this one to go?’ or words to that effect, whereupon Detective Summers will say, ‘He said put the ones going to the Detention Center over there,’ or words to that effect, as you point at Mr. Williams. You will then take Mr. Brownlee to the chair beside Mr. Williams and handcuff him to the chair, and to Mr. Williams. You will then lead the previously positioned specimen with the watery eyes into the interview room and cuff him to the chair.”

“Okay,” the sergeant and Detective Summers said, smiling.

“I will then reappear, enter the interview room, and chat with the specimen for no more than three minutes. I will then open the door and order that he be taken to a stenographer—tangentially, I presume that the good ladies have answered the call to duty despite the obscene hour?”

“One of the ladies is a him,” Summers said. “Guy named Forbes. But he’s good.”

“Washington, you really think you can get that scumbag to talk in three minutes?” the Highway sergeant asked.

“I’m not even going to try,” Washington said. “Just look at him. He would make a terrible witness. What I will do is ensure he will come out of the interview room looking enormously relieved, or pleased, and possibly both.”

“Which, Sergeant,” Summers said, “will not be lost on the two who think they’re going directly to the slam, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred bucks. They will wonder what they’re missing out on.”

“I think three minutes will be sufficient time for Mr. Brownlee to inform Mr. Williams of the deal he was offered and rejected, and for Mr. Williams to conclude that Mr. Brownlee made a gross error in judgment in not accepting it.”

“You really think that will work?” the sergeant asked, smiling.

“Are you a betting man, Sergeant?” Detective Summers asked. “I’ll give you three-to-one that it will. I’ve seen this guy at work before.”

TWENTY-THREE

Thank you, Jason,” Peter Wohl said, his voice very serious, even disappointed. “It was worth a try.”

Wohl dropped the telephone handset into its cradle and looked, not smiling, at Dennis Coughlin.

He shook his head sadly, but said nothing.