Page 105 of The Instruments of Darkness

“You’ll need a unanimous verdict,” I said. “If Moxie can’t turn at least one juror in his sleep, he’ll retire to grow lemons in Florida. And he doesn’t even like lemons.”

The server arrived with a fresh glass of wine. As threatened, Nowak ordered death by chocolate, with some macerated berries to add spice to the autopsy.

“A conviction doesn’t have to mean a long sentence,” he said.

“Erin Becker has been making noises about upgrading to a murder charge. Twenty-five to life strikes me as plenty long.”

“The important word being ‘murder.’?”

“In this state ‘manslaughter’ doesn’t sound much better. That’s still up to thirty years.” Maine didn’t draw a distinction between voluntary and involuntary manslaughter. It was manslaughter, impure and rarely simple, with only the absence of malice to distinguish it. “By the way, and for the second time, shouldn’t you be having this conversation with Moxie?”

“What conversation?”

This was why I avoided lawyers, Moxie excepted, and only because he was also my lawyer.

“How does Becker feel about whatever it is that’s currently not being discussed?” I asked.

“Erin wants to prove a point, but she’d also like the headaches to go away.”

“And redecorate the AG’s office that you’re working so hard to vacate? I hear she’s big on chintz.”

“She’s old-fashioned that way,” said Nowak. “You tell Moxie from me that we require a conviction, but we don’t need Clark to do hard time. I’ve read the literature on postpartum depression. I sympathize.”

He maneuvered his features into the required expression, barely avoiding having to use his hands to manipulate the muscles directly.

“We’re not monsters in Augusta,” he continued, “but there are two constituencies that need to be satisfied. The first wants to see Clark punished, while the second doesn’t want to watch a woman being pilloried for a crime that may have resulted from psychological illness.”

“And both of them vote, right?”

His dessert arrived. Like most things to do with Paul Nowak, it was too rich for my blood.

“I’ve always believed,” said Nowak, “that Janus should be acclaimed as the god of politics.” He ate a spoonful of chocolate. His eyes closed briefly in bliss. “Do you want to try this? It’s really very good.”

“We’re not dating,” I said, “and I think it may sit better on your stomach than mine.”

“You’re not accustomed to the finer things in life.”

“Often by choice.”

“Your loss. Moxie Castin can line up enough expert testimony on the subject of childbirth, depression, and female psychosis to cause the spirit of Susan B. Anthony to descend on the courthouse and shed tears like rain, and we won’t contest a word of it as long as we can work out a plea deal. Clark will have to do some time, but if she cops to manslaughter, we won’t object to an EPRD of a year and a day from conviction, as long as it’s done quietly.” An EPRD was an Earliest Possible Release Date. “A year and a day: she won’t even feel it passing.”

“I think she might, and it’s not much consolation if she’s innocent.”

“It may be all the consolation she’s going to receive.”

“Plus you’re forgetting something.”

“I am? I must be growing old.”

“Her child. If she were to take the plea deal, wouldn’t she have to tell you what she did with her son’s body?”

“Perhaps she blotted it out. With the proper care and treatment, it may come back to her. It doesn’t have to be a condition of the plea.”

“So the boy’s fate remains unknown?”

Nowak swirled the fruit into the chocolate and took another massive spoonful, revealing his tongue and teeth. He ate with the unselfconsciousness of the fundamentally arrogant.

“The boy’s fate is known,” he said. “Henry Clark is dead. The bloodstains say so. But, on reflection, you’re right: we’ll need her to tell us how she disposed of the child, if only to oil the wheels. If she does, we’ll even let her attend the burial, as long as it’s conducted in private, and her husband doesn’t object.