The Conviction
PRAISE FOR
ROBERT DUGONI
“With each new novel, Robert Dugoni continues to prove both his talent and his craft. His books remind me of the best of John Grisham—only better! Read him now!”
—JAMES ROLLINS
“Dugoni has often been described as a challenger to Turow and other big names in the legal-thriller genre, but at this point, he’s claimed his own position on the A-list. A must read for fans of courtroom drama, from Grisham to Turow to Erle Stanley Gardner.”
—BOOKLIST
“Tight plotting and well-developed characters push Dugoni to the head of the legal thriller pack.… John Grisham and Scott Turow fans should add Dugoni to their list of must-reads.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL (STARRED REVIEW)
“Robert Dugoni is a bona fide new talent.”
—JOHN LESCROART
In this gripping, high-octane thriller by critically acclaimed New York Times bestselling author Robert Dugoni, a father takes the law into his own hands to save his son, trapped in a juvenile detention center from hell.
Lawyer David Sloane is desperate to get through to his troubled teenage son Jake. Still reeling from the devastating loss of his mother in a brutal murder, Jake has spiraled out of control and Sloane has barely been able to keep him out of jail. So when his old friend, detective Tom Molia, suggests that they take their sons on a guys-only camping trip, Sloane gratefully accepts.
What Sloane imagines will be the perfect excursion turns into a horrifying nightmare when the boys are arrested for vandalizing a general store late at night while their fathers are asleep. The next morning, before Sloane and Molia even realize they’re gone, their sons are tried, convicted, and sentenced by the presiding judge to six months in the county wilderness detention camp, Fresh Start. For the teenagers, a grueling physical and psychological ordeal begins.
As Sloane fights the conviction against the boys, he discovers that local judge Earl Boykin’s authority seems to extend far beyond the confines of his courtroom. Meanwhile, on the inside, Jake is forced to grow up quickly and soon learns the hard way that this detention center has a very different purpose than rehabilitating troubled youths.
With their legal options exhausted, Sloane and Molia will do anything to save their sons—even mount a daring rescue operation that could win the boys their freedom… or cost all of them their lives.
ROBERT DUGONI has practiced as a civil litigator in San Francisco and Seattle for more than twenty-five years and is a two-time winner of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association Literary Contest. He is the author of Murder One, Bodily Harm, Wrongful Death, The Jury Master, and coauthor of The Cyanide Canary. Dugoni lives with his family in Seattle, Washington.
www.RobertDugoni.com
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COPYRIGHT © 2012 SIMON & SCHUSTER
Also by Robert Dugoni
Murder One
Bodily Harm
Wrongful Death
Damage Control
The Jury Master
The Cyanide Canary (nonfiction)
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by La Mesa Fiction, LLC
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First Touchstone hardcover edition June 2012
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dugoni, Robert.
The conviction : a novel / Robert Dugoni.—1st Touchstone hardcover ed.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3604.U385C66 2012
813’.6—dc23
2012013923
ISBN 978-1-4516-0672-0
ISBN 978-1-4516-0674-4 (eBook)
To my son, Joe, and my daughter, Catherine.
You both make me so proud.
God blessed me and your mother the day each of you was born.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgments
Epilogue
THE
CONVICTION
ONE
WAKEFIELD TAYLOR COURTHOUSE
MARTINEZ, CALIFORNIA
David Sloane stepped through the metal detector, grabbed his briefcase, and put on his coat while running toward a staircase, ignoring the elevators. On the second floor he slowed his pace, considering the letters above the tall wooden doors and the names on the clear plaques mounted to the wall. He entered the courtroom for the Hon. Irene Glazier as Judge Glazier scribbled final notes in a file and set it aside on her elevated desk. He had never met Lisa Lynch, a partner in Foster & Bane’s San Jose office—the law firm didn’t have a San Jose office when Sloane worked there, but he quickly deduced Lynch to be the blonde in a black suit standing and approaching counsel table as Judge Glazier called out the final case of the morning and the prosecutor shuffled through a stack of files at the adjacent table.
Sloane met Lynch as she set down her legal pad. “Good timing,” she said.
Ordinarily relaxed in the courtroom, today Sloane’s stomach churned. Lynch had sounded both competent and knowledgeable on the phone, but Sloane knew she too was working on the fly; neither of them had been provided with much in the way of details.
“Counsel.” Judge Glazier acknowledged them in a flat tone, face devoid of expression. African American, she pulled her hair back in a severe bun, accentuating high cheekbones.
“Marsha Gutierrez for the State,” the prosecutor said with a slight Hispanic accent.
“Good mo
rning, Your Honor, Lisa Lynch for the defendant. Also present at counsel table is Mr. Carter’s stepfather, David Sloane.”
Glazier stopped the busy work and raised her eyes. The prosecutor had also turned in Sloane’s direction. After a series of high-profile legal cases, Sloane’s reputation preceded him.
“Mr. Sloane. Are you here this morning as an attorney or as a parent?” Glazier asked.
“A parent, Your Honor. And Jake’s biological father, Frank Carter, will also be joining us,” Sloane said. “He’s parking the car.” As if on cue, Frank Carter pulled open the courtroom door, fixing his hair as he made his way to Sloane’s side.
Judge Glazier folded her hands atop the legal file. “I want to talk with you before we bring in your son. This is Jake’s second arrest for public intoxication in less than six months, and this time it was accompanied by violent acts and significant property damage.”
All Sloane knew was Jake had been arrested stumbling down a street in Concord not far from the home of a friend where he had requested to spend the night.
“Jake’s file indicates his mother is deceased?”
Sloane answered. “That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“She was murdered?”
“Yes,” Sloane said, voice falling.
“And I understand from the counselor’s report that Jake witnessed that event.”
“He did.”
Glazier sat back, index finger sawing across her lower lip. “He’s no longer in counseling?”
Sloane looked to Frank. “He was, for about a year, but the counselor felt he didn’t need it anymore.”
“I’d say it’s time for a new counselor,” Glazier said.
“He was doing okay up until about nine months ago.”
“What happened nine months ago?”
“Nothing I can pinpoint,” Carter said. “Adolescence, I guess.”
“Nothing? Change of schools? New friends? Some change in the home?”
Carter shook his head. “No. None of those things.”
Glazier leaned forward and propped her elbows on her desk. “I’m concerned, gentlemen. Your son’s offending behavior is escalating. According to the police reports he was drinking vodka with a stimulant called Red Bull. Are you familiar with it?”
“Not in any detail, Your Honor,” Sloane said.
“The stimulant acts to impede the body’s natural ability to shut down and pass out when intoxicated. It can increase a person’s normal tolerance. Jake’s blood alcohol level was two and a half times the legal limit. Point two-five. He wasn’t far from an overdose.”
Lynch spoke. “Your Honor, we would certainly abide by any court recommendation that Jake enter a substance abuse program and that he also restart his grief counseling.”
Gutierrez jumped in. “Your Honor, completion of a substance abuse program was a condition of Mr. Carter’s prior release,” she said, holding up a multipage document. “According to his caseworker, he failed to complete that program, was frequently absent, and displayed disdain when he did attend.”
“Mr. Sloane, you reside in Seattle, do you not?” Glazier asked.
“I do, Judge.”
“So, Mr. Carter, you have primary care of Jake?”
“Sole care,” he said. “But I work. I thought he was going. When I found out, I talked to him about it. I grounded him. I took away the car, his iPod, Xbox. He told me he was going.”
“That’s a problem,” Glazier said. “If I release him pending successful completion of the program and he does not attend, and you have no ability to ensure he does, I’m left with little choice but to incarcerate him and have him complete an in-detention program.”
Sloane had thought much of this through on the plane from Seattle and he and Frank discussed it on the car ride from the airport. “Your Honor, I’d be willing to take Jake back to Seattle with me and ensure he attends both grief counseling and a substance abuse program.”
Glazier’s brow furrowed. “And what about your career, Mr. Sloane; how would you manage that?”
“I’d take a leave of absence, if necessary,” Sloane said.
Glazier folded her hands, thumbs twirling.
Gutierrez spoke. “Judge, releasing Mr. Carter might very well be enabling him, in a sense sending him a message that no matter what he does he can get away with it.”
“That’s an extreme statement,” Lynch said. “We don’t discount that the charges here are very serious, but under the prosecutor’s rationale the court would be enabling any child it did not confine. Jake has a substance abuse problem. The violence evolved out of that problem. He needs help.”
“Not every child has ‘the lawyer who does not lose’ as a stepfather,” Gutierrez said with noticeable bite. Before anyone could respond she added, “Your Honor, the officer’s report indicates Mr. Carter had an aluminum baseball bat in hand, and had left a trail of broken taillights and smashed headlights in his wake, along with landscape lights strewn across lawns. He then resisted arrest and when the officers finally subdued him, he spewed forth a string of profanities and taunted them that Mr. Sloane would, quote, ‘make them look like assholes when he got through with them.’”
“The boy was severely intoxicated,” Lynch said. “It’s unlikely he had any idea what he was saying or the gravity of his circumstances. His record does not warrant placement in a juvenile facility. We would again suggest Jake be given home confinement pending successful completion of a substance abuse program and grief counseling.”
“And you would be willing to take personal responsibility to ensure Jake completes both programs, Mr. Sloane?” Glazier asked.
“I would, Your Honor.”
“And what about you, Mr. Carter, would you be agreeable to Jake living with Mr. Sloane?”
“If that would be the best thing for Jake, sure, I’d do it.”
“It’s summer,” Lynch said. “The court could reschedule a hearing for early September.”
Glazier sat back, poker-faced, lips pursed. She spoke to her bailiff. “Bring him in.”
The bailiff returned with Jake. The boy’s appearance surprised Sloane. His hair had grown, nearly shoulder length, and he looked two to three inches taller, approaching Sloane’s height. He also looked to have filled out since his wrestling season concluded. He’d been good enough to finish second in the state in his weight class, and his coach had told Sloane that Jake was naturally strong and could be even better if he were to apply himself. Sloane did the math in his head. It had been nine months since he’d flown to California to watch that final match—his last visit.
As Jake entered the courtroom the right side of his mouth pulled back in what was, under the circumstances, a most inappropriate smirk.
“Mr. Carter,” Judge Glazier said, “these are very serious charges I have before me. I’d suggest you lose that smug expression.”
Jake did.
“We were just discussing what to do about you; you were ordered to undergo a substance abuse program but I’m told you never completed it. Why not?”
Jake shrugged, a sixteen-year-old boy’s response to just about any question. “I couldn’t always get there after school.”
“So what option does that leave me now? If I can’t trust you to commit to an out-of-detention program my only option is to incarcerate you to make sure you complete the program. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Jake said.
“Do you think you have a problem with alcohol, Mr. Carter?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“You guess so?”
“No, I mean… yes.”
“Do you realize, Mr. Carter, that you were about that far from possibly killing yourself?” Glazier held her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Are you aware of what happens to your body when you mix an over-the-counter stimulant like Red Bull with alcohol?”
“Not really.”
“It allows you to drink more than you should. That’s how people overdose, Mr. Carter, by taki
ng more of a drug—and alcohol is a drug—than their body can physically handle. Do you understand me?”
He nodded.
“Do you want to die?”
Jake shrugged. “No.”
Glazier glanced at Sloane before returning her attention to Jake. “What are we going to do about the damage to all those people’s cars and property? How do you intend to pay for that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you in any sports?”
“Not anymore.”
“Any activities? Drama? Band? Journalism? Debate?”
“No.”
She looked again to Sloane and Frank Carter. “Then there should be nothing to prevent you from completing a substance abuse program and getting a job to pay for all the damage you’ve caused. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because there will not be a third chance, Mr. Carter. You mess up again and I will incarcerate you. And let me make this perfectly clear. If I do, there is not a lawyer in this world”—her eyes again shifted to Sloane, two black pinpoints—“not even one who never loses, who will prevent me from doing just that.”
TWO
THREE TREE POINT
BURIEN, WASHINGTON
Sloane parked the Cadillac diagonal to the laurel hedge beside Charles Jenkins’s Buick. If Jake recognized the car it did not elicit any response. Not much had. Jake didn’t utter a word on the flight back to Seattle, slipping on headphones and tuning out, eyes closed. Even on takeoff and landing, when the flight attendant instructed him to turn off the music, he kept the earphones in place, eyes closed. Sloane gave up trying and put his head back against the seat, but he did not sleep. It evaded him as it had the prior evening, his mind flooded with thoughts of Tina and how she had done such a great job raising Jake. Sloane had always been apprehensive about his ability to be a father, but each time he’d expressed doubt Tina had reassured him, serving as his parenting docent. Without her, he felt like a man at an art gallery pretending to understand all the nuances that had gone into a painting’s creation, but really not having a clue.