“Yes, sir,” the young man said. “No charges will be filed.”
“I’d prefer a dismissal, Your Honor,” Cal said. “I don’t want this charge visited on Ms. Canaday again. She doesn’t need the aggravation.”
“Consider it dead, Mr. Jones,” the ADA said. “We’re done with this.”
“Then an apology.”
“Come on,” the ADA said.
“Frankly, I think you should apologize,” the judge said. “Or we can go through the motions, swear the bartender and listen to his testimony. But—”
“All right, all right. Sorry for the inconvenience!”
“In writing,” Cal said.
The ADA sighed. “Yes. Of course.”
The judge gave his gavel a rap. “We’re done here. Next case.”
What lies behind us and what lies before us
are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. —Ralph Waldo Emerson
Chapter 16
Becky threw her arms around Cal’s neck, thanking him. The ADA promised there would be nothing on her record and when Cal left her, the bartender was chatting her up. Cal suspected he hoped for either an assignation or perhaps a business deal, though he was probably twenty-five to her thirty-six.
He called Tom from the parking lot. “I’d like to talk to you when you have a little time. A private conversation. I’ll meet you wherever you like.”
“I’m headed home for a little lunch between jobs. Is Becky all right?”
“She’s fine, Tom. There are no charges.”
He heard him sigh in relief. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“It wasn’t too difficult. So—will we be able to talk privately at your house?”
“Yeah, the kids are all gone today. Noon?” Then he gave him the address in Timberlake.
Cal pulled up to a good-looking, restored three-story Victorian. He remembered Tom’s story about the half a house and expected to see side-by-side doors, but there was just one set of double doors. There was a great wide porch, the floor painted blue and the porch rail white. The double doors were oak and leaded glass.
When Tom let him in, Cal was speechless. He stepped into a roomy foyer, living room on one side and open staircase with a rich-looking banister on the other side. Straight ahead a hallway led past the living room and dining room. “Come on back,” Tom said. And Cal followed him into a large kitchen with what appeared to be fairly new stainless steel appliances. He turned around in a full circle.
“Tom,” Cal said. “This is amazing!”
“Thanks,” he said. He had bread, cold cuts, mayo and other stuff on the table and was building a couple of sandwiches. He shuffled everything together and finished quickly. He put each on a plate, sliding one to Cal. Then he grabbed a bag of chips and put it on the table.
“You do that like a guy who’s been making school lunches for years.”
“Tell me about Becky,” Tom said.
“I can tell you the results of the proceedings. No charges were filed.”
“So it was a misunderstanding!” he said, relieved.
“I guess you could call it that. The assistant district attorney was a young, inexperienced guy who didn’t really vet that arrest report thoroughly—the police officer had not provided sufficient probable cause for the arrest. It was a sting, Tom. The officer shouldn’t have arrested her unless money changed hands, which it did not.”
“What are you saying?” Tom asked, putting down his sandwich.
“All arrests and court proceedings are a matter of public record. If you’re ever so inclined, you can look these things up and draw your own conclusions. The important thing is, Becky doesn’t have this on her record, doesn’t go to jail, doesn’t pay a fine.”
“I’d prefer a dismissal, Your Honor,” Cal said. “I don’t want this charge visited on Ms. Canaday again. She doesn’t need the aggravation.”
“Consider it dead, Mr. Jones,” the ADA said. “We’re done with this.”
“Then an apology.”
“Come on,” the ADA said.
“Frankly, I think you should apologize,” the judge said. “Or we can go through the motions, swear the bartender and listen to his testimony. But—”
“All right, all right. Sorry for the inconvenience!”
“In writing,” Cal said.
The ADA sighed. “Yes. Of course.”
The judge gave his gavel a rap. “We’re done here. Next case.”
What lies behind us and what lies before us
are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. —Ralph Waldo Emerson
Chapter 16
Becky threw her arms around Cal’s neck, thanking him. The ADA promised there would be nothing on her record and when Cal left her, the bartender was chatting her up. Cal suspected he hoped for either an assignation or perhaps a business deal, though he was probably twenty-five to her thirty-six.
He called Tom from the parking lot. “I’d like to talk to you when you have a little time. A private conversation. I’ll meet you wherever you like.”
“I’m headed home for a little lunch between jobs. Is Becky all right?”
“She’s fine, Tom. There are no charges.”
He heard him sigh in relief. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“It wasn’t too difficult. So—will we be able to talk privately at your house?”
“Yeah, the kids are all gone today. Noon?” Then he gave him the address in Timberlake.
Cal pulled up to a good-looking, restored three-story Victorian. He remembered Tom’s story about the half a house and expected to see side-by-side doors, but there was just one set of double doors. There was a great wide porch, the floor painted blue and the porch rail white. The double doors were oak and leaded glass.
When Tom let him in, Cal was speechless. He stepped into a roomy foyer, living room on one side and open staircase with a rich-looking banister on the other side. Straight ahead a hallway led past the living room and dining room. “Come on back,” Tom said. And Cal followed him into a large kitchen with what appeared to be fairly new stainless steel appliances. He turned around in a full circle.
“Tom,” Cal said. “This is amazing!”
“Thanks,” he said. He had bread, cold cuts, mayo and other stuff on the table and was building a couple of sandwiches. He shuffled everything together and finished quickly. He put each on a plate, sliding one to Cal. Then he grabbed a bag of chips and put it on the table.
“You do that like a guy who’s been making school lunches for years.”
“Tell me about Becky,” Tom said.
“I can tell you the results of the proceedings. No charges were filed.”
“So it was a misunderstanding!” he said, relieved.
“I guess you could call it that. The assistant district attorney was a young, inexperienced guy who didn’t really vet that arrest report thoroughly—the police officer had not provided sufficient probable cause for the arrest. It was a sting, Tom. The officer shouldn’t have arrested her unless money changed hands, which it did not.”
“What are you saying?” Tom asked, putting down his sandwich.
“All arrests and court proceedings are a matter of public record. If you’re ever so inclined, you can look these things up and draw your own conclusions. The important thing is, Becky doesn’t have this on her record, doesn’t go to jail, doesn’t pay a fine.”
