The emotional residue of his interview with the sexual misconduct investigation team sat more heavily on Miles than he was accustomed from previous crises and disturbances in his life. His default constitution was to be uncannily immune to consuming anxiety. For some reason, this situation was different. Of course, he could not tell whether what he was feeling flowed directly from the Tracy Lindholm debacle itself, or whether that particular woe was merely the spearhead that delivered the cumulative effect of his other miseries. In any case, he was distracted, ambiently depressed, and uncharacteristically short-tempered with the dramatis personae of his life.
The early October date for Brian’s preliminary hearing on the cocaine-trafficking charge was approaching rapidly. Five days after his confrontation with Leland Rowell, Esq. et al, it was time to meet with another lawyer. This time, however, it was Brian who would be seated under the heat lamp, with Miles serving as chauffeur and general moral support. Vince Piaseki practiced criminal law among the denizens of suburbia, so, for one whose clients were almost exclusively affluent and white-collar, it was appropriate that his office was located in what amounted to a professional services strip mall in Schaumburg, a sleepy village that had exploded during the seventies and eighties into a mammoth aggregation of subdivisions and shopping centers and office towers desperately searching for a downtown. He was of a certain sub-stratum among the practitioners of his craft who either eschewed on principle or were otherwise unsuited for the ambience of a large law firm, with all the trappings of ostentation and formality that had little to do with actual lawyering. Piaseki employed only a receptionist-cum-assistant, and carried one investigator on more or less permanent retainer. To liken him to Perry Mason might be too facile a comparison, but it would have been no news for him to hear someone point out the similarities.
Brian and Miles arrived punctually for their eleven o’clock appointment, and were immediately waved into the inner office by the receptionist, who was on the phone. Upon seeing them, Piaseki also motioned for them to come in and sit down, but did not look up from studying the open file that lay on his desk. Miles was subconsciously irritated, as it reminded him of Leland Rowell’s behavior at the beginning of their meeting the previous week. Undoubtedly, it was Brian’s file that the attorney was poring over. Miles hoped that this wasn’t the first time he was acquainting himself with the case since their last conversation. Presently, Piaseki looked up and stood up, with a smile that at least seemed genuine if it was not particularly warm. He extended his hand across the desk to the younger Coverdale, “Good morning, Brian. How’re we doin’ today?”
“Not bad, all things considered,” Brian replied with an unmistakably sober demeanor. Piaseki then shook Miles’ hand. “Pastor Coverdale, good to see you.” Miles was accustomed to such invincibly ignorant and minor breeches of etiquette, and took them in stride. “Just fine, counselor. Thank-you.”
The Coverdale duo took their seats across the desk from Piaseki, who then addressed his client. “Well, Brian, we’ve got some options to consider.”
“Options? I like options,” Brian countered, this time managing a wan smile. “Does one of them involve those cheeseheads figuring out they got the wrong guy and dropping the charges?”
“No, I’m afraid not. That’s not on the table at present.” The lawyer cleared his throat. “I’ve been on the phone with the Columbia County DA’s office. They feel like they’ve got a pretty strong case. Of course, that’s what they get paid to think, you know what I mean? They say they’re ready to go to trial with this, and they think they’re going to get a conviction.”
“Conviction, my ass!” The smile was once again gone from Brian’s visage. “Tell them to bring it on!”
Piaseki leaned back slightly in his chair, and raised the palm of his hand briefly toward Brian. “Well, wait a minute. I told you we had options. And one of them, of course, is to show up at the Dells on October 8 and say what you just said, ‘Bring it on.’ But, you know something? Prosecutors don’t really like to try cases when they can avoid it.”
Brian interrupted, “So you think there’s really a chance they’re going to drop the charges.”
“Wow. Don’t we wish we lived in that kind of world?” Piaseki retorted with guarded sarcasm. “Alas, we don’t. What prosecutors do when they want to save time and money and go after other bad guys is offer a deal, a plea bargain.”
Brian’s affect froze as he took a few seconds to process the implications of this information. Miles turned to look at his son, then at the lawyer, then back at Brian, who finally responded, softly but intensely, “You mean they want me to plead guilty to something in exchange for some sort of lesser sentence?”
“You nailed it, dude, that’s exactly what they’re suggesting.”
Brian looked off in no particular direction. Both his lawyer and his father allowed him that psychic space in which to collect himself. Then he was focused, and addressed Piaseki. “OK, this is strictly out of curiosity, because…”—here he paused again, betraying an inner uncertainly that belied the firmness of his words—“…I am so not interested in a deal, because I am so not guilty. But just out of curiosity, what are they offering?”
“In return for a guilty plea on felony possession, they’re willing to drop the trafficking charge.”
Once again, Brian paused to let the latest bit of information sink in. It was up to Miles to ask the obvious question. “And what do they have in mind penalty-wise? Are they talking about jail time?”
“Ah, this is the best part,” Piaseki replied briskly. “No jail time.”
“Then what?” Miles queried. “Probation?”
“Probation and then some. Brian, they want you to go into rehab. Residential. Minimum sixty day program. Your expense, of course. And the court has to approve the program.”
Brian re-entered the conversation with his full wits and attention. “Just a minute. I’m on a little bit of information overload. Let’s go back to the guilty plea, can we?”
“It’s your show, my friend.”
“They want me to plead guilty to felony possession? What’s that?”
“It may be better to talk about what it’s not. On the one hand, it’s a lot more serious than a speeding ticket. Even a DUI. But you can get jail time with even a misdemeanor DUI. It’s county time, not state, but it’s still jail. So, on the other hand—and this is why I think you should seriously consider this offer, Brian—it’s oodles less of a big deal than a dealing charge. A conviction on that could make you a Wisconsin resident for the next decade. They’re offering you a felony conviction—and that’s going to be on your record, so you can forget about showing up at the polling place on election day, and it will make things worse for you if you ever get your ass in trouble again—so they’re going to pin you with a felony, but they know you’re not a kingpin, so they’re offering a get-out-of-jail-free card right along with it. That’s what makes it, in my humble opinion, a hell of an offer.”
Brian pursed his lips and exhaled. “The amount of coke that they found on me—it was just enough for a couple of lines. Does that really qualify for felony possession?”
“No, actually, it doesn’t. But we need to remember—they booked you on a dealing charge, and if we don’t take their offer, that’s what they’re going to try you on, and like I said, they think they’ve got enough to nail you with.”
“Well what do you think? Do we get to know what their evidence is?”
“Of course we do. It’s called discovery. But we haven’t quite gotten to that phase yet, so I don’t know all the details.”
“What’s your hunch?”
“You’re not paying me to have hunches, Brian. To be honest with you, from the broad strokes I’ve seen, it’s impossible to call. I’ve seen convictions with less; I’ve seen acquittals with more. Juries are unpredictable.”
Brian did not hesitate in his response. “I gotta tell ya, Vince, I’ve got two problems with this scenario.” Miles winced inwardly as he listened to his son, and realized in that moment that he agreed with the attorney; the proposal from the Wisconsin prosecutors seemed almost too good to be true.
Piaseki gestured toward his client. “Shoot, my friend. I’m all ears.”
“Number one, to plead guilty would be to say that I am guilty, which I’m not. I was not carrying an amount that qualifies for a felony charge.” Miles thought to himself that there was a certain amount of logic in his son’s contention. Yet, in his gut, he still felt that the prosecution’s offer was appealing. Brian continued, “Second, rehab? Where’s that coming from? I admit to being a casual and occasional user. But I’m not an addict. Not by a long shot. I go weeks on end without using. So, sixty days in rehab? What’s the point? And how the hell would I pay for it? Their bill would be bigger than yours!”
Miles now felt his anxiety level rising rapidly. Brian’s resistance to the proposal from the Wisconsin authorities irritated him. But why? When the implications of his feelings caught up with his rational faculties, he was even more dismayed. Prior to this moment, if anyone had asked him, “Is your son a drug addict?” his reflexive and emphatic answer would have be No. So then why did he find the idea of Brian being in rehab so comforting? The only plausible answer was that, in his heart of hearts, he knew Brian was addicted and needed treatment. He had seen the signs in dozens of cases during his ministry, and had even participated a handful of times in the drastic maneuver known as an intervention, when an addict is ambushed by a group of those whom he trusts and virtually kidnapped into an in-patient program. But, of course, each of these occasions involved somebody with whom Miles did not have a primary emotional relationship. Brian was different. Brian was his son.
Piaseki draw a breath quickly, but then seemed to hold it hostage until he could formulate an apposite response to his client’s reasoning. When it came to him, he passed it along slowly and softly. “Look, gentlemen, perhaps we’re getting into territory that is a little beyond the scope of my professional competence. In fact, Reverend, it may be more up your alley than mine, eh?”
Miles understood what the attorney was doing; he was trying, in as diplomatic and subtle a manner as he could manage, to enlist Miles’ aid in ganging up on Brian. He was raising the curtain on an impromptu intervention. Without betraying his inward struggle in his outward affect, and contained veritably within an instant, Miles panicked. His professional instincts and his rational faculties all told him to follow the lawyer’s lead and dance to the tune of getting Brian to accept the plea bargain and go into rehab. It might mean selling the Wisconsin lake property to foot the bill, but it would still be a godsend. At the same time, he felt himself being pulled in the opposite direction, as if caught in a deadly undertow.
Brian interrupted his father’s musings. “Vince, this is my call, right?”
“It’s your call, Brian,” Piaseki assured him firmly.
“And you’ll back me up if I decide to fight this, right?”
“That’s what you’re paying me for. But—and I don’t want you to think I’m being crass, or in any way doubting the value you should place on the demonstration of your innocence—a trial is going to be many times more costly, from a financial standpoint, than a plea bargain.”
“Point taken and appreciated. But you are going to back me up, right? By that I mean, you’re going to give it your absolute best shot for me, because, I’ll tell you, that’s what I think I want to do. I think I can beat this thing cleanly—no jail, no bullshit rehab that I don’t need, and I get to vote in every goddamm election between now and the time I assume room temperature. If I’m going to go into debt up to my eyeballs, to my father or to anyone else, I’d rather it be for that, than for two months of N.A. meetings in a country club. The most I’m willing to plead guilty to is misdemeanor possession, because that’s what I am guilty of. That’s what I did. Nothing else. I’ll pay the fine for that, and let’s move on.”
Piaseki remained calm even in the face of Brian’s animated soliloquy. “If that’s what you decide, Brian, I’ve got your back, one hundred percent. I will try the case in whatever way I legally can to get you acquitted. I hope you understand, I have to discuss the plea bargain offer with you. I’m ethically bound to lay it all out to you.”
“Totally. I’m glad you told me about it. It was the right thing for you to do. But here’s the thing: I don’t think it’s what I want. I think I want to let them give it their best shot, and just walk out of that courtroom free and clear. Is that going to be OK with you, Vince?”
“Like I said, buddy, it’s your call. You’re the client. I work for you.”
Miles shifted his weight in the chair and exhaled audibly. Was the lawyer going to give up this easily? Surely not. To his relief, Piaseki continued, only, even as he was clearly addressing Brian, he was looking squarely at Miles.
“But like I also said, it was my ethical obligation to make you aware of the offer for a plea bargain, and I’m glad you understand that.”
Brian replied curtly, “I do understand that, and I’m duly grateful.”
“And I would also not be doing my job, Brian, if I didn’t tell you—I mean, I don’t even know how to put it—this is an exceptional offer. This is an outstanding offer. In all my years of practicing criminal law, I’ve never had a prosecutor offer a deal like this. No jail time. The most serious charge dropped. This is really…a sweet deal.”
This was Miles’ cue, and he knew it. Piaseki had deftly set him up to close out the game, to maneuver Brian into agreeing to the course of action that both his lawyer and his father knew was going to be in his long-term best interests. He looked over at his son, and in an instant, he lost his nerve. He slipped from being a seasoned pastor who was not easily duped, to a doting father who was proud of his incredibly brilliant offspring—looking very much in that moment like the boy he had raised, and no cynical cocaine dealer, or even a coarse addict, or even an occasional user. Moreover, he was subliminally mindful, in his status as a reasonably new widower, of his continuing estrangement from Rachel, his only other child. If he alienated Brian by walking through the door that Vince Piaseki had opened for him, what then would he have? He would be utterly bereft of the comforts of familial love. His parents were aged and distant. The recent interlude with Oksanna seemed more of a chimera than a reality. So he was going to waffle, and he knew it (just like he had waffled at the last meeting of the St Alban’s vestry, it occurred to him). All this Miles contemplated in the temporal space of no more than half a dozen beats of his heart. Then he spoke. “Brian, are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure about this, Dad,” was Brian’s unhesitating reply.
“Then I’m with you, son. Vince, let’s do it. I guess we’re going to have a trial.”
Piaseki exhaled deeply, dropping any pretense of disguising his disappointment. “Fine. We’ll have a trial. But just to keep our options open as long as we can, I’m not going to tell them yet. Not just yet. They don’t need to know yet. If you change your mind, call me. It may not be too late.”
The Coverdales took their leave of Vince Piaseki, attorney at law, and made their way back to the Grand Marquis in the parking lot. When they had buckled their seat belts and the engine was running, Brian put his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Thanks, Dad. You came through for me. I appreciate it.”
Miles smiled, belying his inward agony. That was the payoff. That tiny gesture. That is what he had sold his only son’s future for. It was sweet in the moment, but the moment would pass, and the sweetness was purchased on credit. He dreaded the time when the bill would arrive and the price would need to be paid.
