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things,
not so much.
    A five-minute chat with one Officer
Sulkowski had gotten Meredith Benoit’s citation voided. Caleb
hadn’t resorted to intimidation, but the patrolman had seemed
intimidated, anyway. Caleb supposed that Brogan’s Point’s finest
weren’t used to having an attorney sweep into the police station
and argue a misdemeanor. Caleb hadn’t really even argued it. He’d
simply pointed out that Meredith had been the victim of a prank
which had bordered on assault. Who posed the greater threat to
peace? Caleb had asked. A woman trying to defend herself against an
attack, or the boy who had attacked her?
    Chastened, Officer Sulkowski had shredded
Meredith’s ticket and deleted it from his computer.
    Jerry Felton’s situation was a bit more
complicated. Caleb had spent several hours at the District
Attorney’s office reviewing the indictment, which the DA planned to
announce at six p.m., timed so that the local newscasts would carry
it live. Brogan’s Point might not be the biggest metropolis in
Massachusetts, but when a town manager was accused of embezzling a
hefty chunk of change from the town’s pension fund, it was the
stuff of headlines. And the DA was no slouch when it came to
exploiting the media.
    Caleb decided his best strategy was to
preempt the DA. He set up his own press conference for four p.m. on
the steps of Town Hall. Felton, who claimed he enjoyed schmoozing
the press, experienced an unexpected bout of stage fright, and
Caleb worked with him to craft a statement that said little and
committed to nothing other than his innocence. “Read the
statement,” Caleb instructed him, “and then shut up and let me do
the talking.”
    As far as he could tell, most reporters were
the illegitimate offspring of jackals and football fanatics: stoked
on adrenaline, hungry, determined to run up the score, eager to
proclaim their sentiments at top volume and equally eager to feast
on whatever carrion materialized during a news cycle. Caleb knew
how to deal with them. As a defense attorney, he had to.
    He felt confident as the press conference
began. He stared down at the seething pack of journalists at the
bottom of the steps leading to Town Hall’s main entrance and
congratulated himself on having set the scene so that he and Felton
literally occupied the high ground. But then he spotted Meredith
lurking at the rear of the crowd and his brain froze. Briefly,
thank God. It was much too hot that afternoon for anything to stay
frozen for long.
    Everything south of his brain registered the
day’s heat. He wanted to strip off his jacket and tie and roll up
his sleeves. He wouldn’t mind seeing Meredith strip off a couple of
layers of clothing, either.
    He forced his mind back to Felton’s
indictment and the mob of sports-fan-jackals at the foot of the
steps. They yelled questions at him, and he deftly answered those
questions without really answering them. All he had to do was
convey the message that Felton would be exonerated.
    Next to him, Felton squirmed slightly. Caleb
knew Felton wanted him to go after Sheila Valenti, accuse her,
shout, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” But now was not the time to
attack her credibility. Other than establishing that Felton was
innocent, the purpose of this press conference was to show what a
fair, reasonable, dedicated public servant the guy was. A man of
integrity. A man who felt only sorrow at his underling’s betrayal
and her fall from grace. No need for finger-pointing and vengeance.
Caleb would slice her testimony to ribbons after he’d had a chance
to analyze it.
    “Isn’t Mr. Felton’s leave of absence an
admission of guilt?” one of the reporters shouted.
    Beside Caleb, Felton twitched. Caleb touched
his client’s arm to keep him from leaping to his own defense.
“Brogan’s Point needs to be managed by someone who isn’t
preoccupied by a criminal investigation,” Caleb said. “Jerry Felton
needs to devote himself to putting this allegation to rest