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compensation instead. Joey will be placed in a secure facility, for appropriate treatment. The Champlins will issue a public statement of regret for the incident and,
privately
, will proffer a financial settlement to the girl’s family. One hundred thousand.”
    Bemis glanced nervously at Todd. The prosecutor’s face showed nothing.
    “If, on the other hand, formal charges are brought,” Avery continued, “my admission of Joey’s involvement and the offer of compensation will vanish. The Champlins will resist any attempt to incarcerate the boy, and they have formidable resources. We’re dealing with a tragedy, not a crime.”
    “That’s for the courts to decide,” I said.
    “You can pursue legal action, of course,” Avery nodded. “But what can you win? Joey will most likely be remanded to counseling and the Novak family will get nothing. Are you willing to risk that, Todd?”
    “As a friend of the family, I can’t be a party to this,” Todd said. “It’s your call, Harvey.”
    “I . . . sympathize with the Novak family, of course,” Bemis said, reading Todd’s eyes as he spoke. “But there’s not much point in convicting a mentally handicapped minor of a charge he’ll barely comprehend. And a court fight could be disastrous for the college.”
    Bemis paused, waiting for his boss to comment. Todd didn’t.
    “Let’s make it two hundred thousand,” Avery said. “That’s my final offer and it expires in sixty seconds.”
    Bemis glanced at Todd, who gave a barely perceptible nod.
    “All right,” Bemis nodded. “We can live with that.”
    I wasn’t sure who “we” were, but he didn’t speak for me.
    “Slow down,” I said. “Before we agree to a settlement, shouldn’t we consult the Novak family?”
    “Sorry, but that’s out. They can’t know about Joey,” Avery said. “And an offer of compensation could be interpreted as an admission of guilt. Any approach must be made unofficially, without revealing any part of this discussion. Mr. Novak works as a logger. He might be more receptive if the offer came from one of his own.” He glanced pointedly at me.
    “You’re kidding,” I said. “You want me to sell this to Novak? Without telling him anything?”
    “He’s free to decline, of course,” Avery said. Taking a checkbook out of his vest pocket, he jotted in a few figures, then slid the check to me.
    “This is drawn on my personal account, detective. Two hundred thousand dollars. When Mr. Novak cashes it, he’ll be given a release to sign, acknowledging it as a final settlement.”
    “This is a mistake,” I said. “At least let me tell Novak the truth about what happened.”
    “Unfortunately, that’s not an option,” Avery said. “It would violate privilege and open the Champlin family to litigation. I can’t allow it.”
    “Novak could be facing felony charges for assaulting the Patel boy,” Harvey Bemis added. “Remind him of that, Dylan. Given a choice between a paycheck and jail time, he’ll do the right thing.”
    “Right for who?” I asked. “Novak’s a wood-smoke stud. He’s used to getting up off the deck to come back at you. He won’t take this.”
     
    But I was wrong.
    By the time I got back to Hauser Justice Center, Carl Novak had been cooling off in an interview room for over an hour.
    Locked up alone in a ten-by-ten concrete box, he had time to absorb the death of his daughter. And to consider a future that could include months, even years, locked in rooms like this one.
    He was seated at a small steel table bolted to the floor in the center of the room. I took the chair facing him. It was just us. Off the record. No one observing from the other side of the two-way mirror, no recorders, no video cams.
    Novak was dressed for work, in a faded flannel shirt, bib overalls, and cork-soled boots. His shoulder-length shaggy hair was shot with gray, his face seamed and weathered by the wind. His knuckles were oversized, scarred from rough