The 7th Canon by Robert Dugoni Read Free Book Online Page B

but I don’t think we can question him again without the defense making a stink later.”
    “I’m more curious whether the archdiocese will get involved,” Ramsey said.
    St. Claire shook her head. “Not if they’re smart, they won’t. Isn’t this the reason why it did not affiliate itself with the shelter in the first place?”
    “Don’t be so sure,” Ramsey said. “The archbishop’s a stubborn SOB when he wants to be.”
    St. Claire stood and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the edge of O’Malley’s desk. “Who’s handling the arraignment?”
    “Trimble,” Ramsey said, referring to Judge Milt Trimble.
    St. Claire stopped in mid-pour. “Maximum Milt?”
    “With the consolidation of the municipal and superior courts, he’s on the rotation,” Ramsey said, though O’Malley detected a tone to Ramsey’s voice she inferred meant he had something to do with the assignment. Ramsey changed gears. “I want to move quickly. My phone’s ringing off the hook. Be prepared to go day after tomorrow.”
    “Christmas Eve?” St. Claire asked.
    “The courts are open a half day,” he said. His tone again suggested he’d played a part in expediting the matter.
    St. Claire set down the pitcher. “Maximum Milt on Christmas Eve—he should be in a good mood.”
    Ramsey looked to O’Malley. “We’ll need to be prepared to meet a Riverside standard,” he said, referencing the US Supreme Court case requiring a prompt judicial hearing to determine whether sufficient evidence existed to establish probable cause to hold a defendant arrested without a warrant.
    “You’ll have my statement this afternoon,” Begley said.
    “What about a statement from Connor?” St. Claire asked.
    O’Malley shook her head. “I put him on the beach. Hopefully, he stays there. John can handle the specifics.” She stood, eager to end the meeting so she could deal with a dozen other matters, finish her Christmas shopping, and try to find at least a spark of holiday spirit. “Anything else?”
    “That should do it,” Ramsey said. “Except for determining who’ll be representing Father Martin.”

    Ruth-Bell was not at her desk, and Donley was glad he wouldn’t have to answer her questions about what he’d learned from the priest, which was jack. Too early for lunch; she was likely in the bathroom down the hall. Donley went into his office and shut the door. He removed his tie and jacket and draped them over a chair, trying to make sense of what had just happened. His legs and arms felt weak, like he was coming down with the flu. He had the onset of a headache and felt like he’d just woken from a deep sleep.
    It had been years since he’d suffered a panic attack, and even longer since he’d had an attack brought on by the memory of his father. Donley opened his desk drawer, shook free two aspirin, and downed them with water. Past experience had taught him the best thing to do to get past the attack was to keep busy, occupy his mind, bury the memories under an avalanche of legalese and critical thinking. It had worked before. It had worked for years.
    He made a to-do list of things to accomplish before the Christmas holiday and began checking them off as he went, pouring through one file after the next, making phone calls, dictating letters. An hour passed. He heard the telephone on Ruth-Bell’s desk ring in the reception area. Simultaneously, the red light on his desk phone console lit up, indicating an outside caller. When Ruth-Bell failed to answer on the third ring, Donley answered the phone himself.
    “Law Offices of Lou Giantelli.” No one spoke. “Hello?”
    “Peter.”
    He hardly recognized the voice.

    Twenty minutes later, Donley was racing down a linoleum floor, turning corners and following signs.
    In between sobs, Ruth-Bell had managed to tell Donley she was calling from a pay phone at San Francisco General. The court clerk in Judge Kaplan’s courtroom had called that afternoon. Lou had