The 7th Canon by Robert Dugoni Page A

offer pleas to first-degree-murder suspects, Mr. Donley. We are duty bound, however, to consider a plea if one is suggested on Father Martin’s behalf.”
    “You mean if he pleads guilty.”
    “That would be a necessity,” Ramsey said.
    They sat in silence. This time, Ramsey did not fill it. After a moment, he stood. The meeting was apparently over. Donley rose from his chair and picked up his briefcase.
    “Perhaps we’ll see you again tomorrow,” St. Claire said.
    Donley turned to her. “I’m sorry?”
    “At Father Martin’s arraignment.”
    “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”
    St. Claire looked to Ramsey. “It’s not a court holiday, is it?”
    “No, it’s not,” Ramsey said. “And in light of the abundance of evidence, we don’t believe there is any reason to seek a grand jury. We’re prepared to move this matter forward expeditiously, Mr. Donley, and Judge Trimble has accorded us a place at the top of his calendar. Now that we have your business card, we’ll provide you fax notice, or will you waive it?”
    They had played him, and Donley wanted nothing more than to knock the smug smiles off their faces. He wanted to say something snappy—or at least semi-intelligent—in response, but, his mind a blank, he could do nothing but walk silently from the room.

    A raindrop brushed Donley’s cheek as he stepped from the revolving glass doors onto the concrete steps outside the Hall of Justice building, and he realized he’d left his umbrella in Gil Ramsey’s office. He wasn’t about to go back for it after leaving like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs. He’d have Ruth-Bell call.
    He also didn’t bother to look for a cab. He started the walk back to his office, eager to get away from Gil Ramsey and Linda St. Claire, and equally eager to get away from Father Thomas Martin.
    A pedophile priest.
    What had he gotten himself into?
    He’d let his ego get the better of him. The archbishop had let him off the hook. He’d hired Larry Carr. Donley could have simply said he understood the decision not to go with a twenty-eight-year-old, third-year lawyer. If he had, he’d be spending tomorrow with Kim and Benny, preparing for their annual Christmas Eve party. After the new year, he’d be in a downtown office with a view attorneys killed for, making enough money to move Kim and Benny to the peninsula. Instead, he would be up half the night preparing for an arraignment sure to be front-page news. Hell, he had only a vague idea from television shows what happened at an arraignment.
    He trudged on, periodically looking to hail a cab, but it was a fleeting thought. Late in the afternoon before a holiday weekend, cab drivers would not want to get entangled in the surface-street mess south of Market. They’d be looking for larger fares to and from the airport. The rain started as a light mist, progressed to intermittent drops by the third block, became showers at block six, and culminated in a downpour the final block to the office. Knowing it would be a futile act, Donley didn’t bother to cover his head or dash for shelter. He didn’t wipe the water dripping into his eyes or try to avoid the puddles overwhelming the sewer system and flooding the intersections. He just kept walking.
    Morton Salt, he thought. When it rains, it pours.
    By the time he reached his office building, Donley looked and felt like he had stepped into a shower fully dressed, hair matted to his head, the collar of his suit jacket and shirt wringing wet. His Cole Haan leather shoes squished on the terrazzo tile as he made his way up the stairs. If they weren’t ruined, they were close to it. The office door was locked. Ruth-Bell had left for the hospital. Donley unlocked the deadbolt and stepped inside. Entering his office, he removed his coat, tie, and shirt and left them in a pile. He struggled to pull his wet T-shirt over his head, threw it onto the pile, and leaned against the desk, slipping off his shoes and suit pants.