and regarded Reynolds with a smirk.
An observer might have concluded that Joel was contemptuous of anything Matthew had to say, but the rapid tapping of Joel's right foot betrayed his fear. Reynolds imagined the tapping foot was asking the same question the boy had asked him over and over during the year they had spent as lawyer and client: "Will I die? Will I die? Will I die?" It was a question Reynolds was uniquely qualified to answer. "Are we going to the courthouse?"
"Not yet, Joel. There's been a development."
"What kind of development?" the boy asked nervously.
"Last night, when I returned to my hotel, there was a message from the prosecutor, Mr. Folger."
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to resolve your case without going to trial. We conferred in my hotel room until midnight."
Matthew looked directly at his client. Joel fidgeted.
"Mary Harding was very popular, Joel. Her murder has outraged many people in Atlanta. On the other hand, your parents are prominent people in this community. They are well liked and respected. Many people are sympathetic to them. Some of these people are in positions of power.
They don't want your mother and father to suffer the loss of their only son."
Joel looked at Reynolds expectantly.
"Mr. Folger has made a plea offer. It must be accepted before the judge makes his ruling on our motions."
"What's the offer?"
"A guilty plea to murder in exchange for his promise to not ask for a death sentence."
"What . . . what would happen then?"
"You would be sentenced to life in prison with a ten-year minimum sentence."
"Oh no. I'm not doing that. I'm not going to jail for life."
"It's the best I can do for you."
"My father paid you a quarter of a million dollars. You're supposed to get me off."
Matthew shook his head wearily. "I was hired to save your life, Joel.
No one can get you off. You killed Mary and you confessed to the police. The evidence is overwhelming. It was never a question of getting you off. We talked about that a lot, remember?"
"But if we went to trial . . ."
"You would be convicted and you might very well die."
Matthew held up a photograph of Mary Harding at her junior prom next to a full-face autopsy photograph of the girl.
"That's what the jury will see every minute of their deliberations. What do you think your sentence will be?"
Joel's lip quivered. His teenage bravado had disappeared.
" I'm only eighteen," he pleaded. A tear trickled down his cheek. "I don't want to spend my life in prison." Joel slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands.
Matthew leaned forward and placed a hand on Joel's shoulder. "What, Joel?"
"I'm scared," the boy sobbed.
"I know, Joel. Everyone I've ever represented has been scared when it was time to decide. Even the tough guys."
Joel raised his tear-stained face toward Matthew. He was just a baby now and it was impossible to imagine what he must have looked like when he straddled Mary Harding's naked body and slammed the log down over and over until he had smashed the life out of her.
"What will I do, Mr. Reynolds?"
"You'll do what you have to to make a life for yourself. You won't stay in prison forever. You'll be paroled. Your parents love you. They'll be there for you when you get out. And while you're in, you can take college courses, get a degree."
Matthew went on, trying to sound upbeat, wanting Joel to have hope and knowing it was all a lie. Prison would be hell for Joel Livingstone. A hell he would survive, but one from which he would emerge a far different person from the boy he was today.
Matthew Reynolds and Tracy Cavanaugh had been in court for three solid days of pretrial motions when Joel Livingstone's lateafternoon guilty plea abruptly ended the case. As the judge took the plea, Tracy had glanced at Joel's parents, who were elegantly dressed, barely under control and totally at peace in the Fulton County Circuit Court.
Bradford Livingstone, a prominent investment banker, sat stiffly, hands folded
An observer might have concluded that Joel was contemptuous of anything Matthew had to say, but the rapid tapping of Joel's right foot betrayed his fear. Reynolds imagined the tapping foot was asking the same question the boy had asked him over and over during the year they had spent as lawyer and client: "Will I die? Will I die? Will I die?" It was a question Reynolds was uniquely qualified to answer. "Are we going to the courthouse?"
"Not yet, Joel. There's been a development."
"What kind of development?" the boy asked nervously.
"Last night, when I returned to my hotel, there was a message from the prosecutor, Mr. Folger."
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to resolve your case without going to trial. We conferred in my hotel room until midnight."
Matthew looked directly at his client. Joel fidgeted.
"Mary Harding was very popular, Joel. Her murder has outraged many people in Atlanta. On the other hand, your parents are prominent people in this community. They are well liked and respected. Many people are sympathetic to them. Some of these people are in positions of power.
They don't want your mother and father to suffer the loss of their only son."
Joel looked at Reynolds expectantly.
"Mr. Folger has made a plea offer. It must be accepted before the judge makes his ruling on our motions."
"What's the offer?"
"A guilty plea to murder in exchange for his promise to not ask for a death sentence."
"What . . . what would happen then?"
"You would be sentenced to life in prison with a ten-year minimum sentence."
"Oh no. I'm not doing that. I'm not going to jail for life."
"It's the best I can do for you."
"My father paid you a quarter of a million dollars. You're supposed to get me off."
Matthew shook his head wearily. "I was hired to save your life, Joel.
No one can get you off. You killed Mary and you confessed to the police. The evidence is overwhelming. It was never a question of getting you off. We talked about that a lot, remember?"
"But if we went to trial . . ."
"You would be convicted and you might very well die."
Matthew held up a photograph of Mary Harding at her junior prom next to a full-face autopsy photograph of the girl.
"That's what the jury will see every minute of their deliberations. What do you think your sentence will be?"
Joel's lip quivered. His teenage bravado had disappeared.
" I'm only eighteen," he pleaded. A tear trickled down his cheek. "I don't want to spend my life in prison." Joel slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands.
Matthew leaned forward and placed a hand on Joel's shoulder. "What, Joel?"
"I'm scared," the boy sobbed.
"I know, Joel. Everyone I've ever represented has been scared when it was time to decide. Even the tough guys."
Joel raised his tear-stained face toward Matthew. He was just a baby now and it was impossible to imagine what he must have looked like when he straddled Mary Harding's naked body and slammed the log down over and over until he had smashed the life out of her.
"What will I do, Mr. Reynolds?"
"You'll do what you have to to make a life for yourself. You won't stay in prison forever. You'll be paroled. Your parents love you. They'll be there for you when you get out. And while you're in, you can take college courses, get a degree."
Matthew went on, trying to sound upbeat, wanting Joel to have hope and knowing it was all a lie. Prison would be hell for Joel Livingstone. A hell he would survive, but one from which he would emerge a far different person from the boy he was today.
Matthew Reynolds and Tracy Cavanaugh had been in court for three solid days of pretrial motions when Joel Livingstone's lateafternoon guilty plea abruptly ended the case. As the judge took the plea, Tracy had glanced at Joel's parents, who were elegantly dressed, barely under control and totally at peace in the Fulton County Circuit Court.
Bradford Livingstone, a prominent investment banker, sat stiffly, hands folded
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