Devil's Playground by D. P. Lyle Page B

give Westbrooke the story?”
    “Sure.”
    A half hour later, Sam, Lisa, and Mark Levy entered Judge Westbrooke’s spacious, dimly lit office. After seating them opposite his heavy oak desk, he sank into a high-backed ox blood leather chair, flanked by California and United States flags. Floor to ceiling shelves, filled with thick legal volumes, encircled the office, which was as intimidating as Westbrooke was soothing.
    He listened quietly while Sam laid out the facts concerning the murder of Roger and Miriam Hargrove. When she finished, he cleaned his glasses with a tissue, his brow knitted with concern. Replacing his glasses, which slid half way down his nose so he could peer over them, he said, “I must admit this is bothersome. Not that I think Garrett’s innocent, but if he has an accomplice, questions could be raised as to who did the actual killing of the children. If that were the case, I might feel obligated to change his sentence to life rather than death.”
    “But, your honor...” Sam began. Westbrooke cut her off with a wave of his hand.
    “Deputy Cody, you are here solely to present the facts regarding these murders. It would be inappropriate for you to make further statements.” He softened his reprimand with a smile as would a grammar school teacher disciplining a student for talking without permission, then turned his gaze to Mark Levy. “Mr. Levy, do you have any comments?”
    “Your Honor, I just learned about this as you did. I’m shocked to say the least.”
    “Do you wish to place a motion before the court at this time?”
    “No. I need to confer with my client first.”
    Westbrooke tilted his head toward Lisa. “Ms. McFarland. Anything you wish to say?”
    “No, your Honor.”
    “Very well.” Westbrooke stood, indicating the meeting was over.
    Sam and Lisa left Westbrooke’s chambers and walked to Starbucks, while Mark went to see Garrett. They purchased two cappuccinos and sat at a corner table. Sam preferred Millie’s plain coffee to this fancy, trendy stuff, but any port in a storm. Despite the three cups she had had earlier, she found she needed the lift this more potent brew would provide.
    “Could Garrett have an accomplice?” Lisa asked.
    “Yesterday, I would have said no way, he’s a loner. But, today? Who knows?”
    “His groupies maybe?”
    “I doubt it. They couldn’t organize a one-car funeral. I’m going to have a little chat with them anyway.”
    “If not them, then who did the Hargroves?”
    Sam shrugged, staring into her cup. They sat silently for a moment, then two. “You don’t really think Westbrooke will back pedal on this do you?” Sam asked.
    “Stranger things have happened. If he did opt for life, surely it would be without parole.”
    “And if not, it would mean thirty years of parole hearings...for you, me, and the families.” Sam exhaled loudly. “Or one of the liberal morons on the Ninth Circuit Court might overturn his conviction and we’d have to do all this again.”
    Depression and anger vied with each other to dominate her mood. Just when the light at the end of the tunnel came into view, this crap had to happen. Another two weeks, three at the most, and Garrett would be on his way to San Quentin and out of Mercer’s Corner, out of her life. Now, what?
    *
    Mark Levy was a native son who had left Mercer’s Corner for Los Angeles and USC for college and law school before returning home to practice. Drawing Garrett as a client had been his bad luck, which he regretted daily. He wasn’t in the least unhappy he had lost the case.
    Wearing a faintly pinstriped gray suit, white shirt, and red power tie, he looked every bit the competent attorney he was as he waited for Thelma to unlock the door to the jail area. He thanked her and stepped inside. He placed a folding chair next to Garrett’s cell and sat down. Garrett sat on his bunk, expressionless.
    “Mister Garrett,” Mark began.
    “I am not Garrett.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I am