Chapter Eight: Bargaining in the Big House

The Manhattan District Attorney's Office

One Hogan Place Centre Street

Manhattan, New York

Wednesday January 6

"…and we will thus prove that Dalton Roderick is a murderer."

Mike recited his opening argument for an upcoming trial in front of Connie, hoping for her feedback.

"What do you think?" he then asked her.

"I think it's great," Connie said, impressed.

"Really?" Mike said, sounding relieved. "Good! It's just that this is going to be a tough trial, and I don't feel like that opening argument is one of my better ones."

Connie smiled warmly.

"Mike—it's perfect," she said kindly.

"You think so?" Mike asked, lighting up.

"I do," Connie said, smiling again.

"Okay, then I'll leave it as is," Mike said with a smile. "So I've been meaning to ask you, Connie—would you like to give the summation?"

"Absolutely," Connie said warmly.

Mike was about to ask her if she'd like to have coffee with him on Saturday, so they could maybe spend time together without talking about work. However, before he could say a word, Connie's phone rang.

"Hello?" she answered. "Hi…Really?...Great…Fantastic…All right, Mike and I will take it from here. Pick him up…Thanks…'Bye."

"What's going on?" Mike asked.

"That was Bernard," Connie replied. "The CSU reports are in. The mystery prints on Lucinda's window sill belong to Derek Fletcher."

***DOINK!DOINK!***

Rikers Island Correctional Facility

Friday January 29

Mike and Connie were meeting with Derek Fletcher and his attorney, Bonnie Chapman, in Fletcher's cell.

"Now, I've heard about you and your ego trips, Cutter, so just spare us, and get to the point," Chapman said.

"Well, we didn't call this meeting to exchange petty insults, so why don't you just be quiet and listen?" Connie said coldly.

Mike kept his prosecutor game face perfectly in tact, but he was smiling on the inside at those words. He couldn't recall ever working with someone who had his back like Connie did.

"Now, CSU lifted a set of prints from Lucinda's window sill," Connie said. "Prints that are a thirteen point match to your client's. Mr. Fletcher, do you care to explain why you were in Lucinda's apartment?"

"So you can place my client in Mrs. Carlisle's apartment. That doesn't mean he killed her," Chapman said icily.

"Well, what other reason did he have for being there?" Mike challenged. "As he told the police, he didn't know Lucinda Carlisle very well. And then there are Mrs. Carlisle's phone records, which the police looked over again," Mike went on, referencing Lucinda's phone records, which Connie had handed to him. "According to them, Mrs. Carlisle and your client enjoyed calling each other—up until the day before she was murdered. Or is that just a part of their relationship as total strangers?"

"Do you have anything that isn't circumstantial?" Chapman asked haughtily.

"Well, funny you should ask because we're just getting to the fun part," Mike said in false pleasantness, a sarcastic smile on his face.

"Mr. Fletcher, your boss told the police that That's a Wrap has been having financial problems. You agreed. Now, Lucinda had some suspicious-looking cash deposits in her checking account. We couldn't figure out where they came from, and it made me wonder if Lucinda was stealing from the company. That's why Detectives Lupo and Bernard asked you if anything in the books seemed off," said Connie. "You lied and said 'no'. Now here's where it gets even more interesting: we subpoenaed the financial records you were keeping and had them examined by a forensic accountant. You and Lucinda defrauded the organization for months. The two of you embezzled over seven thousand dollars."

"Well, hmm, I wonder why the organization was having financial problems?" Mike chimed in. "So why'd you kill her, Mr. Fletcher?"

"Were you helping her and didn't want to anymore, so she threatened you?" Connie surmised.

"Okay, okay, all right!" Fletcher suddenly burst out. "All right. Just stop, I'll explain everything."

"Stop right there, Derek. Don't say another word," Chapman ordered. She then turned to Mike and Connie. "If there's a deal on the table, then he'll talk."

"Oh, I'll do you one better: if he talks, then there'll be a deal on the table," Mike countered.

Connie felt a surge of affection towards Mike at those words. She loved his wit.

"You think you're calling all the shots here?" Chapman asked coldly.

Mike raised an eyebrow.

"You think you are?" he asked.

"What are you expecting to get out of this meeting, Ms. Chapman?" Connie inquired, taking charge of the conversation.

"A deal, obviously!" said Chapman. "No, I thought we'd all just sit here and stare at each other. Did you go to law school?" she added with vitriol.

"That's it!" Mike snapped. "We'll see you at trial!"

"Mike, don't," Connie said, resting her hand on his arm gently to calm him down.

Mike heeded her and then said more calmly, yet coldly, "He tells us everything, or there's no deal."

"Okay, then I'll do that," Fletcher spoke up. He sighed and then said, "Yes, I did it. I'm responsible. I killed Lucinda. The bitch was blackmailing me."

"Blackmailing you?" Mike said skeptically.

"Yes," said Fletcher. "Okay, here's how it all started: Back in July, I lost a poker game, all right? And since I make shit for a salary, I didn't know how else I was going to pay the debt. So I decided to scam some money from the company and falsify the records. Everything was going great at first. The recession screwed the nonprofit sector hard, anyway, so it was easy just to blame it on that if anyone got suspicious. I should never have trusted that bitch—ever. But I was an idiot, and I did.

"Anyway, so back in June, Lucinda got us awarded this grant, which required cost sharing. Cost sharing essentially means we pay one half for a project, and the grantor pays the other half. Lucinda came around often, asking me how things were going with it—like were the payments coming in on time, was I billing them on time, all this shit—like I didn't know what the fuck I was doing…

"Anyway, I watched the books like a hawk. I had to be diligent about what I was doing—couldn't risk anyone getting suspicious. So in August, Lucinda asked me yet again how I was doing handling the grant money. She came into my office one day and asked, like she always did. I told her to be patient because I was in the middle of something, which I was, so she left. However, a couple hours later, I enter my office after a bathroom break, only to find her standing there, at my desk, flipping through the books!

"I asked her what the hell she thought she was doing, and she said she was just checking on the grant money—again, like I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I said, 'I told you I'd get to you. Be patient. Now kindly get out of my office and go focus on your own job'. That got rid of her—or so I thought. The next day after work, she comes up to me in the parking lot as I was about to get in my car and says she wants to talk to me and to meet her at the bar down the street from here. She offered to buy me a drink. I figured she was going to spend the entire time blathering on about the grant money, but I decided to meet her anyway because I was getting free alcohol out of it.

"So we meet up at the bar, and she gets our drinks, and I ask her what she wants. She said that the previous day, when I found her looking through the books, she thought I overreacted—that all she was doing was checking on the grant money, which wasn't a big deal. I said, 'Barging into someone's office and going through their stuff isn't a big deal?' And then she said again that she thought I overreacted and she thought it was weird. She said anyone in the office should be able to see the statements I prepare, not just me. Then she said, 'I think there's something going on with you at work', and I said, 'What are you, a fucking shrink?' And then she says, 'All I wanted to do was see if we're getting our grant money on time, and you freaked out on me. That makes me think there's something you don't want me or anyone else to see. And now that I think of it, you hardly ever leave your office'. Nosy bitch. How'd she get her own work done if she was so fixated on what I was up to, you know? Damn…"

He shook his head.

"Keep talking," Mike ordered.

"So then I said, 'Look, I'm busy, and my job is stressful, all right? God'. But she just didn't know when to back off! She looks at me and asks, 'What're you hiding?' And I said, 'Who says I'm hiding anything? Have you got a paranoia problem?' I'm telling you, that bitch was way too clever and way too nosy for her own good. The next thing she said to me was, 'Oh my God—are you cooking the books?' I damn near choked on my drink. I didn't want to admit it to that nosy bitch, but I thought that if I denied it, she'd just keep harassing me. I didn't feel like I had a choice. But I did. I should've just told her she was delusional, but no, I had to cave like an idiot."

"So what did you say?" Mike asked.

"I said, 'I don't want to tell you a Goddamned thing, but I see I've got no choice. Knowing you, you won't back the hell off until you're satisfied'. So I explained my situation just like I did to you two. When I was done, I said, 'And now I suppose you're going to go to the board of directors and try to get me fired'. And what she said just completely blew my mind. She said, 'I could do that, you're absolutely right. But I won't—under one condition'. And I said, 'And that is?' And she said, 'I want a cut of the money you're taking. I'm going through a divorce right now, and with what we make here, I can barely afford my legal fees. My attorney's one of the best, but he's expensive. Help me out, or I go to the board. It's that simple'. Like I said—the bitch was blackmailing me. The only reason I went along with it is because I was afraid of getting fired. At first we decided to split it fifty-fifty—but after a while, the bitch got greedy. She started demanding more and more money from me and repeating her threat to go to the board if I didn't go along with her. She kept bitching about her high legal fees and spewing that threat to rat me out until I just couldn't take it anymore. The fifty-fifty split had become eighty-twenty, and the scam was my idea! The bitch fucking took advantage of me and extorted me, and I was sick of it. I finally decided that I was going to stand up to her and make her see reason—tell her she wasn't going to push me around anymore. So I called her and told her I needed to talk to her. She said we could meet at her apartment, so no one would have reason to suspect anything.

"So I get there at night, and she lets me in, and just the sight of her pissed me the hell off. I straight up told her that I was sick of her shit. The whole thing was my idea, yet she'd been taking advantage of me, dominating me, and threatening me for months. That's what I told her. We argued, and it got heated. I don't remember everything that was said, but I do remember some. She said, 'You will give me what I want, or I will go to the board! How many times do I have to tell you that?' I couldn't believe her! So I said, 'You stupid bitch! You turn me in, and it's your ass, too!' And then she said, 'The hell it is! I'm not the one who's been cooking the books, pal, that's you. They have no evidence against me but your word!' God that made me angry. I mean, where the fuck did she get off talking to me like that? Yeah, because she was completely blameless! So then I said, 'What about your bank statements?' And, of course, I was right about that, wasn't I? You guys just said her bank records are what made you suspicious."

"So then what happened?" Mike said brusquely, barely letting Fletcher finish his sentence.

"So then she said, 'Oh please, that money could've come from anywhere. Face it—unless you give me what I want, the only one who's screwed here is you!' And then I just…lost it. I felt this huge surge of anger, and I lost it. Something inside me just snapped. I was irate, and I felt cornered and controlled and used—and there she stood just mocking me, being so smug and self-assured. I hated her. I hated everything about her. She made me so fucking angry, so I lashed out. Just…God, once I grabbed a hold of her neck and started squeezing, I just couldn't stop. I just couldn't stop. She just made me so fucking angry, and she'd been using and controlling me for months, and I was sick of it. She was ruining my life!"

"You manhandled her so roughly that you broke a bone in her neck!" Mike snapped.

"So then what did you do?" Connie said sternly.

"When I realized she was…gone, I—I panicked, so I left her on the couch. I knew I had to get out, and on some crazy impulse, I went over to her window. I saw the fire escape, so I opened the window and climbed out and then used the fire escape to get the hell out of there as fast as I could. And the rest, they say, is history."

"All right, Cutter—he spilled his guts, now what're you offering?" Chapman spoke up impatiently.

"Twenty to life, murder two and embezzlement, to run concurrently," Mike said.

"Murder two? I say man one! You heard him—he lost his temper, he snapped! He didn't mean to kill her," Chapman protested. "Man one and embezzlement, to run concurrently, twenty to twenty-five."

"Did you read the M.E.'s report? He strangled Lucinda so violently that he broke a bone in her neck!" Connie said severely.

"What my partner means is 'no deal'," Mike said with a sarcastic smile. "Twenty to life, murder two and embezzlement, to run concurrently. Parole is an option. That's our offer. Mr. Fletcher has until the end of the business day tomorrow to make up his mind. And, obviously, it's worth noting that a judge may not be so generous."

He gave another sarcastic smile and then looked at Connie as a way of asking her if she was ready to leave.

She nodded at him, and the two of them arose from the table.

"So you'll be in touch, then," Mike said to Chapman.

He gave one last sarcastic smile and then signaled the guard that he and Connie were ready to leave.

As the two of them walked out to Mike's car—

"Hey," Connie spoke up.

Mike's stopped walking and turned to face her, his expression soft.

"I don't approve of you trying to throw the plea deal to do so, but I know what you were trying to do. You were trying to defend me after Chapman insulted me. You didn't go about it the right way, but your heart was in the right place. It always is…Mike, thank you," Connie said warmly.

"You're welcome," Mike said softly.

"Well—" Connie then said, breaking their eye contact, "we should get back to work…"

"Right," Mike muttered.

With that, he unlocked his car, he and Connie got in, and he drove them back to the D.A.'s office.