F Is for Fugitive

the dark green leather chairs intended for clients were piled high with legal briefs. Clemson scooped up an armload of books and files and set them on the floor, motioning for me to take a seat while he went around to the far side of the desk. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging on the wall to his left, and his hand returned involuntarily to the stubble on his chin. He sat down and pulled a portable electric razor from his desk drawer. He flicked it on and began to slide it around his face with a practiced hand, mowing a clean path across his upper lip. The shaver buzzed like a distant airplane.
    "I got a court date in thirty minutes. Sorry I can't spare you any more time this afternoon."
    "That's all right," I said. "When does Bailey get in?"
    "He's probably here by now. Deputy drove down this morning to bring him back. I made arrangements for you to see him at three-fifteen. It's not regular visiting hours, but Quintana said it's okay. It's his case. He was rookie of the year back then."
    "What about the arraignment?"
    "Eight-thirty tomorrow morning. If you're interested, you can come here first and walk over with me. That'll give us a chance to compare notes."
    "I'd like that."
    Clemson made a note on his desk calendar. "Will you be going back over to the Ocean Street this afternoon?"
    "Sure."
    He tucked the electric shaver away and closed the desk drawer. He reached for some papers, which he folded and slipped into an envelope, scrawling Royce's name across the front. "Tell Royce this is ready for his signature," he said. I tucked the envelope in my handbag. "How much of the background on this have you been told?"
    "Not much."
    He lit a cigarette, coughing into his fist. He shook his head, apparently annoyed by the state of his lungs. "I had a long talk this morning with Clifford Lehto, the PD who handled Fowler's case.
    He's retired now. Nice man. Bought a vineyard about sixty miles north of here. Says he's growing Chardonnay and Pinot Noir grapes. I wouldn't mind doing that myself one of these days. Anyway, he went through his old files for me and pulled the case notes."
    "What's the story on that? Why'd the DA make a deal?"
    Clemson gestured dismissively. "It was all circumstantial evidence. George De Witt was the district attorney. You ever run into him? Probably not. It would have been way before your time. He's a Superior Court judge now. I avoid him like the plague."
    "I've heard of him. He's got political aspirations, doesn't he?"
    "For all the good it's gonna do. He's into the sauce and it's the kiss of death. You never know which way he's gonna go on a case. He's not unfair, but he's inconsistent. Which is too bad. George was a hotdogger. Very flashy guy. He hated to bargain a high-publicity case, but he wasn't a fool. From what I hear, the Timberlake murder looked passable on the surface, but they were short of hard evidence. Fowler was known around town as a punk for years. His old man had thrown him out –"
    "Wait a minute," I said. "Was this before he went to jail the first time or afterward? I thought he'd been convicted of armed robbery, but nobody's given me the story on that either."
    "Shoot. All right, let me back up a bit. This was two, three years before. I got the dates here somewhere, but it matters not. The deal is, Fowler and a fellow named Tap Granger hooked up right around the time Fowler got out of high school. Bailey was a good-looking kid and he was smart enough, but he never got it together. You probably know the type. He was just one of those kids who seems destined to go sour. From what Lehto says, Bailey and Tap were doing a lot of drugs. They had to pay the local dope peddler, so they started bumping off gas stations. Nickel-and-dime jobs, and they're rank amateurs. Idiots. They're wearing panty hose on their heads, trying to act like big-time hoods. Of course, they got caught. Rupert Russell was the PD on that one and he did the best he could."
    "Why not a private attorney? Was Bailey indigent?"
    "In essence. He didn't have the dough himself and his old man refused to pop for any legal fees." Clemson took a drag of his cigarette.
    "Had Bailey been in trouble as a juvenile?"
    "Nope. His record was clean. He probably figured all he'd get was a slap on the wrist. This is armed robbery, you understand, but Tap carried the gun, so I guess Bailey thought somehow that let him off the hook. Unfortunately for him, the statute doesn't read that way. Anyway, when they