Issuu

michael harvey

They’re young, smart, mostly beautiful − graduate students at an elite university who are naive enough to believe they can make a difference. Little do they know the most important lesson they will learn is how to stay alive.

For Ian Joyce and Sarah Gold the ﬁrst day of class starts like any other. Then a fellow student, Jake Havens, pulls a wrinkled envelope from his jacket. Inside is a blood-stained scrap of shirt from a boy murdered fourteen years ago and an anonymous note taking credit for the killing. The only problem is the man convicted of the murder is already dead.

‘Should be read by all’ JOHN GRISHAM

Suddenly, the class has a new assignment: ﬁnd the real killer.

‘Michael Harvey has studied the masters and put his own unique touch on the crime novel. A major voice’ MICHAEL CONNELLY

www.bloomsbury.com £12.99

Front cover images: riverboat scene © PlainPicture; ﬁgures © iStockphoto. Design by Greg Heinimann

michael harvey

Also available by Michael Harvey

THE INNOCENCE GAME MICHAEL HARVEY

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First published in Great Britain 2013 Copyright ÂŠ 2013 by Michael Harvey The moral right of the author has been asserted No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP www.bloomsbury.com Bloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and Sydney A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 1 4088 3516 6 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Book design by Michael Collica Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

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prologue

I sat in the lawyer’s office and stared at a row of diplomas on the wall. The writing was impossible to read—a fitting introduction, I figured, to the practice of law. I was about to get up for a closer look at the goods when the man himself came in, small and dark, with soft whispers and greasy handshakes. He sat behind his desk and gestured for me to make myself comfortable. Not likely. He took out a thin blue file, placed it on his desk, and folded his hands over it. “As you know, Ian, I’m handling your mother’s estate.” “I didn’t know she had an estate.” “Nearly everyone has an estate, Ian.” “No kidding.” He gave me a nod, like this lesson in and of itself was worth the L ride downtown. “She didn’t have a lot, your mother. The house, of course, a little less than five thousand dollars in a savings account, and a small insurance policy to cover her final expenses.” I hadn’t thought about final expenses. I was surprised my mom had. As I was about to find out, my mom was full of surprises. “She left you something else,” the lawyer said. “It’s the reason I’ve asked you down here.” He took an envelope out of the blue file and turned it over in his hands. “She insisted you read it alone. In this office. Once you’ve done that, I have an affidavit for you to sign. Then I can release the money.” 3

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the innocence game “Thanks, but you can keep the cash.” The lawyer looked at me like I’d just punched the pope in the stomach. Or some such infallible being. “I can’t do that, Ian.” “Have you read it?” I said, nodding at the letter. “It’s sealed. No one’s read it but your mom. And now you.” He placed the envelope flat on the desk and lifted himself from his chair. “Take your time. When you’re done, we’ll fill out the paperwork and talk about funeral arrangements.” The lawyer left. I stared at the envelope. I could see my name, hidden in the folds of my mom’s cursive, and crumbled a little inside. I pulled the envelope toward me. The paper was thick. Expensive. It felt like a single sheet. Maybe two. I slipped my finger under the edge of the flap and broke the seal. Then I took out the letter and began to read.

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The seminar met in Fisk Hall, one of the oldest buildings on Northwestern’s campus and the crusted, beating heart of the university’s Medill School of Journalism. I took a seat at a table in the back. The pile of red hair at the front shook itself like a dog shaking off the weather. A hand beckoned. “Won’t do, Mr. Joyce.” I sighed, grabbed my backpack, and found a place up front. The pile of hair parted itself, revealing a considerable length of nose and eyes of violent blue. “My name is Judy Zombrowski. You can call me Z. Do you know Ms. Gold?” The hand directed my attention to a woman sitting directly to my left. She had a perfectly square chin, high cheekbones, and long, brown hair that turned crimson in the late-afternoon sun. Sarah Gold waved. I felt queasy. Gloriously so. “We know each other from undergrad,” Sarah said, smiling at me as if we’d exchanged more than three words during our four years together. “Of course you do.” Z cast a look toward the back of the room. “We’re waiting for one more.” A door banged open. The third student in the summer graduate seminar was tall and 5

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the innocence game angular. He had thick shoulders and a long jaw covered by a blond scruff of beard. His eyes were shaded and hard to read. “Jake Havens?” Z’s voice rang down the empty aisle and echoed off the walls. Havens took the same seat I’d picked out for myself. “What is it with you people?” Z waved Havens forward. “Up here.” “I’m good, thanks.” His voice was ragged, like a car knocking through its low end of gears. He looked older. In his thirties, even. “Fine. Sit where you want.” Z poked at the mass of papers piled up around her. From underneath a legal pad she pulled out what looked like a Big Mac and unwrapped it. She took a bite, then found a Coke with a straw and sipped. “So, can someone tell me what we’re here for?” Z took another bite and watched us as she chewed. “We’re here to work on wrongful convictions.” Sarah Gold tapped a pen lightly against the table as she spoke. “Men who’ve been sentenced to death for crimes they didn’t commit.” “You mean murder, Ms. Gold.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Z.” “Yes, Z.” “And what if, heaven forbid, the son of a bitch is guilty?” A pickle dropped out of Z’s Big Mac. She ignored it. “What if you spend the quarter working a file and, at the end of the day, he raped the little girl, cut her into pieces, and stuffed them all into Hefty bags. Just like the state said he did.” Sarah opened her mouth to speak. “I’m not finished,” Z said. “What if you work a case and are convinced the poor bastard is innocent? Not a doubt about it. But you don’t have the evidence. Or you do have the evidence, but for some reason it’s tainted. Inadmissible. What then?” Z took another bite of her sandwich, put it down, and held up her hands like she was a doctor getting ready to operate. “I’m not supposed to eat this stuff, but I love it.” She wiped her fingers with a napkin, wrapped up what was left of the burger, and stuffed it into its paper bag. “My point is this. We have a lot of files. And a

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7 lot of possible outcomes. But we don’t root for one result over the other.” “What do we root for?” Sarah said. “The truth, if we can find it. And a good story. As for the actual workings of our legal system”—a flick of hands to the heavens— “sometimes it’s necessary to let things fall where they may. Do you understand what I’m getting at?” We all nodded. “Like hell you do. But that’s all right. Just keep in mind rule number one. The evidence is what it is. Allow it to tell its own story. Don’t shape it to support a certain outcome. We’ll talk more about all of this later. For now, why don’t we get started?” Z gestured to the stack of brown files climbing the wall behind her. “These are just a few cases you can look at. We have another roomful down the hall.” “Do we start anywhere in particular?” I said. “Or just dig in?” “This seminar is all about instinct, Mr. Joyce. And who has it. In fact, our very first case relied on little more than a hunch. Have any of you heard this?” We all shook our heads. Z seemed pleased. “Our first case involved a man named Charles Granger. He was convicted of shooting a man dead over a drug deal and sentenced to die by the state of Indiana. In the spring of 1999, we read through the file in this very classroom. None of us bought it. No one was sure why, but the facts just didn’t hang together. So we ordered up Granger’s trial transcripts and began to work the case. We eventually zeroed in on the state’s eyewitness. At first, she was scared to talk to us. We sent her some letters from Granger. Then we sent her a calendar with Granger’s scheduled execution date circled. She wound up recanting her testimony, and the whole thing came apart. Charles Granger spent fifteen years on death row. At one point, he was forty-eight hours from being killed. And we saved his life. This seminar has saved eight other lives since then. And gotten at least that many released from decades of prison time for crimes they didn’t commit. This will be the best work you’ll ever do. It will also be the most demanding. And a lot of it will depend on you trusting your gut.”

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the innocence game Z rattled the ice in her Coke and sucked on the straw until she hit bottom. Then she threw the cup in the vicinity of a barrel. “You’ve been chosen for this seminar because you’re the best. At least that’s what they tell me. I’ve won three Pulitzer Prizes in my career, so I know talent. And from where I sit, the screening committee for this course gets it right a little more than half the time. Which means at least one of you doesn’t belong. But we’ll see. Now, I’d like to head down the hall for a walk-through of our filing system.” Z stood. Sarah and I got up with her. “I’ve already got a case.” Jake Havens was still slouched in his chair, eyes fastened on the floor. “Name’s James Harrison. Fourteen years ago, he was convicted of killing a ten-year-old kid in Chicago.” Z smiled so I could see her eyeteeth. “Mr. Havens. Nice of you to check in. We tend not to focus as much on cases in Illinois since the state abolished its death penalty.” Havens looked up. “What happened to ‘trusting your instinct’?” “I didn’t say we couldn’t take a look at an Illinois case. Just that, all things being equal, it might not be a priority.” “But all things aren’t equal.” “I’m not following you.” “First of all, Harrison’s dead. Fourteen months in prison and they found him stuck in the neck with a shank.” Havens climbed to his feet and moved down the aisle until he stood on the other side of Sarah. He pulled a thick file from a tattered backpack and thunked it down in front of him. “This is everything I could find. Mostly newspaper clippings. And the original police report.” Z ignored the paperwork. “Why would we look into a case where the convicted man is deceased?” “Does the fact that he’s dead make him any less innocent?” Z licked her lips. First day and the prof was pissed. Great. “Mr. Havens, let’s take this up after class . . .” Havens pulled a wrinkled gray envelope out of his pack and laid it beside the file. “You have something else for us?” Z’s voice rose with her eyebrows.

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9 “It’s a letter, ma’am.” “I can see that.” “I received it four days ago.” “In the mail?” “There’s no stamp,” Sarah said, tilting her head to get a closer look. “It was tucked under the front door of my apartment.” “When, Mr. Havens?” “I told you. Four days ago.” Z nodded. “Go ahead.” I could feel the shift in the room. Z was no longer the teacher. And Jake Havens, no longer just a student. “I woke up and it was sitting in my hallway. So I opened it.” “Who else has handled it?” “No one.” “You’re sure?” “Pretty sure.” “And what do you think is in there?” “I know what’s in there. It’s a note from the killer. The real killer.” Z walked to the back of the classroom and closed the door. She returned with a box of latex gloves. We each took a pair and snapped them on. I couldn’t take my eyes off the envelope. Z’s cloak-anddagger only made things better. She picked up the envelope and studied it. There was no address, just jake havens printed in block letters of black ink. “Was it sealed, Mr. Havens?” Jake shook his head. Z didn’t seem surprised. She opened the envelope and eased out its contents—a single sheet of paper filled with more block lettering. Z pressed the page flat on the table and we all read. 98-2425 . . . i k i lt t h e b o y. “There’s something else.” Havens reached into his pack again, this time pulling out a small piece of cloth. He placed it down beside the

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the innocence game letter. My hand picked it up before the rest of me realized what I’d done. It was a ragged cut. The fabric, white with a black stripe running through it. “Looks like it’s from a shirt,” I said. “It was in with the note,” Havens said. “I think it’s got blood on it.” Sarah had taken the piece of cloth from me. Now, she let it slip from her fingers. “My guess,” Havens continued, “is that it was cut from the shirt the victim was wearing.” “How do you know what the victim was wearing?” Z said. Havens placed a hand on the file. “Case number 98-2425. The victim’s name was Skylar Wingate. According to the cops, he was wearing a black-and-white cotton shirt. Seems to match what we’ve got here.” Z sighed like she’d heard it all before. “You’re leaving out a few facts, Mr. Havens.” “You remember the case?” I said. “It was a pretty big deal in its day.” “What did he leave out?” Sarah said. “As I recall,” Z said, “they did DNA testing on blood found on the jeans James Harrison was wearing when he was arrested. Came back as a perfect match to the victim.” Sarah and I turned our gaze back to Havens. “The DNA testing was done postconviction,” Havens said. “Harrison demanded and paid for it himself.” “What does that matter?” Sarah said. “Why does a guy who’s filing an appeal pay for DNA testing that’s going to remove all doubt of his guilt?” Havens said. “Desperation,” Z said. “Do enough of these stories, and you’ll learn all about it.” I picked up the piece of torn fabric. “Would they still have the shirt in evidence?” “If this guy was killed in prison,” Sarah said, “why would they keep anything?” We all turned again to Z, who seemed to think long and hard for

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11 a moment. She scribbled something on a legal pad and pushed it over to Havens. “The Cook County Clerk’s Office takes custody of trial transcripts and physical evidence once a case is closed. Transcripts and related trial documents are stored off-site, in a permanent records center. Actual physical evidence is kept in the county’s warehouse. I’ve given you both addresses and a couple of names. I doubt there’s anything left, but if there is, they’ll have it.” “Will they let us in?” Havens said. “I mean if we just tell them we’re from Medill?” “Not likely. I’ll make a call this afternoon and e-mail you if I get an okay. Assuming I do, you guys go down there and see what you can dig up on the shirt. Show me something substantive next time we meet, something that gives us a way around the DNA match . . . or we move on. Fair enough?” We looked at one another and nodded. Z tucked the torn piece of shirt into the gray envelope and pinched it between her fingers. “Meanwhile, this stays with me. Now, does anyone else have anything they want to share? A Christmas card from John Wayne Gacy? Richard Speck’s bra and panties? No? Good. If it’s all right with Mr. Havens, I’d appreciate ten minutes of your precious time to talk about the five hundred or so other cases we’re working here at Medill.”

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I ordered a pint of Harp, took a sip, and exhaled. All in all, the first class hadn’t been too bad. Z seemed a little whacked. And then there was Havens and the letter. But that was for another day. Right now, I was sitting in Tommy Nevin’s, Evanston’s best Irish pub, sipping a beer, munching from a bag of Tayto crisps, and waiting for Sarah Gold to return from the bathroom. “Sorry.” She slid into her seat and smiled. “How did you know I drink Guinness?” I shrugged. How did I know she drank Guinness? The same way I knew she liked her fries salted with vinegar and three miniburgers instead of one big cheeseburger. The same way I knew she took four early morning classes during the first quarter of her senior year. The same way I knew her favorite jeans were a ripped pair of Levi’s she wore with an old checked shirt. The same way I knew she used Ivory soap, wore her hair up off her neck on Fridays, and liked to sit under an umbrella sometimes and watch the rain fall. I knew more about Sarah Gold than I knew about myself. In the end, maybe that wasn’t saying very much. But there it was. “Took a guess,” I said. Sarah sipped from her pint. There was a silky line of froth on her lip. I gestured to my own face.

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13 “Sign of a good pint,” she said and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I didn’t see you around much in undergrad.” “I was away a lot.” “Away?” “I studied abroad for a year.” I hadn’t gone any farther than the library to study during my four years at Northwestern, but I wasn’t going to tell Sarah Gold that. Besides, I kind of liked the man of mystery thing. “Really. Where did you study?” “Turkey.” Turkey. Where did that come from? I tried to think of what I knew about the city. Until I realized it was a country. Then all I could think of was Thanksgiving. Jesus. I took a breath. “That’s exciting,” Sarah said. “I spent a couple of months in Istanbul.” I smiled thickly and drained what was left of my pint. She’d barely dented hers. I put my hand up for the waitress who took my order. Sarah just shook her head and the waitress left. “What did you think of today?” she said. I didn’t know what to think about today. Not that Sarah was waiting for an answer. “I thought it was a little odd,” she said. “I mean just turning us loose on the files. But I heard that’s how Zombrowski is. Real sink-orswim type of stuff.” We were sitting in a booth by a set of windows that looked out over Sherman Avenue. I had my back to the bar and could hear a low, pleasant chatter behind me. A floorboard creaked, and there was suddenly someone at my shoulder. Sarah’s eyes widened, and she ventured a cautious smile. “Hey, Kyle.” Kyle Brennan was a year behind us at Northwestern and a starting cornerback on the football team. I’d hated him for two years. The same two years he’d dated Sarah Gold. She’d dumped him a few months before she graduated. I thought it was a great move. From what I heard, Brennan didn’t agree.

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the innocence game “Hey.” Brennan was maybe six two, with dark eyes, short black hair, and, best I could tell, purple lips. He slid into the booth beside his ex. Essentially, right on top of her. Sarah gave herself a little space and gestured toward me. “Kyle, do you know Ian Joyce?” Brennan shook his head without looking at me and took a sip from a large plastic cup. Summer practice started next week, and a lot of the football types were getting their drink on while they could. Brennan appeared to be leading the charge. “Ian graduated with me,” Sarah said. “We’re in a seminar together.” “Some of us are headed into the city,” Brennan said. “Street festival in Wrigleyville. Why don’t you come?” “No thanks, Kyle.” “We can hang out.” “No thanks.” “I said we can hang.” I leaned across. “And she said, ‘No thanks.’ ” Brennan slammed his hand on the table and spilled some of his drink. It was purple, which explained the lips. “Who the fuck was talking to you?” The buzz around us grew quiet. I could feel the tension ripple across the room and tried to play it off. “Relax, pal. I’m thinking you’re about thirty seconds from getting tossed out of here.” “I’m not your pal. And do you think I give a fuck?” I gripped the edge of the table and felt the flush up into the roots of my hair. “Kyle.” Sarah grabbed her ex by the arm. “Look at me.” He did. “You’re drunk. And you’re embarrassing me. Leave now and I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll grab some lunch.” She touched the side of his face and gave him a quick kiss. I almost threw up. But Brennan left. “Asshole,” Sarah said, and waved as Brennan walked out of Nevin’s with two of his pals. “You gonna call him?”

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15 “He won’t even remember talking to me. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t tear the place apart.” “You don’t think I could have handled him?” Sarah looked at me—all six feet, hundred seventy pounds—and shook her head. “He’d kill you.” “You’re probably right.” Sarah lifted her pint. “Enough of that. What were we talking about?” “The seminar.” “Oh, yeah. Tell me this. What do you think of our classmate?” “Havens?” “You know anything about him?” Sarah spoke like she knew a lot and was waiting to unload. “I heard he went to the University of Chicago.” “Law school. Top of the class. Editor in chief of the Law Review.” “So what’s he doing here?” Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism was probably the best in the world. Or at least in the top two. Still, it was journalism. The average pay coming out of Medill was thirty to fifty K a year. And that’s if you landed in a big market. Editor in chief of the Law Review at Chicago could easily triple that. I knew the numbers. Mostly because I’d managed a nearly perfect score on my LSAT. So I’d thought it through. “Havens doesn’t want to be a lawyer,” Sarah said. “Just did it for kicks.” “Number one at U of C Law School . . . for kicks?” “Actually, there’s more to it than that. He got involved during his third year with a legal aid clinic on the South Side. Worked on a child abuse case. From what I hear he freaked out some people with his intensity.” “I could see that.” “Yeah, well, I guess he decided the law wasn’t his thing.” “And what does the boy genius want now?” “No one knows. Except he wanted into Medill, and specifically this seminar.”

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the innocence game “How do you know that?” “I do my homework, Ian. Havens actually negotiated his admission into Medill. Told the school he’d enroll, but only if he was guaranteed a seat in Z’s seminar.” “And Medill went for it?” “Why not? Big-time student. And they were probably going to let him into the class anyway.” The talk about Havens was interesting. So much so that I’d forgotten whom I was talking to. Now I caught a whiff of her from across the table. She wore a thin gold chain around her neck. A vein beat softly in the hollow of her throat. “What do you think?” Sarah said. “About what?” “Havens?” “Oh, yeah. He wanted in on the seminar. So what?” “That letter he found was pretty strange.” “It’s probably nothing.” “Probably.” Sarah took a small sip from her pint. “Can I tell you something else?” “Sure.” “I don’t belong in this class.” “What are you talking about?” “Everyone at school knows how smart you are, Ian. And, no offense, Havens might be even smarter. I’m out of my league.” “Bullshit. You applied and got in. You belong.” She lifted her chin a fraction. “You know why I got in?” “I’m not sure why I got in.” “Please. The only reason I got in was because of my work with Omega.” “Omega?” “It’s a women’s organization in Evanston. They run a shelter service for abused women. We set up safe houses and move women in and out of them. Hide them from the assholes trying to beat them up until they can make other arrangements.”

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17 “And you work there?” “I volunteer. One night we were taking a woman out of her house and the husband showed up drunk. Bashed in my windshield with a baseball bat.” “Did you get her out?” “You bet. I wrote a couple of articles about it for one of my classes.” “Holy shit. I’d like to read them.” Sarah touched my hand, and I felt my heart jump. “Thanks, Ian. I’ll show them to you. Anyway, that’s why I got into this seminar. My teacher loved the stories and pushed for me. Actually, it’s kind of ironic now that I think about it.” “What’s that?” “Me trying to help abused women and hooking up with a jerk like Kyle.” “You can’t quit, Sarah. Not after one class.” “Who said anything about quitting?” “You just told me you weren’t good enough.” “Oh. I was just venting. I’m plenty good.” “So you’re not gonna quit?” “And let Jake Havens get the last laugh. Please.” She tipped her eyes toward the front door. “Speak of the devil.” I turned and looked. Jake Havens had slipped onto a stool and ordered himself a drink.

Havens was staring at a line of bottles behind the bar. Light glinted off the glass. I tapped him on the shoulder. It was a workingman’s shoulder, full of knotted muscle, tendon, and sinew. Havens turned a fraction. “What’s up?” “Thought you might like to come over for a drink?” Havens nodded to the booth and Sarah, alone in it. “You two pals?” Up close his features were hard and clean, betraying no real interest in the question he’d just asked or whatever response might come back.

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the innocence game “We went to undergrad together,” I said. “I figured that.” Havens picked up his pint and led the way back to Sarah. Like it was his idea and I could come along if I wanted. “Sarah Gold. Like the name.” He slid into the booth and immediately owned it. I pulled up a chair. It was almost five now, and Nevin’s was filling with an after-class, happy-hour vibe. Everything seemed to dim, however, as Havens leaned across the table. “That your boyfriend who was in here?” “My ex.” “You got a lot of ghosts following you around?” “Excuse me?” “Forget it.” Havens took a sip of his beer. “What did you think of today?” “Honestly?” Sarah said. “I thought there’d be more guidance.” “You mean hand-holding?” She threw Havens’s condescension back at him with a smirk of her own. He’d have to do a lot better if he wanted to get under Sarah’s skin. Or anywhere else, for that matter. “I’d think she might want to set up some parameters for our research,” Sarah said. “Maybe an overview. A little more background on cases she’d like us to look at. A section of the country to focus on.” “I already have a case.” “So you told us.” Sarah’s eyes brushed mine, then danced away. “Why don’t you take a look?” Havens pulled his backpack onto the table. “Actually, I’ve got to get going.” Sarah was on her feet, looking down at Havens, making him seem suddenly small. And being infuriatingly nice about it. Inside, I was tickled. Havens took it in stride. “Z just e-mailed me. She got the okay from the clerk’s office for tomorrow. It’s a Saturday, but I guess the county people are there in the morning. You guys have cars?” We both nodded. Sarah slumped into the booth. Havens was back in control. “Here’s what I’m thinking,” he said. “One of us takes the records center. Goes through all the paper files on Harrison and pulls out

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19 whatever’s relevant. The other two go to the evidence warehouse. See what’s there.” “I’ll take the records center,” Sarah said. I looked over at her. “Evidence warehouse sounds like more fun.” “Picking through the bloody clothes of a dead little boy? No thanks.” Havens shrugged. “Fine with me. I’ll e-mail the addresses to both of you. They open at nine. Z suggested we get there first thing. Joyce, why don’t I meet you there . . .” Sarah’s head snapped to one side as Kyle Brennan slammed back into the booth beside her. He had both elbows on the table and his nose pressed close to her cheek. “Miss me?” Sarah looked more embarrassed than alarmed and pushed at her ex’s forearm. He crowded in closer. “Fuck these losers. Let’s get out of here. Head into the city.” Brennan put a hand on her shoulder. His other went under the table. “Kyle, no.” “Hey, asshole.” I made a move toward Brennan, not really sure what I hoped to accomplish once I got there. Fortunately, Havens beat me to it. He dragged Brennan out of the booth and put him on his belly. It took all of three seconds. Brennan flopped like a fish at the bottom of a boat. Havens kept a knee in his spine and a forearm across the back of his neck. “You need to calm down.” Havens cinched his knee down a touch so the side of Brennan’s face pressed flat against the sticky barroom floor. There was a low hissing sound. That was Brennan, struggling to breathe. “Hey, man. Let him up.” One of Brennan buddies stepped forward, but not too far. “He’s fine,” Havens said. “Just taking a little time-out.” Brennan grunted and flipped onto his side, swinging an elbow in the general direction of Havens’s jaw. Havens leaned back and looped one arm around Brennan’s neck, his Adam’s apple fixed firmly in the crook of Havens’s elbow. Havens flexed. Brennan’s eyes fluttered, then closed. His chest didn’t look like it was moving. The already quiet bar had turned into a morgue.

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the innocence game “Let him up,” I said. Havens glanced at me, then released his grip. Brennan’s pals rushed in. The football player hung limp in their arms. “Sit him up straight,” Havens said. They did. Havens punched Brennan once in the back, between the shoulder blades. He coughed and his eyes flickered open. “Get him out of here,” Havens said. No one had to be told twice. Havens slid back into the booth. I looked around for Sarah. “She left,” Havens said. “Probably too embarrassed.” I took a seat across from him. We were quiet for another minute. “Where did you learn all that?” I said. “All what?” “Putting a guy out like that?” Havens shrugged. There was a long scratch and fresh blood on his forearm, but he didn’t seem to notice. “You lift weights?” I said. “I used to long line tuna out of Chatham and Gloucester.” “New England?” “I fished full-time for three years. Worked Georges Banks a week, month, at a time. Slept on the boat. Snow, ice. All kinds of seas. Hauling heavy lines and nets.” Havens moved his hands to cup his pint. “Don’t need weights when you’re doing that.” “Huh.” We fell silent again. I could hear some talk at the bar, but everyone seemed to be giving us a wide berth. Havens began to pull papers out of his backpack. “You want to take a look at what I’ve got on the case?” “Why not?” He nodded like that was the only sensible answer. “I heard you’re one of the stars up here.” “Up where?” I said. Havens raised his chin. “Here.” “I don’t have time for that stuff.” “What stuff ?” “The Chicago-Northwestern stuff. Our school’s better. More rigorous. Academically pure. All that garbage.” “You think that’s what goes on in Hyde Park?”

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21 “It goes on in Evanston. And it’s what I’m hearing from you. Listen, I know you’re a smart guy. Now, I know you’re a badass, too. Good for you. Great for you. I probably couldn’t beat myself up. But I’m smart. Never been a problem. Sarah’s no dummy either.” “You sure about that?” “Positive. So why don’t we cut the bullshit and work together. You’re a goddamn lawyer on top of everything else. Let’s just get into the cases. Your case, Z’s case, any case. Pick one out and see what we can dig up.” “Is Gold okay with that?” Havens said. “I don’t know Sarah that well, but I think she’s a pretty straight shooter.” “What does that mean?” “Fucked if I know. Just thought it sounded good.” Havens cracked a smile that seemed genuine enough and lifted his mostly empty glass. “You got a thing for her.” “Hardly.” “Been like that since when? Sophomore year?” “Fuck you.” Havens widened his eyes and opened his mouth to laugh. His teeth, of course, were white and straight. “Jesus Christ, Joyce. Lighten up.” Jake Havens could kick the shit out of me in any one of a halfdozen ways, but I didn’t care. I never cared. And that had gotten me a nice ass kicking more times than I cared to count. “Can’t blame you,” he continued. “We all got one, right? Maybe more than one. Besides, she’s pretty hot.” “Yeah, Sarah’s hot.” “But it’s her world and you’re just in it?” “Something like that.” “ ‘Something like that.’ Exactly like that. Welcome to the club, my friend. I’m gonna get another one. You?” “Thanks.” Havens headed to the bar. “Hey,” I said. Havens turned, empty pint glasses in both hands.

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the innocence game “You really think Harrison’s innocent?” Havens slipped back into the booth. “Forget the letter. You saw the shirt. If that’s from the victim, it should be easy to prove. And if it is real . . .” “Then it was sent by the killer.” “Not necessarily.” I tilted my head and frowned. “That’s what you told Z.” “But that’s not the only possibility, is it? If that shirt was part of the state’s evidence, anyone with access could have sent me a piece. Cop, prosecutor, evidence tech.” “A whistle-blower?” “Could be. Someone sending us a message. Telling us this guy was framed.” “Is that what you think?” “I don’t think anything . . . until we see the evidence.” “But why send the letter to you? Why not the Trib? Sun-Times? I mean, you’re a student in a seminar.” “You don’t think I’ve been wondering that myself ? Read the file.” Havens went to get our drinks. I picked through newspaper clippings from the murder. At the bottom of the pile, I found the original police report filed on Skylar Wingate’s disappearance. Clipped to the back was a photo from the crime scene. A shallow hole in the ground, a small white body bag beside it. I ran a finger over the picture. Then I put it aside and began to read.

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michael harvey

‘Should be read by all’ JOHN GRISHAM

Suddenly, the class has a new assignment: ﬁnd the real killer.

‘Michael Harvey has studied the masters and put his own unique touch on the crime novel. A major voice’ MICHAEL CONNELLY

www.bloomsbury.com £12.99

michael harvey

Also available by Michael Harvey