Page 82 of Restless (Brazen Bulls Birthright 5)

Finally, he pulled the stack of photos before him. “Consider all this the highlight reel of our plan for next week. Obviously, Mr. Vermeyer has copies of most of this, and by the end of our meeting today, he’ll have the newest pieces.”

With the stack of photos before him—the first was just a shot of Dad’s house—he gestured at the other stacks. “These are the police reports, medical reports, surveillance reports. Also sign-in sheets for your court-ordered therapy and AA meetings, from your first conviction, Mr. Maros. Many gaps there. Your PO was, shall we say, extremely forgiving of your lapses. Enough that he’s been reassigned and is under internal investigation.” He began to flip through the photos. “All this evidence shows a remarkable refusal to comply with your previous sentencing requirements or the conditions of your bail now. What we call that in the law biz is, among other things, a ‘lack of remorse.’

With that, he pulled a photo from his stack and laid it on the table, facing Dad. Petra leaned forward and took a good look.

It was a traffic photo of her father, behind the wheel of his Lexus. The timestamp was from less than a week earlier. Dad’s license had been suspended at his arraignment.

Richardson laid another photo on top of that. Surveillance camera capture of her father buying a case of Busch at the little shop near his house. Time stamped the day after the traffic photo.

“Daddy,” Petra gasped, and then slammed her lips together; in front of the ADA, she should not react at all. But at her side, her father flinched at the sound she’d made.

Richardson gave them time to take that image in, then laid a third down.

This one was obviously a straight-up surveillance photo. They’d been following him, and they got him coming out of The Wayside Inn, an upscale corner bar, looking, even in the still photo, like he was barely on his feet. Time stamp after midnight. Two days ago.

The next photo, time stamped about a minute later, showed him getting behind the wheel of the Lexus.

“Stop,” her father said.

Mr. Vermeyer set his hand on Dad’s arm. “We don’t appreciate the show, Eliot. Get to your point.”

“My point is as follows: Mr. Maros, we have a great deal of evidence that your habit of drinking and driving, and of doing both together, continues despite a previous conviction for driving under the influence and a current charge of same. Within two years, hardly more than weeks after your probationary period ended—a probationary period that you clearly did not pass with flying colors, despite your probation officer’s obvious ... we’ll call it leniency.”

“You don’t understand,” Dad said, so softly Petra wasn’t sure he was speaking to anyone.

But Richardson heard it. “I also don’t care. I care about the law, Mr. Maros. I care about the consequences of illegal actions, and the damage done to others and to our community. I do know the circumstances surrounding your wife’s death, and if I did care about your personal situation, I would be doubly appalled. You know what the consequences of your behavior can be to the innocent people around you, and still you do it.”

Mr. Vermeyer slapped the table hard. “Enough. This is not a therapy session. This is a plea discussion. Do you have an offer?”

“I do. If we go to trial, I’m seeking the maximum, with enhancement. I’ll be seeking ten years.”

“What?” Mr. Vermeyer replied with manifest shock. “No one was injured. This isn’t that kind of case.”

Richardson tapped the photos. “These make it that kind of case. That no one has been injured is pure luck, Ken. Luck that will certainly run out if your client is allowed further leniency. However, the deal I’ll make today is no enhancements. Five years, twenty-five hundred. And permanent revocation of his license.”

“No,” Mr. Vermeyer said at once, without even looking at Dad. “I can make a very strong defense against enhancement. You’re trying to argue he should be sentenced for something that didn’t happen, on the basis that it might in the future. That is science fiction thinking, El, and we don’t live in a Philip K. Dick novel. I’ll make you eat that bullshit.”

“I’ll take the deal,” Dad said. It was barely more than a whisper, and he was looking down at his clenched hands as he spoke, but everyone in the room heard him.

Petra was instantly nauseated and might have vomited on the table if her body hadn’t been so tense even her gorge couldn’t rise. “Daddy, no!”

At the same time, Mr. Vermeyer told Richardson, “I need a minute with my client.”

“No, you don’t.” Dad looked up and faced the ADA. “Five years?”

“Five years,” Richardson confirmed.

“Can I serve it in the county jail?”

“No. You’ll serve it in the Oklahoma State Penitentiary. McAlester.”

Dad deflated, and Petra thought she really would puke.

“Alec,” Mr. Vermeyer said. “We can fight this.”

“Why? I already told you I know I deserve to be punished. I was hoping for some ... grace, I suppose, but I don’t deserve that. He’s right to be appalled. I’ve disgraced Marianne’s memory every time I’ve done it.” Sitting tall in his chair, Dad faced Richardson again. “Five years in prison. A fine of twenty-five hundred dollars. Revocation of my driver’s license. Those are the terms?”

Petra could only stare in horror. Her father was going toprisonforfive years?

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