Twisted

detective, into the room. “Only what’s the question?”
    Moyer waved greetings to Viamonte and Wu and sat down in a chair, yawning excessively.
    “So, Dick, bored with us already?” Wu asked wryly.
    “Tired. Too many bad guys out there. Anyway, I overheard what you were saying—about Hartman. I know why he won’t take the plea.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “He can’t go into Stafford.” The main state prison, through which had passed a number of graduates of the Daniel Tribow School of Criminal Prosecution.
    “Who wants to go to prison?” Viamonte asked.
    “No, no, I mean he can’t. They’re already sharpening spoon handles and grinding down glass shivs, waiting for him.”
    Moyer continued, explaining that two of the OC—organized crime—bosses that Hartman had snitched on were in Stafford now. “Word’s out that Hartman wouldn’t last a week inside.”
    So that was why he’d killed the victim in this case, Jose Valdez. The poor man had been the sole witness against Hartman in an extortion case. If Hartman had been convicted of that he’d have gone to Stafford for at least six months—or, apparently, until he was murdered by fellow prisoners. That explained Valdez’s cold-blooded killing.
    But Hartman’s reception in prison wasn’t Tribow’s problem. The prosecutor believed he had a simple task in life: to keep his county safe. This attitude was considerably different from many other prosecutors.’ They took it personally that criminals committed offenses, and went after them vindictively, full of rage. But to Danny Tribow, prosecuting wasn’t about being a gunslinger; it was simply making sure his county was safe and secure. He was far more involved in the community than a typical DA. He’d worked with congressmen and the courts, for instance, to support laws that made it easier to get restraining orders against abusive spouses and that established mandatory felony sentences for three-strikes offenders, anyone carrying a gun near a school or church, and drivers whose drinking resulted in someone’s death.
    Getting Ray Hartman off the streets was nothingmore than yet another brick in the wall of law and order, to which Tribow was so devoted.
    This particular man’s conviction, however, was a very important brick. At various stages in his life Hartman had been through court-ordered therapy and though he’d always escaped with a diagnosis of sanity, the doctors had observed that he was close to being a sociopath, someone for whom human life meant little.
    This was certainly reflected in his MO. He was a bully and petty thug who sold protection to and extorted recent immigrants like Jose Valdez. And Hartman would intimidate or murder anyone who threatened to testify against him. No one was safe.
    “Hartman’s got money in Europe,” Tribow said to the cop. “Who’s watching him—to make sure he doesn’t head for the beach?” The suspect had been released on a $2 million bond, which he’d easily posted, and he’d had his passport lifted. But Tribow remembered the killer’s assured look not long before as he’d said, “You’re going to lose,” and wondered if Hartman conveyed a subconscious message that he was planning to jump bond.
    But Detective Moyer—helping himself to the cookies that Tribow’s wife had once again sent her husband to work with—said, “We don’t have to worry. He’s got baby-sitters like you wouldn’t believe. Two, full-time. He steps over the county line or into an airport and, bang, he’s wearing bracelets. These oatmeal ones’re my favorite. Can I get the recipe?” He yawned again.
    “You don’t cook,” Tribow told him. “How ’bout if Connie just makes you a box?”
    “That’d work too.” The cop wandered back out of the office to find some criminals to arrest—or to get some sleep—and Chuck Wu accompanied Viamonte to her office, where they’d spend the evening preparing questions for voir dire—jury selection.
    Tribow himself turned to the indictment and continued to plan out the trial.
    He’d carefully studied the facts of the Valdez killing and decided to bring Hartman up on three charges. The backbone of the case—the conviction that Tribow wanted most badly—was first-degree murder. This was premeditated homicide, and if convicted of it Hartman could be sentenced to death, a punishment that Tribow intended to recommend to the court. But this was a difficult case to prove. The state had to establish beyond a reasonable