CHAPTER FIFTEENThe morning was brighter in Walnut Creek, and Eric Coffman’s office was its reassuring, old-fashioned self. The book-lined walls, thick carpeting, and leather furniture gave it the feel of a Nineteenth Century country squire’s den. Instead of the expected hunting prints, Coffman had selected engravings of Sephardim in medieval wedding garb. Lindsey sat in a brass-studded green leather wing chair, Marvia Plum beside him in a similar chair, waiting for the lawyer’s verdict.
“All right,” Coffman began, “here’s what I worked out with Carl Shea. That man is a piece of work. He’s strictly from the old school, and good at it, you can take it from me. Now, the Corcorans will drop the all their charges against you—fraudulent entry, assault and battery, whatever. And you have to drop
