The Guilty

by Gabriel Boutros

  “As a matter of fact,” Bratt paused as he turned the pages until he reached the picture in question, “what you wrote was, ‘Number three. He’s the one who shot me.’ Isn’t that your writing?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been saying all along.”

  “Is there a difference in your mind between saying number three is the one who shot you and saying number three looks like the one who shot you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so.”

  “You didn’t write that you thought number three was the one who shot you, nor that he looked like the one who shot you, did you? You wrote that number three is the one who shot you. Sounds like you were pretty certain it was number three, doesn’t it?”

  “It looked like him. That’s what I meant.”

  “Can you show me if anywhere, on any of these pages, you corrected yourself and told the detectives that he only looked like your assailant?”

  “You know I didn’t write anything like that.”

  “Did you say anything to the police about it?”

  “No, I was still intubated at the time.”

  “That’s right, you were. If I tell you that nowhere in any of the detectives’ personal notes nor in their official reports do they mention that you ever indicated that number three only looked like your assailant, would that surprise you?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “You guess not. Is it not then possible, and even likely, that when you saw that picture you were certain that number three was the man who shot you?”

  “No way. I only meant he looked like the guy who shot me. I never said I thought it was him.”

  “Well, well. That’s settled then. But tell me another thing, Mr. Phillips. How old would you say the man shown in picture number three is?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  “Would you say he looks older than you? Maybe closer to my age?”

  “Yeah, he’s old, like you.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Bratt gave a sarcastic smile. “Would you agree with me that Mr. Small, who is all of twenty-one years old right now, looks much younger than number three?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the picture, the man’s lips are slightly parted. Look carefully and see if you can spot any gaps in his front lower teeth.”

  Phillips glanced briefly down at the picture, already knowing the answer beforehand.

  “No, there’s no gaps.”

  “And, as you’ve so correctly pointed out, Mr. Small does have a very noticeable gap between his teeth, doesn’t he? All right, other than the age difference and the missing gap in the teeth, can you tell us if there are any similarities between Mr. Small and the man in picture number three?”

  This time Phillips studied the picture a little harder, although the result was the same.

  “They don’t really look like each other.”

  “Not even a little bit?”

  “No, not even a little bit.”

  Bratt made a show of scratching his head in puzzlement and looked a little longer at the picture, then over at Small in the prisoner’s box.

  “OK, maybe you can help me here, because I’m a little confused. You’re telling us today that when you saw picture number three you told the homicide detectives that the man in the picture looked like the man who shot you. Yet you’ve just admitted that Marlon Small doesn’t look anything at all like the man in picture number three. How can you claim today that Marlon Small shot you when you’ve told us that he doesn’t even look like the man who shot you?”

  “That’s not what I said. You’re twisting my words.”

  “Yes, well defense lawyers are known for that, aren’t we? So let’s put it in your own words. Does the man in picture number three look like the guy who shot you?”

  Phillips retreated into silence again and just stared at the picture. This time, though, Bratt didn’t want to leave the question unanswered.

  “Mr. Phillips. Isn’t that what you told the police last June? Isn’t that what you just finished telling us a few minutes ago?”

  “Yeah,” Phillips forced himself to answer.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “Yeah, number three looks like the man who shot me. Is that what you want me to say?”

  “Only if it’s the truth, Mr. Phillips. You are telling us the truth, aren’t you?”

  “You know I am.”

  And they say the truth will set you free, Bratt thought. It just might, if you’re Marlon Small.

  To Phillips he said, “And is it not also the truth that this same number three, the one who looks like the man who shot you, doesn’t look anything at all like my client?”

  Phillips glared at the lawyer without answering for several seconds. Then, just when Bratt thought he’d have to repeat his question, Phillips finally spoke up.

  “No. He doesn’t.”

  Bratt nodded thoughtfully, and paused for a few seconds to collect his thoughts. He knew he had come to the perfect place to stop.

  “Thank you, My Lord,” he said. “We’ll have no more questions for this witness.”

  With that, he sat down, flipping his robe dramatically behind him as he did so. His face beamed a smile of perfect contentment toward judge and jury, and for added effect he lightly tossed his pen onto the desk in front of him and crossed his arms. His work there was done.

  It was past seven o’clock and Bratt was starting to feel hungry. He sat alone at his desk, savoring the silence and solitude at the end of his hectic week. Kouri had headed home about an hour earlier, but Bratt was in no rush to leave, still feeling the need to wind down from the daily adrenalin rush he had been experiencing.

  That afternoon, after they had had their lunch, they put aside whatever feelings of accomplishment Phillips’ cross-examination had brought them, along with all their notes concerning his testimony. There was still work to do, and they turned their attention to Marcus Paris, who would be called to the stand on Monday morning. Their minds still full of Phillips and his testimony, they tried to concentrate on their cross-examination strategy for the next witness.

  They spent the afternoon reviewing the questions Bratt would have to ask Paris, making some changes based on what Phillips had said over the last three days. Finally, feeling mentally drained, Bratt had told his assistant to put everything away until Monday morning. There were only so many times they could go over the same points before they began burning themselves out.

  Bratt looked at his watch again and put his stockinged feet up on his desk, his favorite position for relaxing and contemplating the twists and turns he was navigating on the road to what seemed to be his final destination of being named a judge. He smiled to himself, allowing a feeling of contentment to wash over him.

  The weekend ahead looked to be fairly uneventful and he intended to forget all about the Marlon Small trial, if only for a little while. He wondered if he shouldn’t call up Jeannie, or maybe even Nancy, but mostly he looked forward to enjoying some peace and quiet at home.

  From his seat he heard the front door of the firm opening and footsteps entering softly. He thought it must be Kouri coming back for some forgotten item, so he called out to him.

  “What’s the matter, Pete? You miss the place already?”

  There was no immediate answer, but he heard the footsteps slowly approach his open door and pause for a second or two just outside his office. Then Dorrell Phillips walked in.

  Bratt sat up abruptly, as if he were seeing a ghost. His first thought was that Phillips had come there to kill him and he hadn’t even waited until the trial was over to do it. But Phillips made no move toward him and, within a few seconds, Bratt could see that violence was the furthest thing from his mind.

  The young man stood in the doorway, looking nervous and totally lost, as if he had no idea how he had gotten there, or what he meant to do. Bratt slowly relaxed, let out the breath he was holding and calmly spoke, taking charge of the situation.

  “Dorrell? You shouldn’t be here.”


  Upon hearing his name spoken aloud Phillips moved forward with a start, his eyes focusing on Bratt.

  “I wanted to talk to you a minute. Is that okay?”

  “I guess so. Strictly speaking you’re not a Crown witness anymore. But why are you here?”

  “I wanted to tell you something. You’re a hell of a lawyer.”

  He’s the last person I would have gone to for compliments, Bratt thought, saying nothing in reply. But he’s clearly got a lot more than flattery on his mind.

  “Mr. Parent was pretty pissed at me,” Phillips continued, “because I didn’t answer your questions very well.”

  “He shouldn’t blame you. Getting up on the stand is never an easy thing to do.”

  “You made me look like some kind of liar. Twisted everything around until even I didn’t know what was the truth anymore.”

  Bratt had an uncomfortable sense of deja-vu, as he heard Jeannie accusing him of the same thing a few weeks earlier. He tried to ignore her voice in his head. Dealing with this unexpected visitor was hard enough.

  “It was my medication,” Phillips stated matter of factly, as if in answer to a question that only he had heard.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “In the hospital. The first week or so they had me under heavy medication, cortisone and stuff, and I couldn’t see the mug shots too well. I couldn’t think too clear either. I was real scared in court, and pretty mad at you too, and when you asked me about that picture I chose, I guess I forgot about the pain killers.”

  Bratt realized that Phillips was trying to justify his performance on the stand, and to explain to Bratt what he had been unable to explain to the jury. It wasn’t such a bad explanation either, but it was too little too late.

  “Listen, Dorrell, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but what you’re telling me really isn’t going to change anything. Maybe Parent should have asked you more questions about your physical condition, but that was his job.”

  Phillips shrugged, regaining the sad and lost look he had had on the first morning he had testified, before his dislike of Bratt had begun influencing his answers.

  “It really was Small, you know.”

  “I know that you honestly believe that. I never tried to imply you were lying about it, and I’m truly sorry if that’s how it felt. Anyway, it’s not something I can discuss with you now.”

  Phillips seemed to be trying to take in what Bratt was saying for a moment, before blurting out, “My brother Dexter really fucked up his life, even before Small killed him. But my dad still loved him. He was the oldest boy in the family.”

  Oh God, he’s going to lay a guilt trip on me, Bratt thought, unable to stop a lump from rising to his throat. He wondered if Phillips was supposed to be some version of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

  “After I got home from the hospital,” Phillips went on, “I’d lie in bed when I couldn’t sleep at night and I’d hear my dad go by himself into Dexter’s room. My bed was right next to the door and the walls are pretty thin. And I’d hear my dad sitting there and crying, almost every night. He sounded like a girl when he cried. In the daytime I never saw him cry, you know. He was always taking care of me, protecting me. But, at night, I’d just listen to him cry for his boy that your client took away.”

  Son of a bitch’s going to make me cry now too, Bratt thought in alarm. Get him out of here before he actually does it.

  “Listen, Dorrell,” Bratt stood up, clearing his throat, “this is inappropriate, especially since the trial’s still going on. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Phillips nodded without saying another word, and turned to head back out. Bratt felt he had to say something to show that he wasn’t totally heartless.

  “I’m really sorry about your brother,” he called out, as he chased after Phillips into the reception area.

  Phillips turned to him with a look that questioned his sincerity.

  “I really am,” Bratt repeated. “Whether Small did it or not, I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, and I do feel bad for you and your father.”

  Phillips looked at him for a few more seconds before speaking again.

  “It ain’t normal for a father to bury his son,” he said, then turned and left Bratt standing there, feeling angry, but unsure who he should be angry at. He had no idea why Phillips had decided to come see him, and he didn’t know what it was supposed to change.

  Maybe it was just to remind me that sometimes I don’t like this job after-all, he told himself, turning back and stomping toward his office. He violently kicked a metal trashcan that was in his path, sending it crashing into the wall behind it, leaving a nasty gash in the plaster.

  Shit, it’s like Jeannie at the courthouse all over again, he raged wordlessly. I thought I was past all that. I didn’t need to hear this crap right now.

  In his office he fell onto his sofa, looking helplessly at the desk where he had been sitting, happily daydreaming about becoming a judge only minutes before. Those few moments of happiness, that feeling of self-worth that he had regained over the course of the trial’s first week, were gone now. They had been stolen by Dorrell Phillips and the vision of a father mourning his murdered son.

  “Goddamn Dorrell Phillips and his father,” he said out loud, and slammed his fist into the sofa’s soft cushions. “Goddamn Marlon Small! And goddamn me!”

  Chapter 11

  Early that Monday morning Bratt lay on the sofa in his office, trying to get a grip on the simmering anger that had often threatened to overtake him during the weekend. For two days he hadn’t been able to shake the mental image of Dorrell Phillips’s father, sitting alone in a darkened bedroom, mourning his oldest son Dexter. And the more he thought about it, the angrier he had become.

  At first he was angry with Dorrell for having given him the image in the first place. It had taken away what little pleasure he had been able to derive from his work in the trial. Eventually, his anger turned toward Small, for perhaps having been involved in the killing of the young man, as well as for just being such an unlikable client. Every now and then his anger was even aimed at Jeannie for having triggered his uncharacteristic soul-searching in the first place, without which stories like the one Dorrell Phillips had told him would have just been shrugged off as so much melodrama.

  Running like an undercurrent throughout this river of bitterness, he was mostly angry with himself. He knew he should never have let Dorrell’s obvious emotional manipulation affect him the way it had, and he derided himself for his weakness. But he also blamed himself for being willing to work for people like Marlon Small in the first place.

  He tried to imagine a job, a life, where interacting with murderers and rapists wasn’t part of his everyday routine. Was there really such a world beyond the walls of the courtroom? And had he become so used to his world, so enured to the pain and suffering that filled it, that he had lost the capacity to be affected by it? If he had ever thought this might be the case, these past few weeks had proven him wrong.

  He had no idea how long he had been laying there, trying to clear his mind so that he could concentrate on the trial he was supposed to fight that morning, when John Kalouderis knocked on his door and walked in without waiting for an invitation. Bratt lay unmoving, his eyes covered with his forearm.

  “Christ, you’ve gone and turned into me,” Kalouderis said as he flopped into Bratt’s chair and put his feet up on the desk. “Does this mean I have to go win that murder trial for you?”

  “If you’re not too busy,” Bratt mumbled in reply, his eyes still shaded from the light streaming through the window.

  It occurred to Bratt, with only a small pang of regret, that if he really had turned into his friend he might at least have had the cold comfort of some alcohol to get him through the past two days. As it was, he hadn’t had a drink since their binge nearly two weeks earlier. He had spent the weekend stone cold sober, keeping company only with the disembodied voices of Jeannie and Dorre
ll Phillips, both of whom seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his head and his apartment.

  “Pete says the trial’s going pretty well so far,” Kalouderis said.

  Bratt sighed and slid his arm off his face. He slowly got up into a sitting position and rubbed his face. He looked at his friend, but said nothing in reply.

  “Am I missing something here?” Kalouderis asked. “Did something happen?”

  “Nothing happened. The trial’s going about as well as I could have hoped for. I’m just tired, I guess.”

  “Looks like you haven’t been getting enough sleep. You and that lady cop make up, finally?”

  “I wish,” Bratt said, unwilling to tell Kalouderis the cause of his sleepless nights. “I guess I’m just not finding this case to be much fun.”

  “Come on, what’s not to like? A juicy double murder, all the papers talking about the way you ripped into that Phillips kid. It should at least take your mind off J.P., if that’s what’s got you down.”

  If Kalouderis’s words were intended to raise Bratt’s spirits, they had the opposite effect. Considering what Dorrell Phillips had suffered the previous summer, the last thing he had needed was to be ripped apart on the witness stand. Having given way to that thought Bratt couldn’t help but dredge up the memory of Claire Brockway and what had happened to her in court.

  Why the hell do I keep going back to her? As if it isn’t bad enough that I blame myself for Marlon Small’s crimes. Do I have to feel bad about what all my clients may have done?

  “Shit,” he exclaimed, and jumped up from the sofa.

  A surprised Kalouderis also jumped up, uncertain what had come over his friend. Bratt gave him no explanation, putting on his coat in preparation for the walk to the courthouse. He knew he had to get a grip on his racing thoughts or he’d drive himself crazy. Moping around wasn’t doing him any good, not with a trial still to fight. As for the voices in his head that were castigating him, they would just have to wait their turn and keep the damn volume down in the meantime.

  If Dorrell Phillips had the universal sympathy of everybody who had listened to his tragic story, Marcus Paris would have been lucky if he was just intensely disliked.