A Cure for Night

by Justin Peacock

  "You were over at Devin's apartment when Strawberry was there?"

  "Time to time."

  "Were you in on their deals?"

  "Hell, no," Yolanda said, and the way she said it I believed her. "I don't do that shit."

  "Anyone you know ever have problems with Strawberry?"

  "You mean, I got a reason to put this on him?" Yolanda asked, shaking her head. "It ain't like that."

  "Did you talk to police the night of the shooting?"

  "That's right."

  "Did you tell them you'd seen the shooter?"

  "I told them I seen Strawberry."

  "Did you talk to the police between the night of the shooting and when you came to view the lineup five days later?"

  "Only when that lady detective came by with those pictures she want me to look at."

  This caught my attention: it was the first I'd heard of any photographs. I felt Myra tense beside me. She cocked her head slightly, gazing intently at Yolanda. "Detective Spanner came to show you pictures?"

  Yolanda shrugged. "I don't know her name. The lady detective who been running the po-po's case."

  "What kind of pictures did she show you?"

  "She want me to tell her which picture be Strawberry. I tell her I know him if I see him in person."

  "Did you look at the photos?"

  "The lady detective show them to me."

  "And did you pick out Strawberry?"

  "I didn't pick out nobody. I told her I'd know if I see him in person."

  "So you looked at the photos, but you didn't pick anybody out?"

  "I pick him out at the lineup. You was there when I pick him out."

  Myra smiled broadly. "That's right, Ms. Miller," she said. "I was there the first time you picked him out."

  AS WE cut across the open space in the center of the Gardens, heading to the apartment that Latrice Wallace shared with her brother, I turned to Myra. "I'm not sure Yolanda liked us," I said.

  "I'm not sure I liked her," Myra replied. "But that was huge just now. That was Fantasy Island."

  "Because we've never been told anything about a photo array."

  "We certainly have not. And we certainly should have. We've got a way to potentially throw out Yolanda's whole ID of our guy now."

  "Really?"

  "Absolutely," Myra said. "First of all we have the discovery violation—the DA had an obligation to tell us about the failed ID procedure. Second, the fact that Yolanda couldn't make an ID on the first try casts doubt on the accuracy of any subsequent ID she did make. We'll demand a Wade hearing, challenge Yolanda's lineup ID. We get that tossed, the DA's case is in serious trouble. Plus there's the fact that she admits that she was schtupping our vic."

  "Did you just say 'schtupping'?" I asked.

  "My mother taught me that good girls don't say 'fuck,' " Myra said. "It's too much of a coincidence, though, don't you think?"

  "We're back to talking about the case now, right?"

  "We're talking about the fact that the state's best witness was fucking the vic," Myra said. "Was that clear enough?"

  "If we got rid of her ID, would that get rid of the whole case?"

  "Maybe," Myra said. "Even if it still went forward, I don't see a way for them to win without Yolanda."

  "Sounds like we should write a motion soon."

  "I completely agree," Myra said. "Provided that by 'we' you meant you, and by 'soon' you meant right away."

  8

  LATRICE WALLACE opened the door of the apartment she shared with her brother, Devin, with the chain on, peering out at us cautiously through the crack. We knew her brother wouldn't be there—he was still in the ICU. Myra introduced us, telling Latrice that we represented Lorenzo Tate and wanted to ask her about what she'd seen that night.

  To my surprise, Latrice didn't show any resistance to answering our questions. On the contrary, she seemed resigned to it, as if she'd expected us. It didn't seem to occur to her that she could just refuse to cooperate, and it certainly wasn't in our interest to offer her that option.

  Latrice was attractive, as Lorenzo had advertised: she was a thin, self-possessed young woman, with copper-tinted hair flowing halfway down her back. The three of us sat in the stylish living room Latrice shared with her brother, which was filled with better furniture than I had in my apartment. Given the condition of the Gardens generally, and of the building in particular, the apartment seemed completely incongruous. At least until I remembered what Devin Wallace did for a living.

  "I just wanted to find out what you actually saw that night," Myra said. "It's my understanding that you spoke with Lorenzo Tate a few hours before the shooting; is that right?"

  "I talk to him when he come by here."

  "What did you two talk about?"

  "He ask if Devin be home. I say no. He ask if Devin left money for him. I say I ain't seen nothing like that. Then he talked some shit."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He just said some shit 'bout my brother, something like, 'Motherfucker don't know who he's fucking with, but he's going to get his.' "

  "What happened next?"

  "Strawberry was out."

  "And what time was this?"

  "Must've been like seven, seven thirty or so, 'cause I'd just gotten back from work."

  "And is that when you usually get home after work?"

  " 'Round then, yeah."

  "So after Lorenzo left, what did you do then?" Myra asked.

  "I went back to what I was doing, cooking up something to eat."

  "You didn't call up your brother, try to get ahold of him?"

  "I don't get up in Devin's business," Latrice said again. "If my brother got something he want to say to Strawberry, he knows how to find him."

  "Did you see either your brother or Strawberry at any point later that night?"

  Latrice shook her head. "I didn't hear nothing about it till the police came, telling me 'bout how Devin got himself shot."

  "Okay," Myra said. "We don't have to talk about that night anymore. Just one other thing: do you know Yolanda Miller?"

  "Sure I know Yo-Yo. She live right here in the Gardens."

  "What was her relationship with your brother?"

  "He be with her from time to time, if that's what you asking 'bout."

  "They're dating?" Myra asked.

  "They hook up, sure."

  "Are you friends with Yolanda?"

  "Me and her is fine with one another."

  "You know her pretty well."

  Latrice shrugged. "We both come up here in the Gardens, but Yo-Yo's got a few years on me. We go back, I guess, but we ain't tight or nothing."

  "Is she somebody you'd trust?"

  Latrice jerked her head back like she'd been asked if she was willing to give Yolanda a kidney. "She never done wrong by me. She was doing awright back when she was with Malik. Things didn't get messed up for her until after she had his boy."

  "Who's Malik?" Myra asked.

  "Malik Taylor," Latrice said, as if that would explain something.

  "Okay, so who's Malik Taylor?"

  "He's from around the way. He and Yolanda were together for a couple of years, up until she had his boy. Not to say that Malik is like most of the men in the Gardens—he's awright—but he got up on out of there once that kid was born."

  "Do you know where we can find Malik?"

  "He run the sports store up on Flatbush."

  "What store is that?"

  "Midwood Sports."

  "He owns it?"

  Latrice laughed at this. "He don't own it. He just do the day-today. You know, like a manager."

  "When did he and Yolanda have a son?"

  "That was almost two years ago now."

  "And has Yolanda not been doing so well since her son was born?"

  "I don't know what all go on with her and Malik," Latrice said. The more she talked to us, the more she'd started to actually say things. "But I know she started getting high, shit like that."


  "Yolanda started doing drugs after her son was born?"

  Latrice looked away, pursing her lips, clearly regretting telling us. "Most folks around here get high," she said quickly. "Ain't like that's a big thing."

  "But something changed in Yolanda, didn't it?" Myra asked, equally quick. "Otherwise you wouldn't have mentioned it."

  "It wasn't just the Buddha no more; she was hitting the powder too. I know 'cause Devin didn't like that shit. He don't like to be 'round nobody who's into the serious product."

  I thought back to Yolanda's jittery presence, the sharp edge that glinted out of her demeanor. A budding coke habit would certainly explain it.

  "So you're saying that Yolanda had started doing coke?"

  "That's what I just said, ain't it?" Latrice said, a new sharpness in her voice. "I shouldn't even be talking to you—it's my brother that got shot. You best just be getting up out of here."

  MYRA MANAGED to keep a poker face until we were safely outside the building, at which point she turned to me and gave me a big grin. "That moved the ball up the field," she said.

  "I didn't have you for a football fan."

  "Is that what they do in football?" Myra replied. "I was referring to one of the DA's prime witnesses punking out the other as a druggie."

  "How many yards does that give us?"

  "It undermines her entire ID."

  "Doing pot or coke wouldn't make you hallucinate."

  Myra was clearly losing patience. "Maybe not. But drugs fuck up your perceptions, certainly, and they sure as hell make you seem pretty unreliable. Does any of it mean she didn't actually see what she claims to have seen? Not necessarily. Does it give us a lot of mud to throw on her, dirty up her clean little eyewitness testimony? Absolutely."

  "And that's what matters."

  "In law school I took a class with a famous criminal defense attorney. He had a saying: 'A criminal trial is a search for the truth, but the defense lawyer isn't a member of the search party.' "

  9

  OUR LAST visit of the mission was to see Marcus Riley, our client's supposed alibi, who lived on Avenue J, a couple of blocks from Glenwood Gardens.

  Marcus Riley was a large man, bulky and lumbering, and he certainly did not look thrilled to see a couple of white people in business clothes knocking on his door. Hip-hop rumbled out of the room behind him:

  Kingpins put in bullpens, old connects get paro'

  Break out of town when the Jakes take down the Pharaoh.

  "We represent Lorenzo Tate," Myra said, when it was looking like Marcus was not planning on inviting us in.

  "You represent him in what?"

  "You know that Lorenzo has been charged with murder, right?"

  "You mean you his lawyers?"

  "That would be us."

  "Well, you ain't his family, that's for damn sure," Marcus said, finally moving aside to let us in.

  Lorenzo had told us that Marcus lived by himself. Even if he hadn't, I'd have been able to guess based on the condition of Marcus's apartment. The living room was cluttered, the furniture stained and ratty, although I noticed that the television was a large flat-screen. There were dirty clothes and empty beer bottles strewn across the floor, and it smelled like a locker room.

  "Lorenzo said you were with him on the night of the murder," Myra said, her inflection halfway between a statement and a question.

  "Yeah, uh-huh, true that," Marcus said, sprawling down on his couch, grabbing a tallboy from the floor, and helping himself to a hearty swig.

  "You mind if I turn this down?" Myra said, pointing toward the stereo. She was still standing, so I was too.

  Marcus shrugged, and Myra lowered the music until it was barely audible. "I'm going to ask too that you don't drink any more just now," Myra said. "You give us a statement, we write it up, your drinking a beer is the sort of detail that can complicate things."

  "Ain't no thing," Marcus said, putting the can down on the floor. "Strawberry told me you all was gonna come by."

  "What were you and Lorenzo doing that night?"

  "We was just chilling."

  "Where were you?"

  "Where Strawberry say we were?"

  "I want to hear it from you," Myra replied.

  Marcus hesitated, his face going slack, his whole focus draining out. I realized that he was stoned. The smell of pot was still faintly wafting through the musty air. "We was here," he finally said.

  "Just you and Lorenzo?"

  "Ain't that what he say?"

  "Listen, Marcus," Myra said, starting to lose her patience. "We can't just tell you what we want you to say. If you can't remember it on your own, you're not going to be any use to us."

  "It was just him and me is how I'm remembering it."

  "And what were you doing?"

  "You know, just chilling. Wasn't getting in no kind of trouble."

  "Were you here all night?"

  "Strawberry ain't gonna want me to say we left, is he? Besides, I ain't looking to put myself in the mix."

  "Nobody's suggesting you had anything to do with what happened in the Gardens that night, Mr. Riley."

  "I know you ain't gonna be sayin' that, on account it don't help your boy. But how I know the law not gonna just come after me, I say I was with Strawberry? Then I don't help him none, and I'm facing time too."

  "I really don't think that's likely to happen," Myra said. "All we're asking you to do is tell us the truth. Were you with Lorenzo Tate that night?"

  "Lorenzo tell me that I was," Marcus said. "I know he'd been over to my crib sometime that week, but I didn't write down no date as to when it was."

  "What'd the two of you do?"

  "What's Lorenzo say we did?" Marcus asked.

  "We need to know what you remember."

  "Things are a little foggy in my mind just now," Marcus said. "Truth be told, I sparked up a Dutch before you all came knocking."

  "Thanks for your time, Mr. Riley," Myra said, standing abruptly and heading toward the door.

  "WHAT'S WITH the quick exit?" I asked once we were back on the street.

  "There's no point in throwing good time after bad," Myra replied.

  "Is that an answer to my question, or something you got off of a refrigerator magnet?"

  "Do you think we can use him?"

  "I can see some problems with using him."

  "Yeah, like the fact that he's got a sheet, that he's drinking and high and it's barely noon, that he probably really doesn't even remember whether he was with Lorenzo that night. We put him on the stand, we virtually ensure a conviction."

  "So we don't put on our guy's only alibi witness?"

  "The burden is on them, not on us. We're allowed to just attack their version of what happened without presenting our own. But as soon as we offer our own version, the jury's going to be comparing the two, trying to decide which is more believable. We should only put a story forward if we either feel like we have to, or if we're confident our story is a lot more convincing than theirs is."

  "So we don't put on Lorenzo's alibi witness, even if Lorenzo is telling the truth and he was hanging out with Marcus at the time of the shooting?"

  "Whether or not something may be true isn't relevant for our purposes," Myra said. "The only thing that matters is whether or not it's convincing."

  10

  NICE OF you to join us for a change, Myra," Michael said, once we'd sat down with Zach, Max, Julia, and Shelly in a conference room for our weekly team lunch meeting. "Where are you on the Gibbons appeal?"

  "The first thing was that Isaac had to review the trial transcripts for any potential ineffectiveness claim. He has and there isn't."

  "No surprise there," Michael said. "So where does that leave us?"

  "That generally leaves us with prosecutorial misconduct and judicial error, right?"

  "The ADAs break any big rules?"

  "Much as I love to bad-mouth prosecutors, I don't see anything there."

  "Okay," Michael said
. "That leaves judicial error. Or at least, I hope it does."

  "It does indeed," Myra said. "The judge essentially cut our whole defense off at the knees. The first thing has to be that he wouldn't let our expert on false confessions testify."

  "But the case law in New York supported that decision, right?"

  "The case law in New York is wrong," Myra replied.

  Michael raised his eyebrows. "That solves that," he deadpanned. "So we have point one. What else?"

  "I'm working on it," Myra said.

  Michael gave a mirthless laugh, shaking his head. "How's Terrell holding up?"

  "I'm going up to see him on Saturday," Myra said. "I haven't had a chance to go up since he got sent to Sing Sing."

  Michael looked at me. "You ever been to one of our real prisons?"

  "Not unless Rikers counts," I said.

  "It certainly doesn't," Michael said. "You should go up with Myra and see what high-stakes poker really looks like."

  "Sure," I said, glancing over at Myra. She looked like she was trying to come up with a way of opposing the idea.

  "I'm going to be leaving really early on Saturday morning," Myra said at last.

  "That's fine," I said.

  "It's actually a lovely little trip up alongside the Hudson," Julia said. "Until you get where you're going, that is."

  "Ah, yes, the scenic prison drive," Zach said. "The public defender version of stopping to smell the roses."

  "Speaking of prison visits, you ever find a sign language interpreter for your deaf guy?" I asked him.

  Zach shook his head. "I took a sign interpreter, but it turned out he and my guy didn't speak the same sign language."

  "People speak different kinds of sign language?" Max asked.

  "Apparently Spanish sign language is totally different from American sign language," Zach said. "Or else the interpreter just wanted to fuck with me."

  "What's your guy up on?" Julia asked Zach. Julia was the one member of our team who was fully fluent in Spanish, and therefore often ended up getting drafted into emergency translation duties, though this appeared to be beyond her skill set. She was first generation Cuban American, and entirely too fashionable to be working as a public defender.