“Is the state ready to proceed to trial?”
Peter rose. “Yes, Your Honor.” To stall, to argue that the State needed more time to prepare the case was a losing battle. The right to a speedy trial was the defendant’s to demand. “The People are ready to proceed,” he said. But he knew what this meant. Life outside this case would stop for him, and for Dooney, for the next six months.
The judge nodded. “Defendant’s motion for speedy trial is granted. Trial to be set within one hundred and twenty days.” This was June 15. Trial would be set around December 15, he guessed, just around the time of Rebecca’s due date. Inside, Peter groaned.
O’Connell stood with the defendant as the deputies stepped forward. He remained standing while his client walked from the courtroom back to lockup to wait until bail had been arranged. After the door closed, the judge’s clerk called the next case on the docket.
Peter gathered up his files and stuck them in his briefcase. Dooney did the same.
“Peter.”
He looked up and stuck out his hand. “Vincent.” They shook. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”
“We want this thing set as early as possible. I’ll call you tomorrow; see if we can agree on a date.”
Peter thought quickly. The earlier the better, given Rebecca’s due date. “That’s fine. I’ll check my calendar.”
“We need to talk about discovery.”
“I’ll give you what we have.” Peter, still jolted by this turn of events, was curt. He’d have to rearrange his trial schedule for the next six months. Eying Vince, he knew he’d give Vince everything the defense was entitled to under the law—anything he discovered that would benefit the defendant’s case—but that didn’t include Mac’s ongoing search for Alice Braxton, or his discussions with Lucy Ringer in Chicago. All of that was still mere speculation.
Vincent nodded. “Talk to you soon.”
As Vince walked through the gate, Peter swung his briefcase from the table, and turning, stepped aside for Dooney. He followed her down the aisle just behind McConnell. When they reached the hallway, however, they stopped and stood near a window until Vince boarded an elevator.
Dooney turned to Peter. “Do you think he’ll want to bargain?”
“A plea?” He shook his head. “No. Not Vince. And we won’t make an offer.” Another elevator arrived within the minute. This one was empty. Dooney stepped on and he followed. He pressed the button for the tenth floor and looked at the closed metal doors.
“My guess is the defendant doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong,” Dooney said as they ascended in the green glass tower. “My guess is he’s going to hold us to the fast track so Doctor Vicari can get back to business as usual.”
“He won’t get back to business if we can help it.” Facts swam through his head, and images flowed into his mind, weighing him down. Glory Lynn struggling to reach her child in that room. Clara Sonsten holding the dying baby in her arms. The body found in the freezer. Dr. Kand’s autopsy photos—the tiny body intact. The baby.
And his own child, on the way. He pressed his hand to his forehead, suddenly overwhelmed. Then the elevator stopped and they both stepped out.
The next day the trial was set to begin on Tuesday, November 30.
28
Rebecca stood in the door watching as the photographer and reporter moved furniture around. The firm had spread the word that one of their new female partners was pregnant—an almost irresistible lifestyle story in the city of New Orleans in 1982. This interview was with Women in Law, a national magazine with good circulation.
When she’d first told Doug Bastion that she was pregnant, his immediate response, just after the congratulations, was to ask if she would mind this kind of publicity—good for the firm, he’d added, casually as he’d looked off, shooting his cuffs. This interview was the result.
And she admitted to herself as she stood waiting to get started, since Amalise had joined the Auriel team, she’d begun feeling slightly irrelevant. Roberts Engineering had warmed to Amalise a tad too quickly. Rebecca couldn’t travel, Dr. Matlock still said. And she was to avoid stress, he repeated every time she saw him. So, for now all she had was Brightfield’s brief to work on, and the publicity the pregnancy was generating. She smoothed her hands down over the new silk suit, an Armani she’d just purchased and had altered. Still in the first trimester, the magic of the designer hid her thickening waist very well.
“Rebecca, come over here, will you.” The photographer motioned.
She walked to him and he placed his hands on her shoulders, positioning her so that she stood before the windows, looking out over the city.
“Now. Turn your face this way, please,” he said, tipping her chin to the right. “That’s good, that’s good.” The camera flashed, once. Twice. They’d been at it a while. Then he pulled the camera from the tripod and knelt, sitting on his heels. “Give me that smile one more time, please.”
She complied. The camera clicked.
Amity Jones, the reporter, sat on the sofa in the corner, waiting. She looked at the photographer now. “All through?”
“I think so.” He turned to Rebecca. “The camera loves you, lady.”
“We all love her.” Doug Bastion stepped in. Rebecca introduced the firm’s managing partner to the photographer and reporter.
She looked at Doug, lifted her hair, twisting it, then let it fall around her shoulders. “We’re just starting the interview. Do you need me?” She heard the hopeful note in her voice and blushed.
Doug took three steps back, hands up. “No. I was passing by and saw the lights. Thought I’d stop in and say hello to these folks.”
“Would you like to add something for the story?” the reporter asked.
Doug smiled at her and said, “Sure thing.”
He crossed his arms, looking down at Amity Jones, ready with his quote. “From the day she joined us, Rebecca has blazed her way through this firm like a shooting star. Just tell your readers that times have changed and with education and hard work, any woman can do the same and have a family too.” He nodded toward Rebecca. “She’ll soon be a mother, a wife, a successful lawyer.” He shook his head, smiling. “It’s 1982. Women today can have it all, if that’s what they choose.”
Rebecca looked at him. So easy for you to say.
As he left, Rebecca moved to the sofa and Amity Jones. The interview would take about one hour Amity had said. Rebecca already knew the questions; she’d seen them in all the magazines lately. How do you do it all? And now, a baby, too?
What’s your plan?
The answer, she’d thought, was good help. But, smiling at Amity Jones, she gritted her teeth at the thought of the nannies she’d interviewed. The women who’d be taking her place with her daughter.
Amity asked if she was ready and Rebecca glittered. For the next forty minutes she focused on the questions and her answers. As they were wrapping up, she placed her hand over the baby spot, and that brought a smile.
“That’s it!” Amity Jones looked at her. “That smile lights your face, Rebecca. That’s what I came to capture in this interview—the utter joy for the girl who’s got life all figured out.”
29
About a month and a half before the trial date, which was, November 30, Vince McConnell filed a motion that threw Peter’s entire trial strategy into a spin. When the envelope arrived by messenger, he opened it, began to read, and then stopped and held it out before him, looking at it in disbelief.
There would be no jury at this trial. Charles Vicari, M.D., had elected to fight this battle for his life and reputation before one man, and one man only. He was waiving his right to trial by jury. He was demanding a trial to the bench, meaning the most Honorable Calvin Morrow, the judge who’d been appointed to hear the case. Attached to the motion was a notation from Molly. A hearing on the defense motio
n had been set for two o’clock on the following afternoon.
Now, at 2:15 on the following afternoon, Peter and Dooney waited in Judge Morrow’s courtroom on the fourth floor of the courthouse. As usual, lawyers from the last hearing were still gathered around the defense table nearby, shoving papers in their briefcases, joking, arguing.
This was the same courtroom in which the actual trial would be heard. Beside him at the prosecution table, Dooney was humming a song under her breath, too low to be recognizable. Peter beat an erratic rhythm on the table with the tip of his pen, watching the judge up on the bench, still studying the paperwork.
McConnell walked in, preceded by his client. The other lawyers vacated the defense table, pushing through the railing gate. Peter barely gave them a glance.
His thoughts still roiled at this last-minute trick nullifying all the work he’d put into his strategy, a large part of which concentrated on the psychology of juries. His opening statement; the closing argument. Consideration of the evidence—how to present it in the way that would most impact the men and women sitting in those twelve chairs. The judge’s instructions to the jury.
Everything.
But, the right to waive the jury was the defendant’s.
So now, Peter’s focus was on the judge, the man who would determine the verdict. Peter had tried several cases before Calvin Morrow, and each time he’d found the man to be unpredictable, an enigma. Socially, he wasn’t the person you’d seek out at a party, and he never attended them anyway; not even birthday parties for his own staff. Not even retirement celebrations.
Juries were easier to read than Calvin Morrow. During the process of voir dire when prospective jurors are questioned, you could find out a lot about a man or woman: what books they were reading while they waited to be called, their education, work history. From bumper stickers on their cars, you’d learn their political affiliations and the organizations they support.
But Judge Calvin Morrow was a complete unknown.
Still, Peter mused. The defendant was rolling the dice by putting his life in the hands of one man, rather than twelve good men and women. Unless he knew something about the judge that Peter didn’t know. That sent a chill up his spine.
And, knowing McConnell, that idea wasn’t too fantastical.
Irked at the thought, he glanced at Vince, seeking clues. But counsel for the defense radiated confidence while he spoke in low tones with his client, leaning back, his arm resting over the back of the defendant’s chair.
Peter fixed his eyes on the Louisiana flag hanging at one side behind the bench. The American flag was on the other. There was always the chance that Morrow would refuse to take this case on his shoulders. The law did not require a judge to accept a trial to the bench. If he refused, it would be reassigned. A bench trial in a criminal case was a huge responsibility and a political nightmare. Morrow was elected to his position, as were all other state judges in Louisiana. And juries provided political cover in sensitive cases like this one with explosive issues.
Suddenly he recalled that Morrow was up for reelection in two years. Peter began to allow himself the shred of hope that Morrow might transfer the case to another judge. Any other judge in the district would be better than Calvin Morrow, with a case like this—sui generis—one of a kind, without precedent. Dooney had been unable to find any other case on record involving an infant born alive, completely separated from the mother, and then allowed to die with zero medical attention.
If what Lucy Ringer had said to Mac was true, that this happened all the time, then the practice was the best-kept secret in the country.
When Peter heard Morrow mutter, “All right,” he blinked, straightened, and looked up. The bailiff announced that court was back in session and called the case. Michelene, the court reporter, arched her fingers over the stenography machine. Morrow pointed to Vince, who stood.
“State your case for the record, please, Mr. McConnell.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Vince quickly summed up the defendant’s motion waiving his right to trial by jury. The defense was convinced that the inflammatory nature of the charges and the religious demographics of this state would combine to deny due process to Charles Vicari anywhere in the state of Louisiana. Even a change of venue would not solve the problem. But, he added, the defendant had full confidence in Judge Morrow’s ability to remain objective.
Peter rose. Morrow pumped his hands, “Sit, sit, sit, Counsel. This is between the Court and the Defendant.” Beside him, Dooney clicked her tongue. Peter sat. The judge was right—the defendant could make this choice. The prosecution really held no marbles in this game.
Now Morrow peered down at Charles Vicari. “Do you understand what’s happening here, Dr. Vicari?”
Charles Vicari pushed back his chair and stood. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said.
“Is it your desire to waive your right to a jury of your peers?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge Morrow leaned forward, squinting down at Vicari as if he were looking into the blinding light of his own future. “If I grant this request, do you understand that I will be the only person determining your guilt or innocence? There will be no jurors. Is that what you want?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Peter groaned. The judge was going to take it.
Calvin Morrow nodded and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together before him. “You may be seated.”
Charles Vicari sat, along with McConnell.
Minutes passed while Judge Morrow considered the request. Fleeting expressions crossed the judge’s face as he deliberated. Peter’s hope rose again. Perhaps he’d take a pass.
At last he looked up. “Counsel, I’ll see you in my chambers.” He looked at the court reporter. “You too, Michelene.”
Peter, Dooney, and McConnell—leaving Vicari at the defense table—filed out through the side door, located behind the jury box. Michelene followed with her machine. When they arrived in chambers, the judge, still wearing his robe, was already seated behind his desk.
The room was dark. The walls, the interior frames of the windows, the bookcases behind the desk, and the desk itself, were all custom-built mahogany, gleaming in the artificial light. Again, the American and Louisiana flags hung behind the desk. The long rectangular conference table took up most of the left side of the room. The table was set against the inner wall of the judge’s chambers, the side which had no windows.
Michelene pulled a chair over to one side of the desk and set up her machine. Peter and Dooney leaned against the conference table, arms folded, waiting. McConnell stood before the judge, arms at his sides.
“This is off the record,” Morrow said, glancing at Michelene. She nodded and rested her hands in her lap. Judge Morrow leaned back in his chair, elbows braced on the armrests and hands folded over his chest as he looked at the three lawyers.
“I’m inclined to accept trial to the bench,” he said, fixing his eyes on Peter and McConnell. “But let’s get one thing straight. I’m setting some limits here. I’m telling you now what we will not hear in this courtroom. Not once.”
He leaned forward and banged his fist on the desk, his eyes shifting between the lawyers. “I will not under any circumstances allow either side to challenge the right to abortion already established under Roe v. Wade.” Then he leaned back and fixed his eyes on Peter. “The State has the burden to prove that the infant was fully separated from the mother, and was born alive. Then, and only then, will we reach issues governing the defendant’s culpability. Understood?”
The sanctity of life prior to birth could not be addressed in Calvin Morrow’s courtroom.
Peter leaned forward. “Your Honor, the Supreme Court acknowledged the State has an interest in protecting the potential life of the unborn child under, at least, some circumstances. And that may be an element of proof in establishing the Defen
dant’s intentions prior to Infant Chasson’s birth.”
Morrow looked at Vince.
“The defense is prepared to prove that Doctor Vicari was justified in believing that Miss Chasson’s pregnancy had not progressed to viability, Your Honor.”
The judge frowned. “My point is that I will accept no arguments from counsel in this room that are inconsistent with the holding in Roe v. Wade.” He looked at Michelene. “We’re going on record now.” Shifting forward, Morrow flattened his hands on the desk before him and stated the limitation for the record.
“Based upon that condition, I will accept trial to the bench.”
Peter was in the office when he got the call from Rose Marie, Rebecca’s secretary downtown. His hand tightened into a fist as he held the phone and listened.
“Amalise Catoir has taken Rebecca to the hospital, Mr. Jacobs. They went to Baptist Hospital and Rebecca asked me to call you. To meet her there.”
“What happened?”
“She, um, was having cramps all morning and . . .”
“Why didn’t she call me! When did she leave?”
“Uh, they left about five minutes ago. She was having those cramps and then she began bleeding. I’ve called her doctor, Dr. Matlock, and told the nurse there what was going on. She said he would meet her at the hospital right away.” Rose Marie paused. “They’re going to the emergency room.”
“Thanks,” Peter said as he stood and slammed down the telephone. “Molly? Molly.”
Molly appeared within seconds in the doorway of his office. “Yes, Peter?”
“Call Judge Bridey, will you? Tell him an emergency has come up and we’ll need to reschedule the Cleary hearing this afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s in a half-hour, at three, and if Bridey won’t—”
Accidental Life Page 18