Roosevelt answers on the first ring. His tone is polite, but his voice is tired. “Are you ready for action?” he asks.
“Yeah. Are they going to put you on the stand?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Marcus is going to do the talking.”
It doesn’t surprise me. “Maybe I’ll give you a cameo when we put on our defense.”
“I’d like that.” There’s a pregnant silence, then he says, “Why did you call, Mike?”
“I was going through the report on your interview with Nick the Dick.”
“He’s a pistol.”
“Yes, he is. He’s also placed Alicia Morales and J.T. Grayson at the scene.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He saw them in the alley behind the liquor store.”
“He saw them behind Basic Needs. It’s a block from the liquor store.”
“Close enough. He saw them heading toward the liquor store. You can put it together.”
“There’s no evidence connecting them to Grayson’s murder,” he insists.
He’s holding something back. “What’s going on here, Roosevelt?”
“We’re all just trying to do our jobs, Mike.”
It sounds as if somebody told him not to talk. I ask about the withdrawal from Grayson’s bank account. “You didn’t mention it when we talked.”
“I didn’t find out about it until yesterday.”
“Where did the money go?”
“Into your client’s pocket.”
“Grayson withdrew twenty five grand from the bank, but they found only two grand in Leon’s pocket.”
“I don’t know where he stashed the rest of it.”
“Did it occur to you that he paid it to Alicia Morales?”
“We’re looking into it.”
“Any leads on her whereabouts?”
“Our song and dance for the TV cameras has come up empty so far, and Jerry Edwards hasn’t found her.”
He knows more than he’s letting on. “Is there something that you can’t tell me?”
“I’ll see you in court.” There a pause before he adds, “Keep digging.”
The next thing I hear is a dial tone.
# # #
Rosie’s dark eyes are tired as she asks me, “Did you get anything from Roosevelt?”
“He’s playing hard to get.”
Her expression turns to one of resignation. “Somebody got to him.”
Evidently.
Her full lips form a tight ball. She asks, “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’m going to be. A couple of extra days would help.”
“We don’t have the luxury.”
The small clock on the mantle in her living room is chiming midnight. We’ll start playing for keeps in nine hours.
Rosie asks, “Is Leon going to make it to court?”
“Looks like it. I made arrangements for a wheelchair and I dropped off a suit and tie at the hospital. I hope it fits.”
The defendant’s attire may seem trivial, but every trial lawyer knows that the courtroom is a stage where every nuance counts. At least Leon won’t be wearing an orange jumpsuit, and he won’t look so much like a criminal when the footage is shown on the news.
Rosie tries to manage our expectations. “You realize it’s unlikely that we’ll get the charges dropped unless somebody else confesses.”
“We’ll see how it goes,” I say. We could spend the night handicapping our chances, but I’m more concerned with the practical aspects of preparing for our case. “Who’s on their final witness list?” I ask.
“The first officer at the scene, Rod Beckert, a fingerprint expert and Marcus Banks.”
Sounds about right. The officer will place Leon at the scene and identify the knife. Beckert will confirm that Grayson died of stab wounds. The fingerprint expert will say that Leon’s prints were on the knife and Banks will tie it all together. Then McNulty will sit down and shut up.
I ask, “How long do you think it will take McNulty to put on his case?”
“If I were in his shoes, I’d be done in no more than an hour.”
So would I.
There is a hint of resignation in her voice when she adds, “Even if we can’t win, we’ll put on a good show.”
Yes, we will.
We go through our witness list once more and we’re about to call it a night when Grace walks into the room. Rosie gives her a concerned look and says, “Is everything okay, sweetie?”
“I was having trouble sleeping.”
We underestimate the stresses we place on our kids. Rosie takes her hand and says, “Everything will be fine, honey. It will be over in a few days.”
Grace isn’t convinced. “Is Leon Walker going to die?”
Rosie swallows hard and says, “I’m afraid so, honey.”
Grace sighs and says, “Are you feeling all right, Mommy? You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
Our very wise eleven year-old looks at her mother and says, “I don’t like murder trials.”
“Neither do I.”
“Can you take a break when this one is done?”
“Yes, honey. I promise.”
Grace heads off to bed a few minutes later. She inherited her independence and her practical nature from her mother and her propensity to worry from me. The level of her angst seems to be increasing as she approaches her teens. We got through Rosie’s cancer treatments with few outward demonstrations of emotion, but I fear we’re in for some greater challenges when she heads off to high school.
I say to Rosie, “We need to keep a close eye on her.”
“Yes, we do. She’ll be okay.”
I peck her on the cheek and say, “Are you going to be okay?”
There is a hesitation in her voice as she says, “Of course.”
I’m not so sure. “Do you regret that we decided to take this case?”
“No.”
I don’t believe her. “It will be over soon.”
Her flat tone doesn’t change. “I know.”
“So you’re all right with this?”
This time her eyes catch fire. “We can’t worry about it now. It isn’t the first case that we can’t win, and it won’t be the last. It’s what we do.”
“But?”
The frustration pours out. “Why do you always want me to say that I’m having a great time? You look at every case as a morality play. It’s our job to represent Leon and I think we should do it as well as we can. It’s challenging, but it isn’t fun anymore. Frankly, I’m not convinced that it ever was. We spend our lives dealing with other people’s problems. In Leon’s case, we’re doing it for the second time. I don’t want to sound selfish, but maybe twenty years of fixing other people’s problems is enough.”
We sit in silence for a long time. Rosie is my marker and my moral compass. I know she isn’t a quitter. On the other hand, even great warriors sometimes suffer from battle fatigue. I say, “We won’t take on any more murder cases after we’re done.”
Her eyes narrow as she says, “Do you intend to stick to your promise this time?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“I know.”
She heaves a tired sigh, then she cups my cheek with her hand and says, “I’m sorry I snapped at you, Miguel.”
“I’m sorry I keep asking you questions that have no answers. Did you call Dr. Urbach’s office?”
“I have an appointment next week.” She pauses and adds, “It isn’t cancer, Mike.”
I kiss her softly on the cheek. “We have a busy day tomorrow, Rosita. Maybe it’s time for me to go home.”
She isn’t quite finished. She asks, “Did you hear anything from Pete?”
“Nope. He’s at Basic Needs looking for leads on Alicia Morales.”
“And if he comes up empty?”
“We’re no worse off than we are now, and I hear the late show is pretty spectacular.”
# # #
I
’m in the never-never land somewhere between being awake and an uneasy sleep when the phone on my night stand jolts me to full attention. My brother’s voice is barely a whisper when he asks, “Are you awake, Mick?”
The clock radio tells me that it’s three A.M. “Yes, Pete. Where are you?”
“Basic Needs.”
He doesn’t sleep. “Did you find Alicia Morales?”
“No.”
“Did you find out anything more about Grayson?”
“He was coming here at least five nights a week. Usually, he came looking for Morales.”
I already knew that from Nick the Dick. I ask him if he found anything useful.
“Maybe. Grayson wasn’t coming here alone.”
I can’t play cat-and-mouse in the middle of the night anymore. “Who, Pete?”
“Lawrence Chamberlain and Brad Lucas. Evidently, Alicia Morales was providing services to both of them.”
Sounds like Paradigm had a unique business plan for a venture capital fund. I consider the possibilities and ask, “What does any of this have to do with Grayson’s death?”
There’s a silence at the other end of the line, then Pete exhales and says, “I’m not sure.”
Neither am I. Maybe one of Grayson’s partners was double-crossed on a drug deal. Maybe Morales was trying to blackmail them.
Pete’s tone is subdued when he says, “I know you were hoping I was going to find her before the prelim.”
I was. I offer an appropriate platitude from an older brother. “You’re doing great work, Pete.” If we don’t find her, I can put Brad Lucas on the stand and ask him why he was hanging out at a strip club on Sixth Street and keeping the company of an exotic dancer, drug dealer and prostitute. I’m sure the honchos at the ABA will be duly impressed. It won’t add anything to Leon’s case, but it will be fun to watch him squirm.
He says, “I think we should broaden the scope of our surveillance.”
I ask him what he has in mind.
“I think we should do a little snooping on Chamberlain and Lucas.”
“I have to be in court all day tomorrow.”
“That’s fine.” He pauses and adds, “This is probably something that I should do solo.”
Uh-oh. “You aren’t planning to do anything illegal, are you?”
It’s three o’clock in the morning and my brother the snoop is wide awake. “Absolutely not,” he says. “That would be wrong.”
*****
Chapter 42
“This Won’t Take Long”
“Pull up a comfortable chair and make a big bowl of popcorn. The preliminary hearing for Leon Walker starts this morning and it should be a beaut.”
— Jerry Edwards. Mornings on Two. Thursday, June 9. 7:15 A.M.
Judge McDaniel saunters to her tall leather chair in her packed courtroom at precisely nine o’clock on Thursday morning. She bangs her gavel once, nods to her bailiff, turns on her computer and points her reading glasses at Bill McNulty. “Are you ready to proceed?” she asks.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The glasses go on and her gaze shifts in my direction. “Mr. Daley?”
“We’re ready, Your Honor.”
It’s eighty-five degrees and the courtroom smells like the locker room at St. Ignatius. Leon is leaning forward in a bulky wheelchair that’s positioned at the defense table between Rosie and me. He looks emaciated and uncomfortable in his ill-fitting charcoal suit and loose tie. A nurse is sitting behind him in the front row of the gallery, next to Vanessa Sanders. Leon’s attention is fixed on Bill McNulty, who is standing at the lectern. Nicole Ward is wearing a gray power suit as she provides moral support at the prosecution table.
Reporters are still jockeying for position in the gallery as Judge McDaniel calls for order. Jerry Edwards has a front row seat next to the crime reporter from the Examiner. Although the proceedings will not be televised, the TV vans are lined up in front of the Hall and CNN and Court TV have sent reporters.
Judge McDaniel asks her bailiff to state the case and number, then she reminds the reporters, retirees and courtroom groupies that we’re here to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to bind Leon over for trial. Having recited the necessary catechisms, she turns to McNulty and asks, “How much time will you need to present your case?”
His expression turns smug. “This won’t take long. We’ll be done by noon.”
If this goes the way I think it will, he’ll be done by ten.
The judge looks relieved. She looks at me and asks, “Any last minute issues, Mr. Daley?”
It would be nice if you would dismiss the charges. Having nothing substantive to offer, I make a quick play to the media. “We renew our objection to the prosecution of a dying man.”
“Duly noted. Let’s proceed.”
Preliminary hearings are the prosecution’s show and McNulty will show just enough cards to get Leon held over for trial. In normal circumstances, unless the charges are completely bogus or our client has an iron-clad alibi, defense lawyers generally try to reveal as little as possible to avoid getting tripped up at trial or handcuffed to a particular strategy. Given the evidence against Leon, I would have been inclined to hold back some chips until trial. Since there is virtually no chance Leon will make it that far, I’ll play all of my cards as soon as I can.
Judge McDaniel says to McNulty, “Do you wish to make an opening statement?”
“I do, Your Honor.” He offers up one of the shortest openings in history. “Tower Grayson was a Silicon Valley venture capitalist and a devoted husband and father,” he begins. In an attempt to humanize the victim, he will refer to Grayson by his first name and portray him as a good guy who was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Conversely, he will refer to Leon simply as the defendant. “Tower left a business dinner at one A.M. on Friday. On his way home, he stopped to pick up a pack of cigarettes. That decision cost him his life.”
Judge McDaniel arches her right eyebrow. Melodrama sometimes plays well with uneducated members of a jury, but it isn’t as effective when you’re talking to a smart judge.
“The defendant saw Tower drive up in a nice car,” McNulty says. “The defendant saw that he had some cash in his pocket. The defendant followed him out of the store, stalked him down the adjacent alley and stabbed him repeatedly. A respected businessman suffered the ultimate indignity of dying in a Dumpster behind a liquor store on skid row.”
It’s a good line.
McNulty points a long finger at Leon, who involuntarily slinks back into his wheelchair. “The defendant was at the scene. The murder weapon was in the defendant’s pocket and was covered with Tower’s blood. We are sympathetic to the fact that the defendant is ill, but it doesn’t diminish our responsibility to bring Tower’s murderer to justice.”
I’m tempted to object on the grounds that McNulty is using material that is more aptly suited for closing arguments, but it’s bad form and I’ll look petty if I do.
McNulty wraps up almost as quickly as he started with a workmanlike, if uninspired summary. “We will demonstrate that the defendant had motive, means and opportunity. He murdered Tower Grayson, and we will leave no doubt that he should be bound over for trial.”
He sits down and receives a nod from Nicole Ward. This is the courtroom equivalent of the high-five. His opening was solid, if unspectacular. More importantly, it was short. It lasted less than ninety seconds.
Judge McDaniel is pleased with the content and especially the brevity of McNulty’s opening. She says to me, “Do you wish to offer an opening statement, Mr. Daley?”
“I do, Your Honor.”
I’m getting to my feet when I feel Leon’s hand tugging at my shoulder. He leans over and says in a voice that is just loud enough for everyone to hear, “None of that was true.”
I whisper, “Keep your voice down.”
There is a look of abject pain in his eyes as he whispers, “He can’t just lie, can he?”
“We’ll talk about
it later.”
I hear Judge McDaniel’s voice from behind me. “Mr. Daley,” she says, “would you please instruct your client to address any remarks to this court through counsel?”
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