Part of him heard the sounds of his imprisonment, another, deeper more significant part of him lived in the world that had always been with him; a world of sounds and color and fantasy that had nothing to do with reality and for Jared was infinitely more satisfying, even in a cell, eight by six feet.
~
It was a beautiful Arizona December day. The kind of day that drew thousands, over sixty thousand new residents, each year to the Valley of the Sun. Christmas Day the annual Fiesta Bowl would be held. By then the trial of Jared Pratt would be over.
Curt Springman was acutely aware of that as he sat at his desk, nothing further to do, nothing to be studied or written or prepared – nothing to do. The die was cast. His reply to the Motion to Suppress filed. The oral arguments to begin the day following the next.
Once the trial began there would be long days and late nights as he hastily prepared for points raised during the proceedings but those were spur of the moment responses, nothing that could be prepared for in advance.
Nothing to do – except worry. He knew better but worried never the less. The facts weren't right. He had felt it from the very beginning. The whole affair had been just too neat, too precise, too convenient to be for real. Oh, to the inexperienced eye it all looked fine but to one seasoned in the courts it was too much. The case against Pratt stank and for the first time since the uneasiness had come Springman realized what was bothering him.
He had to know the truth. He had to know what had really led to the apprehension of Pratt. Why Killian had such an interest in that particular man. Why Worthington had issued the timely warrant.
Springman needed the truth so that the truth would not rear its ugly head in the trial and turn on him and devour him, casting Pratt lose on society again.
Springman looked up Killian's number and dialed.
~
Killian felt in limbo as the day for the trial approached. His work had remained routine and so far the lid had stayed on the unofficial nature of his actions against Pratt. Rachel would testify to the absolute truth and except for the strain had nothing to fear. Ross would also testify, mostly to the truth, omitting only a detail or two that he would never be asked about. A small worry only because he worked narcotics and played far bigger games with the truth almost daily.
Killian had the most to be concerned about. He had committed an illegal entry, gone outside of regular channels, committed any one of a number of acts that if revealed during the trial would show him biased against Pratt long before Rachel first stood on that street corner or which would reveal him a criminal, as guilty in his own right as the man he had apprehended.
He must be very careful at the trial, cautious in what he said without seeming to be but then he had always been cautious under oath and was confident of his skills. The phone rang. "Detective Killian, please."
"Speaking."
"Detective Killian, this is Curt Springman with the County Attorney's Office. I’m the prosecutor assigned to the Jared Pratt’s trial beginning at the end of the work. Perhaps you remember me from the Revocation Hearing.”
Killian recalled the man, a small, bookish, indoor looking persons, Eastern accent, intense. “I remember you. Nice piece of work you did, getting that hearing in before the trial, getting Pratt revoked. I don't think Burgoyne's been outsmarted like that very often from the look on his face as he left the courtroom.”
"Well, thank you for the complement but it's a bit premature. I've still got the trial to go. That's why I'm calling. I'd like to get together with you and talk a bit. No coaching or anything like that – just some talk."
"I wouldn't want us to talk about anything that might get the case postponed while they locate a new prosecutor or anything that would get my testimony stricken from the record."
"Nor would I. How about Newberry's, across the street from the old Courthouse for lunch?"
"I'll see you there."
~
The usual afternoon crowd loitered about the door to Newberry's beggars, alcoholics with nowhere to go, a Black gospel preacher shouting to everyone at once and no one in particular. The front door to Newberry's was located precisely twenty-four feet from the outdoor phone booth where Tracy Fremont had called her mother that hot, muggy July, six months before.
Springman was waiting as Killian entered, the two greeting each other amiably before the detective sat. Killian ordered a chief's salad and turned to face Springman, leaving the opening to the one who had wanted the conversation.
"We never met before, have we?" Springman began.
“No," Killian answered.
"Well, it's a big department."
Killian sipped water. Something had bothered him for a while and this was as good a time as any to find out. "Will Pratt be charged with the Fremont murder?"
"No," Springman said sighing. "I wish I could say yes but there just isn't enough. You seized stakes but the sand on them could come from half of Arizona. You got panties but we can't prove they were hers. The blood type is hers and the semen type matches Pratt but that's it. Coincidence and it's not enough. I wish it were."
So much for that.
"How long have you been a detective?" Springman asked agreeably, changing the subject.
"About six years."
"Must be interesting work. I once thought about being a policeman but by the time I was old enough to apply I wasn't big enough for any worthwhile department. So I went to college, then law school."
"Probably a better choice," Killian allowed.
"Oh, I don't know. I always sort of wished I'd been two inches taller. If I could have got my asthma passed the medical, I'd probably be a cop somewhere right now. It would have to be more interesting than what I do."
Killian smiled. "Police work's not as interesting as most people think and I don't believe from what I saw of you in action last week that you find your job boring. Why the bullshit?"
It was Springman's turn to smile. "Oh, I was trying to establish a little comradery, you know. So we could talk with some confidence in each other."
"That's a waste of time. I never talk to any lawyer with any confidence except that he will think like a lawyer."
"And how does a lawyer think?"
Smile. "Like you. Like Burgoyne. Not like the rest of us. You guys all think with a set of blinders that shield you from the real world and allows you to do the most unjust things and convince yourselves it was not only proper but necessary."
Springman detected no hostility in Killian's words, mostly he heard acceptance with a trace of bitterness. Fair enough, he thought. "Like what things?"
"I don't have to tell you, you're a lawyer, you see them every day. Like lawyers paying bribes to other lawyers for criminal clients and then getting away with it when the whole things comes down because of client privilege. Like lawyers telling white collar criminals how to set up the rip off so they both can get the most out of it. Like bankruptcy trustees, lawyers, who rip of shareholders in bankrupt companies worse than the crook did. Like alcoholic judges no one will remove. Like a bar association that has to catch a lawyer committing murder, twice, on camera before it will even look into allegations of misconduct. Like crooked judges, crooked prosecutors..."
"Or crooked cops?"
Killian smiled. "O.K. Crooked cops. We've got a few, mostly in vice and narcotics, but I'll take any police department in this country in any city and match the force, man for man, against that same city's lawyers for honesty and integrity and I have no doubt who would come out on top."
"That's fair enough," Springman said. "My profession does seem to draw more than its share of dishonest people."
"Yes, there's that. Smart crooks also become lawyers. I spend all my time chasing the dumb ones. But it's also the way even the honest ones are taught to think. Law school teaches how to rationalize anything."
"Dumb crooks – like Pratt?"
Killian nodded. "Like Pratt."
Springman sipped coffee. "So what would you do instea
d?"
The detective shrugged. "My answer would sound like fascism to you. I'll say this much. Any sane society would take a man like Pratt out in the desert and put a bullet through his head. Instead, we let him hire a Burgoyne to get him off. The best justice money can buy."
"We're all entitled to a lawyer when we have our day in court."
"Sure. It's just the difference between hiring a Burgoyne and say, some creep just out of law school, is the difference between acquittal and conviction. It's not justice, Springman. It's something, but it's not justice." Pause. Then Killian again. " ‘The first thing we got to do... let's kill all the lawyers.’"
"Shakespeare? A cop who quotes Shakespeare?"
"What did you think? Just because I bust heads for a living, I don't ever read a book... or a play?"
Springman laughed. "Guilty. I should have realized that the detective who set up Pratt was no run of the mill cop and treated you accordingly."
"So now you're trying flattery?"
"Jesus. Guilty again." Pause. "So how do I do it?"
"Straight up and honest. I'll make my own decision about talking to you. What do you want?"
Pause. More coffee sipped. "The truth."
"What's the truth?" Killian answered. "It's different things to different people. What's it to you?"
"It's what I need to know to convict Pratt. I need the truth, the entire truth so I can be prepared for any eventuality in court. Otherwise he'll just set me up. I need it badly."
"There's nothing Burgoyne's going to know that you won't."
"Let me be the judge of that. It's my field, not yours. He's got a private detective on this, digging. There's no telling what the man might turn up. If it's falsehood then there's no problem. God is on the side of the truthful ones in a court of law. But if he turns something that is true and because I don't know it's true I treat it as false and Burgoyne makes it stick, the whole case is thrown into jeopardy.
I need the truth." The lawyer leaned forward staring in a manner that would have shocked him if he could have stood apart and seen himself.
Killian thought a full minute before saying anything. "So what do you want to know?"
"Everything. I won't know what's important and what isn't until I hear it even then something that sounds trivial today may become very important in court later. There is simply no way of knowing in advance."
"You're a lawyer."
"So?"
"I-don't-trust-lawyers." Killian looked at the man as though he had just been arrested for a misdemeanor involving moral turpitude
"Jesus. So what do you want me to do about it? Go tear up my diploma?" Killian laughed. “Listen, Mr. Detective. I have to know. Burgoyne could eat me alive in court."
Killian thought and then thought some more. "O.K. Here goes. The truth."
It was three-forty two when he finished, even then he had omitted the details of the conversation with Worthington and the break in. He wouldn't have told those to his own mother.
Springman said nothing. He sat silently though a thousand questions danced in his head. "My God! That's some story."
Pause.
"Thanks," he said finally. He could think of nothing else to say. "Thank you very much." When he had finished with his questions it was passed four.
~
Judge Mortenson glanced at his Hush Puppies and wondered if his wife was correct, perhaps they were too informal for the courtroom. But then no one ever saw his feet anyway, not with the long black robe and the bench in front of him. Besides, he thought, I've been to court with Levis and boots on when she didn't know and nobody noticed.
He had read Springman's written response to Burgoyne's Motion to Suppress the afternoon of the previous day and had absolutely no reaction to the oral arguments to come. He had learned many years before to approach all hearings with a certain amount of reserve and detachment. The less involved or intense he was, the less often he made errors. Also, eighteen years of hearings had made it more difficult for him to pay attention than to be overly zealous.
~
Springman had slept very little the night before. He had been relieved at Killian's story earlier that week. He was not naive enough to believe he had been told the truth totally but he thought possibly he had and was convinced that if there was anything more to be known neither he nor Burgoyne would ever learn it.
His preparations for the Motion to Suppress had been hampered by his need to also prepare for the trial. He knew the entire case could be lost with the hearing today and that knowledge had left him sleepless with a tight knot in his stomach and occasional bile in his throat. But it would have done him no good to win the Motion to Suppress only to lose the trial.
You're taking this much to personally he said to himself. Take it easy. But how else could he take it?
Some creep had crawled out from under a rock and sliced up a little girl for the sick thrill of it, kidnapped a police woman, assaulted her within an inch of her life and he was not supposed to get excited about it.
"The hell I won't,” he said aloud. It's time some people got a little excited about what goes on in court. That's the whole trouble with the system. Everyone plays it so God damned cool.
Springman seized his attaché case and left for the courthouse even though he was still too early.
~
Burgoyne was hung over and had to be reminded by his secretary that today was the day for the Pratt’s Motion to Suppress hearing. Jesus, why the hell did I have to pick last night to tie one on, he moaned inwardly conveniently forgetting that most nights lately ended in intoxication. I've got to get that asshole today. I can't let this one pass. If we go to trial... well, it better not get to trial because if there is anything I hate it's playing a trial from beginning to end looking ahead to the state Supreme Court. Thank God, he thought, that asshole Vaughn isn't hearing this one. He'd shut me down so fast my head would spin. Somebody ought to do something about a judge like that, he's... well, un-American the way he railroads his courtroom.
Burgoyne poured tomato juice from a metal container in his miniature refrigerator and doused it in Tobasco sauce and chili powder. He glanced fondly at the vodka in the liquor cabinet and decided against a morning pick-me-up. Too many of those these days, he thought grimacing.
The attorney sat gingerly on a succulent leather coach and stretched out with a sigh. He had not as yet taken a sip of his concoction. Oh shit, why today? I don't want court today.
Virginia rapped politely on his mahogany door and entered quietly knowing he was alone and recognizing the symptoms from years of long experience, not just with Burgoyne but with other prominent lawyers.
"Shall I send for breakfast, Mr. Burgoyne?" she asked politely
The thought of food was nauseating but Burgoyne willed himself to it. If he could keep it down it would do a world of good. He nodded his head and said, "And send in Ferguson. I need to talk about today with him."
~
It was close to nine when Viola and Herbert arrived. Viola wanted to watch Jared for a while in the jury box before the court proceedings began. She and Herbert had argued furiously that morning and Herbert, uncharacteristically, had relented allowing his wife her first such triumph in so long she could not remember the last one. As always, she was cool and composed; her husband, bulging, slightly sweating and wheezing a little as he sat beside her.
The courtroom was still mostly empty but over the next twenty minutes a reporter arrived as did a television crew to take a picture of Jared entering in handcuffs. A few court regulars filed in, paper backs in hand, thirst quenchers for the deserts of silence and tedium that were a certain part of any court proceeding. The hearing was to begin at nine-thirty. Judge Mortenson called the court to order at nine-forty two.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The key to the Motion to Suppress were the actions of the police. If they acted improperly at the beginning of the operation against Pratt, nothing else thereafter counted. Pratt would walk,
/> though in a few days he still faced sentencing in Judge Vaughn’s Court on the probation violation.
Springman assumed his seat with less enthusiasm than he had experienced when he left for the hearing. Winning today only meant he faced a trial within days and months or years of appeals thereafter. There would be no victory this day for Springman, only the absence of defeat.
Burgoyne began with a brief synopsis of his assertions as contained in his written motion. By way of support he called Officer Rachel Colson to the stand. Rachel was sworn in and assumed the witness stand. For several minutes she answered Burgoyne's questions affirming that she was who she said, that
she was a police officer and that she was the victim in the pending criminal case, The State of Arizona vs. Jared Pratt.
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