Night on Fire

by Douglas Corleone

  “Your Honor,” Maddox barks, “I am certain that I can refresh Mr. Corvelli’s present recollection using the notes Mr. Watts took at the scene.”

  Judge Sonya Maxa shrugs. “What do you say, Mr. Corvelli? Want to give it a shot?”

  “No skin off my teeth, Your Honor. But allow me to remind the Court what is really at stake here. The Sixth Amendment of the Constitution guarantees every criminal defendant the right to effective assistance of counsel. That guarantee includes the right to representation by counsel of one’s choice. If the Court makes the wrong determination on an attorney disqualification motion, erroneously depriving a criminal defendant of her right to counsel of choice, reversal of any conviction is mandated.”

  I point to Maddox and glance over to see the steam rising from his ears. “That may be fine for this prosecutor, Your Honor, because Mr. Maddox may very well be the chief prosecutor or maybe even governor by the time this appeal reaches the high court, but it is wholeheartedly unfair to my client.”

  Not to mention to Your Honor, who certainly does not wish her rulings to be overturned or her convictions to be reversed.

  “Your Honor—” Maddox starts. But that’s as far as he’s getting today.

  “Enough, Mr. Maddox,” the judge says, raising her right hand. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps Mr. Corvelli is playing a bit fast and loose with the rules of the Court. But let me tell you what Mr. Corvelli has also succeeded in doing. Mr. Corvelli has, by putting Mrs. Beagan on the stand and being so thorough as to walk her through the entire afternoon and evening, established something else, besides his own morbid drunkenness—namely, that he and Mrs. Beagan were together the entire time, and therefore, witnessed the same events. Therefore, if the State wants a witness to testify as to what Mr. Corvelli personally observed, the State has one in Miss Sherry Beagan.”

  “Missus,” I correct Her Honor.

  “Your Honor,” Maddox tries again.

  “A lack of personal knowledge,” the judge states for the record, “is an exception to the competency rule as it pertains to witnesses. ‘Personal knowledge,’ for the purposes of this rule, means that the witness perceived the event about which he is to testify and that he has a present recollection of that perception. There is insufficient evidence before this Court that Mr. Corvelli has a present recollection of the night in question. I, therefore, see no reason to deny the defendant the attorney of her choice, and I am accordingly denying the prosecution’s motion to have Mr. Corvelli disqualified as counsel in this case.”

  A single rap of the gavel and Erin and I are in this together.

  For better or for worse.

  CHAPTER 39

  “All right,” I say to Jake and Flan when I enter the conference room. “We’ve got a few big decisions to make.” I toss the Simms file on the table and take a seat. “Tomorrow is Erin’s arraignment on the felony charges. I think we have to consider changing her plea.”

  “I don’t like it,” Jake says. “Too risky.”

  True. Approximately one percent of defendants who are charged with a felony plead not guilty by reason of insanity, and of those defendants, only fifteen to twenty-five percent succeed.

  “Even if we request a bench trial?” I say.

  Juries are significantly less likely to render a verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity than are judges. And after I witnessed the Honorable Sonya Maxa toss Luke Maddox around the courtroom like a rag doll yesterday, I’m inclined to take my chances with her.

  “Judge Maxa is one of the smartest judges I’ve ever been before, son, either here or in Texas. You’re not going to fool her with the usual smoke and mirrors.”

  “I’ve no intention to try. Look, we have a defendant here who has a history of mental illness and at least one psychiatric hospitalization.”

  “When she was seventeen,” Jake says.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “And according to those medical records we received,” he adds, “she was never even diagnosed.”

  “Very common,” I say. “Borderline Personality Disorder is exceedingly difficult to diagnose. But Erin Simms exhibits all the symptoms.”

  “What are the symptoms?” Flan asks.

  I read off the list I’ve already committed to memory: Unstable and intense interpersonal relationships. Impulsiveness in potentially self-damaging behaviors, such as substance abuse, sex, shoplifting, reckless driving, binge eating. Severe mood shifts. Frequent and inappropriate displays of anger. Recurrent suicidal threats or gestures, or self-mutilating behaviors. Lack of a clear sense of identity. Chronic feelings of emptiness or boredom. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment.

  “There’s no precedent,” Jake says, annoyed.

  “Then we make precedent,” I say.

  That’s the other great thing about practicing law. Even though every argument has already been made, every issue decided, there’s always the possibility of breaking new ground, blazing new trails. You just have to take what’s there, the precedents—the victories and the defeats—and convince one jurist at a time.

  “How does someone get off by pleading insanity?” Flan asks.

  I open the Hawaii Penal Code to the relevant statute, already flagged with a bright red Post-it. “We need to show that at the time of the conduct, as a result of her mental disorder, the defendant lacked the substantial capacity to appreciate the wrongfulness of her conduct or to conform her conduct to the requirements of law.”

  “In other words,” Flan says, “the borderline thing prevented her from not killing her husband and setting the resort on fire.”

  I sigh and look at Jake. “See, this is why we don’t put this defense on in front of a jury.” I turn to our investigator. “No offense, Flan.”

  Jake shakes his head. “I think if we go with insanity, we should go with temporary insanity.”

  “No,” I say. “Maybe if she killed him as soon as she got the news. Maybe even if she didn’t go forward with the wedding. But too much time passed. Too many events transpired in the interim. A plea of temporary insanity is as good as a plea of guilty, in my opinion.”

  “Well,” Jake says with a tired shrug, “the point is moot unless she agrees to it. You steer her in any direction you feel comfortable. It’s your case. You’re the lead.”

  “Her key card. Her lighter. Her knife,” I say, counting the three items off on my fingers. “That doesn’t leave us much choice.”

  “What have you decided to do about the knife?” Flan asks.

  “Depends on what she says to me tonight,” I tell him. “But I’ve spoken to this guy Larry, who owns a waterproof digital camera rental service. He’s agreed to go for a swim with me this weekend to document the knife’s whereabouts, for posterity.”

  “During the day?”

  “At night.”

  “But you’re not going to retrieve it,” Jake asks.

  “I’m not going to answer that question, Jake.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Jake, I don’t know the answer to that question.”

  CHAPTER 40

  She opens the door with a lit cigarette in hand and strikes a pose fit for a Bond poster.

  “Aloha,” she says.

  I reach for her, grab her gently by the arm, take her inside, and shut the door behind us.

  “I know where the knife is,” I tell her quietly, even though I know no one else is in the house.

  The color drains from her face. In the twilight I stare out at Chinaman’s Hat and the surrounding bay until she’s ready to speak again.

  “Where?” she finally asks.

  “In the lagoon.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “That all depends on what you tell me tonight.” I fold my arms, take a tentative step toward her. “It’s been almost three weeks since the fire, but there may still be prints on the handle and there may still be blood on the blade.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Not if you
were the only person to touch it.”

  She considers this. “What if that’s true? What if the person who killed Trevor wore gloves or something?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The water main,” she says. “You told me they dusted it for prints and found nothing.”

  “That’s going to be a hard sell, gloves in the middle of July here in Hawaii. That would mean this was planned, that it wasn’t a crime of passion. That eliminates a lot of possible suspects we could otherwise point to.”

  She holds the cigarette to her lips and inhales, blows out three perfect rings of smoke. “Like who?”

  “Mia, for one. Tara. Your parents. Lauren and her fiancé.” I wait two beats, then add, “Isaac.”

  “Isaac had nothing to do with this,” she insists.

  “Well then, let me leave it at this: gloves eliminate everyone with any reasonable motive to kill Trevor, besides yourself.”

  “What if it was someone else? An outsider?”

  “Everything that was used was yours, Erin. Your key card, your knife, your lighter.”

  “My handbag was stolen. It didn’t have to be stolen by someone in the wedding party.”

  “There’s no evidence of it being stolen, Erin. And there’s no motive. You said yourself, there was nothing valuable in the room, nothing taken. Why would an outsider steal your handbag and pay Trevor a visit, only to kill him and set the room on fire?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, flustered.

  “And if this was planned, how did this perpetrator know there was charcoal starter fluid in the room? The entire scenario defies belief.”

  She swings around, stalks over to the sliding glass door, and steps out onto the lanai.

  I take a deep breath and follow.

  “So what are you telling me, Kevin? That I’m fucked? That I stand no chance at trial? That I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison?” She shakes her head emphatically. “I couldn’t, you know. I mean, I can’t. I’d kill myself first.”

  “There’s another option we have to consider.”

  She releases the bay with her eyes and trains them on me. “What’s that?”

  “Tomorrow is your arraignment on the felony charges. We can change your plea, prepare an insanity defense.”

  “I’m not insane.”

  “Insane is only a legal term. We can have you evaluated, have you diagnosed with a personality disorder, argue that the personality disorder prevented you from conforming your conduct to the requirements of law. We can argue that killing Trevor was an irresistible impulse, starting the fire a natural consequence of that impulse. In other words, your personality disorder—your mental illness—left you no choice.”

  “Then what? If I’m found not guilty by reason of insanity? I’m off to a nuthouse?”

  “You’ll be sent to a facility,” I say gently. “You’ll get some help. When it’s adjudged you’re no longer a threat to yourself or others, you’ll be released. In a couple years, a couple months maybe, you’ll be able to put this behind you and go on with your life.”

  She sighs deeply, breaks into a cry. “This is what you’re recommending to me? This is your advice?”

  I don’t allow myself to hesitate. “Yes. I don’t see any other way out. There’s too much evidence, too much at stake.”

  On the lanai she falls into my arms, and I hold her, attempt to soothe her with my body.

  Ten minutes later we step back inside her house, through the living room, past the original oils in the hallway.

  We end where we end most of our meetings of late. In her bedroom.

  We don’t discuss the case the rest of the night.

  CHAPTER 41

  I lift my head off her pillow and immediately breathe in her scent. It’s a little after four A.M. and it’s one of those nights when I’m not sure whether I slept. Erin’s arraignment is this morning; it’s something neither of us can escape. So I lift my uncooperative body out of bed. Quietly I snatch my watch from her nightstand and place it on my wrist. I need to go home to Ko Olina to shower and change into my suit. Then it’s back down to Honolulu to enter Erin’s plea.

  Finding my clothes is like a scavenger hunt and I feel her watching me from the bed. As I slip into my pants, she lifts the remote and powers on the small Samsung flat screen TV on the dresser.

  “… and it’s gonna be a hot Aloha Friday, folks,” Parker Canton yips. “An expected record high of ninety-five, a UV Index of nine. I’ll tell you, I don’t know where those trade winds went to, folks, maybe they’re on vacation on the mainland or Japan…”

  “Please shut that fucker the hell up,” I say quietly.

  Erin powers down the television and tosses the remote back on her nightstand.

  “Wish you didn’t have to go,” she says, stretching so that the white cotton sheet falls, exposing her breasts.

  “Makes two of us,” I say with a soft smile. “But as they say in the movies, I’ll see you in court.”

  Outside in the driveway I step into the Maserati. The Jeep, I’m told, has been successively repainted and I intend to pick it up this afternoon. But it will not be easy to bid aloha to this machine.

  I fondle the steering wheel, exploring its grooves. Inhale the indescribable scent. I adjust the rearview though it needs no adjusting. I crack my knuckles and press my foot against the break. I slide the key into the ignition and turn.

  I listen to the engine purr.

  Finally, I lower the top and turn on my headlights. I place the transmission in reverse, back out, and set off for the Likelike Highway.

  I see the night road without actually looking at it. In my head images play out more vividly than anything I’ve ever seen with my eyes. Courtrooms and crime scenes, clients and cartoon villains all vie for my attention as I increase my speed and try to steady the machine between the white lines rushing toward me.

  I picture the switchblade, protected as it is by me and a moray eel.

  I consider the engraved Zippo lighter, damning and wholly out of our reach.

  A missing little leather Fendi and a key card that cannot be found.

  A fragile woman betrayed by the man whose money she loved most.

  Arguments and death threats followed by so much death.

  This is our case. These are the brutal facts I’ll have to contend with.

  I exit the ramp onto H-3, the faint smell of oil tickling my nose.

  There is no one to point to, no ghost occupying my empty seat. Hundreds of photos and hours of video surveillance tapes and I can’t place anyone but Erin near the honeymoon suite. Not Erin’s mother, not her maid of honor. Not Mia Landow, not Isaac Cassel. Each possesses motive yet no concrete alibi. Each is a potential suspect, but not a shred of evidence points in any direction other than Erin Simms.

  I enter the tunnel punched through the mountain and listen to the Maserati pick up speed.

  I’ll try again tomorrow to connect Josh with his father. After the arraignment this morning, I’ll meet with Jake at the office to discuss our two new cases, then maybe head to a bar and meet up with Flan. Listen to Flan go on and on and on about Casey over glasses of scotch. Next week I’ll see Dr. Opono again. Get a refill on my prescription antidepressant, an SSRI I lovingly call Fukitol.

  The Maserati cruises down the dark mountain.

  Erin Simms won’t plead insanity but maybe her lawyer can.

  This is what I’m laughing about when I first press down on the brake. I glance at the speedometer. Eighty-three miles per hour and headed downhill all the way. I step down on the brake again, the pedal giving all the way to the floor. The Maserati doesn’t so much as slow.

  The oily smell is pungent now, the white lines flying past me like stray bullets.

  Keep your hands on the wheel.

  My left hand stays put, my right reaches for the emergency brake. Lifts it up but there’s no tension. The emergency brake falls back into place as though shot dead.

  For a mome
nt I’m paralyzed with fear.

  Panicking, I shift gears. The transmission roars and rubber burns the second I move into second gear. The wheel tightens and I know I’m losing control.

  On the side of the road I see an escape ramp for runaway trucks, but it’s too late, I’ve already passed it.

  I throw the transmission into first gear, the transmission howling like a wounded animal, the tires screeching like an eagle after its prey.

  The steering wheel tries to overpower me, but with two hands I keep the Maserati steady as it coasts at sixty miles per hour downhill.

  As I fast approach a tight curve, another runaway truck ramp enters my line of vision.

  I pull the machine toward the ramp with all of my strength, not knowing what is waiting at the end of it. The vehicle skids in the direction of the ramp, and I can no longer look.

  Keep your eyes closed, Kevin. You’re in the ocean. You don’t exist.

  The Maserati ascends a short incline, then strikes something that gives. Then strikes something that doesn’t. Last sound I hear is the air bag deploying.

  Then nothing.

  PART III

  WAITING FOR THE SUN

  CHAPTER 42

  Naomi Leffler is dead.

  Josh’s great-aunt lost her battle with lung cancer earlier this week and now the kid sits in a client chair in front of my desk waiting for Naomi’s daughter Chelsea to pick him up. Chelsea Leffler—the sole beneficiary to Naomi’s will, which I drew up months ago after recovering from my accident—is young and single and living in Lahaina on Maui and she’s made it abundantly clear that her custody of Josh will be temporary. I glance at my watch. I’ve come to enjoy spending time with the kid over the past six months but playtime for me is over. It’s January 5 and tomorrow begins opening statements in the case of State versus Erin Simms.