by Adam Mitzner
45
On Saturday morning, I got up early, and much to my own surprise, I decided to go for a run. My running sneakers hadn’t been called into service in more than a year, and although I worried that I might not have even packed them when I moved, they were hiding in the back of the closet.
When I stepped outside, two thoughts hit me simultaneously. The first was that it was freezing, and I laughed to myself about all the spring days I stayed inside drinking rather than exercise. The second was that I had no idea which direction to go. In my previous life my running had been in Central Park. I was lost downtown, off Manhattan’s grid, with no clear path to follow.
I walked west to the Hudson River Park and began running north. I set a goal to make it to Chelsea Piers. I couldn’t remember its precise cross street but thought it was below Twentieth Street, which meant I had a modest goal of about a mile up and another mile back.
Even out of shape, two miles seemed doable. At the very least, I thought I could make half that distance, which meant just making it to Chelsea Piers and walking back.
From the first stride, I could feel my extra weight. Even though I had begun to slim down over the past few weeks, my shirt still clung to my belly, rather than hang loosely over it, as I recalled it doing when I ran in my pre-accident life.
I tried to let my mind wander, but for the first few minutes I couldn’t think about anything other than that my knees hurt every time my feet hit the asphalt. When I passed the large serpentine sculpture that told me I was at Watts Street, which was less than five blocks from where I started, I began bargaining with myself. Just five more blocks, and then you can stop.
To focus on something other than my labored breathing, I began to fantasize about Nina. In my mind’s eye, she stood before me, slowly unbuttoning her blouse, and then we were kissing, and then making love. I could hear Nina’s moans in my head, drowning out my own panting as I struggled forward.
The Holland Tunnel signage appeared before me, indicating I’d gone half a mile. Suddenly I felt strong enough to continue, at least through SoHo.
At Morton Street, I caught a glimpse of the glass condominiums built by the architect Richard Meier, which Sarah, ever the modernist, loved. I imagined her looking down at me, wondering what she would think of my relationship with Nina.
Sarah was not the jealous type, and she would have wanted me to go on with my life, to be happy, but I was reasonably certain that she’d be surprised at how overwhelmed I’d become by Nina. I suspected Sarah thought of me as like her in that regard, able to look rationally at love and not to be taken in by the sweeping passion of it all.
No one was more surprised than I was that I turned out not to be that way at all. I’d fallen harder and faster for Nina than I had ever thought possible. There were times when I had to actually count back how long we’d known each other—a little more than a month—and remind myself that no one truly falls in love that fast. And then, of course, I played my own devil’s advocate, noting that it wasn’t a typical month of dating but nonstop, 24/7 being together, under pressure. That speeds up the timeline, doesn’t it?
But the bottom line to it all was that it didn’t matter how long I’d known Nina, or how long normal people take before they think they’re in love. I knew how I felt. And though it embarrassed me to admit it, I felt a passion for Nina that I couldn’t remember ever experiencing with Sarah, and it imbued me with a sense of being alive that I’d been without even before the accident. While my descent began on the day Sarah and Alexa were killed, the truth of the matter is that I wasn’t really alive before that, either. More like in some type of zombified state, just going through the motions of a life.
And now, with Nina, my life had meaning. It was just as she had predicted that first day we visited L.D. at Rikers. By agreeing to try and save L.D., I’d actually saved myself.
Before I realized it, I was approaching Chelsea Piers, which began on 17th Street and stretched for about five blocks. I made one last bargain with myself—to go to the taxi stand at the northernmost point of the complex. I picked up my pace until I was actually sprinting the last hundred yards or so.
After a short breather, I began to walk back, intent on enjoying each step of the return to an equal degree that it was painful on the way there. The sweat on my face was evaporating quickly, creating a light mist, and the chilled air now felt refreshing rather than painful.
The thought continued to swirl in my brain. I saved myself. I had. And while that caused my chest to swell, I realized that I had to deliver that same salvation for L.D. I just had to. And that meant I had to prove that Matt Brooks killed Roxanne.
• • •
When I came into the apartment, I immediately removed the fleece sweatshirt I’d been wearing to run. The T-shirt underneath was soaked in perspiration and sticking to my body.
Nina was still in bed, but my entrance stirred her awake.
“Where have you been?” she said sleepily.
“I went for a run.”
“Really?”
I laughed. “Yes. Only don’t ask how far or how fast.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m proud of you. And you look damn sexy dripping in sweat. Come here.”
She reached out her hands, beckoning me back into the bed.
“Let me shower first.”
“And waste all that sweet sweat? Not on your life.”
• • •
We fell asleep afterward but were awakened by the phone. My caller ID revealed it was none other than Benjamin Ethan.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of a Saturday-morning call, Benjamin?”
“Daniel, I would like to meet with you today. Are you available this afternoon?”
“You may not have heard, Benjamin, but I’m actually in the middle of a trial,” I said with the deadest of deadpans. “In fact, I’m scheduled to question this very squirrelly character named Matt Brooks, and I’m spending today preparing.”
Ethan said, “I was hoping you’d give me the opportunity to talk you out of calling him, which would save us the trouble of bothering Judge Pielmeier with a motion to quash.”
“You do what you have to do, Benjamin, but I don’t see Judge Pielmeier quashing a trial subpoena. Last time, you had the better argument because, as you so ably told the judge, the criminal code doesn’t permit a defendant to take that kind of discovery. But she’s not going to deny my guy his Sixth Amendment right to call your guy. No way that happens.”
“Well, if you are so sure that Mr. Brooks will end up taking the stand, perhaps you will accept my invitation to hear a preview of his testimony. I assume you do not have any aversion to free discovery.”
As the great Yogi Berra purportedly said, it felt like déjà vu all over again.
46
Even though it was a Saturday, a receptionist was situated on the forty-seventh floor, and Janeene came out to greet us. That was pure Benjamin Ethan. If he was at the office, everyone who worked with him needed to be there, too.
Ethan had one of the prestige offices at Taylor Beckett. The corner on the forty-seventh floor of the building’s west side, which gave him a dead-on view of Central Park. The space was large enough to have a sitting area, and that was where everyone was situated.
The whole gang was there. The beautiful associate Ethan still hadn’t introduced sat on one end of the sofa, and Capital Punishment’s general counsel, Kimberly Newman, anchored the other end. In the chair next to them sat the guest of honor, as it were, Matt Brooks.
Being that it was a Saturday, there was a casual dress code for this meeting. That meant jeans or khakis for everyone, including Ethan, who nevertheless looked like a New England prep school teacher in a tweed sports jacket with patches on the elbows. Of course, Matt Brooks adhered to his own dress code, meaning that, like always, he was attired in a dark, double-breasted suit, white shirt, and matching yellow tie and pocket square.
Ethan wasted no time getting into it. Even before we had com
pleted the handshaking ritual, he said, “Daniel, we think it is in everyone’s best interest for you to withdraw the trial subpoena you served on Mr. Brooks.”
“I’ve already told you that’s not going to happen,” I said in my most assertive voice. “So let’s get on to the real reason for this meeting, shall we? We only took time out from our trial preparation because you promised a preview of what Mr. Brooks is going to say on the stand. So, let’s hear it.”
Ethan rubbed his chin, as if in deep thought. After a subtle shrug to his client, as if to say, I tried, he said, “All right, then. Matthew, please tell Daniel what you told me.”
If ever there was a man who looked comfortable as the center of attention, it was Matt Brooks. In a strong, confident voice, he said, “As I’ve told you before, I didn’t kill Roxanne. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but the truth is that your man killed her.”
“I’m sure you understand why I don’t find your self-serving denials particularly compelling,” I replied. “The same goes for your efforts to throw blame onto L.D.”
He laughed, not unlike a cartoon villain, actually. He was enjoying this far more than he should have.
“You don’t understand, Counselor,” Brooks said with a cat-that-ate-the-canary expression that I wanted to smack off his face. “If I testify, I’m not just going to tell the jury that L.D. killed Roxanne, I’m going to tell them why he killed her.”
I knew he was baiting me, but I also knew I had to ask. “And that is?”
“She found out who he really was.”
“What, the Calvin Merriwether story again? Nobody’s going to believe that’s a motive for murder.”
Brooks laughed again, this time sounding as if I’d said something truly amusing. “So . . . you mean he still hasn’t told you?”
“Told us what?” Nina said.
“Damn,” Brooks said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, I understood why he didn’t tell you on day one. He needed to make sure you guys were in for the long haul before he started telling you what’s what. But I just can’t believe that he still hasn’t told you.”
My heart sank. I could feel every inch of my body tighten, as if preparing to receive a blow. As much as I’d convinced myself that I truly believed in L.D.’s innocence and Brooks’s guilt, at that moment I couldn’t deny that I believed that Brooks actually had proof that Legally Dead was Roxanne’s murderer.
“Well, maybe, then, you should tell us what you claim our client’s been keeping under wraps,” I heard myself say.
Benjamin Ethan interrupted. “How about if we show you, Daniel?”
The beautiful, anonymous associate handed Ethan a manila envelope, which he, in turn, slid across the table to me. It wasn’t sealed but simply closed with a metal clasp. After twisting back the prongs, I slid out three eight-by-ten photos.
For a moment, my mind flashed onto the autopsy photos, but unlike those, which were too crisp for comfort, these were grainy black-and-whites. They were most likely shot with an infrared camera, and at a long distance.
The first was of two men, both of whom were naked. I couldn’t see either of their faces—one was out of the shot altogether and the other was buried in his partner’s private area—but I knew the man on his knees was Legally Dead by virtue of the large dollar sign tattoo on his back. The other two photographs were even more graphic and left no room for doubt that one of the two men was L.D., even though his lover’s face wasn’t visible.
“You can do wonders with Photoshop,” I said, somewhat weakly.
“Oh, not these,” Ethan replied. “We had an expert—a Taylor Beckett expert—check them out. You can have your own guy verify it if you want, but if nothing else, I would hope that you trust me enough to know that I would not manufacture evidence.”
“I don’t know what to think, Benjamin. But I’ll tell you this much—I thought you held yourself, and this law firm, to a slightly higher standard than being a conduit to extortion.”
“No one is extorting you, Daniel,” Ethan said. “We showed you the pictures because they are very relevant to the case.”
I didn’t answer right away, my mind whirling. “Well . . . I guess that’s right, Benjamin. They are relevant. Because if L.D.’s gay, as these pictures suggest, then he doesn’t have any motive. The prosecution’s whole theory is that L.D. was so devastated after being dumped by Roxanne that he killed her. I don’t see him being too upset about it if he prefers men. So, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve just made our case for us, Mr. Brooks. I can’t wait to put you on the stand to tell this story to the jury.”
“Nothing is ever so simple in a criminal trial, Daniel,” Ethan said. “You know that. If you call Mr. Brooks to testify, he will explain to the jury your client’s true motive for committing this crime.”
“And that is?”
Brooks answered. “L.D. killed Roxanne to keep her from outing him. Plain and simple. Roxanne walked in on L.D. while he was entertaining a gentleman friend. He thought that if anybody found out he was gay, that was it for him. There’s no such thing as a gay, hard-core gangsta rapper.”
“That just doesn’t make much sense,” I said. “If—”
“Look, I don’t care if you believe me,” Brooks said, “but those twelve folks on the jury are going to believe me when I tell them that Roxanne came to see me and gave me these photos. She said she was so humiliated on account of his claiming that he loved her and all, that she was going to go public with them. Then I’m going to say that I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t listen, and so I gave L.D. a heads-up that this was coming.” He smiled at me. “Imagine me saying this with tears in my eyes”—he rubbed his face with his hands, like an actor getting into character—“ ‘I blame myself. I should never have told L.D. I just had no idea that he’d kill her to keep her quiet.’ ”
When he was finished with this performance, Brooks laughed. That son of a bitch actually laughed.
“You’re going to let this happen, Benjamin?” I said.
Ethan didn’t blink. “My client says it’s the truth. You know my position on this issue, don’t you, Daniel? It’s the same thing we discussed with that other case. There’s no ethical prohibition to allowing your client to tell the truth. But don’t focus on Matthew, Daniel—focus on your case. Right now, you still have an excellent chance of an acquittal. That goes away the second you put Matthew on the stand. Your client will not survive his testimony. You really don’t have a choice. You have to withdraw the subpoena.”
“Not just that,” Brooks said. “I don’t want to hear my name come up at that trial again unless it’s in praise. On account of my generous nature, I’m going to give you one for free, and you already had it with Roxanne’s mother. But from here on out, if you make any reference to my relationship with Roxanne, I’ll make it my personal mission to see that your man goes down.”
• • •
When we left Taylor Beckett, Nina tried to show me the bright side, but I was in no mood to hear her arguments about how this might all be for the best. We were being played, plain and simple, and that’s never good.
Later that night, Nina decided to give it another try. Perhaps because we were in bed she thought I’d be more receptive.
“We can win without pointing at Brooks,” she said. “We have enough already to suggest another lover, and that alone might give us reasonable doubt.”
I still didn’t want to talk about it, but I knew that now I had little choice. We had our final meeting with our client first thing the following morning, and L.D. was going to want to know what type of defense we’d be putting on.
“You know Brooks is lying, Nina. He didn’t get those pictures from Roxanne. He must have hired someone to take them himself. And he did it because this is his play to avoid having to testify, and to make sure we don’t put on evidence of the affair he was having with Roxanne.”
“Then why doesn’t he just say that L.D. confessed to him? If he’s going to lie, why
go through the whole L.D. is gay and Roxanne was going to out him charade?”
“Because Brooks is smart. If he just pointed the finger at L.D., without any corroborating evidence, we’d be able to cross him by saying that he’s the real killer, and he’s just throwing blame onto L.D. This way, Brooks has got proof in the photos, and he’s not saying that L.D. killed her; he’s just reporting what he said to L.D. It’s a much more convincing story, even though every word of it is a goddamn lie. Besides, he doesn’t care if L.D. is convicted or not, he just wants to make sure that his affair with Roxanne stays under wraps—because that destroys his marriage, which in turn destroys his empire. That’s a pretty strong motive for murder.”
She looked at me with pity. “Dan, you know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter if he’s lying. Our job here isn’t to bring Roxanne’s murderer to justice. It’s to make sure that our client doesn’t get convicted. And I don’t think there can be much question that if Brooks says what he told us today, the jury will believe him. And that means L.D.’s going to be convicted.”
“L.D. wants to testify,” I said, “and it’ll come out then, so—”
“You’re not going to actually put L.D. on the stand, are you, Dan? It’ll be legal suicide. What’s he going to say that helps his defense?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That he didn’t kill her.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, him and every other murder defendant in history. I suppose the better question is, what’s he going to say on cross? He’s got no alibi. No, he’s got worse than no alibi, because he might say that he was with . . . you name it, Mercedes or that Nuts character, but neither of them will corroborate him. That makes it worse than no alibi in my mind because it looks like he’s lying. He’s got the explanation about the song, but you can make that point more effectively in your closing argument than L.D. could ever do on the stand. Think about it, what does his testimony really do for us?”