Stray Bullets

by Rotenberg, Robert

  “Frustrated the hell out of me. We knocked on doors all night for a twenty-block radius. By the book we’re supposed to do ten.”

  “I know.”

  “I couldn’t believe nobody saw anything. Right in the middle of Yorkville like that. Fuck. I can only imagine how you feel.”

  Kennicott didn’t know what to say.

  “Look. I’ve known Ari Greene for twenty-five years. We were in the same rookie class. He won’t ever say it, but I can tell you it’s eating him alive that he can’t solve this case. It’s his only outstanding homicide.”

  “I know,” Kennicott said again.

  “Don’t you ever get pissed off at him?”

  “Who?”

  “Greene.”

  “Greene? Why?”

  “Come on. You’re no Boy Scout. Four years and where’s he gotten?”

  Kennicott felt himself nod involuntarily. Lindsmore had touched a secret sore spot, like a nerve that just got pinched. One that he hadn’t even realized was there.

  “Just because I’m a fat fart and a CFL doesn’t mean I don’t do my job,” Lindsmore said. “You’re going to make Homicide one day. Don’t underestimate the cops on the beat.”

  43

  Ralph Armitage knew that most of the Crown Attorneys in his office doubted his skill as a trial lawyer, but even his harshest critics down the hall had to admit that when it came to judicial pretrials, Ralphie boy had no peers.

  A pretrial was a private, unrecorded meeting in a judge’s office, or their chambers as they loved to call them, at which time both the defense lawyers and Crown Attorneys informally discussed the upcoming case. Often this was the turning point. Make a deal or prepare for trial.

  And although Armitage, the consummate negotiator, rarely walked away without resolving even the toughest cases, this morning was going to be an exception. With the city ablaze with anger about the Wilkinson shooting, his secret marching orders from the political higher-ups were to go all the way with this case. No deals. No way.

  Which meant this pretrial would be a formality. But it would be entertaining. Most of the jurists on the high court bench were a staid bunch, but not the assigned judge, His Honor Justice Oliver Rothbart. As a kid, Rothbart had been a famous child actor. When he was five years old, he’d won a tap-dancing competition on the local TV show Tiny Talent Time, and he was the Wonder Bread boy in a series of print and billboard advertisements at age eight. In 1964, when he was fourteen, he landed a role in the production of Camelot, which debuted in Toronto before the show went to Broadway.

  “Come in, come in,” Rothbart said to Armitage and Nancy Parish as the court constable escorted them to his office. His childhood falsetto voice had morphed into a booming baritone, which he was never afraid to use to effect in court. Most judges made a point of staying seated at their desks and waited for lawyers to arrive in their offices, but Rothbart was always at his door, big smile, hand extended.

  Armitage had learned that despite his dramatic personality, Rothbart resented lawyers who thought he was a lightweight. So, although nothing would get resolved today, Armitage and Fernandez had put in the hours to get ready for this pretrial, and on Thursday morning they’d delivered an extensive brief.

  Nancy Parish was a hard worker, well prepared and good on her feet. She’d also filed a large brief yesterday.

  It was clear the moment they sat down that the judge had done his homework, because both briefs were stuffed with yellow sticky tabs poking out the sides. Armitage glanced around Rothbart’s chambers, which looked more like the office of a musical theater producer than a place where serious legal matters were discussed. The walls were covered with signed publicity photos of movie stars, most made out to “Ollie.” There were big framed stills from his various roles as a kid on TV. Most prominent of all was a blown-up photo taken backstage on the Camelot set of young Ollie standing in between Richard Burton and his then-new wife, Elizabeth Taylor. Rothbart’s role in the show was something he somehow managed to insinuate into almost every conversation, no matter how obscure the topic.

  “Okay, I just wanted to double-check something,” Rothbart said, opening the Crown brief at a set page with an extralarge sticky attached to it. He had the nervous habit of strumming the fingers of his right hand in his left palm when he was anxious or bored. Like he was playing a tune to himself on his own piano.

  Armitage and Parish sat patiently across the desk from him.

  “This Dewey character.” Rothbart turned to Armitage.

  “Mr. Booth,” Armitage said.

  “‘Mr. Booth’ my ass. Save it for the jury. I looked at his record. Kid’s a menace. But you’ve made this deal with him. He’s your prime witness.”

  “One of them,” Armitage said.

  Rothbart stabbed at the open page. “His only statement is this affidavit. You don’t have him on video, sworn under oath. Have I’ve got that right?”

  “Correct.”

  “And if he changes his story, then you’ll cross him on this?” His finger seemed almost stuck on the paper.

  “Exactly.” Armitage had expected this line of questioning, and he was doing his best to radiate calm and confidence. “It’s no secret. We made full disclosure to the defense.” Well, he thought, if you exclude the baker from Tim Hortons, my secret little friend. “If Booth doesn’t commit perjury, he’s never going to be charged.”

  “Mind my asking why you’d pull a first-degree murder case against a punk with a record like this and not get him tied down on video?”

  Fuck you, judge, he thought, flashing his biggest grin. “I don’t mind the question, sir. But I have no intention of answering.”

  Everyone chuckled. Then they all fell silent.

  “I can tell you why.” Nancy Parish spoke for the first time since they’d said their introductions. “The Crown needed to match the bullet with the gun that killed the boy.”

  Rothbart nodded.

  He’s starting to see how complicated this trial might become, Armitage thought.

  Rothbart stared at Parish. “I see the bullet matches with the gun that was found at your client’s aunt’s house, where he’d been living on probation. Not great evidence for the defense.”

  Just like Rothbart, Armitage thought. He loved to grill both lawyers, show off how much work he’d done on the case.

  “Could be better,” she said. Everyone laughed again.

  “Something else jumps out at me.” Rothbart turned back to Armitage. “These witnesses are all over the map with the number of shots they heard. Three, six, one even says she thought there were eight or nine.” He flipped back to another tab in the brief. “This gun was a Desert Eagle. The clip in the forty-four Magnum version only takes six bullets, and there’s one in the chamber. That’s seven. Where’s the second gun?”

  Rothbart was such a showoff. Couldn’t wait to demonstrate his extensive knowledge of handguns and how smart he was. How I’d love to break his precious little fingers one by one, Armitage thought.

  “Only one witness counts more than six shots, and we all know how unreliable civilians can be about such things,” Armitage said. “There were buildings on both sides of the Timmy’s. It’s a natural echo chamber.”

  “Hmmm,” Rothbart said. He started strumming his stupid fingers. “I don’t see a direct eyewitness. Lots of people see little bits, hear a few things, but no one actually saw what happened. Do I have that right?”

  He had been a very successful defense lawyer before being called to the bench, and he still loved trying to pick apart the case for the Crown. And he was right. The only one who saw it all was Armitage’s unseen pal, who everyone else thought was named Jose. “All I can tell you,” he said, “is that the investigation is ongoing.”

  “What about that kid in the Cadillac? I don’t see a statement from him,” Rothbart said. “I note he had a gun in his apartment, has a possession-of-handgun on his record. His nickname’s easy to remember. Jet, like in West Side Story.”


  Everything reminded Rothbart of some musical or other, Armitage thought. But he laughed. Always humor the judge. Parish chuckled too. She was no fool.

  “The kid clammed up as soon as he was arrested,” Armitage said. “We’ll call him at the preliminary inquiry and see what he has to say.”

  Rothbart took a long look at Parish.

  She smiled back.

  Neither said anything.

  What was that all about? Armitage wondered.

  “Okay,” Rothbart said. He reached into his desk and pulled out a pile of forms. “Ralph, I know your answer, but I have to ask you anyway: Is there any way the Crown would take a plea to second-degree murder?”

  “Not in a million years,” Armitage said.

  Rothbart laughed. “I wish I had a nickel for every time I heard that line.” He closed the file in front of him and sat back. Relaxed now. “Ralph, did I ever tell you that when we took the show to New York, one night Elizabeth Taylor said to me, ‘Can’t Richard and I just kidnap you? If we let you go back to Canada your mother’s going to make you become a doctor or a lawyer.’”

  Only about fifteen times, Armitage thought. But he smiled. “Really?”

  For the next ten minutes they worked their way through a series of technical questions about the trial. “Last but not least,” Rothbart said, coming to the final page in the form. “When can we start this trial? First there’s going to be the prelim in the lower court, and—”

  “Won’t be necessary, sir,” Parish said. “My client is electing to go straight to trial, the sooner the better.”

  Armitage stared at her in stunned silence. Although accused people had the right to forgo their preliminary inquiry, which was essentially a vetting of the evidence, it was also a great opportunity for the defense to have charges reduced, or sometimes even thrown out. Waiving the prelim in a first-degree murder trial was unheard-of.

  Rothbart grinned. He still had great teeth and a charming smile. “I see,” he said.

  Armitage saw it too. That’s what she was smiling about a few minutes ago with him. At a prelim the Crown could force Jet to testify and find out what his evidence would be. Dewey too. They could test him out and fill in some of the holes left in his affidavit. By going straight to trial Parish was forcing the Crown to fly blind in front of the jury.

  “The whole city is traumatized by this case,” Rothbart said. “The sooner we can start this trial the better. But how long’s it going to take? There’s one thing on my calendar I never change. I’ll be away the first week of May.”

  Yes, yes, I know, Armitage thought. The first week in May. The Tony Awards nominations came out, and Rothbart went down every year to hobnob with his old Broadway pals.

  “Trial will only take a few weeks,” Parish said. “If we start in early April we’ll be fine.”

  Rothbart beamed. “Excellent. When I read through the briefs, it occurred to me the defense might waive the prelim. I’ve already got us the earliest possible trial date. April eleventh. Looks as if you two are going to have a very busy few months.”

  He hopped to his feet and pranced in front of them on the way to his door. Unlike many judges, who would summarily dismiss lawyers while seated behind their desks, Rothbart did this every time. Was it good manners, Armitage wondered, or did he just like to show how nimble he still was? He started strumming his fingers on his palm again.

  What a disaster, Armitage thought. His witnesses were a bunch of civilians who couldn’t speak English and some criminals who would probably lie their asses off on the stand. And April 11. A little more than a month before the party. Penny would be going crazy. It felt as if his life was getting squeezed from all sides.

  Walking down the carpeted halls beside Parish, Armitage could just make out the sound of Rothbart humming a show tune. It was from Camelot, of course. That mythical land, where a young boy with a sword could save the kingdom. Just as Armitage had done for all those summers when he was a kid, playing make-believe in the dense woods behind his parents’ estate.

  44

  “I found out who he is,” Daniel Kennicott said the moment Ari Greene answered his cell phone.

  “Hang on a minute,” Greene said. He was walking up the staircase from the basement in Old City Hall, where the thick stone walls made reception difficult. He sprinted to the main floor, reaching into his coat pocket for pen and pad. “Okay, what have you got?”

  “Name is Dragomir Ozera. Nabbed for theft under. Stole some pâté and brie from Pusateri’s. Only had a library card for ID. Gave his address as a room at Jilly’s, the strip joint over on Broadview. No phone.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Five years ago. An officer named Lindsmore arrested him.”

  “He’s a good cop.”

  “Has a complete file. Even a drawing showing his birthmark. And a cigarette butt he left behind. Ozera never showed up for prints or court.”

  Five years ago, Greene thought after he hung up. The file would still be over in the Crown’s office. He could easily go there and get it. Instead he dialed another number.

  “Raglan,” Jennifer Raglan said in that distracted voice that Crowns always had between nine and ten in the morning when they were getting ready for court.

  “It’s me,” Greene said.

  He heard an intake of breath on the line. Then the sound of papers being shuffled on her desk. The phone being put down. Footsteps walking away, and a door being closed. Footsteps coming closer again. “Hi,” she said.

  “Sorry to call like this.”

  “No. I’m real glad you did,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “This is about business. But first. Your mother?”

  “That was one of the reasons I wanted to talk. It’s a roller coaster. Last week I got an emergency call and had to boot out there in the middle of the day. She rallied but …” Her voice faltered.

  He waited for her to speak again. His mind drifted to the other reasons she’d wanted to call.

  “I’m having a real hard time with it,” she said. “Makes me miss you.”

  “I need to see you today. But it’s about work. A favor.”

  “Probably a good place to start.”

  “This is urgent,” he said. “What’s your day like?”

  She exhaled. “Lucky you. I was supposed to start a three-day prelim on a carjacking The defense lawyer and I just made a deal. I’m going over an Agreed Statement of Facts he drew up. This will be done by ten thirty. What do you need?”

  “I want you to pull a file for me. It should be in the Fail to Appear boxes. Five years old, and I know the boxes there go back almost a decade.”

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “Can’t say, but it’s important or I wouldn’t ask. I’ll wait for you at our usual place.”

  He gave her the details of Ozera’s charges, then made his way over to the cafeteria at the new city hall and found a booth on the far wall. The morning rush had subsided, and the place was emptying out.

  Greene tried not to keep looking at his watch as the time ticked by. His phone didn’t ring. At a quarter to twelve, the cafeteria began to stir back to life. He ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and was biting into it when Raglan showed up. She smiled when she found him. He hadn’t seen her since the last time he was here and the call came in about the shooting. She had nothing in her hands. Greene had expected her to be carrying her briefcase with the file inside.

  Their eyes met. After all the years they’d known each other, working together on cases, then as lovers, now as whatever they were, they could communicate without words.

  She sat and looked around. Made sure they were alone. “The file’s not in the Fail to Appear box,” she said.

  “Where is it?”

  “Both charges were pulled by the Crown. Cases dismissed.”

  “What? When?”

  “A few weeks ago. December twenty-ninth. I tracked the records down. That’s what took so long.”
r />   “You’re kidding,” Greene said.

  “No. It was done in 112 court two Fridays ago. Probably took about a minute, and no one would have thought twice about it.”

  He’d eaten only about a quarter of his sandwich. He pushed the plate away.

  She reached out and covered his hand. “I’ve been resisting calling you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I couldn’t have lasted another week without seeing you.”

  He felt her fingers intertwine with his.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

  “How bad are things?”

  “Mom’s a quiet fighter. She’s hanging on, but just barely.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  She squeezed his hand harder but didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

  “It might be easier if we talk business,” he said. “Which Crown pulled the charges?”

  “Armitage, of course,” she said. “He’s been combing through old files with minor charges and getting rid of them.”

  “This wasn’t the only case?”

  “No.” She laughed. “There were more than a hundred. What’s the big deal?”

  “Not sure,” he said. “Do you know when he started doing this?”

  “Over the Christmas holidays. He sent a memo out when everyone got back saying he hoped we all felt sorry for him being stuck in the office, bored to death. That if anyone had ancient cases to get rid of, to pass them to him because he was doing a big purge.”

  His attention was drawn to someone approaching their table. He looked over and Johnathan Summers, a judge Greene knew very well, walked up. Raglan let go of his hand.

  “Cops and Crowns, always going at it,” Summers said with a big jolly laugh.

  Greene and Raglan exchanged glances.

  “Detective, I hear you’re on the Timmy’s shooting,” Summers said.

  Greene had been amazed how quickly the murder of young Kyle Wilkinson had been labeled “the Timmy’s shooting.” Like the way CNN came up with a banner headline for even the worst events, moments after they happened. And Kyle’s name seemed to have been forgotten. “I am,” he said.