“Can you remember anything about the person? Was it a man or a woman? Did they say anything? Did you get a look at their clothes?”
“I never really saw the person. Just as I tried to turn, I got hit. It was super dark too.”
“The safety light was shot out. We found the glass and a bullet casing. That’s why it was so dark. You’re lucky your dog was with you or you might be dead. I know you were in the news yesterday, representing the guy who is accused of trying to blow up a plane over the Keys. Has anyone threatened you about that case?”
“Anyone? Try everyone. Before I could get back to my office, horrible e-mails and phone calls were bombarding us.”
“Can we get access to the e-mails and the phone messages?”
“Sure, you can have whatever my assistant kept. She’s at the office now. I’ll call her and tell her you’ll be stopping by.”
“I’ll go right over there. Has anyone else threatened you? Any of your clients?”
“No, no one. I still think maybe it was just a robbery that went bad when Sam attacked.”
“You may be right, but we need to look at everything. Now, I need to take some photos of your injury.”
“Are you kidding? Photos the way I look? No way.”
“It’s just the back of your head. The State will kill me if I don’t get pictures, and we arrest someone.”
“Well, too bad. You and I both know you’ll never find anyone. There are dozens of these robberies every day around Miami.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time the cop left, I was feeling antsy. I called Catherine, who assured me that everything was quiet. She said that Judge Maxwell had phoned to leave her new number at the family courthouse and to say she was working on the lists that I had asked for.
With everything that had happened, I had put Liz’s case out of my mind. I went into the home office that Carlos set up down the hall from the kitchen. The computer beckoned. I began searching the back issues of the Miami Herald, looking for any information about the murdered informant that Judge Marconi mentioned as part of the investigation of Liz.
I found the headline only a few weeks back. INFORMANT SHOT IN COLD BLOOD ON CITY STREET. A side-bar article contained snippets of the case, State vs. Carillo. Jack Carillo, twice arrested, but never convicted, stood accused of attempting to import cocaine. A sting operation was set up by the Miami-Dade Police. They used an undercover informant who persuaded Carillo that he could bring him copious amounts of cocaine. The informant was from Colombia, and was not known by Jack Carillo before the meetings set in motion by the cops. As soon as the arrest was made, the informant was secreted by the state and the police. Carillo’s attorney was quoted, complaining about the need to depose the informant. The next paragraph jumped out at me.
There was the whole description of Liz ordering the deposition to be taken with her special instructions; location to be secret, only the state, defense, and court reporter to be present, the deposition to be kept sealed until the trial. Nothing in the article sounded an alarm that Liz was doing anything but her job as the judge in the case. On the other hand, nothing in the article exonerated Liz from blame for the informant’s murder.
I stopped reading and gripped the desk. I remembered going to a party with Carlos right after we started dating. The host was Jack Carillo. He and Carlos were high-school buddies at the Miami Academy, a private school for the rich and connected. The party was at Jack’s home on Star Island, an enclave of mansions with views of the skylines of Miami Beach and Miami, and surrounded by Biscayne Bay. The place looked like a setting for Lives of the Rich and Famous. The grounds were magnificent. We spent most of the evening on the terrace overlooking the water. The next thing that I recalled gave me goose bumps. Joe Fineberg was a guest at that party too. I printed a copy of the article and shut down the computer. My head had begun to throb again. This time I wasn’t sure whether it was from last night’s debacle or the fact that I had no idea how I was going to rid Liz of the state’s accusations, an even worse debacle.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Franco delivered my car at three o’clock. I grabbed Sam and my dirty clothes and headed home. I left messages for Carlos on his cells and at his office explaining that I felt just fine and needed to see my own four walls.
Marco must have been by the house, because I found my overnight bag and briefcase on the back porch. All seemed to be in order in the house, which is to say that it was the way I left it last Friday morning. No one had touched the dishes in the sink, or picked up the newspapers left strewn on the living room floor. Nothing was missing from either bag. My wallet was intact, credit card and driver’s license still there.
I decided not to worry about anything else. I turned off the phone and crawled into bed.
The next time I was conscious again, the clock said eight. Ramon’s hearing was at nine. The answer machine was blinking wildly. Catherine had called at seven thirty reminding me to be at the federal courthouse by nine. Carlos left three messages reaming me out half in Spanish and half in English. That meant he was really angry that I left and came home. The end of his message dripped gloom. “I failed to get the land for the shopping arcade. The bastards wanted more money than anyone in his right mind would pay.”
I threw Sam in the backyard with his food bowl, dressed, and was in the car by eight thirty. After shortcutting through a maze of side streets, I hit the federal plaza area by nine twenty. I pulled my car into the closest lot that still had space. Twenty dollars whether you parked for fifteen minutes or five hours, but it was only one block from the courthouse.
I sprinted the block and arrived at the concrete barriers that ringed the area surrounding the federal courts. Since 9/11, no cars were allowed around the perimeter. This created not only an auto traffic nightmare, but a pedestrian one as well. Crossing the street and finding the openings in the barriers was like a rat traversing a maze. Every few weeks the pedestrian paths changed. Finally, I reached the entrance and saw the long line waiting to go through security.
Federal marshals barked instructions to the line approaching the metal detectors. “Have your ID ready. Place all bags on the screening table. No cell phones allowed inside.”
“Here’s my ID.” I waved it at the guard who stood with his arms across his chest. He looked like the concrete barriers dressed in a uniform. I started through the metal detector. Buzzers screamed and a light went on.
“Step to the side, Miss,” the beefy marshal said.
“I’m sorry, sir. I think my bracelet must have set it off,” I said.
“No, it’s too small,” he said as he started running hand wands up and down my back. He tried to put the wand under my skirt, but I jumped back, so he zeroed in on my pockets. Loud squeaks and squawks filled the air. Impatient attorneys behind me were muttering obscenities.
“Hey, aren’t you the lawyer representing that dirtbag terrorist guy? I saw you on TV the other night,” the marshal said. “Better come with me. We’ll finish this search in a private area.”
“This is ridiculous. I’m late for court. My pockets are what squeaked. Go ahead and stick those big paws in my pockets and see what caused it. I’m not going anywhere with you.”
A female marshal hurried over. “I’ll take over,” she said.
She ran the wand over my skirt and jacket with the same results. She put her hand in my right pocket and pulled out my cell phone. She extracted two quarters and two dog biscuits from my left pocket.
“You know you can’t bring cell phones in here anymore.” She reached for an envelope. “Fill out your name and phone number and put the phone in here. You can pick it up on your way out.”
“Thanks. You can keep the dog biscuits,” I said. I rushed to the elevators where a huge crowd was waiting, so I opted for the stairs. When I reached the sixth floor, panting and sweating, I saw that it was almost ten o’clock.
The courtroom was filled with attorneys and litigants, but the atmosphere was hushed. T
he pew-like benches and the quiet reminded me of my mother’s church. The atmosphere in federal court differed markedly from the state court. More marshals in uniforms, eyeing the crowd, stood in the back of the room and along the sides.
I consulted the calendar posted in the back of the room. My case was toward the end. I saw Tracy Steinfield at the lectern addressing the court. I looked down the list of attorneys printed next to each case name. What a relief. There were four more cases before Ramon’s would be called.
I was looking forward to Ramon’s trial. If I did a good job, I could expect more clients from the financial world. The feds were sure to go after other bankers. Not to brag, but I am great with juries. I had some good stuff lined up. I had already prepared Mrs. Molina for her role as sympathetic spouse. We had selected her wardrobe, a simple navy dress and pearls, and her hairdo, a graceful chignon. Several high-powered witnesses were prepared to testify about Ramon’s charitable work in the community, in Miami and Granada. We had pictures of the rebuilding of the island after the hurricane, all underwritten by the Molinas.
An hour later, Ramon’s case was called. Assistant U.S. Attorney Lenore Forbes stepped behind one lectern, and I stepped up to the other. Ramon was not with the other prisoners who had been brought out.
“Good morning, Judge Baum. I am Mary Katz, representing Ramon Molina. I don’t see my client in the courtroom. He’s in custody. I made sure that the order was processed to bring him here for this hearing.”
“Yes, Ms. Katz, I see the order in the file,” Judge Baum said. He sighed and frowned. “Where is he, marshals? We can’t wait all day.”
One of the uniformed guys approached the bench. “Your Honor, he’s in the back. There was a mix-up about his clothes for the hearing. His wife brought them to the wrong check-in area yesterday, but we have them now and he’s getting dressed.”
“I don’t care if he’s in his underwear or his birthday suit. Get him out here. We’ve got more cases after this. I have a meeting at noon, and I’m out of here in forty minutes no matter who’s wearing what.” Judge Baum slapped his desk for emphasis. I jumped. This hearing was not off to a great start.
Two marshals hurried out of the courtroom through the locked side door into the prisoner area. I apologized to the judge for the lag time, and assured him the hearing would be brief. I was keeping the time filled so he wouldn’t call up another case while I sat nursing my headache that had returned with a vengeance.
The side door opened and Ramon entered flanked by the two marshals. He was wearing grey flannel slacks, a white shirt open at the neck, and a blue blazer; very Ralph Lauren by way of Brooks Brothers. The reason for the open collar without a tie was not a fashion statement. Inmates are not allowed to wear ties. The theory is that they may hang themselves or harm others. Ramon was not the suicide type, but as to harming others, I wouldn’t take any bets.
I moved over next to Ramon as he was being led to the lectern. I extended my hand, but he looked straight ahead and ignored my attempted handshake. He looked angry.
“Judge, now that my client is present, I have a few motions we can address in preparation for our November trial date,” I began. Before I could finish my sentence, Ramon began to speak.
“Your Honor, I need to address the court,” he said.
I tried to quiet him by gently grasping his elbow and shaking my head.
“Mr. Molina, please address the court through your attorney. Let her know what it is you wish to say, so she can advise you,” Judge Baum said.
“It’s not possible for me to discuss anything further with Ms. Katz. I no longer wish to have her represent me,” Ramon said in a loud voice
The other attorneys in the courtroom turned to stare at us. I felt the inquisitive eyes boring into my back and sides. They were onto the morning’s newest hot gossip. I half expected someone to leap forward and offer Ramon their card. I stared at Ramon, mouth gaping open, just the way I looked on CNN two days ago.
“Ms. Katz, were you aware of your client’s intention to terminate your representation?” Judge Baum was now clearly annoyed.
“Absolutely not, Your Honor. If I might have a few minutes to talk with Mr. Molina, perhaps I can clarify the situation.”
“I would prefer not to do that,” Ramon said.
“Counsel, approach” Judge Baum motioned us forward. Lenore and I hustled to the side of the bench.
“What gives, ladies?” Has Molina lost his mind?” the judge asked.
“Well, if you ask me, this is just a stall tactic. He doesn’t want to go to trial,” Lenore whispered as the court reporter strained to catch each word.
“Are you sure you didn’t know about this Ms. Katz?” the judge asked.
“Of course I didn’t. Do you think I would allow a client to fire me in front of a whole courtroom if I knew about it in advance?” My voice was rising above the approved sidebar whisper.
“You need to find out what this is about. Step back, please,” the judge said.
“I can’t, Judge. He’s refusing to speak to me,” I said.
“Okay, Ms. Katz. Both of you step back. Looks like I’ll have to inquire of him myself.”
We resumed our positions at the lecterns. Judge Baum looked over the top of his reading glasses and eyeballed Ramon.
“Mr. Molina, since you won’t share your concerns with your attorney, I am forced to make inquiry into this decision to reject your current attorney.”
“You mean why am I firing her?” Ramon asked
A few attorneys in the audience were stifling giggles.
“Have you been dissatisfied with her work on your behalf, sir?”
“No, she’s been doing okay,” he said.
“Well, what’s the problem?” Judge Baum’s face was turning florid.
“Last night it came to my attention that my lawyer is also representing a terrorist. My wife and I discussed this by telephone, and we both feel that we don’t want to have a lawyer who represents somebody who would hurt citizens of this great nation. We love this country, even though we weren’t born here.” Ramon was warming to his topic.
“Mr. Molina, please don’t make a speech. All I wanted to know was the reason.” Judge Baum cut him off, much to my relief.
“Are you saying, sir, that some people accused of a crime are entitled to be represented by competent counsel, but others aren’t? If, indeed, you love this country, you should understand the presumption of innocence by which you have also been protected.” Judge Baum leaned forward as he spoke.
“Judge Baum, it seems best that I withdraw from Mr. Molina’s case, as he wishes. I will make his file available to whatever new counsel that he hires. Trial preparation is nearly complete, so there shouldn’t be any lengthy continuance in the case. May I be excused, Your Honor?”
“Yes, Ms. Katz. Under the circumstances, I will allow you to withdraw from this case, but I am not happy about what has transpired here this morning. Ten minute recess.” Judge Baum left the bench, shaking his head.
My face was burning with embarrassment as I grabbed my file and made a rapid exit from the courtroom.
Lenore followed me hurrying to catch up with me. “Sorry, Mary. I had no idea that Molina would make such a statement. I’m sorry I accused you of helping him stall.”
“Thanks, Lenore. I said, as I rushed to the ladies’ room, always a good place to hide out from questions from colleagues.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I went down the stairs to the main lobby, avoiding the crowded elevators.
I retrieved my cell phone, and walked out of the icy air conditioning into the hazy June heat and humidity. I walked toward the parking lot, but took a detour into the park that bordered the bay. It was quiet except for the usual downtown characters, some homeless, some elderly and bored. A few pigeons trotted around the benches looking for crumbs.
I took off my suit jacket and plopped onto one of the benches facing the water. I had never been fired by a client before, and it hurt. Wh
en I told Carlos that some of my clients would be upset about my appearing to represent an accused terrorist, I hadn’t fully anticipated that I would lose an important client like Ramon.
Carlos told me to think about what I really believed, and Judge Baum reiterated the basic code of justice in this country. Innocent until proven guilty is not just rhetoric. The whole meaning came home to me. I knew what needed to be done.
I speed dialed the office. “Catherine, it’s me.”
“How do you feel? How did the hearing go?”
“You don’t have to worry about Ramon anymore. He fired us.”
“What? The ungrateful bastard. After I spent an hour on the phone tracking down his clothes for court. That dumb airhead wife of his couldn’t even get it straight where to leave them.” Catherine was an army brat, and her language reflected her background.
“Forget about him. I want you to start making some calls to find out where the feds took Luis Corona. Check the federal jails in the area. We need to find him. Any messages?”
“Well, your mother called. She said if she didn’t hear from you, she’d come down here and sit in your office. She still has her southern accent, doesn’t she?”
“Okay, I’ll call her from the car. She picked the wrong day to give me an ultimatum.”
Mother and Dad moved to a retirement community complete with a golf course, guard gate, and look-alike red roofed villas on tiny patches of land in Boynton Beach. My brothers and I were shocked when our father sold the Katz Kosher Markets and the wholesale supply business two years ago to a national chain. The Katz name was maintained, but the friendly feeling is gone. Then they turned around and sold our family home on Miami Beach. It was the only house I had ever lived in growing up. A developer bought the place and promptly tore it down. In its place are two town houses three stories high that crowd the half-acre lot. So when Mother threatens to hold a sit-in in my office, it means she would have to drive for ninety minutes to get there. This is her way of insuring my overwhelming guilt.
Justice in June Page 4