Key Witness

by J. F. Freedman

  Wyatt shook his head. “You’re not his mother, his shrink, or his priest. No jail.”

  “You want to come out of the gate hot, don’t you? That’s what this is all about.”

  He smiled at her. “You’ve got a guilty plea. Save the taxpayers some money. Take it.”

  She snatched her purse up off the floor. “I’ll check this out with the powers that be and get back to you.” She walked out the door, slamming it behind her.

  “And a pleasant day to you, too,” Wyatt called after her.

  “THIS IS DETECTIVE DUDLEY Marlow, homicide division.” Dwayne remembered the name on the news, from where they’d found that last body. If this guy was heavy enough to honcho that case, he’d have access to every file in the police department.

  “Yes, Detective. What can I do for you?” The woman’s voice at the other end indicated to Dwayne that she knew who Marlow was, and that he was important.

  “I need to review some files,” Dwayne said over the telephone, camouflaging his voice. “I’ll access them over the line here, into my computer. Would you set that up for me, please?”

  “Yes sir. It’ll just take a few minutes. I’ll need your badge number for verification.”

  The cop had only been on the television screen for a few seconds, but that had been long enough for Dwayne to have locked the badge number into his brain.

  He gave her the badge number. There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Thank you, Detective Marlow. What files were you looking for?”

  He told her. A few moments later, he began downloading the files.

  Dwayne was a thorough worker. It was almost dawn when he was finished reviewing the material to his satisfaction, so that it was indelibly burned into his memory. Then he very carefully hid the information in a program he knew Blake would never use. There was a bit of danger to that, but he wanted to keep the stuff available, in case he’d ever need to refresh his memory on a particular detail.

  Blake slipped into the infirmary before seven. “Did you get the information you were looking for?” she asked.

  “Everything I needed.”

  “You didn’t do anything that could get me into trouble, did you?” she asked fretfully, slinging the computer over her shoulder.

  He shook his head. “Not to worry—protecting you protects me. We’re partners, Doris.” He gave her a friendly smooch on her cheek, patted her ass. “Better get going—you shouldn’t be seen down here alone with me this early in the morning.”

  “I’ll come down later,” she told him. “When I’m done work.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” he smiled. “I ain’t going nowhere.”

  THE BLACKBOARD ON THE wall of the visitors’ waiting area had the rules posted in English and Spanish. Wyatt read them.

  VISITING AREA RULES

  1) No physical contact.

  2) No passing of objects.

  3) No food or drinks.

  4) Prisoners sit across from visitors.

  5) No objects on the table.

  6) Hands must stay on top of table.

  7) Children must remain seated on lap.

  8) Violations may lead to loss of visit rights and more jail time.

  9) All rooms are on camera.

  He was there to meet Marvin’s mother, Jonnie Rae Richards. After he talked with her they’d both meet with Marvin. He wouldn’t discuss anything with his client that could breach the attorney-client privilege, but he wanted to see them together, get a feeling for their dynamic.

  It was Saturday morning, and the place was packed. Almost all the visitors were women, and most of them had two, three, or more young children in tow, the kids running around the large central waiting room, playing with toys, crayons, and coloring books that the jail provided. It was noisy as hell, everyone talking, yelling, laughing, complaining. Most of the women were black, he noticed, with a good smattering of Latinas. The few white women were rough-looking blue-collar types, biker mamas and Southern redneck ladies. If there were any white-collar inmates, they weren’t being visited by their friends and families.

  There was a big hand-lettered warning posted over the door through which all visitors passed. Three lines: NO GANG CLOTHING. NO SIGN-THROWING, NO FIGHTING. Wyatt noticed a few males, young adults, in the mixture. Except for two Latinos and one white, who wore biker colors in defiance of the regs, they were black.

  He’d driven in from home, and since it was the weekend he was dressed casually, although he wore a sports coat, which was more dressed than he would have been if he’d been meeting a corporate client. He wanted the boy and his mother to know they were getting decent representation, not being shuffled around in the system.

  As a lawyer with an appointment, Wyatt had priority—they met in one of the rooms reserved for lawyers, where they could talk freely. It was an open secret that conversations in the regular visiting rooms were taped. He guessed the woman’s age to be under thirty-five.

  “I’m Mr. Matthews, Mrs. Richards,” he said, introducing himself and shaking her hand. “I’m Marvin’s lawyer.” She was starchy-overweight, but she had a pretty face. She was alone.

  She took a good, hard look at him. “How bad is it for that boy?”

  “Not as bad as I originally expected it would be. He isn’t going to have to go to jail.”

  “Not go to jail?” She clearly didn’t believe him.

  “We agreed on an appropriate punishment, the district attorney’s office and I,” Wyatt explained. “He will be on probation for two years, and he’ll be assigned community service, and most importantly, he’ll have to finish high school and get his diploma. If he doesn’t, they can pull the offer and then he will have to do his time, so he’ll have plenty of incentive to stay in school and finish up there. And he can’t hang out with any of his buddies who are shady characters.”

  “I don’t see none of that happening,” she said, looking him square in the face.

  “Why not? It sounds reasonable to me.”

  “That boy is a gangbanger, Mr. Lawyer. He don’t know nobody that ain’t no shady character.”

  “If he goes back to school he can make new friends,” Wyatt argued. “One of the conditions of his probation is that he lives with you and stays clean.”

  “I’ve already kicked his sorry ass out,” she informed him.

  “I know. He told me. But if the alternative is jail, won’t you take him back in? Give him another chance?”

  “Another chance? You know how many chances I’ve given this boy?”

  “More than a few, I’m sure. But this time the stakes are higher, he has more reason …” He was going to say “incentive,” then caught himself; maybe she wouldn’t know that word, and immediately he chastised himself inwardly. Why did he think that, except that she was poor and black? Continuing: “… more incentive to do good.”

  “You should have let him go to jail,” she said. “Made a man of him.”

  He felt a prick of displeasure—what had he worked so hard for if it wasn’t appreciated?

  She picked up on his distress. “I’m running my mouth too much, that what you think? I got three younger ones at home, Mr. Lawyer, and I’m working two jobs to keep us off welfare and I ain’t got no time to baby-sit no eighteen-year-old whose only ambition in life is to be dealing crack and driving some fancy car.”

  The jail-side door opened before Wyatt could come up with a suitable reply. A deputy escorted Marvin in, exited, and locked the door behind him. Marvin slouched into his chair.

  “Hello, son. How they treating you?” Mrs. Richards asked brusquely.

  Marvin shrugged. “Good enough.”

  “Mr. Matthews here tells me you ain’t gonna have to serve any time. He did good by you, Marvin.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I hope you appreciate what he’s worked out for you.”

  “Yeah, I do.” His eyes were looking down at the floor, unable to meet her own.

  Wyatt explained what was going to happen. The
y were going to court on Monday morning. Marvin would plead guilty to a single count of robbery, but the armed part of it was being dropped. The DA’s office would present their plea bargain to the judge, and Marvin would walk out of the court and go home.

  “And if you fuck up, you’ll find your ass right back in here,” his mother said emphatically, leaning toward Marvin across the table.

  “He isn’t going to mess up,” Wyatt said. “Are you?”

  “Nah.”

  “You’re going back to school, get a new job, and help your mother out.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

  He’d say whatever he had to. Once he was out, that was another story.

  TWO VISITATION ROOMS OVER, Dwayne was meeting with Galeygos, his lawyer. “I hope this is good,” Galeygos said. “I’m passing up a free lunch with a client who has actual cash dollars to pay me.”

  Dwayne was sitting perfectly still and yet he seemed to be vibrating, his aura was so strong. Allowing himself a tight, controlled smile, he asked his lawyer, “What we were talking about before—what I have to do to get them to knock down what I’m serving, forget what’s ahead, and let me walk out a free man?”

  “Yeah?” Galeygos was already rueing his decision to pass up that free lunch. There would have been a couple of premium bourbons to go with it.

  “You said solving the crime of the century would probably do it? You remember saying that?”

  “Yes.” Galeygos was salivating, thinking about that lost lunch. He could wrap this up now and call that other client, still make the lunch date.

  Dwayne leaned forward and kept his voice low, in case the deputies were monitoring the conversation, even though it was against the law to, and they told you they didn’t: “Listen up careful to what I’m about to tell you, and then you can decide where we go with it.”

  “BEFORE WE BEGIN,” GALEYGOS said, puffing up like a peacock, “I want to lay out some ground rules.”

  He and Dwayne were in an interview room in Alex Pagano’s suite of offices on a Sunday afternoon. Alex Pagano was the district attorney. Pagano was an ambitious man—it was an open secret that he was going to run for the House next year, and eventually for either the Senate or the governorship.

  Galeygos and Dwayne were with the man himself and his chief aide, the number-one deputy DA. Since Pagano was a politician, his assistant ran the office on a day-to-day basis. Pagano did the heavy lifting: press conferences, approving and strategizing on major cases, getting reelected.

  Galeygos had been his usual skeptical self as he had listened to Dwayne the day before; but after spending a couple of hours with his client the lawyer had gotten on the phone and browbeaten Pagano’s office into meeting with them.

  Dwayne, wearing his hospital whites, had been transported from the jail across the street. He wasn’t handcuffed, but two sheriff’s deputies were standing right outside the door.

  “Go ahead,” Pagano said, eyeballing Dwayne.

  “All pending and outstanding charges against my client will be dropped,” Galeygos stated. “His present sentence will be commuted to time served. He will be put in the Witness Protection Program, his records will be sealed, and he will be given one hundred thousand dollars, which he will use to start up his new life.”

  He handed his list of demands to Pagano, who passed it to his assistant without reading it. “How about a Rolls-Royce and a villa in the south of France, as long as we’re asking for the moon?” the DA deadpanned.

  “Do we have a deal or do we not?” Galeygos asked belligerently.

  “We could give him early release and have any pending state charges dropped,” Pagano said, looking to his assistant, who nodded in agreement. “The rest of it I have to coordinate with the Justice Department. You have my assurance we will act in good faith and do the best we can.”

  Galeygos looked to Dwayne.

  “If the man here tells me he’ll do his best, that’s good enough for me,” Dwayne said airily.

  “That’s if—I want to emphasize the word if—what you tell us leads directly—emphasize that word, too—to a grand jury indictment and a trial,” the deputy DA cautioned. He looked to his boss, who nodded his agreement.

  “Fair enough,” Galeygos told him.

  MONDAY MORNING. WYATT WAS up, showered, dressed, and out of the house by 6:15, long before Moira and Michaela were awake. Even though the Marvin White case was all settled, he still had great anticipation, and he couldn’t help relishing the sense of satisfaction he felt over the way he’d discovered the incriminating tapes. He might be new at this forum, but good lawyering was good lawyering, regardless of the specific arena.

  He stopped downtown at his favorite Greek deli for coffee and a bagel and arrived at the courthouse a little after seven. Court went into session at nine. He had the morning paper with him—he was going to finish the sports and financial sections and reread his motions once, to make sure there were no last-minute glitches.

  It was almost empty outside the courtroom; a few other earlier arrivals were scattered the long length of the corridor. He sat on an empty bench and took the motion out of his briefcase.

  “Hey, sport. Fancy meeting you here.”

  Wyatt looked up from his paperwork in surprise. “Hello, Alex,” he said.

  “What is this cockamamie crap I’m hearing?” Alex Pagano teased Wyatt, plunking down next to him. Pagano was wearing one of his $2,200 custom-fitted Hickey-Freeman pinstripes—he was always prepared to look good for a camera. “Since when did you become a defense lawyer for the downtrodden?” he asked. “Saving corporate America from themselves isn’t a big enough arena for you?”

  Wyatt smiled without answering. Alex and he were social acquaintances; both were powerful players in their respective arenas, and occasionally served together on various blue-ribbon ABA ventures. “What’s going on to warrant your showing up at twenty after seven on a Monday morning?” he asked Alex.

  “Pursuing justice, of course. Wherever and however it might rear its benighted head.” He cuffed Wyatt lightly on the shoulder. “Watch where you’re stepping in these hallowed halls. It gets slimy down here. You wouldn’t want to slip and fall on your million-dollar ass.”

  Wyatt looked at him with a bemused expression, but didn’t respond to that gibe, either. Pagano stood up, made a show of checking the time, then walked away around the corner.

  Wyatt watched him. What was that all about? he thought. Alex Pagano hadn’t run into him in an empty courthouse corridor at 7:15 in the morning by accident. Alex was a devious conniver—there was a purpose to every move he made. And why the mocking, the empty words of warning?

  Nine o’clock. The courtroom was full. Wyatt sat with Marvin’s mother. Other lawyers and defendants’ families were scattered around the room, waiting for their cases to be called.

  He’d gone over the deal carefully. Everything was in order. The woman had been nervous, which was to be expected. Even though she knew her son had done what he was accused of, she was still his mother. She still had hope for him.

  In the back of the chamber, half a dozen young black men and a couple of girls, all Marvin’s age, had congregated. Jonnie Rae pointed them out to Wyatt.

  “His so-called entourage,” she commented with scorn. “Bunch of damn fools, just like him.”

  Wyatt looked them over. Tough-looking kids. He didn’t know what gang clothing or colors were, but they all looked like they were in some kind of informal uniform—long sagging shorts and pants, high-top Nikes, red-checked handkerchiefs tied around their heads à la Deion Sanders. Both girls wore tight hip-huggers and tank tops, and were braless. One girl had at least a dozen earrings in her ears and nose, and through her thin top he could see the outline of another earring in a nipple. A couple of the boys waved greetings to Jonnie Rae, who pointedly ignored them.

  He should bring Michaela down here, he thought as he watched them giggling and grab-assing. She should know how the rest of the world lives; seeing th
is side of life firsthand, instead of viewing it through the safe prism of a television set, would be beneficial in some indefinable but meaningful way. She might even enjoy it, watching her dad in action. She had no real idea of his work—it was too complicated; even he found it boring and unfathomable when he tried to explain a case to Moira. But this stuff, down in the trenches, that they could understand and appreciate, even enjoy.

  A side door opened. A bailiff led the morning’s defendants into the courtroom. Officially innocent until proven otherwise, they were nevertheless in orange jail-issue jumpsuits, joined in a line to each other by light waist chains so that one deputy could wrangle the entire herd.

  Marvin was situated in the center of the pack. As he saw his friends in the back of the room he raised a hand and flashed a sign. Immediately, a deputy sheriff stepped over to him and said something in his ear. Marvin nodded and dropped his hand; but he was smiling.

  The court deputies removed the chains that bound the prisoners together. They were seated shoulder to shoulder in the front row behind the lawyers’ tables.

  Wyatt glanced around. The kids were grinning, like they were members of a secret society. He realized with a start that they were, and that he didn’t know anything about it.

  It would be good for Michaela to bring her down here, yes; but he was the one that really needed the education. He was going to be representing clients who lived in a world that was completely alien to him, and if he was going to do the proper job for them he had to know and understand that world.

  First things first. Put this case to bed. Go to school later on.

  As he looked more closely at Marvin’s friends he saw that one of them—a boy roughly Marvin’s age—was with the group, but not of it. He was standing as far apart from the others as possible while still being in the same space.

  He was interesting looking. Unlike the others, he wasn’t big and tough-looking. He was, in fact, rather small, almost diminutive. He was wearing an expensive conservative suit, what a rich Ivy League professor or Wall Street colleague of Wyatt’s would wear. Unlike the Wall Streeter or professor, however, this kid had three or four garish rings on his fingers, each studded with a large authentic-looking stone. A large emerald glittered in his left ear. Paper-thin-soled-Italian shoes, a bespoke English broadcloth white-on-white dress shirt, and a silk tie that had to have cost at least $150 rounded out his wardrobe. He lounged with his back to the wall, casually looking over the proceedings with a comfortable air.