He approached Wyatt, holding out his hand. “A fair fight,” he said. “A good fight.”
“Like letting me find out about it on the eleven o’clock news instead of calling me first, a professional courtesy I’ve always extended. You want a fight, ace, I’m your man.”
Pagano’s smile abruptly faded. He turned away and sat down with his people, engaging them in conversation.
A sudden collective gasp: Marvin White, dressed in white shirt, tie, and dark pants, was led in by two jail deputies and brought to the defense table. The deputies removed his handcuffs and took their places along the far wall close to the defense table, assuming an at-ease but alert position.
“Don’t you have a sports coat?” Wyatt whispered in Marvin’s ear, leaning in close to his client.
Marvin shook his head. “Not one I could wear in here.” He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had chapped them. Wyatt made a mental note to get Marvin’s sizes and send Josephine out shopping. The kid would need some decent clothes when he came to trial—a couple sports coats, some white dress shirts and ties, decent slacks. He wouldn’t bother going to Walcott for the money—he knew what the answer would be. He would pay for it out of his own pocket.
“How do you feel?” he asked, turning to Marvin again.
“Scared,” Marvin answered with a nervous hiccup.
“This’ll be over fast. When the judge asks how you plead, you stand up and say, slowly and clearly, ‘Not guilty.’ Don’t be belligerent, or embellish it with some line of crap,” he instructed Marvin. “ ‘Not guilty’ and then sit down.”
Marvin nodded.
A small door opened behind the judge’s bench. “Oyez, oyez, oyez,” cried out the bailiff. “All rise! This court is now in session, Judge William T. Grant presiding.”
Judge Grant was the senior judge in superior court. He was going to run this one himself, to make sure it was done the right way. And if the publicity helped him get a seat on a state appeals court, or better yet, a federal judgeship, that would be okay, too.
Wyatt knew Bill Grant socially, to say hello to. Grant was a conservative, a stern jurist who didn’t put up with any nonsense in his courtroom. He knew the law and expected the advocates standing in front of him to know it as well. He’d reamed plenty of lawyers out over the years for not being prepared to his standards. The stories about Grant had amused Wyatt when he’d heard them at cocktail parties. He didn’t know how funny they’d be if they were directed at him.
Wyatt rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket as he did so. He touched Marvin’s shoulder to make sure Marvin didn’t take his time standing up. First impressions were important.
Judge Grant swung his gavel once, hard. “Be seated,” he commanded. There was a shuffling of chairs as 115 people sat back down. “Call the case,” Grant said to his bailiff.
“People versus Marvin White,” the bailiff sang out.
Grant looked down toward the prosecution table. “Are the people ready?” he asked.
Helena rose, smoothing her skirt. “We are, Your Honor.”
He swung over to the defense. “And the defendant?”
Wyatt stood in place. “Ready, Your Honor.”
“Nice to see you in my court, Mr. Matthews,” Grant said, his pale gray eyes flashing a brief tight smile behind his rimless wire glasses.
“It’s an honor to be here.”
He remained standing for a brief moment; not so long as to be overtly obvious, but enough so that his psychological presence, his gravitas, was clearly felt. Then he sat down. In the legal world he was important, a major player nationally; not in criminal court, perhaps, but a force to be reckoned with. Grant couldn’t help himself; he’d had to acknowledge that.
He glanced over at the prosecution table. Pagano had studiously turned his back, but Helena was staring at him, taking his measure. Seeing that she’d been caught looking, she turned away—a bit too quickly for the nonchalance she wanted to affect.
Grant leaned forward in his chair, his eyes on Marvin. “The accused will rise.”
Wyatt nudged Marvin. Marvin stood up.
“You have been accused of the crime of murder,” Grant said, looking down at Marvin with a stern visage. “How do you plead?”
Marvin took a deep breath. “Not guilty,” he said, slowly and clearly, like his fancy lawyer had told him to.
Grant nodded. “I’m going to set the trial date for”—he leafed through his calendar—“July sixth.”
“Isn’t that fast?” Wyatt asked with concern.
“The law guarantees every defendant the right to a speedy trial,” the judge answered. “I would think you would want to get at this as quickly as possible, Mr. Matthews, for your client’s sake.”
“For my client’s sake I want to be as prepared as possible,” Wyatt rejoined. “Mr. White has been arraigned on seven counts of murder. Setting up a defense for seven crimes of anything, let alone murder, could be a long process, Your Honor. I don’t know that it’s possible to prepare properly in that short a period of time.”
Grant looked over at the prosecutor’s table. “Do you have a position on this?” he asked.
“We can be fully prepared in that time,” Helena said smoothly, rising to her feet. “We don’t feel it would be in the interests of justice to drag this out unnecessarily.”
“The court agrees,” Grant said without thinking further about it. “July sixth it is. If you run into unforeseen hardships, Mr. Matthews,” he said to Wyatt, “you can come back in here and ask for a continuance. I’m not trying to tie your hands in any way, Counselor, but I agree with the state—it’s in everyone’s interest to move this along.”
The deputies handcuffed Marvin and led him out. Wyatt spoke for a moment with Jonnie Rae, reassuring her as best he could. She left in the company of her children and Marvin’s tough-looking friends.
Wyatt handed his briefcase to Josephine. “I’ll be back in the office in about an hour. We’ll start looking into discovery.”
“I’ll be there.” Lugging the bulky case, she left with Walcott.
Wyatt waited until the courtroom had cleared. Then he went outside.
It was bedlam. The entire corridor was jammed with reporters. Wyatt pushed his way through the throng, assisted by some deputies who flanked him and shoved people out of his way, literally pushing them to the side.
“Mr. Matthews. Can you tell us …?”
“What is your reaction to …?”
“How did you get involved in …?”
He pushed forward, not answering, fighting through the thicket. Then he was by them and on the elevator and the police were blocking access to everyone else, and he rode it down to the ground floor. He wanted to make a statement but he needed a few minutes to get his thoughts in order.
The major television networks and stations had set up shop on the courthouse steps. Alex Pagano stood in front of a massive bank of microphones, simultaneously answering questions and issuing his statement, putting his spin on what had happened inside. Standing behind him, his staff, with Helena Abramowitz in the foreground, hovered like a protective and adoring flock.
“Today is a giant step in the right direction for this city,” Pagano was saying. “Tonight, for the first time in a long time, our citizens can sleep with the knowledge that in one way at least, they have freedom from fear. Thank you.” He moved off, protected by a dozen or more policemen who cleared his path.
Wyatt, watching and listening to this, wanted to spit. What sanctimonious, pompous bullshit. There had been 796 homicides in the metropolitan area the previous year: he knew, he’d looked it up. This case comprised seven, over two years. Whoever had been doing this was a monster, he agreed with that. But to say that things were better, in any way, was a lie.
“Mr. Matthews!” a reporter’s voice called out. “Do you have anything to say about this morning’s proceedings?”
Wyatt nodded. He walked down the granite stairs to the same bank of microphones Pagano had j
ust vacated and stood in the glare of the midmorning sun, feeling the lights of the camera crews beating down on his face, trying not to squint in the ten-thousand-watt glare.
“What is your reaction to the charges?” a reporter called out.
“Unlike the district attorney, who is a politician first and a lawyer in search of justice second, if at all, I’m not going to try my case in front of the media.”
He paused for a moment. Speaking publicly during a trial wasn’t something he was accustomed to; his work almost always took place behind closed doors.
“However—I’m not going to not speak out when I feel I have to set the record straight, and this is one of those times. Basically, I only have one thing to say: this whole episode is a charade, a travesty, a joke. Except it’s a bad joke, and it’s on all of us. This isn’t about justice, about who committed these terrible crimes. This is about finding a scapegoat as soon as possible, and ramming him down the collective throats of the public. What a wonderful convenience this whole thing is,” he went on, building a good head of steam, “that in such a short period of time after the latest killing the police find a young man, who—surprise, surprise—happens to be black, who has no adult criminal record whatsoever, who has been working for the past two years to help out his mother and younger sisters and brother, and who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. And because some career criminal with nothing to lose concocts some wild fairy tale, this young man is going to spend the next several months in the city jail, until I can convince a jury that he had nothing to do with any of this.” He stopped, looking out over the crowd, waiting to make sure his words were being felt, and transmitted.
“The case the DA is bringing is not about innocence or guilt. It is about expediency, and getting it over with. Eeny meeny miny mo … you know the rest.” He shook his head, a broad gesture for the TV cameras to catch. “They want to put a young man, a lifetime resident of this city, on death row solely on the testimony of a hardened convict. Well, I can tell you this: we’re not going to let them. Because if they can do this to Marvin White, they can do it to any one of you.
“Think about that.”
WYATT HIT ALL THREE networks’ nightly news shows, plus CNN. Moira didn’t see him on the six o’clock nationals; she hadn’t come home yet. But she did catch the local news at ten.
They sat in the den, flipping from channel to channel. Michaela, back from studying at the library, watched with them. He was on all the local stations. The actual clip that showed his face was short, less than fifteen seconds, but still, there he was.
He could feel the tension coming off Moira, particularly since much of the spin on the story, which went on for a couple of minutes, wasn’t about the case per se; it was about a famous, well-entrenched corporate attorney, whose client list ran to Fortune 500 companies, abruptly shifting gears in midcareer and taking on a highly controversial criminal case.
“So who are you pretending to be now, Johnnie Cochran or F. Lee Bailey?” Moira asked acidly.
“Just me,” he said, refusing to rise to the bait. If she wanted a fight she’d have to look elsewhere. He wasn’t going to argue with her. As this went on she’d get used to it and realize it wasn’t anything to get upset about. He hoped.
“You looked good, Dad,” Michaela opined, trying to calm the waters. “I like you in that suit.”
“I’m going to bed,” Moira said bleakly. She got up and left the room.
An hour later, when he went upstairs, the room was empty. “Moira?” he called out.
She didn’t answer. He walked down the hallway to the guest room. Moira was in bed, reading. “I’m sleeping here tonight,” she announced without looking up from her book.
He went to bed alone.
Father and daughter had breakfast together in the morning. As they were finishing up, Moira came downstairs. She was in her nightgown and robe, and hadn’t put on any makeup. Pouring herself a cup of black coffee, she kissed Michaela on the forehead. “Have a good day at school, sweetie,” she said, pointedly ignoring Wyatt.
If she wanted to cold-shoulder him there was nothing he could do about it. “We’d better get going,” he said to Michaela, carrying his dishes to the sink, where he rinsed them and placed them in the dishwasher. Michaela rinsed her own dishes, then went upstairs to get her books. “I’ll call if I’m going to be late tonight,” he told Moira, putting on his suit coat, “but I’ll try not to be.”
“I won’t hold my breath.”
He bent over to kiss her, but she turned away from him. He kissed the back of her neck, where the tendrils of her hair ended. “I love you,” he told her.
She turned to him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
The recent rains had exploded all the plants and flowers into bloom. The air was thick with fragrance and the pungent smell of earth. Wyatt lowered his window so he could enjoy them as the Jaguar cruised down the quiet streets.
Michaela was reading a schoolbook. “I’ve got a first-period chemistry quiz,” she explained as he glanced over.
“Didn’t you study last night? I thought you were at the library.”
“I like to look it over again at the last minute.”
She was a hard worker. He’d never had to worry about her. As he looked at her concentrating on her textbook, he wondered if she was seeing a boy and didn’t want him and Moira to know about it. Or maybe Moira knew things he didn’t—it wouldn’t be the first time.
“Daddy?” she said, looking up.
“Yes, honey?”
“What you’re doing? This trial?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I think it’s a good thing,” she said with conviction.
“You do?”
She nodded. “Everybody deserves a good defense, isn’t that right?”
“That’s the way it’s supposed to be,” he agreed.
“I mean it’s not his fault that he’s a black kid and doesn’t have any money.”
“No. It isn’t.”
“The kids at school think what you’re doing is cool.”
“They do?”
“Well, not all of them,” she admitted. “Some of them think they should just execute him on the spot, but that’s their parents talking. Some of these kids don’t have any original thoughts of their own. Not my friends,” she quickly added.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “That your friends are independent thinkers. I know you are. I wouldn’t ever want you agreeing with me just because I’m your father.”
“I wouldn’t. I mean I don’t agree with Mom about it.”
“No.” He hesitated. “This has been a shock to her. She needs time to adjust.”
“Maybe she won’t be able to,” Michaela said candidly. “I don’t think she thinks you should be defending him at all.”
“Even if he’s innocent?” he asked.
“Yes.” She looked at him. “Do you think he’s innocent, Dad?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that yet. I’ve been too busy with the work. He tells me he is, so unless I find reasons not to believe him, I will. That’s how I always deal with a client.”
“Well, I hope he is innocent,” she said. “If it turned out that you had defended the real Alley Slasher, that would be hard to take. Especially if you got him off.”
THERE WERE OVER FIVE dozen phone messages waiting for him when he got to work, most of them sent over from his office. Friends had called from all over the country. There were also several calls from reporters—newspapers, magazines, TV, radio—all requesting interviews. Larry King, The New Yorker, CNBC, Oprah. Not to mention the New York Times, People, A Current Affair. All to be put on hold. That stuff was dicey and potentially dangerous. He didn’t want to come across like some road-show Alan Dershowitz, especially since he was new to this part of the game.
Josephine stuck her head in his door. “You’re a popular guy this morning,” she said, handing him the requisite newspapers. She was dressed
in a sexy outfit—shortish skirt, heels, tight blouse. She usually dressed this way—a little on the tight-flashy side. It was who she was. Nothing calculated.
“It’ll pass,” he said.
“Don’t count on that. This case has legs. You’re going to be in the limelight for as long as it lasts, whether you want to be or not.”
“I guess. It’s a funny feeling.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny weird?”
“Strange. But I’ll get used to it. I’ll have to, because Pagano will be trying this case in the press. By the time we get to trial everyone in the city, county, and state will have formed an opinion. It’s going to be a bitch getting a jury, that’s for sure.” He sipped his coffee. It was good—she had brewed it herself. “I want every police report on every one of the murders we’re charged with,” he said. “Prepare the necessary discovery documents and have them ready to file as soon as possible. Every murder that’s been attributed to the Alley Slasher, back to the first one.”
TWO DAYS LATER THERE were six large cardboard boxes filled with copies of police files sitting on the floor in Wyatt’s office. Each box contained all the material the department had on each individual murder. They were numbered one through six, in the order in which the killings had taken place. The file was thinner on the most recent murder, number seven. It contained Dwayne Thompson’s grand jury testimony, the affidavit of the woman, Violet Waleska, who had seen Marvin at the murder site and had subsequently picked him out of a police lineup, and the police reports pertinent to finding Paula’s body. The material in that file was in a manila envelope on a corner of his desk.
“What we’re looking for are similarities,” Wyatt told Josephine as they looked at the large paper-filled boxes that had been delivered that morning, in accordance with his filing the discovery motions. “In location, time of day, method of killing. Similarities in who the victims were—age, color, where they lived, what they wore, where they worked, whether they were married or single, lived alone or not, anything.”
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