“That ain’t happening,” D’marco replied with growing frustration. “That’s why I called you. I already told my lawyer—”
“Mr. Davis!” She cut him off. “Don’t tell me anything that was said between you and your lawyer. That’s attorney-client privileged.”
“What if I don’t want no attorney-client privilege?”
“I can’t advise you about that. You should talk to your lawyer if you want to consider waiving that privilege.”
“I’m tryin’ to tell you! I don’t wanna talk to my lawyer—”
“Mr. Davis.” She spoke over him again. “Really, I can’t speak to you. I have to go now.”
“This’s fucked up! I wanna give you information—you gotta take it! What about my rights, bitch?”
She hung up.
Anna stared at the phone as if it might bite her. She fielded crazy phone calls every day. Sometimes the family and friends of men she was prosecuting called, asking her to go easy on their loved ones, or cursing her out if she had not. Sometimes people called thinking she had the power to do all kinds of things, like take care of the rabid pit bull that lived down their street. But this was the first time she’d gotten a call from a defendant himself. Her heart was pounding from being cursed at by a furious prisoner, and her mind was filled with questions.
Why had he called her? What could he want to say that Nick wouldn’t let him say?
She was sorry she had to hang up on him. If it were up to her, she would have listened to anything he wanted to say. But the rules were clear. Prosecutors weren’t allowed to talk to defendants who had a lawyer, except with the lawyer’s permission, and she certainly didn’t have that. The rules were meant to protect the accused, to prevent the government from going behind a defense attorney’s back to get information that a defendant with the benefit of good legal advice wouldn’t reveal. They were fine rules, Anna thought. But she’d hated to hang up when D’marco clearly wanted to tell her something.
She dialed Jack’s number, and he picked up on the first ring.
“You’re not going to believe this,” Anna began. “I just got a call from D’marco Davis.”
Jack was in her doorway a minute later. “You’re kidding,” he said.
“Nope. Come on in, make yourself comfortable.”
Jack stepped easily around Grace’s files, which were stacked at irregular intervals on the floor. He was used to navigating their messy office by this point.
“So, what happened?” he said as he sat in Grace’s desk chair.
Anna told him about the phone call. He listened with quiet concern.
“You doing okay?” he asked when she was done.
“Sure. It was just a little surprising, is all.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you. If D’marco’s going to harass anyone, I’d prefer him to choose me.”
“It comes with the territory, right? This is a homicide case, not a bake sale.” Anna tried out McGee’s words, sounding tougher than she felt. “You can’t worry every time an AUSA gets a little harassed, right? You wouldn’t have time for anything else.”
“Sure, sure.” Jack shifted uneasily in his chair. Anna wondered if he was this protective with the other attorneys he supervised. “Anyway, you did a good job handling that phone call.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly. You refused to talk to him. That was the right thing to do. It’ll make our follow-up a lot easier.” Jack pointed to her phone. “We need to call Nick Wagner and inform him about this.”
“Oh.”
She just sat there, staring at Jack, trying not to panic. Jack smiled at her and nodded toward the phone. She smiled back weakly, but still didn’t move. Jack walked to her desk, hit the speakerphone button, and dialed the main number for OPD. He asked the receptionist for Nick Wagner, then sat down at Grace’s desk again as the line clicked over. Anna hoped the defense attorney wouldn’t pick up.
“Nick Wagner,” he answered.
Jack nodded to Anna; he expected her to take the lead. She cleared her throat and tried to sound normal.
“Hello, Nick, this is Anna Curtis.”
“Anna.” Nick’s voice softened. She hadn’t called him since the case started. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“I’m sitting here with Jack Bailey,” she rushed ahead. “You’re on speakerphone.”
“Hi, Nick,” Jack called, with forced cheer.
“Oh. Hello, Jack.”
“You’ll be happy to know that Ms. Curtis is looking nice again today.”
Nick paused a beat. “I am happy to know that. Is there anything else you wanted to tell me, or is that the reason you called?”
Anna needed to get this call over with.
“Listen, Nick, we just wanted to let you know that your client called me a few minutes ago. He wanted to talk to me about the case.”
“Christ. What did he say?”
“Nothing, I wouldn’t let him talk. I told him that I’d be willing to listen to anything he wants to tell me, but only through you. Do you want to set up a meeting for that?”
“No.”
“No, I didn’t think so.”
“We’ll send you a letter documenting all this,” Jack said. “I’m also sending you a copy of the results from the CODIS search—we got the report yesterday. The father isn’t in CODIS.”
“Fine,” Nick said curtly. The news didn’t surprise anyone. The father of Laprea Johnson’s baby was not a convicted felon. That got them pretty much nowhere. It could be anyone else in the world.
“Listen . . .” Jack hesitated. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job—”
“Then don’t.”
“Just make sure your client doesn’t call Anna again.”
“No kidding.”
The line clicked as Nick hung up.
“Asshole,” Jack muttered. “Anyway, write up a memo to the file about Davis’s call. Then call it a day. Go home, get some rest for once, forget about Davis.”
“I don’t want to rest. I want to be helpful.”
“You’re more helpful than I could have imagined when you were assigned to this case.” He smiled at her. “I’m being selfish. I don’t want you to burn out. I know you’ve been working late nights on this case. Tonight, I want you to go home early, rent a movie or—I don’t know—go rollerblading or clubbing, whatever it is you kids do these days.”
“Okay, Gramps.” She laughed, feeling some of the tension from the phone call drain from her shoulders.
“Gramps!” Jack huffed with mock indignation. “No more back talk from you, missy, or you’re grounded.”
Anna laughed. Jack was only ten years older than her, and he certainly didn’t look like anyone’s grandfather. His shaved head conveyed a tough hipness, and he was trim and athletic, moving with a lean elegance. With his tall stature, smooth mocha skin, and striking green eyes, Anna supposed Jack would do pretty well with the ladies at a club himself. She was surprised at the thought. She’d always seen him as her stern, demanding boss, but she suddenly recognized that Jack was actually a young man.
“In the meantime,” Jack added, “I’m getting Davis cut off, for good. No more phone calls for him.”
“That should be tattooed on his forehead. ‘No phone calls for me.’”
As Jack walked out, she turned back to her computer, humming without realizing it. She was in a better mood than she’d been in for a while.
• • •
A few weeks passed without another word from D’marco. Jack thought the issue was closed, until one night in late September, when he sat at his desk, flipping through that day’s mail. It was the usual stuff: reports from the FBI, memoranda from MPD, D.C. Bar Bulletins. Then he saw an unusual envelope, light blue and slightly crumpled, with his name and address handwritten in bold, slashing strokes. Jack looked at the return address: D’marco Davis’s name, prisoner ID number, and the address of the D.C. Jail. Jack shook his head. Without opening the env
elope, he walked it down the hall to the war room.
It was a Wednesday night, and Jack knew he could find Anna there now. He stopped walking halfway down the hall, though, and looked down at his feet. He was still wearing his galoshes. There’d been a thunderstorm this morning, and he’d put the rubber boots on for his walk to the subway. Then he’d gotten so busy he’d forgotten about them and worn them all day. Now he noticed that they looked goofy, like clown feet sticking out of his suit trousers. Jack turned back to his office and pulled the galoshes off of his dress shoes. As he walked out again, he felt both better and sheepish. If he were going to see anyone else, he wouldn’t have thought about his footwear.
Anna was sitting at the conference table, taking notes as she read a transcript. She was deep in thought and didn’t notice Jack. Her suit jacket was draped over a chair, her shoes sat on the floor next to her, and her feet were tucked under her as she worked. Her hair hung in a blond curtain around her face. She pulled it back as she read, distractedly pinning it behind her head with a pencil, exposing the soft nape of her neck. Jack blinked and looked away. He rapped his knuckles on the door frame.
“Knock, knock,” he said. Anna looked up, startled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She smiled when she saw it was Jack. “Hazard of the job. You sit around reading about the bogeyman all day, you start to jump at shadows.”
He sat down in his usual seat across from her. They had spent hours in this room, sitting across from each other as they pored through reports and evidence. They both had other duties, so they worked on this case in the mornings before court, and then after court finished in the evenings. They’d spent many late nights in the war room, both because there was a lot to do and because they enjoyed each other’s company—the chance to bounce ideas off of each other instead of toiling away in their own separate offices. Besides his daughter and the nanny, Jack realized, Anna was usually the first person he saw every morning and the last one he saw each night. He didn’t mind. She was easy company.
Jack slid the envelope across the table to her.
“Tell me if you can guess what that is,” he said.
She picked it up and studied it.
“You’ve gotta give D’marco points for persistence,” she said with a puzzled smile.
“Or something.” Jack stuffed D’marco’s letter, unopened, into a larger manila envelope.
“What are you going to do with the letter?” Anna asked.
“I’ll send it to his lawyer. And we’ll write another letter to both Wagner and the judge explaining this. It all has to be on the record.”
It was a hassle for Jack. They had to document everything in fairness to the defense attorney, and to cover themselves, in case anyone ever accused them of improperly contacting the defendant. But, Jack said, the one who would really be inconvenienced by this was Nick Wagner, who clearly couldn’t control his client.
“It makes you wonder what’s going on in that lawyer-client relationship,” Jack said.
Anna nodded, but then changed the subject. “Do you have time to talk about medical records?” she asked. Jack nodded. “I’m having a hard time getting some stuff from Greater Southeast Hospital.”
“Sure.”
Jack relaxed in his chair as she described the problem. It was just one of a hundred logistical issues that came up with every criminal case. But Jack enjoyed talking about it with Anna, the two of them hashing out challenges in the war room, surrounded by the quiet office. He hadn’t admitted it to himself yet, but this was becoming his favorite part of the day.
• • •
D’marco paced the length of his cell, fuming. His lawyer had visited him earlier today, and yelled at him for writing to the prosecutors. The fucking prosecutors had sent his letter to Nick! Without even opening it! Nick had given him an earful. When D’marco tried to explain, Nick had just gotten angrier, and walked out on him. Now D’marco was the furious one.
The system was stacked against him.
No one respected him.
He knew what he had to do.
This weekend, when Ray-Ray was in again, D’marco would tell him to toss a gun onto the ledge. Ray-Ray might be a little nervous about it, but he would do what D’marco asked.
D’marco would get his gun—and he would use it to escape from the jail. And then he would find that lady prosecutor. All he needed was five minutes with her.
20
Ray-Ray wiped the damp rag indifferently over the dark, shiny wood of the four-top table. More crumbs fell onto the white marble floor than into the dirty tub of dishes he’d been aiming for, but he ignored them. He wasn’t going to get any awards for being the busboy of the year—and he didn’t care. He held on to this job for one reason: so he could report steady employment to his probation officer and keep his cushy gig as a weekender in the D.C. Jail. Meanwhile, if the Center Café wasn’t completely spick-and-span, it wasn’t Ray-Ray’s problem. He knew the manager would follow after him with a broom, sighing and grumbling—but she wouldn’t fire him. That was all he really cared about here.
The restaurant where Ray-Ray worked was a chic café inside the central hall of Union Station, and one of the most visited tourist spots in Washington. Union Station’s central hall was massive and beautiful, with gleaming white marble floors, huge white pillars, and a soaring, barrel-vaulted ceiling of carved golden panels. Towering statues of nude Roman legionnaires guarded the ceiling, looking stern and dignified despite their strategically placed modesty shields. The huge lobby was lined with tourist shops and fancy stores.
Right in the middle of the lobby was the Center Café, Ray-Ray’s workplace. The restaurant was a circular, double-decked structure made of dark wood, open to the historic hall it sat in. Although the café was two stories, the soaring ceiling of Union Station still towered high above. The restaurant had no walls; it was set apart from the lobby by wooden planters filled with flowers and ivy, giving it the feel of an outdoor sidewalk café. Every table had good views of the comings and goings of Union Station.
The hallway echoed with the voices of dozens of people walking around outside the café. Union Station had a little something for everyone: it was an historic site and a shopping mall, it had a food court and a movie theater in the basement, and beyond the beautiful main hall, it held a teeming train station. All kinds of people passed through here: millionaire law firm partners, nose-ringed nonprofit interns, tourists in shorts and knee socks, and thugs of every degree.
The Center Café’s patrons tended to be the more upscale types. Ray-Ray didn’t think anything of the man wearing a suit and tie who walked up as he was clearing off a table.
“Excuse me,” the man started.
“Hostess’s over there.” Ray-Ray inclined his head without making eye contact.
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you. Ray-Ray, right?”
Ray-Ray looked up, suddenly suspicious. It was never a good sign for a white man in a suit to be asking for him. And since Ray-Ray had agreed to smuggle a gun into the D.C. Jail for D’marco, he’d been feeling anxious. He wondered if this guy was here because the plan had somehow gotten out. Ray-Ray hadn’t bought the gun yet—he was so uncomfortable with the idea that he’d been putting it off. He couldn’t be in trouble just for talking about it with D’marco—could he? He met the man’s eyes nervously, but didn’t say anything.
“My name’s Nick Wagner. I’m D’marco Davis’s lawyer.” Nick held out the identification card clipped to his belt loop. It had his name and the words OFFICE OF THE PUBLIC DEFENDER printed on it.
“Oh, hey, man.” Ray-Ray exhaled with relief. This guy wasn’t here to get him in trouble. He was on D’marco’s side. Ray-Ray set the tub of dirty dishes on the table behind him, wiped his hands on his apron, and reached out to shake the attorney’s hand. “What can I do to help? Here, have a seat.”
Nick and D’marco sat at the table Ray-Ray had just been cleaning.
“Thanks for your time,” Ni
ck said with a smile. After a few minutes of small talk, the lawyer got to the point. “D’marco tells me that you might know who Laprea was dating right before she died.”
Ray-Ray winced. He still felt bad for telling D’marco that rumor. And the worst of it was that he didn’t have any more information.
“Aw, man. Wish I did. But I just heard some stuff on the street. Just talk, y’know. Some folks seen a police cruiser hangin’ around outside her house a coupla times, seen the same cop goin’ in and out. I heard it was a white cop. Ain’t never seen him myself.”
“Do you know anyone who did see him?”
“Nah. I don’t even remember how I heard it. There was just talk.”
“What made folks think they were dating? I mean, were they ever seen out together or anything like that?”
“Nah, man. Nothing ’pecific. Rumors is rumors.”
“How do you know the police officer wasn’t just investigating her case?”
“Ha. You know how many cases in that neighborhood? Robberies. Beatdowns. Dealing. How often’s a cop stop by just to ‘investigate’ a misdemeanor assault? Never. You call 911, they slow up, take they report, and go. Or don’t even take a report.”
Nick nodded. “Do you know anyone else she was seeing romantically?”
“Uh-uh.” Ray-Ray remembered what D’marco had told him: that Laprea was pregnant with someone else’s child when she died. D’marco had acted like it was no big deal, but Ray-Ray could tell that the news hurt D’marco badly. “You tryin’ to find that baby’s father?”
“Doing the best I can, but we’re not having much luck.”
“Oh.” Ray-Ray felt sorry for his friend. Nick seemed to read his face.
“It’s actually better this way. If the father’s unknown, I can argue to the jury that someone else was close to her, and it could be anyone—and maybe that other guy killed her. Maybe that’s reasonable doubt. If the father were identified, the prosecutors would interview him, bring him to court, and what if he has an alibi? Or he’s some putz that wouldn’t hurt a fly? Unless the father happened to have a longer record than D’marco—and we know he doesn’t, because he wasn’t in the police DNA database—we’re much better off with a mystery man.”
Law of Attraction Page 17