9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  Nick broke the silence.

  “I’m being framed.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Caroline hesitated on the sidewalk, her hand on the door. She exhaled, pushed the door inward, and stepped inside as bells jangled overhead to announce her arrival.

  To her right, sat a coffee shop. The heady scent of roasted coffee beans and the clatter of dishes drifted out through the entrance. Directly in front of her, at the end of a short hallway, a stairwell led to the second floor and, according to a discreet brass sign, The Law Offices of Sasha McCandless, P.C.

  Caroline gripped the handrail and started up the stairs.

  She’d fully planned to drive straight home and climb into her bed when she’d left the office. But after she’d exited the garage, she’d turned left instead of right and then had just flowed with the light, late-morning traffic until she’d reached Bigelow Boulevard. Almost without realizing it, she’d ended up, not in Upper St. Clair, but in Shadyside.

  She’d pulled into a metered spot on Ellsworth Avenue and fed a handful of quarters into the parking meter. As she’d walked the block and a half, the autumn sun and the brilliant blue sky had barely registered through her trouble and worry. Not until she’d stood in front of the building that housed Sasha’s legal office had she admitted to herself that it had been her destination all along.

  The stairs dumped her out in the second-floor hallway, which was lined with three doors along each side. The first door on the right had a brass nameplate that matched the sign at the bottom of the stairs.

  Caroline braced herself then rapped on the door. Her heart fluttered in her chest. No response.

  She waited a moment. Then she knocked again, harder this time. Directly behind her, the first door on the left swung open.

  Caroline turned to see a slim African-American woman standing in the doorway. She was not young, not old. She looked familiar, but Caroline couldn’t place her.

  “Sasha’s not in, Mrs. Masters,” the woman said, gesturing toward the other door.

  Caroline searched her memory but found no name to attach to the woman.

  “Please, call me Caroline,” she said with a weak smile.

  The woman arched a brow and waited. Finally, she said, “Naya Andrews.”

  Caroline nodded. Of course. The former litigation legal assistant with the take-no-prisoners attitude.

  “Please forgive me, Naya. I have a great deal on my mind, and your name escaped me. How do you like it here—working for Sasha?”

  Caroline realized she was prattling; her nerves were getting the better of her.

  Naya blinked, then said, “It’s great. Like I said, though, she’s out of the office this morning.”

  Caroline tugged on the straps over her left shoulder, hugging the supple, green leather bag to her body.

  “When do you expect her back?” she asked.

  Naya shrugged. “She’s in a client meeting. She’s going straight to court from there, so not until lunchtime, at the earliest.”

  Caroline checked her watch. It was after eleven.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Why don’t you get a bite in the coffee shop downstairs?” Naya suggested. “They have great salads. I’ll tell Sasha you’re here when she gets in.”

  “I’d rather not,” Caroline said.

  Naya frowned at her but said nothing.

  “Please,” Caroline said, her eyes filling with tears, “I really don’t have an appetite and ... I think I need a lawyer.”

  Naya looked hard at her for a few seconds, then she stepped to the side and ushered her into the office.

  “In that case, come on in and we’ll get a client intake started,” she said, handing Caroline a box of tissues.

  CHAPTER 41

  Sasha and Larry walked across the lot from the county jail to the Municipal Court building.

  Sasha had assumed the preliminary arraignment would be held in the imposing stone castle that housed the Allegheny County Court of Common Pleas, but Larry had set her straight. Not until the formal arraignment would a criminal defendant, even in a homicide, set foot in the big courthouse. Preliminary arraignments and preliminary hearings were handled by Municipal Court judges, just like traffic citations.

  They proceeded without incident through the metal detectors at the entrance of the hulking brick and glass building. Sasha was pleased to see that the members of the bench apparently did not live in fear of her lingerie.

  Up three flights, the courtroom of the Honorable Laurel Foster was a bazaar scene. They entered the room and were met by a din of wheedling, peddling, and bargaining, as lawyers tried to hammer out deals before the judge took the bench. It was like an island market after a cruise ship had pulled into port and unloaded a crowd of sunburned tourists. Of course, these vendors weren’t hawking woven blankets, shot glasses, and tchotchkes, but reduced jail sentences, probation, and in-patient treatment programs. The mood struck Sasha as insufficiently somber, given the stakes involved. Larry seemed unperturbed.

  She pulled him out into the hallway.

  “Walk me through this one more time, please,” she said.

  Larry had insisted it would be an easy appearance to wing, but winging it was not her style. Sasha felt jittery. It was her practice to quell her jitters by preparing, preparing some more, and then over-preparing for her courtroom appearances. Unfortunately, she had had neither the time nor the knowledge necessary to adequately rehearse for her criminal court debut.

  “It’s like we told Nick. Either Detective Gilbert or some harried assistant district attorney will show up. Most likely, it’ll be an ADA who was hit with a stack of files when he walked in this morning and hasn’t had time to do anything more than glance through them—if that. Whoever it is will read the charges in a bored voice and ask for a high bail amount. There’s not going to be anything dramatic,” Larry assured her. “Municipal Court is all about efficiency; keeping the clogged wheel of justice turning. Stand up, poke Nick to get him to say not guilty, agree to the bail amount, get assigned a preliminary hearing date, and then sit down.”

  “Okay. Now, tell me again why the assistant district attorney isn’t going to charge him with first-degree murder?” she asked.

  She had reviewed Pennsylvania’s criminal code after her morning run and had read that bail was not an option if the defendant faced charges that carried a life sentence or the death penalty. A first-degree murder conviction would result in a mandatory life sentence.

  Larry said, “What’s the upside? From what you’ve told me, they don’t have anything. It’s all conjecture—he was cheating and she asked for a divorce. So what? Half of all marriages end in divorce, not murder. They’ll charge him with criminal homicide, like they did Mr. Lang, and get their ducks in a row. Later, at the formal arraignment, after they’ve had a month, two months to gather evidence, maybe they’ll amend the charges. But now? It’s not worth it.”

  He sounded certain. And the district attorney’s office had agreed to bail for Greg.

  Sasha could feel her jangled nerves begin to unkink.

  Then Larry continued, “What you should be worrying about is what you’re going to say if the ADA comes charging off the elevator looking for you to make a deal before your case gets called.”

  Sasha shook her head. This again. Larry believed the district attorney would offer Nick a deal similar to the one Greg Lang had rejected: plead to voluntary manslaughter and serve a term of seven-and-a-half to ten years. And Larry believed Nick should jump on it.

  “You were there, Larry. He has an explanation for everything: his hammer was stolen; he was rescuing that girl. He believes he can explain this away. And, frankly, I think he’s right about being framed,” Sasha said.

  Larry shook his head. “So what if he is? If they offer him a deal like they offered Greg, he should take it.”

  The courtroom door swung open and a middle-aged man wearing his hair in a short ponytail poked his head out and shouted, “The bailiff said the bus
is here.”

  “The bus?” Sasha asked, as he pulled his head back in and disappeared into the courtroom.

  “The transport vehicle from the prison,” Larry explained. “They drive the defendants across the parking lot. It would be quicker to walk them, but I suppose they have security concerns. Let’s go in and find seats. The session will start soon.”

  They fell in with the mass of lawyers streaming into the courtroom. Nick’s case was eighteenth on the list, so they found seats toward the middle of the gallery and settled in.

  Larry passed the time receiving visitors. Every third lawyer who passed by stopped to ask about retirement, Bertie, or his canasta game. Sasha gave everyone who stopped a smile and a nod but kept her focus on her notes. Mere formality or not, she did not intend to embarrass herself at her first preliminary arraignment.

  The bailiff stood up behind his cheap wood laminate desk and announced, “Okay, boys and girls, take your seats. Judge is on her way.”

  The chatter died instantly, and the stragglers hustled to find empty spaces on the rows of long benches, tripping over litigation bags and crawling over their colleagues, so they could sit down, only to pop back up when the judge appeared.

  The door from chambers swung open, and several dozen heads turned in expectant unison. But it was just the judge’s interns. One female, one male. Both impossibly young. They settled in two folding chairs set up alongside the bailiff’s table and powered up their laptops, balancing them on their knees.

  A moment later the door opened again. This time, it was not a drill.

  “All rise. The Honorable Laurel Foster presiding,” the bailiff intoned in a loud, clear voice.

  As one, attorneys stood, shoulders brushing shoulders in the cramped room. Larry pushed himself up with his cane.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the judge said with a bright smile. “Have a seat, if you were lucky enough to find one.”

  As they lowered themselves to the benches, she continued, “Anyone who wants to introduce himself or herself to his or her client, feel free to go back to the holding pen. Attorneys only—no family. Just keep it brief, please.”

  A dozen or so lawyers stood and headed for the door. The back rows, packed with a mass of humanity in varying degrees of cleanliness and inappropriate dress, watched them go with naked jealousy. Sasha assumed these were the defendants’ family members. She didn’t see anyone who resembled Nick.

  She leaned toward Larry. He shook his head before she had a chance to speak.

  “Pfft,” he stage whispered, “don’t even think about it. There’s no privacy. The real skells back there, the career criminals, all have ADAs on speed dial. They’ll listen to your conversation and try to use it to barter their way to a better deal.”

  The judge adjusted her square-framed glasses and frowned down at her calendar.

  “Well, as is always the case, we’ve got a jam-packed morning. I’m hopeful you fine people have spent your time wisely and we’ll be able to dispose of some of these matters rapidly. All the same, I hope everyone had a hearty breakfast in anticipation of a late lunch.”

  The bailiff, who’d been muttering into his phone in a low rumble, slammed down the receiver and approached the bench. He waved a piece of notebook paper at the judge as he neared her.

  She covered the microphone with her hand, and he whispered in her ear, showing her the paper. Sasha watched her short, curly hair bob wildly as she nodded her head. It was a quick, annoyed motion. She took the sheet of paper, scowled at it, and then swung the microphone back toward her.

  “It appears we’re going to have a special guest star today. The District Attorney herself is going to handle the preliminary arraignment for The Commonwealth v. Nicholas Costopolous.” The judge paused and read from the paper the bailiff had handed her, “So, Attorney McCandless, come on down, you’re our first contestant. Your client’s on his way.”

  Sasha’s mouth went dry. She whipped her head around and stared at Larry, whose eyes were wide and puzzled. He opened his palms and shrugged.

  They stood and walked to the front of the room. Sasha could barely hear the buzzing crowd over the sound of her blood rushing in her ears. She steadied her hands and placed her legal pad on the table, then she pulled out a chair for Larry. While he lowered himself into it and arranged his cane and his papers, she concentrated on bringing down her heart rate.

  “Welcome to Municipal Court, Ms. McCandless,” the judge said. “Good to see you, Larry.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Sasha said.

  Larry made a gesture as though he were tipping an invisible hat toward the bench.

  The Judge smiled at him and then caught her female intern’s eyes.

  “I have to confess I find it refreshing,” she continued, “as a woman and as a jurist, to be presiding over a matter where both sides are represented by women. It’s surprisingly rare, even in this day and age.”

  Sasha was saved from responding by the arrival of two deputy sheriffs escorting Nick up the aisle. She noted with approval that he had cleaned up nicely. In fact, having run a comb through his thick hair and dressed in an expensive Italian suit, he looked more presentable than most of the attorneys in the room, even with two days’ growth on his face.

  The handcuffs clamped around his wrists and the stubble were reminders that he’d spent the night in a cement block cell.

  The officers deposited him in the empty seat between Sasha and Larry and retreated, leaning against the wall, bored but watchful.

  Nick clenched his jaw and leaned in to whisper in Sasha’s ear. His breath was hot and minty.

  “What’s going on? They called me out of order. This better not be about a deal. I told you, no deal,” he said in a low growl.

  Sasha started to whisper back that she doubted they’d have to worry about rejecting a deal, given the circumstances, but the door swung open again, and Nick turned his head.

  Allegheny County District Attorney Diana Jeffries raced in, trailed by two ADAs, whose arms were loaded with accordion files. She dropped her handbag on the table with a thud. Her minions placed the files alongside it silently.

  “Good morning, Ms. Jeffries,” the judge said,

  Sasha thought she detected a hint of steel behind the judge’s smile.

  “Good morning, your honor. The People appreciate your willingness to accommodate our scheduling request,” the district attorney replied, smoothing her boucle skirt across her hips.

  Sasha noted that the highest-ranking prosecutor in the county was wearing a sweater set and skirt to court. Sasha’s late mentor, Noah Peterson, used to shake his head when a female attorney showed up for a court appearance having interpreted “suit” to mean any two pieces from her wardrobe. He believed jurors and male attorneys took women less seriously and that dressing down only compounded the problem. Sasha tended to agree and always wore a suit to a court appearance, client meeting, or deposition.

  Despite the district attorney’s appearance, Sasha had no intention of underestimating her. Diana Jeffries was a career prosecutor. She’d worked her way up through the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Western District of Pennsylvania during the 1990s. When she’d resigned to run for District Attorney in 2002, she’d been the chief of the organized crime division. But she’d seen her opening.

  Much-revered District Attorney Jack Adamson had announced he wasn’t seeking reelection, and his top deputies had slung so much mud at one another in their efforts to get the spot, that the voters had elected an outsider instead. The straight shooter from the U.S. Attorney’s Office was popular with women, minorities, and Catholics.

  After a decade in office, she’d shown herself to be tough as nails and committed to juvenile diversion programs. The scuttlebutt among the bar was that she was essentially unbeatable, and the liberal, avowed atheist law school professor who was challenging her in the upcoming election didn’t stand a chance. Sasha couldn’t think of a single good reason why she was handling Nick’s
preliminary arraignment personally.

  The district attorney shrugged out of her cardigan and hung it over the back of her chair. Her pale arms were covered with constellations of freckles.

  “Are we all ready?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, your honor,” Sasha and Diana said in unison. Larry and Nick nodded. They all stood.

  The two ADAs sat motionless until their boss glared at them. Then they got to their feet with palpable reluctance. They were sulking, probably put out at having the district attorney swoop in and take over at the last minute. If they’d worked at private firms, Sasha thought, they’d be used to that sort of limelight hogging by this point in their careers.

  “Then let’s get down to business. This is the preliminary arraignment in the matter of The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania v. Nicholas Costopolous,” Judge Foster said in a crisp voice.

  Diana reached for a file, and the assistant district attorney to her left pushed it toward her. She opened the folder and ran her finger down the top sheet of paper, stopping about a third of the way down the page. She held her finger there and said, “Your honor, the Commonwealth is charging the defendant with first-degree murder in the heinous killing of Clarissa Costopolous and with first-degree murder of an unborn child in the death of her fetus.”

  Sasha’s stomach sank and bile rose in her throat as a wave of understanding washed over her. The fetus. The District Attorney was going to cement her stranglehold over the election next month by making Nick’s case big news. The law professor challenger for her office had gone on record as calling the criminal statute governing crimes against unborn children a back-door attempt by fundamentalists to disenfranchise women and undermine Roe v. Wade. His argument, though legally sound, had not been well received. And now, Nick was going to be cannon fodder.

  Sasha looked at Larry. His eyes were closed, and he slowly shook his head. He looked how she felt. They were screwed.

  Judge Foster’s face clouded as she, too, realized what had just happened. The District Attorney had just hijacked the preliminary arraignment for her own purposes.