by Brad Parks
My parents were in the second row. I was still shocked by how old they looked. My mother smiled nervously at me. My father lowered his head, then brought it back up. I brought my hand up to wave at them, almost despite myself.
But I didn’t have time to consider their presence for very long. The deputy who had brought me in gently grabbed my elbow.
“Ma’am,” he said. “Judge is about to come in. It’s best if you’re facing forward.”
That finally unrooted me. I shuffled into place next to Mr. Honeywell.
I looked toward the judge’s desk. It was still empty, but it towered over all other furniture, leaving little doubt about who was the most important person in the room. All my focus—every bit of karma I might have ever accrued in this life—was now aimed at that desk, and the man who would soon be sitting in it.
Commonwealth v. Barrick, a one-day trial that would determine the trajectory of the remainder of my life, was about to be under way.
FIFTY-FIVE
Amy Kaye had been studying Aaron Dansby in her peripheral vision and didn’t like what she was seeing.
His hands shook as he shuffled papers and files around on the table in front of him. He maniacally sipped from his water glass, a sure sign of a dry mouth. He kept tapping his foot. And Aaron Dansby wasn’t a foot tapper.
He also kept craning his neck toward the back of the courtroom, sneaking glances at the gallery. He seemed okay—if barely—when his only audience was Melanie Barrick’s friends and family.
Then a man and a woman entered the room. The man was a reporter from The News Leader whom Amy knew well. She didn’t know the woman, but she also appeared to be a journalist of some sort, perhaps from The Daily Progress out of Charlottesville. Or the Times-Dispatch in Richmond. Or, who knew, maybe The Washington Post?
Whatever the case, it was apparently too much for Dansby. As soon as the reporters were settled in their seats, he turned toward Amy.
“You know what?” he said. “I think I’m going to let you handle this.”
“What are you talking about?” Amy said.
“The trial. You’re more ready for it than I am, anyway. And I just think . . . Well, it’ll be better if you do it. Is that okay?”
“Uh, yeah, fine,” Amy said.
More than fine, actually. Her only real worry about this trial—the only way the commonwealth could have snatched defeat from the jaws of victory—was if Dansby screwed up something. Melanie Barrick’s last best chance for an acquittal had just recused himself from the case.
“Great,” Dansby said. “I’m going to go back and tell the press that I’ll be available for comment afterward, but I’m letting my deputy handle the proceeding. It’s good for them to see me able to delegate important matters. It shows leadership.”
Amy was bemused but didn’t show it. Leadership? she wanted to say. You’re chickening out three minutes before a trial begins and you’re calling that leadership?
But she just said, “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”
He rose and went toward the back of the courtroom and briefly spoke to the reporters. Then he took a seat by himself two rows in front of them. Amy quietly added this to the list of stories she’d tell in private someday when Aaron Dansby was in the US Senate.
Then her focus shifted back to the front of the room. A deputy was entering. Judge Henry Robbins was behind him.
“All rise!” the deputy said, then called the proceeding to order, finishing by asking God to save the commonwealth and this honorable courtroom.
“Good morning, everyone,” Robbins said. “Have a seat, please. Do we have any last-minute issues we need to take care of before we get going?”
“No, Your Honor,” Amy said.
Honeywell just shook his head.
The judge nodded toward Amy. “Okay, then. Is the commonwealth ready to open?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Amy said, buttoning her jacket as she stood up.
She had not planned on giving this opening. But she was prepared all the same. She had written it, word for word, for Dansby to deliver; and she had gone over it with him enough times that she could do it without notes.
“Four hundred eighty-seven grams, Your Honor,” she said. “It’s an incredible amount of cocaine. In a relatively small county like ours, it’s practically an epidemic, all by itself. Four hundred eighty-seven grams is . . . well, it’s enough to destroy families. It’s enough to cause crime to rise. It’s enough to stoke the fires of domestic violence. It’s enough to seep into every crevice of our sleepy little valley, to flow from the hardcore addicts all the way down to the high school student who just might be curious to know what cocaine tastes like. And I think we both know how disastrous that first taste can be in a young person’s life.”
She bowed her head, taking a moment of silence for that unknown teenager whose life was now hurtling out of control. Then she looked back up.
“Yet four hundred eighty-seven grams is exactly how much cocaine the Augusta County Sheriff’s Office found hidden in the defendant’s house, tucked in the air-conditioning duct just above her child’s crib. Now, we don’t know exactly how much cocaine the defendant might have had before the Sheriff’s Office came and raided her house. Did she start with six hundred grams? Eight hundred? A whole kilo? There’s no telling. But we do know what she had been doing with it, and what she planned to do with the rest of that four hundred eighty-seven grams. She was going to sell it, Your Honor. According to the statute, we don’t even need to prove that to you. But the evidence is still very clear on this point. We found all the paraphernalia needed for distribution—scales and razors and plastic bags. We found a list of phone numbers that correspond to known drug users.
“But that’s not all, Your Honor,” Amy continued. “You’re surely going to hear the defendant testify that this cocaine we found in her house wasn’t hers. Even though it was above where her child slept, in a place where no mother would let any stranger go, she’s going to ask you to believe the fiction that this cocaine belonged to someone else, that she had no idea how it just happened to arrive in that place. But when she testifies to that, the thing I’d like you to remember is that we also found her personal cell phone—complete with pictures of herself, her husband, and her child—alongside the drug paraphernalia.”
Amy paused to let the judge absorb this critical piece of information.
“So that’s dominion and control, right there. The defense will surely try to confuse things, Your Honor. As you are perhaps aware, Mr. Honeywell has subpoenaed a convicted drug dealer to testify about who-knows-what. You’re also going to hear from a neighbor, maybe some other folks, who will likely tell you they have no personal knowledge of Ms. Barrick selling drugs. But none of that is going to matter. What matters is four hundred eighty-seven grams of cocaine, found in the defendant’s house. Drug paraphernalia, found in the defendant’s house. The defendant’s cell phone, found with the drug paraphernalia. It’s as clear-cut a case of possession with intent to distribute as you’ll ever see. Thank you.”
She sat down, pleased with her delivery.
“Thank you, Ms. Kaye,” the judge said, then turned back to the defense table. “Mr. Honeywell, would you like to open now?”
Honeywell barely bothered standing. “I’ll open after the commonwealth has put on its case.”
“Which is your right. Very well. Ms. Kaye, would you like to call your first witness?”
Amy nodded at the bailiff, who was already on his way to the back of the courtroom to fetch Peter Kempe. Amy had kept an eye on the detective—and all his colleagues, really—throughout the past week. He had done nothing to further raise her suspicion.
Kempe entered the courtroom wearing a nice-but-not-too-nice suit and a sloppily knotted tie. He nodded as he passed by the judge, took an oath, then settled into the witness stand.
With the sheet of q
uestions she had written out for Dansby as a guide, Amy put the witness through his paces, starting with Kempe’s credentials and moving from there. Kempe testified about how he was approached by one of his regular informants, who then made a small buy for the Sheriff’s Office. That led to the warrant, which led to the raid, which led to the evidence.
Amy then guided the detective through how the cell phone they discovered did not have a password, enabling the deputies to quickly ascertain it belonged to the defendant; how the state lab certified that the powder they found was, in fact, cocaine, a Schedule II drug; how the phone numbers they found matched known offenders; and so on.
Kempe was brick-wall solid, as Amy knew he would be. This was the government at its best: two seasoned professionals staying on script, presenting their evidence in a nice rhythm, no surprises.
Then Amy announced she was done with Kempe, and Judge Robbins invited Honeywell to cross-examine the witness.
The script was now at its end. Honeywell was standing up, getting ready to remove some bricks from the wall they had built.
This, Amy knew from long experience, was where the trial really began.
* * *
• • •
Honeywell started slowly, taking his little shots where he could. Did Kempe ever see Ms. Barrick handle the drugs? No. Did he see Ms. Barrick make a sale? No. Did he ever investigate whether someone might have stolen Ms. Barrick’s cell phone and placed it with the drug paraphernalia? No.
It was all harmless to the prosecution, and Kempe was a seasoned master of the one-word answer.
Then Honeywell launched on a new angle of attack.
“Now, the names and numbers you found in the box,” he said. “You said you had seen those before?”
“Yes,” Kempe said.
“Where?”
“As I said, they were known to us as drug users,” Kempe said.
“Yes, but where specifically had you seen them before?” Honeywell asked.
Amy recognized a line of questioning that would lead straight to Mookie Myers. This was the door that had to stay closed. She leapt to her feet.
“Objection,” she said. “It’s outside the scope of his original testimony.”
“Your Honor, Detective Kempe has said twice now they’re known drug users,” Honeywell said. “We have a right to explore how it is he knows that.”
“I agree. Objection overruled,” Robbins said. “Continue, counselor.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. So, again, Detective Kempe, was there a recent case where you saw those same names and phone numbers?”
“Yes.”
“And what was that case?”
Kempe bent toward the microphone and said the words Amy had been hoping to prevent.
“The Mookie Myers case.”
“Thank you, Detective. And in case the court isn’t familiar with that case, can you please enlighten it: Who is Mookie Myers?”
“He was a drug dealer who was convicted of possession with intent to distribute and is now incarcerated.”
“And what drug was Mr. Myers convicted of possessing and distributing?”
“Cocaine,” Kempe said.
“As you know, and as I’m sure the court knows, drug dealers often will brand their product, using a stamp to give it a kind of identity. What was the name of the brand Mr. Myers sold?”
“It was called Dragon King.”
“Thank you. And can you tell me: Do you know where Mr. Myers’s cocaine is at the moment?”
Amy felt a sinking in her stomach even as she bolted to her feet. How did Honeywell know about that? But, of course, she could already guess. Sheriff Powers had questioned a number of deputies about the missing drugs. Nothing like that stays quiet very long. Honeywell had lived here his whole life and knew just about everyone. Eventually, the talk was bound to reach his ears.
So this was the defense’s plan: Embarrass the hell out of the Augusta County Sheriff’s Office, confuse the issue, and hope it would lead to an acquittal. Amy had to begin damage control immediately.
“Objection,” she said. “These are two separate cases. There is no relevance here whatsoever. It doesn’t matter whether the drugs found in Ms. Barrick’s house once belonged to Mookie Myers or to the Easter Bunny. All that matters is that she possessed them.”
“On the contrary, Your Honor, this is very relevant,” Honeywell said. “This goes to the heart of this case and to the heart of our defense, which is to question how it was possible a woman with no criminal record and no history of drug use could have possibly come into possession of this amount of cocaine. As you know, we have broad latitude to explore alternate theories of this crime, and we will be bringing witnesses who will do just that. That includes Mr. Myers, who has been subpoenaed and is in this courthouse, waiting to testify.”
“Sorry, Ms. Kaye,” Robbins said. “He’s right. I have to allow this. Objection overruled. Go on, Mr. Honeywell.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. As I was saying, Mr. Kempe, do you know where the cocaine from the Mookie Myers case is at this moment?”
Kempe shot a glance over at the prosecution table, but there was nothing more Amy could do for him. He was trapped. To say the truth was to jeopardize this case and bring humiliation to his department. To say otherwise was to perjure himself.
Finally, he said, “No.”
“Did you destroy it?” Honeywell asked.
“No.”
“Is it in the evidence locker?”
“No.”
“So where is it?” Honeywell pressed.
“I don’t know,” Kempe admitted.
“Is it in the possession of the Augusta County Sheriff’s Office?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Honeywell said, really twisting the knife. “Is it the normal policy of the Augusta County Sheriff’s Office to let cocaine go unaccounted for?”
“No.”
“Did you perform an investigation when you discovered it missing?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you find?”
Kempe screwed up his face as he searched for the shortest answer possible. He finally came up with: “We were unable to reach a conclusion.”
“So that cocaine could be anywhere, right?”
“I guess so.”
“It could even have been planted in my client’s house, yes?”
“Objection,” Amy said. “The word ‘planted’ is very charged in a drug case, and there’s no foundation for it here.”
“I’ll restate the question,” Honeywell said. “Is it possible that the cocaine from the Myers case is the same cocaine that was found in Ms. Barrick’s house?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, come on now. You’ve said you have no idea where the Myers cocaine is and that it could be anywhere. Could it, in fact, have found its way into Ms. Barrick’s house?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Kempe said.
“Could, in fact, someone in law enforcement, maybe even one of the officers who helped you execute the warrant on my client, have been the person who took it out of the evidence lockup?”
“Objection. Calls for speculation,” Amy said.
“All I’m asking is if it’s a possibility,” Honeywell said. “That’s not speculation. That’s just connecting the dots.”
“Objection overruled,” Robbins said. “Answer the question.”
“I don’t know,” Kempe said.
“But again, if you don’t know where that cocaine is or who took it, you have to admit that’s a possibility.”
Kempe, looking utterly miserable, said, “Yes.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Honeywell said. “Nothing further.”
“Ms. Kaye,” the judge said. “Would you like to redirect?”
Desper
ately.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Amy said, standing and facing Kempe, who was now sitting in a slumped position.
“Detective Kempe, is there any evidence whatsoever that the cocaine missing from the lockup is the same cocaine you found in Melanie Barrick’s house?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, his back getting straighter.
“In fact, new cocaine flows into this country all the time, from all over the world. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“So if cocaine goes missing from one place in Augusta County and shows up in another place in Augusta County, that’s little more than a coincidence, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And no matter where this cocaine originated, you still found it in the defendant’s house, correct?”
“Yes.”
Which was what counted, as far as the statute was concerned.
So, yes, a door that Amy had wanted to stay closed had been flung open. And it would undoubtedly result in some unfortunate headlines for the Augusta County Sheriff’s Office, thanks to two astute scribes in the back of the room.
But as she rested the commonwealth’s case, she remained convinced it would only matter so much. The law, the evidence, and—most important—the judge were still on their side.
FIFTY-SIX
Had I never seen that picture of Mr. Honeywell—the young, dashing Mr. Honeywell—I might not have recognized it.
But there was something about watching him flay that sheriff’s detective that was almost like seeing the years peel off him. He had an energy to him, a vitality that managed to come through even though he was still as superficially wrinkled and frumpled as ever.
By the time he was done, my eyes were probably bulging just as much as his. He little resembled the attorney who had seemed like such a disappointment all those weeks ago, when I first saw him on the video screen from the Middle River Regional Jail. This was no easily cowed ham-and-egger. This was a fearsome advocate.
And it turned out those surprises were just starting. Mr. Honeywell made a brief opening, saying he intended to sow significant doubt in Judge Robbins’s mind about my guilt.