by Adam Mitzner
“Scrat,” Jacob tells me his name.
He’s sitting in my lap, and I’m holding him tight. So tight that he tells me that I’m squeezing him too much. Although I don’t want to, I relax my grip ever so slightly.
I know in this moment that I will not be able to live without Jacob. He is my oxygen, and without him I will suffocate.
Stuart does a lovely job with dinner. The turkey is browned perfectly and juicy. The side dishes look like they should be in a magazine.
He deliberately did not carve the drumstick so that Jacob can eat it like a caveman. My son looks to me for approval. I nod, telling him that because this year Thanksgiving is just the three of us, he can do it that way, but when others are present, he needs to use a fork and a knife.
He tears off a chunk with his teeth, his grin visible behind the hunk of meat. “I’m glad we don’t have anyone else here,” he says, still chewing. “I really like it when it’s just our family.”
“That’s an excellent thing to be thankful for, then, Jacob,” Stuart says. “Don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh,” Jacob says, taking another bite of his drumstick.
After dinner, Stuart says that he’ll do cleanup. He invites me to watch television with Jacob. Christmas shows are in heavy rotation on the networks. I have a choice between Frosty the Snowman and How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I opt for Dr. Seuss.
“Have you ever seen this?” I ask Jacob.
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re going to like it. It was my favorite when I was a little girl.”
I sing him a little of what I remember from the main song. About the Grinch being so mean that I wouldn’t touch him with a forty-five-foot pole, although I’m guessing as to the length that’s actually in the song. Jacob giggles and asks me to sing more. I don’t recall the stanzas, so I sing the chorus again. He stares at me as if he’s never heard anything as beautiful in his entire life.
He watches the program with his mouth agape. The wonder of bearing witness to my son experiencing something new never gets old for me. When the program ends, he predictably asks how long until it’s Christmas.
“About a month,” I tell him.
He looks sad. I think he expected it to be tomorrow.
“What is Santa going to bring me for Christmas?” he asks, apparently not taking the moral of the Grinch to heart.
“I don’t know. That’s between you and Santa. Make a list, and if you’ve been a good boy this year, I’m sure that some of what’s on your list will be under the tree.”
“I think I’ve been a good boy,” he says. His big brown eyes beg me to confirm his self-assessment.
“The best,” I say.
I allow Jacob to stay up later than usual. After the Grinch, we switch the channel to Frosty Returns, but then I remember that times have changed since I was a child. I can simply order the original Frosty from Amazon for his viewing pleasure. When the snowman vows to return next Christmas, I’m tempted to queue up Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, but it’s late. Jacob doesn’t have to see every Christmas classic tonight.
After Jacob is asleep, I join Stuart in our bedroom. As soon as I’m in bed, he reaches over and takes my hand. When I accept the gesture, he follows it up by kissing me deeply, leaving no doubt where he’d like this to go.
I consider pulling away for a moment. We haven’t been intimate in weeks—not since the night before Lauren’s murder, in fact. But when Stuart’s mouth moves down my torso, I don’t resist. He stops exactly where I want him to and stays there until I’m over the edge. I climax a second time during the main event. As soon as my orgasm has subsided, Stuart speeds up his tempo, moving ever faster until he lets out a deep groan, at which time his entire body becomes rigid. He stays that way for a few seconds, and then he relaxes.
“I love you,” he whispers into my ear.
As I’m catching my own breath, I realize that I’ve had a nice day. The first in . . . I don’t know how long. Certainly since my arrest. But even since before then, when the highs I enjoyed in Lauren’s company were always juxtaposed with the guilt that brought me low when I returned to Stuart.
After feeling nothing but guilt around Stuart for months over my affair with Lauren, I realize all it took was her murder to relieve me of that cloak.
41.
ELLA BRODEN
We are the third case on the court calendar. The appearance is designated as the initial pretrial conference, but it’s more akin to a meet and greet so the judge can say hello to the lawyers. The only thing we’ll actually accomplish is the selection of the trial date.
That’s good for me. I need more evidence, and that means I need to give Gabriel time to find it. Of almost equal importance is that I need a few months, at least, to regain my footing. I’ve been a prosecutor again for a week now, and I’m finding the adjustment back to working full time more difficult than I anticipated.
Normally there wouldn’t be any opposition from defense counsel about setting a distant trial date. For most defendants, especially those out on bail, delay is the next best thing to acquittal—both represent time spent out of prison. But my guess is that LeMarcus Burrows is too smart to fall into that trap. He knows I don’t have much evidence, which means that, in this rare instance, time is not on his client’s side.
I get to court early, an old habit of mine. I like to see the judge in action before my case is called. I scan the courtroom, but I’ve arrived before Dana Goodwin and her team.
Judge Gold is bald as a cue ball, with the exception of a few hairs that sprout up on his forehead, of all places, giving him a slight resemblance to Charlie Brown. I’ve entered in the middle of another preliminary conference. From the arguments being made, grand larceny seems to be the charge, but neither lawyer has said exactly what was stolen. Judge Gold sets their trial for July 11, eight months away.
I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s giving out July trial dates. That should be enough time for me to get my ducks in a row.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dana Goodwin enter the courtroom. LeMarcus Burrows stands beside her, almost like a protector. They take a position against the wall. For the briefest moment, I catch Dana’s eye. We both instinctively look away.
The bailiff calls out the name of the next case, and a different defendant enters the courtroom from the side door, behind which is the holding pen for those unfortunates who are held over pending trial. The man who enters is wearing the orange prison jumpsuit and is shackled at the ankles. He looks like a criminal—long, knotted hair and tattoos on his neck.
The prosecutor on this case is someone I don’t recognize. He’s a younger guy, no doubt out of narcotics, which is where a lot of the newbies wind up. He announces that the defendant is ready to enter a guilty plea to a Class C felony, and then reads: “Defendant did knowingly and unlawfully possess a controlled substance—to wit, crack cocaine—with intent to sell it. He is thereby guilty of a criminal possession of a controlled substance in the fifth degree, a Class C felony.”
The defendant must have priors. Conviction on a Class B for a recidivist normally gets you twenty-five years. By pleading down to a Class C felony, Mr. Neck Tattoo is likely going to cut his sentence in half.
Judge Gold goes through the ritual of accepting a guilty plea, beginning by asking Mr. Neck Tattoo whether he wants to change his previously entered plea.
“Yeah, to guilty,” he says.
Then the judge reads from a script, getting a “yes” answer to each question.
“Are you pleading guilty because you are guilty? Do you understand that by pleading guilty you are forfeiting a right to a fair trial by a jury of your peers? That you have the right to be provided with counsel if you cannot afford counsel? That you have the right not to testify in your own defense? That by pleading guilty, you also give up the right to appeal?”
In response to: “Has anyone offered you any inducement or promise to enter this plea?” Mr. Neck Tattoo finally says, �
�No.”
“Good,” Judge Gold says. “I accept your guilty plea and sentence you to twelve years.”
I watch Mr. Neck Tattoo shuffle out, his shackled legs clicking together as he walks. I can’t even begin to imagine what goes through your mind when you’re told that nothing awaits you in life but misery and loneliness for the next twelve years. Which causes me to look over to Dana again. It’s as if we shared the thought, because she’s looking right back at me.
That’s when the clerk bellows out, “People of the State of New York against Dana L. Goodwin. Counsel, please state your appearances on the record.”
The players make their way onto the stage, which in this case amounts to walking through the swinging gate that separates the spectators from the well of the court. As the prosecutor, I always go first.
“Ella Broden for the People of the State of New York, by special designation,” I say.
“Ms. Broden, a pleasure to see you back in my courtroom,” Judge Gold says.
“LeMarcus Burrows of the law firm LeMarcus Burrows and Associates, New York City, for the defendant.”
“And Mr. Burrows, my warmest welcome to you too, sir. Now, before we commence with today’s conference, I must get some things out of the way. This is obviously an unusual matter. A first for me, and I dare say, perhaps any justice on this court. I knew the victim of this crime. Lauren Wright appeared before me numerous times, as did the lawyers who worked for her in the Special Victims Bureau of the District Attorney’s Office. And I also know the defendant, Dana Goodwin, in that same professional capacity. I can say that outside of professional functions, I do not recall ever socializing with either Ms. Wright or Ms. Goodwin, although, Ms. Goodwin, you should feel free to correct me on that point. Even though my relationship with all the participants has always been purely professional, if anyone thinks that association is grounds to believe I cannot impartially preside over this case, or that an appearance of impartiality would not benefit the cause of justice, please make that position known now.”
I knew all this before Judge Gold’s speech, but it’s still music to my years. I want a judge who knew Lauren so he’ll be as upset as I am about her murder. And the fact that he knew Dana professionally only means that he’s that much more disappointed that she could commit such a heinous act.
“The People see no conflict or even the appearance of a conflict,” I say.
I wonder if Burrows will agree. My guess is that, if he had his druthers, he would have selected another judge. Maybe a woman. Certainly someone younger. But there’s always a risk in telling the judge you don’t think he’s up to the job, so I suspect Burrows will ultimately fall in line too.
“The defense likewise believes that Your Honor can impartially preside over this case,” he says.
“Very well, then,” Judge Gold says. “It’s always nice at the beginning of a case when everyone thinks the judge is fair. It’s only when I start ruling that one side or the other starts complaining. Of course, I know I’ve done my job well when each side complains equally.”
Some titters come from the gallery. Burrows and I laugh too, even though the Judge’s remark was not very funny. Dana manages only a grim smile.
“As you might have heard,” Judge Gold continues, “the case right before you just pled out. I had that trial on my calendar for next month, and blocked out two weeks for it. I’m going to slide you into that slot. If need be, I can open my calendar for the week after that too, although that runs some risk of taking us into the Christmas and New Year’s period, but I think that’ll give us more than enough time to get through everything. I realize it’s fast, but would starting on December fourteenth work for everyone?”
I have never in my career gone from indictment to prosecution on a felony charge, never mind a murder case, in less than four months. Judge Gold is proposing that I do it in less than four weeks.
Burrows knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth. As quickly as he can, he says, “The defense will be ready on the fourteenth.”
I’m not so accommodating. “As the court is aware, I have only recently been assigned to this matter, and am acting as a special prosecutor. I do appreciate the court’s desire to move this case along as quickly as possible—”
I know from my first words that I’ve made a mistake. Judge Gold is looking down at me with a scowl.
“Let me stop you there, Ms. Broden. The answer I’m looking for is ‘yes.’ I make it a hard and fast rule not to allow the prosecution to delay a trial. You people on the left side of caption can take as long as you want to prepare your case prior to obtaining an indictment. As a result, I presume that when the District Attorney obtains one, the office is ready to go to trial on that day, and only the defense needs time to prepare. Are you telling me that was not the case with regard to Ms. Goodwin?”
I have no choice but to take the tongue-lashing. When he’s finished, I say, “My apologies, Your Honor. The People are ready to proceed on the court’s schedule.”
“Excellent,” Judge Gold says. “Anything else on either of your agendas today?”
“Nothing for the prosecution,” I say.
“Nor for the defense,” Burrows adds quickly.
“Very well, then,” Judge Gold says. “I will see you all on the fourteenth for trial.”
42.
DANA GOODWIN
The United States Constitution prohibits a defendant from being tried in absentia, but my physical presence is almost a technicality. I’m ignored by the participants and powerless to interject. I might as well be a wax figure. But that’s going to be my life every time I set foot in a courtroom from here on out. Victims’ families sometimes made the same complaint to me, and I always told them not to worry because I was their voice. That makes LeMarcus Burrows my champion, but it doesn’t mean that I like what I just heard in there.
I know better than to have a discussion with my lawyer within anyone’s line of sight or hearing, especially with so many members of the press about. So I hold my tongue until we’re in the back seat of a taxi leaving the courthouse. We shouldn’t talk here either, because if the taxi driver were later subpoenaed, he could testify about what we discussed. Attorney-client privilege is broken by the presence of a third party, even one who is simply driving us from court to LeMarcus’s office. Still, good luck to Ella Broden or Gabriel ever finding Mr. Ram Furpah to get him on the witness stand.
“What happened with Ella Broden? You told me that you were going to move to disqualify her,” I say, not attempting to hide my displeasure.
“The early trial date wouldn’t have held if we switched prosecutors,” LeMarcus says calmly. “I know you’d prefer that the prosecutor not have a personal interest in the matter, but let me tell you something: every prosecutor will have a personal interest in this matter. Maybe he or she won’t be as close to Lauren as Ella was, but they’re going to want to string you up just as much, believe me on that. Now, I would have been more than happy to knock Ella off the case if there was no price to pay for it, but pushing back the trial date is the absolute worst thing that could happen to you, and that’s the only thing we’d get by disqualifying her. So it was a no-brainer to let that go.”
“December is too soon.”
LeMarcus looks up at the driver, who hasn’t moved his head. I’m sure he doesn’t have the slightest interest in our confidential communications.
“For the prosecution, it’s too soon,” LeMarcus says. “They’re not ready. For us, it’s a godsend.”
“It’s not all about trial strategy, LeMarcus. Trial on the fourteenth could mean I’m convicted and rotting in jail by Christmas. I want to spend Christmas with my son.”
He unclicks his seat belt and slides closer to me. Whatever he’s about to say, he wants to make sure it is not overheard by the driver. Leaning in, he whispers, “You have an important decision to make, and you have to make it right now. If you want to go for an acquittal, this is the only way. We force the prosecution to put
on a case it hasn’t yet completed investigating. But if you’re conceding the verdict is going to go against you, then you’re absolutely right that the calculation is completely the opposite. Right now, you’re free. You won’t be after trial—if you’re conceding conviction.”
He stops and waits a beat. Then, after another, he says, “I’m not ready to concede. Are you?”
That evening, I explain to Stuart what occurred in court, including the news that my fate will be known before New Year’s. Stuart nods but doesn’t otherwise respond to the moved-up timetable for a good thirty seconds.
“That’s good,” he finally says. “We can be in . . . wherever by the first of the year.”
This is Stuart’s way of saying that I’m going to be acquitted, and that after I’m found not guilty, we’re going to escape New York and leave all of our troubles behind. It’s a topic he’s raised before, telling me that he’d like to relocate to a place where his salary alone will be enough to support us, which will allow me to spend as much time as I want with Jacob. Preferably somewhere warmer, he says, like a southern college town. He references Charlottesville, Virginia, and Columbia, South Carolina, as places with good public schools and interesting people. He imagines us in an old Victorian house, one with a drawing room and a fireplace crackling in the library, a small garden out back that I can tend while Jacob plays in the tree house beside it.
It’s a seductive fantasy at times. So much so that there are even days when I imagine myself puttering around in that garden, a baseball cap of some college team I’ve never heard of shielding me from the sun, with Jacob on the swing set beside me.