by Jeanne Winer
It was the most information he’d ever divulged.
“Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For trusting me enough to tell me that.”
“But I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anyone but my brothers. I just thought you should know.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” She stood up to leave. “See you in court tomorrow. One o’clock.” And then she’d left. Cool as a cucumber.
Lee heard the courtroom door open behind her. It was probably Carla and Peggy or maybe an ambitious reporter wanting a front row seat. Before she could turn around, she heard Phil Hartman calling her name.
“That would be me,” she called back and waited until he came and sat down beside her. “Hi, Phil. Aren’t you in trial down the hall on that sex assault case?”
“Turns out there’s a God after all. I’ve been saved.”
“Mistrial?”
“You guessed it. We were going down big time and then, all of a sudden, this one cop who should have known better, mentions my client’s silence after giving him his Miranda warnings. Instant mistrial.” He shook his head in wonder. “I thought miracles like that only happened to other people, never to me. I told my client it was a sign from God that he should plead out before the next trial. He’s actually going to think about it.” He grinned at her. “So now I have the afternoon free and instead of working on another sex assault or drinking myself into a happy stupor, I thought I’d drop by and watch the master do her thing. The Matthews prelim starts at one, right?”
“Don’t waste your time. I’m not going to get anywhere today.”
“Hey, I had the case before you. I know. It’s a piece of shit. I thought maybe you’d like a little moral support.”
“Well, that would be nice. I guess.” She made a face. “If you still had it, what would you take?”
Phil thought for a moment. He was cute in a blonde willowy kind of way, the victim in a holdup, not the gunman. Lee had always preferred dark, dangerous-looking men. The first time she saw Paul, he’d reminded her of Jean Paul Belmondo in Breathless.
“I’d take twenty-five in a heartbeat,” he said.
“Would they offer that?”
“Not unless he agreed to sing at his co-defendants’ funerals.”
“He won’t,” she said, “and I wouldn’t let him even if he was tempted.”
“You’re right. He’s already too pretty. So then maybe thirty.”
“Would they actually offer that?” She picked up one of her pens and rolled it between her fingers.
“Not to me.”
She tilted her head a little. Heard a slight crack.
“What about to me?”
“No, not to you either, sweet pea. As cute as you are.”
“Christ, you never give up. I’m twenty years older than you. Stop flirting.” She then busied herself with making her neat piles of folders even neater.
“You aren’t.” Meaning she wasn’t really twenty years older than him. Actually, it was probably closer to twenty-five.
She stopped arranging the table and looked directly at him.
“All right, how old are you?”
“Forty-five,” he said quickly.
“Bullshit.”
“Okay, so I’m thirty-seven and you’re fifty. Big deal. What’s thirteen years?”
“Would you have tried to suppress his confession?”
“Of course, but it’s a loser. He was obviously emancipated.”
Lee disagreed. She’d been thinking about this for weeks.
“That’s a determination made by a judge, not the cops. His parents threw him out. The only way he survived was by living with a group of skinheads who’d rescued him from the streets. That’s not emancipated. That’s not someone mature enough to decide whether to waive his constitutional right not to incriminate himself.”
“I like it,” he said, nodding. “It’s good. It’s a loser, but it’s good.”
“Gee, thanks for the moral support.”
“Anytime.”
The door opened again and this time it was Carla and Peggy. Peggy stopped in the doorway, looking hesitant, but Carla marched right in.
“Hey, Phil.”
“Hey, Carla,” he answered. “How’re they hanging?”
She reached up and cupped her heavy breasts.
“Ripe for the picking.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Lee muttered.
Suddenly, Phil stood up, patted his pockets, and then pulled out a still-vibrating cell phone.
“I’d better go. I’ve got thirty innocent rapists all demanding justice. Good luck, Lee.”
“Thanks, sweet pea.”
Phil blushed a little and then hurried out.
“He’s got a crush on you,” Carla told her. “I think he’s adorable. Not my type, but maybe yours.”
“Hardly, plus he’s way too young and he’s married.” She waved to Peggy. “Hey, I’m glad you could come.”
“Uh-uh,” Carla was saying. “His wife left about a year ago. Said she felt like he was married to the job.”
Lee didn’t bother to ask how she knew this. Everyone confided in Carla.
“That was the public defender who represented Jeremy,” Peggy said, sitting down on the bench behind the defendant’s table. She looked around, and then placed her green leather handbag on the floor between her feet. “I’m so glad I hired you and Carla.”
“I’m not sure it’ll make any difference,” Lee admitted. “So far, the DA has all the cards. Your nephew, as you know, hasn’t been very helpful. We need more information. Something to explain why he would have done this. Have you been able to speak with your sister? Carla managed to give her my card, but she hasn’t contacted us.”
“Not yet. Whenever I call, Leonard picks up the phone and then stands beside her while we talk. I can hear his breathing. What a creep. I don’t want to make things any worse for her.”
“Do you think he hits her?” Carla asked, sliding in beside her.
“Well, I’d like to think Mary wouldn’t put up with physical abuse. But I could be wrong.”
Lee moved her yellow pad a few inches closer.
“My female clients say that sometimes the emotional abuse is worse, that they can heal from a broken bone, but that the words cause lasting damage.” She adjusted her silver bolo tie, a gift from her mother when she’d passed the bar. “I could tell she wanted to speak with me, but not in front of Leonard. Keep trying.”
“Oh, I will.”
The room was filling up now. Lee recognized a number of reporters from the Daily Camera, the Longmont Times Call, and the Rocky Mountain News. The judge, at Lee’s urging, had refused to allow any television cameras but would permit one or two at the arraignment. Finally, she saw two uniformed guards escorting Jeremy into the courtroom. They’d entered from a private door behind the judge’s bench. Jeremy was handcuffed and shackled, shuffling as fast as he could to keep up with the guards. When they got to the defendant’s table, she asked them to at least remove the shackles. Sheepishly, one of the guards leaned down and did so.
Peggy leaned forward and patted Jeremy on the arm.
“Hi, sweetie.”
“Did you get my note?” he asked.
“I did, but I’m going to keep on coming.”
He looked down at the floor and said, “No offense, but I don’t want you to be here.”
“I know you don’t, but Lee and Carla have told me about the case. I’ve even seen the pictures.”
“What pictures?”
“The DA will be introducing a number of autopsy photos as well as pictures that were taken at the scene,” Lee explained. “Do you want to see them?”
“No, I was there.”
Unfortunately, the hearing went exactly as Lee predicted. At four-thirty, the judge returned from a ten-minute recess and announced his ruling.
“I’m specifically finding probable cause to bind the case over on the charge of first-degree mu
rder,” he said. “Ms. Isaacs has argued that there’s no evidence the murder was planned beforehand, which is true, but I believe the crime itself—kicking the victim to death over a period of time—is more than enough to support a finding that the murder was committed intentionally and after deliberation. So I reject her argument that there’s probable cause to support only a charge of second-degree murder. Ms. Isaacs has also pointed out that there’s ample evidence of intoxication, which could negate the culpable mental state of intentionally. At this stage, however, there is no way to know how drunk anyone was when the beating began. In any event, that is not an issue for this hearing. And so, as I’ve said, I’m binding the case over on the original charge of first-degree murder.”
He glanced at the calendar on his desk.
“I’m setting this for arraignment on the first Monday after the New Year. That should be enough time for the parties to finish their investigations and to communicate about any possible plea bargains. Ms. Isaacs, will that work with your calendar?”
Lee flipped through her appointment book to January and said, “Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge then turned to Dan Andrews, the lead prosecutor.
“Mr. Andrews, will it work for you as well?”
“Absolutely, Judge. It gives us plenty of time to talk. If we can settle this, we’ll let you know before the next hearing.”
“I’d appreciate that.” The judge removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was the same age as Lee but looked considerably older, or at least she hoped he did. He was peering at her client now. “Mr. Matthews, I’m remanding you back to the juvenile detention facility. Your next appearance date is set for January 2nd at nine in the morning. This is a very serious case. If convicted, you’d be facing life in prison. Listen to your lawyer. Trust her.” He replaced his glasses. “Mr. Andrews, I’m assuming the co-defendants’ cases were severed from the beginning because of the statement made by the juvenile?”
“Yes, Judge,” Dan said. “We think the Crawford case prohibits the introduction of the statement against the co-defendants. We made the judgment call to sever the cases from the beginning.”
Plus, Lee thought, it’ll make it easier for Jeremy to testify against the others, except he’s not going to.
“Thank you, Mr. Andrews. That’s what I thought.” The judge banged his gavel and stood up. “Court is adjourned.”
Everyone immediately began leaving. Dan was striding confidently toward the defendant’s table. Jeremy turned to Lee, his handcuffs clinking as the deputies helped him to his feet.
“Does that mean I won’t be tried with the others?” he asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Lee said. “I’ll come see you after I’ve spoken with the district attorney.” She stared at her client’s body, which seemed to be getting thinner and thinner. “You have to start eating, Jeremy. If you end up going to prison, you’ll need to be big. Eat as much as you can.” Finally, she looked up at Dan, who was standing next to her. “Hi, Dan.”
“Long time no see,” Dan said.
The guards had finished shackling Jeremy and were escorting him toward the door. Peggy and Carla had already left to have drinks at the Boulderado. Lee had declined to join them. She had a class to teach at the dojo, she told them. Which was true, although the class didn’t start until seven. She just didn’t feel sociable, didn’t feel like commiserating with the two women about how bad the case looked. She didn’t feel like talking to Dan either, but there he was. Dan only took the biggest cases. The last time they’d crossed swords was over Lenny Hall and Lee had come out the loser.
“Hey, sorry about the Remmington case,” she said. It was the only case Dan hadn’t won in the past year.
“I didn’t really lose it. The jury just found him guilty of a lesser charge. He’s still in prison where he belongs.”
“Well, that’s a good way to look at it.”
He smiled evenly and said, “So, you want to talk about the case?”
“It can’t hurt. The usual spot?” Over the years, when she and Dan needed to discuss a serious case, neither wanted to meet on the other’s turf. A few years ago, they’d settled on Spruce Confections on Pearl Street as a neutral meeting place.
“Sure. How about tomorrow at ten?”
Lee pulled out her appointment book and peeked at her week. She was free all day tomorrow.
“I’m busy. How about Friday at ten instead?”
“That’s okay too. My whole week is pretty light. You’ve got a tough case, Lee. I don’t envy you.” He was actually a nice guy, very ethical, and almost always kind. Lee had to work hard during a trial not to like him.
“Oh please, I’ve had much tougher cases than this one. See you on Friday.”
Dissemble or find another profession.
On Friday, Lee arrived at Spruce Confections at a quarter to ten and staked out a table in the corner. It was cold and blustery outside. A major snowstorm was being forecast for late that afternoon and continuing all day Saturday. Lee had her fingers crossed. Last night, while talking to her father, she’d weatherproofed her old cross-country ski boots, hoping there’d be enough snow to go skiing on Sunday.
This was the time of year when she and Paul always got their winter gear ready, waterproofing their boots, scraping last year’s crud off the bottom of their skis, adding new wax, and checking the condition of their gloves, hats, and ski masks. They both loved spending at least one day a week cross-country skiing, often returning in the dark wearing their headlamps. They’d ski for miles and miles, mostly not talking except when they stopped to eat. It was one of their favorite ways of being together and not being together, the key, as far as they were concerned, to a happy, healthy marriage.
They actually met each other skiing. It was dumb luck. They were each skiing alone and had stopped at the Guinn Mountain warming hut to have lunch in front of the wood stove inside. It was Christmas, a holiday that meant little to Lee except that after weeks of frantic buying and endless songs piped into every place you went, including bathrooms, the world finally quieted down again. Neither of them spotted any other skiers the entire day. The hut, built by the Colorado Mountain Club at the top of a long steep trail in the Roosevelt National Forest, was dark and full of mouse droppings, but the fire made it seem warm and intimate.
“Lee?” someone whispered.
She looked up and saw her old adversary standing less than a foot away from her. The coffee shop was packed. Dan was wearing a black wool coat and a maroon scarf. His gray hair was mussed from the wind.
“You were lost in a daydream,” he said. “Seemed like a good one. I didn’t want to interrupt. I almost left.”
She hated when someone crept up on her unannounced. It unnerved her, made her feel naked and defenseless.
“I wasn’t lost in a daydream,” she snapped. “I was just thinking.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Oh stop being so fucking sensitive. You’re trying to disarm me.” She pointed to the chair across from her. “Sit down.”
He sat down, sighing.
“It’s so unfair. I was being sensitive.”
“But you were also trying to disarm me.”
He took off his coat and laid it carefully over his lap.
“Okay, that too.” He smiled at her. “People like us, do we ever just say or do anything without an ulterior motive?”
“I don’t think so. We’ve been doing this for too many years. It’s automatic. We can’t help it.”
He leaned forward as if to confide in her.
“One day about ten years ago,” he began, “I was talking with this defense lawyer. We had a tough case together and I was working him hard to take my latest offer. Out of the blue, he said his wife had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. I knew he was telling me this because he trusted me, but he was also working me. I told him how sorry I was, that I’d agree to a continuance if he needed one. ‘Hell,’ I said, ‘I’ll even make the deal a little swe
eter.’ And I’m thinking to myself, who’s working whom?” He shrugged. “You’re right, it’s automatic. But still, it’s kind of creepy.”
“You’re doing it again. But it’s okay.”
“Thanks. I think I’ve missed you. Maybe.” He had a Spencer Tracy face, not handsome but hugely appealing. Like the late actor, he came off as strong, confident, emotional, and fatherly. Juries loved him. But they also loved Lee’s grace, wit, and fierce intelligence. When both shticks were equally good, they cancelled each other out. Then, all that mattered were the facts and the burden of proof, the way it was meant to be. “Who’s buying the cappuccinos?”
She pushed her chair back and stood up.
“I am. You bought the last time.”
“It’s been a while. Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
At the counter, she ordered two cappuccinos—half decaf, two percent milk, dry with lots of foam. They both happened to like it the same way.
When she returned, they took a moment to enjoy their drinks.
“Best coffee in town,” Dan said, cradling the cup in his hands.
“I agree. So, do you want to talk?”
“Sure, although I think you know what I’ll say.”
“I do. You’re going to make me what you believe is a pretty good offer if my client will agree to testify against his co-defendants. Right now, you won’t even negotiate with them—your boss thinks they all deserve life—but eventually, when the press coverage dies down, you might want to offer them second-degree murder with a stip to forty-eight years. The victim, after all, is another skinhead. If so, you want my client’s agreement to testify as leverage to make them take it.” She paused. “How’d I do?”
“Good. I’ll offer your client thirty years if he agrees to testify.”
“You’d offer him twenty-five, but he still won’t take it. He gets a snitch jacket whether he testifies or not.”
“Lee, I’m not sure you get how bad your case is.”
“The night is young. It might get better.” She took another swallow and waited.
He studied her face, which gave nothing away.