02 - The Guilty Plea

by Robert Rotenberg

  Norville had called him Ted again. As if they were best friends. She seemed more concerned about Samantha than her dead husband.

  “Doing great on bail.” DiPaulo was piling it on and the judge was lapping it up.

  “Wonderful.” Norville pushed aside the papers on her desk. “It has to be a big number when she pleads. The public doesn’t understand the difference between murder and manslaughter. But they know how to count.”

  She said “when,” Raglan thought.

  “A woman like this will be a model prisoner.” Norville didn’t give either of them an opening to interrupt. “Be running the prison library in no time. Early parole will be a cinch, and she’ll do most of her time in minimum security. I don’t want any whining about this.”

  DiPaulo looked chastened. Another part of his act for Her Honor. He was thrilled with a plea to manslaughter, although Raglan suspected that Samantha Wyler wouldn’t be so pleased.

  “We’re only arguing about the name above the door—manslaughter or murder,” Norville said. She looked at her watch. “The important word is ‘guilty.’”

  No one spoke.

  Know when the tide is coming in and when it’s going out, DiPaulo had taught Raglan. This was as good as it was going to get. And most important, in her heart she didn’t believe it was murder. “If it’s a plea to manslaughter,” she said, “I’m going to yell and scream for eighteen years.”

  Norville slapped her desk with glee. “Be my guest. Okay, this is what’s going to happen.” She slipped her expensive glasses back on and clicked her teeth. “The sentence has to be in double figures. The optics are lousy if it’s anything less. Jennifer, you’ll ask for eighteen. Ted, you’ll ask for twelve. I’ll give her fifteen.”

  With a big smile on her face, she picked up the phone. “Masoud, hello. Justice Norville here. How’s my calendar this week? Sure, I’ll wait.”

  She looked up. “The trial coordinator’s a miracle worker. Ted, your client—is she here?”

  “Outside the courtroom. My partner’s trying to shield her from the press.”

  “Goes with the territory,” Norville said. “Excuse me.” Taking out a pencil, she opened her diary and made “hmm” and “uh-huh” noises for a few seconds. “Tomorrow?” she said into the phone. “Excellent. I’m doing that sentencing at ten. Perfect. Put the Samantha Wyler matter in for noon, mark it for plea and sentencing. Which court? Room 204. Wonderful. Thanks, as always.”

  She smiled and hung up. “Okay, Counsel. Tomorrow, noon, 204, we’ll wrap this all up before lunch.” She made more notes to herself. “Manslaughter. Fifteen years. That’s the magic number.”

  Raglan stood to shake the judge’s hand. But really she was dying to slap Norville, see those expensive glasses fly across the room and wipe that shit-eating grin off her face.

  39

  “Fifteen years for manslaughter,” Ted DiPaulo said to Nancy Parish, swinging into her office, not waiting for her to look up from her desk where she was sketching something on a white piece of paper. Parish had been an artist as a kid and was forever drawing cartoons.

  “Deal of a lifetime.” Parish popped her head up. “Grab it.”

  “Norville barricaded us in her office and wrung a manslaughter plea out of the Crown.”

  “Fifteen was about what I thought. Sam will be at one of those hobby-farm jails in no time.” Parish lifted up the drawing for him to see. A male defense lawyer was standing in court next to his female client, facing the judge. The client was leaning over to whisper in her lawyer’s ear. “Remind me again. Do I say ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’?”

  DiPaulo laughed. “Like all good humor, there’s an element of truth to it.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I hope Sam takes the deal.”

  “She doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “I know. I need your help.”

  “Sure. But don’t keep me too late tonight. I have my first date in months.”

  Parish’s marriage had busted up a few years before. Since then she liked to say she’d been dating Mr. On and Mr. Off, mostly Mr. Off.

  “Sam’ll be here in a few minutes. I need signed, written instructions that she’ll accept the plea. And I need you as a witness.”

  “Good idea,” Parish said.

  Back in his office, DiPaulo cleaned off his desk, lowered the curtains, and started typing the instructions for the guilty plea. The bell rang in the front hall and he heard the sound of conversation. He’d told Parish to make Wyler wait a few minutes until he called for them. This was a change from his usual pattern of going to meet her himself. Keep her off balance. She had to understand he was no longer her defender, but her apologist.

  When he was ready, DiPaulo looked down the hall. “Come on in, both of you.”

  Wyler entered first, followed closely by Parish.

  “I’ve asked Nancy to join us.”

  He motioned Sam to the seat by the window, away from the door, and for the first time she took it. She looked defeated. Parish sat in the other chair. He closed the door, effectively sealing Samantha in.

  “I’ve prepared this for you to sign.” He went behind his desk and passed her a three-page document, neatly stapled in the top-left-hand corner. “Read it carefully.” He gave a second copy to Parish and picked up the third for himself.

  Wyler looked at DiPaulo, then at Parish. Not at the papers in her hands.

  “The heading, as you can see, is ‘Instructions for My Lawyer Re: Guilty Plea—Manslaughter,’” DiPaulo said, moving right in. “That’s the good news. After much arm-twisting by Judge Norville, the Crown will agree to a plea of manslaughter. But the price is steep. Fifteen years. It could have been worse. They wanted eighteen.”

  Wyler showed no emotion at this news. She looked at the papers.

  DiPaulo read the document out loud. It stated that Wyler had been duly informed of all her legal options, that she was making the decision to plead guilty of her own free will. “We’ll put on a show trial. The Crown will pump up the moral outrage and ask for eighteen years. I’ll be equally appalled and demand twelve. This way the judge gets to play Solomon and cut the baby in half.”

  As soon as the last words were out DiPaulo realized he’d gotten carried away.

  “Simon’s not a baby anymore,” she said. “I’ll never see him again.”

  He finished reading the document. A curdling knot was forming in his stomach. No one spoke. A part of him felt like ripping up the paper.

  His first criminal law professor, a quirky Australian named Parker Graham, had warned the class, “Get good at doing guilty pleas. That’s how about ninety-five percent of your cases will end up.” It was true. But every time he did a plea, even in a hopeless case, there was that pit in his stomach. The feeling that maybe he could have won somehow. And the certainty that he’d be wide-awake at three in the morning, running different “what-if” scenarios through his mind.

  “Do I sign this now?” Wyler asked.

  “Not yet.” The knot in his stomach should have loosened, but it tightened. DiPaulo distributed a one-page document to Wyler and Parish. Its heading was “Agreed Statement of Facts.”

  “These facts form the basis of your guilty plea,” he told her. “I’ve negotiated hard with the Crown and watered them down as much as I could. This will be read out in court and the judge will only accept your plea if you acknowledge that the facts are true.”

  Wyler was staring at this new sheet.

  DiPaulo waited until she finished reading it. “By signing this, you acknowledge that you’re instructing me to enter a guilty plea on your behalf.”

  Wyler nodded.

  “I want to do this for real,” DiPaulo said. “Let’s all get up. Nancy, come behind the desk and play the judge. Sam, I’ll stand beside you, like I will in court.”

  When they were in position, Parish read:

  “Agreed Statement of Facts

  R. v. Samantha Wyler

  Charge: Manslaughter

  “In the
early hours of Monday, August 17, the defendant, Samantha Wyler, age thirty-five, attended at the home of the victim, her husband, Mr. Terrance Wyler, age forty.

  “The home is located at 221 Hillside Drive, in the city of Toronto. The defendant and the victim were in the midst of divorce proceedings. Their family court trial was to commence later the same day.

  “The defendant and the victim had been married five years. Their only child, Simon, was four years old. In the weeks before August 17 the defendant left the victim numerous voice messages and sent him many angry e-mails about the divorce and the victim’s new girlfriend.

  “The parties met in the victim’s kitchen, and an argument ensued. The defendant became upset and, without planning or conscious forethought, grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed the victim numerous times. One stab hit the carotid artery in his neck, and he died within minutes.

  “Before she left the victim’s house, the defendant went upstairs to Simon’s bedroom. She told her son she wouldn’t see him for a long time.”

  Parish put the single sheet of paper on DiPaulo’s desk. The room was silent. DiPaulo could feel Wyler by his side.

  Standing beside your client in court was a simple, elegant gesture. Whether it was shoplifters or mass murderers, at the moment of truth every accused had their advocate by their side.

  He didn’t dare to look over. Wyler wasn’t saying a word.

  Parish folded her arms. “I’ll step out so you two can talk.” She looked awkward, like a teenager at a friend’s house when the parents are having a fight.

  “I’ll sign,” Wyler said before she could leave. “Let’s do this fast.”

  Two minutes later DiPaulo walked Wyler to the front door. She didn’t say another word. He went back to his office, called Jennifer Raglan, and told her they had a deal. Professional courtesy. He offered to call Detective Greene, but she said she’d do it herself.

  He headed to Parish’s office, the signed instructions in hand, and slid into one of her client chairs. The cartoon was still on her desk.

  “That was lots of fun,” she said.

  “Guilt’s a double-edged sword. It eats away at people. But hurts like hell when you pull it out.”

  “Wasn’t there a second bloodstain on the back door?” Parish asked. “Couldn’t someone else have been there?”

  “There’s no way to date the blood.” He tried to stifle a yawn. “Every case has a few missing parts. Nothing’s ever perfect for the Crown or the defense.”

  “You convinced?” Parish put the cartoon into a rectangular wooden box she kept on the credenza behind her desk.

  “Not my job to be convinced.” DiPaulo tossed the paper onto her desk. “Bottom line is, we have signed instructions.” He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. “I always remember my client John Voelker. Charged with first-degree murder for shooting a guy in a park. Gang thing. After two years of battling, the Crown took a plea to manslaughter for eighteen years. To this day, I’m not sure if he did it or if he was covering for his best friend. Still keeps me up at night.”

  “You never let a case go, do you?”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “Who could Samantha be covering for?” Parish asked.

  “I didn’t say she was. The reality is we never really know.” He scooped up Wyler’s signed instructions and rustled the document in his hand. “That’s why we have this.”

  40

  Ari Greene’s cell phone rang and he answered it on the first ring.

  “We have a deal.” It was Jennifer Raglan.

  “Manslaughter?”

  “Right. Fifteen years. Tomorrow in 204 at noon.”

  “Good work,” he said.

  They were both silent. The implication of this news was clear. The two of them had worked closely together for months and, although it was unspoken, they’d gotten used to seeing each other every day. Even if nothing had happened between them. That would end tomorrow.

  “Looks like I was wrong,” he said at last.

  “About what, Ari?”

  “I didn’t think Samantha would plead.”

  “You never know what’s going to happen with people,” Raglan said. “I guess it’s all over.”

  “Like you said in August, you’re not doing murder trials anymore.”

  Neither of them spoke for a very long moment.

  “Ari …”

  “I have to call the Wylers,” Greene said, almost at the same time. “News like this travels fast.”

  Last night he’d told the family that the case might settle at today’s pretrial. Knowing how much families hated plea bargains, he warned them that the sentence might be much lower than what they’d hoped for.

  “Ari,” Raglan said again. “Make the call.”

  The father, Mr. Wyler, picked up the phone as soon as it rang.

  “It’s Detective Greene.”

  “Yes.” Wyler’s voice was cold. He’d been arrested twice himself, and like many people who’d been through the system, the man didn’t like cops.

  “I just spoke to the Crown Attorney. Samantha Wyler’s going to plead guilty tomorrow. But not to first- or even second-degree murder. To manslaughter. She’ll get fifteen years.”

  “I see.”

  “I know you’ll all be disappointed, but fifteen years is much longer than a usual manslaughter sentence. I’ve seen them as low as nine or ten in a situation like this.”

  Wyler didn’t say anything.

  “There was always the chance she’d be acquitted. It’s a compromise. Ensures a conviction. Means your family doesn’t have to go through a trial.”

  “I’ll tell them,” Wyler said after another long pause. He hung up without even saying goodbye.

  Greene called Kennicott to tell him the news and thanked him for his hard work. Then he phoned Phil Cutter so the defense lawyer could inform his client, April Goodling.

  “Thanks for the call,” Cutter said. “Class thing to do.”

  “You’re welcome,” Greene said.

  “Detective, things got heated there a few months ago.” Cutter paused, waiting for Greene to fill in the gap.

  Greene held his tongue.

  “Maybe one day we can go for a coffee,” Cutter said. “There’s more than meets the eye about this file, but trust me, none of it has anything to do with the murder.”

  “Maybe,” Greene said.

  “Oh, I forgot. You’re the only cop in homicide who doesn’t drink coffee.” Cutter’s cackling laugh shrieked over the phone line. Greene’s non–coffee-drinking ways were a running joke in the bureau, but he was in no mood to laugh it up with Phil Cutter.

  “Ms. Goodling has my number,” Greene said. “Tell her I look forward to seeing her name on my call display.” He hung up.

  The drive up to the Wylers’ house was slow, the traffic bad even in the middle of the day. Keeping close to the victim’s family was one of the things Greene liked most about the job. Finding a place among the living where he could make a difference. But explaining to them a compromised plea bargain like this was no one’s idea of a good time.

  This was the toughest moment for the families. Once the proceedings were finished there’d be no more phone calls, no more meetings, no more press to bother you, no more frustrations with how slowly the justice system worked, no more exhausting days sitting in court. Just the endless empty road ahead. And the promise of the detectives and Crown Attorneys that they would keep in touch—sincere, but never fully realized.

  “Good afternoon, Detective,” Jason Wyler said when he greeted Greene at the door. He leaned hard on one of his canes. The second one was tucked under his arm to free up his hand. “My parents are in the living room.”

  Jason led him through the marble hall, moving with surprising agility. Mr. and Mrs. Wyler sat in the same place, closest to the door, where they’d been when Greene and Kennicott visited the day after the murder. No one was on the other two couches this time. Even though they were both tall, the couple
looked small in the enormous room.

  Jason stood at the edge of the sofa. With his strong upper body, standing looked to be a declaration of independence.

  Mrs. Wyler, who was seated closest to him, rose to greet Greene. “Finally this nightmare will be over.” She didn’t look as upset as he’d expected.

  “Fifteen years is a long sentence for manslaughter,” Greene said. “I have to warn you, she could be out on parole in five years.”

  Mr. Wyler rose slowly, his brow furrowed in anger. “What a joke. Five years for murder.”

  Victims’ families always heard the lowest number, Greene thought.

  Mrs. Wyler shook her head. “I called Terrance’s lawyer, Anita Starr. She says that with this conviction, Samantha will never get near Simon. We can’t bring my son back, but we can protect our grandson.”

  Greene looked around the empty room. “Where’s Nathan?”

  “At work, but he’ll be in court tomorrow,” the father said. “Was tied up with an employee issue. He said you’d understand.”

  Greene remembered the red-haired cashier. Everyone has his own way of celebrating, he thought. Was that a knowing smirk on Mr. Wyler’s face?

  “Jason has decided he won’t come to court. The stress is too much for him.” Mrs. Wyler reached out to touch her son.

  Jason stiffened. “It’s not the stress, Mother,” he said. “The place will be a zoo with all the press. I’m going to the cemetery. Say goodbye to my brother by myself.”

  “That makes sense,” Greene said. “A day like this is never easy. And it’s good to go back to the grave of someone you loved without a crowd around.”

  Jason looked upset. “It’s fifteen years, guaranteed?”

  “The Crown will ask for eighteen. The defense twelve. Judge Norville told both sides it’ll be fifteen. The whole thing will take about an hour.”

  “She’s pleading guilty for sure?” Jason asked.

  “According to her lawyer.” Greene turned to Mrs. Wyler. “How’s your grandson doing?”