Trial by Blood

by William Bernhardt

“I didn’t do anything to her.”

  His partner snapped a cuff over Ossie’s right wrist. Then he pulled the other arm back and cuffed both hands together.

  “Lying murdering black trash.” He looked at his partner. “Call it in. Suspect apprehended while fleeing arrest.”

  “You got it.” His partner pulled his radio off his shoulder. “We have the suspect. Ossie Cole—”

  “Stop.”

  He looked at his partner. “Problem?”

  “Did you read the warrant?”

  “Well...no.”

  “Don’t call him by that name.”

  “Then—what?”

  The cop grabbed Ossie by the back of the neck and hauled him to his feet. “Call him John Doe. We don’t know who the hell this little thug is.”

  Chapter 11

  Dan raced into the lobby outside the holding cells. He knew Ossie had been arrested and there’d been some kind of altercation. He wanted to get in the middle of it before something worse happened.

  He’d been waiting in his car for almost an hour while they completed processing. Jazlyn told him the boy had attempted to escape arrest. Why would Ossie do that? Had the kid not understood his instructions? Where did he think he could go? He just hoped the boy remembered to keep his mouth shut.

  What had Mr. K gotten him into this time? He barely knew this kid. He had a hard time believing the boy was a murderer. But if he’d learned anything during his years of practice, it was that people, even good people, could be pushed to actions they would not normally consider. And this kid had been through the worst series of circumstances imaginable.

  How would Mr. K feel if the civil case mutated into a murder case? Or did K predict this all along? Did that explain why he asked Dan to get involved in a family dispute over money?

  He approached the front desk. During a prior case, Jimmy had introduced him to Frank, the elderly man who decided who got in and how quickly it happened.

  Frank gave him a sad, almost patronizing expression. “You rep the killer kid? Of course you do.”

  “Innocent until proven guilty.”

  Frank shook his head. “I saw the cops that brought him in. They looked frazzled. And angry.”

  “Well, I’m sorry that—”

  “Did you know the kid bit one of them?”

  “He—what?”

  “Like a feral child, that’s what Ferguson said.”

  It seemed there was much more he needed to learn about his client. “Look, can you get me in to see him?”

  Frank pushed a few keys on his computer. “Good timing. He’s been booked, but they haven’t taken him downstairs yet. I’ll have them bring him to the holding room.”

  “How about I just go to his cell?”

  Frank laughed softly. “No way. This kid bites.”

  * * *

  Dan sat on the other side of the Plexiglas panel, waiting. It was always like this. They should install those little mini-kiosks you saw in restaurants that let you play games while you waited eternally for the guards to bring in your client. He suspected they let him sit around longer than was necessary. He couldn’t prove it, but he had a suspicion not all jailhouse personnel thought the world of defense lawyers.

  A few moments later, they brought Ossie in. He wore the standard-issue orange coveralls and flip-flops. His face was scratched across the forehead, and one of his eyes was swollen. He appeared to be favoring his right leg.

  He picked up the phone receiver and started right in. “Did they hurt you, Ossie?”

  “Of course.”

  “Was it necessary?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hit them?”

  Ossie hesitated. “No.”

  “Did you bite them?”

  He tossed his head to one side. “Maybe.”

  “It’s a yes-no question.”

  “He wouldn’t let me go.”

  “Because he was there to arrest you. What happened to your forehead?”

  “I scraped it when I jumped off the edge of the roof.”

  He pressed his fingers against his temples. “Is that when you hurt your ankle?”

  “Yup.”

  “And the shiner?”

  “Cop punched me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he doesn’t like me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m black.”

  “And...?”

  “And escaping. But escaping doesn’t explain why he kept calling me ‘boy.’ Or ‘murdering black trash.’ And it doesn’t explain why he punched me. After I was cuffed.”

  Dan fell back into the eggshell chair. Sadly, he wasn’t surprised. Police racism was reported so often these days it was almost a cliché, in a pathetic way. He couldn’t expect St. Pete to be immune from a disease infecting the entire nation.

  He opened his backpack and pulled out a legal pad. There would be no kitesurfing or cooking today.

  This case just got about a thousand times more complicated.

  Chapter 12

  Dan leaned close to the Plexiglas divider. “Tell me what happened, Ossie. And don’t leave anything out. Even if you think it’s of no importance. I’ll decide what’s important.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Cops showed up at my foster home to arrest me. I got scared and ran. Who wouldn’t?”

  “That’s all it was? You panicked?”

  “For years I was trapped in that cabin with Joe. I finally get free and someone wants to lock me up again? Seriously?”

  “You freaked.”

  “Exactly. If that means what I think it means.”

  He made a note. This kid didn’t go to school with everyone else. He apparently had access to lots of books, but he didn’t watch television. Some slang might be foreign to him. “Did you kill your uncle?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Look at me this time when you answer the question. Did you kill your uncle?” He had years of experience evaluating witnesses, and had trained in the science of micro-expressions and how to read them. His accuracy rate for reading out liars was excellent.

  “No. I did not kill him. Why would I?”

  “Look at me when you say that.”

  “I did not kill my uncle. I barely know him.”

  Slight twitch behind the right eye. Instead of averting his eyes, he forced eye contact to an unnatural degree.

  “He’s your uncle. Assuming you are Ossie Coleman.”

  “Oh great. Now you don’t believe I am who I am.”

  “The police doubt it. They booked you as John Doe.”

  “They’re trying to screw me out of my inheritance. This whole thing is about screwing me out of my inheritance.”

  A distinct possibility. But the fact that the kid said it didn’t make it true. “Why would someone else kill Harrison?”

  “Uh, because there’s about a billion dollars at stake?”

  “Plenty for everyone.” When Ossie finally broke his deadlock eye contact, his eyes went up and to the right, which neurologists would say was a sign that he was creating. Inventing.

  Ossie seemed earnest, and most of his twitches could be attributed to the stress of being tackled by cops and thrown in jail. No one would be at their best after an experience like that.

  Or he could be a lying murderer....

  “There was no logical reason for you to run. You have an attorney. You knew I’d represent you.”

  “Let’s see how logical you are when the Gestapo knocks on your door.”

  “That’s no reason—”

  “Maybe not to your lily-white skin, but believe me, when someone my shade sees the cops coming, you know your life is in danger.”

  “You’re making a gross—”

  “I talk to people, back at the house. I read. I know what’s going on in this world today. How many black kids have been killed by cops?”

  He fell silent. He didn’t have a total at the tip of his tongue—but he knew it was significant. “Sometimes people put th
emselves in dangerous situations,”

  “Yeah, and sometimes it’s an innocent man in his backyard with a cellphone.”

  He wouldn’t bother arguing. Some cops did behave differently when they encountered people of color. “Are you saying that you’ve been targeted because of your race? Because if I may remind you, everyone in your family is of the same race.”

  “I don’t know what motivates these cops. I know they’re bigots, some of them. And I know the only thing they hate more than a black kid is a rich black kid.”

  Couldn’t deny that one, either. “Look, I know the detective in charge, Jake Kakazu, who by the way is mixed-race Asian, educated at Oxford. He didn’t come to your house because you’re black. He came because he found evidence linking you to the murder. Including, apparently, your name written on a bathroom mirror.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I didn’t put it there.”

  “No one thinks you did. They think the victim did—to identify his murderer.”

  “How was Harrison killed?”

  “They don’t know. The body was completely dissolved in the bathtub.”

  “And they think I did that?”

  It did seem unlikely. “Why would anyone want to frame you?”

  “So the money goes to someone else.”

  “Any particular suspects?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think the old man trusts me. And what about Benny, the one married to that nightmare woman? Couldn’t stand to look at me. What will this murder rap do to our lawsuit?”

  “Nothing good. I’ll file a motion, try to delay things, but that won’t last forever. Judge Fernandez appears to be in a hurry. I can try to exclude evidence relating to the murder charge, but it’s already all over town. The judge will know, the jury will know, and no one will let a suspected murderer inherit. We need to get this charge dismissed. Or we need to go to trial as quickly as possible.”

  “I need that money for college.”

  “Look, Ossie, beating the murder rap is about a trillion times more important than that money. If you’re convicted, you could spend the rest of your life in jail. You could even get the death penalty. Let’s save your ass first and worry about tuition later.”

  “I did not kill my uncle. Or anyone else.”

  “Were you there? At the theater?”

  “No. Never been there in my life.”

  “Do you know what happened to Harrison?”

  “No idea. I’m innocent.” His voice rose “I did not kill this man. Someone is trying to set me up!”

  Something about the tone of Ossie’s voice made the short hairs on the back of his neck rise. He peered deeply into Ossie’s eyes.

  He was definitely picking up on something, but it was more than the usual micro-expressions, twitches and tics and eye movements. Of course he saw anger and fear, but that was to be expected—innocent or guilty.

  He was picking up on...a sense of injustice.

  Exactly what he had dedicated his life to preventing.

  You could hide and dodge and play the best poker face in the world, but there was still one distinctive look he had learned to perceive with certainty—the look of the innocent man. This kid had the look of someone who has been falsely accused.

  The same look his father had. Every time he went to the prison to visit. All those years. Till his dad died, still locked up for a crime he did not commit.

  That look was seared into his soul. That look he would never forget.

  “I will do everything I can for you, Ossie. But if I find out you lied to me, I’ll be gone faster than a heartbeat. Understand?”

  “Got it.”

  He hoped so. And he hoped he hadn’t just made a horrible mistake.

  Chapter 13

  Dan saw Sergeant Enriquez posted outside the door to Harrison Coleman’s office in the rear of the theater. A sure sign that clue collection was in progress.

  He made an imaginary tip of the hat. “Morning, Paul.”

  Enriquez returned the nod. “Dan.”

  “Jake okayed me to go inside.”

  Enriquez held up a hand. “Not to me he didn't.”

  Could nothing be easy anymore? “Have I ever lied to you?”

  Enriquez tilted his head. “I wouldn’t exactly use the word ‘lied.’”

  “Then what?”

  The cop pondered a moment. “Stacked the facts to your advantage?”

  “That’s my job description.”

  Enriquez almost smiled. “Which is why I can’t let you in without—”

  Kakazu appeared in the doorway. “It’s fine, Paul.” He winked. “I’ll keep a close eye on the shyster.”

  Dan stepped forward. “I’m offended by your use of the word ‘shyster,’ Jake.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. It’s racist. Against lawyers. I prefer, ‘pettifogger.’”

  He bowed slightly. “As you wish.”

  The office buzzed with CSI personnel. He spotted videographers, fingerprint analysts, DNA scrapers. Two people on their hands and knees scrutinizing the carpet. Probably the hair and fiber team. All wore blue booties and matching blue gloves.

  Kakazu handed him a pair of booties. He slid them over his black dress shoes. “Are these to protect the crime scene or my snazzy footwear?”

  “The crime scene. I could care less about your overpriced shoes. You shouldn’t even be in here.”

  “I appreciate you making an exception.”

  “I’d rather let you in now than hear you whine at trial that you were excluded from the crime scene so the police could plant evidence.”

  “I would never do that.” Pause. “Unless it was true.”

  Kakazu escorted him to the center of the room. “I can assure you nothing untoward has occurred. This is completely open and shut. The victim scratched your boy’s name in the foggy mirror.”

  “Or someone did.”

  “No one else was seen coming in or out.”

  “But for that matter, no one saw my client coming in or out.”

  “So far. We’re still interviewing potential witnesses.”

  “The name on the mirror is Ossie. You arrested ‘John Doe.’”

  “Well, Coleman had to call the kid something.”

  “Or someone did. The lawsuit will determine whether he inherits in time. This murder was unnecessary.”

  “Greed makes the calmest of minds impatient.”

  “Are you quoting Seneca or some Oxford thing?”

  “No. I just made that up.”

  Time to change the subject. “Isn’t this theater doing a Shakespeare series?”

  “Indeed. The goal is to perform all thirty-eight plays in six years. But I suppose the Bard of Avon isn’t really your cup of—”

  “Don’t you mean thirty-seven?”

  “Uh...what?”

  “Surely you’re aware that current scholarship suggests Shakespeare did not write Henry VIII. At least not most of it.”

  “I...uh...”

  “Maybe they didn’t cover that at Oxford. What was the play the night of the murder?”

  “The Scottish play.” He smiled happily. “It’s considered bad luck amongst theater folk to say—”

  “Macbeth. Yes, I know. But I’m not superstitious. Do you think the murder occurred toward the start of the play or the end?”

  “Don’t know. Why?”

  “At the end, Birnam Wood moves to the castle and a huge battle ensues. Lots of noisy sword fighting, I imagine.”

  “I did see swords backstage...”

  “Producing a tremendous racket. I noticed an orchestra pit out front. Did the play have music?”

  “Yes.”

  “Overture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s at least two perfect times to commit a murder. No one would hear anything happening back in this office.” He crouched beside the chess table not far from the desk. “Looks like Harrison had a game in progress.”

  “Yes. The questi
on is, who was he playing. My forensic team only found the victim’s prints on the pieces. Both white and black.”

  It looked like an endgame position. White had a rook and a pawn, in addition to the king. Black had only a rook. “He was playing with himself.”

  “Uh, excuse me?”

  “It’s a thing eggheads do. Particularly the ones without many friends. They play both sides of the table. This is going to end up either a white win or a draw, depending upon who plays next and how they play it.”

  “You can’t assume just because there are no fingerprints—”

  “You think his opponent played wearing gloves? This is the kind of perfectly balanced game you only get from two equal rank grandmasters—or a guy playing himself.”

  Kakazu looked annoyed. “I doubt it matters much to the murder. The clues—”

  “Show me the mirror.”

  Kakazu waved him toward the bathroom. “We took lots of pictures while the message was fresh. All the climate controls in the world can’t keep a smear on a mirror. We used a powder to set it as we found it, but even that won’t last forever.”

  He could see the letters were fading, but they were still legible. They appeared to have been hastily scrawled—as if by someone in a hurry. Or someone dying. But they definitely spelled OSSIE.

  “Look, Dan, I know your job is to find—or create—some kind of defense, but even without all the other evidence, this mirror is proof positive that your guy—”

  “Was framed.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t interrupt—”

  “I wasn’t sure before, but I am now. All the other evidence is inconclusive. But this mirror makes it clear that the murder was a deliberate attempt to frame Ossie. To cheat him out of his inheritance.”

  “You think he was likely to inherit? Come on. Your boy’s story was thin from the start. An heir to millions suddenly appears out of nowhere after fourteen years?”

  “It happens. People escape. Resurface. Amanda Berry. Gina DeJesus. They were teenagers when Ariel Castro abducted them. They were kept in captivity for more than a decade before Berry escaped.”

  “That’s a one-in-a-million.”

  “So is this one.”

  “You can’t prove that.”

  “Yet.” But he was convinced it was true. “Do you have a cause of death yet?”