A Devil's Bargain

by Jonathan Watkins

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You can’t ever call me a princess again if you faint like some old Southern belle with the vapors.”

  Theresa’s color returned and she steadied herself.

  “Let go of me, already. We ain’t here to get married.”

  Issabella took her arm away and saw that Judge Sherman was glaring at the two of them in obvious displeasure.

  “Counselor, are you and your client ready to proceed? Or should I pass this matter until the end of the docket and give you both a chance to regain the proper composure for my courtroom?”

  Issabella wanted to stalk around the podium, up to the judge’s bench, and slap the sour, dyspeptic expression right off the man’s face. Only a moment ago he had told a woman that she was facing the possibility of languishing in prison for the rest of her life. Had he been driven so numb to human empathy by his decades of ushering people through the criminal justice process that he could no longer feel at least some little sympathy?

  It was that impersonal and detached inhumanity that she detested about her profession, more than anything else. She had learned to live with the fact that the system was imperfect. There would be errors and there would be miscarriages of justice. It was part of the job to catch them, to try and prevent them. But the state of unfeeling that stared back at her from the eyes of so many judges, prosecutors and, yes, even other defense lawyers, made her want to lash out and shout at them for having allowed themselves to become so unforgivably callous.

  She didn’t lash out or shout. She stood a little straighter, folded her hands in front of her and said, “My apologies to the Court and to Your Honor. We are ready to proceed now.”

  Judge Sherman’s look of displeasure remained intact, but he nodded his head and said, “Alright, then. I assume you’re here to address bond, Miss Bright.”

  “I am.”

  To her right, Bob Portidge stirred with life and slowly got to his feet. Judge Sherman grew a faint, thin smile and waited as Bob positioned himself behind the State’s podium.

  “I guess you have to do a little work this morning after all, Bob.”

  “It looks that way, Judge.”

  Judge Sherman’s smile melted away and he made a point of staring at his computer screen as he said, “Alright, Miss Bright. Tell me about your client.”

  Issabella wrapped her fingers around both edges of the podium and leaned forward to speak clearly into the little microphone attached atop it. This was the only argument she would be making, the only issue she was allowed to address. This would determine if her friend remained caged like a beast throughout the long months of a murder trial.

  “Your Honor, Theresa Winkle is a Wayne County business owner,” Issabella began. “She has owned and operated Winkle’s Tavern for ten years. She is its sole employee and without her presence that business will fail and Theresa’s livelihood and her home will be in jeopardy. She has never been charged with any criminal offense other than the present case. Theresa has strong ties to the community, not only through her patrons, but through her close friends. I count myself among them, Your Honor. As a sworn officer of this court, I can attest to the fact that my friend, Theresa Winkle, is an upstanding citizen of our state. Not only am I certain that Theresa will appear for every future court date and will comply with every single order of the court, I would stake my personal reputation on it, Your Honor.”

  Issabella drew in a long breath and forged ahead, forcing herself to ignore the fact that Judge Sherman had not once looked away from his computer screen since inviting her to make her bond argument.

  “Finally, Judge, I would ask the Court to instruct the prosecution to offer some indication of their basis for probable cause for the arrest of Theresa Winkle. I was present during the search of the crime scene and, professionally, I have strong misgivings about the existence of sufficient grounds. For all of these reasons, Defense asks that Theresa Winkle be released on personal recognizance bond.”

  She stood there in the silence that followed and tried to think if she had remembered everything she wanted to say. It was all a blur in her mind. She had been so intent on saying the rights things on behalf of Theresa, so focused on saying them smoothly and with confidence, that now she couldn’t really remember what words had come out of her mouth.

  Beside her, Theresa whispered, “Thanks, Izzy. That was real nice of you.”

  Judge Sherman glanced toward Bob Portidge and the gray-maned prosecutor took his cue.

  “Judge, as Miss Bright is aware, the People have no evidentiary burden to meet today. If she wants to argue probable cause she’ll have to wait for the preliminary examination date to be set and held. As to bond, the People are absolutely aghast...aghast...at the fact that defense counsel would argue for a P.R. bond. It’s outrageous and shocking that such a request would even be proffered in court. This woman is charged with the murder of another human being. A man was stabbed in the throat in the dark of night. He bled to death inside an abandoned car located directly behind this defendant’s supposedly upstanding business. Not a danger to the community? I can hardly think of what to say, Judge. Of course Miss Winkle is a danger to the community. She’s already killed one of its members and if this Court sees fit to entertain defense counsel’s request, there’s no reason to think it can’t happen again.”

  Bob turned slightly and pointed casually toward Issabella as he said, “Nobody wants their friends in custody. But friendship isn’t a legal argument. It has no place here in court. The facts are that Theresa Winkle is a murderer. And murderers don’t get to walk free just because one of their gal pals is a lawyer. Judge, the People ask that Theresa Winkle be held without bond as she is a demonstrable threat to the well-being of the citizens of this county. Thank you.”

  Issabella had been waiting for that “thank you” to signal the end of Bob’s response. As soon as his teeth clacked back together, she was talking again.

  “For someone who wants to hide behind a technical and procedural absence of a requirement to offer evidence of probable cause, the prosecution doesn’t hesitate to try and convince this court of evidence damaging to my client. But nothing he said is actual evidence to support a refusal of bond, Your Honor. We don’t argue that a man hasn’t died. We argue that there is no legally justifiable reason to believe that my client caused this man’s death. And if Mr. Portidge can’t address that fact, then all the colorful accusations in the world don’t add up to sufficient grounds to deny my client her freedom. Their argument boils down to ‘We say she did it, but we won’t say why we believe she did it, and you should just take our word for it and keep her in custody without any ability to maintain her livelihood.’ If the Court buys into that line of thinking, then when my client is found not guilty at trial, an avertable injustice will still have been committed against her. She will have lost her business and her income. Her life as she knows it will be irrevocably maimed. Again, we ask the court to instruct the prosecution to offer a substantial, evidentiary fact that would justify my client being charged, much less held indefinitely.”

  Bob opened his mouth, ready to continue the animated tit-for-tat, but Judge Sherman raised a silencing finger and finally looked away from his computer screen.

  “That’s enough of that,” he snapped. “Defense counsel’s request that this court instruct the People to make an evidentiary showing is denied. This is an arraignment and the People are correct to point out that the proper venue for such a showing is a future preliminary examination.”

  Bob cast Issabella a sidelong wink.

  “So I gotta keep stewing in the clink?” Theresa whispered.

  “Hold on,” Issabella whispered back.

  “As to bond,” the judge continued. “I’ve considered both of counsels’ arguments and Theresa Winkle is to remain held in the custody of the Wayne County Jail with the condition that she might be
released upon posting a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bond, cash or surety. Failure to appear for any future court dates will result in the forfeiture of said bond and a bench warrant for her arrest will be issued.”

  Judge Sherman rattled off the pretrial date, setting it one week from that morning in the courtroom of Judge Chelsea Hodgens. The bailiff handed Issabella the formal notice of the pretrial hearing. She took it and slipped it into her briefcase.

  “I don’t understand,” Theresa said. Her eyes were wide and she was looking at Issabella with a lost sort of dreaminess, a cloud of impulses that were verging on giving way to panic and despair.

  The bailiff was crossing over to them, ready to take Theresa and escort her back to the holding cell. Issabella put her hand on Theresa’s shoulder, squeezed it, and said, “Well, that was our only legal shot. I guess I wanted to pull a rabbit out of a hat for you. It was selfish to make a promise I couldn’t keep. I’m sorry it didn’t go that way.”

  Theresa’s eyes grew shiny with unshed tears as the bailiff appeared at her side.

  “Don’t be hard on yourself, Izzy. You didn’t cause any of this. Will...will you come see me later?”

  Issabella shook her head. She put on what she hoped was one of Darren’s sly, crooked grins.

  “Heck with that,” she said. “Darren will have that bond posted before lunch. If you can’t win a legal outcome you can always buy one. You’re still coming home with us today, Theresa.”

  The bailiff nudged Theresa away, but not before Issabella saw the transformation on the woman’s face. She smiled through her tears as she was lead toward the door in the back of the room. Just as she was about to disappear through it, Theresa craned her head around and called out, “One of you two better bring me some smokes!”

  * * *

  “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” Issabella called out when she walked through the front door of Darren’s apartment. She drew up short when she saw him standing in the living room. Darren was holding some sort of rifle in his hands.

  She blinked, looked again, and saw that the long metal body of the thing ended in a spear-like saw blade with jagged teeth along its bottom edge. Not a rifle.

  “What the heck is that?”

  “Reciprocating saw. I was about to plug it in. My phone is probably upstairs.”

  At his feet, the metal suitcase they’d burgled from the hotel room was still unopened. Around it, more than a dozen different hand tools lie about the carpet, their price tags still affixed.

  “How’d court go?”

  “Half a mil cash or surety and Bob Portidge called me a gal pal on the record.”

  Darren’s lip curled. “Bob’s always been a worm. There’s fresh coffee brewing. I don’t need any more, personally. I think I’m past that point where you’re so tired that you can’t believe it, and then something happens and you’re wide awake but kind of like in a dream. You know what I’m talking about? Like, detached?”

  “You bought out an entire hardware aisle because you’re dreamily detached?”

  “I need to get this thing open without using too much blunt force.”

  “Thus the saw.”

  “Yep. Carbide blade. The guy at the hardware store said it could get through any metal.”

  Issabella walked over to him and leaned her head on his shoulder, exhausted. Darren set the big power saw on the floor and wrapped his arms around her.

  “You should probably get some sleep, Izzy.”

  “Are you going to put up the bond?”

  Darren sighed and said, “Yeah. Damn it.”

  “Is it too much?”

  “No. Yes. Not the way you mean.”

  He slipped out of her arms and walked into the kitchen. Despite his earlier report of wakefulness, she watched as he poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped it while he stood brooding at the counter.

  It dawned on her what the issue was. She sat at one of the high-legged chairs on the other side of the counter

  “You have to call your brother, don’t you?” she ventured.

  “To get half a million released immediately? Oh, yeah. Both trust beneficiaries are required to approve anything above two hundred thousand.”

  “We could call around and see if any of the bail agencies in town are willing to take it. Dominic, maybe. You know who I mean. Bad toupee and big teeth. He runs the place three blocks down from the Fox Theater. He might be able to put up that much.”

  Darren set his mug down and shook his head.

  “Assets,” he said. “What do we have to put up? Theresa’s bar is worth maybe fifty thousand, and I think that’s being generous with the neighborhood it’s in. I don’t own this place, I rent it. All we own title to that we could offer as collateral to Dominic are our cars. Mine’s maybe worth ten thousand blue book and your old Buick might get you the cost of a nice meal.”

  “Aw, I love that car.”

  “Point being, the only way to get her out is to put up the full amount of the bond.”

  “Or give it a week and make another bond argument at the pretrial.”

  Darren sipped from his mug.

  “We’d be obligated to make the attempt, sure. But you know there isn’t a chance in hell it’s coming down. No judge is taking the risk of letting a murder defendant walk away in the middle of a case. You must have said something worthwhile at the arraignment because I would have put real money on the judge denying bond altogether and just forcing her to stay inside until there’s a deal or a verdict.”

  Issabella knew that was true and she inwardly kicked herself again for having let her enthusiasm over the idea of rescuing Theresa overcome the pragmatic realities of what they were facing. Criminal defense, she knew, was about managing expectations. Downward.

  “Wait,” she said as she remembered Judge Sheldon’s final words in court. “We might have a better chance than you think to get it reduced at pretrial.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Chelsea Hodgens is the judge.”

  “What?”

  “I know. Right?”

  “Izzy, Chelsea’s a circuit court judge. She might get the case after its bound over, but...”

  He trailed off as she walked over to her briefcase, selected the Notice of Hearing the bailiff had given her, and set it down on the counter in front of him.

  “I don’t get it either,” she admitted as he scanned the document. “Can they even do that? Procedurally? Jurisdictionally?”

  Darren sipped his coffee and seemed to ponder it for a few seconds.

  “Circuit courts have original jurisdiction over all felonies,” he mused.

  “Sure. But the initial hearings before the actual trial are all handled by the district courts. So that’s my question. How can a circuit court judge get assigned a pretrial hearing in a district court?”

  Darren shook his head in bewilderment and said, “I have no idea. Maybe one of the district court judges is out on some sort of leave and she’s substituting for them? I’ve never seen it done before, though. What did Bob Portidge say about it?”

  “Who knows? I didn’t speak a word to him after the gal pal nonsense. The turd.”

  “And we still don’t know what they have?”

  “Nope. I doubt Bob even knew. My guess is we’ll get the initial discovery the same time we always do: fifteen minutes before we have to stand up at the pretrial hearing.”

  Darren put his mug in the sink and paced back and forth in the kitchen with his hands on his hips. Issabella felt the frustration radiating off him.

  “What do we know?” he asked aloud without looking at her.

  “Nothing more than we did before. We know Gil Sharps works for your evil brother. We know you’ve pressed every authority you could think of to investigate Luther and the Fletcher
Group for the killings of Ludolph Bohm and Bernard Prosner last year. We know that every potential inquiry stalled immediately and we assume that was because Luther has enough clout that he got it shut down.”

  Darren stopped pacing and pointed a finger her way.

  “Correction. We know he did. There’s no question. You read his letter. He was throwing it in my face. There isn’t a court or a law enforcement agency willing to listen. He picks up a phone and the idea of justice gets gutted before he hangs up. The son of a bitch.”

  She watched Darren as he talked. He moved from brooding to exasperated to seething.

  “I know,” she said. “You’re right.”

  “Right doesn’t matter! Right doesn’t get justice for the lives my brother has snuffed out!” Darren paced out of the kitchen and came to stop over the metal suitcase in the living room. “This is it. This is all I have left and I don’t even know what the hell is inside it. It could be Gil Sharps’s collection of rare books for all I know. Hell, it could be loaded full of priceless gems and it wouldn’t do me a bit of good. If it isn’t clear evidence of the Fletcher Group’s wrongdoing, then I’ve been lugging around a box full of god damned empty wishes like some...some Don Quixote.”

  “That might be a little muddled.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  Issabella stood up again and walked over to him. She put one hand on the middle of his back, felt the vibrating tension running through the muscles there.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this,” she said softly, slowly. “But this isn’t about you and your brother. Not right now at least. This is about Theresa. And until you do what you can to help her, that suitcase doesn’t mean anything. That suitcase can wait. Call Luther. Bite your tongue and don’t say any of the things you want to say to him. Call him and get the funds released and let’s go get our girl out of that wretched hole they put her in.”

  Gradually, she felt the tension ease away under her palm. Darren nodded his head and reached around to take her hand in his. When he looked at her, his grin was sheepish.