Feeling as if he had been hit with a sucker-punch and had the wind knocked from him, Bret banged his fist on the table and shouted, “How can you say it?” He was seething and didn’t want to admit his uncle might be correct. After a while, he calmed and said, “You don’t know her. She could never do this. Even though she’s filed for divorce, I know down deep she still loves me.”
The angry outburst caused the guard at the door to look into the room to see what the noise was. As nothing untoward was happening, he returned to his chair and girlie magazine.
With a quick movement, Hubie reached across the table and grabbed his nephew’s wrist. His grip was a vice. “You’ve got to believe it,” he said in a normal tone that belied the strength in his hand, “The evidence irrefutably points to it. I’ll explain.”
He released his hold, and Bret rubbed his wrist. “Think you’re ready to hear what I have to say?”
“Yeah.” Bret squirmed in his chair as Hubie Santos, prominent criminal attorney, his uncle, and a man who Bret admired and loved, spent the next several minutes destroying the life he had come to know.
“Corrie Hunter was certainly part of the scheme, but was, most plausibly, being used by the originator of the plan to kill Frankie and place the blame on you. My private investigator is working day and night on the case. To date, his findings are preliminary, but it seems, as you suspected, Corrie Hunter and Frankie Grimaldi had no prior interaction other than to be aware each existed. It’s unlikely Corrie initiated the plot to murder her . . . I doubt she’s smart enough . . . but was somehow enticed into being a part of it. Maybe paid, maybe blackmailed, maybe both.”
Hubie posed the hypothetical question, “Who benefited from Frankie Grimaldi’s death? Our initial investigative results indicate Frankie was well-regarded in both the gay and straight communities. Nobody has a bad word to say about her. She owed money to no one, had a small life insurance policy with her parents as beneficiaries, and by all accounts lived a private and laudatory life. No one, it seems, would want to murder her.”
Hubie changed tacks. “Let’s consider this,” he stared at the ceiling and appeared to be thinking as he spoke. “Say, for instance, you were the intended victim of the crime, and Frankie was a poor unfortunate lamb who had to be sacrificed to get at you. Puts a new perspective on what happened, doesn’t it?”
Bret, accepting Hubie’s reasoning, interrupted, “It’s horrible to think an innocent person was murdered because someone has a grudge against me.”
“It certainly is. Just remember, what I’m telling you is a work in progress. Nothing’s proven.”
Hubie lowered his head and said, “How about Mai? Lets parse her. Don’t you think she was a little too quick on the trigger in filing for divorce? If you make the assumption she thought about divorcing you prior to and not because of the present mess, your going to prison for a long time would fit perfectly with what she was seeking.”
Bret didn’t want to believe Hubie. How could he have been so deceived, so wrong in his judgment of her? He was a mountain climber who made an arduous and dangerous climb to a summit and found he climbed the wrong mountain. Bret would rather have been hit by bricks falling from a building than believe what his uncle was suggesting.
Hubie wasn’t done stripping him of everything that mattered. “Mai doesn’t have the type of background necessary to commit a murder such as the one we’re dealing with. She would need the help of someone, say, for instance, Jake Warden, a man we know to be expert in intravenous anesthesia and knowledgeable about the drugs that killed Frankie. If you look at the facts objectively and follow where they lead, it isn’t difficult to come to the conclusion your wife and your partner must have acted in concert to pull off the murder.
Hubie left his chair and began another pace of the room. “Sorry, but those are the facts as I see them.” He stopped moving and with arms folded faced Bret. “I know you’re upset. You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. It’s okay to vent your anger. You’ll feel better if you get it out.”
Bret was unable to vent. He remained immobile, akin to the day Frankie died when he was sitting in the room at Windham Hospital. All the strength in his body evaporated into an unseen ether. He couldn’t raise his hands from where they were glued to his lap, and it felt as if he was going to fall from his chair. Instead of the outburst Hubie advised, Bret stared at the floor.
Hubie went to his nephew and patted him on the back. There were things to say, but the time for talking had ended.
While Bret was in the throes of depression that Friday afternoon, Jake Warden and Mai Manley were in Jake’s Storrs condominium. He was sitting in one of his stuffed leather chairs, and Mai was in his lap. Waterford crystal glasses on the table next to the chair held red wine for him and white for her. In the background, a Mozart sonata played.
Jake picked up his glass and lifted it in a toast. Mai did the same, and the clink of the colliding crystal created the pleasing high-pitched sound of a wedding bell. “To the ex-Mai Manley. Soon to become Mai Faca again, and as soon as socially appropriate, Mai Faca Warden.”
Mai turned in his lap to face him. With a puzzled look, she said, “I’m not sure it was a good idea to serve Bret with divorce papers so quickly after his arrest? Shouldn’t we have waited?”
Jake replied, “It’s somewhat of a gray area. I thought he should be served because according to the chief prosecutor, if you were planning a divorce prior to the commission of the crime, it’s possible you’ll be permitted to testify against him in a case like this. I’m pretty sure the prosecutors are going to request the judge let you.”
Mai became agitated. “No. Don’t make them force me to testify,” she pleaded as she straightened herself, although remaining on her lover’s lap. “I don’t think I can do it. I don’t want to testify against Bret.”
“You must, if they want you to,” he insisted. “Your testimony will cement the case against him. All you have to do is say yes when the prosecutor asks if Bret hated Frankie for making lesbian overtures toward you.” Jake thought the lesbian thing was a nice touch. It added hate crime aspects to what was a bizarre crime. Another obstacle for Bret to overcome.
Mai got off Jake’s lap and stood, bending so her face was a few inches from his. “How will I be able to look at him? I couldn’t do that and lie. Everyone in the courtroom would see I was lying.”
Like a child anxious to share a secret he’d promised not to reveal, Jake answered, “No they won’t. You won’t have to look at him. You’re going to appear so distraught, you’ll spend most of your time in the witness chair crying into a handkerchief. You’ll have one in your hand at all times.” He added, “Very feminine. Should make the male jurors and the motherly female ones want to leave their box and come and wipe away your tears.” He concluded, “Don’t worry, with your face in your hanky, you won’t have to look at the jurors, Bret, or his damn lawyer.”
Jake knew she was scared. He’d help her. “I can see the goal line,” he said and kissed her on the cheek. “Admit it. So can you.”
Mai gave a reluctant nod.
Jake said, “Once we get past the trial and Bret is out of the way, we’ll have the rest of our lives to enjoy together. Think of that when you get nervous about what you have to do. We’ve already been through the hardest part of our ordeal.”
Unsaid was that they were in great danger. If their scheme was uncovered, it would be they, and not Bret, on trial. They’d lose each other forever. Whether Jake got life without parole or a lesser sentence, being without Mai would be unbearable. He couldn’t exist without her.
Bret had composed himself, and Hubie completed what he was obligated to say. The sad young man who had been misused by those he trusted had to be informed of the legal severity of his circumstances. “Although we know you are innocent and who most likely committed the crime you’ve been charged with, the case against you is extremely strong. The prosecution will ask for the maximum of life without parole. They’re not willin
g to settle for a plea deal and a lesser sentence. The only good news is it’s not death.”
“I don’t care. Nothing matters now.” Bret was dejected.
Hubie ignored him and held to the subject, “Anyway, Corrie Hunter is a credible witness. So far, she’s sticking to her story. We’ll depose her and see if we can break it down, find inconsistencies, but my gut feeling is we won’t succeed. If so, she probably won’t crack under cross examination during the trial. Her testimony might be enough to convict you.” As an afterthought, “I bet she was paid well.”
Bret interrupted, “I still can’t believe she would say those things against me.”
The attorney said, “Who knows why people do what they do.” He scratched his head, “The two great unknowns are Mai and Jake. Given that Mai is already suing for divorce, I can only surmise they are going to come at you with guns blazing.”
Bret asked, “Can she testify against me? We were married when Frankie . . . ” he had difficulty saying the words . . . “passed away.”
“I fear the prosecuting team thinks so. They’re pushing for a quick divorce. I can delay it, but it’s inevitable. And the prosecution can easily delay the trial until the divorce is final. Meanwhile, you’re in here counting the minutes, hours, and days, right?”
With a nod Bret indicated his agreement.
“I say we let them have the divorce. She’ll get everything, of course, but that doesn’t matter. We have more important issues to worry about. After the dissolution is final, we should be able to see what they’re up to. Once I know their game plan, I can develop countermeasures.”
Hubie summed with, “Let’s focus on where we should have the trial. You never know how a judge or jury will react in a hometown case such as this. Though Windham is small compared to Hartford or Manchester, I’ve argued enough cases here to believe we can get an impartial jury and a fair trial. I don’t think we should ask for a change of venue. Do you?”
Bret’s answer lacked enthusiasm, “Whatever you feel is best.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
The meeting was over and Hubie began to pack his briefcase with the legal papers that had cluttered the table. He saw the hopelessness on Bret’s face. He went to the door as if intending to signal the guard to unlock it, but before doing so he turned to Bret. “One of these days you’ll meet my private investigator. You know, what they call a private dick.” Chuckle, chuckle. “He’ll remind you of Columbo. I make him wear a well-used trench coat with the collar up. And when he’s interviewing someone, I insist he walks away and then turns back and says, ‘Oh . . . just one thing bothers me . . . ’ ” The latter was spoken in Columbo-ese. Bret smiled. “Only kidding, of course. He isn’t like Columbo at all. His trench coat is much newer.” Another chuckle.
Hubie summoned the guard who opened the door. His parting words were serious, “His name is Bob Dillon. He’s a good man and has been instrumental in getting the verdict I wanted in many cases. You can be assured he’s working hard on your case. He gave a wave of his hand and left the room.
That’s Hubie for you, Bret mused. He was never one to waste an opportunity to create a bit of humor. If he were about to be hanged, no doubt he’d quip that he hoped the hangman passed the knot tying test when he was a Boy Scout.
Bret spent six months in the Brooklyn jail as the prosecution and defense worked their cases. He accepted and acclimated to his environment. A big challenge was getting used to his mattress, clearly not a Sleep Number bed. Guards weren’t abusive, and because of his celebrity, he received a higher level of care, attention, and perks than the average car thief or mugger. When Roman was transferred to the dormitory, Bret missed the happy-go-lucky fellow who had the knack of cheering him. It wasn’t long before he came to appreciate the extra living space, not to mention the silence and thinking time that resulted from being alone.
With the continuing news coverage of Frankie’s bizarre death, his arrest, and the upcoming trial, Bret’s notoriety had become national. He was mentioned on the well-known “Fair and Balanced” channel as well as a plethora of other news organizations.
When not working on his case, Bret read, played solitaire, and began to study chess. Hubie brought him a board and pieces as well as books on the subject. Learning the technical and historic aspects of the game and playing both sides of the board brought short periods of peace to Bret’s troubled mind.
Whenever Hubie’s group or the prosecuting team made a move in what could be considered their legal game of chess, headlines resulted. The maneuvers had to do with allowing or disallowing a witness or piece of evidence. They were thoughtful and made with consideration of what the opposition might do in response. The defense would outfox the prosecution on one issue and be bested by them on another. The goal of both was to sway a jury into believing their argument was valid. It was the jury that was going to render the final Check and Mate.
During this period Bret became single. It resulted in a week of greater than usual depression. Neither Jake nor Mai had visited him, and after the divorce, it was confirmed they were going to testify for the prosecution. It was validation that they had masterminded Frankie’s murder. Bret might have been able to accept what they did to him. It was an affair of the heart and such things happened in the name of love. What they did to Frankie could never be understood, accepted, nor forgiven.
Bret received information concerning events in his former world from Hubie’s private detective. In the detective’s words he was hard at work trying “to expose snakes hiding under rocks.”
When Bob Dillon, the P.I., introduced himself, he noted the spelling was D-I-L-L-O-N, not D-Y-L-A-N like the singer. Bret couldn’t resist saying the singer, Dylan, was not born Dylan, but Zimmerman.
He didn’t look like Columbo, as his uncle had joked, but was perfect for his job. He was middle-aged, average in looks, build, and height and wore clothes of last year’s style. The P.I. was so common in appearance he would be unnoticed in a crowd of two people. In addition, he was friendly, intelligent, and, like Hubie, quick with the quips. To Bret, his uncle and the investigator were kindred spirits.
Bob was talkative and in short order, Bret learned a great deal about the man. At one time he had been part of a P.I. group, but the relationship didn’t last. None of his partners shared his intense work ethic. The situation led to arguments and the dissolution of the firm. He worked alone and provided his services to attorneys, not the general public. Working with Hubie’s group was what he most enjoyed. “The firm has interesting cases and the folks are easy to deal with. Unfortunately, your case is an interesting one, but don’t worry, I’m on your side. How could we lose?” he boasted. Bret liked the attitude.
Members of his family visited when able. Age and distance made the visits infrequent, but he spoke to his mother by phone several times a week. The most regular visitor and one of his few remaining Windham friends was Pearlie Perez. Her belief in his innocence was unwavering, and she helped the defense team in every way she could. She was his main source of local news. Although no longer employed by Jake, she was kept apprised by Sandy of what was happening in Jake’s life. Pearlie reported on the exploits of his ex-wife and former business partner. The reports were important to Bret. Although he had come to loathe the pair, he developed a perverse interest in the updates.
As he lay in his bunk, Bret conjured abhorrent images of Mai and her lover. Violence repulsed him, and he became sick to the point of vomiting when thinking of Frankie’s death. Yet, he fantasized taking the lives of Jake and Mai by pouring gasoline on them and lighting it, whacking them Mafia style with bullets fired into each of their brains, or suffocating them by tying thick plastic bags about their heads. He never considered poisoning or causing anaphylactic allergic reactions. His psyche wouldn’t allow it.
In early winter jury selection began. Both the selection and the trial were scheduled to be held in the brick and glass Superior Court building in Danielson.
“Picking th
e proper jury is considered by many to be the most crucial step in the successful defense of a client,” Hubie told his nephew. “Some lawyers specialize in the process and are hired only to help pick the jury.”
“Are we going to hire one?”
“No, I have people in my group who are experts. They’ll give us the advice we need.”
“Good, I’d rather work with your people.”
“I appreciate your confidence, but if I thought we needed a specialist, we’d get one. With a sympathetic jury, no matter how damaging the evidence, there’s always a chance of acquittal. Everyone has heard about famous cases where the evidence against the defendant seemed overwhelming, yet the verdict ended up being not guilty.”
“Yeah, you mean like the O.J. and Casey Anthony verdicts. A lot of people thought they were guilty.
“True, those are two of the most memorable. The juries in both cases were able to be convinced of reasonable doubt. But never forget, it was defense attorneys that led them to the reasonable doubt. So after we get the jury we want, we can’t assume our job is done. We’ll still have to work hard.”
Hubie went on, “The prosecutors are aware of the importance of jury selection. The battle over our jury is going to be down and dirty, but I’m ready to engage in hand-to-hand combat with them.” He grinned as he said, “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
They were in the attorney-client room. The guard on the other side of the door was familiar with the many rendezvous between Bret and one of his attorneys or Bob Dillon and ignored them. Hubie had arrived in a blue pin-striped suit with a light gray shirt and conservative tie. Within a short time the suit jacket was rumpled and hanging on the chair, the tie was loose, and upper buttons of his shirt were undone.
The process of jury selection, including the ability to reject some potential jurors without explanation, had been reviewed. “I want you present when the jury is selected.” It was not a request.
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