Cataloni moved closer, his breath hot on Winters’s face. ‘Til tell you when I’ll be pleased,” he snarled. “When that murderous bitch is behind bars, and not a moment sooner.”
“Hey,” Winters said, “we can only do what we can do. If the jury buys Randall’s story, they’ll convict. If they don’t, I guess we’ll have to dig up more evidence and try again.”
“If they acquit, it’s over,” Cataloni said. “Randall’s not enough. We need more. His statements have to be backed up, or they’ll never stand up in court. Where is the bastard? You said he’s in Houston, right?”
Winters glanced over his shoulder and then removed a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, handing it to the captain. “Ask and you shall receive,” he told him. A few moments later, Clementine Cataloni slipped out the back door.
After a quick dinner at Mario’s favorite barbecue house, Stella watched television with him and then headed off to bed in his guest room around ten o’clock. She tossed and turned, unable to sleep, anxious about what Fitzgerald’s decision would be. Once when she was about to nod off, she was jarred back awake by the shrill sound of the phone. She started to go into the other room to ask Mario who had called when she realized that was foolish. He was single and had dozens of friends, and besides, it was still early, not yet midnight. Hearing his hushed voice from the other room, she shut her eyes again and tried to drift off.
Sleep simply would not come, and around three o’clock, Stella finally got out of bed and went into the kitchen to fix herself something to eat. Food always settled her nerves and helped her to fall asleep. After choking down a ham and cheese sandwich on stale wheat bread, she headed back down the hall to the guest room, stopping at Mario’s door and peeking in. When he had been younger, Stella had checked on him several times a night. After the tragedy, she had suffered from chronic insomnia and was seldom able to sleep through the night. She’d bolt upright in the bed, her body drenched in perspiration, certain the house was on fire and immediately racing to Mario’s room to make sure he was safe.
The room was dark and the covers were rumpled, but as Stella tiptoed closer to the bed, she saw that it was empty. Thinking he had fallen asleep on the sofa, she checked the living room, but Mario wasn’t there. Her heart started racing, but she quickly reassured herself. Mario had said he was dating a stewardess with a screwy schedule. Stella had to assume that the woman had gotten in from a late flight and called, probably asking her brother to come over. Returning to the guest room, she collapsed in the bed and fell asleep at last.
When Stella opened her eyes, she had no idea what time it was. The drapes were drawn and the room was pitch black. Rising from the bed, she checked the house, and discovered that her brother had not returned. Seeing the light on the answering machine blinking in the living room, she glanced at the wall clock and saw it was past nine o’clock. With trembling fingers she hit the replay button and held her breath until the tape rewound and a man’s voice began speaking. “This is Jack Fitzgerald,” said a deep, scratchy voice. “I’ve decided to put this matter on hold for now. If you have any additional concerns, please feel free to call me.”
Stella was standing there in her bathrobe, her hand over her chest. She let her breath out in one long whoosh and sank down in a chair. “Thank you, God,” she said, tears of relief welling in her eyes.
Eager to leave now, Stella started packing away her cosmetics and the few items of clothing she had brought on the trip, hoping Mario would come home by the time she was finished.
At Frank Minor’s direction, Holly had called a press conference for nine o’clock that morning to announce that they would be filing against Stella in the death of her parents. The day before she had bought a new dress, and the lightweight fabric hugged her body like a second skin. The skirt was hemmed several inches above the knee in the latest style, and Holly was wearing sheer black nylons and spike heels.
When she arrived at the D.A.‘s office that morning, though, she was surprised that she didn’t see the remote vans from the TV stations parked out front. She preferred to address the media on the front steps leading into the building instead of using her cramped office. She stood there a few moments, glancing up and down the street, thinking they would pull up any second. But the August sun was already beating down on her, the temperature rising by the second.
“Screw this,” she said, fearful her makeup would run and she would end up with perspiration stains on her three-hundred-dollar dress. Heading directly to Minor’s office, she poked her head in the door. “Where is everybody? It’s almost nine, and no one is out there. Besides, it’s hot as a bitch already. Maybe I should hold the press conference in your office instead.”
“Called off,” he mumbled, his head down as he shuffled through some paperwork on his desk.
“What did you say?” Holly said, her eyes widening.
“I said the press conference has been called off.”
“Who called it off? Everything was set.”
“Jack Fitzgerald,” Minor said, looking up. “He doesn’t think we have a case. Besides, Growman flew down here himself and threatened to fight us every inch of the way. Dallas is at the top of the heap right now in stats, and Growman has a lot of influence. Guess Fitzgerald doesn’t have the guts to take on a fight these days.”
Holly shook her head as if to clear it, her blond curls spilling over onto her face. “Fine,” she said, tossing her hair back from her forehead. “I told you this was never going to fly. To be perfectly honest, I’m relieved. I felt terrible doing this to Stella. My guess is Randall is the guilty party, anyway. We should drag his ass into court instead of going after Stella.”
Minor was preoccupied and not listening. He shoved a file to the edge of his desk. Prosecuting an unknown like Tom Randall for a sixteen-year-old crime was small potatoes, and as far as Minor was concerned, the Cataloni case should now be closed and forgotten. “I’m giving you the Wesley matter,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “McCarthy can’t handle it. He’s got too much to handle with the Bramford homicide.”
“What do you mean?” Holly exclaimed. “I was supposed to handle Bramford. I did all the preliminary work on it. I’ve been putting it together for months now.”
“Look,” Minor said, setting his paperwork aside, “I reassigned it because I thought you would be buried under this Cataloni thing. There’s no way you could have handled both cases simultaneously. The Cataloni case is a double homicide.”
“But I’m available now,” Holly argued, her voice cracking. “You promised me that case, Frank. I don’t want Wesley. It’s not even going to trial. His attorney is already trying to negotiate a plea agreement.”
“So?” Minor said. “It still goes down as a conviction. It’ll raise your stats.”
“That’s not the same and you know it,” Holly snapped. “Aren’t you the one who told me just the other day that I needed to bring in a big case? Wesley’s not big. By next week, it will probably be resolved. Craig Bramford is a cop, for Christ’s sake, a cop who murdered his wife and kid. That’s the case I need right now.”
Minor glared at her, pushing the file even closer to the edge of his desk, a gesture meant to let Holly know that his decision was final. She could complain all she wanted. Once he made up his mind, he never reversed himself.
Holly glanced at the file and then thrust her chin out in defiance. “You can’t do this to me,” she insisted. “I have more seniority than McCarthy. I’ll take it to Jack Fitzgerald. I’ll file an official grievance.”
Minor’s private line was ringing. “Take it to anyone you want,” he finally said, picking up the phone. He had long ago learned that Oppenheimer would walk all over him if he let her. No one got the better of Frank Minor. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” he said, holding the receiver to his ear.
Holly stormed out of his office, bumping shoulders with another D.A. in the hall and refusing to answer when he spoke to her. Walking at a fast pace, she made it halfway down the corri
dor when she stumbled and fell sideways against the wall. She generally didn’t wear heels this high. After being a police officer and getting used to comfortable shoes, she brought out her spike heels only when she wanted to make an impression. “Fuck,” she said, as she saw that the heel on her right shoe was broken. Removing it and carrying it in her hand, she hobbled past the door to her office and walked straight out of the building, her face twisted in an ugly, bitter grimace.
Stella decided Mario must have spent the night with his girlfriend. She was eager to tell him the good news before she left for the airport, however, so she felt she had no choice but to wait.
While she was sitting in the apartment with nothing to do, she put in a call to Growman, but his secretary said he had taken the morning off to spend time with his daughter before she returned to college. She finally reached Sam and he offered to pick her up at the airport. Stella told him she would arrive on the afternoon shuttle.
Once she concluded her phone call, Stella roamed around her brother’s apartment, making beds and straightening things up. Cracking the door to his darkroom, she peered inside, sniffing the pungent odor of chemicals. She was about to leave when she saw something on his workbench in the dim light. It looked as if Mario had spilled a sugar packet out on the bench, and Stella knew it would attract ants if she didn’t clean it up. She went to the kitchen for a sponge and returned. Without thinking, she pressed her finger into the white substance and gingerly brought it to her mouth. The next moment her muscles stiffened. “You little shit,” she said, realizing the white powder wasn’t sugar. It was cocaine. Good cocaine too, she thought, feeling her tongue go numb from the minuscule amount she had tasted. Mario had had problems with drugs, but that had been years ago when he was still in his teens. It made Stella furious to know he was using again.
No wonder Mario had gone out the night before, she thought, angry and disappointed. If he was heavily into coke, he probably couldn’t sleep. She felt a grim sense of satisfaction as she sponged up the costly drug. She then started flinging open the cabinets, determined to find her brother’s stash and flush it down the toilet. When she didn’t find it in the darkroom, she systematically searched the apartment. She found nothing and as it got closer to one o’clock, she knew if she waited any longer she would miss her flight. Scribbling a note for Mario to call her in Dallas as soon as he returned, she left it on the kitchen counter. Grabbing her purse and cosmetic case, she rushed downstairs to her rental car and drove off.
Stella boarded her two o’clock flight on time, but the plane failed to take off. After the passengers were strapped in their seats for takeoff, the stewardess’s voice came over the loudspeaker announcing the flight would be delayed. After waiting on the runway for over thirty minutes, the plane finally departed and Stella arrived in Dallas late, wondering if Sam had given up and gone home.
Damn airlines, she thought as she disembarked, still seething over what she had found in Mario’s darkroom. When he called, she was going to ream him out good. She had devoted too much of her life to him to see him destroy himself this way. Besides, she knew cocaine was one of the most dangerous and unpredictable of all drugs. Even teenagers sometimes dropped dead of a heart attack when using, and she wasn’t about to bury the only surviving member of her family.
Because the plane was small, it didn’t pull up to the gate. Shielding her eyes as she stepped out into the bright afternoon sun at Love Field Airport, Stella spotted Sam standing behind the security railings a young boy in front of him with a bouquet of white lilies clutched in his hand. Sam had brought Adam, his twelve-year-old son. The wind was gusting and Stella held the right side of her hair flush against her cheek, not wanting the boy to see her scar and become frightened. But her nervousness soon dissipated. Seeing the boy standing there, so fresh-faced and young, she was reminded of Mario when he had been that age. Smiling and waving, she carefully navigated the narrow steps leading down from the plane, wanting to appear poised and confident.
As soon as Stella reached the bottom of the ramp, however, two men in business suits stepped in front of her. “Stella Cataloni,” one of them said. “Are you Stella Cataloni?”
“Yes,” she said. Had something happened to Mario? Had he been in an accident or overdosed on drugs?
The man flipped out a badge and flashed it in her face. “U.S. Marshal’s Office,” he said. “We’re going to have to place you under arrest.”
Stella stiffened in shock. Then she realized Fitzgerald might not have informed the right people that he was calling it off. “There’s a mistake here,” she said, her gaze darting over to Sam and his son. “They were going to file charges against me but they decided against it just this morning. I guess no one got around to telling you guys. Are you stationed here in Dallas, or did they send you all the way from Houston?”
“We’re in the Dallas Marshal’s Office,” he said. “I’m sorry, but it’s better if you go peacefully. We don’t want any problems, miss. We’re only trying to do our job.” He reached in his wallet and pulled out a plastic card, proceeding to read Stella her rights. “You have the right to remain silent. You have a right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be …”
Stella tuned out the words. The other officer had walked behind her and was pulling on her arm, the steel handcuffs jangling in his hand. She twisted away, on the verge of panicking. She couldn’t let them handcuff her and cart her off in front of Sam and his son. “Didn’t you hear me?” she shouted, the sound of the nearby jets reverberating in her ears. “They called it off. Call Jack Fitzgerald at the Houston D.A.‘s office and he’ll confirm it for you.”
Sam was grimacing. Stella watched as he said something to his son and then tried to walk through the opening in the fence leading to the plane. A security officer for the airline stopped him, though, and Stella saw the sign that said the area was restricted to passengers only. Sam returned to stand next Adam, both their fingers laced now into the wire-mesh fence.
The two marshals exchanged somber looks, then took up positions on either side of Stella. Within seconds, they had her hands cuffed behind her back and were escorting her across the runway. “Please don’t do this to me,” Stella cried. “Just take the handcuffs off. I’ll go with you. I won’t make a scene. My friends are here. I’m not a criminal. I’m a district attorney. This is all a horrid mistake.”
“Fm sorry,” the taller of the two men said. “It’s the rules, you know. Every prisoner has to be cuffed.”
Stella dropped her head in shame. As she passed through the security gate, she heard Sam’s voice, but she couldn’t force herself to look at him. The two officers led her through the crowded terminal, and Stella heard people’s comments when they saw the handcuffs. “What did she do?” an alien, detached voice said. “Do you think she’s that woman who murdered her children over in Addison?”
You know what, Mabel?” another voice said. I think she’s that district attorney, the one that was on TV so much.”
“You’re right,” the other woman said excitedly. “Good lord, she looks just like her. What in the world did she do?”
Each word was like a knife plunging into Stella’s side. Her heart was pounding like a giant fist inside her chest, her clothes soaked with perspiration. Her mouth was so dry, she couldn’t find enough saliva to swallow.
Planting her feet and pulling against the men, Stella said in a hoarse voice, “I want to see the warrant. I have a right to know what I’m charged with.”
Stopping on the mat for the automatic door leading out to the street, one of the men whipped out a sheet of paper. “You’re charged with one count of homicide, ma’am,” he said, pausing as he read through the particulars. “According to this document, you shot and killed a man by the name of Thomas Randall, one of the state’s prime witnesses in an arson case. Crime only went down this morning.” He paused and exchanged glances with the other marshal. “Seeing they moved this fast, Harry, I’d say t
his lady’s in one heck of a lot of trouble.”
Stella had heard nothing past the name Randall and the charge of murder. Her brother’s face flashed in her mind, along with an image of the white powder she had found on his workbench. Had he used cocaine to give himself the courage to commit murder? Stella felt her entire world shattering. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Why had Mario done it? Fitzgerald had been ready to drop the charges. How could her brother have acted so impulsively? As the automatic doors opened and shut repetitively, Stella felt as if she were sinking into a dark, bottomless hole. Everything suddenly went black and her body slumped in the men’s arms.
“Damn women,” the man named Harry said. “They always fucking faint. Get a good hold on her,” he said, “and let’s get the hell out of here. I promised my wife I’d be home for dinner.”
Supporting Stella under the armpits, her body limp and her head wobbling, the two marshals dragged her through the automatic doors across the rubber mat, and over the concrete curb.
When Stella came to, she saw the door to the police car, then felt a hand on her head as she was pushed inside. Looking back at the terminal, she spotted Sam and Adam peering out from behind the glass of the automatic door. They watched as the officers circled to the front of their police car, gunned the engine, and sped off.
chapter
FIVE
By six o’clock that evening, Stella was inside in the Lew Sterrett Correctional Center in downtown Dallas, one of the bleaker presentence facilities in the state.
As soon as the booking officer offered the customary phone call, Stella contacted Growman, asking him what she should do and what he had heard regarding Randall’s death. “I haven’t heard anything,” he said, stunned at the news of her arrest. “Look, I know a crackerjack attorney in Houston,” he said a few moments later. “His fees are high, but he’s one of the best defense attorneys in town. His name is Paul Brannigan and I’ll get in touch with him right away. Just stay cool, Stella. This has to be some type of crazy mix-up, particularly if Fitzgerald called you this morning and indicated they weren’t pursuing the case.”
Trial by Fire Page 9