I was dealing totally in the dark, testifying and pulling numbers from the air. I had no idea how many people work in the Emerald Tower.
Coop shook his head. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said.
“Then assuming a random distribution in the general population of these two so-called blood markers-the B-negative blood type and the enzyme factor-and using your figure of eight in one thousand, that means that of the four thousand people in that building at or around the time that Mr. Potter died, there were as many as thirty other people besides Ben Potter who worked there who might fit the blood characteristics or factors of the drop found in that elevator. Is that correct?”
My question ignored the obvious, that trendy secretaries in spiked heels and executives in thousand-dollar suits don’t generally travel in service elevators. Cheetam had left me no choice but to go boldly where no man had gone before-I was on a five-minute mission to evidentiary la-la land.
Coop made a face of concession.
“Am I right?”
“I haven’t made a precise statistical calculation.”
Thank God for little favors, I think.
Nelson was twitching in his chair, but so far had refrained from any objection.
“That might be close,” said Coop.
I had what I wanted, a tiny slice of shadow in the prosecutor’s bright light, some ray of doubt.
I could tell from his face that Coop now wished he’d done DNA. I considered pushing it just a little further. But I looked at him sitting there in the witness box, waiting, like an alligator submerged at the bank except for the eyes. Two blips on the surface. I’d taken it as far as I could. I thought better than to offer myself as a meal in a losing cause. Save it for the trial, I thought.
“That’s all for this witness.”
As I returned to the counsel table Cheetam was all over me. Cheap kudos and handshakes. Talia was more reserved, with a warm smile and eyes that knew the truth. Quibbling over blood in an elevator was not going to avoid an order binding her over for trial.
Now she is shaking. Time is drawing short and she senses mat a new horror is about to envelop her.
The bailiff saunters out of chambers with furtive looks behind him. He’s running interference for O’Shaunasy. She’s a dozen steps behind him with a sheaf of papers in her hand, Talia’s fate. She mounts the bench.
“Come to order. Remain seated, municipal court of Capitol County, department 17, is now in session, the Honorable Gail O’Shaunasy presiding.” The bailiff takes his place off to the side of the courtroom.
O’Shaunasy clears her throat and shuffles the papers until she has them in proper order. She looks directly at Talia before she speaks, men off to some broad undefined horizon beyond the bench.
“I have listened to all of the testimony presented here,” she says, “examined all physical and documentary evidence. I have considered it all very carefully before rendering this decision.
“The standard of evidence confronting this court is not that of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and no judgment of this court can determine guilt or innocence.
“The standard of proof here is that of probable cause. It is merely for this court to determine whether there is sufficient evidence to establish a reasonable belief that a crime has been committed and whether that evidence points to this defendant as the perpetrator.”
This is fodder for the tube, a vain effort to keep the story in perspective, to avoid the unavoidable, the mantle of guilt being laid on the accused before trial. A legion of jurors will later be asked if they’ve heard about this case, if they know anything about the defendant. Too many will say that they read or saw somewhere that Talia Potter was the woman who killed her husband. By tonight the nuances of evidence and standards of proof, the notion that Talia is entitled to a clear and unfettered presumption of innocence, will die on the lips of this judge, lost in an onslaught of headlines and thirty-second spots.
Now O’Shaunasy reserves her gaze for Talia.
“It is the judgment of this court that mere is ample evidence, albeit circumstantial, that probable cause exists to believe that Benjamin G. Potter died as a result of some criminal agency and that the defendant had ample opportunity and motive to commit that crime.
“On the charge of violation of penal code section 1murder in the first degree, mere is sufficient evidence to believe that the charged offense has been committed and that the defendant Talia Pearson Potter committed said offense.
“Further, I find that special circumstances exist as charged by the district attorney with regard to the commission of this crime and that she shall therefore be bound over for trial in the superior court on a charge of murder in the first degree with special circumstances.
“The filing of a formal criminal information is ordered within fifteen days. Arraignment is ordered at that time. The defendant is ordered into the custody of the sheriff, pending a hearing on modification of bail.”
It appears that Talia is no longer considered a minimal flight risk.
Cheetam is on his feet. “Your Honor, we can conceive of no possible reason why bail should be increased in this case. The defendant has appeared at every hearing, cooperated in every way with these proceedings.”
“That’s true,” O’Shaunasy concedes. “But your client is now bound over for trial on a capital charge of murder. The question of bail is one for the superior court. My order will stand. This court stands adjourned.”
Talia looks over at me, two tears cutting a furrow down each cheek.
“We’ll get you out.” Cheetam’s making promises as the matron moves in behind Talia to escort her to the steel door that leads to the holding cells below.
I lean over and speak into her ear. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” I say.
“Yes, first thing,” she says in a daze. I don’t think she’s heard me. I can’t tell if she comprehends any of this.
She is taken by one arm, assisted at the elbow from behind, and led from the courtroom. My last view is of her descending the steps to the lower bowels of the building, to the cold holding cells and the van that will transport her to the night of noises and horror that is the Capitol County Jail.
CHAPTER 20
And so we meet in the lockup the next morning, through glass-encased tiny wire mesh, talking on a telephone, reading each other’s minds. We are alone now, Talia and I, that is, if you believe the official policy of the sheriff’s department, which says they don’t tap in on lawyers and their clients.
Cheetam is now history, off to Houston or Dallas or some other damn place. His commitment to spring Talia from a cold cell was forgotten before he skipped down the courthouse steps. It died like every other hot flash of enthusiasm the man had, the victim of a more pressing agenda.
“I have a bail hearing set for this afternoon. I’ll try to hold the bail at $200,000,” I tell her.
She nods. “What if they won’t go along?”
“Then I’ll keep it as low as I can.”
“I can’t raise much more on the house,” she says.
“That house is worth at least a million and a half,” I tell her.
“But we owe on it. Our equity isn’t much.” She uses the plural pronoun as if Ben is waiting in the wings to pick up the pieces of her broken life. “There is the first mortgage, and Ben took a second out on it last year.”
“Did he need the money?”
“Things weren’t going too well at the firm,” she says.
This is the first I’m hearing of this.
“Ben was busy politicking for most of last year. His draw from the firm was way down. We needed some of the money to live on. The rest he said he needed to cover some business debts.”
This is like Talia, little details that seemed to slip through the cracks. She is filling me in now.
“What debts?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Business,” she says, as if this covers the universe.
“Does your acco
untant have a current financial statement, something he can fax me fast, for the hearing this afternoon?”
“Yes,” she says. “I think so.” She gives me his name but can’t remember his number. I’ll have to get it from information.
“Bail’s always relative,” I tell her. “It turns on what the court thinks is necessary to compel your appearance. If you’re strapped, the magic figure may be lower.”
She looks around her at the dreary gray walls and the scarred countertop where she rests one elbow, the arm holding the receiver. On Talia’s side of the glass, the gray metal is carved with the initials of some former occupant. One must wonder where that soul obtained the sharp tool for this task, and the boldness to wield it as a guard looked on.
“I don’t know if I can stand another night in here.”
She sweeps the hair back from her eyes. Talia without makeup is still a striking woman. But her hair in twelve hours has already surrendered its luster to a single shampoo with a stringent disinfecting soap. This along with other indescribable indignities is the cost of admission to this place.
“I’ll get you out,” I say. But I almost choke on my own words. I’m beginning to sound like Cheetam.
“If Ben were here he’d …” She stopped, killing this threat in mid-sentence, a victim of its own lack of logic. “If Ben were here, none of this would be happening.” She laughs. “I’m not thinking very well, am I?”
“Can’t imagine why,” I say.
This draws a little smile.
“Are you in a single cell, alone?” I ask.
“For most of the night. They put somebody in the other bunk early this morning. The noise in this place, how does anybody sleep?”
“It’s not billed as a five-star hotel.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Listen, I don’t have much time and we have a lot to cover.
I’m going to get you out, but until I do, a few rules.”
She looks at me, bright-eyed, eager to cooperate.
“First, don’t talk to anybody. The police, the district attorney-no one. Do you hear? If the cops want to talk, you ask for me. They can’t question you after that unless I’m present. That should curb their curiosity.”
She nods.
“Rule number two. This is more important than rule number one,” I tell her. “Don’t trust anybody in this place, no matter how nice, no matter how helpful. Don’t get involved in conversations with any of the occupants. Don’t discuss your case. Don’t tell them why you’re here. If they watch TV or read, they know. You’re a hot item.”
She looks at me, a little naive. Then it settles on her. The curse of every jailhouse, the informant.
“It’s not just a confession you have to worry about. It’s the little details of your life. Tell some of these people where you were born-or your mother’s maiden name-and in twenty minutes they’ll craft your confession, sewing in these little facts for color. They’ll tell the DA that you told them in the night, in the depth of depression, between sobs in a crying jag, that you bared your soul to them because you trusted them. Believe me,” I tell her, “they will package and sell you for an hour off their time in this place.”
“I can believe it,” she says.
“I’ll get you out of here. That much I promise.” It was a blood oath. If for no other reason, my debt for complicity in Cheetam’s debacle.
I take a deep breath before tackling the next topic. It’s ticklish.
“Cheetam’s gone. Maybe you already know?”
She nods. “Tony told me he couldn’t go beyond the preliminary hearing, something about a conflict. He said he would try to get me somebody else.” Her eyes are pleading with me. “Why can’t you take it?” she says.
“You and Tony talked about that?”
“A little. He thinks you’d do a good job.”
“This from the man who gave us the gold-plated reference for Gilbert Cheetam.”
“I didn’t know Cheetam. I know you.”
“It doesn’t look good,” I tell her, “your case.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
I’m thinking I will have to deal with Nikki, her wrath, if I take Talia’s case, and obtain her signature if I’m to get the money to do it.
“You said you’d stay with me.” Talia now calls this in like a chit.
“I did, didn’t I.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, then I guess if you want me, I’m yours.”
“I want you,” she says.
There is a little giddiness here on her part. Her mood, elevated, expansive. She throws a mental party on the other side of the glass. I sense that she was less than confident that I would take the case. I can tell that I have made her day.
“I know it’s not the time, but we have to talk about finances.”
“Pick a lawyer and the first thing he wants to talk about is money,” she says.
“Besides my fees there will be costs,” I say, “expert witnesses, lab tests. All the things that Cheetam either didn’t do or did wrong.”
“Tony’s handling all of that,” she says. “He’s handling the money.”
“I met with Tony at his office the other night. He called me. Seem’s he’s getting nervous about the costs of defense.”
“What’s his problem? He knows I’m going to sell him Ben’s share in the firm when this is over.”
“Yeah, well, I hesitate to break the bad news, but I think he’s looking for a discount.”
She says a single word of profanity, to herself, under her breath. She is holding her head in her hands now, tilting it to one side and cradling the phone with her shoulder, elbows propped on the countertop. I can no longer see her eyes. They are lost behind a shower of stringy ringlets cascading over her face.
I’ve knocked the wind out of her, killed the euphoria of her celebration-my news and this place, which breeds manic-depression.
“What does he want?” She speaks from this pit.
“He’s offering cash in advance for a buy-out of your entire interest in the firm.”
“How much?”
“I got him up to three hundred thousand. I think he’ll go higher.”
She shakes her head, hair tangled in her eyes, looking at me now, almost accusing. I can hear the little voice in her head: “You got him up to three hundred thousand for full partnership interest in a firm worth ten million. Wonderful! Were you able to do me any other little favors while you were at it?”
“It’s absurd,” I tell her. “I told him I’d communicate the offer, but that I wouldn’t recommend it-that I was confident that you would not take it.”
These words are brave, considering that Talia now sits in jail, perhaps lacking the financial wherewithal to post her own bail.
“Skarpellos.” She shakes her head in despair. “Ben always said he had a gift for business.”
“The man knows when to make an offer,” I say.
“The man’s a world-class shit,” she says. It’s the first harsh word I’ve heard from her during the months of her travail. The first time she has blamed another living soul for any part of her plight. Talia is many things, but never a complainer. I take it as a sign of the stress she is under.
“What else can I do?” She’s says this matter-of-factly. As if she has made a mercurial decision to take the Greek’s offer.
“You can keep your cool. Don’t panic. For now I have him believing that money is no problem. Seems I’ve broken his lever.” This thought gives me happy eyes, which she reads from beyond the glass.
“How?”
“Told him I might take a piece of your action for myself. That I might finance the defense out of my pocket, take a note from you, secured on Ben’s interest in the firm. You should have seen the look,” I tell her.
“I can imagine.” There is a brief moment of satisfaction. A light, airy smile. Then she turns serious. “Still,” she says, “Skarpellos is nobody to toy with. He can hurt you i
n a hundred ways, all of them legal. Besides, where would you get the money?”
“Not to worry,” I say. “I can get it.”
If she has to sleep in this place for another night, I may have at least removed one cause for insomnia.
“I have to go now. To prepare for the bail hearing. Harry will be by later to talk to you. While you’re in here, either he or I will be by twice a day. A friendly face,” I tell her. “It will keep you from talking to strangers.”
“Tod will be by later too.”
I’m a bit surprised by this. While he was there for at least part of each day of the preliminary hearing, discreet in the back of the courtroom, I would have thought that by now, with all of her troubles, Tod Hamilton would view Talia as a sure career-stopper.
“Don’t discuss the case with him,” I tell her.
“It’s a little late for that. He knows what there is to know.”
The way she says this, with my recollection of their private conversation the night we talked at her house about the missing handgun, I wonder whether Tod knows more than I do.
“Don’t discuss the case with him. Whatever you’ve told him before may be privileged. He’s part of the firm. As long as I was associated with P amp;S, I could argue that his lips were sealed by the lawyer-client privilege. That may all change now.”
She nods. I think she understands.
“I’ll see you in court this afternoon.”
We put down the receivers, and before I leave, I watch as she is ushered through a heavy steel door at the side of the visiting room.
Nelson is pressing for the sky. He says he’s prepared to ask for three million in bail on Talia. I’m incredulous. I rain fury on him as we talk over the phone.
“It’s outrageous,” I say. “No court will permit it.”
“Not at all,” he says. “Whatever it takes to secure the defendant’s appearance at trial. This is a lady with big bucks. Two hundred thousand-hell, that’s travelin’ money.”
“Her assets are tied up. She’s cash-starved. Three million,” I say, “you may as well move that she be denied bail altogether.”
“It’s an idea,” he says.
“You’re overreaching,” I tell him. “On what grounds? That the lady’s a serial killer-that she’s been out beating up witnesses? She doesn’t even have a passport,” I tell him. It was true. Ben was so busy doing business that he hadn’t taken a vacation longer than three days since he’d married her. And Talia, while bored, hadn’t yet hit on the idea of separate vacations. She found other outlets for her energies, diversions closer to home.
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