Raising Cain

by Gallatin Warfield

  “You’re going to need a subpoena,” Travis responded.

  “Can I send it to you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. Thanks a lot, Officer Travis.”

  “It’s just Travis.”

  Brownie grinned. “But you were Officer Travis at one time.”

  “You got me. Badge two-four-six-four, D.C. police, fourteen years.”

  Brownie thanked him again and hung up. While Gardner worked his murder case, Brownie was working another. He looked at the numbers in his hand. Now all he had to do was draft a bogus subpoena, send it to Travis, and pick up the printout. If the 911 call was listed, he’d be halfway there.

  Jennifer had slept fitfully. She was still restless and irritated about the sudden change in their lives. The suicide defense was just that: suicide. She didn’t like it at all, but she wasn’t leading the defense team. Today she’d agreed to do some fieldwork, to interview a witness who would talk to them: Officer Billy Hill, first cop on the scene the night Ruth died.

  The police dispatcher told Hill to wait for a contact by the off-ramp of the interstate highway. When Jennifer arrived, the rookie was standing by his car. “Hello, Ms. Munday,” he said.

  “How are you, Billy?” Jennifer had met him a few times as prosecutor and heard his debriefing the morning after the electrocution.

  “You want to talk to me?” Billy seemed nervous. King had tried to intimidate him, ordering all witnesses to remain silent until trial.

  “Yes,” Jennifer replied. “Do you want to sit in my car?” The wind had picked up, and it was getting quite brisk.

  Billy declined. “Can we do it here?”

  “Whatever you say. I need you to tell me about Ruth’s body position against the grid.”

  “He was just hangin’ there.”

  “You have to be more specific than that. I know you told Mr. Lawson about this before, but it’s more important now, especially for Brownie. Think back. Exactly what did you see?”

  “The handcuffs were hooked into one of the levers.”

  “What do you mean, hooked into?”

  “Dunno exactly. The lever was here and his hands were here.” Billy demonstrated.

  “Were the cuffs attached in any way?”

  “Attached?”

  “You said they were ‘hooked into’ the lever. Were they attached to it, or were they just draped over it?”

  “Dunno.”

  Jennifer rubbed her hands together. “Think, Billy. This is important. You had the power shut down, and you removed him from the grid before anyone else got there. Did you have any trouble unhooking the cuffs, or did they come right off the lever?”

  “He was hung up on the lever.”

  “I understand that, but did you have any difficulty lifting him off?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Then, if you’re asked in court, you could say that the cuffs were simply draped over the lever, they weren’t attached to it.”

  Billy hesitated.

  “That’s what you just told me in so many words.”

  “Yeah,” Billy replied. “Guess I could say that.”

  Jennifer smiled. At last some direct proof supporting suicide. Ruth was not chained to the grid. Gardner should be pleased.

  “But…” Billy had a second thought.

  Jennifer stopped smiling. “What?”

  “That’s not what I told Mr. King.”

  “You gave a statement?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “In writing?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And he got you to say that the cuffs were attached to the grid….” Jennifer knew King’s blitzkrieg routine: get there first and get a statement that supports your theory, factually correct or not.

  “Yeah.”

  “But that’s not altogether true, is it?”

  Billy looked upset. “No, I guess not.”

  “All right,” Jennifer said. “At least we know how it really was. The cuffs were merely resting on top of the lever. They weren’t hooked to it.”

  “Right.”

  “If we ask you about it in court, you know what to say?”

  “That he wasn’t attached. But what about my statement? Mr. King’s gonna have a shitfit if I change my testimony.”

  Jennifer pushed back her glasses. “Don’t worry. You just tell the truth, what you really saw. Let us worry about King.”

  She said good-bye, got in her car, and drove away. At the very least, Hill’s testimony wouldn’t hurt them. But it wouldn’t do them a lot of good, either.

  “Breaking and entering in progress at the high school; intruders are armed and dangerous,” the dispatcher said on the radio in Brownie’s squad car. Brownie flicked on his siren and sped toward the scene. He arrived at the hill leading to the school and stopped his car. He drew his service weapon, ran to the front door of the school, and kicked it in. He could hear voices. He crouched, entered a room, and people scurried for cover. There were books and papers strewn on the floor, and the walls were spray-painted with graffiti. Brownie dropped behind a desk and pointed his weapon. “Come out, motherfucker!” he screamed.

  A head appeared from a pile of overturned chairs.

  “Hands up,” Brownie ordered.

  The person stood but didn’t comply.

  “Hands up!” Brownie shrieked.

  The person didn’t move.

  Brownie squeezed the trigger to the last possible stop point. “Do it!”

  The person changed into a child just as Brownie fired, just as he realized who the person was.

  “Aahhh!” Brownie sat up in bed. He rubbed his eyes, and mopped the sweat from his forehead. He turned on the light; his heart was racing, his sweat dripping. For a few minutes he sat there, trying to calm down. Then he opened the drawer to his nightstand and withdrew a phone book.

  Brownie lifted the phone and dialed a telephone number in Washington, D.C.

  It rang eight times before a groggy voice said, “Hello?”

  Brownie couldn’t do it. He hung up the phone and sat in silence. He had a lot to say to Paulie. But when he tried, nothing came out.

  nineteen

  Gardner held the telephone to his ear as he stood behind his desk. He was back at work, pursuing the CAIN guard’s comment that someone in the police department had been harassing Ruth before he died.

  “Don’t do this to me, Larry,” Gardner told Larry Gray, the police chief. “The information I’m looking for isn’t privileged. I’m entitled to it.”

  “Take it easy, Gard,” the chief replied. “I’m giving it to you straight. I was unaware of any sting operation against Ruth.”

  “He was being hassled by a cop,” Gardner countered, “and I’m certain it wasn’t Brownie.”

  “Well, whoever it was didn’t have official authorization. I haven’t heard anything about it. You’ve got to believe me. I’ve got nothing to gain from saying otherwise.”

  “I believe you, Larry.”

  Gardner thought about his options. “Can you give me Frank Davis’s patrol schedule the week preceding Ruth’s death?”

  “Davis?”

  “Maybe Frank knows something. He was assigned to that beat, remember?”

  “You never give up, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re always after Davis. Why don’t you leave him alone?”

  Gardner pressed his knee against the desk. “The guy’s a loose cannon.”

  “That may be, but we told you before he was not involved in the killing. We confirmed that right after the fact; he has an alibi. He’s been cleared of involvement.”

  “By whom?”

  “By us.”

  “By you, maybe, but not by me. I want his schedule.”

  “You can have it, but it won’t do you any good. His time has been accounted for.”

  “Please fax it to me,” Gardner said.

  “Sure,” Larry answered. “Right away. Gard…”

&n
bsp; “What?”

  “I really do want to help.”

  “I appreciate it, Larry.”

  “Give Brownie my best. We’re all pulling for him.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Gardner said as he hung up. They had been close, he and Larry. But now that he’d changed sides, it wasn’t the same.

  Gardner picked up the phone again and dialed the clerk’s office. The CIAIN guard said Ruth had seen a lawyer; if it was true, then the logical thing for that lawyer to do was file a civil injunction. Maybe Judy Field had heard something about it.

  “File desk,” Judy answered.

  “Gardner Lawson here.”

  “Hi, Mr. Lawson. How are you doing?”

  “Getting by. Judy, I have a request, and it may sound strange….”

  “What?”

  “Before Thomas Ruth was killed, I believe that a police officer was harassing him. Did you ever hear anything about that?”

  “There was something, as I recall,” she said hesitantly.

  “What?”

  “A petition involving Ruth.…”

  “Injunctive relief for harassment?”

  “I think so.”

  “What lawyer filed the petition?”

  “Uh… King,” Judy exclaimed. “Kent King. But—”

  “Damn!”

  “But Mr. Lawson,” Judy continued, “it was withdrawn prior to filing. I pulled it out myself.”

  “On whose orders?”

  “Mr. King’s. Had me pull it before it was logged.”

  “Judy, think hard,” Gardner said. “Was that before or after Ruth died?”

  “After, I’m pretty sure. Mr. King made a joke about the guy being dead.”

  “Judy, this is very important. Do you remember the name of the police officer?”

  “Uhhh… it was… Officer Davis!”

  “Frank Davis?”

  “That’s who I remember.”

  Gardner wrote the name in huge black letters on his pad. “Judy, you’re a doll. I owe you big-time.” He thanked her and hung up. So it was Davis after all, just as he’d suspected. Brownie was not the cop after Ruth. And “Special Prosecutor” King had known it all along.

  Jennifer walked up the front steps of Valley High School. She had decided to follow up her visit to the evidence vault with some additional investigation.

  Jennifer checked at the front desk and confirmed that Miss Bertie was in the principal’s office. She had never met the legendary teacher, the person whose lessons had shaped a generation.

  “Go right in,” the receptionist said.

  Jennifer entered and found a gray-haired woman grading papers. “Miss Bertie,” she said tentatively, “I’m Jennifer Munday. We spoke earlier.”

  The teacher eyed her as if she were late to class. “Sit down, please.”

  “Thanks. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  Miss Bertie laid her marking pencil aside. “No, dear. I’m just getting caught up on exam papers.… What did you say your name was again?”

  “It’s Munday, but I’m not from around here. I went to school in Baltimore.”

  “That’s nice, dear.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about a couple of your former students.”

  Bertie adjusted a cable-knit sweater draped around her thin shoulders. “Are you a lawyer?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good for you, dear.”

  “Thank you. I want to know about the Brown brothers, Joseph and Paul. They were students here almost twenty years ago. They lived in Blocktown.”

  “Blocktown,” Bertie repeated.

  Jennifer nodded. “Paul and Joseph Brown. One has been on the police force for some time as a sergeant—”

  “And he’s in trouble.”

  “Right. I’m one of his attorneys. Do you remember him as a student?”

  The teacher nodded. “Nice boy. Smart. Polite. Friendly.”

  “That’s him. Tell me about Paul. What was he like?”

  “He was a scalawag, not like Joseph. He was always getting into scrapes. He’d fight at the drop of a hat, didn’t matter how big the boys were or how many. He didn’t care.”

  “Did Joseph ever fight?”

  “No.” Bertie moved her sharp chin to the side. “Not that I remember. He got along with everyone, had a lot of friends, white and black.”

  “But how did the two brothers relate to each other?”

  “As well as brothers can, I suppose.”

  “So they were friendly?”

  “Yes, as I recall. Until the incident.”

  “Incident?”

  “The vandalism case.” Bertie frowned deeply. “They almost destroyed the school, those little thugsI haven’t thought about that for a long time.”

  “What happened?”

  “They tore the history room up, spray-painted the walls, ripped up books… such destruction!”

  “Was Paul Brown involved?”

  “Yes, my Lord. He was the main one.”

  “So he was a student at the time?”

  “Yes, a senior. The older one had already graduated and joined the police.”

  Jennifer made a note on the back of an envelope.

  “That was such a shame,” Bertie said suddenly.

  “What?” Jennifer looked up.

  “What they made him do.”

  Jennifer put the envelope in her purse. “Who?”

  “The older one, the nice one,” Bertie said wistfully. “I could never understand why they did that… why the police made him arrest his own brother.”

  Gardner was pumped up. He stopped by the courthouse to obtain a copy of the log where King’s injunction motion had been noted and then raced to King’s office to confront him with the facts.

  King was wearing reading glasses, poring over a file. “This better be good,” he said. “I’m very busy.”

  “Take a look at this,” Gardner said, passing the log across the desk. The entry regarding King had been circled in red marker.

  The special prosecutor picked up the paper, read it slowly, and put it down on the desk. “So?”

  “You knew that Ruth was being harassed by a police officer before he was killed,” Gardner charged. “You knew it was Davis, not Brownie, and you kept it quiet.” King’s expression was calm, almost bored, as Gardner continued. “You suppressed exculpatory evidence and indicted a man you knew was innocent. As a prosecutor, you fucked up.”

  King laughed. “How long have we known each other?”

  “Too long.”

  “Really,” King continued, “how long? Seven, eight years?”

  “Yes. So what?”

  “Do you have that low an opinion of my intelligence? Do you really think I would expose myself to that kind of allegation?”

  The normal answer would have been no; King wasn’t that stupid. But with the change of sides and the new perspective, maybe he’d slipped.

  “First of all”— King removed his glasses—“I am and have been fully aware of this from the beginning. I did see Ruth, I knew that Davis was bothering him, and I did prepare the injunction. But after Ruth died, I canceled the pleading, and I interrogated Davis at length about the allegations.” King reached into his desk and took out a piece of white paper. “Davis was polygraphed, and he passed with flying colors. I concluded with absolute certainty that Davis was clean and eliminated him as a suspect.”

  “But you obstructed justice,” Gardner blustered. “You had a duty to disclose your relationship with Ruth before accepting the appointment as special prosecutor!”

  “Not so. I took the job with a commitment to find and prosecute Ruth’s killer. Davis, in fact, was my first suspect, and had he not been cleared, he’d be standing trial now. My actions were proper in every respect.”

  “So why was Davis jacking up Ruth in the first place?”

  “Bird-dogging a promotion. You set the agenda for the CAIN surveillance, remember? Ruth was implicated in Old Man Brown’s death, all that sh
it? Davis got caught up in the hunt, figured if he made Ruth confess, he’d be a hero and get the recognition he deserved.”

  Gardner frowned. “At the very least this is exculpatory information. You had an absolute obligation to turn it over to me. Remember the Brady case? You have to reveal evidence that clears the defendant!”

  “Brady doesn’t apply here,” King replied coolly. “I confirmed that the information did not exculpate Brown. I followed the lead, and satisfied myself that Davis did not commit the crime. There was nothing exculpatory to report.”

  “I still should have been told,” Gardner argued. “I could use it at trial—”

  “Not now,” King interrupted. “I was planning to inform you about it until you came up with the suicide defense. Now I don’t have to give you anything.”

  Gardner realized he was right. The someone-else-did-it defense and the suicide defense were mutually exclusive. By choosing suicide, he had abandoned the legal argument that a third party had killed Ruth. In that situation, proof of someone else’s involvement became irrelevant. He couldn’t have it both ways; he had to choose one or the other.

  “Have you changed your mind about suicide?” King asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you get no discovery under Brady. I don’t think you intend to tell the jury, ‘Ruth killed himself, and oh, by the way, if you don’t believe that, someone else did it.’ You see your dilemma?”

  “Yes,” Gardner said bitterly. “I see it.”

  “You decided to go this way, and I didn’t force you. Now what were you saying before about beating me?”

  Gardner stood up suddenly and started for the door.

  “Have a nice day.” King chuckled.

  Gardner turned. “I still want those medical records. The affidavit to Ransome certifies a good-faith effort to obtain them without success. The ball is in your court, and you’d better turn them over.”

  King crossed his arms. “For the fiftieth time, I don’t have the fucking records.”

  Gardner pointed his finger. “Then you’d better get them.”

  King saluted as Gardner slammed the door. The Davis lead had been a total disaster. It wasted time, went nowhere, and allowed King to humiliate him. How could he have screwed up so badly? As a prosecutor, this never would have happened. But he was not a prosecutor anymore. And that fact was painfully obvious.