Trial and Terror

by ADAM L PENENBERG

  “Did your phone sex operator teach you that or did you pick it up on your own?”

  Brockton guffawed, patted his chest. “Have a seat.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks,” Summer said. “I want you to consider this conversation covered under attorney-client privilege.”

  Brockton removed his shades and arched his eyebrows. “You want to hire me?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “And all this time I’ve been trying to hire you and you’ve been dissing me over it. Oh, well, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I thought Hightower let you off the hook on that aiding and abetting deal.”

  “This is different. Want the job?”

  “I’ll have one of my in-house whores draw up the contracts.”

  “Do I take that as a ‘yes’?”

  “Want a snort to seal the deal?” He placed the sunglasses on the deck and offered Summer a mirror, a hash mark of coke on it.

  Summer pushed the mirror back at him. “I know someone who was framed on a drug deal. She’s not even my client. What would it take to get her out of jail?”

  “She charged with just possession, or possession with intent to sell?”

  “Both.”

  “She have priors?”

  “Prostitution, but no drugs.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Let’s just say I care.”

  Brockton eyed her. “Bullshit. If I’m going to get your playmate out of the pen I need to know everything.”

  “That’s not what I heard. You still have all your contacts with the D.A. For you, it’s one phone call.”

  “What do I get out of it?”

  “What’s the usual fee?”

  Brockton spread his arms out, indicated the pool, home, and whores. “Do I look like I need your money?”

  “What do you want?”

  He leaned over the mirror and, his eyes trained on Summer’s chest, and sucked up a line. He wiped his nose. “I want you, baby.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “I am serious.”

  “I heard it’s a simple cash transaction.”

  “Usually it is, but since you’ve been ignoring me all these years after our night of margarita magic, I’ve decided I don’t want your money. I want you.”

  “I don’t think the ABA recognizes that as a legitimate form of billing,” Summer said.

  Brockton sniffled. “They don’t recognize making files disappear either.”

  “I’m not having sex with you, Brockton.”

  “Then no deal.”

  After slamming Brockton’s backyard gate shut, Summer hopped into her truck. Why had she come? Was her case that weak? Maybe Raines was right. Maybe the way she was going, the law would snap back.

  On her desk at the office, Chantelle’s report on Strickland was waiting for her. Summer ripped it open and skimmed through the scientific jargon until she got to the point: Strickland and the DNA from the letter did not match. So he hadn’t died in that car wreck.

  Summer held her breath. Could she use this to raise enough doubt in a jury’s eyes to get SK acquitted? She curled up in her chair and sat Indian style.

  Chantelle had included a handwritten note:

  Dear Summer,

  Be very careful. If Strickland is alive and finds out you are looking for him, you could be in danger. Serial killers who have been underground a long time do not like to be rousted.

  I am very sorry about your mother. Let me know if there is anything I can do.

  Chantelle.

  The image of Sonia being excavated from Fayres Lake haunted Summer: Chantelle standing beside her, draping a blanket over her shoulders. It had taken three divers to lift Sonia’s corpse out of the water. Sonia had wrapped chains around cinder blocks to anchor her to the bottom. Clearly a suicide, Chantelle had told Summer.

  Sonia had returned to the source of her guilt and died alongside the memory of her long-lost child. And now Summer wasn’t sure if Sonia and Wib were even her parents. She trusted nothing Marsalis said. But without his help, she might never find out the truth.

  Summer seeped into her chair. She hadn’t eaten or slept since finding Sonia’s body. Her clothes were a half-size too large now, hanging loosely. She checked her face in a compact mirror, bemoaning the paleness of her cheeks, the boniness of her collarbone. The bags under her eyes were so big they couldn’t be stowed in the overhead compartment of a plane. She was going to have to take better care of herself.

  But first, her voice mail, a reel of messages. The crematorium said to pick up Sonia’s ashes. Mahakavi wanted to know when he could expect Strickland’s letter back. Chantelle asked how Summer was feeling. And Tai called: important, he said.

  She dialed his cell phone.

  “Hey,” Tai said. “I’m up in Strickland land, a real logger’s town. Been putting a lot of miles in for you, which I hope you appreciate.”

  “What have you got for me?” she asked.

  “You’re going love this. I’m 100 percent certain Marsalis and Strickland are not the same psycho. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice to say there’s a lot of twisted shit in both their lives. I have one more thing to check on. If it pans out, you’re definitely going to want to buy me dinner.”

  “It would have to be one unbelievable chunk of information,” she said.

  “Does that mean yes?”

  “Bye.” She hung up. When Tai got back to Haze County, she would get him out of her hair by siccing him on Strickland, see what he could turn up.

  She went downstairs and bought a slice of pizza, and then went to the conference room. Rosie was there, listening to her iPod while sipping soup. Summer fished the pizza out of the bag, held it over the trash, and dripped grease.

  The only sound in the room was emanating from Rosie’s earphones. Rosie shut off the music.

  Uncomfortable silence. Finally, Rosie tried to reach out. “You ever meet with Ignacio?”

  “Yes,” Summer said.

  “What did she want?”

  “She claims she saw a woman, and not SK, flee Gundy’s place at the time of the murder. But she wouldn’t talk unless I sprung her.”

  Rosie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck, you are in luck. The judge had to throw the case out.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. They couldn’t find her file. As a last resort, the D.A. offered to plead it down to a misdemeanor, but I held out. Glad I did because she walked.”

  Summer pitched the pizza slice on the table. She tried to run through all of the possibilities, but couldn’t figure out who, besides Brockton—and he didn’t even know who Ignacio was—could have helped her gain her freedom.

  “Who was the prosecutor?” she asked.

  Rosie grinned. “Raines. And boy was he pissed.”

  Summer paced the room. “I have to find Ignacio. Without her testimony, SK is history.”

  “You want to know where to look?”

  “No.”

  Rosie poked herself in the chest. “You want me to find her?”

  “Please.”

  Rosie didn’t say anything. Summer could tell she was being pulled in two different directions.

  Summer sat on the edge of the table. “I need you, Rosie.”

  Rosie gazed at the ceiling, shaking her head and talking all professorially. “I can’t do it. Sorry. SK is your problem. I’ve got a lot of my own shit to do, and I can’t be spending days tracking down a witness for you.”

  She wrapped up her headphone wires and Summer watched her slip out of the room, wondering what had caused their friendship to fizzle.

  Summer wondered if she should get Tai in on this, but was afraid he would find out that she had tried to hire Brockton to interfere. She took a nervous bite of pizza. It was cold, so she chucked it in the trash. She swept into her office to call Brockton.

  “So,” he said smoothly, “you change your mind after all? Well, the price just went up. I can just taste your—”

  Summer dr
opped the phone. If Brockton hadn’t sprung Ignacio, who had?

  Chapter 20

  To accommodate public interest and the press, Judge Hightower had moved the trial to a courtroom that was spacious but a monument to budget-cutting dreariness. Pew-like sections were rimmed by strips of Chianti-colored carpeting marked with threadbare patches. Morning light streamed through the windows and around faux-Roman columns, cutting the court into jagged parts. Art deco light fixtures had been pulled out and replaced by fluorescent rods, some of which were blinking or sizzling or dead. Journalists were relegated to the back of the court, along with other sensation-seekers, while Hightower’s crusty bailiffs, Ed Sprague and Gus Patterson, flanked the judge on both sides.

  SK sat at the defense table in her jail jumpsuit while Summer eyed the jury pool, six dozen Haze County folks slouched in chairs and benches who would determine SK’s fate. Summer was careful not to touch eyes with anyone. She didn’t want anyone to know she was mentally taking notes, tallying the number of Blacks, Asians, Latinos, ex-hippies, and Nancy Pelosi liberals—anyone who stood out in the predominantly starchy white crowd.

  It was no secret that both the defense and prosecution played the race game, trying to pack juries with folks predisposed to aid their cases. If the defendant was a Black or Hispanic male (about 90 percent of the time in Haze County) the prosecution, as a rule, would strike anyone who worked with the poor—teachers, social workers—and also people of the same race, especially older women who, because they might view the defendant like a grandson, would be reluctant to vote guilty. Since SK wasn’t male, Black or Hispanic, Summer figured Raines’s jury selection strategy would be to strike as many women, minorities, and college graduates as possible.

  The defense was little better when it came to race. Summer planned to keep unassimilated Asians off the jury because they’d emigrated from authoritarian states and tended to defer to authority; Republicans (she didn’t like Republicans); upper-middle class Hispanics, who were often conservative; gun owners; religious zealots; and anyone related to a cop.

  In Haze County, that was just about everyone.

  Which was why Summer viewed the law as a subjective interpretation of the truth. Justice didn’t exist in any penal code handbook, but in the hearts and heads of the police, prosecutors, and ultimately, the jury. And verdicts hinged, in large part, on how well lawyers played the jury selection game and venue: acquittals were as dependent on where the defendant committed the crime as on the skills of the attorneys—sometimes more.

  As in real estate, the three most important elements in a criminal case were location, location, location.

  Summer glanced at Raines, who while posing for the Haze County Register sketch artist—cameras were barred—was also tabulating the odds.

  But it was Summer who was playing the long shot. The evidence and the whole Haze County judicial system were stacked against her. Plus, her client was barely speaking to her. In fact, Summer wasn’t sure why SK had retained her.

  Summer turned to SK and spoke in a low murmur. “It’s not too late to ditch the prison garb. A jury would find it a lot easier to believe you’re innocent if you would dress innocent. A dress, a little makeup.”

  “I told you,” SK said. “I’m not playing this game. If I’m going down, I’m going down on my own terms. Maybe the cops will succeed in framing me, but at least I’ll be able to live with myself.”

  Summer made sure no one was listening, and then in a hissy whisper said, “This is a capital case. If you don’t start doing what I tell you, it’s not going to be a question of you living with yourself. It’ll be a question of you dying alone.”

  SK offered Summer a mock laugh. “You don’t engender much confidence. You’ve won one case.”

  “The last two times I went down to the jail, you refused to see me.”

  “I had nothing to say to you.”

  “Then why keep me? Why not file a Marsden?”

  SK looked at the ceiling and sighed. “We share something in common.”

  Summer stared at her client’s profile: the thick red ringlets brushing her ears, her deep green eyes, the freckles raindropped onto worn cheeks, and sensed the tremor of tension beneath her client’s composure. SK was expending enormous energy just keeping herself together.

  Summer’s eyes stung. “Yes, we do. But you’re running out of time. If you don’t want to try and save yourself for you, do it for the women like us. What will happen to them if you’re convicted without your even putting up a legitimate legal challenge? What kind of impact will your life, and your work, have then?”

  SK shot Summer a bitter look.

  Hightower gave the word, and Sprague shepherded twelve prospectives into the jury box, where they awaited his queries. The judge sat regal but pale. Summer had seen him on TV at a fundraiser for cystic fibrosis the night before, pumping hands, slapping backs, pandering for votes; the race against Raines for the bench was close. Hightower wasted no opportunity to get out on the campaign trail.

  He spoke into a microphone. “Testing, test—” There was squeaky feedback until Sprague adjusted the controls. “Can you all hear me? Good. We are gathered here today to bring this man and woman together in holy matrimony.”

  He was greeted by shocked silence. Then he smiled and said, “Gotcha.”

  The jury pool and members of the press broke into laughter. Summer sat in silence. She had heard Hightower’s shtick before.

  “Thank you for attending,” he said. “We’ll be questioning you in groups of twelve. The rest of you, please remain silent.” He turned to the twelve people in the jury box and asked, “Do any of you feel that you cannot render an impartial verdict in this case?”

  A smattering of hands went up. Some judges would automatically have excluded them, but Hightower rarely exempted panelists: his view was that as a judge he had a responsibility to make sure that no one should be able to skip out from their civic duty. But the real reason was that since Haze County was Law and Order U.S.A., and any pool of jurors was bound to share these sentiments, the fewer exemptions he offered meant the more exemptions the defense wasted. Since many trials were won or lost at jury selection, this contributed to Hightower’s high conviction rate.

  The judge consulted a seating chart. “Mr. Andrews?”

  A man with a 30-something face, a 40-something body, and bone-white 50-something hair stood, struggling to pull his jeans over his belly.

  Hightower told him to sit, then asked, “What is it that could prevent you from judging this case fairly?”

  Andrews absently fingered a pack of cigarettes straining against his shirt pocket. “My brother’s a policeman. I know they don’t arrest somebody less they know they got the right guy.”

  “But is there any reason you couldn’t weigh the evidence, give the defendant a fair trial? Remember: In our country, someone is innocent until proven guilty.”

  “That’s the law all right,” Andrews said, “but I think if the police arrest you, you’re guilty. I’m a taxpayer. I think the guy on trial should prove their innocence.”

  “Ah, the Napoleonic code.” Hightower forced a smile. Even now, Summer realized, he was campaigning. “Unfortunately, Mr. Andrews, our law states otherwise. Let me ask you again. Could you be fair and impartial, follow the rules that have been set forth?”

  “I got a business. I’m a private contractor. I don’t work, I don’t eat.”

  The judge scratched an ear and waited.

  Andrews, wheezing like steamed heat, shifted in his chair, finally saying, “Yeah, I could be fair, impartial, follow the laws, whatever.”

  The judge massaged his knuckles. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Andrews,” he said, and moved on to the next prospective juror.

  Summer, working from a grid, made a note to strike Andrews. She only had ten such challenges, ten opportunities to shape the jury.

  SK tugged on Summer’s sleeve. “When do we get to question them?”

  Summer leaned close, gentl
y placing her hand on SK’s shoulder, not only to keep their conversation private but to show the assembled that there was nothing to fear. “During voir dire, judges have the option to question jurors themselves or let the lawyers do it,” Summer whispered. “Judge Hightower likes to keep a tight lid on things, so he questions the jury pool. It certainly speeds up jury selection. We may be able to get through it in one long day. And it could work to our advantage.”

  “How?”

  “The legislature gave judges this power because too many defense attorneys were trying their cases before the jury pools. It was intended as a sop to the prosecution, but it often works to the advantage of the defense. Judges aren’t as good at weeding out the artichokes, the assorted nuts and crazies who, if not carefully questioned, can turn twelve-oh into eleven-one.”

  “You’re going for a hung jury?”

  Summer tapped her fingers on her state law handbook. “I’m going for anything I can get.”

  Hightower held up his seating chart to the light. “Mrs. Rye... Rah-Gee—”

  Summer keyed in on a tangy twang from the back row. “It’s pronounced Rah-shay, but spelled R-a-s-i-e-j,” a busty, polyester-clad woman said. Her hair was bleached and teased; on her lips, she wore talc-white lipstick. Second-generation trailer-park trash, Summer thought. She could almost smell the hair spray.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Rasiej,” Judge Hightower said.

  “Mrs.,” she corrected.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Rasiej. Do you feel you can’t be objective?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Your Honor. I have a lot of trouble with those kinds of people.”

  Hightower rubbed his chin thoughtfully . “Do you personally know Ms. Killington?”

  “Only from the TV.”

  “I see. Well, this is as good a time as any to tell you all that you are ordered to ignore anything you’ve seen or heard through the media. Now, what kind of people are you referring to?”

  “My husband says she’s a—a lesbian,” Rasiej articulated with distaste. “That goes against the word of God.”

  There were some hisses from the visitors’ gallery. Hightower immediately made use of his gavel. “Quiet back there or I’ll clear the court of spectators.”