Stella became enraged over the man’s stupidity. “You’ll get your chance later,” she said, lashing out with her hand and knocking the camera away. Seeing the jurors being led in by the bailiff, she quickly organized her notes on the table and tuned out the cacophony around her. The judge was on the stand, the jury in the box, and Stella was ready to get down to the business at hand.
A woman with large, expressive eyes and a regal face was seated at the counsel table between Stella and her co-counsel, Larry Kominsky, an bright young attorney with red hair and freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. Brenda Anderson was the D.A.‘s investigator assigned to the case. An African American, Anderson held an undergraduate degree in computer science and a master’s in criminology. She had worked her way up through the ranks of the Dallas Police Department before obtaining her present position, and was now recognized throughout the state as the technical wizard of the Dallas area, her expertise in great demand. Seeing what she had never seen before, she exclaimed, “My God, Stella, what did you do to yourself?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later, Brenda,” Stella whispered. “Right now we’re going to kick some ass,”
“Ms. Cataloni,” Judge Malcolm Chambers said into the microphone. Chambers’ face was tired and lined, his white hair unruly, his glasses perched far down on his nose. If he noticed the scar on Stella’s cheek, he didn’t react. “You may resume where you left off prior to recess.”
“Thank you. Your Honor,” Stella said. Standing and glancing over at the jurors, she saw the shock register on their faces when they spotted the scar. Look all you want, she told them in her mind, just listen close because I’m about to connect the dots.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, turning slightly so she was facing the jurors, but keeping the right side of her face clearly within their sight. “Before we recessed, I reiterated the facts presented in this case. Before you begin your deliberations, I want you to remember the victim in this case. Remember the autopsy photos you viewed during the course of this trial.” Stella lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Imagine, if you can, what Ricky McKinley would have looked like had he managed to survive the defendant’s savage attack.” She stopped speaking and waited, standing as still as a statue, her face completely expressionless.
“Why am I asking you to do this?” she finally continued. “I’m asking you to do it because Ricky McKinley didn’t survive. He isn’t here to confront his attacker, to tell you firsthand of the agony and horror he was made to endure at the hands of the defendant. Even if this child had escaped death somehow, he would have led a life of anguish and despair. He would have never looked normal, never been accepted by his peers, never been free of fear. You can’t hear his pleas for justice, for they are only ghostly cries from the grave,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I can hear his cries, though, just as I can imagine the unbearable pain he must have suffered when the defendant tossed battery acid in his face.”
Stella walked over to the jury box, one finger trailing along the railing. “For six years Ricky McKinley has been dead,” she said forcefully, “and for six years the man who murdered and brutalized him has walked the streets as a free man.”
The courtroom was silent. No one whispered, no one moved, no clothes rustled. Every eye was glued on Stella, the jurors tracking her as she paced, never for one second looking away. Stella’s brow and upper lip were moist with perspiration, and she could feel sweat trickling between her breasts and soaking her armpits. “This despicable person, this predator,” she said, throwing her arm out in the direction of the defendant as she walked, “lured Ricky McKinley into his car, drove him to a cheap motel, and viciously sodomized him. Then he beat him to within an inch of his life, sprayed shaving cream in his mouth and nose, and made him cower in the comer under a table. Was that enough?” Stella said, arching an eyebrow. “The defendant’s perverted cravings were satisfied. What more did he need?” She stopped and shrugged, as if she were waiting for someone to give her the answer.
“No,” she suddenly shouted, her body trembling with emotion, “it was not enough.” Her speech became faster now as she gathered momentum. “He proceeded to carry Ricky’s bloody and battered body to the trunk of his car. He then drove to an isolated field and threw battery acid in his face, eating the skin off the bone. He didn’t care that Ricky was mutilated beyond recognition, that his body would later be identified only through dental records, his face unrecognizable even to the woman who gave birth to him. All the defendant cared about was avoiding arrest, making certain that this pathetic child never identified him and caused him to suffer the consequences of his actions. In order to feel safe,” she said, “Gregory Pelham had to blind an eight-year-old child.”
Striding back to the counsel table, Stella’s eyes fell on Judy McKinley, the victim’s mother, seated in the second row behind the counsel table. The woman’s shoulders were shaking and tears were streaming down her face. Turning around and touching her arm, Stella spun back to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “the fate of this man now rests in your hands, along with the fate of his future victims.” She searched the jurors’ faces, as if she were committing them to memory and holding each of them accountable. “Once you have considered the overwhelming evidence the state has presented,” she said slowly and distinctly, “you will know that there is only one verdict that can be returned in this case. As Ricky’s avenging angels, you must put this man behind bars where he belongs and allow this poor child’s soul to finally find peace.”
The jury deliberated two hours.
Having been notified by the bailiff that the verdict was in, Stella hurried back to the courtroom with Ben Growman, Larry Kominsky, and Brenda Anderson, all of them anxious. Kominsky appeared younger than his thirty-one years. A West Point graduate, he had abandoned his career in the military to become an attorney. Next to Stella, he was one of Dallas’s finest prosecutors, his diminutive size and fresh-faced appearance deceptively innocent and naive.
Brenda Anderson was dressed in a conservative knit dress, the hemline several inches below her knees. Her neck was long and elegant, her hair worn in a tight knot at the base of her head. Reserved when she was in a group, but outspoken when she related one on one, she walked next to Stella with her head down. Their heels tapped on the linoleum flooring.
“We’ve got it,” Kominsky said, looking up at the ceiling as if the word had just come down from God himself. “The jury was out only two hours. Stella’s decision to expose her scars was brilliant. There’s no way they’ll acquit the bastard now.” He paused and smiled, about to do one of his notorious tap dances. Every time he won a case, Kominsky did a little dance in the lobby of the D.A.‘s office. “Shit, I feel it in my bones.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Growman said, yanking on his shirt cuffs. He stopped and faced Kominsky, hissing his words through his teeth. “Don’t you have an ounce of sense? Don’t you realize what it took for this woman to expose herself in front of the cameras?”
The attorney looked at Stella and blanched. “I’m sorry, okay,” he said. “I didn’t think. Please, forgive me, Stella, but…it was great, you know. The part I liked best was, ‘Imagine, if you can.’ Man, was that a piece of work. You should have seen the jurors’ faces.”
“Thanks, Larry,” Stella said, flinging open the door to the courtroom. “Let’s just hope it was worth it.”
The three attorneys took their seats. It was after six in the evening, and most of the spectators had gone home, not expecting a verdict until the following day. Only the press and members of the immediate family were assembled in the courtroom. Since Growman was present, Brenda Anderson slipped in the front row next to Judy McKinley and a few other members of the victim’s family. Once the jury had filed in and been seated, the judge called the court to order and asked the jurors if they had reached a verdict.
“Yes, we have,” the foreman said, an older man with wire-framed glasses and red suspenders. He was a retired engineer w
ho had once worked at Texas Instruments.
At the judge’s instructions the bailiff collected the forms from the foreman and delivered them to the court clerk. “Will the defendant please rise?” the woman said.
Gregory Pelham was a short, dark-skinned man with heavy-lidded eyes and rust-colored hair. He was dressed in an inexpensive brown suit, a paisley print tie, and a pink shirt. When his attorney nudged him, he pushed himself to his feet and scowled at Stella before turning to face die front of the courtroom.
“You may read the verdict,” the judge told the clerk.
“We, the jury,” she read, “find the defendant guilty of murder in the death of Richard W. McKinley, as charged in Count One of the indictment.”
Stella stood straight up from her seat. Growman pulled her back down. He was pleased, but there were additional charges, and he wanted to hear the jurors’ decisions on these as well. Due to the age of the case and the lack of substantial evidence that the defendant had premeditated his attack, they had not filed charges of capital murder, an offense that carried the death penalty. They had, however, filed several other charges, the most significant of them being kidnapping.
“We, the jury,” the clerk continued, “Find the defendant guilty as charged in the crime of kidnapping, as set forth in Count Two of the indictment.”
Kominsky leaned forward and whispered to Stella and Growman. “I’ll buy the champagne.” No longer concerned about the remainder of the charges, he slipped out the back.
Stella listened as the rest of the verdicts were read, most of the charges classified as lesser or included crimes. Many times the prosecution would file numerous counts all reflective of the same period of criminal behavior. If the jury convicted on one count, it could not convict on the others. As Stella had expected, Pelham was found not guilty on the remaining counts.
Once the clerk had finished reading the verdicts, the judge set a date for sentencing and promptly adjourned. Reporters leaped to their feet and rushed the counsel table, thrusting microphones in Stella’s face. “How long do you think Pelham will go to prison?” one male reporter said, shoving several other reporters aside.
“We hope to get a maximum sentence,” Stella said, ripping the rubber band out of her hair and pulling the right side forward so it covered her scars. “If the judge sentences consecutively on both the murder and the kidnapping charges, Mr. Pelham may never step outside the prison walls.”
“What happened to your face? Was it a recent accident or is it an old injury? Did you decide to expose it at the last minute to influence the jury?”
Questions flew at her from all directions. “No comment,” Stella said. She turned to say something to Ben Growman, and then walked over and embraced Judy McKinley. “It’s over, Judy,” she said. “Maybe you can get on with your life now.”
“Thank you,” the woman said, sobbing. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you. You were wonderful today. I don’t know what happened to you, but—”
Stella released her when Growman stepped up beside her. The television cameras were rolling again and the photographers were snapping shots of the two of them together. “You’ve said you might retire next year,” a woman reporter said to Growman. “Are the rumors true that you’re grooming Ms. Cataloni as your successor?”
Growman beamed, moving closer to Stella and draping an arm over her shoulder. “That’s a clear possibility, young lady,” he said, using the relaxed, folksy tone of a seasoned politician. “To tell you all the truth, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather endorse than Stella Cataloni. She’s the finest prosecutor we’ve ever had in this agency.” He glanced over at Stella, smiled and then chuckled. “Maybe I’ll even organize her campaign. Heck, I’ve got to do something after I retire. Of course, that’s if she’ll have me.”
Stella felt her chest swell with pride. When a man with twenty years in on a job, as respected and revered as Ben Growman, issued a glowing recommendation on national TV, it was tantamount to handing over the keys to his office. Feeling his hand brush against her side, she reached down and squeezed it. Stella was on a high, and she loved it. Nothing could stop her now.
Stella, Growman, Kominsky, Anderson, and several other senior D.A.‘s gathered in the conference room, better known as the war room. Once a week Growman assembled the senior staff and department heads, and they all faced each other around the long oak table as he made work assignments and commented about various aspects of ongoing cases. The table was now covered with paper napkins, pizza boxes, plastic cups, open bottles of champagne, and a festive atmosphere prevailed.
Also present was Samuel Weinstein, Stella’s planned dinner companion for the evening. They had made arrangements to get together before she realized the verdict would be in on the Pelham case. Technically, Weinstein was Stella’s divorce attorney, but even before she hired him to represent her in the dissolution of her marriage, they had moved in the same small world. Weinstein was a close acquaintance of Ben Growman’s and had met everyone in the room on at least one or two occasions. Dallas, like many towns, had specific social circles. People who were in the law game generally belonged to the same private clubs, worked out at the same gym, had drinks at the same bars, and moved within a defined social circle. Two industries were predominant in Dallas—insurance and oil—although in recent years the skyscrapers that housed the enormous insurance firms had dwarfed what remained of the oil business. Then there was Dallas old money, what Stella referred to as the “Highland Park Crowd,” basically old-line Dallas families, many of which had inherited their fortunes. Highland Park was an affluent, older area in north Dallas, most of the homes well over a million dollars. High-tech companies like Ross Perot’s Texas Instruments had also sprung up through the years, and their employees had created a world unto themselves.
Lately Stella had been spending a great deal of time with Weinstein, not all of it related to her divorce. Sam was a good-looking man and a dynamite divorce attorney, but in some ways he was old-fashioned. Only forty-three, he had been a widower for over ten years, having lost his young wife to breast cancer. Stella found him appealing, even if he was a tad too conservative. With his curly hair and penetrating eyes, a prominent nose and strong jaw, the attorney had been a steadying influence as she navigated the emotional waters of her divorce. From time to time he took her out to dinner, assuring her that everything would turn out fine if she only gave it enough time and didn’t panic. But Stella was still undecided where she wanted the relationship to go.
“You shouldn’t drink so much champagne,” he told her, scowling. “You’ll make yourself sick. You didn’t have dinner. You didn’t even eat the pizza.”
“Oh, yeah,” Stella said, tipping another plastic cup of champagne into her mouth. “After today I think I deserve to get sloshed. If it all comes back up, so be it.”
The rest of the table responded with laughter. Growman stood. “To Stella,” he said, holding his champagne glass in the air. “We should all be so dedicated. Take a good look at her, people, because in a few years Stella Cataloni is going to be the new D.A. of Dallas County. Yours truly will be just another old fool puttering around on the golf course.”
Stella grabbed her glass and tapped it against every glass at the table, leaning over to reach some of them on the far end.
“Speech,” Kominsky called out. He had already emptied one bottle of champagne long before the others had arrived.
“I’m too drunk to give a speech,” Stella mumbled under her breath. Then she lifted her glass again, “To Ben Growman,” she offered. “May he retire post haste. Then I can sit at the head of the table and make your lives hell.” When she tapped into Sam’s glass, it tipped and champagne spilled down the front of his suit. He reached for a napkin and tried to soak up some of the wine.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Stella said, frowning.
“Coffee,” Kominsky yelled. “Get the woman some coffee. We’ve got a sauced prosecutor on our hands. Two, actually.”
Brend
a Anderson left to see if there was any coffee left in the kitchen down the hall. Seated next to Stella, Growman leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I had my secretary tape your interview off the television today. Come by my office and I’ll give you the tape as a souvenir. If you study it, you’ll learn how to present yourself to the media. That’s part of the game, you know. Once you start campaigning, you’ll want to become more polished.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Stella’s lighthearted mood evaporated. She had exposed her scars and won the case, but now it was over, and she certainly didn’t want a souvenir of herself looking like a freak. “I’m ready to go,” she told Sam, patting down the hair on the right side of her face. “It’s been a long day, and you’re right, if I keep drinking, I’m going to pass out or get sick.”
Standing to leave, she told herself that Sam was special. She had learned to respect him, even lean on him during the past eight or nine months. Raising his twelve-year-old son alone while managing a thriving law practice had to be a difficult task. Stella was so obsessed with her job that she couldn’t even appease her husband, let alone handle the demands associated with raising a child.
A junior attorney, looking haggard, stuck her head in the door. “I have a call for you, Stella,” she said. “Do you want to take it or should I have them call back in the morning? It’s Holly Oppenheimer from the Houston D.A.‘s office.”
“What line is she on?” Stella asked. Even though Oppenheimer was a prosecutor in Houston now, she had once been a D.A. in Dallas and the two women were friends. Holly had been the prosecutor when Pelham was first tried, and Stella had conferred with her on a regular basis before and during the present trial.
“Line three,” the woman said. “It’s the only line that rings through when the switchboard is closed, and it only rings in my office. Every time I work late, I get stuck with all these calls.”
First Offense Page 37