“And the bottle?”
“The bottle fell and broke.” The officer shrugged. “Once Mr. Bates was taken to detox, I took a picture of the broken bottle on the ground.”
Curtis stood, then walked over to the court reporter holding three large color photographs. “I’m asking these photographs be marked as State’s exhibits one through three.”
The cross-examination of Officer Butler didn’t go badly, but it didn’t go particularly well, either. He stuck to his story and didn’t get flustered or lose his temper. Officer Butler didn’t remember most of the details, but that wasn’t too surprising. It had been just another night of work. Cecil Bates was one of hundreds of arrests he made in a month.
By the end of his testimony, even I had a hard time believing that Officer Butler was making the whole incident up.
Judge Polansky looked at the clock. He then looked at me and, out of mercy, decided to end the day a little early.
The judge turned to the jurors. “This court is going to stand in recess until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. In the meantime, you are not to discuss this matter among yourselves or with anyone else. Although the prosecution rests, the trial is not over. You should avoid all media, television, or Internet. And again, do not discuss this matter with anyone or begin any deliberations.”
Judge Polansky looked back at the prosecutor and then at me. “Anything you all need to put on the record before we recess?”
Both of us stood. “No, Your Honor.”
“Good.” Judge Polansky nodded, and then he stood. “Court is in recess. Please rise and wait as the jurors exit the courtroom.”
We did as we were told. As I turned to watch the jurors leave, I noticed that Emma and Nikolas were in the back of the courtroom.
Over lunch, Emma had told me that she was going to be coming down to the courthouse to deliver some files for review and “see me in action.” But I was surprised to see Nikolas. Except for the night he was robbed in the alley, I don’t think I’d ever seen him outside his little office in the back of the coffee shop.
I turned back to the bench. Judge Polansky and his clerk were gathering up their things. As they left, I walked over to Cynthia Curtis. Quietly, so that Cecil couldn’t hear, I asked, “Any chance that plea offer is still on the table?”
Curtis pursed her lips into a cruel smile. “Not a chance, Glass.” She put her file into her briefcase and slung it over her shoulder. “It’s done. Can’t wait to see what the judge does to you.” She started to walk away, then stopped and looked back. “My guess is that we have a guilty verdict in twenty minutes. How about you?”
She didn’t wait for my answer.
“Not a nice lady.” Cecil watched her go.
“I agree.” I patted Cecil on the back. “Unfortunately, she’s not the worst.” Then we walked toward Emma and Nikolas.
We were now the only people left in the courtroom.
“What’d you think?” I asked Emma.
She hesitated, considering my performance. “You didn’t drool.” She paused. “That’s good.” Another pause, and then a broad smile, and we all began to laugh.
“Cecil,” I said, “let me introduce you to Nikolas. He’s Emma’s cousin.”
“I know.” Cecil nodded and held out his hand and the two shook like old friends. “How’s our project, Nick-o?”
Nikolas was about to answer, but Emma cut him off, nodding toward me. “That’s something Mr. Glass doesn’t need to know about.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I missed the tour at Parker Catholic. Although court ended early, I still had to return all the phone calls and e-mails that I couldn’t respond to while we were in trial. But I was only ten minutes late for the next one at the South County Day School, SoCo for short. I fought through traffic, got off the highway in Clayton, drove down a frontage road, and then pulled into a long drive leading to the main building.
From the looks of it, SoCo appeared to be twice as expensive as the others that I had seen and probably just as expensive as the many other schools that Sammy and the Judge had toured without me. Its campus, once a farm in the late 1800s, unfolded in a series of a dozen classic buildings nestled among a patchwork of gardens and manicured lawns. Despite the late burst of fall heat, the grass was a perfect hue of vibrant green. Through the copious use of magic chemicals, it was unlikely a dandelion had ever sullied the grounds of SoCo.
I parked the car and started walking up to the main campus building. It was solid brick with a large portico. Four white columns rose up three stories, supporting a base that was crowned with an ornate tower, clock, and bell.
It took a few minutes, but I eventually found the admissions office.
I knocked on the door, was told to come in, and stepped inside. Sammy and the Judge were already meeting with the admissions officer. She smiled at Sammy and then at me. “You must be Justin Glass.” She stood and held out her hand. As we shook, she said, “Your daughter is delightful.” Then she winked at Sammy, and Sammy looked away, embarrassed and proud at the same time.
The admissions officer sat back down behind her desk. “As I was saying, we hire local artists and grad students from Washington University to come after school and help our students pursue their own individual passions.” Then to me, “Our curriculum is structured enough to ensure that each child gets a classic education, but flexible enough to provide the appropriate resources for each child to achieve whatever they’ve set as their goals. In short, we want a place where it is cool to be smart.”
. . . and it’ll only cost you $50,000 per year to transform your nerdy kid into a cool one.
For dinner, we all went to Carl’s Drive-In off Manchester Road. The commonfolk of Saint Louis swear by Steak ’n Shake, but the enlightened find their way to the little white building with a seating capacity of about sixteen off a divided road creeping toward suburbia.
Carl’s was a throwback, a restaurant frozen in 1952.
Usually people have to take their order to go in a white sack and eat in their car. We got lucky and nabbed three barstools at the counter. The Judge sat on one side of Sammy and I sat on the other. We were all smiles, watching the people come and go and watching the cooks smash burgers, fry one basket after another of onion rings, and pour frosty mugs of homemade root beer crafted from the original IBC recipe.
After we ordered, Sammy laughed. “Grandma’s gonna be mad she missed this.”
I put my arm around her. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell.”
The Judge joined in, playfully scolding. “Now now, secrets are never good.”
“I guess not.” I pulled some napkins out of the black and chrome dispenser, and then I asked Sammy what had been on my mind since leaving SoCo. “What’d you think of the schools you saw today?”
She kept her eyes on the griddle of burgers. “They’re good.” She shrugged.
“Seemed like you thought they were more than good during the tour.”
Sammy hesitated and then nodded. “Yeah.” She took a deep breath. “But I don’t want to get too excited.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because even if I wanted to go”—Sammy looked at me—“I’m not so sure I can. You know?”
I closed my eyes and nodded. Of course Sammy understood what it would take to go to a school like Baxter or Parker Catholic or SoCo. She wasn’t a naive little girl. She understood money and our circumstances. Then I opened my eyes. I pointed my finger and touched the tip of her nose. “You’re a good kid, Sammy, but you don’t have to worry about that. Let’s find the right school, and then I’m the one who’s going to make sure you get to go.”
Then our food arrived.
We felt satisfied walking out of Carl’s Drive-In. The sun had set. Although the night was still warm, the temperature had dropped fifteen degrees, and there was a cool breeze that hinted of fall.
I was about to ask Sammy whether she wanted to ride back with me to the house in Compton Heights when my phone rang. The screen i
ndicated that it was Emma.
I pressed the button. “You still working?”
Emma didn’t take the bait. She was all business. “You need to come back to the office tonight,” she said.
I looked at my watch. “It’s late. I’m with my daughter, and I want to go home.”
“It’s not that late.” Emma was annoyed. It’s always difficult when the employee is working harder than the boss. “We’ve got something you need to see. Nikolas and Cecil are here, and we’re waiting.”
“You need me back right now?”
There was a moment of silence, and then she said, “Why do you think I called you?”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
All the lights were on. The little storefront was the only sign of life on the entire street. I couldn’t help being curious, despite being tired and wanting to be home. It wouldn’t be that long before I’d have to be back in court for the second day of trial.
Emma, however, was not a dramatic woman. Although she liked tight clothes and big jewelry, she was a professional. She wouldn’t have ordered me back to the office for no reason.
Then I heard the music coming from inside, and suddenly I had my doubts. It was heavy funk—unless I missed my guess, an early Bootsy Collins cut.
I walked to the office, the music getting louder with every step, and when I opened the door, I saw a little party. Cecil and Emma were dancing. Hermes sat in one of the chairs in the waiting area mixing a drink, and Nikolas sat in the chair behind the front desk rolling a joint.
I stood there, unnoticed, for a few seconds, until Cecil saw me as he spun Emma around and into a dip. “There he is,” he shouted over the music. He lifted Emma back up and then pointed at me. “Lawyerman himself.”
Emma, Hermes, and Nikolas cheered.
“I thought this was an emergency.”
Emma laughed. “More like a miracle.” Emma walked toward me, took both of my hands in hers, and looked me in the eyes. “If you don’t do something stupid tomorrow, you might actually win a case.”
Emma sat me down at my desk in front of my computer. Nikolas clicked “Play” and the picture began to move. A weird feeling came over me. The last time I’d watched security footage like this, I’d seen my daughter get beaten up in a school hallway.
Emma assured me it was going to be great. Then she clicked a box, and the picture expanded to full screen. “This is perfect.”
It took me a second, but then I realized that I was watching Cecil sitting in the park. The time and date stamp in the upper right corner indicated that it was going to be a video of his arrest. I looked at Emma. “Where’d you get this?”
She didn’t answer the question. Emma pointed at the screen. “Just watch.”
A minute passed, and then I saw a police car drive slowly past the park where Cecil was sitting and stop. Officer Butler got out of the car, and then he approached Cecil Bates. There was no sound, but already there were contradictions between what I was seeing and the testimony that I had heard at trial.
Cecil was not passed out or sleeping. He was sitting up. He looked alert and seemed to be minding his own business.
At first there was what appeared to be a casual conversation, and then Officer Butler pointed. It was clear that he wanted Cecil to leave.
The mood changed, and Cecil got agitated. He folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t going to leave.
Officer Butler started to walk away, and then he stopped.
“That’s when I called him an asshole.” Cecil laughed. “Not the smartest thing I ever done.”
Officer Butler came back, took out his handcuffs, and told Cecil to stand up. When Cecil didn’t move, the officer grabbed Cecil and pushed him to the ground. There was no bottle. There was no alcohol.
“And that’s it,” Cecil said. “That’s what I been sayin’ happened.”
“OK.” I ran my hands down my face and closed my eyes, trying to think about how this video was going to get into evidence. “Let’s watch this one more time.” I opened my eyes and looked over at Emma and then at Nikolas. “When it’s over maybe our resident computer expert can clarify how you happened to come by this little miracle.”
Cecil piped in. “Came in the mail from the city, responding to my request.”
I couldn’t believe that a city department would respond to anything promptly, much less a data practices request for a security video. “I hear what you’re saying, Cecil,” I said, but I was still looking at Emma and Nikolas. “I just want to talk about it.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The next morning, I held the envelope out to the prosecutor, but Cynthia Curtis wouldn’t look at it. She shook her head, telling me no.
“What do you mean you’re not going to watch it?” I kept my demeanor calm. I didn’t need to get mad. I had all the leverage. “This is the video footage that I had requested. Remember? It’s the video that you told the judge didn’t exist. I want to give you an opportunity to see it before I show it to the jury this morning.”
“You’re not going to show it to the jury.” Curtis continued to shake her head. “You can’t lay foundation for it. You need a witness to authenticate it, and you don’t have one.”
“The subpoenas went out this morning,” I said. “Whether the city staff show up, I don’t know, but I do know that I’m going to get them here one way or another. I’ll ask the judge to issue a warrant if I have to.”
Curtis turned and stepped away from me. “I don’t think so.” She wasn’t going down without a fight. Prosecutors are like that. They hate to lose, even if the case is over nothing.
“Fine.” I began walking down the hallway. “Just going to go talk to the judge.” I pointed at the hallway that led toward Judge Polansky’s chambers. “You coming?”
“I’m not going to talk to the judge.” Curtis didn’t move and refused to look at me. She was in full-tantrum mode, reminding me of a younger Sammy.
I rang Judge Polansky’s chambers. The intercom beeped, and his clerk said, “Chambers.”
“Yes.” I bent over, getting closer to the old wall speaker. It had all been state of the art about fifty years ago; now it was quaint. “This is Justin Glass. We’ve had a development in the Cecil Bates case. I need to talk to the judge before we call the jury in.”
“Fine.” The door buzzed. The lock retracted, and I was able to enter a long, narrow hallway. At the end, there was another hallway with two judicial chambers and direct entrances to the courtrooms.
I followed the signs, and eventually found Judge Polansky’s chambers. His law clerk looked up from her desk, then got up and led me back to the judge. “He’s waiting.”
“Thanks.” I walked into the formal chambers. Then to Judge Polansky, I said, “Good morning, Judge.”
“Good morning.” His back was turned to me. The judge was hacking away at his computer. “One second. Got all these e-mails, like Whac-A-Mole. I get one out and two more come in.”
Judge Polansky pressed “Enter,” and then turned. “What’s going on?” he asked, but before I could answer, he held up his hand. “Where’s Ms. Curtis?”
I wanted to tell him that Ms. Curtis was pouting in the hallway, but thought better of it. “She didn’t want to come in, Your Honor. I wanted her here, but I wasn’t going to force her.”
Judge Polansky grew suspicious. “Why doesn’t she want to come back?” Judges are always concerned about having conversations with attorneys without the opposing party being present. It’s against the rules, although some judges follow the rules better than others.
“Well”—I paused, thinking about the best way to phrase it—“we have an evidentiary issue. It’s a big deal. I don’t want the jury to hear the arguments and cause a mistrial. I’d like your advice as to how to proceed.”
“Seems fair.” Judge Polansky nodded. “I’ll send my clerk to get her.” He pointed back to his outer chamber. “Have a seat out there until she comes.”
If I thought that the prosecutor’
s mood would improve upon further time and reflection, I was wrong. Cynthia Curtis shot me a look that I wouldn’t soon forget as she entered the judge’s chambers. I was going to pay for this.
Upon seeing her, Judge Polansky smiled. “Good, I’m glad you could make it, Ms. Curtis.” His sarcasm was clear. The judge pointed at the chairs in front of his desk. “Now please have a seat.”
We both sat down across from him.
Once settled, Judge Polansky took control. “We have a jury waiting, and Mr. Glass has something that he’d like to discuss.” He checked his watch. “I hope we can get this resolved quickly, because we’ve already wasted a lot of time.”
“Yes, thank you.” I sat up a little straighter and moved to the edge of my seat. “As stated prior to trial, we have been seeking out a security camera video from the City of Saint Louis. It was part of my formal discovery request, and also my client, without my knowledge, sent an open records request to the city on his own prior to trial.”
Judge Polansky nodded. “I remember.”
“Ms. Curtis insisted that no recording existed, and I believe that she sincerely thought that what she was telling the court was true.” I reached into my briefcase and pulled out the large envelope. “But my client received this in the mail yesterday.” Instead of handing it to Judge Polansky, I handed it to Cynthia Curtis. I wanted to force her to touch it and acknowledge that everything about it was authentic. “As you can see, it was sent in an official envelope from the city and postmarked last week, but just arrived. Inside, there is a letter from a city clerk acknowledging receipt of my client’s information request, as well as a digital recording of the evening in question.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. “And I suppose you’ve watched this video?”
“I have, Your Honor, and it’s exactly what my client has been saying all along. In short, it directly contradicts the officer’s sworn testimony. There was no bottle. There was no drinking.”
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