“Hold him?”
“Yeah, no shit,” Davonte said. “So, he put his arms around me and then tried to kiss me right there in the dayroom! I wasn’t having it, didn’t want no one to see, so I freaked out and punched him.”
“Go on.”
“Just what I said. Was trying to punch him in the nose, but he turned, and I think I caught him right here.” Davonte indicated his jaw. “Don’t know for sure, I was so mad. Then I hit him again, maybe in the eye. When I left, he was sitting on one of them couches, holding a rag to his face.”
Sam looked at Davonte and then got up and walked around his desk to sit in the chair adjacent to the big man. “Okay, this is a start—but it is not a defense. Just so you know, what you’ve given me is a version of what they used to call the ‘gay panic defense’—not a viable defense in the twenty-first century,” Sam explained. “Plus, with that stuff on your phone, no one is gonna believe you panicked. The good news,” he continued, “is that I now understand the cuts on your hands and the bruising on his face. I can explain that now.”
“Shoulda busted him up more,” Davonte said.
“Do yourself a favor,” Sam said. “Don’t ever say that again. Don’t even think it. Now, let’s go back for a second. What happened before he hit on you?”
“I got outside the dorm and he was being an asshole,” Davonte said. “Dude was loud and demanding I come up with the money for the weed right away. I ain’t got that kind of money. He was tellin’ me he was going to rat me out to the coach and the college and the newspapers. Threatening to put ‘his boys’ from Fort Collins on me. I was scared, man. We were arguing and we went into the dayroom.”
“So, did he touch you first?”
“Yeah, he came up on me and pushed me.” Davonte demonstrated. “He was crazy pissed.”
“And so you pushed him away and then what?”
“He hit the floor and tried to come after me. But he’s just a little punk so I put two hands on his shoulders and shoved him to the floor.”
“Then what?”
“He just sat there, crying and telling me his suppliers from Fort Collins were gonna kill him. That’s when he apologized. Said he was scared. So, I tried to leave, and then what I told you. I popped his ass a couple of times and then just left. He was crying on that couch like a little bitch and I just left.”
“So you hit him twice?”
“I think, yeah. I can’t remember. I was kind of toasted, man.”
“From the front?”
“Of course!” Davonte said. “I ain’t no kind of chicken shit to hit someone from behind.”
“Was he bleeding?” Sam asked.
“A little. Why?”
“Davonte, let me ask you another question,” Sam said, ignoring Davonte’s question. “Who else owed Kaiden money for weed?”
“You kidding? That boy had his hooks in everyone, including your partner’s kid.” Davonte nodded toward Paul’s office.
“Are you serious?”
“Everyone knows Ronnie liked to vape. Dude was always cooking.”
“Did he owe Kaiden any money?” Sam asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Davonte said. “But me and Ronnie had a deal. I told Ronnie I’d cover him after I went pro if he’d do my papers and shit. You know, quid pro whatever.”
Sam was silent for a moment. “How about Trent? He owe Kaiden money?”
“Dunno. Don’t really know that dude,” Davonte said. “He just showed up last month or so. Real quiet. Just kind of watches what’s going on and doesn’t say much.”
“Is he a student?”
Davonte laughed. “How would I know, man?”
“Ever see him in class?”
“Class?” Davonte mocked.
“How were you going to pull grades to be eligible second semester?”
“I told you. I had people handle that shit for me, man,” Davonte said, waving dismissively. “Like your partner’s boy. Ronnie does stuff for me; I’ll do stuff for him. That’s the deal. Ronnie ain’t all you thought he was, now is he?”
Sam was on the line holding for an expert. He was irritable to begin with, and as the time dragged on, he was getting tense. He was reading from a book on mindfulness suggested by Bob Martinez when he heard a voice he recognized.
“This is Russ Johnson, can I help you?”
Sam put the book down. “Russ, this is Sam Johnstone. We met—”
“Johnstone calling Johnson!” Johnson laughed. “That’s hilarious!”
“It is,” Sam managed to say. He waited for Johnson to stop chuckling before he continued. “You remember I’m in Wyoming, right?”
“Of course! Custer, as I recall. A beautiful place. You had that case with that soldier who was accused of killing his girlfriend—a lawyer, if I remember right.”
“You do.”
“What can I do for you?” Johnson asked.
“I’ve got another case.”
“The black basketball player who killed the gay kid?”
“Well, that’s the State’s theory,” Sam said. “How’d you know?”
“It’s all over the news here in Denver. You got a gay guy killed by a black guy.”
“Uh, yeah. Look, Russ, I’ve got some questions about DNA.”
“I’m your guy.”
“Touch DNA.” Sam waited for a moment. “You still my guy?”
“I am . . . kind of complicated stuff. Lots and lots of variables.”
“Give me a thirty-second primer,” Sam urged.
“You going to retain us?”
“Depends on whether or not you can convince me you know what you are talking about without losing me.”
“Okay, so most DNA is collected from fluids such as blood, saliva, or semen. But when people touch things, they can also leave behind fluid or a small number of epithelial cells—which is what I think you are asking about—under certain conditions. Thus, ‘touch DNA.’”
“Bravo,” Sam said. “Problems?”
“Plenty. First, the person usually has to have pretty good contact with the item. Second, depending on the surface structure of an item, there might not be any recoverable DNA even with a good touch. So, like a rock or something. Might be good, might not be.”
“Okay,” Sam said, thinking. “What else?”
“Bigger issue in my mind is the possibility of secondary transfer, tertiary transfer—there’s a whole range of possibilities.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. And as a defense guy, most of them are good for you.”
“How so?”
“Raise some doubt.”
Sam thought about that for a moment. “Okay, send me a contract discussing your fee. What do you need for a retainer?”
“Twenty-five hundred for me to scope the problem,” Johnson said. “I’ll revise upward from there. So, we’re in?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll check with my boss,” Johnson said. “When’s the trial?”
“Middle of May.”
“Good. At least it’ll be warm.”
“Yeah. We oughta be up to forty or so.”
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?”
“I wish,” Sam said. “Send me your contract. In the meantime, I’m going to send you some stuff to take a look at.”
“Thanks, Sam. I’m looking forward to it.”
“All right. Call you next week.”
17
Weeks later, Sam was looking out his office window at a cold late April day when Davonte and the henchmen pulled up and parked on the street. It was snowing heavily, and Davonte put the hood up on his sweatshirt as he jogged across the street, once again leaving Damon and Reggie in the car. Sam met Davonte in the reception area. “Afternoon, Davonte,” Sam said. “How you doing?”
“I’m all right. Just want to get this over with. This weather is killing me, Sam. Don’t know how you deal with it.”
“It’s a bitch,” Sam said. “Come on back. Got a question for you.”
“Yo.”
“Reggie and Damon. What’s their deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do they do? I mean, what do they add to all this?”
“My friends, man.”
“I get that, but it seems like they don’t do anything. I mean, they don’t play ball with you. They don’t work. From where I’m at, it’s like they’re a cheerleading section or something.”
“They don’t gotta do nothin’ except keep me safe, know what I’m sayin’?”
“Safe from what?”
“Trouble. Mom pays ’em a little to keep an eye on me, keep me company.”
“Good work, if you can get it,” Sam said, sitting and sipping from a cup with a pistol-butt-shaped handle. He gestured toward the chair across the desk. “Sit. Let’s talk.”
Davonte complied. “What’s going on?”
“Wanted to have a little talk with you about the trial.”
“Okay?”
“A couple of things you need to know. One, this is going to suck. And two, it’s going to suck bad.”
Davonte smiled wanly. “That the good news?”
“Just about,” Sam said, smiling before turning serious. “Trials are intense. Think of a trial like it’s a game. There are times when you’ve got the momentum and things are going well, and there are times when things are going against you and the other team’s got the momentum. So, you’ve got to try not to get too high or too low. We aren’t going to be doing any chest-bumps—get me?”
“I gotcha.”
“And, remember this: part of their strategy will be to test you, to get you off your game. Nothing they’d like better than you getting pissed when they say something bad about you. So, just like when you’re getting booed by the home team’s crowd, you’ve got to keep your poise and show no reaction.”
“I can do that.”
“Good,” Sam said. “Very important that you not react no matter how pissed you get. You’ve got to trust me to clean up the messes.”
“I do, but . . .” Davonte’s voice trailed off. He clearly had something to say.
“But what?”
“Well, I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just say it,” Sam said, having a pretty good idea what was coming.
“It’s gonna piss you off.”
“You not wanting to communicate with me is pissing me off,” Sam said. “We’ve got a couple of weeks before trial. I need to know what’s in your head. We need to be on the same sheet of music.”
“Paul,” Davonte said at last. “That dude worries me.”
“That’s okay. We don’t have to like each other to work together. It would be better if we all got along, but it’s not necessary.” Sam was watching Davonte closely. The young man was clearly unhappy with the answer. “What else?” Sam asked.
“I—I want him gone.”
“Not your choice. We’ve already been down that road.”
“I don’t trust him, man,” Davonte said. “I mean, if it comes down to it, will he allow Ronnie to testify on my behalf? I mean Ronnie—”
“What?”
“Nothing, man. I mean, he’s gotta testify—know what I mean?”
“He doesn’t have any choice,” Sam said. “I subpoenaed him, so if I call him, Ronnie will have to testify or go to jail.”
“Will Paul let you?”
“I’m lead counsel,” Sam explained. “I will do what I believe needs to be done to represent you to the fullest.”
“I still think it will be better—”
“No. Not a decision that is yours to make.”
“Mom says I could fire you.”
“You could. But you’d have to fire both of us. You do that and the judge may or may not allow you new counsel,” Sam explained. “Not many lawyers—and no good ones—would take this case on short notice, so even if you could find someone, you’d likely be punching your own ticket to the pen at this point. Paul will do his job. He’ll come around. Now, let’s get to work.”
For the next couple of hours Sam and Davonte went over the case together, with Sam explaining the evidence he expected the prosecution to present and watching Davonte’s reaction to it. The young man was intelligent, insightful, and surprisingly witty when he wasn’t in the company of the henchmen. The run-through complete, Sam walked Davonte back to the front door and the two shook hands. Back in his office, Sam watched as Davonte strolled across the street and joined Reggie and Damon in the big sedan. Reggie looked toward Sam’s window, and their eyes met before Reggie put a foot to the throttle.
The snow had fallen all day, but Sam had intermittently shoveled the small deck behind his townhouse in order to attend to a rack of pork ribs. Because he’d had to work all morning, he’d gotten the ribs on the smoker a little later than he would have liked, and it was nine o’clock before he set his small table with the ribs and a potato he had baked. He’d made some barbeque sauce with a recipe he’d developed over the years featuring bourbon, horseradish, and apricot preserves. He slathered the sauce over the dry rub on the ribs, careful not to remove any of the top crust. He cut—separated, really—the ribs along every other bone and piled them on a platter. He’d had a little bourbon while he made the sauce and was enjoying its warmth in his stomach and the buzz in his head. He retrieved two long-neck beers from the refrigerator, sat down, said a brief prayer of thanks, and served himself a couple of ribs. He was buttering his potato when he heard a crash in the living room.
Because it was a weekend, he was carrying his pistol inside his waistband. He drew the weapon and moved quickly to the hallway that ran the length of the room. He turned out the lights in the kitchen and dining areas and moved quickly down the hallway. With his off-hand, he reached quickly around the corner and turned off the lights in the front room, enabling him to see through the broken window into the small yard and the street in front of his home. On the living room floor he could see a large rectangular object. Sam stood quietly, peering around the corner and through the window for a few moments.
When Sam was satisfied no attack would follow, he moved quickly to the window, drew the curtains, and turned on the light. In the middle of the floor he could see a common red brick with a piece of paper wrapped around it, held in place by baling twine. He carefully untied the knot in the twine and read: WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. THE COPS ARE CROOKED. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER. YOU LOSE, YOU DIE!! He smiled wanly, dropped the note on the brick, and returned to his dining table. He sat and took a bite of his ribs before calling 911.
Minutes later, Corporal Jensen arrived. After letting him in and explaining the situation, Sam returned to his table—and his ribs. He could hear Jensen moving about the room and could see the occasional flash as the officer recorded the scene.
“Uhh, Mr. Johnstone?” Jensen called from the living room.
“Call me Sam.”
“Sure, uh, Sam. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“You bet. Come on in,” Sam said. “Rib?” he asked when Jensen entered, indicating the platter.
“Uh, no. Better not. I’m working.” Jensen smiled, looking at the ribs.
“How can I help you?”
“Well, it seems pretty obvious that whoever did this is trying to make sure you get Mr. Blair off,” Jensen said.
“Yeah.” Sam licked some sauce from an index finger. “But I got another one weeks ago. It was kind of anti-gay.”
Jensen furrowed his brow. “Did you call us?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I figured it was a crank. This is different. This is my home. I’m a renter. I need the report for my insurer and my landlord.”
“I see,” Jensen said. “Did you keep that other note?”
“I did. How ’bout I bring it by tomorrow? I’ve had a little bit to drink tonight, and I’d like to finish my ribs,” Sam said. “Have some?”
“Well.” Jensen took off his hat and mopped his brow. “Maybe if you got a little foil, I’
ll take one to go. My lunch break is at midnight.”
An hour after Jensen left, Sam helped his landlord cover the broken window with a sheet of plywood. “Sam,” the man began, “neighbors are saying all kinds of weird things are going on around here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Lights going on at night. You runnin’ around with guns. I run a quiet place here, Sam. I can’t have any trouble.”
“You’ll get no trouble from me. I pay my rent and mind my own business.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I hear you. Now, if you’ll get your stuff out of here, I can vacuum the glass off this carpet and maybe get some sleep.”
Since he was in the courthouse, Sam figured he would take advantage of the opportunity and try to speak with Cathy. Her receptionist instructed him to wait until he was called. After five minutes, Cathy buzzed him through the locked door and shook his hand. She looked tired. “Mr. Johnstone, to what do we owe the honor? And I’ll warn you in advance, I’m crispy and cranky. The yahoos outside drove me and Kayla out of the house. I’m bunking with a friend. The good news is it’s quiet. The bad news is I’m sleeping on a couch that I’m pretty sure has been in their family since the Reagan administration.”
Sam smiled. “Got a minute for opposing counsel?”
“Your guy ready to plead? It’s gonna be cold or nothing at all.” When he didn’t respond, she shrugged. “What the hell,” she said. “Come on back.” Sam followed her to her office. She had a nice figure. He took the seat as indicated, and she moved and sat behind her desk. He was looking at the diplomas and family pictures around her office while she sat quietly, waiting for him to say something. Finally, she spoke. “I’m thirty-four, divorced, played basketball in college. Been prosecuting for eight years—ever since I passed the bar. Satisfied?”
“Sure,” Sam said. “Point guard?”
“Bingo. Now, what do you want?”
“I’m hoping to get an offer,” he said.
“On what?”
“Blair.”
“None coming.” She shook her head. “We took the death penalty off the table. That’s as good as it gets.”
“You can’t show premeditation. The best interpretation of the evidence shows Miles was in some kind of a mix-up and got whacked from behind after getting punched in the face—that’s a fistfight gone bad. Second degree, best case.”
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