The beefy female guard rapped on the door. “Time’s up,” she announced.
We stood.
“I’ll call you after court tomorrow,” I told her.
We hugged at the door. She held me tight.
“Thank you, Rachel,” she whispered in my ear.
I touched her cheek as we separated.
I watched the guard escort her down the hall and out of sight. Back to her cell, back to her life in prison. I stood there a moment and then returned to the interview room. I gathered my papers, put the coffee mugs, empty thermos, and the leftover cake back in the wicker picnic basket.
***
I leaned back in the chair. “My head is spinning.”
My mother nodded. “So is mine.”
Benny and I were having Sunday night dinner at my mother’s house. We were on the dessert course—a homemade gooey butter cake even richer than the one I’d bought for Angela. I’d probably drift off to sleep tonight to the gentle hum of my arteries hardening.
I’d spent the last hour filling them in on what I’d found in the storage warehouse yesterday and learned from Angela Green earlier today. I’d skipped the part about the beige Taurus yesterday. And the brown Chrysler minivan today. Turned out I wasn’t the only person making the long, multi-highway drive from St. Louis to Chillicothe this morning. Someone driving a brown Chrysler minivan with tinted windows and Missouri plates (090 HHS) made the drive as well—all the way to the Chillicothe exit. It drove past me as I pulled into the prison parking lot, turned at the next corner and disappeared. For good. I didn’t see it on the drive back.
Benny was slicing himself another huge piece of cake—his third—while my mother looked on approvingly. He said, “You got twenty-three savvy white boys overpaying for crappy paintings from the same crappy artist and then overpaying Green to set up simple corporations to buy slum properties. What the hell is that all about?”
“I’m having Jacki check the real estate records tomorrow.”
“How about the private dick?” Benny asked.
My mother gave him a strange look. “The private what?”
“The detective agency, Mom. Blitz. I thought they might have had something to do with the divorce, but Angela didn’t recognize the name.”
“Which doesn’t necessarily mean a thing,” Benny said.
I nodded. “I put them on my list. I’m also going to try to run down the Sebastian Curry connection. I’m hoping he shared whatever he knew about the Millennium connection with someone else. Maybe a lover or a best friend. The problem is, the police searched the loft and couldn’t find an address book, which makes them think that whoever killed him took it.”
“How are you going to find someone he was close to?” my mother asked.
“I have the message on his telephone answering machine. From someone named Gail who sounded, at least from the message, like she was a good friend.”
“No last name?” my mother asked.
“No last name. But in her message she mentioned someone named Phyllis and someone named Greg Ramsey. I checked the phone book. There were two listings for Gregory Ramsey and one for G. Ramsey. I called all three yesterday. I struck out with two and left a message on the answering machine of the third. He returned my call today. He didn’t know Sebastian all that well, but he gave me Gail’s full name and phone number. I called her before coming over. She wasn’t in, but I left a message for her. Hopefully, she’ll call back soon. And when she does”—I shook my head wearily—“I’ll get to add yet another item to my things-to-do list for this week.”
“Sounds like you have a busy week, sweetie,” my mother said.
“I could use a clone. I have the Son of Sam motions tomorrow morning and then all of this Angela stuff to run down, which is enough to keep two of me busy.” I turned toward Benny with an accusatory look. “But guess what else I have on the docket this week, thanks to a thoughtful referral from a law school professor?”
Benny looked baffled for a moment, but then broke into a grin. “Oh, man, is that ostrich case on the trial docket?”
“It’s set for Wednesday.”
“Oy,” my mother said, shaking her head. “That crazy case.”
“You ready for trial?” Benny asked.
I shrugged. “Not really. So far it’s Blackwell’s word against my clients’. I’m still looking for a third-party witness. Blackwell’s operations are down near Crystal City. I hired a local investigator, a guy named Wimmer. He says he found me three possibilities—all ex-employees of Blackwell.”
“What do they know?”
“I have no idea. None of them would talk to him, but he’s learned that all three left Blackwell Breeders under hushed circumstances.”
“That sounds promising,” my mother said.
Benny asked, “What happened to them?”
“Don’t know.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “That’s why I’m driving down there tomorrow. Two still live there.”
“What about the third?” my mother asked.
“He lives up in the northwest part of the state—actually not that far from Angela’s prison. He won’t talk to anyone, but the other two are willing to meet with me.”
Benny was chuckling. “Oh, Sarah,” he said to my mother, “something tells me that your gorgeous daughter is going to find a way to drill that prick a new asshole.”
“Benny,” I said, “your delicacy is matched only by your refinement.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Five thousand dollars an hour.
That had to be the minimum aggregate hourly rate of the gaggle of lawyers gathered in Judge Byrne’s courtroom that morning for oral argument on the defendants’ motions to dismiss the Son of Sam case. Present were all three horsemen of the First Amendment—Hefty Harvey, Hammerin’ Hank, and the Silver Fox of Corcoran Fox. Each one clocked in at a tidy $600 an hour. And each one had a supporting squadron of associates and junior partners, each charging anywhere from $200 to $400 an hour.
To say that their clients did not get full value for their fee was akin to saying that the passengers on the Titanic did not get full value for their fee. I could confirm it, because I had a good spot on the observation deck to watch us cruise into the iceberg at full steam. More precisely, I’d been at counsel’s table seated next to Hefty Harvey. I’d watched as he carefully reviewed the handwritten notes on his yellow legal pad, mouthing words and phrases under this breath.
He’d made twelve pages of notes, no doubt brimming with dazzling analogies, witty ripostes, and elegant lines of reasoning demonstrating the constitutional, legal, and logical flaws of the Son of Sam law.
No doubt brimming.
But that was pure speculation on my part, because Judge Bryne denied all motions to dismiss before Hefty had a chance to state his name for the record. If it was any consolation, none of the other attorneys for the defendants, including me, got to say much more.
The Silver Fox batted leadoff for the defendants. He was maybe two minutes into his presentation when Judge Byrne, who’d been leafing through the court file during the presentation, interrupted.
“Where’s your motion?”
“Pardon, Your Honor?”
The judge tilted the bulging court file toward the Century City attorney. “Look at all this paper. How in the world am I supposed to find your motion in here? Who filed this stuff?”
The Silver Fox turned toward his entourage. A Corcoran Fox associate dashed forward with a copy of the motion and the memorandum of law, handing them to his boss and backing away silently, leaning forward in the manner of an Elizabethan manservant. The memorandum numbered forty-seven pages (not including at least a dozen pages of exhibits). The Silver Fox took the papers from the associate and handed them up to the judge.
“Here, Your Honor,” he said in his mellifluous voice. “A courtesy copy
for the convenience of the court.”
Judge Byrne stared at the thick memorandum of law.
I knew how this scene would play out. I’d warned my co-counsel to keep their briefs under ten pages. Judge Patrick Byrne, like most state court trial judges, didn’t have a law clerk and didn’t have time to read, much less ponder, the dozens of motions he was expected to rule on each week. That meant that the lawyer’s motion was likely to be read—or more accurately, scanned—during the actual oral argument. Ten pages was a lot to expect a judge to digest as opposing attorneys argued back and forth in front of him. Here, though, the numbers were ridiculous. On top of the forty-seven-page memorandum filed by Corcoran Fox, the other defendants had filed motion papers totaling more than one hundred pages. That sheer volume of paper—for which the clients had been billed tens of thousands of dollars—guaranteed only one thing: Judge Byrne would not read a single page.
And he clearly hadn’t.
As the Silver Fox cleared his throat in a self-important manner and resumed his argument, the judge held up his hand. “Whoa. Hang on there, counsel.”
The judge turned toward Brian Morgan, counsel for the plaintiff, who was standing alongside the Silver Fox. “Brian, what’s your client say to all this? Is your response in here?”
Brian was ready. “It’s in there somewhere, Judge. I’m sure it’s feeling kind of lost in that ocean of paper. I did bring along a copy of one of the key cases.” He handed it up to the judge.
I had to smile when I saw that Brian had “helpfully” highlighted in yellow the one paragraph he wanted to make sure the judge read. It was a classic state court maneuver, especially in a complex case. Handing an overwhelmed judge a photocopied case with a highlighted passage was the equivalent of throwing a life preserver to a man overboard. Brian waited until the judge finished reading the paragraph from the case and looked up at him.
“Judge,” Brian said, “the Missouri legislature made an important policy decision when they passed this Son of Sam law. They decided that crime should not pay. They decided that a victim’s rights are greater than the murderer’s rights. They decided that if there is money to be made off a heinous crime, that money ought to go to the victims and not to the criminal. Now I’ve tried to read through all the papers these fancy out-of-town lawyers filed. Near as I can understand, they’re claiming that some of the federal judges back where these fine gentlemen live might not agree with the lawmakers of Missouri. Well, Judge, maybe so. Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. It’s a free country and all. But I would remind these fine gentlemen that the city of St. Louis happens to be located in the state of Missouri and not in Times Square or out there on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It sure seems to me that the only lawmakers whose view matters here today are the ones down in Jeff City, Your Honor, and those men and women passed a law that says crime doesn’t pay.”
“Your Honor,” the Silver Fox declared in a irritated tone, “the issue before the court today is not whether—”
“Gentlemen,” the judge interrupted, looking around at all of us, “and Miss Gold. I’m not necessarily buying the plaintiff’s argument today. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell Mr. Morgan that I’ve got some real doubts about that equitable adoption claim. That’s going to be a stretch for you, Brian. Of course, I realize that issue isn’t before me today, but from the facts I’ve seen so far, Brian, I’m not sure that dog’s going to hunt. Now as for these motions here, well”—he paused to flip through the court file—“I’m counting easily over a hundred pages of arguments.” He gazed down on us and shook his head good-naturedly. “The defendants tell me this issue is clear and simple, but one thing I’ve learned over the years is that if it takes a lawyer this many pages to tell me something’s clear and simple, then the one thing it surely ain’t is clear and simple. I’m going to deny these motions, gentlemen…and Miss Gold, of course, sorry ma’am. One of you all draft me up an order.” He turned to his docket clerk and nodded.
“Next case,” she announced in a loud voice. “Becker et al. versus Continental Insurance Company.”
Two lawyers from the gallery stood and started moving toward the podium as the Son of Sam defense squadrons retreated.
I’d been pleasantly surprised to see Maria Fallaci in the courtroom that morning. As one of the defendants, she was not required to be in court. Hammerin’ Hank was her lead lawyer, and he was there to argue the motion on her behalf. Maria sat back in the gallery during the hearing. After the judge denied the motions, I caught up with her in the hallway outside the courtroom, where she was conferring with two of Hank’s associates. I waited off to the side until their conversation ended.
I had to concede that Maria had mastered the art of power dressing. The skirt of her gray pin-striped suit was hemmed mid-thigh. Dark stockings and spiked heels displayed long, muscular legs. With her thick mane of black hair streaked with gray, she looked sexy and intimidating.
As she started toward the elevators with her attorneys, I called out to her.
She turned. Her lawyers did, too.
“We need to talk,” I told her.
“I have a sentencing in federal court in East St. Louis in less than an hour.” Her tone was chilly. “That’s why I’m down here today.”
“Give me five minutes. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
She checked her watch and said something to her lawyers. They nodded and headed off toward the elevators.
Maria turned to me. “My car’s parked three blocks south of the courthouse. We can talk on the way over.”
I talked fast, filling her in on what I’d learned so far. By the time we reached her rental car, a shiny red Mercedes SL 500 convertible, the Ice Queen seemed rattled. She stood facing me on the sidewalk, her hands on her hips.
“Shit,” she mumbled, studying the pavement in front of her. “I can’t believe this. I cannot believe this.” She looked at me, her eyes narrowed. “What else do you have?”
“Nothing solid yet, but I have some leads.”
“Shit.” She shook her head. “This is unbelievable.”
“What else do you have?” I asked.
She gave me a puzzled look. “I’m not following you.”
“You were her lawyer, Maria. As you’ve already reminded me, you’re the criminal law expert. To free Angela we’re going to need more than what I’ve found. What else do you have?”
She stared at me. I stared right back.
“This isn’t about you,” I said. “This is about Angela. What else do you have?”
“Not much,” she finally said. Another pause. “Our defense was based on the assumption that she killed him.”
“Except that she didn’t kill him.”
“You don’t know that. It’s just a theory.”
“So was your defense. I know what I know, Maria. Are you telling me that you didn’t have any investigators on the case?”
“Of course I did,” she snapped. Her glance shifted toward the street. “But they were looking into matters related to our defense strategy.”
“Which was based on the assumption that she killed him.”
She stood there watching the traffic.
I tried to control my exasperation. “Are you telling me that you never bothered looking for evidence that might have exonerated her?”
“The evidence against her was overwhelming.” She turned to me. “I made the right call back then.”
“That was then,” I said, holding her stare. “This is now.”
She walked around to the driver’s side of the Mercedes convertible and tossed her briefcase in the backseat. She paused with her hand on the door handle. “If you actually find any genuine exonerating evidence, give me a call.”
I watched her get in the convertible, race the engine, and pull away with a screech of tires.
“No, thanks,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-five
Crystal City. I’d come down here with a pair of trial subpoenas, hoping I’d find a reason to serve one of them.
First up was Rudy Witherspoon, a gaunt man in his sixties with pendulous ears, a leathery creased face, and watery blue eyes. We met during his afternoon break at the McDonald’s near the Home Depot where he worked. Three years ago, he’d been in charge of machinery maintenance for Blackwell Breeders. He was willing to meet with me, he explained, because, in his words, he “hated the bastard.”
I quickly decided that Witherspoon was worthless as a witness. His animosity—which stemmed solely from his belief that his former boss had cheated him out of $135 in a poker game one night after work—undercut whatever credibility he might have had if he had actually anything relevant, which he didn’t. He’d left Blackwell Breeders before Big Red hatched and hadn’t spoken to any of his former colleagues for at least two years. That meant that if there was something recognizably defective about the ostrich’s behavior or personality, he neither observed it while there nor heard about it after he left.
“I threw down my cards and stomped out to my pickup and sat there in the dark fuming away,” he told me, pausing to rub an age-spotted hand back and forth across his chin. “I waited till his cousin Marvin drove off, and then I grabbed me a length of pipe out of the back of my pickup and busted in every damn window on the son of a bitch’s Eldorado. Yes, ma’am, that was my last day working for Mr. Charlie.”
And my last hope for him as a witness.
My expectations were only slightly higher for Milly Eversole. The good news was that Milly’s three years at Blackwell Breeders included the entire fourteen-month period during which Big Red was reared and delivered to my clients. She’d quit about nine months ago and now worked as a bank teller. The bad news was that she refused to talk about her years with Blackwell or her reasons for leaving. She made that clear to my investigator. Only the threat of a deposition had persuaded her to give me fifteen minutes today.
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