by Joel Goldman
Patrick Ortiz sat at his table, an assistant nervously drumming a pen until Ortiz took it from her. He pretended not to notice the crowd or Mason as he walked past.
Dixon Smith leaned over the rail, whispering to Blues, when the judge's bailiff instructed everyone to rise. Smith turned and cupped Mason's elbow as Mason stood.
"Be cool," Smith told him.
Chapter 30
"The court calls the case of State v. Mason. Counsel, state your appearances," Judge Pistone said, his chin aimed at his lap, scribbling notes on the docket sheet.
"Patrick Ortiz for the state, your Honor."
"Dixon Smith for the defendant, Lou Mason. We waive reading of the charges and enter a plea of not guilty."
"Bail?" Judge Pistone asked.
"We ask that the defendant be released on his own recognizance," Smith said before Ortiz could answer.
Judge Pistone looked up, leaned back in his chair and held up his hand as Ortiz started to reply. "You're slow off the mark today Mr. Ortiz, but you'll get your turn. Mr. Smith," the Judge continued, "have you ever known any judge to release someone charged with capital murder on their own recognizance?"
"No sir," Smith answered.
"Then why would you make such a ridiculous request, knowing that I'll never grant it?"
"It's no more ridiculous than what the prosecutor is going to ask for, especially if he opposes any bail."
"I've denied bail in many murder cases," the judge said. "Why will the prosecuting attorney oppose bail in this case?"
Smith moved from behind his counsel table to the center of the courtroom, placing himself between the judge and Ortiz, blocking out his opposition. Elbows angled out from his hips, hands open, he filled the stage he had set.
"Mr. Ortiz is going to tell you that this was a heinous crime-that Mr. Mason is a lawyer and that lawyers are held to some higher standard because they are officers of the court. He is an officer of the court but that doesn't mean he gets any less justice or due process than the lowest born. The prosecutor is going to tell you that there's overwhelming evidence of Mr. Mason's guilt and that that makes him a flight risk and a danger to the community. Mr. Ortiz is going to tell you all of that and then ask you to set bail so high Mr. Mason can't possibly post it or deny it outright."
"Mr. Ortiz," Judge Pistone said. "Sounds like Mr. Smith has heard you make that speech before, as have I."
Ortiz rose, strolled past Smith, and rested his forearm on the shelf beneath the judge's bench that lawyers used during trial when they wanted to tell the judge something they didn't want the jury to hear. He turned toward the audience, ignoring Smith, and smiled, covering his irritation that he had let Smith get out of the box ahead of him.
"Your honor, it was true the first time I said it and it's even truer today," he said, pivoting back toward the judge, both hands on the shelf, shrinking the courtroom to an intimate box that excluded Mason and his lawyer. "This was a cold-blooded, premeditated murder. The defendant lured Sandra Connelly to an office park at night when no one would be around to interfere with his plan. He has admitted shooting her with his own gun and has made up the biggest fish story since Jonah and the whale to blame it on some mysterious assailant. There's a very good argument to be made that bail should be denied."
"If there is, Your Honor, that's not it," Smith said, joining Ortiz at the bench, crowding the prosecutor. "We're not here to try this case. If we were, you'd hear evidence that the killer disabled Mr. Mason with a stun gun, fired the fatal shot, put the gun in Mr. Mason's hand, pulled the trigger a second time to frame Mr. Mason, and then tried to make Mr. Mason kill himself."
Smith returned to his counsel table, then paused enough to let the scenario he'd painted sink in. He drew the judge's attention away from Ortiz who was forced to turn his back to the judge so he could hear the rest of Smith's argument. Standing behind Mason, his hands on Mason's shoulders, he continued.
"If the killer had succeeded, Mr. Ortiz would say it was a murder-suicide and call it a day. The killer didn't succeed because Wilson Bluestone, a former homicide detective, chased the killer away. The court knows Mr. Mason. He's a well-respected lawyer who has lived in this community all of his life. Sandra Connelly was his friend and former partner. There's nothing more important to him than clearing his name and finding out who killed her. He's not going to flee and he's not a threat to anyone. Mr. Ortiz hasn't got a motive for Mr. Mason to have killed Ms. Connelly and he hasn't got a reason for Mr. Mason to be a threat to anyone else," Smith said, leaving Mason for the podium between the counsel tables.
"Are you asking the court to deny bail, Mr. Ortiz?" Judge Pistone asked. Ortiz took a breath, buying a moment, stuck between the judge's bench and the podium. "Mr. Ortiz," Pistone snapped. "Make a decision."
"Yes," Ortiz answered, facing the judge. "The state opposes bail."
"On what grounds?" Smith demanded.
"Mr. Smith," Judge Pistone said, "sit down. This isn't your courtroom and Mr. Ortiz isn't on the witness stand."
Smith unbuttoned his suit jacket and smiled as if he'd received an invitation, not an order.
"We have reason to believe that Mr. Mason poses a serious threat to others," Ortiz said.
"What others?" Smith asked from his seat, drawing Judge Pistone's glare. "Sorry, Your Honor. My mistake."
"What others, Mr. Ortiz?" Judge Pistone asked, pretending not to hear the muffled laughter from the audience.
Ortiz shot a glance at Smith, angry that he'd let Smith trap him. Smith had goaded the judge into making Ortiz reveal more of his case than he was ready to. Ortiz knew he either had to fold on Mason's bail or tip his hand. Having committed himself to opposing bail, he would lose too much credibility with the court if he didn't back it up. Smith didn't return Ortiz's look, watching the judge instead.
"Your Honor," Ortiz began. "Sandra Connelly was representing Whitney King. The defendant had two clients, Nick Byrnes and Mary Kowalczyk, who were threatening to sue Mr. King. Mr. King will testify that the defendant had followed him and threatened him. Ms. Connelly had tried to talk the defendant out of filing a lawsuit. Mr. King's office is at the Holmes Corporate Center. We believe that the defendant used Ms. Connelly to lure Mr. King to his office where he intended to kill both of them. Mr. King didn't show up, so he killed Ms. Connelly anyway."
"Why didn't King show up?" Smith asked.
Judge Pistone hammered his gavel. "Once more, Mr. Smith, and both you and your client will need lawyers! Understood?"
Smith raised both hands in surrender. "Understood. Yes sir. Understood."
"Well, Mr. Ortiz," Judge Pistone said. "Why wasn't Mr. King there?"
"Your Honor. As Mr. Smith said, this isn't a trial. It's premature to lay out all the evidence at this stage of the case."
"Not if you expect me to deny bail because of a threat to Mr. King."
Ortiz nodded, blood creeping up his neck as he returned to his seat, his assistant shrinking into her chair. "Mr. King didn't know about the meeting. That's all I'm prepared to say at this time," he said.
Mason looked at Smith, who smiled back, waiting for the judge to call on him.
"Now it's your turn, Mr. Smith. What do you have to say?"
Smith rose slowly, taking his time to the podium, resting his elbows as he looked at Ortiz, shaking his head like a disappointed parent, then straightening and giving his attention to the court.
"Whitney King was tried for the murder of Nick Byrnes's parents fifteen years ago in this courthouse. He was acquitted. His codefendant was Mary Kowalczyk's son, Ryan, who was convicted of the murders and executed last week. Nick Byrnes and Mary Kowalczyk both hired Lou Mason to prove that Whitney King was guilty of those murders and that Ryan Kowalzcyk was innocent. Since King's murder trial, eight out of the twelve jurors who acquitted him have died violently. Two of them were shot to death in the last week. Both were shot in the face, just like Sandra Connelly. Last week, Whitney King shot Nick Byrnes. Although Nick survived, h
e may be crippled. No charges have been filed in that case. Mary Kowalczyk has vanished. Yesterday, Mr. Mason filed a missing persons report on her and the police are investigating her disappearance.
I'd say that if anyone needs protection, it's Lou Mason, not Whitney King."
Judge Pistone rested his chin on his fingertips, looking back and forth from the defense to the prosecution.
"Bail set at one hundred thousand dollars. Next case."
Chapter 31
Claire and Harry picked up Chinese food, joining Rachel Firestone, Blues, and Mason at Mason's house. Mason caught Harry alone for a moment.
"You get anything on that license plate?" Mason asked him.
Harry fixed him with a bewildred stare. "You don't have enough problems?" Mason didn't answer, holding Harry's look with his own. "I'm working on it," Harry finally said.
They gathered at the dining room table that Mason had shoved into the living room to make way for his rowing machine. Tuffy patrolled the perimeter, sniffing out morsels that landed on the hardwood floor.
Television trucks had lined the curb in front of Mason's house since he got home, broadcasting live reports of the day's events. Mason didn't tune in, disconnected his phone, and let Blues answer the door when reporters knocked. After Blues turned away the first two reporters with a look that said don't come back, the rest retreated to the other side of the street, searching for neighbors who would say they knew all along something was wrong with Mason, which was why they wouldn't let their kids play in his yard or ring his doorbell on Halloween.
By seven o'clock, the last broadcast truck had pulled away. Claire had turned up the air-conditioning, saying they'd had enough heat for one day.
No one talked about the charges against Mason or the rest of the case. No one exchanged high-fives to celebrate the judge's order setting bail at a manageable level. They were having dinner, not a party, sticking close to Mason. They finally ran out of food and small talk, unable to avoid the day's events any longer.
"It's a good thing the bail bondsman likes you," Harry said to Mason.
"I've done enough business with Carlos Guitteriz to support all three of his ex-wives and his six kids," Mason answered.
Harry said, "Carlos cut his fee in half and took an unsecured promissory note for the bail. That's loyalty."
"I thanked him," Mason said. "But I haven't thanked you for taking care of Dixon Smith's retainer," he told Claire. "I'll pay you back."
"I have no doubt," Claire said. "And, if you don't, I know where you live."
"I don't get the part about the stun gun," Rachel said. "How do those things work?"
"It's pretty simple," Blues said. "A stun gun uses compressed nitrogen to fire probes connected to a wire. The probe carries fifty thousand volts and the current lasts for around five seconds after it hits. The victim is incapacitated as long as the charge lasts, but it takes most people a few minutes to recover completely. That's plenty of time for the killer to do what he did. Effective range is about fifteen feet for commercial models you can buy on the Internet."
"Can Lou prove that's what happened? Does it leave a mark on the skin?" Claire asked.
"Usually not," Blues answered. "Maybe a red mark like a small burn, but that will fade pretty quickly. The big drawback is the wire. The killer had to reel it in like a fishing line. When he saw me coming, that probably saved Lou's life. Either I would have caught him or he would have had to leave the gun behind, which would have corroborated Lou's story."
The doorbell rang. Mason's shoulders sagged as he looked at Blues, who eased out of his chair, flexing his hands like he was ready to hang a reporter from the nearest street light. The entryway to Mason's house was an arched vestibule that was not visible from the dining room. Conversation stopped as Blues swung the wide oak door open, closing it with a decisive thud before leading Dixon Smith into the living room.
Smith, still wearing his suit, his tie cinched tightly against his neck, and carrying his briefcase, surveyed the room. Rachel had gathered the empty food boxes, building a pyramid in front of her.
"How come the lawyer never gets invited to the party?" Smith asked.
"You know the answer to that, Dixon," Claire said. "We're only wanted when we're needed. Lucky for you, you're both. Have a seat."
"I may be both wanted and needed, but the Kung Pao chicken is wanted and eaten. Is that it?" he asked, laughing and poking a hole in Rachel's pyramid.
Rachel scooped the remains from one box onto a paper plate, sliding it across the table to Smith.
"No thanks," he said. "I make it a rule never to eat off of paper unless I'm having a picnic, and this case definitely doesn't qualify. Come here, dog," he said, holding the plate for Tuffy who inhaled the scraps, licking Smith's hand when the food was gone.
"So, Dixon," Rachel said. "Don't sugarcoat it. What do you think about Lou's case?"
"If I tell you, am I going to read about it in the morning paper?"
"Not unless you tell someone else," she said. "The paper quit letting me cover Lou's cases a long time ago."
Smith looked around the room, stopping at Mason who nodded his permission, Smith nodding in return.
"Most cases, the defense attorney's job is to make the prosecutor prove his case, not prove the defendant is innocent, just convince the jury that there's reasonable doubt the defendant is guilty. If there's reasonable doubt about guilt, the jury is supposed to acquit. The prosecutor has it easy since most defendants are guilty anyway. Even if juries don't know that, they believe it. And people pay a whole lot more attention to what they believe than what they know."
"That's how most of us go through our whole lives," Claire said.
"Exactly," Smith said. "People don't change when they get into the jury room. Lou already told the cops he shot Sandra and they know the gun was his. So the prosecutor doesn't have much to prove, which means I do. I've got to try Lou's case, Nick and Mary's case against Whitney King, and the original murder case against King and Ryan Kowalczyk."
"Why do you have to do all that?" Rachel asked.
"Juries hate the I-don't-know-who-did-it-but-it-wasn'tme defense. They expect the defense attorney to give them someone else to pin it on. Whitney King is the only choice. If I prove he killed Nick Byrnes's parents, rigged the jury to acquit him, then spent the last fifteen years knocking off the jurors to keep them quiet, then shot Nick and disappeared Mary Kowalczyk to shut them up, the jury will buy that he killed his lawyer and set up Lou to take the fall for the same reason."
"You have any idea how over the top and out of sight all that sounds?" Harry asked.
"That's why I take my fee up front," Smith said. "No offense, Lou," he added.
"Harry's right. It doesn't make sense," Blues said. "King was acquitted of the Byrnes murders. He could take out an ad on a billboard admitting he did it and never do a day in jail. A civil case is just money and he has enough to make that go away."
"Dixon, are you trying to make me feel better?" Mason asked.
"Nope," Smith said. "I'm trying to get you ready for work. Party's over," he said to the others. "It's time for my client to come to Jesus."
Chapter 32
"Nice job today, Dixon," Mason said after his company left. "You got a lot of mileage out of Ortiz. You ripped a chamber out of his heart with every question."
They remained in the living room, seated on opposite sides of the table while drawing on cold bottles of Fat Tire Beer Mason had retrieved from the kitchen. The dog was lounging on the floor beneath the picture window that had been punctured by a bullet a week before. It was the first shot fired in what had become a guerrilla campaign. The wind was picking up, whistling through the hole in the glass.
"You know Patrick as well as I do. I snuck up on him today. That won't happen again."
"We'll see what happens at the preliminary hearing," Mason said.
"Not going to be any preliminary hearing," Smith said. "Ortiz called me late this afternoon. Said he was
taking the case to the grand jury instead. They meet again this Friday and they're going to indict you for murder. Speedy trial and all that. We'll get a jury by Thanksgiving and a verdict by Christmas."
Mason sucked in his breath. Smith watched him, not blinking, put together like a high-fashion puzzle, callous and cool. Mason had been impressed by how Smith handled the arraignment, satisfied with his choice of counsel even though he hadn't picked Smith for his skill. Mason knew the importance of managing a client's expectations, especially a criminal defense client whose life was on the line. Smith took it to another level, wringing any sentiment out of the equation.
"It's Ortiz's call," Mason said. "He can take the case to the grand jury or have a preliminary hearing. He picked the grand jury because it's secret and you made him look bad today. It killed him to tell the judge that Whitney King denied that he was supposed to meet Sandra and me at his office."
"It may have killed Ortiz, but it's worse for you. King's not going to back up your story."
"There's got to be a record of Sandra's phone call to King. When we get the phone records, no one is going to believe King. Getting that piece out of Ortiz was almost worth the price of admission," Mason said.
"We'll see. I subpoenaed Sandra's and Whitney's records today. I should have them by Friday. But, like I said, Patrick isn't going to let me sneak up on him again. He'll subpoena every one of the people you had over for dinner tonight."
Mason said. "Then we have to get them ready to testify. Let's divide up the work. There's plenty to go around."
"That's not the way I work. I don't divide things up," Smith said. "Besides, I don't want you interviewing witnesses. Every time you open your mouth, you'll create another witness to testify against you. You're the client this time, Lou, not the lawyer. Nothing you say is privileged anymore unless you say it to me."