by Joel Goldman
Abby shook her head, the flashlight hanging limply from her hand, spotlighting their feet. She stepped past him, running the light along the wall and up the stairs as if she was retracing her route from when she'd last been there. She sat on the bottom step, knees drawn to her chest. Tuffy lay at her feet.
"I said there wasn't a place for me in your world. That didn't mean we couldn't be together in a different world. One where there's a sofa in the living room and the windows have screens instead of bullet holes."
"I'm sorry if that's the way you see it," he said.
"Is that supposed to be an apology?"
"Would an apology change anything?" he asked.
"Not that one. You're telling me that you're sorry I feel the way I do, not that you're sorry about the choices you've made. I call that an apology with a tail. I'd expect that from Josh Seeley because he's a politician, but not from you."
Her accusation stung, reminding Mason of a judge who increases a defendant's sentence for failing to take responsibilty for his crimes. Conceding her charge, he joined her on the stairs, the flashlight between them. The beam that bounced off the far wall kept them in the shadows.
"Then why did you drive two and a half hours in a monsoon in the middle of the night?"
"You're in trouble," she said. "Did you think I wouldn't come?"
He shook his head. "You told me why you left and nothing's changed, except for the worse. That's not much of a reason to come back. Besides, it's obvious how much Seeley and his campaign mean to you."
Abby leaned back against the wall. "Pour one cup of guilt, mix with equal amount of jealousy, and stir. You don't make this easy."
"I'm not much good at easy," he said.
"Does it matter that I cared enough to drive through the storm in the middle of the night just to make certain you're all right?"
"Not if you don't stay. I'm not a patient in a hospital. I don't need visitors."
Abby sprang to her feet, the heat in her eyes visible even in the dark. She crossed her arms over her heaving chest. "What do you need, Lou? Someone to watch while you destroy yourself? I won't do that."
Mason rose. He wanted to put his arms around her again but she shrank against the wall when he stepped toward her.
"What am I supposed to do? You think I applied for the job of accused murderer?"
Abby chose her words carefully, measuring them as she spoke. "I think you don't care enough about what happens to you, which means you don't care enough about what happens to me or to us."
Mason didn't have an answer. Platitudes about the glory of the law, the duty to protect the innocent rang hollow in his mind. Pleading that he was a victim of events out of his control was weak, stupid, and untrue. No one had held a gun to his head when he said yes to Mary Kowalczyk and to Nick Burns. He had taunted Whitney King, dismissed Sandra Connelly's warnings, and ignored the advice of his own attorney as if he was checking each move off a list of ten things to do to ruin your life. Whatever he truly cared about, it was hard to prove Abby was wrong.
"I didn't mean it to be this way," he said.
Abby came to him and cupped his face with her hands. He held her wrists, feeling them both tremble.
"I love you. That's why I came back."
He lowered her hands, holding them at his sides. "Then stay," he said.
She looked down, tears rolling off her face. Mason raised her chin toward him, his hand caressing her neck, brushing against her scar.
"I can't," she whispered, grabbing his hand, pulling it from her neck, turning up the collar of her jacket, holding it to her throat. "It's why I came back, but it's why I can't stay."
Abby wiped her eyes and opened the door, her back to him.
"I'm innocent," he said.
The wind had died down, the rain slowing to a light shower. The thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm moving on.
"I believe you," she said, walking out without looking back.
Chapter 35
Innocence is, for some, simply the blessed ignorance of reality. For others, it's a state of grace, a pass into this world revoked on the way to the next. It's the first defense of the accused and the last words of the condemned: a protective mantle thrown over their shoulders by a system that rips apart its fabric in the pursuit of justice. It was a threadbare comfort to Mason when he considered how little his innocence mattered if it couldn't be proved.
Patrick Ortiz was readying his case against Mason for the grand jury. Ortiz would put forth all the evidence of Mason's guilt he wanted the jurors to hear. Mason would not be permitted to confront his accusers, offer evidence of his innocence, or be represented by a lawyer before the grand jury. Ortiz would call Mason to testify, forcing Mason to choose between answering questions, or refusing to answer on the grounds that his testimony may incriminate him. The right against self-incrimination carried the burden of exercising it, taking the Fifth Amendment a wink shy of a confession in the minds of many.
That the grand jury would indict Mason for the murder of Sandra Connelly was certain. Grand juries were often little more than rubber stamps wielded by prosecutors who loved the grand jury for its secrecy, for their ability to control the agenda, and for the gratification of announcing indictments returned by the people, like Moses coming down from the mountain.
Mason understood that Patrick Ortiz had other reasons for choosing the grand jury over a preliminary hearing. The prosecutor knew that a trial began long before the jury was selected, the opening rounds fought in the press. Ortiz had lost the first round in the coverage of Mason's arraignment and had decided to play catch-up with a swift indictment that would dominate the headlines.
Mason knew that potential jurors who swore to their ignorance and impartiality about a case in order to be selected had often read every scrap of news they could find. Even after they were selected to serve and the judge admonished them not to read or listen to any news reports about the case, or talk about the case to anyone, many did. They weren't liars in the willful way of CEOs and their accountants. They believed in their neutrality and they wanted to serve. But they couldn't resist the news. So unless they were out of the country until the moment of their selection and were sequestered thereafter, they lapped up press coverage like a cat laps up cream.
Sitting in his office late on Wednesday afternoon, Mason admitted that Ortiz had made the right play. Mason wouldn't complain, having used the media on behalf of his own clients if he needed the edge. Besides, he couldn't do anything about Ortiz's decision except practice saying that he respectfully declined to answer the question on the grounds that his answer might incriminate him. He was glad to have the constitutional right to refuse to answer, though he couldn't shake the weasel out of the words no matter how many times he repeated them.
He'd spent the day referring his clients to other lawyers. The criminal defendants understood, treating him with a new kinship that Mason couldn't embrace. A few of his civil clients protested, saying they would stick by him. Mason thanked them for their loyalty but explained that he had to devote his attention to his defense and that they would be well taken care of by their new lawyer.
Between phone calls, he reviewed his financial situation. The data were neatly organized on his computer.
He had ten thousand dollars in his law firm bank account and another seventy-five thousand in accounts receivable. With luck, he'd collect most of that over the next sixty days. He tallied up his unbilled time on the cases he was referring out, deducting those amounts from the retainers he'd been paid. The net was another twenty-seven thousand dollars. If everyone who owed him money paid up, he'd have enough to pay Claire back plus enough left over for lunch money.
He'd managed to save a few dollars since he'd opened his own practice though he'd taken a beating in the stock market. His portfolio was so thin it was invisible when he turned it sideways.
The house was his only other asset. He'd borrowed against it to even out the irregular cash flow of a one-man law prac
tice, eating into the equity. He wasn't certain what the house would appraise at now but had the gnawing certainty that any remaining equity would be sucked out as soon as Dixon Smith ran through his initial hundred thousand dollar retainer. Without an income to repay the loan, he'd likely have to sell. His neighbors would probably help him pack.
He'd had this conversation with many clients, the financial impact of being charged with a crime often as devastating as the charge itself. At least a convicted spouse didn't have to worry about where his next meal was coming from even if it was only served with a spoon. The family that lost their breadwinner often paid a debt to society they didn't owe.
Telling himself the new financial facts of his life was another out-of-body experience for him. Each day another piece of his life broke off and washed away. He couldn't stop the erosion, knowing that he could bottom out on death row praying for a phone call from the governor. Patrick Ortiz and Dixon Smith would fight over his legal carcass, leaving him picked clean when it was time for the next case. It was nothing personal, they would say. It was just business.
"But I'm innocent," Mason muttered, turning off his computer, wishing it mattered.
He called Dixon Smith, getting his voice mail, leaving a message asking for an update on his case. Hanging up, he cringed with the recognition that he was quickly becoming the worst kind of client-the pain in the ass that calls every day expecting a miracle.
His practice shut down, Mason resorted to throwing darts at the board hanging on the wall across the room. He tried different techniques-the high lob, the underhand, the side arm toss. After five minutes and no hits close to the inner ring, he gave up, leaving the darts scattered across the wall.
He opened the cabinet covering his dry erase board and wiped it clean, needing to take a fresh look at his case. Dixon Smith didn't want his help. Good for Smith. Mason wouldn't help Smith. He'd help himself. Start at the beginning, build the case, find the thread that would tie it together. Put it in a nice package and deliver it to Smith. If Smith didn't like it, Mason could find another lawyer. Although by that time, he'd probably qualify as one of Nancy Troy's public defender clients.
He listed the key players on the board-Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes, their son Nick; Ryan Kowalczyk and his mother, Mary. Whitney King and his mother, Victoria. And Father Steve. He added the names of the jurors from the King and Kowalczyk trial, drawing circles around the names of Janet Hook and Andrea Bracco, the two still unaccounted for.
With a red marker, he added Sandra Connelly's name to the board, feeling again the jolt from the stun gun, recoiling from the gunshots that struck Sandra, sensing the killer's hand on his, squeezing the trigger. His memory let loose the scrap of the killer's familiarity that had eluded him that night, teasing him ever since. The killer smelled but not like someone who'd missed a bath. Like someone who'd smoked enough to be stained with tobacco. It was the same smell that permeated Father Steve, as if his confessional was in the church's smoking section.
Mason stepped back from the board. The priest had been with King when King shot Nick. The priest was the last person to have seen Mary, giving Mason a line that Mary had gone to see her estranged husband. Father Steve had told Mason that his job included soliciting contributions to the church from King. Maybe, Mason thought, he was more bag man than fund-raiser, hiding behind his clerical collar. Still, Mason couldn't imagine a reason for Father Steve to kill Sandra. Then again, he couldn't shake the memory of that moment and his certainty that the killer was dipped in smoke. The priest was still the center of the wheel, everyone else a spoke.
The phone rang, Mason answering it, half-listening as he stared at the board.
"Lou, it's Dixon," his lawyer said.
"Yeah," Mason answered. "What's up?"
"You called me, man," Smith answered.
"Right. I did. I just wanted to know if you had anything new. I'm sorry. I'm not going to be one of those clients that make you wish you'd doubled the retainer. I know you'll call me when you have something to tell me."
"Hey, don't apologize," Smith said. "If it was my life, I'd be calling you every fifteen minutes. I was going to call you anyway. It's been a busy day."
Mason sat at his desk, turning his back to the board. "I'm listening."
"Ortiz has subpoenaed Blues, Whitney King, and Father Steve to testify before the grand jury. And you. I told him I'd accept service of your subpoena. He wants you Friday afternoon at three o'clock."
"Who else is going to testify?"
"The cops and the coroner," Smith answered.
"When do you want to get together to talk about my testimony?"
"There's nothing to talk about, Lou. You say anything in there except your name and the Fifth Amendment, you might as well check in to the penitentiary now and save the taxpayers their money. I'll meet you there."
"You're right. I've been practicing my lines. Is that it?"
"No. I talked to Whitney King. He said he didn't know anything about a meeting with you and Sandra."
"That's no surprise. What about the phone records?"
"If the phone companies didn't have lawyers, I'd have gotten the records today. Should still have them by Friday."
"It is what it is," Mason said.
"There's something else," Smith said. "It's the kind of thing Ortiz will leak to the press so get ready."
Mason's gut chilled. "What?"
"The coroner says the first bullet didn't kill Sandra. When she put her hands up, it deflected the bullet. The first shot did a lot of facial damage but exited through her cheek."
"The second shot?" Mason asked.
Smith said, "Fatal. Blew a hole in her heart." He paused, letting the news sink in. "Don't worry, Lou. It's all expert witness jive. There's a pathologist in New York who testifies in all the high-profile cases on the East Coast. I'll call him tomorrow. He requires twenty-five grand up front before he'll even look at a case, but I think we're going to need him."
"Sure. Whatever you say," Mason said, dropping the receiver in his lap, not hearing Smith say good-bye. He swiveled his chair back toward the board. All he could see was Sandra's name written in red.
Chapter 36
The minimum qualifications for the grand jurors who would decide whether to charge Mason with murder were that they had either registered to vote or had licensed a car. Those were the lists from which the grand jury was chosen to serve for a six-month term.
Mason knew that selecting a jury was one of the most critical parts of a trial. It was his chance to question potential jurors about anything that could reveal their bias against his client. Billed as a way to select a fair jury, it was, in reality, a way to de-select jurors who were likely to favor the other side.
When he selected a jury, Mason tried to learn as much as he could about each potential juror: where they lived, where they went to school, what they did for a living, what they thought about legal issues such as the death penalty and the burden of proof. He observed their body language, thought about the clothes they wore, and wondered if they watched PBS or American Idol and whether they read USA Today or The Wall Street Journal.
The grand jury was different, chosen at random from the county's master list of jurors. Neither Mason nor his lawyer had any right to question them or to object to their selection. His fate was in the hands of twelve strangers whose names had been plucked from the public rolls.
On Friday, Mason chose a navy blue suit for his grand jury testimony, rejecting the black as too funereal and the gray as too bland. He picked a white shirt and a pale blue tie, hoping the ensemble shouted his innocence in muted tones. He was in the bathroom down the hall from the courtroom used by the grand jury studying his appearance in a mirror, only minutes left before he would testify. He caught a tic in the corner of his left eye, an involuntary betrayal of his less than steely nerves. Worried that the grand jurors would read the minispasm as a guilty plea, he massaged the spot, hoping it would pass.
That his life might depe
nd on such trivial matters sent the tic momentarily into overdrive. He loved the courtroom arena, always getting juiced by the battle, never shrinking from the challenge. He embraced nervousness, knowing that it was born of anticipation, not fear. Beneath it all, he had an inner calm nurtured by his trust of the system. He believed in its fundamental fairness and he never doubted the wisdom of leaving life and death to a jury of one's peers.
Until today. Hearing his name called as the defendant and not the counsel of record changed everything. Now every weakness in the system jumped out at him like bogeymen at a haunted house. Prosecutors dealt from a stacked deck. Jurors had hidden agendas, waiting for a chance to star in the ultimate reality show. Defendants were presumed innocent but must have done something wrong to have been charged in the first place.
Grand jury proceedings were more frightening because they were secret. The jurors were prohibited from disclosing the witnesses' testimony or their vote on whether to indict.
Witnesses, however, were free to discuss their testimony after their appearance.
Whitney King had been the first witness that morning, holding a brief televised press conference afterward on the courthouse steps. Mason had watched from his office. The storm had left behind a city with temperatures in the low eighties, Mother Nature's apology for the brutal heat wave. Morning was even cooler, giving King a crisp appearance, the sun smiling over his shoulder.
"What did you tell the grand jury?" a reporter asked King.
"The truth," King answered. "When I was charged with a crime, I put my faith in the truth and I wasn't disappointed."
"At the arraignment, Lou Mason's lawyer said you were supposed to meet Mason and Sandra Connelly at your office. Is that true?" another reporter asked.
King shook his head. "No. I told the grand jury that I don't know anything about that."
"Why would Mason say that if it was so easy to prove he was lying?" a third reporter asked. The camera panned to the reporter. It was Sherri Thomas from Channel 6, no friend of Mason's. She had chased Mason throughout the Gina Davenport case, Mason refusing to feed her habit of distorted reporting aimed only at boosting her ratings. The camera swept back to King for his answer.