Criminal Justice

by Parker, Barbara

  “Absolutely. When a client is guilty—and most of them are—you give it your best shot, and if a jury convicts them, you don’t feel too bad. But when they’re innocent, you have the burden of knowing that you’d better not screw up, or they could go to jail for something they didn’t do.”

  When the phone rang, she frowned at it. Her brows were penciled on. “It’s been doing this all day.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She picked it up. “Law offices of Dunavoy and Galindo.… No, he’s not in.… He won’t be in and I’m not taking messages, so don’t call back.” She slammed down the telephone so hard her bracelets jangled.

  Dan said, “Tell me that wasn’t a client.”

  “Another reporter,” she said. “He was with Inside Edition.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “You want to answer it next time?”

  He raised his hands and retreated to his office. Entertainment Tonight had already run the story, losing no time. Rock singer found murdered inside ex-lover’s apartment. They even had a video clip of one of Kelly’s performances with her previous band, Black Mango. Dan had not seen it himself. He had not watched television all week.

  The odd thing was, the police had not shown up. The tension was making him jumpy. He kept looking out the window, expecting to see Detective Jesus A. Gonzalez with two uniformed officers and a set of handcuffs. Charlie had called Gonzalez, who would say only that the case was still under investigation. Dan’s contact at the state attorney’s office had been baffled.

  Dan let the blinds fall back into place. Alva Dunavoy had come in with a chilled can of chocolate liquid supplement for the geriatric crowd. She levered up the tab on the can with a long orange fingernail. The nail polish matched her tight jersey blouse, through which her bosom pointed dangerously at him, daring him to object.

  “Drink this,” she commanded. “It’s nearly three o’clock. If you don’t have something, you’ll faint.”

  “I have never fainted in my life, Alva. Stop mothering me.”

  “That’s a lousy attitude,” she said. “Some people happen to give a damn.”

  It was her way of apologizing for her bad mood earlier. Dan took the can from her. “Well, I guess I am a little hungry. Thanks.”

  After she was gone, Dan poured the chocolate drink into a potted plant, sorry to have to do it. He’d had no appetite since Sunday night. He was feeling hollowed out and fragile, but he doubted he would die of starvation. After finishing some phone calls, Dan put a disk in his computer, searching the Supreme Court Reporter for opinions on involuntary confessions, but it was hard to concentrate. The text on the screen would disappear, and he would be back in his apartment four nights ago, pulling Kelly Dorff upright, not accepting that she was gone even as her blood, still warm, flowed onto his hands.

  Dan blinked, then pressed his fingertips momentarily against his eyes. He turned off his computer and leaned back in his chair.

  There was something screwy about this case, and the sudden silence from the police was only part of it. They must have found some other lead. Dan did not believe that Kelly had been murdered by an opportunistic thief who had seen her use a spare key to get into his apartment.

  Heroin. He had thought of her arrest several times—the one she hadn’t told him about. She couldn’t have simply forgotten; a conviction would have sent her to prison for ten years.

  Another image had flickered in his mind—that of the bearded man he had seen last Sunday morning outside Elaine McHale’s house. Elaine, a federal prosecutor. Not the same man, Rick had assured him, as the person Dan had glimpsed so briefly at Manatee Studios. A resemblance, nothing more. Déjà vu, a trick of light, an odd transference of memory.

  Dan swiveled his chair until he was looking squarely at his telephone. He dialed a number, said who he was, and asked for Elaine McHale. He waited. Waited some more.

  Another female voice picked up. “Mr. Galindo? This is Ms. McHale’s assistant. I’m sorry, she’s out of town for a family emergency.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Oh, yes. She’ll be back a week from Monday.”

  “Well, if she calls in, have her get in touch with me, will you? Thanks.”

  Dan hung up.

  A sound of knuckles on wood interrupted his thoughts, and he swung his chair toward the door. “Come in.”

  Charlie Dunavoy, just back from a hearing in probate court, sat down and asked how he was doing.

  Dan told him he had managed to get some sleep last night. “The apartment looks great. The cleaners moved the furniture around, and with the new rug I hardly recognized the place. Rick and Sandy got me a new aquarium. I guess I’m doing all right.”

  “You come on over and stay with Alva and me, if you need to.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Glad to do it. But listen. I want you to talk to one of your buddies about your present situation. It’s been too long for me, Dan. Too long. I handled a first-degree murder trial in, oh, 1965, I think it was—a high school math teacher who allegedly stabbed his wife for going out with the coach. Did I tell you about that one?”

  Dan replied that he had. “You were pretty proud of getting an acquittal.”

  Charlie’s veiny hands were planted on his knees, and his belly hung over his trousers. “Well, I like to talk about it because it was the only damn murder trial I’ve ever done, but I’ll tell you, it was rough—the worry, do I know what the hell I’m doing, am I going to send this man to the electric chair, and so forth. I’d taken the case because the defendant knew my brother, and the family had no money, and they trusted me. I’d done some criminal cases—robberies, thefts, things like that—so I wasn’t a complete boob, but I was a kid, younger than you, and when you’re that age you think you’re smart. After it was over, I went into the men’s room and puked. I told myself no more of that. I’d not be living up to my professional oath to take your case, Dan, if it turns into one. You find yourself a tiger, not an old dog like me. You young guys are more up on the law than I am. But if you need help with the fees, you say so. I mean it.” He held up his hands. “Nope. Don’t argue with me.”

  “All right, if you say so.” Dan had already spoken to a friend of his, a top criminal lawyer who would jump in if necessary. Then he said, “Charlie, I’ve been thinking about finding a job closer to Lakewood Village, probably in a large firm, where I could have some financial stability while I work my way up to a partnership. Lisa and I—well, we’re thinking of trying again, and Josh needs me around. I want you to know how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me. You took me in when I was going down for the count, and you didn’t even know me.”

  “Oh, Elaine twisted my arm.” Charlie smiled, not wanting to be a bad sport about it. “I hope it’s not the money. I’ve made a decent living in a general practice. You’re not doing too bad, you know, and it’s getting better.”

  “No, I need to get out of Miami. It drives me crazy. People are at each other’s throats, nobody shuts up. The congestion, the noise, crime, trash—”

  “I was born here too,” Charlie said. “My father came down in the Depression, rode a boxcar, just a kid, practically. He swore he’d never see another snowflake as long as he lived, and he didn’t. Oh, I know Miami’s not what it was, Lord a’mighty. It’s a big city now. A lot of my friends moved away, and I was tempted to go with them, but I couldn’t leave. Maybe I’m an egocentric old so-and-so, but I feel useful here. I wouldn’t be, in Coral Springs or Boca Raton. They don’t need me. They’ve got enough lawyers, a lot sharper than Charlie Dunavoy.” With a sigh that turned into a little grunt when he pushed himself out of his chair, he said, “No, I understand, young guy like you, wants to make a place for himself in the world. I understand.”

  Dan’s phone buzzed—the intercom line. He glanced at it, then said, “Not that young. I turned thirty-five yesterday.”

  Charlie ran his thumbs up under his suspenders. “I was there once myself. Damned goo
d age. Forty is better, though. You’ll see.”

  Dan picked up the phone to see what Alva wanted. Her voice was low, nearly a whisper. “There’s a girl out here to see you, Dan. I told her you’re not taking any visitors, but she says you know her. Martha Cruz?”

  “Yes, she’s here to pick up some keys.”

  Standing at the entrance door, looking out at the street, Martha might have been a statue. Only the slight movement of her torso above a wide, silver-studded belt marked her breathing. Smoke drifted around her hair, which waved down her back in glossy curls. Her wine-colored dress held tightly to her arms, fell over her hips, and with a beaded fringe touched the tops of slouched black leather boots. The toe of one boot held the door open. A jacket, carelessly tossed onto the waiting room sofa, lay halfway on the floor.

  Perhaps from a small noise behind her, she sensed someone was there and turned around. Dan had never seen her face so pale. Her eyes looked bruised and shadowed, and even her full, rich mouth seemed to have faded.

  “Come on in,” Dan said.

  Martha sent the cigarette past the front steps, then picked up her jacket and a fabric purse, which she slung over one shoulder. Her skirt swished around the tops of her boots as she followed him into his office. He closed the door and gestured to the client chair facing his desk.

  She remained standing, scowling at him sideways, as if sidling up cautiously to whatever she had to say. “Did you do it?” Her voice cracked, then grew stronger. “I can tell if somebody is lying. My people are into santería, and it’s in my blood. I can tell.” She seemed ready to leap. Leap out the door, leap at Dan, he couldn’t tell.

  Halfway into his chair, he paused. “No. I came home and found her, Martha.”

  Martha Cruz pressed her lips together, staring at him for a few seconds longer. Her dark eyes seemed to bulge, and her brows were drawn in like a fist. “You knew Kelly was coming over. She called you.”

  “She left a message, which I didn’t hear until the police played it at my apartment.”

  With a shudder Martha crossed her arms and dug her fingers in. “I was wondering, you know? I didn’t think you did, but people can fool you sometimes.”

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  After a second she nodded. She hung her bag over a corner of the chair, sat down, and crossed her legs. The fringe on the hem of her skirt swung with the steady movement of her boot, and the beads tapped on the leather. “Kelly’s funeral is Saturday in Baltimore. Are you going?”

  Dan shook his head. He opened a drawer for the ring that held the keys to Salazar’s sportfisher and the gate to the marina.

  “Me either,” Martha said. “Nobody’s going. We have to work. She’ll just have her mom and her dad and her brother. They’ll probably put her in a cardboard coffin. Do you know what that asshole father of hers asked me? Where’s Kelly’s guitar? He wanted to sell it to pay for the funeral. Bastard. I hung up on him. We’re going to send flowers, lots and lots of them. Miguel says order whatever I want, so that place is going to look like a flower garden, believe me. The guy at the funeral home is going to take pictures, I’ll show you. We made up a little box to put with her. It’s got guitar picks and a cassette of the band. Kelly and I made the tape at the party on South Beach. It came out all right. What Kelly would hate, more than anything, is if the band died too. We have to go on. Rick’s finding a new guitarist—I hope. He knows more people than I do. The concert at the Abyss is in two weekends. It’s all on me now. I’m the main singer. But we’ll be all right. If we can get through the concert, we’ll be okay. We’re doing the final mix over the weekend, then we have to get the demo tape to Joel Friedman by next Monday. That’s the man from Capitol, and Rick promised him the demo. It won’t have Kelly on it, that’s the only thing, so we have to dub in the new guy, as soon as we have one. Rick’s at the studio now, doing auditions.”

  Martha, who had been staring into her lap, raised her eyes. “I don’t mean to disrupt your schedule. I can’t stay long. You know how Miguel is.”

  “Are you going to get in trouble for being here?”

  “No way.” She waved a slender, silver-ringed hand. “He’s at work. He doesn’t even know you called me.”

  “Don’t take this so lightly,” Dan said. “The man hit you.”

  “Well, that was the first time.” She laughed. “As soon as we get a record contract, I’m gone, no matter whether he hits me or he doesn’t. I can’t believe you said that stuff to him. My God. That took guts.”

  “It wasn’t smart,” Dan said. “I think I provoked him. Free advice, Martha. Leave him now. Go stay with Rick.” He heard the beaded fringe on her skirt tap-tap-tapping on her boots.

  “That’s sweet of you. Being worried about me like that.” She made a quick shrug and rose from her chair. “I’ll think about it after the concert.”

  He walked her back to the entrance to the law office.

  Dan said, “Martha, why did Kelly come to my apartment?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “No clue? Rick says you and Kelly were close, that you talked to each other.”

  “Yes, but mostly on stuff about the band.” As they reached the waiting room, Martha slowly smiled. A warm glow had come back into her face, a rosy tint under the olive tones. In a low voice she said, “I found out something about you. I told you I would.”

  Dan was not in the mood for this. He said, “You’re a resourceful girl, Martha.”

  “Remember on the terrace at Miguel’s? You didn’t want to tell me why you weren’t a prosecutor anymore, but I found out.”

  “And I hope the search provided several days of amusement for you.”

  “More like ten minutes.” Martha put on her short black jacket and shook her heavy curls free of the collar. “I asked Rick. And Kelly told me some things. I wouldn’t have done what you did myself—because look at the way it turned out.”

  “Not only resourceful,” he said. “Pragmatic. Or let’s say, a keen sense of ethics, ex post facto.”

  She didn’t care to venture into that terrain. “Whatever.” She whirled out the door, leaving Dan with his thoughts.

  Luis Barrios. The doper who got away, thanks to one young federal prosecutor’s notion of right and wrong. Dan had taken a stand; he had fallen off. The point he’d been trying to hang onto was a narrow, windy precipice, and in the end it hadn’t mattered, as Lisa had said. Let it go.

  Walking back into his room, he was stopped by Alva’s honk.

  “Daaa-a-an. Phone.”

  He backed up a step and asked her who it was.

  She said, “It’s not a reporter. He says he’s a client, but he wouldn’t give his name. Says he needs to talk to you.”

  “I’ll take it in my office.”

  The voice made him nearly drop the receiver.

  “This is Salazar. Why was Martha in your office just now?”

  Dan went to the window and pulled down a slat in the mini-blinds. “Where are you?”

  “I saw her leave your office. Don’t play with me. Why was she there?”

  “She came for the keys to your boat. What did you think?”

  “I tell you this one time only. If you touch her, I will kill you. This is a promise.”

  The line went dead.

  Going to hang up the phone, he saw the key ring still on the desk.

  The criminal court building was on the Miami River under an expressway, an eight-story square gray edifice where most of Dan’s legal practice took place—not the white-collar criminals and major drug traffickers found in federal court, but a clientele consisting for the most part of unlucky, usually poor, and sometimes violent men.

  In the clerk’s office Dan showed his bar card at the line for lawyers and court personnel. He wanted to see records for Kelly Dorff, any case within the last two years. He did not have her Social Security number, but he knew her birthdate. The clerk tapped at the computer and said there were two entries. Miami Beach, possession of marijuan
a, withhold of adjudication. Then eight months ago an arrest in Miami for possession of heroin.

  He asked about disposition of the latter case. None. It was still on hold. He asked who had represented Ms. Dorff. The public defender.

  Dan took the elevator to the eighth floor. The waiting room outside the P.D.’s office was swarming with people, most of them black or Hispanic, most of them poor. The receptionist sat behind thick glass. He asked her if George Everett was available.

  He and George had worked together a few times representing codefendants on the same cases. George was a Miami native, a law-review editor at Yale who had turned down offers from big firms in Boston and New York. He had planned to work a couple of years as a public defender before going back up north, but here it was eight years later, and he was still kicking prosecutorial butts in his hometown.

  George was between clients and could afford a few minutes to speak to Dan. He had heard about the murder of the girl in Dan’s apartment, and whatever he could do, ask.

  “It’s about the same girl, George.” Dan explained that Kelly Dorff had been represented by someone in the P.D.’s office. The case, however, had never been prosecuted. “What happened to it? People arrested with a kilo of heroin don’t just walk away. There’s got to be something else going on.”

  “Ordinarily, I couldn’t talk about this, you understand,” said George after a moment’s reflection, “but the girl is dead—correct?—and you do seem to have a legitimate interest.”

  “No shit,” Dan said.

  George looked at the computer. A lawyer by the name of Lori Rosen had handled the case. Lori Rosen had left the office a month ago—gone to Washington, in fact—but the file was still around somewhere.

  “Let’s see what we can find in storage,” George added.

  “You’re sure this isn’t a bother?”

  “No, you got my curiosity aroused now.”

  Dan accompanied George to the storage room, and five minutes later George pulled it out of a box on one of the dozens of rows of shelves. He blew off some metaphorical dust and opened it up.

  A thin file. George read through it briefly, then looked at Dan. “On hold per agreement with the U.S. attorney’s office. Let’s see … There’s a note. ‘Case not to be prosecuted pending full cooperation with Justice Department, per AUSA Elaine McHale.’”