Disillusions

by Seth Margolis

  “Bail hearing’s set for four-thirty,” he said.

  “That was fast,” Reeves mumbled with a bitter chuckle.

  “Not a lot of bail hearings in this vicinity. Judges are looking for things to keep them occupied.” He winked at her, a gesture she couldn’t begin to interpret.

  Reeves stepped toward her and screwed his face into what he must have thought was a solicitous expression.

  “Mrs. Amiel,” he said, “you could speed things along, and help yourself, if you’d tell us everything you know. Your cooperation would look very positive to a sentencing judge. New York has just reinstated the death penalty, as I’m sure you’re aware. We’d be willing to forgo the death penalty if you—”

  “Death penalty?” She began to chortle, as if they’d gone one step too far in what she now realized was a very elaborate, if tasteless, practical joke. “Death penalty?” Still smiling, she looked from Gargano to Reeves to Hawkins and finally up at the ceiling as her laughter petered out.

  “Cut the bullshit, okay?” Gargano said as he loosened his tie, then undid the top button of his pale blue shirt. “You can’t cut a deal in this case—who’s she gonna implicate, the dead husband?”

  “I haven’t had anything to do with Barry since I moved here,” she said, wiping tears from her face with trembling fingers.

  Gargano waved a fat hand at her. “We have nothing further to say, pending the bail hearing.”

  “We have handwriting analysis, Mrs. Amiel, tying you conclusively to that note. We found hundred-dollar bills stuffed in your husband’s pocket and wallet. We have your gun. We have phone records.”

  “And my client has the right to remain silent,” Gargano said. “You did mention that already, I trust?”

  Reeves stood up and headed for the door. “We don’t need a statement from you, Mrs. Amiel. You’re toast already.”

  After Reeves left, Dwight Hawkins cleared his throat. “You’ll be detained in a holding cell until the hearing, and afterward, until bail is met, you’ll be remanded to the county jail.” He stood up and uttered a sigh that seemed to drag his shoulders down. “I still think you’re protecting someone, Mrs. Amiel.”

  “How can I protect someone when I didn’t—”

  Gargano cut her off with a karate chop through the air a few inches from her face.

  “Look out for yourself, Mrs. Amiel,” Hawkins said. “For yourself and your son. Whoever you’re protecting, he’s not worth it.”

  “I need to make a phone call,” she said as he was leaving.

  Hawkins turned. “Your attorney’s already here.”

  “I want to check on my son.”

  Hawkins looked pensive, then motioned for her to follow. He led her down a long corridor to a pay phone on the wall next to the men’s room. She could hear Don Reeves’s voice from inside.

  “Speak softly, okay?” Hawkins said. “Reeves probably wouldn’t approve.”

  She looked at him, prepared to offer thanks, and saw something in his expression, an uneasiness coupled with sorrow and pity, especially pity. He thinks I’m innocent. He knows I am. They locked eyes for a moment; then Hawkins quickly turned away and walked a few steps down the hall.

  She found a quarter in her jeans pocket and punched in the Penaquoit number. She wanted to speak to Jimmy, wanted to reassure him, but Nick would find a way to get her out of there, which was her first priority. After two rings Rosa Piacevic answered.

  “Hello? Lawrence residence.”

  “Is Mr. Lawrence there?” Gwen said quietly.

  A long pause. “No.”

  “It’s me, Gwen. I guess you know what happened.”

  “We hear.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “He’s not here.”

  Something in her voice…

  “Who’s watching Tess?”

  A beat, then: “I am.”

  “Put her on.”

  “She just a baby, she cannot—”

  “She loves the phone. Put her on.”

  Dwight Hawkins took a step toward her, looking puzzled.

  “She is having nap,” Rosa said.

  “It isn’t nap time. She’s with Mr. Lawrence, isn’t she? He’s there, isn’t he, in the house?”

  “He…not home.”

  “Put him on!”

  “He…he…”

  The line went dead. She squeezed the phone until her wrist ached. I’ll be there with you, every step of the way. You have my word. She slammed the phone in its cradle.

  Dwight Hawkins walked over to her. “Everything okay?”

  She shot him a look and he stepped back.

  “I’ve thought it over,” he said. “You can wait in the conference room for the arraignment. I’ll have to post a man outside the door, but I don’t see any reason for you to wait in a cell.”

  If he expected gratitude he’d have to look elsewhere.

  Chapter 35

  Gwen entered the small courtroom on the second floor of the Whitesville County Court building and almost buckled under a crushing sense of isolation. She’d survived three tedious hours in the windowless conference room by forcing herself to think optimistically: charges would be dropped, she’d retrieve Jimmy from the Pearsons, then perhaps Nick would take them both away somewhere.

  But when she walked into the courtroom and saw not a single familiar face, other than her own attorney, she felt her knees start to give way. It was nearly five o’clock. Where was Nick? Where was Sheila? Where was—

  And then it hit her, what she should have known all along, or had known but chose to ignore. She was alone, her life telescoped to this small, drab room and a handful of strangers who thought she had killed someone.

  A female police officer escorted her to a table on the left side of the room, where she sat on a wooden armchair next to Kevin Gargano. Before she had a chance to orient herself the judge cleared his throat and began talking. He was gray-haired, probably about sixty, his shoulders hunched under a black robe. The sign in front of his desk read CHARLIE M. KOCH.

  “Is everyone present who needs to be?” he said.

  Gargano nodded. On the other side of the room, a young man with tightly curled black hair stood up and said, “Yes, Your Honor, we are prepared to proceed.”

  “The prosecutor,” Gargano whispered to her. “Jason Rudolph. Major ass kisser.”

  Gwen nodded but couldn’t help noticing the way the judge’s expression softened when he looked at the prosecutor. What’s wrong with a little ass kissing? she felt like asking Gargano.

  The judge scanned the top of his desk, lifted a sheet of paper, and began reading.

  “Gwen Amiel…” He peered briefly at her over his reading glasses. “You have been charged with felony murder in the death of Priscilla Lawrence, kidnapping of a minor, and extortion.” He looked at her again, and for a moment she thought he was going to smile at the absurdity of what he’d just read. Only kidding, you can go now. Instead, he said, “How do you plead?”

  “Felony murder?” she whispered to Gargano.

  “When you cause the death of someone else in the course of committing another crime.”

  “But I—”

  “Doesn’t matter if you intended to kill the person. As long as he died in the course of committing a crime, you’re guilty of felony murder.”

  “Not guilty,” Gwen whispered.

  “Mr. Gargano?” the judge said with an impatient sigh.

  Gargano stood up and coughed once. “Not guilty, Your Honor.” He flopped back into his chair as the judge wrote something down.

  “Very well.” Judge Koch dropped his pen and looked up. “Grand jury proceedings are hereby scheduled for two weeks hence, on the third of August. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

  Gargano shook his head as he flipped through a dog-eared pocket calendar. Even before he’d reached the first week of August, Jason Rudolph was on his feet.

  “No problem, Your Honor!”

  Gargano muttered somethi
ng and made a notation on his calendar.

  “Very well,” the judge said again. “Now for the matter of bail. Mr. Rudolph?”

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, back on his feet. “I trust you’re familiar with the facts of the Priscilla Lawrence case.”

  “I am.”

  “Then I need hardly tell the court that this murder was committed in the act of kidnapping a one-year-old infant. I will, however, remind the court that five million dollars in ransom money—all cash—has not been recovered. Nor has Mrs. Amiel offered to help federal investigators locate the money. In light of these facts, and her complete and total refusal to cooperate with federal authorities, we are asking that bail be denied.”

  He sat down and glanced over at Gwen, breathing hard, his predatory eyes bright and unblinking. Yesterday she’d never heard of Jason Rudolph. Now he was her mortal enemy.

  Gargano hoisted himself from his chair with a bovine grunt.

  “Good afternoon, Your Honor.”

  The judge checked his wristwatch. “Or is it good evening, counselor?”

  Gargano chuckled obsequiously. “I appreciate your arranging to see us at such short notice, Your Honor. The reason I imposed on your busy schedule was simply this. My client, Gwen Amiel, is the mother of a five-year-old child.”

  Six, she wanted to whisper. He’s six. A tremor of dread passed through her.

  “She’s a single parent, I might add, so it is imperative that she not be incarcerated a moment longer than necessary.”

  Jason Rudolph sprang to his feet. “She should have thought of that before she murdered Priscilla Lawrence.” He remained standing.

  “Your Honor, we are not here this afternoon—this evening—to argue the guilt or innocence of my client, merely to set bail. My client works as a baby-sitter, earning…” He coughed and consulted his notes; they hadn’t discussed her salary, other than to determine that his fee would be paid by the state. “…Earning a subsistence living for herself and her young child. Setting any bail at all would therefore be tantamount to denying bail. Which, given Mrs. Amiel’s clean record, the scanty evidence in this case—”

  “I thought we weren’t arguing guilt or innocence,” the judge said.

  “Of course,” Gargano replied. “But we can at least agree that this isn’t a slam dunk.” He glanced at the prosecutor, his eyes all but swallowed by plump folds of sallow skin. “Not by a long shot.”

  “Your Honor, I don’t—”

  “Enough,” the judge said, turning to Gargano. “Proceed.”

  “My client is not a flight risk, Your Honor. She denies the charges against her, she is thoroughly committed to the care and upbringing of her child. And she’s already been through hell…Don’t make it worse for her.”

  “With all due respect, counselor, we’re dealing with a capital case here,” Rudolph said. “Or aren’t you aware that our governor reinstated the death penalty two years ago.”

  “I feel safer already,” Gargano mumbled loud enough for everyone to hear.

  The judge rapped an open hand on his desk. “That’ll do, Mr. Gargano.” He turned to the other side of the room. “Mr. Rudolph, I will set bail in this case, so you might as well give me a figure.”

  “But Your Honor, I—”

  “A figure, Mr. Rudolph?”

  The prosecutor frowned. “In light of the fact that Mrs. Amiel has absolutely no roots in the community, having lived in the county less than six months, and therefore poses a very real flight risk, I recommend that bail be set at one million dollars.” He sat down and again looked over at Gwen.

  “My client can’t afford even ten percent of that,” Gargano said. “Remember her young…child.”

  Gwen dug her fingernails into the thick varnish of the tabletop. He’s a boy, goddamn it!

  Rudolph stood up but the judge waved a hand at him.

  “Enough. Given the seriousness of the crime, a substantial bail must be set. However, in light of the absence of a criminal record, and the presence of the child, I think Mrs. Amiel poses only a modest flight risk. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars.” He stood up as both attorneys shouted “Your honor!” He shook his head, frowning, as he disappeared through a door behind his desk.

  “How the hell am I going to come up with half a million dollars?” Gwen said.

  “I’ll talk to some bail bondsmen, but it’s not going to be easy. I mean, you don’t even own your house. You got any kind of collateral at all, Mrs. Amiel?”

  Before she could answer Jason Rudolph was standing next to them.

  “Ready to deal, counselor?” His eyes had the fervent glow of the newly converted—or was it the euphoria of a lottery winner? Gwen got the strong sense that, careerwise, she was the biggest thing ever to happen to Jason Rudolph. Gargano ignored him as he gathered his notes into a pile.

  “Your client pleads guilty, surrenders the cash—and I don’t ask for the chair. How about it?”

  “You’re not going for capital, my friend, not with a female defendant.” Gargano stuffed the papers into his briefcase and snapped it shut.

  “Hey, I’m what they call an evolved man,” Rudolph said. “What’s good for the goose is—”

  “Fuck you,” Gwen said.

  Rudolph looked at her, eyebrows arched. “Temper like that won’t sit well with a jury.”

  “She isn’t talking to a jury, Rudolph. Now, my client and I would like some time alone.”

  “First-degree manslaughter, then, in return for a guilty plea and restitution of the cash.”

  Gargano started to speak, but Gwen grabbed his shoulder and bore down on it as she stood, almost toppling him. From the corner of her eye she saw two police officers moving toward her.

  “If you bring this case to trial,” she said, trying hard to keep from shouting, “you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  “Why?” said Rudolph with a smirk. “You gonna kill me too?” His grin exposed an orderly string of tiny teeth topped by a good half inch of glistening pink gum.

  “Because I’m innocent,” she said. “And I have powerful friends in this county.”

  Rudolph turned and swept a hand across the empty courtroom.

  “Powerful and invisible, apparently.”

  “You’ll hear from them,” she said, praying her lack of conviction wasn’t showing.

  “I hope you don’t mean the Cunninghams and Nick Lawrence,” Rudolph said in a patronizing singsong. “Is that who you mean?” She raised her chin and didn’t breathe. “Russell Cunningham has already called the governor on your behalf.”

  She let out a slow breath, biting back a smile.

  “He’s demanding the death penalty,” Rudolph said. “And he’s got lots of influence, as you just pointed out.”

  She felt the blood drain from her head and grabbed on to a chair to keep from keeling over.

  “As for Nick Lawrence, the fact that he was fucking you, his child’s baby-sitter—imagine that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury—will probably count for a lot less in his mind than the fact that he’s completely dependent on his father-in-law for financial support.”

  “Bullshit,” she said.

  “Care to bet on it? Say…five hundred thousand dollars?”

  She lunged at him and managed to graze his suit jacket with one fist before a male police officer yanked her away and handcuffed her wrists behind her back.

  “You’ve got a violent streak, Mrs. Amiel,” Rudolph said smoothly, but a pearl of sweat trickled in front of his left ear. “I like that in a defendant.” He clapped Kevin Gargano on the arm and headed for the exit. “Call if you want to talk deal,” he said over his shoulder.

  Gargano stood up and hoisted his briefcase from the floor.

  “I’ll see about bail, but you’ll probably have to spend at least tonight, probably tomorrow in jail.”

  No! She couldn’t leave Jimmy with the Pearsons.

  “Call Nick Lawrence,” she said quickly, before the tears came. “H
e’ll help with the bail.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he has many assets, but maybe the house is in his name, who knows? You sure he’s on your side?”

  She nodded several times as tears began spilling from her eyes.

  “Can I call my son? Can I call him before they…”

  Gargano glanced at the female officer, who frowned, waited a few moments, then nodded.

  “Jimmy?” She smiled into the phone, struggling to keep her voice upbeat. “It’s me.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Things okay at the Pearsons?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’m glad. I’m sorry you have to sleep there tonight. I’m going to try to come home tomorrow.”

  Silence.

  “We’ll go for ice cream cones, okay?”

  He mumbled something inaudible.

  “Jimbo, remember what I said this morning, before they took me away, about not doing anything wrong?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s true. I know you believe that. It’s so important to me that—”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, Jimmy?”

  “Do I have to go to camp tomorrow?”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “Some of the boys…”

  “Some of the boys what?”

  “…Said things. You know, about you and Mr. Lawrence and things.”

  “Don’t listen to them,” she said. “What happened to Priscilla Lawrence had nothing to do with you, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Silence.

  “Jimmy, if you don’t want to go to camp tomorrow, tell the Pearsons I said you don’t have to. We’ll talk about it when I get home.”

  “Okay.”

  The police officer tapped her watch.

  “I have to go now, Jimmy.” Which was just as well, since her resolve was disintegrating, and it was beginning to show in her voice. “Sweet dreams, honey.”

  “But it’s not bedtime.”

  “I know…I—”

  “Can you call me at bedtime?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh.”

  “I love you so much.”

  “Mom?”