Guilty as Sin

by Tami Hoag

  “Have you heard?” she demanded.

  “About the Holloman boy?”

  “He's dead.”

  Costello reached for her arm. “Let's go in my office.”

  Ellen jerked away from his touch. “Let's not. I'd rather your staff hear exactly what kind of a bastard they're working for—if they don't already know.”

  Anger flashed in his dark eyes and he took another step toward her. “Ellen, you're out of line—”

  “I'm out of line? My God!” She shook her head in disbelief. “You could have saved that child. You could have at least been a coward and called in anonymously. But if Wright's accomplice is nailed, then Wright is nailed, too, and you'll be damned if you'll lose a case over something as trivial as a child's life.”

  She could see the secretary, wide-eyed and uncertain. Another associate, an African-American woman, stepped into the hall from an office, looking shocked. Costello's face was a stony mask.

  “You'll be damned, all right,” Ellen snarled. “I'm filing a complaint with the professional-relations board today. If I find one shred of evidence linking you to that boy's murderer, I will ruin you, Tony. You're as guilty of his death as if you put your hands around his throat and choked him yourself!”

  She stormed out of the office, half expecting him to follow, but he didn't. She had taken him by surprise, knocked him back on his heels, and she could imagine what he was thinking. No time to appear in front of the press that waited in the hall. Better to say nothing, leave them wondering, leave her to deal with them, the coldhearted son of a bitch.

  She pushed past the reporters, letting them draw their own conclusions as to why she would pay a visit to the opposition less than two hours before they were due in court.

  By the time she arrived at the courthouse, the full flock of vultures had descended. The scene in Campion had been processed and abandoned, picked clean of details and metaphors, photographed from every possible angle. They perched themselves on the main steps of the courthouse, hovered around all the entrances. The only way into the building was to run the gauntlet, eyes forward, stride purposeful, mouth closed. They hurled their questions at her like stones and chased her into the building, demanding the answers she had refused them just hours before.

  “Ms. North, how will the discovery of Dustin Holloman's body affect the charges against Garrett Wright?”

  “Ms. North, are you ready to admit you're prosecuting the wrong man?”

  “What were you doing at Anthony Costello's offices? Will there be some kind of deal?”

  “Are you dropping the charges?”

  “Ms. North, are you holding to your accomplice theory?”

  “Will you try to pin this on the Sci-Fi Cowboys?”

  “Doesn't the Park County attorney's office have anything to say for itself?”

  “Yes.” She tossed a glare over her shoulder without breaking stride. “I have a hearing to prepare for and a suspect who's as Guilty as Sin. If you let this latest atrocity sway you from believing that, then you're just buying into his sick game and you're as much accomplices as the person who dumped that child's body.”

  If she had meant her words to silence or humiliate them, she would have been disappointed. As it was, the rise in volume as they all clamored to speak at once came as no great surprise. Just like old times, she thought as she stepped past the deputy who had been stationed outside the office door. Only worse.

  The office was in a state of stunned chaos. Phones rang incessantly and seemed to go unanswered. One of the secretaries from Campion sat at her desk, weeping. Phoebe knelt on the floor beside the woman's chair, offering Kleenex and sympathy, her own eyes red-rimmed and brimming with tears. Rudy stood in the center of it all, looking like a captain on the deck of a sinking ship.

  “This is an absolute nightmare,” he said half under his breath, glaring at Ellen as if the idea of dumping Dustin Holloman's body in plain sight mere hours before the probable-cause hearing had been her idea. “Bill Glendenning called me at home to demand an explanation. He said from the position of his office, it appears you've lost all control of the situation, Ellen.”

  You, not we, Ellen noted as she went into her office, Rudy following. He was ready to cut the ties and blame her in order to save his ass and his prospective judgeship. She wheeled on him.

  “I've lost control? I never had control! I had a case to build and I've built it. I'm not omnipotent. If I were in control, none of this would ever have happened!”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I certainly do.” She didn't care that Quentin Adler stood just behind him in the doorway, soaking up every word to be regurgitated later at the water cooler. “You've really painted yourself into a corner this time, haven't you, Rudy? You dumped this case on me because you didn't have the guts to take it on yourself. Now what?” she demanded. “God forbid you should look at the evidence we have against Garrett Wright and back me up.”

  “I've backed you in this from the beginning, Ellen,” he said indignantly. “I gave you my full confidence. I gave you free rein.”

  He had given her ample rope and half hoped she would hang herself with it, but not before he could get himself clear of her kicking feet. He had never in all his scheming scenarios imagined anything as dire as this latest turn of events. If he washed his hands of her now, he would appear weak. If he backed her and she failed, she would take the brunt of the criticism, but the fallout would be on him. His decision-making abilities would be questioned. His qualifications as a judge would be questioned. He could almost feel the robes slipping from his grasp.

  “Do I need to remind you Mitch Holt ran down Garrett Wright himself?” Ellen asked. “He's guilty.”

  “Not of killing that Holloman boy.”

  “That's not the case we're hearing. But don't worry, Rudy, when that one comes in, I will be first in line. I want to nail that son of a bitch's hide to the wall and pick my teeth with his bones. Now, if you'll excuse me,” she said, backing him out into the hall, “I've got a battle to wage.”

  “All rise! Court is in session. The Honorable Judge Gorman Grabko presiding.”

  The bailiff smashed the gavel down again as the noisy crowd surged to its feet. Jay watched as Gorman Grabko emerged from his chambers with a theatrical air of dignity, bald head polished to a high sheen, beard neatly trimmed. A gray-striped bow tie perched above the neck of his robes, properly discreet. He climbed up to his aerie on the bench and settled himself with quiet ceremony, arranging his stack of files and books just so before looking out on the assembled mob that filled his courtroom shoulder to shoulder.

  Jay followed the judge's eyes, trying to imagine the scene from Grabko's point of view. Looking past the counsel tables into the gallery, he would see Paul Kirkwood sitting in the front row with a sour expression. Rudy Stovich right beside him, his greased gray hair rising off one side of his head like a loose asphalt shingle. He would see Mitch Holt in a suit and tie and Megan O'Malley wearing the ugly badges of her beating—bruises that had reached the pomegranate-and-puce stage, stitches crawling over her lower lip like a centipede.

  The Harris College contingent had arrayed themselves on the other side of the aisle, behind the defense table. Christopher Priest and the assistant dean, a cadre of students—Todd Childs noticeably absent. Karen Wright, looking fragile and lovely in rose-petal pink. And the press all around.

  From his lofty seat Grabko could literally look down on the lawyers—every judge's secret joy. At the prosecution table Ellen stood, her back rigid, her jaw rigid, her hands curled into fists at her sides. She was furious, almost to the point of shaking, Jay would have bet. And he had a sinking feeling her temper was directly attributable to the discussion that had gone on in chambers moments before, where Grabko would have announced to the lawyers his decisions on motions they had made prior to today.

  Costello had filed two of note, had broadcast them to the press with fanfare: a motion to dismiss and a motion to suppress th
e lineup identification. He stood at the defense table with his associate, smartly decked out in a tailored tobacco-brown suit, black hair gleaming almost blue under the lights, his expression allowing just a hint of overconfidence.

  Christ, would Grabko have been so easily led? Would the news of the Holloman boy's death have swayed him as it had many of the reporters who had been on the scene in the pearl-gray hours before dawn? His decision on the dismissal had to be based on the evidence regarding the issue of the constitutionality of the arrest, but that didn't mean other factors couldn't influence him subconsciously or otherwise. If Grabko had been sufficiently starstruck by Costello, if he had already been leaning toward the defense . . .

  Anxiety knotted in Jay's gut. He hadn't been able to get the morning's images out of his head. In the usual course of his job, he had seen hundreds of crime-scene photos, some grisly beyond imagining, but he had never actually been to a scene like this one.

  He would never forget the sight of that small, lifeless body, would never forget the raw, nameless emotion that had cut through him, or the anguished keening of the boy's mother. There were no words to describe the kind of desperate tension that had thickened the cold air along that stretch of road leading into Campion. Acrid, volatile, like a toxic chemical cloud that could have ignited and exploded at the slightest spark.

  And he knew it was all part of the master plan mapped out by Wright and his partner. A move meant to shock, meant to thumb their noses at their opponents in the game. some rise by SIN, and some by virtue fall. Who represented virtue more than the police, more than the prosecutor, more than a child? The goal was to get away with murder, to defeat the justice system and destroy the servants of that system in the process; and to destroy two innocent families in the bargain.

  The pure evil of it was stunning.

  And fewer and fewer people were willing to believe the defendant standing at the table was capable of embodying that evil. Evil was supposed to be ugly, instantly recognizable. Not a respected college professor who rehabilitated delinquents. Not an attractive, quiet man in a conservative blue suit.

  “Be seated,” Grabko intoned. He perched a pair of half glasses on his nose and consulted a document, as if he had no idea what case was coming up before him. “We are here on the matter of The State versus Dr. Garrett Wright. This is the omnibus hearing. For those of you in the gallery unfamiliar with our system, the omnibus hearing is the equivalent of a probable-cause hearing, wherein the State bears the burden of proof to show that the defendant indeed may have committed the crimes of which he stands accused and should be bound over for trial.

  “Counsel for the defense,” he announced, “please state your names for the record.”

  Costello and his minion rose in unison. “Anthony Costello, Your Honor. Assisting me will be my associate, Mr. Dorman.”

  “Counsel for the prosecution.”

  “Assistant County Attorney Ellen North, Your Honor.”

  “Assistant County Attorney Cameron Reed, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Costello,” Grabko said, turning his attention back to the defense. “Regarding your previously filed motion to dismiss on the grounds that in the process of arresting Dr. Wright the Deer Lake police force violated his rights under the Fourth Amendment of the United States Constitution: I have carefully considered your argument and weighed all factors involved, including Chief Holt's statement and the prosecution's argument.”

  He paused for effect, stroking a hand down his beard, as if he were just now coming to his conclusion. Jay pulled in a breath and held it.

  “I find your argument has merit. There was a certain delay between pursuit and apprehension, wherein Chief Holt lost sight of his suspect.”

  A gasp went up in the gallery. In the front row Paul Kirkwood leaned forward to grasp the railing, as if preparing to vault over it.

  “However,” Grabko said, “the length of the delay is in dispute, and I am convinced the rule of exigent circumstances applied. Therefore, motion to dismiss is denied.”

  Another wave of sound rolled through the courtroom. Grabko banged his gavel and frowned at the gallery. “I will have order in this courtroom. This hearing is a legal proceeding, not a play. Those in the gallery will remain silent or be removed.”

  Threat made, he resettled himself like a tom turkey that had had his feathers ruffled. He carefully set aside the documents concerning the first motion and took up another.

  “With regards to the defense motion to suppress the lineup identification. Motion granted.”

  Ellen rose from her chair as the gallery behind her defied fate and burst into a cacophony of sound. “Your Honor,” she shouted over the noise as Grabko cracked his gavel down. “Your Honor, I request the record show—”

  “Ms. North,” Grabko snapped, scowling at her over the rims of his glasses, “you made your opinion of my ruling abundantly clear in chambers. Unless you would care to be served with a charge of contempt, I suggest you not make it again.”

  Biting down on her temper, she did a mental count to ten. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You may call your first witness, Ms. North.”

  “The State calls Agent Megan O'Malley.”

  Mitch gave Megan's good hand a squeeze. She rose from her seat on the aisle and made her way slowly through the gate and toward the witness stand, trying not to lean too heavily against her crutch, too aware of the eyes that followed her, scrutinizing, speculating. The bailiff hovered at her shoulder, as if he expected her to swoon. She backed him off with an icy glare and took her time climbing into the witness box.

  Standing behind the table, Ellen assessed her witness as Megan was sworn in, noting with grim satisfaction that the BCA agent had taken no measures to cover the damage that had been done to her. She wore no makeup and had pulled her dark hair back off her neck, revealing the fading choke marks around her throat.

  “Agent O'Malley,” Ellen began, “please state for the record your occupation.”

  “I am—was—the Deer Lake regional field agent for the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

  “You say ‘was.' Has your status with the bureau changed recently?”

  “Yes,” Megan answered grudgingly. “I'm currently on medical leave.”

  “Due to injuries suffered on January twenty-second, 1994?”

  “Yes.”

  “Agent O'Malley, you were the agent in charge of the investigation of the abduction of Josh Kirkwood, were you not?”

  “That's correct.”

  “And were you investigating that crime on the twenty-second?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Would you please tell the court what happened on that morning?”

  “Objection,” Costello said in a bored tone. “Relevance.”

  Ellen cut him a look. “Goes to motive, Your Honor. We intend to establish a chronology of events that led to the vicious attack against Agent O'Malley.”

  Grabko pursed his lips and nodded. “Overruled.”

  Ellen stepped out from behind the table and walked slowly toward the witness stand, pulling Grabko's attention away from Costello. “Please continue, Agent O'Malley.”

  “I had stopped my car on the side of Old Cedar Road, got out of the vehicle, and was examining a set of skid marks made on the road during an auto accident that had taken place on the night of Josh Kirkwood's abduction, directly prior to his abduction.”

  “Why were you interested in the accident site?”

  “I was suspicious of the cause and the timing of the accident. The resulting injuries to the drivers and passengers delayed Josh Kirkwood's mother, Dr. Hannah Garrison, in leaving the hospital to pick him up from hockey practice. In the time between the accident and Dr. Garrison's arrival at the ice arena, Josh was abducted.”

  “And while you were examining these skid marks, were you approached by anyone?”

  “Yes. Dr. Garrett Wright stopped and expressed an interest in my purpose for being there. I simply said I was checking s
omething out.”

  “To the best of your knowledge, was Dr. Wright aware of the accident that had taken place?”

  “Yes, he was. The driver of the car that caused the accident was a student at Harris College who was involved in a project Dr. Wright and Professor Christopher Priest were heading.”

  “Did you see Dr. Wright again later that day?”

  “Yes. I went to Harris College looking for Professor Priest. The professor wasn't in his office, but I found Dr. Wright there, along with a student.”

  “How was Dr. Wright dressed at that time?”

  “He was wearing a shirt and tie and dark trousers.”

  “You spoke to him then?”

  “Yes. Dr. Wright informed me that Priest had gone to St. Peter and would likely return to his home around two-thirty P.M.”

  “Was Dr. Wright aware of your intention to go to his colleague's home?”

  “He offered to give me directions.”

  “Did you inform anyone else of your intention to go to Priest's home?”

  “No.”

  “And where is Professor Priest's home located?”

  “10226 Stone Quarry Trail. Outside of town.”

  “In a wooded, relatively isolated area, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you arrived at that location, was Professor Priest at home?”

  “No. The house was locked and dark. There was no car. I proceeded to walk around the property, the south end of which abuts Quarry Hills Park. As I neared the end of a storage shed on the southeast corner of the property, I saw a trail of footprints in the snow leading from the south—the park—into the shed. I found that suspicious, so I drew my weapon, announced myself as a law-enforcement officer, and demanded the person in the shed come out.”

  “Did the person come out?”

  “No.”

  “What happened then?”

  Megan blinked slowly, the scene flashing in broken frames behind her eyelids like a poorly spliced film.