Ms. Beverly Hannah, the clerk who sat to the judge’s right, blushed. The judge gave the gallery a curt nod, then stepped off the bench and disappeared into his chambers.
Maggie walked back to our table. “Holy shit,” she said. “We’re moving to another courtroom, which means the judge and state’s attorneys and public defenders in that courtroom will have to come down here.”
“Is that a common occurrence?” Valerie asked.
Maggie laughed. “No. It’ll piss off a whole boatload of people. But it’s good for us. That’s one of those big courtrooms.” She almost rubbed her hands together. “One of the good ones.”
The press was apparently also pissed off about the move, as well as the registering requirement. We saw them erupt into discussion. Meanwhile, Martin sat calmly in their midst, listening. He looked at us, and although his face was sad, there was something different from when I’d found him at the library. As if relief were making him still.
He stood then and pointed upward, mouthing that he would see us upstairs.
A few rows behind him, I saw Valerie’s daughter, Layla, looking around, concerned.
The clerk turned on the audio, and the voices of the media members flooded the front of the courtroom. What did he say? What’s going on? The court is moving. Why? This is ridiculous! We’re public citizens, too. We have a right to be here as much as anyone else. Why should we have to register?
Ellie and Tania, the state’s attorneys, suddenly left their table and moved toward the gallery.
“Oh, Jesus, are they making a statement?” Maggie said, her voice tinged with alarm.
“What would they say?” I asked.
“No idea.”
Valerie’s eyes went big, scared.
Ellie and Tania opened the door. Ellie took a little step ahead of Tania and cleared her throat. “Attention, please,” Ellie said.
But Ellie only announced, in a few sentences, they would follow the judge’s orders. She encouraged everyone to do the same.
“Phew,” Maggie said.
Ellie closed the door and walked to our table. “Did you call the press?” she asked Maggie.
“Hell, no. I don’t want press here.”
“We don’t, either.” They both looked at me.
“What?” I said, defensive, but they turned and left.
I glanced at my father, who stood still, looking at me. He wanted to talk, I could tell. He looked at Valerie, then back at me and gave a slow nod. He had, apparently, formed his opinion about her.
57
As Maggie and Valerie left, I told them I’d meet them in a minute, then I gestured my dad toward me. Waiting for him at the front of the room allowed me to avoid the press that streamed the other way, heading for the larger courtroom upstairs.
When my father reached me, he adjusted the lapel of his light gray suit, then his copper-rimmed glasses. He was, I realized, hesitant about something.
“What?” I said, then immediately regretted it. Why didn’t I speak to him like a normal daughter to a normal father? Why didn’t I ask, How are you?
But if my father noticed or cared, he didn’t show it. “Do you want to know my professional analysis of your client?”
“Yes.”
He took a step forward and placed his bag on the table. It was a slim, leather briefcase bag in a rich brown-red.
My father looked at me, nothing in his face changing. “She’s guilty.”
I flinched. I couldn’t help it. “Are you saying that because of her father?”
“No. Mayburn and I just learned about that, and we were going to tell your team.”
“You all knew this?”
“Yes. As of today, we know that Marty was the third chair prosecutor on Javier’s case. He believes Javier was innocent.”
My father didn’t act surprised. Had he figured out that part, too? “Where is Mayburn?” I said.
“Doing what you asked.”
Looking into the document I took from Sam. I almost asked my father what he thought; I almost confided in him about what had happened with Sam as of late. But I realized I was scared of what he might say. I wanted to make my own decision about this.
“Why do you think Valerie is guilty?” I asked instead.
“I used inductive profiling from other murder cases, particularly poisoning cases. Then I also utilized deductive strategies, examining what we know about the crime scene and the victim. And as you know, I’ve also been studying her behavior.”
“And based on all that?”
“Based on all that, I believe she’s guilty. Do you want me to tell you about each of those areas of analysis?”
I looked at my watch. “I do, but there’s no time. I have to be upstairs.”
He nodded. Seemed placid, calm. But I was nothing of the sort. How can I represent her if she’s guilty? Do I believe my dad’s analysis, trust him?
“Are you sure?” I asked.
No response.
“I need to know. Are you 100 percent sure?” I asked.
Another pause. “No. First of all, you have to remember when I was a profiler—well, the feds don’t call it that, but anyway…” He looked around at the now nearly empty courtroom, no one near us, then back at me. “That job largely involved systematic, analytical processes with larger sources of data.”
“That means nothing to me.”
He cleared his throat. “My job was to gather and scrutinize information about crime patterns and trends so I could help plan where to place resources for the prevention and suppression of criminal activities.”
“So you weren’t involved in analyzing individual suspects?”
“I was. But certainly not as frequently. It wasn’t my main job.”
“Okay.”
“Also, I haven’t done a voice stress analysis on Valerie, which is usually very helpful. I’ve barely heard her speak at all.”
I thought about it. I heard my own words to Valerie just the day before. I am your lawyer.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said to him.
He acknowledged my gratitude with a single nod.
“I’ve got to get upstairs. See you there?”
He studied my face, then he nodded again.
58
A pebble in his shoe. That’s all she was. A pebble with red hair, who seemed to be looking for more, asking for more, when the fact was everything was already the way it was supposed to be. Valerie was on her way to a penitentiary, it seemed clear. The bright future he’d envisioned after Valerie was gone shined at him like a mecca in the distance. He could see it—the time when everything would be perfect.
Except there she was, this red pebble and her people, who were sniffing around. He could practically feel them at his back. He wanted to tell her to butt out, leave everything alone on the path to his mecca. But there she was, with her inquisitive faces, with her people poking their fingers into things. Those people—he knew they were her investigators, saw her talking to them in the courtroom—had spoken to every single one of the neighbors, had been digging around into his past.
No one had to be hurt, if she would just go away.
But what if she didn’t, he asked himself? Well, he had done it once to save his life, to have a shot at mecca. He had removed a pebble. It hadn’t been easy. Some might think it was, but they would have overlooked his agony. So he didn’t want to do it again. Not at all. He wished people knew that. This “problem” they thought he had was not a problem at all. It was just a preference, really; it was as simple as that, and he’d never hurt anyone with that preference. Never. This notion that his intent was somehow evil was absolutely untrue. Untrue! He wanted only happiness. Not just for himself but for everyone involved, the people he loved.
So no, even though the opportunity had simply presented itself, he hadn’t enjoyed what he’d had to do, the removal of a metaphorical pebble from his shoe. But he deserved happiness, and he would do what he had to. And so yes, if he needed, he knew he could do it again.
59
I took the stairs to the new courtroom, not wanting to see any press at the elevators. I pulled out my phone as I climbed. There was another text from Sam. Red Hot, please call me. Then one from Mayburn that said essentially the same thing—minus the “Red Hot” part. I stopped on a landing and dialed Mayburn’s number.
He started talking as soon as he answered, as if he knew I wouldn’t want the pleasantries. “Sam owns a corporation. Its main asset is a property in Panama.”
This was what I’d feared, but still his words hit me like a slap. “Is it one of the properties that Forester Pickett used to own?”
A pause. “Yeah.”
“How long has Sam owned it?”
“Since last year.”
“Since Forester died?”
“Right.”
Another slap. “Mayburn, Sam was supposed to turn over those properties back to Forester’s estate after we figured out who killed him.”
“I know.” There was a weight to Mayburn’s words, as if he were very, very sad for me.
“How much is it worth?”
“Four million.”
“Jesus.” I tried to think it through. “Why would Sam still own it?”
Mayburn said nothing, but I think we both heard the same answer in our heads. Because he’s a thief.
When I got to the new courtroom upstairs, the crowd was worse. Way worse. The floor where the room was located was much nicer—the ceilings high and edged with marble molding, the doors to the courtroom rimmed with black marble and copper plates. And the courtroom was much grander than the other—with the marble wall behind the judge’s bench, columns cut into it, the rest of it decked out in old wood and copper finishes. But because there was no Plexiglas protecting this courtroom from the gallery, reporters soon swarmed toward the railing separating the counsel’s table from the crowd, taking advantage of the fact that the judge wasn’t on the bench yet.
To add to the situation, the sheriffs hadn’t yet swapped posts. This sheriff was definitely old school, the kind nothing could fluster. He sat on a chair near the bench, arms crossed over his ample belly. He looked ready to use his gun should anyone storm judge’s chambers with a machete, sure, but he wasn’t about to exert himself for much less than that.
When I reached Maggie and Valerie, I stopped, silent, hearing my dad’s words. She’s guilty. Valerie, meanwhile, was blinking madly at the oncoming members of the media.
“Is Layla here?” Valerie asked me. “Did she follow us?”
“She was in the old courtroom when the judge announced the move,” I said. “I’m sure she’s on her way up.”
We searched the gallery with our eyes, but it was difficult to see through all the press. They kept calling questions to us, their words hitting and joining together so that I couldn’t concentrate on just one.
“Let’s get Valerie out of here,” Maggie whispered to me as she texted something on her cell phone. “Doesn’t look like we’re starting up anytime soon.”
We turned and walked, skirting by the old-school sheriff, who gave Maggie a bored, “How are ya?”
“Hey, Paulie,” she said. “Taking my client out for a sec.”
Another bored nod.
Maggie led Valerie and me behind the bench into the area that housed the sheriff’s quarters and judge’s chambers. She took a left and led us down a narrow hallway toward a door at the end.
But before we reached it, we saw an empty prisoner’s cell. “That’s the bullpen,” Maggie said. “That’s where they keep people who aren’t out on bail.” She mentioned these few sentences casually. She was so accustomed to this world, nothing was foreign to her.
But Valerie looked at the cell with obvious horror.
I put my hands lightly on the small of Valerie’s back, guiding her toward the end of the hallway.
When we got there, Maggie opened it a crack, and outside we saw a law clerk standing, waiting. Clearly, Maggie’s firm knew all the secret hallways and passageways of this old courthouse.
We moved Valerie to a courtroom down the hall with a few people in it, but no judge on the bench. Maggie spoke to her law clerk, issuing instructions. She turned to Valerie. “We’ll be back for you as soon as trial starts up, okay?”
Valerie nodded, looking weary but calmer being away from the reporters. “Where’s Martin?” she asked.
“I’m sure he’s on his way. Probably running into people he knows.” Maggie studied Valerie. “How are you doing about…about everything he told us?”
Valerie answered more quickly than she usually did, sounded more sure of herself. “There are a lot of feelings churning around,” she said, “but mostly I feel relieved. I knew my father didn’t do it.”
It was almost like my mother’s reaction to knowing my father was alive. Although it roused up feelings, mostly it validated what she had always felt in her gut.
“I can’t wait to tell Layla,” Valerie said. “Please keep an eye out for her.”
As soon as we stepped outside the courtroom, at least seven reporters were there, peppering us with questions.
Maggie closed the door quickly behind her, trying to hide the fact that Valerie was there, and that seemed to work. No one tried to push past us and open the door. They just shouted questions, phones outstretched to record our words. “No comment,” Maggie kept saying. “No comment.” But after a moment, I focused in on their questions. And realized, they were all about me.
“Izzy, what does it feel like to be accused of killing your friend and now represent someone accused of the same thing?”
“Do you think your client did it, Izzy?”
Maggie and I pushed through them, and all I could think was, I wish Jane were still around. Jane could have instilled some order in this crowd. Or she could have told me what to say.
I got stalled in an eddy of more reporters coming down the hallway, all of them asking questions. “Why did you take on this case, Izzy?”
“Was it to prove that you didn’t kill Jane Augustine?”
Maggie held up her hand. “As all of you know,” she said loudly, glaring around the group, “my cocounsel was never a suspect in the Jane Augustine case.”
I’d technically been a person of interest, which felt about as bad as being a suspect, but I kept my mouth shut.
“And as all of you know,” Maggie continued, even louder, “the real perpetrator of that murder was caught and is now behind bars. We will not be addressing that case any further, and I know you will be respectful and do the same.”
Whether it was the admonishment or the fact that we’d finally thrown them some scraps, the pack of press broke apart a bit. We pushed past them and hurried toward the courtroom. They followed us, a few still throwing out questions, but they seemed appeased. For now.
Back in the newly assigned courtroom, the judge still wasn’t on the bench. My dad stood at the front of the room, at the railing near our table. I could tell from his look that he had something to say. Was he going to tell me not to represent Valerie? Would he give more evidence of what he believed to be her guilt?
“What is it?” I said when I reached him.
He paused, glanced around.
I led him inside the railing and to our table, away from the trailing media.
“I need to give you another professional opinion,” he said.
My heart sank. “About Sam? I know he technically still owns property that was once Forester’s. Mayburn told me.”
He shook his head.
“What then?”
“Look at the daughter.”
“What daughter?”
“Valerie’s daughter. Layla Solara.”
I glanced at the courtroom. Layla still wasn’t around. “What do you mean? Where is she?”
“Last I saw, she was outside the old courtroom. But I’m talking generally about her. Has she been interviewed?”
“I’m not sure. I have to check with Maggie. Valerie has been trying to keep her out of th
is as much as possible.”
“But she’s in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but she knows something. Or she’s hiding something. I can just tell.”
“Like you can tell about Valerie’s guilt?”
“I’m more sure about this. After we talked, I left the courtroom and saw Layla go in an empty courtroom down the hall.”
“The one where Valerie has been sitting during breaks?”
He shook his head. “Different one. Opposite side. Farther down.” He described where the courtroom was. “I followed her, and talked to her.”
“And?”
“I didn’t get anything out of her of substance. But trust me, she’s giving off a more guilty affect than her mother.”
I said nothing, mulling it over.
“What about Layla’s background?” my father asked. “Did someone look into that?”
“I didn’t think so. She’s so young.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Maybe not.”
He seemed to think for a moment. “I’m on it.” He turned and left.
60
Twenty minutes later, with Valerie back in the courtroom, the judge addressed the jury, apologizing for the move and reiterating how they were performing the most important public service possible. He directed them to pay strict attention to the trial, even though it had grown more complicated.
As he spoke, the back door opened and in walked Layla. She was dressed in another ruffled skirt, this one pink, and she wore expensive-looking shoes, ballet slippers with a hint of a sparkle. Her hair was pulled back, with little makeup on her radiant skin.
I looked past her to see if my dad was behind her, but I didn’t spot him.
Layla squeezed into a bench.
At the front of the room, the judge paused and looked at the state’s table. “Call your next witness, counsel.”
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