“So you’re thinking there’s no chance this might go my way?” I recalled too clearly Arlene’s earlier explanation that, following a guilty verdict, the panel’s next task would be to consider the death penalty.
She ignored my question. “If they convict and you testify during the mitigation phase, they’ll want to hear you confess, accept responsibility, beg for mercy.”
“Arlene …” Picturing every one of the jurors’ faces, I rubbed my tie. Molly had given it to me as a St. Pat’s present, and I was desperate enough to hope that neckwear the color of key lime pie might bring me luck.
She held up a hand. “You’ve made it clear you won’t do that. I’m willing to put up people to vouch that you’re a good guy, but Flanagan will rip into them on cross simply by showing that none of them were aware of your affair with Jennifer. Or Martha, or anyone else you forgot to tell me about. The jury will wonder how well anyone knew you, John.”
And I knew that was exactly what Cathy wondered, when she curled up alone in a twin bed in her sister’s guest room. I wasn’t going to respond to Arlene’s crack about Martha, or others. “We discussed Father McGraw.”
“Like I told you, we put him on, you waive any privilege. All those counseling sessions will be fair game for Flanagan. Unless you told Father McGraw about your extramarital escapades, Flanagan will enjoy pointing out that you lied to a priest.”
“There’s still my secretary, Marilyn. She could at least say that I never cheated any clients.”
“After what came out in court, would the jury believe she really knew, John?” Arlene pursed her lips. “I want you to reconsider letting me ask Cathy to testify. She could acknowledge your faults but point out the positive. How you held a job, never abused her or Molly—right? Things like that.”
“I never hurt her, never touched Molly.”
“The jury will feel sorry for her and might cut you a break because of that.”
I thought of Flanagan doing to Cathy what he’d done to me. “Let’s leave her alone, Arlene. Just you argue. I maintain my innocence. Make them think about sending an innocent man to his death.”
She gave me a stony stare.
“Please, Arlene, let’s leave her the fuck alone.”
“You’re not getting this. The jury—”
There was a rap on the door, and Jack entered without waiting for an invitation. His face was red, and he was breathing hard, as if he’d been rushing. He said, “The guy from California wants to talk.”
Arlene looked incredulous. “Jesus, Jack. Now?”
“Gotta be something. Not even six out there. Bailiff got us a speaker phone.”
“I said to cut him off, get a final bill.”
“And I heard you. But he told me he was still followin’ up leads. If you’re pissed about his bill, I’ll pay it myself.”
I almost didn’t care what the California guy knew; what mattered was that Jack had gone the last mile for me.
Arlene put a hand on my arm. “John, odds are we can’t do a thing, even if he’s got something. Proofs are closed.”
I nodded. Jack had retrieved a scrap of paper from his pocket and was punching in a number. A raspy voice picked up immediately, and Jack introduced us to Fred Haskins, retired officer from the San Diego police force.
“I had to bust my hump to put this together, Corrigan.” Haskins sounded as though he were gargling stones. “You should get charged a premium.”
“Premium my ass. Whaddya got?” I expected that Haskins could have been Jack’s twin, but if they went toe-to-toe, my money was on Jack.
“It’s no wonder I was getting the runaround. That import/export outfit Browning worked for was a front; he was DEA. An old buddy of mine put me in touch with an agent from way back who knows the inside score.”
“Which is?” Arlene said.
“Browning was under an internal affairs investigation; they think he was passing information to a gang in Tijuana.”
“Yeah, but how’s that help us?” Jack had slipped off his jacket, loosened his brown woolen tie, and braced against the table, his legs splayed beneath him.
“Because good wifey Jennifer was working with him.”
Our night at Dino’s came back in a rush. And I volunteer, English as a second language.
“There’s more. DEA was about to nail Browning when that truck smacked into him. No one down there buys the hit-and-run bullshit. Timing was perfect for his loving wife, because she still got full death benefits. And with him out of the way, there wasn’t enough to pin anything on her.”
Arlene leaned in toward the speaker. “That’s hardly proof she had anything to do with his death.”
“The bet in San Diego is that Jennifer set him up. The driver of that truck sure as hell knew where Robert Browning would be and when he’d be there.”
“Frank tried telling me it was all bullshit, the hit-and-run, the import/export …” I remembered the photo of Robert in Jennifer’s apartment. Was it on display to mislead me, or was the photograph her trophy?
Haskins went on. “But here’s the meat. Her brother had been staying with them for a while, maybe breaking into the business. He left right after the husband was killed. The house was still under surveillance, and he stormed out one day, got in his piece-of-shit beater, and drove off.”
“Frank wanted me to know something about Jennifer.” I recalled the picture of Jennifer and her brother, the Coronado Bridge in the background. His words to me had been urgent and intense: I should tell you some things about sweet little Jennifer … You have no idea what she’s capable of. “He must have known that she helped kill her husband.”
Haskins’s gravelly voice crackled over the speaker. “They figure she knew she was being looked at and took off before it got too hot.”
“So Jennifer ran,” Jack said. “Home to Mommy and Daddy.”
“Sorry.” Arlene looked at me. “Not enough. Suspicion that she killed her husband …”
“How about if I tell you they have surveillance video of Jennifer and the late hubby talking to gang members?” Haskins uttered the words as though he’d just hit the trifecta.
“The Andar Feo,” I said, the circle closing in my mind. Jennifer had devised a win-win scheme for herself. With Frank out of the way, not only would she inherit the entire estate, but Frank would be silenced forever. Jesus. Jennifer and the Andar Feo.
“Bingo, sport. And she didn’t just fuck over the DEA and her hubby. They suspect she passed on info about rival gangs to give the Andar Feo a leg up. She was in deep.”
“Will your source give an affidavit?” Arlene said.
“Said he’ll do whatever it takes. They lost some solid undercover guys ’cause of what Browning did.”
“And I’ll need one from you, why we’re just finding out.”
Haskins’s voice bristled. “Tell the judge this undercover stuff isn’t exactly public record. I got this info last night, one o’clock in the fucking morning your time, which is why you’re hearin’ it now.”
“And I’ll pay your premium.” I stood up, and for the first time in days, my legs felt solid beneath me.
“Fuck that. Just tell me how it turns out.” Haskins rang off.
Arlene fished her cell from her purse. “Calling Flanagan.”
Jack gave me a wide, shit-eating grin and stuck out his hand. I grasped his meaty palm and pulled him in for a hug. He actually let me embrace him for, maybe, two full seconds.
45
Judge Seidelson recessed the jury and gave us twenty-four hours to make our case for reopening the trial. Haskins sent us the affidavits, surveillance photos, and some DEA memos. Jack, Arlene, and I worked late into the night, compiling the motion. On the way home, Jack and I jabbered like giddy high school kids at an after-prom party. When we finally pulled into my driveway, it was after ten o’clock.
Jack shifted into park and grabbed me by the shoulder, his grip firm. “Well, boyo, not a bad fuckin’ day.”
The dashboar
d provided some dim light and I could see that he was grinning. “Jesus, Jack, I don’t know what to say. If you hadn’t kept it going in California …”
“Save it until you can buy me a drink.” He dropped his hand from my shoulder. “Now get the hell outta my car. It’s way past my bedtime.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I reached for the handle. “But I mean it. Thanks.”
“My thanks will be when I get my ass home and kiss some Kessler’s goodnight.”
I chuckled and got out of the car, then watched Jack’s Fiesta until he’d driven at least halfway down the street. Once inside, the events of the day caught up with me and I fell asleep easily. When I awakened, early in the morning, I felt rested for the first time in months. I even allowed myself a tie with a bit more splash of color than usual. After draining a cup of coffee and polishing off a peach yogurt, I headed for the door, knowing that Jack would be there at the usual time.
The driveway was empty.
Jack was late. Tardiness was not in his vocabulary.
I knew there was probably a reasonable explanation: flat tire, traffic jam. But Jack didn’t pick up his home phone or his cell. My mind locked on the Torso Murderer. Grabbing my jacket, I trotted to the garage, because arriving late for the hearing would be disastrous.
My thoughts drilled down to the one person to call: Bernie. Even though he had screwed me over, he would check on Jack right away, no question. His phone rolled into voice mail, though, so I left a message.
A bleary-eyed Arlene turned in her chair when I hustled into the courtroom, barely on time. I braced myself with one hand on the table, my other hand on the back of her chair, and whispered, “Jack never showed up.”
“Block it out.” Her jawline was rigid and her eyes never wavered from mine. “Stay focused. Could be a lot of reasons.”
“It’s not like him. The Torso Murderer—”
“Jack Corrigan can take care of himself. Sit down. Right now, it’s all about you.” Arlene aligned the edges of her copies of the motion and affidavits on the table. “The brief came together well. Just promise me, Johnny, that you didn’t sleep with anyone in the San Diego DEA.”
I thought I glimpsed a twinkle in her eye.
Flanagan walked in just as the hearing was about to begin; he didn’t look pleased. He gave Arlene a curt nod, but those emerald eyes avoided mine. Jennifer was a no-show.
We all rose at the bailiff’s instructions as Judge Seidelson took the bench and surveyed the courtroom. “Mr. Flanagan, I made it clear that Jennifer Browning was to be here, in the event that the court or the defense wish to question her about these developments.”
Flanagan stood and smoothed the front of his suit coat. “Your Honor, we spoke with Ms. Browning yesterday and explained the order.”
Seidelson was plainly irritated. “Try calling her.”
“We have, Your Honor, several times. She hasn’t answered.” The confident edge to Flanagan’s voice had vanished, and I silently treasured that fact.
The exchange prompted some tittering among the spectators. The unusual motion hearing had attracted the media, and Vanessa Edwards pivoted toward her cameraman. I dreaded the thought that Jennifer might swing the double doors open and saunter into the courtroom. She’d bat those hazel beauties at the judge and explain everything away. What, Johnny, had your little hopes up?
Seidelson raised his eyebrows. “We’ll proceed with argument then. I’ve reviewed the briefs and attachments that were filed earlier this morning. Mr. Flanagan, now that you’ve had the opportunity to examine the material submitted by Ms. Johnson, could you summarize the basis of the state’s objection?”
“In a few words, Your Honor, too little and too late. There is no justification to reopen this trial. Even according Ms. Johnson’s brief full weight, there is nothing to prove that the State’s witness illegally passed information to the Andar Feo or had anything to do with her husband’s demise. In fact, there’s nothing to prove that whatever happened in San Diego has even a remote connection to this case. Indeed, had Ms. Johnson attempted to put this so-called evidence on during her case-in-chief, I would have objected that it was irrelevant.”
Judge Seidelson folded his hands. “And I would have overruled the objection. Counsel’s point is that she doesn’t need to prove anything. Evidence of contact between Ms. Browning and the Andar Feo—photos, even—could be evaluated by the jury to make any inferences they deem appropriate in determining whether reasonable doubt exists to acquit Mr. Coleman.”
“But, Your Honor, the proofs are closed, and the jury’s begun deliberating.” Flanagan waved his arms in the air and then abruptly pointed at our table. “The State is clearly prejudiced by the defendant’s tardiness in producing this so-called new evidence.”
“May I, Your Honor?” Arlene rose, and Seidelson nodded for her to continue. “I hope counsel is not inferring that we were less than diligent in our efforts to adduce facts that would be helpful to Mr. Coleman. I’ve filed an affidavit detailing the steps we’ve taken. And, Your Honor, both the interests of justice and judicial economy warrant reopening this trial. Based on this evidence, we will certainly file a motion for a new trial if the jury reaches a verdict that is adverse to my client. If the Court were inclined to grant the motion at that time, we’d have to impanel a new jury and start the entire case over. In the meantime, Mr. Coleman could be incarcerated for a crime he did not commit.”
“Your Honor, this—”
Judge Seidelson waved aside Flanagan’s objections and reviewed his notes. “The Court has read the briefs submitted by the parties and finds the position taken by the defendant persuasive. The affidavit filed by Mr. Haskins from California establishes that his efforts were diligent, and the fact that this new information was uncovered after proofs were closed should not deprive Mr. Coleman of the opportunity to present a full and fair defense …”
Seidelson kept talking, about depositions or plane flights from the West Coast, and I wanted to wrap my arms around Arlene and tell her that, yes, indeed, she was a magician. But even her wizardry would have been for nothing if not for Jack, the persistent old bastard who just wouldn’t give up on the California angle when all signs pointed to a dead end.
As the judge left the bench, Flanagan gathered his papers and looked at Arlene as if she had kicked him in the balls. His eyes radiated anger, but he stuffed the documents in his slick brown briefcase and strode away without saying a word. The press closed in, and I heard him mutter something about “procedural gamesmanship” before he passed into the hallway.
Arlene and I slipped out the side door to avoid the media and took the elevator down.
“Jesus, Arlene, I feel like I’m reborn. We have a chance now, a real chance, right?”
“No more surprises?”
“None. Promise.”
“Then we have a real chance.”
I was going to buy Jack Corrigan the best steak dinner in town, at least the best I could afford. I’d approach Father McGraw about talking to Cathy. And Molly. Jesus, I could see my daughter, watch her grow up.
My sense of optimism shriveled when we entered the garage. Bernie was there, pacing. Arlene placed her hand on my arm. “Don’t bring up your case. He could wind up testifying again.”
We came to a halt steps away from him, and I said nothing, not even hello, and waited for him to speak. Bernie had the same distressed look on his face as the day we’d found Oyster. “I came down to tell you in person. EMTs found him on his kitchen floor.”
I grabbed a concrete pillar and held tight. “Torso?”
“Heart attack, and he was lyin’ there for a while.”
It took me a moment to process what he was saying. Jack had been energized by the new developments, and he’d pushed himself, working the phones with Haskins in California, drafting affidavits for Arlene to review. “It’s my fault, him workin’ all fucking night.”
Arlene rested a hand on my shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself.”
&nb
sp; “Things are turning my way now, and Jack …”
“He’s at Fairview intensive care, but it doesn’t look good.” Bernie shrugged. “What can I tell you? They’re calling the family.”
“I am sorry for you, John,” Arlene said. She would never be able to set aside Jack’s old-school racism, but he’d done his job, and she knew how I felt about him.
“Think they’ll let me see him? I’m not really family …”
“Taken care of,” Bernie said. He’d written me off and screwed me over, but he’d put all of that bullshit in a box, at least for a little while, to come down and tell me himself about Jack. “He’s conscious, and there’s something he wants to tell you. Alone.”
46
A nurse led me into the intensive care unit and then left me in a close and uncomfortable room of glimmering monitors, tangled rubber tubes, and the stench of an old man. I had considered smuggling in a pint of Kessler’s but expected that Jack was long past the point of appreciating even a sip of his favorite tonic.
“Hey,” I said, sitting in the plastic chair wedged between the wall and his bed. “Let’s get the hell out of here and head over to the Tam.”
Jack gave me a weak grin and a slight nod. “Got somethin’ to tell you, another reason why I stuck my nose into all this, besides watchin’ your back.”
His voice was faint, so I leaned in close and rested my hand on the bed rail. “Okay, and good to see you, too.”
“Tellin’ you, but you gotta keep it close.” His breath was stale. “Only you.”
Nodding, I hoped that I had misunderstood him. The burden of another man’s secrets, even Jack’s, was the last thing I needed.
“Remember his letter? What Torso said about knowin’ what really happened in 1950?” His gaze drifted away, and he coughed so weakly that his head barely moved. Then he looked at me again, his eyes rheumy.
Damn, he was barely hanging on, and his mind was fixated on something that had happened sixty-plus years ago. “I don’t need to hear anything, Jack. You saved my ass.”
The Company of Demons Page 27