Madriani - 02 - Prime Witness

by Steve Martini

  “It makes no sense,” I say. There’s an instant of dead silence between us as I look at the scope.

  “You think whoever was up in the tree had nothing to do with the murders.”

  She makes a face, like this is a definite possibility.

  “But they may have seen the killer?” I say.

  She smiles. “Take a look,” she says. She’s motioning toward the scope in my hands.

  I look through the thing, out one of the windows on the far side of the room. Across the broad verdant lawn like the gardens at Versailles, a secretary is taking lunch, seated on a bench with a brown bag. I turn the focus ring, a fraction of an inch, a view like water through crystal. There is moisture on her cheek. She is reading, a little paperback cushioned in one hand—the title clear as the morning newspaper, Erich Segal’s Love Story.

  I consider for a moment in my mind’s eye the elements presented; the magic of this little cylinder I hold in my hand, the scaffold high in the trees along the Putah Creek. I conjure the sum of this equation, the thought that perhaps somewhere, out there, is an aimless spectator to death, a prime witness to the murder of Abbott and Karen Scofield.

  Chapter Five

  The building that houses the Davenport County district attorney’s office is classic governmentesque. It dates to the 1930s, something put up by the WPA which at the time was viewed merely as functional and built to last. It exhibits a kind of timeless grace, a classic architecture not seen in today’s public buildings. The granite exterior and its broad stairway lead to a portico capped by three-story stone columns. These speak of authority in a populist democracy, though the facade is now a dingy brown, and inside the building is littered with overcrowded offices and marked by a neglect of maintenance.

  It rests on high ground across from the courthouse, among a grove of tall oaks and walnut trees planted in the city center in the last century, a break against the oppressive heat of valley summers when temperatures routinely climb into the triple digits.

  The prosecutor’s office is small, only four deputies. Two of these are new, people out of law school less than two years, assigned only to misdemeanors.

  And then there is Roland Overroy. Thirty years with the office, Overroy is part of the petrified forest of civil service; perennial deadwood. In this county motions to challenge the competence of counsel are called “Roland motions,” at least among lawyers who have dealt with Overroy. He has never seen a court file he has read, or had a case he has not overcharged.

  His special talent is a terminal lack of preparation, and a penchant for overlooking the obvious.

  Ever since Feretti demoted him two years ago as chief deputy, banished him to the doldrums of juvenile court, Overroy has searched for petty problems in the office which he could amplify. He has played these like some maestro to anyone who would listen.

  This morning the small staff is not a particularly cheerful group, camped as we are around the scarred metal table in the coffee room that doubles for conferences.

  While I have met them all in passing, in the day-to-day chores of the office, this is our first formal staff meeting since taking on this assignment a month ago. I would like to make a good impression.

  As I survey them the only faint smiles are from Gary Boudin and Karen Samuels, the two newest additions to the office.

  Overroy is trying to size me up, wondering how much opportunity lies in the chaos caused by Feretti’s sudden death. Lenore Goya’s on the phone in her office. She will join us shortly.

  Overroy has appropriated the only chair close to me at the table, as if my authority, as temporary as it may be, will somehow rub off.

  On paper, the chief deputy’s position has been empty for two years. Instead of firing him, which in civil service would take endless hearings and a forest of paper, Feretti with the stroke of his pen simply abolished Roland’s supervisory position. While Roland remained on salary at his current pay, Mario figured pride would in time take its toll. It was an attempt to send a message, that his career in the office was tapped out. But with Roland messages are best conveyed by Western Union, in plain English.

  “A real tragedy,” says Overroy. He’s talking about Mario’s death. I suspect he did handstands when he read the obituary. Roland’s middle name is duplicity. If he were a politician he would be the kind to cut down a redwood, then mount the bleeding stump to make a speech about conservation.

  “The guy was simply working too hard,” he says. Roland’s way of offering condolences. “He took too much on himself. Refused to share the load. I know.” Roland’s shaking his head now, solemnly like some ultimate truism is about to follow. “This job can be a killer,” he says.

  This is clearly not a fate that Overroy intends for himself. At sixty he is anything but burned out. He has a full head of silver-gray hair, and a deep tan, not an ounce of fat on his body. I am told that Roland keeps a boat moored on the river at the marina, that in the summer he routinely checks out before three for afternoon cruises. He calls this ATO (administrative time off), allegedly for all the long hours he puts in prepping at home for juvenile court. This had become a standing joke, but Mario had ignored it, finding Roland’s absence easier to take than his interference and the constant poison he emits into the atmosphere of the office.

  Overroy is clearly trying to take the lead in this gathering. He has made the introductions around the table, “the junior staff,” as he’s described them to me in a more private moment.

  He has ordered Jane Rhodes, Feretti’s secretary, to furnish all of us with refreshments, coffee and, if I want it, Overroy offers to send her three stories, to the basement, for a cold soft drink from the vending machine.

  I waive off on this and ask Boudin and Samuels how things are going in the misdemeanor section, a little small talk to take the edge off.

  “We manage,” Overroy answers for them. “But I think we all agree that the office needs a little more structure,” he adds.

  “Things worked a little more smoothly when there was more supervision.” What Roland means is when he was chief deputy.

  “As for the office,” he says, “you’ll find that we all know our jobs. The place just needs a little continuity. Somebody who knows where things are, how they work.” He smiles at me, big and broad—“Mr. Continuity.”

  I had been warned by Feretti that Roland prays at the altar of seniority. In Overroy’s world longevity would be the only measure for advancement.

  Goya has just entered the room and is standing behind Overroy in the doorway.

  I give her a quick greeting.

  Lenore Goya is a tall, slender woman. She wears a dark gray suit, skirt at the knees, and a silk blouse. All very professional. Hers is a dark complexion which in the leisure set might pass for a tan. She has the narrow nose and high cheek bones of a fashion model. If I hadn’t seen her personnel file I might think she is part of Talia’s country club set, all except for the eyes. These are deep set, piercing and dark, with an expression that belies little mirth.

  She has been carrying the office since Mario was hospitalized. Between her personnel records and what Feretti had told me, I have pieced together a few bits of her life. She has worked for two other prosecutorial offices before coming here, both in Southern California, where she racked up an impressive conviction record. A daughter of the barrio, she clawed her way out of East Los Angeles to graduate with top honors from USC and go on to take a law degree from that school, all on scholarship. She is a single mother with two small children. After spending her life in the inner reaches of L.A., she is looking for something better for her children, a quieter and safer life in a small town.

  “I’m not here to shake things up,” I tell them. First impressions set fast and hard like a dog’s paw print in concrete.

  “If I have my way, you’re looking at temporary help. I’m the county’s answer to a Kelly Girl,” I say.

  This draws a little laughter.

  Roland is licking his lips, the taste of oppo
rtunity. Boudin and Samuels are nodding their understanding. But Goya is an enigma, her eyes searching me up and down, measuring my every word. I think the lady is a cynic. Perhaps we’ll get along after all.

  “There will be no change in assignments,” I tell them. “I hope I won’t be here long enough for that.”

  Even this has no effect on Goya. She remains stone-faced, her shoulder leaning into the frame of the door.

  “Join us,” I tell her. “I don’t bite. Have a seat.”

  “I’m comfortable,” she says.

  We are doing a little spider and fly act.

  Given her attitude I skip the usual line of every civil service hack—assurances of an open-door policy. Goya will see this for the bureau-babble it is. And as for Overroy, there aren’t enough locks in the free world to keep him from my office.

  “What does your schedule look like?” I’m looking at Goya.

  “Why?”

  “We need to talk about the felony calendar,” I tell her.

  She looks at her little day-planner. Lawyers now carry these to every event and occasion like Baptist ministers with their Bibles.

  “I’ve got time Monday morning,” she says, “before court call, at nine. My office or yours?”

  “Yours.” I will concede a little turf, an effort to bring her on board.

  “Why don’t I join you.” It’s Roland trying to horn in. If he’s going to climb back into the saddle of authority he knows it’s now or never.

  “I don’t think we need to take Roland’s time, do you?” I look to Goya.

  Her answer is a flat, unaffected “no.” I think this woman does not suffer fools lightly.

  Roland is crestfallen, little squints of acid at Lenore Goya. But this is only fleeting. He puts a face on it. “It’s true,” he says, “I am pretty busy.”

  People are getting out of their chairs, milling toward the door.

  “Oh, one question.” It’s Overroy. He is smiling again.

  “If they catch him, who’s gonna do ‘Shiska Bob’?”

  I look at him, a question mark.

  “The Putah Creek thing,” he says. “Who’s gonna get the case?”

  I can’t tell if he actually believes I would consider him for the assignment, or if he’s just stirring dissension in the office, his way of getting the juices going in Goya.

  “What did you call it?” I say.

  He’s all smiles. “Hmm?” A quizzical look. “Oh that.

  ‘Shiska Bob,’” he says.

  I nod.

  “One of the guys at sheriff’s homicide,” he says. “When you work there for a while you get a funny sense of humor.” He says this with familiarity, fostering an image. Roland, I think, would like us to conjure the picture, he and his redneck buddies from homicide lapping up brew together, talking about the inside stuff, the hard core cases, the real dirt.

  I shudder to think what Feretti might have thought of this headline “Shiska Bob,” blazing above the fold from the little local newspaper, the Journal, what Mario called the “Davenport Urinal.”

  “I don’t care where it came from,” I tell him. “I don’t want to hear it again.” There’s stone-deaf silence in the room.

  “You might pass the word to the hot shot in homicide.

  I’ll talk to the sheriff myself. We have families of the victims to deal with. We don’t need to inflict any more pain. They will be angry enough if we don’t come up with some answers soon.”

  “I will,” he says. “Sure.” The smile is gone from Roland’s face.

  For the moment I have side-stepped the question of who will get the nod on the Putah Creek cases, but Goya is looking at me. True to form, Overroy has opened the furrow and planted the seed of dissension.

  My daughter is to be a rose petal, as distinguished from the shy violets, the seven- and eight-year-olds, in their hues of purple.

  Sarah is dressed in a pink tutu, a rigid skirt that sticks out like the whirling rotors of a helicopter from her hipless little form. She wears this outfit over chartreuse tights so petite I could not fit one forearm into them. Yet even these form wrinkles like the skin of an old apple on Sarah’s spindly legs.

  Nikki is busy with the camera, taking still shots of tripping pirouettes, poses by the fireplace in the living room, while I dress. Tonight is the capstone of a half year of lessons and a month of rehearsals, a cast of hundreds. The children’s dance workshop presents “Alice in Wonderland.” For this, the studio owner has rented the high school auditorium. It is the only place in town large enough to seat the legion of proud parents, and grandparents, siblings, and cousins, who will be on hand for this event.

  As I look down the hall I see the litter of last night’s gathering. We’d entertained, and our guests had kids and these together with Sarah have trashed the better part of our house. The hallway is a scene of devastation. Ken and Barbie are on the floor, half naked. There is a littered trail of tiny clothes to the living room door and beyond, left as if by some dying tribe of Lilliputians wandering in the desert.

  “Do you have the tickets?” Nikki asks me.

  I check my wallet. They’re not there.

  “I thought you had them,” I say.

  “I gave them to you while you were shaving.”

  I look in the bathroom. There they are on the countertop next to the sink.

  “I have them.”

  I hear Nikki sigh from the other room, something that says I would lose it if my head was not tethered to my body. Lately, she might be right. It seems that work is taking its toll, torn between two offices, living in the schizoid realm, half defense and half prosecution, commuting a million miles between each daily.

  “Did you get cash at the ATM?” she says.

  “Oh shit.” I say it to myself, under my breath, and still she hears this.

  “I told you to get some money on your way home,” she says.

  “I know, I forgot,” I say.

  “Well, what are we going to do for cash?” she says.

  “We’ll take it from grocery money,” I tell her.

  “And forget to put it back,” she says.

  While she talks I am raiding the system of little envelopes in the top drawer of our bedroom dresser, thirty dollars from the envelope marked “Food.”

  “Damn it, Paul.” Nikki is standing behind me in the doorway. “I don’t ask you to do much,” she says. “I run the house, do the cooking on top of a job,” she says. “And you can’t remember to go to the bank on the way home.”

  “OK. I forgot,” I say. “Give me a break.”

  I pass her in the doorway, looking for my tie which I laid on a chair in the living room earlier. Sarah is watching television, the sound muted, CNN. It is the news I left on after dinner. Nikki is oblivious to television, so long as she does not have to listen to the noise. Of late, increasingly, what little time I get, I watch in silent mode only hitting the volume for some seeming world crisis. It is part of the price for peace in our house.

  I find my tie, stop for a moment, and watch my daughter. She is dark locks primped and combed, like a gossamer fairy princess in her costume. Her gaze, sparkling brown eyes, is anchored to the screen. Then I look. Pictures of starving little children in some far-off place, bodies emaciated, in pain, bloated bellies and round, wanting eyes. She fixes on these, intense, absorbed, a communion of the innocent.

  The picture changes, a talking head. Sarah looks over at me. I am struggling with my tie.

  “Daddy, what is wrong with those children?”

  It’s better, I think, to confront this than to sugarcoat it.

  “They don’t have enough to eat,” I say.

  “Why not? Why doesn’t somebody feed them?”

  “There isn’t enough food where they live.”

  “Why doesn’t someone bring food to them?”

  “There are bad men there with guns,” I say.

  “Why doesn’t somebody get rid of the bad men?”

  In a nutshell, the circ
ular debate of nations.

  “That’s complicated,” I say.

  She looks at me, the first thing she has not understood. Like most little ones, Sarah has acquired selfishness only as a competitive instinct when confronted with the rivalry of other children at play. On a more native level she is an ocean of empathy. In the quiet and solitary play that she seems to enjoy, her dolls are nearly always sick, throwing up. They suffer from a physician’s desk reference of maladies. It is any excuse to mother them.

  To Nikki and me, Sarah is a litany of little offerings, crushed petals and broken stems, the gatherings of the garden, scraps of paper colored and punched, certificates of devotion folded and rolled in every hue made by Crayola. Tonight, for Sarah, it is not so much her performance that matters, but that she offers this achievement, as a gift to us. At five, children it seems have no concept of parents’ unconditional love. In Sarah’s limited view, I think, she feels the need to make some partial payment in the coin of acceptance, some compensation for our continued affections. She does not realize that she is compensation enough.

  The phone rings in the kitchen. Nikki answers it.

  “Just a moment,” she says.

  “It’s for you.” She looks at me, an expression that says “this better not be what I think it is.” She hands me the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Madriani. It’s Claude Dusalt.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry to call you at home at this hour,” he says, “but it was important. We have a break in the case. Out near the university. Some evidence in a van. A lead on the Putah Creek killer. We need a warrant, tonight,” he says. “Can you meet me at your office in half an hour?”

  I swallow hard and look at Nikki. She is watching me through the practiced eyes of cynicism. On my face, in the cast of my expression, she reads the message of still another disappointment.

  “I understand,” I say. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I tell him.

  Dusalt hangs up.

  “I have to go,” I tell her. “It’s a major break in the case. They need a warrant.”

  “What else?” she says, shrugging her shoulders.