by Mandy Miller
I hook my arm through his and rub his sun-spotted hand. “Death knows not justice nor fairness,” I tell him, the phrase I used in anger at the memorial services for my fallen squadron mates. If I had to look their wives in the face and explain why their husbands, my brethren, were not coming home, why they were blown to bits by an IED on a dusty highway in Fallujah on the way to pick up Easter decorations, and why I was the only one of us to come home alive, then I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to be angry at God. At the world.
I push the memory from my mind and turn my attention to a young man wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, surrounded by a throng of teens. He’s handsome, not in the teen idol way, but in the way that portends good looks once he’s grown into himself. His sandy hair is parted on the side, but his curls are having none of it, drooping this way and that, all over his face.
“The center of attention and upset. I bet you this month’s rent that’s Joe.”
“Sweetheart, you don’t pay rent, remember?” Vinnie wipes his nose on a handkerchief, the old-fashioned, fabric kind.
“That’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
He closes one eye. “And you never will. Not as long as I’m still breathing.”
A few latecomers jockey for position to get close to Joe.
“Funny how people get some weird kind of enjoyment from being close to suffering,” I say. “Maybe it’s a ‘But for the grace of God’ thing. Me, I want to get as far away as possible from it.”
He holds a finger in the air as if he’s seeing which way the wind is blowing. “Schadenfreude,” he says, clearly amused at himself.
“You’re kidding me?”
“It means you like to watch others squirm, see them—”
I pinch him in the side. “I know what schadenfreude means. Yale then Columbia, remember? How about you?”
He dusts some non-existent debris from the shoulder of his jacket. “Hey, I read.”
“You never cease to surprise me, Vin.”
“It’s what I live for.”
A duck boat overflowing with tourists docks on the far side of the park. “Over there, in that mega mansion designed to look like Versailles, is where Walter Hall lives,” the tour guide announces over the PA system. “He used to be in the garbage business, founded Waste General and 24 Hour Video. And he owns part of the Dolphins.” The tourists crane their necks and ooh and aah.
“Only in South Florida,” I say. “Death with dignity is no match for tourism.”
We wait in the shade for several minutes until the crowd disperses, some into waiting limousines, others their own cars.
“You wait here,” I tell him, and trail Joe to a black Land Rover.
“Excuse me.”
The young man pivots slowly to reveal bloodshot eyes.
“Are you Joe Harper? I was wondering if I could talk to you.”
A look of recognition flashes across his face. “Hey, I saw you on TV. You’re Zoe’s lawyer.”
“Grace Locke,” I say, pressing one of my business cards into his hand.
He stuffs the card in his pocket.
“Joe, were you with Zoe the morning Brandon Sinclair was killed?”
He squirms a little inside the ill-fitting dark suit likely bought for this, and only this, occasion. “Yeah, I was. I wondered when someone was going to come around asking about that.”
Stunned, I take a step back. “You were? You were actually with Zoe?”
He shifts from one foot to the other. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Ah, well, yes…It’s just— Well, that’s what Zoe said.”
“I figured she would, but when no one came to speak to me. I figured she told the cops but they didn’t believe her, or something like that. Or maybe they just hadn’t got around to it yet.” He casts an arm in the direction of the hearse, its cargo hidden from view by black curtains. “And then this happened, and I started thinking maybe she did kill Sinclair somehow, that the cops got the time it happened wrong.”
“Come on. Given what you just told me, that Zoe was with you, do you really believe she could have killed them both?”
“They were both killed the same way. And the guns had her prints on them, for God’s sake. At least, that’s what they said on the news.”
I bite my lip and let him talk.
“Then there’s the fact she’s a little crazy, and she sure as hell is the jealous type. She went ballistic when she found out I was with Serena.” He climbs into the Land Rover. “I have to go.”
I barricade myself between the door and the car. “Joe, I’m not here to argue the facts with you, but, assuming Zoe did want Serena dead for whatever reason, why would she do it in such as a way as would point the finger right at herself?”
“You’re saying she was set up? Don’t you have to say that?”
“What did you talk about with Zoe that day?”
He grabs for the door handle “Get out of my way. I have to go.”
I step back. “Joe, you’re Zoe’s alibi. Count on hearing from a Mr. Hightower very soon. He’s the prosecutor, and he’s going to be very interested in hearing what you have to say.”
Chapter 30
If bond court is a three-ring circus, Friday calendar call is the criminal courts’ ninth circle of hell, the day cases get trial dates and defendants get twitchy.
Today is the day for Judge Twietmeyer to set the State of Florida v. Zoe Slim for trial, which he will do along with arraigning Zoe on the charge of the first-degree murder of Serena Price.
Today is the day Hightower will find out his marquee case, the stuff careers are made of, is going south, way south.
I join the back of the Attorneys line outside, sunglasses on, head down, to avoid any and all questions from anyone, least of all the media who are always skulking around out here like rats in search of trash. My head feels as if it’s being microwaved from the inside out by the sun. Almost Halloween and the sun’s still blazing as if it were July.
To distract myself from my desire to scream at the heavens, I survey my defense colleagues in line, all of us wilting in sweaty suits and once-starched collars. They’re a motley bunch. Some in two-thousand-dollar suits and Rolexes, others in off-the-rack and Timexes, but they all exude the same kind of jimmied-up confidence I used to have.
Heads high, they’re regaling each other with war stories of alleged recent victories, and how they stuck it to this or that prosecutor. I overhear one guy with a man bun and a shabby, thrift-store jacket brag how he’d told that “f’ing State Attorney to put that sorry-ass plea offer where the sun don’t shine and smoke it,” a mixed metaphor which makes me snicker.
Maybe I could benefit from shoving my shoulders back like he’s doing? Hold my head that high to announce, “I am a force to be reckoned with.” Instead, I rub my temples, chew on a Tums, and contemplate how many among this pathetic crew would have the balls to put the defenses they’ve conjured up to the test in front of a jury. And they’ll use them right up until they have to announce “Ready for trial, Your Honor,” at which point they’ll fold faster than an origami artist. Most will convince their clients to take plea bargains, and feel justified, not to mention comforted, given the odds most are guilty.
But there’s been no need for Hightower to make any kind of plea offer in Zoe’s cases. He thought he was holding all the cards. And now there’s no way I’d take one.
“I like the dark glasses. They make you look…” Deputy Brian pauses and pulls the word he’s looking for out of the air with a snap of his fingers. “Mysterious, Ms. Locke. Very mysterious. And you brought your entourage,” he says, his eyes swinging in the direction of a bevy of reporters shoving TV cameras and microphones through the adjacent scanner.
I push my sunglasses back up my sweaty nose and scowl. “Me and my shadows.”
He hands me the brown accordion file from the scanner belt, but not before scanning the label, Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim.
He lips
stretch tight into a grimace. “I guess it’s go time?”
“We’ll see.”
“Great to see you back in the saddle, Ms. Locke. I’m rooting for you. Not sure about your client, though.”
The clock above the elevator reads 8:15 a.m. Fifteen minutes to figure out how to handle telling Hightower and His Honor that I have an eleventh-hour alibi witness. Despite what happens in TV courtrooms, rabbit-out-of-the-hat theatrics are frowned upon in real life.
I find Anton pacing back and forth outside the courtroom, hands clasped behind his back.
“Where’s Gretchen?”
“Sitting down inside. She’s beside herself with all this—”
“Killing?” I interject, and I wonder how far off base the comment is. Gretchen may look like she couldn’t kill more than a dry martini, but she’s apparently just fine with selling pharmaceutical tools of self-destruction.
“Dr. Slim, did Mrs. Slim know Brandon Sinclair?”
He stops mid-stride. “Who?”
“Zoe’s counselor. The man she’s accused of murdering, remember?”
“Yes. Of course. Mr. Sinclair. He apparently meant a lot to Zoe. But no, my wife did not know him. Why would you ask such a thing?”
I let a few seconds pass to gauge his reaction. His purposefully blank stare tells me he’s hiding something. “Well, he was Zoe’s counselor. Do you know if she ever talked to him about Zoe?”
He intrudes far enough into my personal space that I can smell coffee on his breath. “I said no, Ms. Locke.”
I don’t flinch. “And how about Serena Price. Did your wife know her? Or maybe you did?”
His left eye twitches. “Of course, she was Zoe’s best friend. She often visited our home. What happened to her is a tragedy. So young, so beautiful.” He whips around to head into the courtroom. “We should be getting on inside, don’t you think?”
I tap him on the shoulder. “One last question—did you ever meet Brandon Sinclair?”
His limbs stiffen inside his bespoke suit. When he turns, his face has transformed from faux friendly into bona fide rage. “No.”
I plaster on a patently fake grin. “Of course not.”
***
The courtroom is unmitigated pandemonium, but despite being packed to the gills, the room is frigid. Keeping the temperature down is supposed to keep emotions at bay in such close quarters, where everyone has a lot at stake and tempers can flare at any moment.
The bench stands vacant, but every other square inch of real estate is occupied. A phalanx of defense lawyers, blathering on to each other about God-only-knows what, snakes around the well in the order in which they had signed in on a clipboard guarded by the burly bailiff. Get too near, bother him one too many times about how long it will take until your case gets heard, and he will bark, if not bite, you back into line. Three ASAs stand sentry in front of the prosecution table, gatekeepers of the stacks of boxes containing today’s docketed cases. Some files have paperwork sticking out the top, possible plea deals to be offered if the spirit moves them. And, for all their bravado, defense counsel will accept those pleas with appreciation, terrified by the prospect of trying a dud case and getting hammered with a heavy sentence by the judge for having wasted his precious time.
The line of lawyers parts to allow a chain gang of orange jumpsuits to pass, one armed deputy in front and another in the rear. One inmate tries to wave to someone in the gallery and trips over the waist-to-ankle chains, crumpling to his knees. Zoe’s at the end of the conga line, head buried in her chest.
The bailiff booms, “All rise. Court is in session. The Honorable Josiah Twietmeyer presiding.”
“Please be seated.” Judge Twietmeyer says, his gaze resting on a pod of TV cameras, a flock of awkward, long-legged birds, like great blue herons. “I am going to assume the ladies and gentlemen of the Fourth Estate are here for the Slim case. Let’s get them out of here first, shall we? State of Florida versus Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim.”
Every lawyer ahead of me glares when I step to the front of the line. Infamy it seems, mine and Zoe’s, has at least one advantage.
Hightower steps up to the lectern, his face full of the earnestness of a high-school debater.
“Grace Locke for Ms. Slim, Your Honor.”
“I understand your client is back in custody, Ms. Locke,” Twietmeyer says.
“Yes, Judge.”
Every head in the place turns to Zoe.
“Mr. Hightower, is the State ready for trial in the case of Florida versus Zoe Slim?”
The words are no sooner out of the judge’s mouth when Hightower jumps in—little does he know his buoyancy will be short-lived. “Yes, Your Honor. The State is ready.”
“And how about the defense, Ms. Locke?”
With a flourish worthy of a player in a cheesy medieval skit, I pull a single sheet of paper from my file. “Judge, the defense hereby files this notice of alibi. May I approach the bench with a copy for Your Honor?”
Hightower throws his hands in the air as if I’ve just said the most preposterous thing known to the legal profession.
Twietmeyer flops back into this throne-like chair. “Now, Ms. Locke? On the eve of trial? Really? This isn’t TV.”
“Your Honor, if counsel, indeed, is filing a motion, I submit that such a filing is not timely and I—”
“Enough Mr. Hightower,” Twietmeyer says, hand raised. “Yes, counsel, you may approach. And make sure to give a copy to the Assistant State’s Attorney before he has a coronary.”
On the way back from the bench, I drop a copy in front of Hightower and watch as it drifts down like a falling leaf onto his lectern.
Spectacles on the end of his nose, the judge scans the notice. “Ms. Locke, Mr. Hightower is correct in that this filing is late per the Florida Rules of Criminal Procedure. Why is it that you’re so late in sharing your alibi witness with us?”
“Because I had no idea I had one until yesterday.”
Twietmeyer’s shoulders sag. “While Ms. Locke’s filing is late, Mr. Hightower, the rule cannot be interpreted in the hard-and-fast way you are suggesting, especially when doing so could deprive the defendant of a viable piece of evidence. I have been at the judging game long enough to have learned that the appellate courts do not look kindly upon judges who would entertain such a violation of the constitutional right to defend oneself with every tool in the shed.”
“Your Honor, please—”
“Enough, Mr. Hightower. Ms. Locke, I accept your notice. And, as I have a sneaking suspicion one of you will ask, please be aware I will not be granting any continuances in this matter.”
“But, Judge—” Hightower starts.
Twietmeyer glances over his spectacles at Hightower. “Mr. Hightower, I seem to recall your filing a middle-of-the-night motion yourself in this matter. To revoke bond, wasn’t it?”
Hightower shuffles his feet.
“From where I sit, this makes you two all even on the gamesmanship score. Trial on the matter of the State of Florida versus Zoya AKA “Zoe” Slim is set for Monday at 9 a.m. That should give you plenty of time to get Ms. Locke’s alibi witness’s statement on the record.”
I bite my lip to stop from smiling.
“And Ms. Locke, don’t bother asking for bail on your client’s new case. She’s had two chances to be out on bail on the first case. Now there’s a second case, I’m certainly not giving her a third. I’ll enter a plea of not guilty on her behalf, if that’s all right with you?”
“Yes, Your Honor. That’s perfect.”
“Good, I shall see you all on Monday. Have a restful weekend,” he says standing, then slams both hands down on the bench. “What am I thinking, rushing along here like a steam train? I’m forgetting my manners. Ms. Locke, I assume you waive a formal reading of the charges in the new case?”
“I do,” I say. I have no need to highlight the similarity of the murders for the media, eager for every last sordid detail of what they’ve decided is a love triangl
e gone fatally wrong.
“Very well. Next case is State versus…”
I find Hightower waiting for me outside the courtroom. “Nice move, Locke. You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”
“You’re not the first to say that.”
“I just called, and Reilly’s on his way to get Joe Harper’s statement.”
“That must be about as fast as Reilly’s ever done anything.”
Hightower flashes a knowing grin. “Actually, he’s sending Sorenson. As soon, as I get it, I’ll shoot you a copy.”
“Much obliged. But you know this is the end of your case, don’t you?”
Hightower shrugs. “Maybe. But there will be others.”
“Many others. That’s the nice thing about working for the Man. Endless inventory.”
Waiting for the elevator, I spot Britt and Gretchen in a corner, seemingly deep in conversation. I wonder what the mother of a murder victim and the chief prosecutor might have to talk about.
Chapter 31
Weekends before criminal trials are all feel alike. Regardless of the case, the surreal sense that someone’s life is in your hands is humbling. That a jury of human beings will be charged with determining the fate of another, that their judgment will suffice to condemn or convict, is more than a little unsettling.
The phone vibrates.
“Grace Locke, speaking,” I say, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder.
“Locke, Hightower here.”
“You got that statement for me?”
To say the silence on the line is deafening would be an understatement. Likely only a second or two passes, but it feels like forever.
“Grace, Detective Sorenson took the statement, but—”
“But what?” I spring up and pace around like a rat in a maze, Miranda on my heels.
“You said your witness, Harper, would say he was with Ms. Slim in the St. Paul’s parking lot the morning Brandon Sinclair was murdered, but…” He draws in a sharp breath. “But the kid said he wasn’t.”