by Chris Leibig
Sam stepped into the courtroom just in time.
“All rise,” the deputy called out just as Sam opened the heavy wooden door and walked a straight path down the long aisle between the two sides to the gallery, never slowing as the Honorable Rebecca Smith took the bench and the spectators sat down.
“Commonwealth versus Cornelius Pritchard,” the clerk announced. Sam passed into the well of the courtroom, and the lockup deputy led Acorn to the defense table.
“The Commonwealth is ready for a preliminary hearing, Your Honor,” Amy Marshall said confidently. Sam nodded to the judge, indicating his readiness, then sat down and whispered to Acorn.
“Not one word.”
“The Commonwealth calls Tamika Bradshaw as its first and only witness,” Amy said. This was just a preliminary hearing. All Amy needed to prove was probable cause to believe Acorn had committed rape. She would do so by briefly questioning the alleged victim of the rape. As long as Tamika said Cornelius had forced sex on her, Judge Marshall would have to find probable cause to bind the case over for trial.
Tamika walked towards the witness stand, a bone-thin woman with tightly braided hair. Mid-thirties. She glanced up into the gallery at a fifty-something man. A brother? A boyfriend? She wore no wedding ring. She did, however, sport the false swagger of one who was very nervous.
“State your name for the record, please.”
“Tamika Jessica Bradshaw.”
“Where do you live, Ms. Bradshaw?”
“Fourteen-sixteen Canal Street, Apartment one-B, in Bennet, Virginia.”
The projects: a good quarter of his cases originated there. The red brick row houses and black metal gates had grown more and more decrepit since their construction back in the 1960s. The short, ugly buildings were cookie-cutter models of each other, two windows across on top, one window and a door on the bottom. The one Sam had staked out the night before had seemed a bit better kept than most of the others.
“Do you know the defendant, Cornelius Pritchard?”
“I know Acorn. Everybody knows Acorn.”
A few chuckles from the courtroom. Everyone from the projects did know Acorn, but not as a rapist.
“Did you interact with Acorn on July 21 of this year?”
“Against my will, yes, I did.” Tamika glared at Acorn, then again glanced quickly at her friend in the gallery. Sam had seen this man the night before. He’d stopped outside Tamika’s house, peered in the front window, and then knocked on her door. Someone let him in, but the angle was such that Sam couldn’t see who.
“What I mean is, did you see him? Talk to him?”
“Yes.”
“Please briefly tell the judge what happened.” Amy would have prepared Tamika to give a very succinct description of the so-called rape. At trial, she would expand on it.
“I was at home, alone, watching TV. I know it was about eight thirty because I was watching American Idol, and it was about half over, and Acorn knocked on the door.” Prosecutors loved little details like that because jurors loved them. What a great witness, right? Innocently watching American Idol, not knowing the show would provide the critical detail of exactly when Acorn had arrived. So typical. Such bullshit.
“How do you know the defendant?”
“From the neighborhood. We went to school together. Now I know him as being a guy who just hangs around.”
“What was your relationship to him?”
“Ain’t no relationship.”
“Have you ever dated?”
Tamika scowled, but took a couple seconds to answer the question.
“We never dated.”
Acorn kicked Sam gently under the table then whispered loudly. Too loudly.
“Can’t you tell she’s lyin’?” A few more quiet laughs in the courtroom.
“What happened next?”
“Acorn made like he was being friendly, then asked if he could use the phone. He said he needed to call his job or something. Like about his schedule. He was all into this job of his. The funeral parlor. Talked about it all the time.”
Acorn scoffed, again too loudly, then whispered, quietly this time, to Sam, “Everybody knows I got a cell phone.” He scrawled a phone number on his pad and pushed it in front of Sam. “Ask her if she knows my number. Ask her!”
“What did you say when Acorn asked to use the phone?” Amy said.
“I said, sure. I let him in and shut the door.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about him?”
“No—well, he was wearing his tuxedo, so it seemed to me like maybe he was on his way to work and was late or something.”
“What I mean is, did you notice whether or not he had been drinking?”
Tamika’s face lit up in an almost cute sort of way as she recognized the meaning of the precious question.
“Oh, sure, he’d been drinking. But that ain’t nothin’ unusual.”
The whole courtroom laughed. Even Acorn.
What happened next?”
“He sort of tried to grab me and kiss me. I pushed him away, and the next thing I knew he was on top of me on the couch. I was freaking out. I started fighting. Then he hit me.”
“Hit you where?”
“On the side of the face.”
Amy approached Tamika and had her identify pictures of her facial injury, taken by police later that night.
“What happened next?”
“I kind of stopped resisting. I was scared. The next thing I knew all my clothes were off and so were his. He was on top of me. All over me.”
“What exactly did he do?”
Tamika hesitated. “He put his penis in my vagina and started to have sex with me.”
Amy had over trained Tamika on this point. She needed to prove that intercourse occurred, but she did not have to make it sound so canned. No doubt Amy would improve the script by the time of the trial.
“How long did it last?”
“A few minutes, I guess. I was just lying there. Afraid. Then, in a last-ditch effort, I smacked him. Then he stopped. Put on his clothes and left.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No, not really. He just left.”
“What did you do next?”
“I was upset. I was crying. I thought about it for a few minutes, and I drank a glass of vodka to calm down. I hadn’t been drinking before, only after. To gather my thoughts. Then I called the police.”
Nice one, Amy. No drinking until after. Beautiful, really.
“Did you tell the police what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Did they take you to the hospital for an examination to determine if you’d been raped?”
“Yes.”
“When had you last had intercourse, aside from when you were raped by Acorn?”
Tamika paused and tilted her head as if to ponder.
“I don’t know. It had been a while.”
“Do you see the man in the courtroom who raped you?”
She pointed a shaky and angry finger towards Acorn. “He’s right there.”
“That’s all the questions I have, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Young,” Judge Marshall said. “Your witness … Mr. Young? Mr. Young?”
Sam was somewhere else. His hand rested softly on Acorn’s back, as if about to lean towards him to whisper a quick question. He felt a soft pumping energy through the physical connection. An oversimplification to be sure, but like Morse code. His mind bounced from Tamika to Acorn and behind him to Tamika’s friend in the gallery. Then to her, to Acorn, to the friend, and back. And again. He could not see every detail. But he did see that Tamika was lying, and had a reason to do so. The man in the gallery, whoever he was, had seen Acorn with Tamika. Through the window? Either way, Acorn did not know the man had been at the window or had any idea why his on-again, off-again fuck partner cried rape. He just knew it wasn’t true.
“Mr. Young! Mr. Young!” yelled Judge Marshall.
Sam stood. “I’m sorry, Your Honor.�
�
Sam looked down at his notes, and then at Tamika, and then at the clock, unsure of how much time had lapsed. But guessing from the clock and the curious look of the court clerk, his journey into Tamika’s living room had probably lasted seconds, not minutes.
“No questions.”$
Sam stood and rubbed the sides of his head as the judge left the bench. He closed his eyes, aware that the courtroom deputies were watching him, wondering why he had failed to defend his client at the hearing. Before opening his eyes, Sam asked himself the question he had been dodging for days. What was happening to him?
Sam turned his phone on as he stepped out of the elevator and into the parking garage. He sighed. Nine missed calls, including Camille, Juliana, Diagnostia, and a city number, O’Malley maybe? He could have, and probably should have, dismantled Tamika in a cross-examination. But Amy, not privy to Sam’s new information, if one could call it that, would have indicted the case anyway. He needed some time to figure out what to do about Acorn.
He pulled the Escalade out of the parking garage towards the office. His mind raced. His office. Then Diagnostia.
CHAPTER 16
“IS NOW A GOOD TIME?” Amelia asked. She leaned against the doorjamb of Sam’s office, earnest eyes begging for his attention. Sam looked up, his hands still moving rapidly over the keyboard. He was great at divided attention.
“Good time for what?” He was careful to keep a kind, carefree tinge to his voice, a subtle cover up for his racing heart. He locked eyes with Amelia.
“For what I wanted to talk to you about.” She stepped into Sam’s office, shut the door, and looked expectantly at the chairs in front of Sam’s desk. He nodded, and she sat, eyes on the floor. Sam stopped typing.
“Two things. They’re asking me to get involved with a death-penalty case.”
“Ugh. Who’s asking?”
“Simmons, and the people in Richmond. They’re putting a team of people together to represent Carter Muldoon, the guy accused of killing the prison guard, and he—”
“I know who he is; I’ve represented him three times. Don’t do it. I’ll get you out of it. Carter Muldoon has no defense. He confessed, and the stabbing is on video. He’s already in for murder. You know what this is going to be like, right? A year and a half of investigation into his childhood and all that shit? Interviewing his third cousin five times removed to see if he was picked on or if he sniffed glue and stuff? It’s all about mitigation. All that touchy-feely crap. And in the end, you’ll watch him get executed. I’ve been through this, Amelia. You don’t want it. You’re a trial lawyer, not a social worker. Seriously, let some do-gooder in Richmond do it.” His hands were shaking. He put them in his lap, out of Amelia’s view.
“Stop pretending to be an asshole,” she said. “I’ve already decided I want to do it. That’s not my problem. My problem is, well, Simmons was going to ask you to help me with it. I think maybe Burt should help me instead. I don’t think you’re up for it. Especially if you’re saying things like that.”
“Like what?”
“Sam, this is really hard, but I’m worried about you.”
Sweat sprung down his back, mixing with the air conditioning. He shivered and masked a dry heave with a muffled cough. Control. Control. Hard and clear. He maintained eye contact with Amelia, leaned back in his chair, and delved inside for his professorial tone.
“Go on.”
“Well, for one thing, it’s your drinking. I think it’s kind of like, going up. And I know you can handle it, but I guess I’m not sure it’s making you happy. You have a law student who’s supposed to be working for you. He’s really good, and you haven’t even talked to him. He surfs the Internet all day. Melvin Collins, remember? He came here because he wanted to work for you. But more to the point, some of your clients have been complaining. At the jail. Frankly, Scarfrowe has been over there sticking up for you. And then, I guess, there was today.”
Sam raised his eyebrows, burrowing them softly into Amelia’s mind. She reacted with a perceptible flinch.
“Tamika. You should have cross-examined her. Even the deputies were talking about it. I feel like since Scarfrowe you’ve been falling apart. I know it’s only been a few days, but still. Can I ask, have you been sleeping? Eating? What’s wrong?”
Sam tried to focus on the only critical piece of information Amelia had delivered.
“Tell Scarfrowe thanks. Tell him I owe him one.”
He went back to his computer. Amelia stood, lamely probing him with her eyes, until the silence softly beat her away.
•••
“This is Young.” Sam turned into the Diagnostia parking lot.
“Where the fuck are you?” Juliana demanded.
“I know, I know, the new murder.”
“I’ve been calling you all morning. I’m freaking out. Something crazy is going on. I’m home.”
“Why?” Sam pulled the Escalade into a spot in front of Diagnostia.
“The FBI showed up today. Not scientists; agents from DC. And, well, I guess you could say they shut down the lab.”
Juliana sounded both excited and worried, not an abnormal condition for her, but being rattled was.
“You’re telling me that the Federal Bureau of Investigation has shut down the Northern Virginia Department of Forensic Science, thereby preventing forensic investigations of thousands of cases in one of the biggest criminal jurisdictions on the East Coast?”
“Shut down, maybe not. But they sent almost everyone home. All of us. Over three hundred people. And in the biology section, they—get this—searched us on the way out. They literally watched me—specifically me—shut down my computer and my lab station to make sure I didn’t print or copy anything … It’s freaking me out.”
“And this has to do with what? The Ripper?”
“The new victim, Lucas. I went in late last night and worked the samples from his case. I ran Powerplex 16 on his baseball cap, because, well, because the detectives suspected it had been placed back on his head after the attack. I swabbed the brim and got a strong touch DNA profile on all fifteen loci, but it was weird. Impossible, really. And then, well I hadn’t told you this yet, but the day before, I had swabbed the stem of your chalice, you know, thinking maybe the guy left sweat or skin cells on it and maybe I could get a fuller profile than the Diagnostia result. I mean, I told you I would keep the chalice private for forty-eight hours, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t work on it, and—”
Sam stepped out of his car and into the heat. It had to be pushing one hundred degrees. Sweat burst from his skin and beaded on his temples. He started across the parking lot towards Diagnostia.
“Juliana, stop. I need to hear all this, but I’m running into Diagnostia right now, then I’ve got a quick meeting.”
“Hurry, Sam, I have to tell you what happened.”
•••
Sam now stood in Diagnostia’s frigid lobby. He glanced at the two young women waiting. He knew instantly they were there for the same reason the vast majority of Americans seek private DNA testing: Who is my baby’s father? The clerk beckoned him forward. He covered the phone to engage the clerk.
“Mr. Young, I’m sorry, but the scientist on duty is on her break. I can’t release your result to you until she signs the cover sheet.” The clerk was a kind, rule-following lady with a high-pitched, singsong voice. “She’ll be back in half an hour.”
“I’ll wait.” He modulated his voice to reflect a calm understanding, but his mind told her something else. Just a little jab to hurry her up. Just go get the result. You can do it. He retreated to one of the plastic lobby chairs to continue his talk with Juliana. She still spoke rapidly into the phone.
“I’m sorry, Sam, I—”
“Stop talking, Juliana. I’ll be over in two hours.”
He pocketed his phone and took a deep breath. So, Juliana told the FBI she had been speaking with him about the Ripper case. About the chalice. Sam Young—a defense attorney now re
presenting an actual, though innocent, suspect and secretly investigating a legitimate, real suspect—who might know the identity of the real Rosslyn Ripper.
“Your results are ready, Mr. Young.”
Sam signed for the envelope and headed back towards his car, half expecting to see agents charging across the parking lot to arrest him. Slow time. Observe. He was a lawyer. He had every right to keep his client’s secrets.
•••
Back at the 1416 Canal public housing apartment complex it felt like a week since he had parked here, but it was just last night.
Before getting out of the car, Sam opened the Diagnostia envelope. If the FBI were after him, they certainly were taking their time. Fuck the feds, anyway. Sam focused on the lab sheet for the swab he had run over the corners of the manuscript. A weak profile with five alleles, one each at five different loci. TPOX: 9, FGA: 10, DS18: 11.5, D3: 9, CSF: 8. He could still see the partial chalice-sipper profile in his mind. None of the alleles matched, which, he supposed, meant little, since both profiles were so incomplete. On the other hand, by Juliana’s real-world analysis, it meant that the chalice sipper and the manuscript handler were probably different people. He tossed the results on the seat next to him.
•••
Sam knocked on the door of apartment 1B.
“Oh,” Tamika said. Not friendly, not unfriendly, just matter of fact. She seemed neither surprised nor scared.
Sam glanced behind Tamika. Public housing. Seen one, seen them all. Inside there was ratty Berber carpet, a large flat-screen television dominating the small living room, two teenagers playing Xbox on the couch, grandma’s knickknacks adorning most of the available space on cloth-covered end tables, and stale cigarette smoke.
Sam stepped inside. Tamika turned, yielding the issue of invitation, and walked in front of the teenagers, who dodged around to continue their video game. Sam, as Tamika appeared to wish, followed her, quickly stepping past the television to avoid interrupting the game.
Tamika sat calmly at a wooden dining room table, gesturing with her eyes for Sam to sit. Her shaking hand gripped a plastic bottle of Diet Coke.