“Docket number 20-21345, Raime, Harold, murder in the second degree!” the clerk called out.
From the revolving door on the right for incarcerated defendants came an absolutely enormous man with a shiny bald head and thick pink arms covered in vibrant tattoos. He didn’t walk. He lumbered. A guy like that could easily take Zach out with the swipe of a hand. The lawyer next to him—young and gangly, with glasses and a thick head of long, curly hair—looked more like a literature professor than a criminal defense attorney. He leaned over toward his intimidating client and smiled gently, then said something that only made the man scowl.
“Adam Rothstein from the Brooklyn defender office, Your Honor.”
Of course he was.
A new prosecutor had appeared, taking over on this matter from the arraignment prosecutor, probably because it was a murder case. These days, there were barely three hundred murders a year across all of New York City. A murder indictment was a special thing. The new prosecutor was much shorter than Adam Rothstein, but his suit was sharply pressed and he looked far better rested. Fresh legs: the benefit of having just swooped in to handle this one very serious matter, instead of the sea of petty-crime humanity—many of whom would nonetheless find themselves locked away in Rikers alongside Zach, and scary Mr. Clean.
“How does the defendant plead?” the judge asked in the same bored nasal voice he had used each time before.
“Not guilty,” the defendant said.
The judge continued to look down at his pad. “On the issue of bail?”
“My client has three children and a job that expects him back,” Adam said, his voice fiery, overemotional. Tone it down, I wanted to say. “All his family is local. He has no prior arrests apart from minor property crimes, and he doesn’t have a car or a passport. He’s not going anywhere, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor, this is a murder charge,” the prosecutor replied, all cool, calm moral superiority. I remembered what it felt like to be him—in charge of a lowly room. It was a heady sensation. God, what an asshole I’d been, confusing the power my position had gifted me with what I had earned.
“The evidence will show that this is a clear case of self-defense,” Adam pressed on. “The deceased came to my client’s house armed with a hunting knife.”
“And he was shot by the defendant coming up the front walk at a distance of more than thirty feet,” the prosecutor drawled. He looked the huge defendant up and down. “Are you claiming your client lacked the fortitude to close his front door?”
The judge didn’t seem to be listening to either one of them. “Bail is set at two hundred thousand,” he said.
And with a pound of his gavel, that was all.
“This is fucking bullshit,” the defendant roared at Adam as he was being dragged away. “You suck, you fucking asshole.”
I watched Adam’s shoulders sink.
It was only eleven thirty when the lunch recess was called. I waited until Adam had gathered his things, then followed him out the door.
“Adam Rothstein,” I called after him in the crowded lobby area.
Adam paused, bracing himself, it seemed, for yet another scolding—from a prosecutor, a client’s family. Finally he took a deep breath and turned back, forcing a weak smile.
“Yes?”
“I’m a friend of Zach Grayson’s,” I began, not able to bring myself to say I was his attorney.
Adam tilted his head for a second, as if trying to place the name. Surely he had dozens of new cases every day. To my astonishment, it took him only a second.
“Of course, yes, Zach,” he said. He stepped toward me with a concerned face. “Did you know his wife? Such an awful thing.”
“No. I’m a law school classmate of Zach’s. I used to be in the Southern District’s fraud unit. But I’m with a firm now. Zach asked me to take over the case. I don’t have experience in state court or with violent crimes of any kind, but—”
“Great, I’ll get you the file,” Adam said. “If you were with the Southern District, then you can definitely handle this. Besides, you and I both know it’s the resources that matter. I care about my clients like they’re family.” He hesitated, considered. “Ask my wife. She says it’s twisted. But one expensive expert witness is worth a hundred times any amount of dedication, or experience.”
“Your clients are lucky to have you.”
“If only good intentions were enough,” Adam said. “Look at Zach. He should be out on bail.”
“You’re right about that,” I said. “We plan to file a habeas writ. Anything you can tell me about the arraignment would be helpful.”
Adam peeked in through the glass window to a small room marked “Attorney Conference.” Having confirmed it was empty, he held the door open.
“Why don’t we step in here?” He waited until we were inside with the door closed before speaking again. “The judge based his bail decision largely on the brutality of the scene. The DA managed to get some pictures in front of him.”
“Well, that’s totally prejudicial,” I said. Prejudicial, but not especially shocking.
“Yeah, exactly,” he huffed. “It was an assaulting-an-officer charge, and there they were showing photos of this bloody crime scene with this beautiful blond woman in the center. But the prosecution argued I’d put the scene at issue because I’d mentioned Zach’s emotional distress over his wife being killed. Next thing you know, the judge is looking at the pictures so he could assess whether that was a valid defense.” He shook his head in disgust. “Mind you, none of this should have been relevant at a bail hearing where the only issue to begin with should have been—”
“Risk of flight,” I finished his thought. But I knew the game the prosecutor had been playing. I’d played it myself.
“Exactly, flight,” Adam said. “The judge laid eyes on the pictures, and we were done. They’ll hold him until they charge him with murder.”
I crossed my arms. “But this is Rikers. It’s someone’s life.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to snatch them right back.
Predictably, Adam’s face hardened. “It’s always somebody’s life.” And of course he was right. “Listen, I’d file that writ quickly. Once they’ve charged him with murder, you’ll have no shot for bail. And the grand jury will indict. His fingerprints are sure to be on that golf club. It belonged to him. Toss in some creative blood spatter analysis and some petty marital problems, and they’ve got a slam-dunk.”
“Marital problems?” I asked. “Did Zach tell you that?”
“No, but he was married, right?” Adam said wryly. “What marriage doesn’t have problems?” He stood, then snapped his fingers. “Oh, and get that outstanding warrant resolved, too. It wasn’t dispositive to the bail issue, but it definitely didn’t help.”
“Warrant?” My neck felt hot.
“Zach said it must have been a mistake,” Adam said, his tone equivocal. “And all the prosecution would tell us—all they claimed to be able to tell us—was that the warrant was issued out of Philadelphia and that it was from thirteen years back on an unpaid code violation, not even a misdemeanor. But nothing from back then is computerized, so no one had access to exactly what code was violated. Zach didn’t remember it at all, but he had to acknowledge that he did live in Philly at the time. And since the judge had already seen the pictures, that was enough for him.”
“And you found Zach’s surprise about the warrant credible?”
Adam considered the question for a long moment, which I found reassuring. “Zach seemed genuinely surprised, yes,” he said finally. “He even demanded proof. In my experience, liars don’t usually go that far. It could be for something as stupid as an unpaid noise complaint, too. He was a student at the time. I looked into discharging it myself, but with something that old, you have to do it in person in Philadelphia, which wasn’t in the cards for me personally. But your firm could send someone, right? I’d also find out which DA is driving this case and why. These judges hate get
ting yanked around for bullshit reasons. That alone might get Zach another shot at bail.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Did Zach tell you about the ADA who showed up?”
“He talked about somebody in a suit.”
“Yeah, ADA Lewis. He’s a junior guy in homicides. The ECAB assistant who initially processed the case made an offhanded comment: ‘Lewis wasn’t supposed to be on call that night,’ or something like that. I almost had the ECAB talked into dropping the whole thing, given Zach’s circumstance with his wife. But then he makes a call to ADA Lewis, and we’re done talking. Obviously, a murder in Park Slope is a high-profile case, but I got the sense there’s something more driving this.”
He was right that this was the exact kind of case that the Early Case Assessment Bureau bounced all the time: a prosecution that, upon reflection, seemed to have been initiated because emotions at the scene were running high.
“What do you think is really going on?” I asked.
“Politics,” Adam said. “The Brooklyn DA’s retiring this year. From what I hear, there’s a whole lot of internal jostling for the role of heir apparent. Not ADA Lewis. He’s too junior. Somebody else, though, who stands to benefit. A high-profile case like this—”
“Could make somebody’s career.”
He checked his watch. “I’ve got to get something to eat before I have to go back. But if there’s anything else I can help you with, let me know.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
Adam reached for the door, then paused and turned back.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Zach killed his wife,” he said. “And I’m not actually as gullible as I look. Let’s face it: most of my clients are guilty as hell.”
Grand Jury Testimony
BEATRICE COHEN,
called as a witness the 6th of July and was examined and testified as follows:
EXAMINATION
BY MS. WALLACE:
Q: Thank you for coming, Ms. Cohen.
A: You’re welcome. But I don’t know what I can tell you. I don’t know anything about what happened to that woman.
Q: Were you at a party at 724 First Street in Park Slope, Brooklyn, on the evening of July 2nd of this year?
A: Well, yes. But I don’t know what happened to Amanda.
Q: If you could try to answer my questions one at a time as I ask them.
A: Sorry. Okay. I’m nervous.
Q: I understand. But there’s no need to be nervous. We’re trying to get to the truth, that’s all.
A: Sure, yeah, right.
Q: Were you at a party at 724 First Street in Park Slope on the evening of July 2nd?
A: Yes.
Q: Did you attend the party with anyone?
A: Yes. My husband, Jonathan. He knows Kerry. That’s how we got invited.
Q: Kerry who?
A: Kerry Tanner, Sarah Novak’s husband. She’s best friends with Maude. We only saw Kerry for a second, though. When we were leaving. We didn’t talk to him. We were too busy trying to steal a beach ball.
Q: Steal a beach ball?
A: Not steal … I mean … it was silly. We took it home. It’s like a two-dollar thing. I think they were party favors anyway. And we’d had a lot to drink. It’s a fun party, but everybody drinks too much.
Q: Did you engage in any sexual activity at the party that night?
A: What?
Q: Did you engage in any sexual activity at the party at 724 First Street on the night of July 2nd?
A: How is that any of your business?
Q: Can you please answer the question, Ms. Cohen? Would you like me to repeat it?
A: No.
Q: No, you did not engage in sexual activity?
A: No, I do not want you to repeat the question. It’s really intrusive. How is what I do in my private life—I don’t want to answer that.
Q: This is not a public proceeding.
A: Those jurors are people. They are the public and they’re sitting right there.
Q: Ms. Cohen, please answer the question. You’re under oath.
A: Yes, I engaged in sexual activity at the party that night. Not that it’s any of your business.
Q: Can you describe the nature of this sexual activity?
A: Is that a joke?
Q: Ms. Cohen, this is a homicide investigation. Please answer the question.
A: I gave some guy a blow job in a bedroom upstairs. Are you happy? This is really so mortifying. And it’s not—my husband and I don’t usually do this type of thing. There’s just something about that party, you know?
Q: No. I don’t know.
A: It makes you act crazy.
Q: Crazy?
A: I don’t mean in a bad way. I mean having fun. The kids are away. And we’ve all been parents for a long time. Been married for even longer. The Sleepaway Soiree at Maude and Sebe’s—it’s harmless. And no one talks about it after. It’s like it never even happened.
Q: Harmless?
A: You know what I mean.
Q: Did you see Amanda on the night of the party?
A: Only for a second, when we were leaving. She was coming in.
Q: What time was this?
A: Around 9:00 p.m., I think.
Q: Was she alone?
A: She was with a man. But I don’t know who he was. I’d never seen him before.
Amanda
FIVE DAYS BEFORE THE PARTY
The whole walk to the Gate for girls’ night out, Amanda thought she was being followed. The calls were one thing, but she’d never believed there was somebody actually there, in the flesh. And yet from the second she left the house, she swore she could feel someone lurking behind her in the quiet pockets of Park Slope darkness. Not someone: him. Yes, the neighborhood was safe, very safe. But a deserted block was a deserted block. Anything could happen, and no one would be there to stop it.
It didn’t help matters that Amanda had been on edge from the moment she woke up. It was that same stupid, awful dream about Case—running in the gown again, barefoot and covered in blood, the haunted diner, sirens wailing, warning her about her son. Carolyn even had a cameo at the beginning this time, before the dark and the running and her burning bare feet. Amanda and Carolyn were giggling and whispering, eating pizza cross-legged on her bed. Both of them in pastel tulle dresses now—Amanda’s peach, Carolyn’s seafoam blue. Why the dresses every time? Was it Amanda’s guilt about her ridiculously over-the-top wardrobe? Her sleeping mind did have a way of making everything menacing.
If only this—the dark block, him maybe there, behind her—were a dream. How had he even found her? Yes, Amanda was living closer now to St. Colomb Falls than she had since she left all those years ago. But New York City was six long hours away by car. It wasn’t as if he could have spotted the moving van.
Amanda checked over her shoulder again as she made her way down the rest of Third Street. She didn’t actually see anything. But when she tried to take a deep breath, her lungs were stiff and her skin was prickling in that way it always had back then. Right before.
She knew exactly what Carolyn would say: tell Zach. For her part, Sarah would insist it was a husband’s job to protect his wife, and vice versa as a matter of fact. But what of the problems you’d brought upon yourself? Was it fair to foist those on your spouse? And Amanda was supposed to reduce Zach’s stress, not add to it. He was already under so much pressure. The least she could do was hold up her end of their bargain.
Amanda had been seventeen that night eleven years ago when Zach stepped inside the Bishop Motel. He was nothing like the men who usually stayed the night at the motel—which by then was not only where Amanda worked, but also where she lived. First of all, Zach was half the size of the truckers and loggers, and so much softer. A man who would live his life without ever dirtying his hands. Not exactly masculine either, but there were worse things. Much worse things. And anyway, he had such a nice smile.
But
more than anything, it was that way Zach had looked at her when they met that most caught Amanda’s attention. Like an explorer who’d just discovered a rare species in his own backyard—exhilarated, nervous. Amanda had been told her whole life that she was beautiful, but up until that precise moment it had always felt like a liability.
Zach was already so accomplished, too. Amanda learned all about that when they ran into each other again, late the next afternoon. Zach was just back from a long hike, looking fit and strong and sure in his muddy hiking boots and even more handsome with a little shadow of a beard. He’d just graduated from law school and business school—both at once!—and was taking some time to himself, hiking in the Adirondacks to celebrate before going west to work in California. Zach had such direction and focus. He knew exactly where he was headed.
“Wow, California,” Amanda had said, feeling a little tug of envy. “All that sunshine. I’ve never been anywhere outside St. Colomb Falls.”
“Come with me then,” Zach had said with a shrug. So direct and simple and crazy. “Whatever is out there has got to be better than this. Forget what I think you should do, forget about me—don’t you owe it to yourself to find out?”
Like he knew. Though he didn’t, of course. Not the details of Amanda’s miscalculations. Those he would never know. All these years later, Zach had never cared to fill in any of the very obvious holes in Amanda’s past. She’d realized this was one of her husband’s greatest skills: focusing only on what mattered to him. It was probably the secret to his success.
But back then, at the Bishop Motel, Zach was holding out a sunshiny, golden ticket: California. Away. Far away. Finally, an actual destination. All Amanda had to do was reach out and grab it. And so Amanda had asked herself: What would Carolyn do? The answer was obvious. Carolyn would take a flying leap.
A Good Marriage Page 7
