Chris, stunned, turned to her. “What are you talking about?”
“Sunday, at the hospital. She said something about a cop mentioning fingerprints when they had her at the police station. She brushed it off, but clearly this is what she was referring to.”
Chris, who’d purposely avoided discussing the case at home, was now confused about what Sidonie did or didn’t know. “Even if I had been in that neighborhood before, which I’m pretty sure I haven’t, the only things I touched were the water hose and the spigot. That’s it. Unless they’re talking about that, they’re talking shit.”
“It’s all talk at this point,” Philip rejoined, “so let’s not get too wrapped up in what it means yet. My guess is they have nothing, but when we get to the arraignment, they’ll have to produce the charging documents and whatever evidence they do have. We’ll have a clearer picture of what we’re dealing with then.”
“What exactly happens at this arraignment?” Chris queried, feeling the weight of his new legal burden.
“For a misdemeanor case like this it should be brief. The prosecutor is Brad Reisman, a decent guy, generally fair, not overly aggressive. He’ll present the charges and the range of penalties for each charge. You’ll make your plea—not guilty—and we’ll be given a trial date. I expect the entire process, including the trial, to be on a fast track, particularly since, as we discussed at the hospital, we’re opting for a bench trial. We’re getting into the holidays, the charges are relatively minor, based on only eyewitness testimony, and you have no prior record. It’s Chicago and they have much bigger fish to fry, so they’re always looking to clear the smaller stuff as quickly as possible.”
Chris’s face bore a sheen of sweat. Vanessa glanced over.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“No. I feel like I’m being railroaded. All I did was put water in my car and suddenly I’m in this insanity with no way out.” He knew he sounded peevish, but lacked the energy to change his tone.
“Certainly there’s a way out, Chris,” Philip asserted. “But, yes, these steps are unavoidable—that’s the frustrating part.”
“And how is it that I’m even being looked at for all this? Something so far from who I am I . . . I don’t even have words for it? Explain that to me!” He slammed his fist on the table.
Philip’s voice softened. “Chris, let’s try to—”
“Sorry, man,” Chris cut him off, chagrined. “But I’m freaking out.”
“No apologies necessary, this is tough stuff. And, yes, given that it’s he says, she says, on top of CPD’s history with black defendants, there’s reason for concern. Let’s get through the arraignment and sort it out from there. As for the fingerprints, I’m pretty convinced it’s a ruse, but we’ll know soon enough. Can you hold on till then?”
“I have no choice,” Chris replied morosely.
“Here’s the time and place of the arraignment.” Philip slid a printout in front of Chris. “Be on time, wear a suit, be humble, but be confident. We’ll be in and out.”
SIXTY-ONE
“YOU DIDN’T THINK TELLING ME ABOUT THE FINGERPRINTS was necessary?” Chris yelled from the living room. “Maybe I would have liked knowing about that before my attorney dropped it on me!”
Sidonie was in the downstairs bathroom getting ready to meet her sister across town, and Chris’s insistence on going over this one point at this particular moment was not only slowing her progress, but triggering her increasingly aggrieved state of mind. She stomped out, eyes aflame.
“What did you want me to do, Chris, wake you up from a drug-hazed, pain-addled state to tell you that Mike from the club heard something about some fingerprints and that was all I knew? Why would I have done that? When no one mentioned it to you or Vanessa after you made bail, I figured it was just some stupid trick meant to freak me out. Which it did. So the last thing I wanted, considering the state you were in, was to freak you out! I was thinking about you!”
“Fine. But in the future, if you hear anything, see anything, read anything that has to do with my case, fill me in, okay? And since your police buddy hangs out at the bar, maybe you could get the inside scoop on the latest bullshit they’re trying to pin on me. That’d be good.” As much as he wanted to storm from the room or drop angrily to the couch, his still-aching body preempted dramatics. All he could do was carefully lower himself into the living room chair he’d handpicked about a hundred years ago when trivial things like decorating a house and living a normal, unencumbered life seemed possible.
Sidonie tried not to roll her eyes. While sympathetic to his beleaguered state, her patience was being daily tested. She briefly considered cancelling her plans, but one glance at his smoldering countenance dissuaded her. She pulled on her coat and looked around for her keys, eager, frankly, to get out of the house.
“I won’t be late. Call if you want me to pick anything up on my way home.”
“I’m fine. Say hi to Karen. And . . . sorry for being an asshole.”
She looked at him and sighed. “You’re not being an asshole. Okay, you are being an asshole, but I understand.” She grinned; he grinned back . . . just slightly.
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES later, Sidonie lay on the deck chaise on Karen’s patio, alone and wrapped tightly against the cold, sipping a cup of decaf green tea. She wished it were warm enough to stay exiled out here for the rest of time. To sleep out here. Live out here. Build a little cabin and eat berries and nuts and banish the grid. Away from it all.
Her niece, Sarah, was entertaining friends, and though her brother-in-law Josh was keeping them corralled so she and Karen could talk privately, the thump-thump-thump of hip-hop booming from inside was loud and completely at odds with her mood. Karen’s entrance from the house came replete with a bowl of chips, salsa, and choreography of a certain groove factor.
“Get down, get back up again,” Sidonie joked feebly from her chair on the dark side of the patio.
Karen set the snacks down and joined her sister on the adjacent lounge. Munching loudly enough to elicit a frown from Sidonie, Karen waited for the conversation to start. When it didn’t, she looked over pointedly.
“If we’re not going to talk about this, let’s go inside and watch a bad movie. It’s cold out here.”
“I’m living a bad movie.” Sidonie sighed.
“Aw, sissy, I get it, I do. It’s ridiculous and frightening. I understand. Which is why I want to talk about it a little, get you prepped for whatever might happen.”
“What does that mean: ‘whatever might happen’? Is there something else that might happen that isn’t already happening?”
“I’m just saying you’re probably going to get pulled into at least one interview with the police, and that’s something I thought we should go over.”
Sidonie bolted upright, put her cup down, and looked at her sister with panicked eyes. “Seriously? I’ll have to go down to that hideous police station? I swear, I’ll throw up if I ever have to walk through the doors of that hellhole again.”
“I don’t know. They may come to you. I called Philip Lewis—that’s Chris’s attorney—”
“Wait, how did you get that information?”
“I still have friends on that side of the law and I made a few calls. I actually know Philip. He’s a really good guy and knows his stuff, particularly in that arena.”
“I know. I had to meet with him the other day—”
“He mentioned that, said it went well.”
“Really? How does an interview with your boyfriend’s defense attorney about a crime he didn’t commit ‘go well’?”
“He just said you were direct and clear. Thought you’d make a credible witness if need be.”
“God, I hope there’s no ‘need be.’ Why did you want to talk to him?”
“To see how he thought they might come at you.”
“And?”
“He thinks basically the same thing I do: they’ll try to shake you up, get you to admit to something
you saw Chris do, or heard him talk about. Anything that might help their case.”
“Which I know nothing about.”
“You know that—they don’t. Get inside their mindset, Sid: they’re looking at Chris as a criminal, which means they’re looking at you as the criminal’s girlfriend—someone who likely knows things and is withholding them on his behalf. Of course they have no sense of who the two of you really are. They’re operating on profiles and standard procedures that have worked enough times that they’re go-to.”
“So what do I do?”
“Tell the truth. Say exactly what you know. No more, no less. Try not to stress about it too much. They’re fishing, that’s all. Don’t let them get to you. You’ve got nothing to hide, nothing to lie about, and you’re not charged with anything. Be confident of that and answer whatever they ask truthfully. You can’t lose with that strategy.”
Sidonie lay back down on the chaise, arms flopped to her sides in frustration. “How is this my life? Really. How is this what I’m dealing with?”
Karen was quiet for a moment. “I know . . . but think about Chris. Think about what Vanessa deals with every day. This is life for a lot of people. I wish we could write it off as an anomaly—it is for you. For Chris, not so much. It’s the tragedy of our times. It’s why Vanessa’s group exists. It’s why we’re having this conversation.”
“I know . . .” Sidonie said quietly, shamed by her petulance.
“I’m not trying to make you feel bad—you get to protest this as much as anyone. It’s just important, I think, especially given who you’re involved with, to keep it in perspective.”
“Mom!” A lanky teenaged girl with an active pout and too much makeup careened through the patio doors. “The Internet is out again and we’re right in the middle of a game! This is getting ridiculous! When are we getting better wireless? What, are we poor or something?” She looked over. “Oh, hi, Aunt Sid. What are you guys doing out here? It’s freezing!”
“Hey, Sarah . . . just patio chatting with your mom.”
“And we don’t need interruptions from loud, snotty teenagers. Go talk to your father,” Karen ordered. “If nothing else, unplug the router, wait a few minutes, then plug it back in—that always works. Now, take your entitled ass outta here and leave us alone.”
Sarah stuck her tongue out and dashed back inside.
“First world problems.” Karen rolled her eyes. “I remind myself daily that she really is more than that, but there are times . . .”
“She’s fine. She’s a teenager. With you as her mom, she won’t avoid growing a social conscience.”
“I appreciate your optimism, but sometimes I wonder. Listen, I’m going inside where there’s heat. Maybe you should go home, at least attempt normalcy. Do what you can to distract each other. This will get handled and life will get back to something you recognize, I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Sidonie sighed as she climbed out of the chaise, thinking, for the first time, that her sister might not know what she was talking about.
SIXTY-TWO
CHRIS SAT HUNCHED AT A TABLE IN THE COURTHOUSE cafeteria, sullen and uncomfortable. With most parts of his body still thrumming in pain, he was grateful to have made it from the parking lot through security, up to the courtroom and later back down, largely without assistance. Now enervated, he nursed a club soda while waiting for Philip to return from a “quick meeting with the prosecutor.” He took the moment to scrutinize his cacophonous location:
With the ponderous Cook County jail just next door, and weaponized security personnel at every turn, this was a place that insinuated guilt. It was weighty and sweat inducing, with din and activity reminiscent of a busy airport, where every kind of human being, wearing every kind of uniform, attitude, demeanor, or expression, swirled in gradations of anxiety. Strange to realize that most of them, many of them, were dealing with situations as life-altering as his own, making them reluctant confederates in a club to which he had no desire for membership.
The arraignment was over. He’d pleaded not guilty to two Class A misdemeanor charges of resisting a police officer and criminal trespass to residence, and one Class B misdemeanor of window peeking. Their request for a bench trial was filed, and the trial was set for December eighteenth. Philip said the date was “excellent,” a nod to the scheduling complexities of the holiday season, as well as a desire on the part of the court to clear the docket of smaller cases. He wasn’t as crazy about the judge, the Honorable Howard Gutchison, but insisted he’d be fair.
Chris had gotten so dizzy during the proceedings that he had to sit at one point when he should have been standing, and now hoped the club soda would offer some remedy. So far it hadn’t. Philip finally rushed in with his requisite briefcase and air of professorial efficiency, motioning to Chris that he was going to grab a cup of coffee, clearly at home in this beehive setting. Joining Chris at the table, he jumped right in.
“Okay, I just talked to Reisman and they’re willing to put a deal on the table.”
“Is that good?”
“It gives us options.”
“What’s the deal?”
“Know that I plan to spend more time going over their discovery, but in glancing through what they gave us today, it’s flimsy. Still seems to come down to eyewitness testimony. They do have a third witness who identified your picture, but she knows the initial witness, so I’m not sure how much additional leverage that offers them.”
“Nothing about the supposed fingerprints?”
“No, but Reisman insists they’re continuing to investigate that case in connection with ours, so it remains the unknown element. There’s some reason they’re maintaining that stance, which worries me a bit. We can’t presume it won’t come up later.”
Chris felt a wave of panic wash over him. “But if there really were fingerprints, and the fingerprints were mine, don’t you think there’d be additional charges already?”
“I do, but I also know how tricky this stuff can get. We can’t discount it completely. They’re obviously still dangling it in hopes of scaring you into admitting something useful in the charges already filed, a common tactic.”
“They can just lie?”
“Actually, yes. If it helps get a confession.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s the system we’re in. But let’s put that aside for now and focus on the charges we do have. Reisman reiterated that the Neighborhood Watch in the affected area has been so persistent they’ve actually become a nuisance, and frankly, the department wants them off their back. They’re eager to tie this case up so they can assuage the group and get them out the door. Which is where the deal comes in.”
“What’s the deal?”
“It has some negatives but I’m obligated to put it out there and you can decide how you want to proceed.”
“What’s the deal?” Chris asked for the third time.
“A no contest plea to trespassing and window peeking, they drop the resisting charge, two years’ probation, a fine of fifteen hundred dollars combined on both charges, and no jail time. Now, no contest pleas are relatively rare in this state, and the court doesn’t have to accept them, but it is a legally available option, and the advantages to you—”
“Why would I ever take that deal?” Chris cut him off. “How does it offer any advantage to me? I’ve already pleaded not guilty. Why would I now admit to something I didn’t do?”
“First off, with no contest you’re only admitting to the facts of the case, not guilt itself. That’s an important distinction. As I said, the prosecutor really wants to wrap this up before the holidays. What he gets with this deal is at least the no contest on two charges—the case is done, the neighbors are mollified. What you get is no jail time, one big charge dropped, reduced fines, and you’re protected from these same charges being used in any civil proceedings that might come up later. Beyond no jail time, that’s a big carrot.”
“But what possible c
ivil proceedings would come up?” Chris challenged.
“This is a case where witnesses claim you not only destroyed their property—breaking doors and windows, stealing items—but you terrorized the neighborhood, creating a climate of fear and panic over a lengthy period of time. You do not want these charges used against you if the parties involved come after you for property damage, invasion of privacy, emotional distress, pain and suffering . . .”
“Fuck me . . .” Chris looked away, stunned by the metastasizing scenario.
“And let me reiterate what was pointed out to you at the arraignment: resisting and criminal trespass are Class A misdemeanors that come with a maximum of three hundred and sixty-four days jail time and up to twenty-five hundred dollars in fines. Window peeking is a Class B, with half the fees and time, but it all adds up to a lot. The plea they’re offering cuts those fines by half and, more importantly, takes jail completely off the table. That’s critical.”
Chris absorbed his words for a moment, then shook his head in frustration. “But I have no record, they have no evidence. I’m a business owner who employs members of my community, and I have lots of people who’d give me great character references. Isn’t it possible I could walk away from this either way?” The edge of desperation in his voice was shrill enough that even he heard it. Before Philip could answer, Chris stood up and limped to the food counter, purchased a banana, then hobbled back to the table. After a couple of bites, he drank more water. He still felt queasy.
Philip looked at his watch. “Chris, I have to—”
“I won’t admit to something I didn’t do. It’s just not in me to do that. With window peeking, I’d basically be saying I’m a pervert. How could that possibly be good for me?”
“As I said, no contest is not an admission of guilt—”
“Then what’s the goddamn point?”
Philip took a beat. He had a preliminary hearing in a half hour, and while Chris’s petulance was understandable, it was also time to crystallize the issues. “Chris, listen to me. I know all this sounds intolerable and inexplicable right now, especially looking at it from your point of view. But it’s my job to protect you and make sure you have the best possible defense with the best possible outcome, and I believe you should think long and hard about this plea offer.”
The Alchemy of Noise Page 23
