by Rex Darby
“At least they’ve put a question mark at the end of it,” JaMarcus said. His optimism and ability to see the bright side is something I usually appreciate. Right now I want to shout at him. Of course, I don’t. It wouldn’t be professional, and, apart from anything else, he doesn’t deserve it.
I look down at the newspaper in front of me, and at the author’s name. “Zachary Allen, huh?” Not a name familiar to me. “Where did this guy get his journalism degree, huh? A vending machine?”
JaMarcus chuckles at my poor joke. “Probably.”
I type his name into Google with ‘journalist’ on the end, against my better judgment, and up pops a picture – a young man with dark brown hair, a chubby face, and a smirk-smile that’s not at all endearing. He looks like an overgrown toddler. I scroll down. “He’s an independent. Figures. Who writing such sensationalist trash could keep a job?” Some of his articles pop up. I read the titles. “Killer mom chokes tot? It seems he likes question marks. Of course, he can make any accusation he likes, so long as he puts a question mark at the end.”
JaMarcus shoves his hands in his pockets. “Huh. Well, I’m sure he’ll get sued by someone soon enough.”
“I’m going to push for a gag order and hope Judge Pollard’s a sensible woman. Now, onto this video footage. I’m sure it’s manipulated. Send it to Bruno for analysis.” He’s my favorite digital forensic investigator. “We need to put this ridiculous pizza man idea to bed immediately. I know Jason Blachowicz killed Georgia Stafford, and there is absolutely no way we are going to let—” I nearly curse “—Ms. Fairweather’s ridiculous games hold any sway.”
“I’m on it.”
I set about getting the motion for gag order prepared.
After Bruno’s results come back, I issue a deposition subpoena for Mrs. Oliver’s testimony, to happen in the office. I raise an eyebrow when Ms. Fairweather shows up behind her as her attorney, wearing a duck egg green ruffled blouse and a light grey suit. Her matching duck egg heels make her tower above her tiny little client.
“Don’t you think this is a conflict of interest?” I say.
“Good morning to you, too, Mrs. Agnew,” she says. “It’s a limited scope representation and informed consent has been granted by both parties and confirmed in writing. Thank you for your kind concern.”
This makes sense. She wants to keep this witness on a leash.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Mrs. Oliver says in her up-and-down quivering voice. The cynical part of me thinks she’s putting that on.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I say soothingly. “We’re not here to put you on trial. We just want to get to the truth. Anyone can make mistakes. That’s absolutely fine. What we’re here to do is straighten things out.”
“Okay, sure,” she says, avoiding eye contact with me.
“Please, come into the office.”
I introduce her to the court reporter who will later produce a transcript. I’ve also decided to video it so I set that up, while Ms. Fairweather takes Mrs. Oliver through the forms.
Then we dive in.
The date was wrong. This was the day before the murder. Ms. Fairweather says the date must have been set incorrectly on the Mrs. Oliver’s camera, and being a while after the fact, the witness had assumed the date on the camera was correct.
I’m sure this is all a pack of lies, and consider putting perjury charges on the ‘sweet little old lady’ sitting in front of me, her beady eyes still avoiding mine. However, with my other case load, I consider it’s probably not the best use of my time.
I don’t let them know, but decide to serve a subpoena duces tecum for Mrs. Oliver’s video equipment instead. She’ll have to give this in court. Not the false video with a manipulated date. The actual video, from the day of the murder.
The next time I see Ms. Fairweather, we’re resuming the preliminary hearing under Judge Pollard.
“The video is not available, Your Honor,” Ms. Fairweather says, when asked to explain why Mrs. Oliver hasn’t appeared with the new footage. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Oliver accidentally stepped on the CD and it is broken.”
“We have forensic ability to put broken CDs back together,” I quickly say.
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Oliver was unaware of this fact, so threw it in the trash about a week ago. It must now be in landfill, and who knows where.”
I shoot a look at JaMarcus. Judge Pollard looks extremely irritated. We all know it’s foul play, there’s just no way to prove it.
She asks if Ms. Fairweather would like to present more evidence or make a closing statement. She says no to both.
“Closing statement, Ms. Agnew?”
“No, Your Honor.” I know our case is strong enough.
“Mr. Blachowicz, please rise,” she says. Ms. Fairweather and Marisol stand up with him. “Based on the testimony presented throughout this hearing and the arguments of counsel, I find the State has established probable cause to believe that an offence was committed and you the defendant committed it. I am hereby holding you to answer to the charges against you.” I now have to file the Information for the arraignment, and if Ms. Fairweather still pigheadedly holds onto the ‘not guilty’ line, we’ll go to trial.
It’s a Friday, and despite Ms. Fairweather’s tampering with evidence, I’m in a good mood – Judge Pollard saw right through it. I like her already. Impatient and no-nonsense are two words I’d use to describe her. Not the type to put up with baloney, it seems.
JaMarcus and I go out to a local Chinese joint for lunch as a little celebration. We talk about his new girlfriend, and how his grandfather’s doing well and will soon get out of hospital.
He’s a very sweet young man. Slightly naïve and a tad too optimistic. I think my worry for him is that he’s far too sincere. I know better than anyone what pain that can bring. I hope he doesn’t have it battered out of him, and as he talks, I wonder about the other paths he could have taken. He’d be an excellent elementary school teacher, with such an expressive, kind face. Kids would adore him, I’m sure. Or some kind of coach or instructor. He has a natural, calm, low-level authority about him. I resolve to keep him in my office as long as possible, before someone snuffs out his light and spirit and he turns to drink, meds, affairs, evidence tampering, and the like.
I take Brett’s favorite back for him – sweet and sour chicken, Hong Kong style – and find ADA Renee Davies perched on the edge of his desk in her tight light gray skirt, tossing her thick curtain of blonde hair over her shoulder and showing all her pearly white teeth in a laugh.
My heart drops into my feet.
“Ms. Davies,” I say in my most professional, courteous voice, determined not so much as a hint of malice or jealousy will enter my tone. I couldn’t bear for her to think I’m jealous.
My husband’s sitting at his desk, his face far too red and jovial, like he’s been laughing a whole lot this lunchtime. He shifts his bulk on the chair. “Renee’s been doing fabulously on that kidnap-rape case. You know, the Cedarwood one?”
“Oh right. That’s wonderful,” I say. I slide the box of Chinese food onto the desk. “Well, I didn’t know you were here, Ms. Davies, or I’d have gotten you something, too.”
She gets up. “Oh, I can’t, Lincoln,” she says, coming past me and putting her hand on my arm, like we’re gal pals. “It would go straight to my hips. I can’t eat so much as a gram of chocolate without my scales telling me all about it.” She goes out the door. “See ya, Brett!”
See ya, Brett?!
Her informality enrages me. She’s a lowly ADA, not his second in command. I plan to turn around and talk to Brett, but find myself striding out the corridor after her.
“Ms. Davies,” I say, a little too tersely.
She turns around, and we’re so close I can see the powder on her face and the little wrinkles under her eyes. “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Renee, Lincoln?” she says with a tinkly laugh.
“That is exactly why I’m speaking to you,
” I say. My stomach churns but I continue. “Many senior members of staff have noticed you have a difficulty with gauging the appropriate level of formality in the workplace, and have erred on the side of informality on many occasions. I am letting you know now that if this continues we may well have a disciplinary situation on our hands. I’m sure you want to avoid that. I know I certainly don’t want to bring anything up against you. Please do make sure that you employ a slightly more formal attitude around the workplace.”
I’ve taken all the wind out of her sails and I can’t help but enjoy it, ever so slightly. “Okay. Right... Did Brett say something?”
“I think some professional distance between Mr. Forthmeyer and yourself would be more appropriate,” I say. “Oh, and just another thing. It’s been mentioned about your blouses and skirts. I’d do up your shirts a little higher and ensure your skirts are a couple of inches longer. There’s no need for that to become an issue.”
She looks angry now, but knows she can’t say anything. “Thank you,” she says stiffly, then wiggles away in her pencil skirt.
I return to Brett and shut the door. He’s chomping into his Chinese with aplomb.
“Just asking her opinion on the redesign ideas,” I say quickly. “How’s your food, darling?”
“Wonderful, as usual,” he says. “A treat once in a while does no harm.”
“Exactly what I thought,” I say. “I expect you’ve heard the good news? We’re going forward with the trial on Jason Blachowicz.”
“Oh... erm... which case is that again?” He looks down at the Chinese, much more interested in the food than my career.
The question floors me. I’m an eloquent woman, but I can’t find any words.
“Oh yeah,” he remembers. “The Ruffles McSlaughter one, strangulation or something.” He grins, a blob of sweet and sour sauce on his teeth. “Keeping you on your toes, is she?”
I take a deep breath and sit down across from him. He runs his tongue over his lips, his mouth closed, and it aggravates me. “She’s a fair opponent, but I’ll work it out.”
“Yeah,” he says casually. “I’ve lost a lot of weight now. I could do with going to this Chinese joint more often. I forgot how good it was.”
“Yeah,” I manage to croak out. Why can’t he tell me he’s proud of me? Why can’t he tell me he has faith in me?
“I’m real thirsty. Could you get me a water?”
“I’m not your secretary,” I snap without meaning to.
He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” I say. “Sure, I’ll go get it for you.”
I walk to the water cooler, my outward demeanor as calm and composed as a guru. I soon return. My movements are slow, graceful, as they get when I’m trying to hold it together. “Well, I’ll leave you to your work. I’m sure you’re busy.”
He nods, as if that were an adequate replacement for a ‘thank you’, and tips back the water. He belches, which I find beyond revolting and have asked him not to do on many occasions. “Yeah,” he breathes with a sigh. “The life of a DA, hey? Who’d be crazy enough to do it?”
I laugh politely. “You do wonderfully in your role.”
He puffs up with pride. I go back to my office, and spend the rest of the afternoon in a discomfort I can’t quite name.
When are you free to talk about the Blachowicz case? I text Matt under my desk. We always use case names when using written communication.
He doesn’t text back all afternoon, and I descend into a fully-fledged funk.
Chapter 9
Liliana Fairweather
I’ve buried my head in the sand about Burke.
It’s a five year prison sentence for harboring a fugitive when their charge would be a felony.
I eventually manage to squeeze the full story out of him. He was living in rural Arizona, working at an illicit cannabis farm with his ridiculous friend Nolan who has been a bad influence on Burke from about the age of 12. The farm got busted, but they could see the cops coming on the security cameras, and scattered in all directions. Burke was the only one who managed to get away, and there’s a warrant out for his arrest. Nolan’s in jail awaiting trial, as are the others. Burke’s not sure if the cops have his name yet, but I assume they must do – one of the guys must have squealed. He refuses to catch up with any news on it. He’d rather pretend none of it is happening.
Which, honestly, has been easy to do for us.
It’s been so long since I saw him for any stretch of time. He’s been hopping around the country since he left school at 16, doing all sorts of junk, some legal, some illegal. He never had enough money to come home, and was always hesitant for me or mom to come out there. Luke and Stone wouldn’t have ever wanted to see him anyways, but that’s another story.
“You should hand yourself in,” I tell him. I’m sitting in the garden in a boxers and a huge T-shirt I bought myself from the men’s section – I like to dress down at home. I had to go get him some clothes as he had nothing. The weather’s good and I sit on the grass. I refused to let him out despite his pleas. “You can’t let anyone see you.”
“I’m going stir crazy in here,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, you have a big house but it’s still boring as hell.”
That’s why I say what I say.
“Nah,” he answers, which irritates me.
“So what are you going to do, then?”
He shrugs. “I’ll think of something.”
“Oh right. Yeah. Okay.”
“Don’t be bitchy,” he says, sipping on the iced tea I made.
“You don’t realize how serious this is, do you?”
“Yes, I do, which is precisely why I’m not gonna hand myself in. Stop telling me what to do.”
“No. Look, I’ll defend you in court. You’ll get off. You will.” I’m not actually admitted to the Bar in Arizona, but I decide not to mention it. I’m sure I could work it out.
He doesn’t reply, just makes a non-committal noise.
“You’re pissing me off. You’re just sitting in my damn house making me commit a crime I could get up to five years in jail for, not to mention losing my whole career, and you’re acting like I’m bugging you.”
“You are bugging me. And nothing will happen to you. No one can prove you knew anything.”
“You’re a pathetic kid.”
He shrugs again, and I see red.
“If you don’t hand yourself in within... one week... I’ll go to the cops about you myself.”
He looks up, his face full of rage. “You fucking wouldn’t.”
“I fucking would.”
“Well, I’ll fucking tell them you knew everything and were harboring me. And you’ll lose everything.”
Before I know what I’m doing, I jump up off the grass, bolt into the kitchen, and slap him hard across the face. “You ungrateful piece of shit! Get the fuck out of my house!”
He rocks back in his chair, shocked. I’ve never laid a finger on him before. I never would. I’d never dream of such a thing.
I expect him to jump up and fight me. I expect him to scream obscenities in my face.
Instead, he doubles forward on his waist, putting his head on his knees, and cries like a baby.
That sets me off instantly. “I’m so sorry! Oh my god, Burke, baby, I’m so so sorry.” I get down on the ground and pull him onto me, like he’s still a toddler. He sobs and sobs and can’t stop. I stroke his hair. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
“No... I’m... sorry...” he gasps between sobs. “I... can’t... do... anything... I can’t... do... anything...”
“What do you mean, hon?”
“I’m just...” He collapses into sobs all over again. “I just... screw... up... everything.”
I can’t say he doesn’t. It would be a lie that would help neither of us, and we’d both know it. “Oh, baby...” I struggle for what to say. “Life is hard, hon. I know it is.”
“No,” he says. “I..
. just...” He shakes his head. I feel the desperation leaking from him.
“Doll... you know I don’t like labels. I think you’re fantastic. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, who you are. But... I think you probably have PTSD and all kinds of things going on. Heck, I probably do too. Who knows? Look at the way we grew up. Look at mom, look at our pathetic excuses for fathers.”
“It’s not mom’s fault,” he says, crying. “It’s mine.”
I sigh. “I know it’s not mom’s fault. She doesn’t know better. She definitely didn’t then. But...”
“Don’t say anything bad about mom.”
“Fine.” It annoys me. I gave more of myself for him and the others than she ever did. While she was out dating her shiny new man of the hour, I was home, changing diapers and burning my hands trying to cook dinner because they said at school microwave meals were bad for you and I wanted to do the best for my brothers.
I remember I found a note he’d written when I was about thirteen. I was cleaning the room he and Luke and Stone shared because mom’s new kitten had gotten in there and shit all over the place.
The note said:
Peepel I luv the mos.
Mom
Liliana
That hurt. I loved him most in the world. I felt like his mommy, and Luke’s, and Stone’s, but he was my secret favorite. His smile lit up my heart.
I tell him about that note and the spelling, able to laugh with the passage of time. He doesn’t laugh along, just goes quiet. His eyes glaze over, like he’s gone far away in his mind.
As we sit on the kitchen floor, me stroking his hair, I wonder if my whole career is going to go down the tubes for his mistake. And I decide, if it has to come to that, I’m willing for it to. I’d go to hell itself for that kid.
We spend the evening in a haze. He smokes a joint I got for him from Marisol and we watch reality trash TV. I don’t smoke weed but I treat myself to a glass of wine and a cigarette – a rare occurrence for me – and settle into the glory of a totally pointless, mindless night. For the first time in ages, I feel my stress melt away. My mind’s always on overdrive, even when I’m supposed to be doing something relaxing, but tonight, I’m too tired to think. I drift away into the pleasant haze of his joint that fills up the living room, and laugh easily.
