the Kill Clause (2003)
Page 9
"And I know it was more than a job."
The early-morning rain had vanished, leaving behind a moist, stifling heat that permeated the courthouse. Tim's head throbbed with exhaustion and stress. He'd spent the night fidgeting on the couch in a kind of unsleep, sweating off his frustration about the shooting review board and obsessing about the upcoming hearing. He pictured the little girl in the Camry, her arms pale and thin. Ginny's face at the morgue when he'd drawn back the sheet. The wisp of hair trapped in the corner of her mouth. Her fingernail they'd found at the crime scene, loosed in some desperate act of clawing or crawling.
His own mind had become hostile, a treacherous terrain. There was less and less of it he could inhabit peacefully.
Dray sat beside him, rigidly forward, her arms crossed on the bench back in front of them. They'd arrived early and sat in the last row, awash in an unspoken dread. When Kindell had been led in by a young sheriff's deputy and the shoddily dressed public defender, he'd looked neither as menacing nor repugnant as Tim had remembered. This disappointed him. Like most Americans, he preferred to see evil embodied unequivocally.
The DA, a sharp, well-put-together woman in her early thirties, had sat with Tim and Dray for a few moments before the preliminary hearing had begun, offering further condolences and assurances. No, she wasn't making a case for an accomplice, since that could open up the door to a reduced sentence for Kindell. Yes, she was going to nail Kindell's ass to the wall.
Despite her prudish name--Constance Delaney--she was a tiger of a prosecutor, with a stellar track record. She opened strong, fending off the defense's motion to reduce the high bail set at arraignment. She artfully examined Deputy Fowler, working to establish probable cause to bind the case over to trial, while trotting out as little of her case strategy as possible. Fowler spoke clearly, without sounding coached. He left out Tim and Bear's presence at Kindell's dwelling without committing anything to the record that could be contradicted. CSU's delayed arrival to the crime scene did not arise.
Kindell sat erect, attentively watching all the proceedings, his head swinging back and forth from Delaney to Fowler.
It wasn't until the cross that things came unwound.
"And of course you had a warrant to search Mr. Kindell's property...?" The public defender shuffled closer to the witness stand, the sheaf of yellow legal-pad pages swaying in his hand. Delaney propped her chin on her fist, jotting notes.
"No. We knocked and introduced ourselves, asked him if we could take a look around. He clearly gave oral consent for us to search the area."
"I see. And that's when you discovered"--a few moments as the PD shuffled through the sheets of paper--"the hacksaw, the rags stained with what was later identified to be the victim's blood, and the truck tires with tread that matched that at the scene of the crime?"
"Yes."
"You discovered all of these things after he gave you consent to search the property?"
"Yes."
"With no search warrant?"
"As I said--"
"Just yes or no, please, Deputy Fowler."
"Yes."
"At which point you began arrest procedures?"
"Yes."
"You're entirely certain, Deputy Fowler, that you Mirandized Mr. Kindell?"
"One hundred percent."
"Was this before or after you cuffed Mr. Kindell?"
"I suppose during."
"You suppose?" The public defender dropped a few of the sheets and crouched to pick them up. Tim was beginning to suspect that his bumbling-lawyer routine was just that.
"I read him his Miranda rights as I was cuffing him."
"So he wasn't facing you?"
"Not through all of it. He was turned around. We generally handcuff suspects from behind."
"Uh-huh." The PD's pencil poked at his upper lip. "Are you aware, Deputy Fowler, that my client is legally deaf?"
Delaney's hand slipped from her face, slapping the table and breaking the perfect silence of the superior court. Judge Everston, a small, pucker-faced woman in her late sixties, bristled in her black robes as if she'd been shocked. Dray's hand pressed over her mouth so hard her nails left red imprints in her cheek.
Fowler stiffened. "No. He's not. He understood everything we said to him."
His stomach churning, Tim recalled Kindell's uneven voice, its lopsided cadence. Kindell had responded only when spoken to directly and when he'd been watching his questioner. Tim's chest tightened painfully, a vise closing.
The PD turned to Judge Everston. "Mr. Kindell lost his hearing nine months ago in an industrial explosion. I have his treating physician in the hallway, who I'm prepared to call as a witness to testify that he is legally deaf, and two independent complete audiology reports showing bilateral deafness here." He raised a manila folder, promptly scattering the papers it held, then retrieved them and handed them to the judge.
Delaney's voice lacked its usual confidence. "Objection, Your Honor. The reports are hearsay."
"Your Honor, as those records were produced directly to the court from USC County Medical pursuant to a subpoena duces tecum, they are exceptions to the hearsay rule as official records."
Delaney sat down. With a stern frown, Judge Everston reviewed the file.
"Mr. Kindell is able to read lips, Your Honor, though only minimally--he's never received professional instruction in this area. If he was being cuffed during the admonishment, he would have been facing away from Deputy Fowler's mouth. Any questionable chance he might have had to comprehend his Miranda rights was surely eliminated. His confession was made without any clear knowledge of his rights."
Delaney broke in. "Your Honor, if these officers made a good-fai--"
Judge Everston cut her off with a wave of her hand. "You know better than to come at me with 'good-faith effort,' Ms. Delaney." Judge Everston's mouth tightened, wrinkles ringing her lips. "If Mr. Kindell is really deaf, as counsel has indicated, there would seem to be a clear Miranda problem."
The public defender rocked forward on his shoes. "Further, the defense requests that all physical evidence found at my client's house be suppressed, as the search was in violation of the Fourth Amendment."
Dray's voice, small and strained, escaped from beneath the hand she held cupped over her mouth. "Oh, God."
Delaney was on her feet. "Even if the defendant is legally deaf, he can still give legally binding consent to search, and the evidence should not be suppressed."
"My client is deaf, Your Honor. How on earth could he give knowing and voluntary consent for a search-and-seizure request he didn't even hear?"
Kindell turned, craning his neck to locate Tim and Dray. His smile was not malicious or gloating, rather the pleased grin of a child allowed to keep something he'd just stolen. Dray's face was drawn and bloodless and, Tim was fairly certain, a match of his own.
"What other physical evidence do you have, Ms. Delaney, linking Mr. Kindell to the crime scene and the crime?" Judge Everston's bony finger emerged from the folds of her robes, pointing at Kindell with thinly veiled disdain.
"Aside from what we recovered at his residence?" Delaney's nostrils flared. Her skin had reddened in blotches spreading down her neck to the high reaches of her chest. "None, Your Honor."
Something escaped Judge Everston that sounded remarkably like "Goddamnit." She glowered at the PD. "I'm calling a half-hour recess." She exited, taking the audiology reports with her, not seeming to notice that half the courtroom forgot to rise.
Dray leaned over as though she were going to vomit, digging her elbows into her stomach. Tim's shock was so heightened it actually set his ears humming and pinched his vision at the sides.
The recess seemed to stretch on for decades. Delaney glanced back at them from time to time, her pen tapping nervously on her pad. Tim sat numbly until the bailiff entered and called for order.
Judge Everston hoisted her robes as she took the bench, her short stature apparent until she settled into position. She studied s
ome papers for a few moments, as if mustering the strength to proceed. When she spoke, her tone was heavy, and Tim knew immediately she was about to impart bad news.
"There are times when our system, with its protections of individual rights, seems almost to conspire against us. Times when the ends justify the sordid means, and we must shut our eyes and take our medicine, despite the fact that we know it will kill a little part of us to serve a greater health. This is such a case. This is one of the sacrifices we make to live with liberty, and it is a sacrifice paid unjustly and by an unfortunate few." She tilted her head regretfully toward Tim and Dray in the back row. "I cannot in good faith allow evidence which will clearly be overturned in an appellate court. As the audiology reports are unequivocal about Mr. Kindell's bilateral deafness, it strains my credibility to believe that a deaf man with no formal training in lip-reading comprehended the intricacies of his Miranda rights or the oral consent he was asked to grant. It is not without considerable despondency that I hereby grant the motion to suppress evidence, with respect to the alleged confession and any and all physical evidence recovered from Mr. Kindell's residence."
Delaney shakily found her feet. Her voice quavered slightly. "Your Honor, in light of the court's rulings suppressing the confession and the evidence, the People are unable to proceed."
Everston spoke in a low tone of disgust. "Case dismissed."
Kindell grinned sloppily and raised his hands for his cuffs to be removed.
Chapter 10
THE RAIN HAD resumed, as if to match Tim's mood, and around dusk it had kicked up fairy-tale strong, battering the screen doors and palm fronds in the backyard. The windows rattled from occasional thunder. Tim sat quietly on the couch, staring at the blank TV that reflected back only the raindrops streaking down the glass sliding doors to his side. Dray worked on a scrapbook at the kitchen table behind him, trimming and inserting pictures of Ginny in a fury of scissors and pages.
Moving only his thumb, Tim clicked the remote, and the picture bloomed. William Rayner, UCLA's ubiquitous social psychologist, appeared in the left box of a split-screen news interview with KCOM's anchor, Melissa Yueh. The live feed featured him seated in a somber library, legs crossed. His silver hair and well-manicured white mustache added to his slightly dated but handsome appearance. On the bookshelves behind him stretched rows of his latest nonfiction bestseller, When the Law Fails. A consummate performer with as many enemies as admirers, Rayner was a Men Are from Mars cultural critic, in a camp with Dominick Dunne and Gerry Spence. "...excruciating feeling of impotence when someone like Roger Kindell is not brought to justice. As you know, such cases strike a personal chord with me. When my son was murdered and his killer set free, I fell into a terrible depression."
Yueh gazed on with an expression of fudge-thick empathy.
"And that's when my interest veered in this direction," Rayner continued. "I conducted countless interviews, countless studies. I began speaking to others about how they view these shortcomings in the law and about how these shortcomings undermine efficacy and fairness. Unfortunately, there are no easy solutions. But I do know that when the law fails, the very fabric of our society is threatened. If we don't believe that the cops and courts will see to justice, what alternative does it leave us with?"
Tim pressed the remote, and the TV blinked off. He sat in silence for a few minutes, then hit the button again. Yueh had now turned her attentions to Delaney, who looked uncharacteristically flustered. Tim hit the "on/off" button again and watched the raindrop shadows play across the blank screen.
"How could Delaney not have found out the guy was deaf?" Dray said. "I mean, he was deaf. It's not like overlooking his eye color."
"She was working off his old case file. He wasn't deaf then."
Another angry snip of the scissors sent a strip of paper fluttering to the floor. "He's been arrested four times. You don't think he knows his rights? He's an expert on his rights. And why didn't Fowler wait for a warrant? What am I saying?--of course he didn't wait for a warrant. Of course he wasn't careful about reading the rights or getting oral consent. He never thought Kindell was going to make it to trial. The case wasn't dismissed because Kindell was deaf--it was dismissed because the last thing on any of your minds at the crime scene was securing the arrest properly, taking things slow and right." She slammed the scissors down on the table. "Damn that judge. She could have done something. She didn't have to throw everything out."
Tim still did not turn to face her. "Right. Because the Constitution works selectively."
"Don't be smug and detached, Timmy."
"Don't call me Timmy." He set the remote on the coffee table. "Come on, Dray--this isn't productive."
"Productive?" She laughed, a one-note bark. "I'm entitled to be unproductive for a day or two, don't you think?"
"Well, I don't feel like being in your line of fire right now."
"Then leave me."
He was glad he'd stayed turned away, so she couldn't see his face. It took a moment for him to respond. "That's not what I'm--"
"If you were going to go to Kindell's house that night, then you should have killed him. Killed him when you had the chance."
"Yeah, if only I'd snuffed Kindell, then our mourning process would be complete."
Dray's face tightened. "At least we'd have a little closure."
"Closure's a sham invented by talk-show hosts and self-help authors. Besides, Dray, you have a gun of your own. If you're so unhappy with my decision, why don't you go kill him?"
"Because I can't now. There's no opportunity. Plus, I'd be the first suspect. It's not like how Fowler silver-plattered it for you. His weapon, at the scene. You plant a gun, claim things got violent, and that's it. No phantom accomplices to plague us, no Kindell out there for the rest of our lives." She slammed the scrapbook closed. "Justice served."
Tim's voice came low and even, and it held a stunning cruelty. "Maybe if you'd picked Ginny up from school on her birthday, you wouldn't have so much blame to throw around."
He didn't see the strike until the fist was closing from the right. The blow knocked him off the couch, then Dray was on him, throwing wild punches. He kicked her away and rolled to his feet, but she bounced off her soft landing on the couch and charged him again. She led with a right, but he hooked her wrist with his left hand, locking her elbow with his right. Her momentum slammed her into the bookcase. Books and picture frames rained down on them. Something shattered.
Dray found her feet quickly and came at him. She fought like a well-trained deputy, which was, of course, logical, though this particular capability of hers had never before occurred to him. He tied her up in a wrist-lock hug so as not to inflict real damage on her, pinning her arms between them. They stumbled back, smashing him into the wall. He felt his shoulder blade punch through the drywall but held on. He pressed her backward, hooking her ankle with a foot and bringing her down hard on her back on the carpet. She struggled and cried out as he lay on top of her, his hips twisted to protect his groin, head lowered and pressed to hers so she couldn't bite his face or head-butt him. He was an ice-cold fighter, all logic and strategy, against which blind rage didn't stand a chance.
Dray was thrashing and cursing a blue streak, but he kept his head lowered, repeating her full name like a chant, urging her softly to calm herself, to breathe deep, to stop struggling so he could release her. Her face was hot, sticky with sweat and tears of rage.
The storm had subsided, giving way to a shower. Only Tim's murmuring, punctuated by Dray's expletives, broke the soft pattering on the roof. Five minutes passed, or twenty. Finally, convinced her anger had spent itself, he released her. She stood. He gingerly touched the skin around his eye, swollen from the sharp blow she'd dealt him. Breathing hard, they faced each other across a wash of shattered glass and fallen books.
The doorbell rang. And again.
"I'll get it," Tim said. Not taking his eyes from Dray, he backed slowly to the door and opened it.
&nb
sp; Mac and Fowler stood on the doorstep, arms crossed. Mac was wearing Fowler's smaller deputy hat perched atop his head like a beanie, and Fowler wore Mac's, the brim down over his eyes. An old trick for responding to domestic-violence calls--get 'em laughing.
Fowler tilted back the hat and saw that no one was amused. The cast of his face changed as he regarded the damage in the house. "We, uh, got a complaint from Hartley next door. You guys fighting?"
"Yeah," Dray said. She wiped the blood from her nose. "I was winning."
"We have everything under control now," Tim said. "Thanks for stopping by." He started to swing the door closed, but Fowler got a foot in.
Mac peered past him at Dray. "Are you okay?"
She made a limp gesture with her arm. "Dandy."
"I'm serious, Dray. Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"None of us wants a report filed," Fowler said. "Can we leave you two without you going at it again?"
"Yes," Dray said. "Absolutely."
"All right." Fowler looked from Dray's face to Tim's. "I know you're going through some hard-core shit right now, but don't make us come back here."
Mac's gaze shifted to Tim, his expression changing from concern to anger. The scene didn't look good, Tim knew, but he couldn't help resenting the accusatory edge in Mac's eyes.
"We're not kidding, Rack," Mac said. "If we hear so much as a yelp out of this house, I'm hauling you in myself."
They shuffled back to their car, hunching in the rain. Tim closed the door.
"It's not my fault I didn't pick her up." Dray's voice cracked. "Don't fucking lay that on me. There's no way I could have known."
"You're right," Tim said. "I'm sorry."
She wiped her nose again, leaving a dark stain on her sweatshirt sleeve, then walked past him out the front door. Standing out in the rain, she turned to face him. Her hair was pasted to her cheeks, her chin smeared with blood, and her eyes were the most exquisite shade of green they'd ever been. "I still love you, Timothy."
She slammed the door so hard that a painting slipped from the wall at Tim's side, the frame breaking on the hard tiles of the entry.