Time of Departure

by Douglas Schofield

  Sam paused for a second, studying the man’s expression. “You think I don’t hear the talk, Perry? Defense lawyers calling you Prince Catch-’n-Release?”

  “Prince? Really?”

  Sam stared at him in straight-faced disbelief. He leaned forward. “They’re laughing at you, Perry! Watch my lips! No plea bargains on Whitman! This is a full-contact prosecution! It’s not just the press who are watching this case. People in positions far above your pay grade and mine are watching. Do your job, and do it well!”

  Cold eyes slid back and forth between us. “You’re the boss.”

  “Yes, I am. And so is Claire.”

  Standish stood. He shot me a quick sulfurous look that Sam didn’t see, and walked away. My eyes followed him out the door.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Sam said quietly.

  “What am I thinking?”

  “That maybe he’ll resign when he loses on that grievance.”

  “Will he?”

  Sam shook his head. “He’ll never resign. He lost his shirt in the market.”

  “You’d never know it from the way he dresses,” I said.

  Sam chuckled. “That’s the thing about mediocrities, Claire. They’re always at their best.”

  “You could push him out,” I suggested.

  “I could. But I’d just be making trouble for both of us.”

  “How?”

  “His family is well connected in Tallahassee.”

  “Then why isn’t he in the Attorney General’s office? Why is he here?”

  “You can go only so far on connections.”

  “I get it.” I stood up to go.

  “Hang on,” Sam said. “As a matter of interest…”

  “What?”

  “Why the jury consultant?”

  “Groupthink.”

  Sam looked puzzled.

  “The fastest way to a unanimous verdict is to encourage groupthink,” I explained. “To get that working, it helps to have the right mix of personalities.”

  “You’re talking about packing the jury with conformists.”

  “In a sense. But I’ve read the studies. It doesn’t mean they’ll necessarily conform to convict; they can just as easily conform to acquit.”

  “Still … it sounds a bit cynical.”

  “I know. But like it or not, the defense bar have started doing this. Wade Garrison hired a psychologist from Seattle to help him pick the Capelin jury. It’s a question of equality of arms, Sam. If they’re doing it, we have to do it.”

  “I thought Whitman was a special case. If we start hiring jury consultants for every trial, it’s going to become a budget issue.”

  “I’m not saying every case. But definitely the big ones. Look at it this way: What we spend on experts, we could save on hung juries and retrials.”

  “I don’t know.” Sam sighed. “Maybe I’m just getting too old for this job.”

  I squeezed his arm. “Come on, now. Don’t you quit on me!”

  * * *

  I suppose I could have warned Stirling McCandless about what I was planning to do before he got up on his hind legs and made that big tear-jerking pitch to Judge O’Connor. But one of the first things Sam Grayson had taught me was never to interrupt my opponent when he was making a mistake. And … I wanted to hear McCandless say it. I wanted to hear him repeat the lies his client, Barbara Hauser—former jewelry chain owner and now convicted felon on her own plea—had told him.

  So when we entered the courtroom earlier, I’d just nodded to McCandless and taken my seat.

  “—and so, Your Honor,” he was saying as he wrapped up a thirty-minute waterspout of distortions, “the regrettable facts are clear: My client is deeply remorseful for the financial loss she has caused to each and every one of her former employees. Although she would dearly wish to make good on those very substantial losses, her grave physical condition makes it virtually impossible for her to pay restitution in the near term, and as the medical reports we have filed with the Court show, she is in no position to serve a custodial sentence of any length, or at all.” He took a long overdue breath and then resumed his bleat. “The traffic accident was not her fault and, coming on the heels of her arrest and public humiliation, can only be viewed today—in these proceedings—as a substantial mitigating factor.”

  Stirling laid a theatrically comforting hand on his client’s shoulder.

  “Judge, in these highly regrettable circumstances, a suspended sentence, with a lengthy probationary period, is really the Court’s only viable option.”

  Stirling’s client sat slumped in her wheelchair, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She looked utterly pathetic. From the moment her daughter rolled her into the courtroom, her posture of defeat and hollow-eyed despair had been on constant display for all to see.

  The judge gazed down at the defendant. Plainly, he was affected by what he had heard. The defense had drawn the best judge in the circuit for their case. Evan O’Connor was every inch a gentleman jurist: quietly spoken, even tempered, and scrupulously fair. He was also inclined to err on the low side when it came to sentencing in cases of nonviolent crime. Stirling McCandless knew that, and so did I.

  But I knew something else about Judge O’Connor.

  He could not tolerate a liar.

  The judge’s blue eyes turned to me. “Does the State have a reply?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. In fact, we have a witness to call.”

  McCandless leapt to his feet. “We object, Your Honor! We’ve had no notice of any witnesses to be called at this hearing!”

  “That is correct, Your Honor. I will explain.”

  “Who is this witness?” O’Connor asked.

  “Your Honor is familiar with Mr. Edward Carlyle, from our office.” I gestured toward the tall, heavyset man who was sitting behind me. One of the first African-Americans to head up an ATF Field Division, Eddie had joined our office after his retirement from the Bureau. He worked just as tirelessly for us as he had for the feds.

  “Why should I agree to hear evidence from the State Attorney’s Chief Investigator at this stage of the proceedings?”

  Eddie reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, removed two DVDs, and passed them to me. I checked the labels, selected one, and held it up for the judge to see.

  “The witness will be tendering this surveillance footage of the defendant, showing her working in her backyard, mowing her lawn, moving garden furniture, and weeding her flower beds. This footage was shot over a forty-eight-hour period—” I paused for effect. “—last weekend.”

  I heard a general intake of breath and a few muttered expletives from the gallery rows directly behind me, where a number of the defendant’s former employees had been hanging on every word. For several years prior to her arrest, their employer had been embezzling from their pension plan contributions. Some had lost thousands of dollars.

  I glanced over at Stirling McCandless. His face had gone pale under his health-spa tan, and he looked genuinely stunned. I realized that he had been completely taken in by his client. I shifted my gaze to the woman in the wheelchair. She was glowering at me, obviously torn between maintaining her tragic pose and leaping out of her chair to go for my throat. I placed the second DVD on the corner of my counsel table. “I have a copy of the exhibit for Mr. McCandless.”

  At my comment, McCandless seemed to recover. He came out fighting. “Your Honor, these tactics are an outrage! My client—!”

  “—had already entered her guilty pleas when this surveillance took place. Her status before the Court had changed. Ms. Talbot’s conduct would be open to criticism only if it were unlawful. Tell me how it was unlawful.”

  “She’s had this evidence for a week! We have had no notice—none!—and therefore we have had no opportunity to study it, or to obtain medical evidence to … to assist the Court.”

  I waited quietly. I knew the judge would come back to me.

  He did.

  “Ms. Talbot, Counsel does have a p
oint. Am I to understand that you arranged for your investigator to place the defendant under intrusive surveillance in her own backyard, that you obtained the proffered evidence one week ago, and that you have been sitting on it until today?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “No to what?

  “No to each of your questions.”

  Judge O’Connor leaned forward. “Ms. Talbot, please don’t play word games with the Court.”

  “Permit me to explain, Your Honor. Our office did not arrange for this surveillance. We first learned it had taken place at six o’clock last evening, when an insurance adjuster attended at our offices and briefed Mr. Carlyle. The surveillance on this DVD was conducted by a private investigator retained by the insurer of the other driver involved in the defendant’s automobile accident. The attorney representing Mrs. Hauser in that action—not Mr. McCandless—has submitted a very substantial claim. The surveillance was conducted from a neighbor’s property. The neighbor, we have been told, was only too ready to assist. Therefore, as a result of Mrs. Hauser’s own actions in separate proceedings, the State is today in a position to refute her claim that her ‘disability’ should exempt her from a prison sentence.”

  McCandless interjected. “Your Honor, the prosecutor told us she wants to call Mr. Carlyle to the stand. In light of what we just heard, clearly he is not a proper witness to place the DVD into evidence. For all we know, this footage is a year old and entirely unrelated to my client’s civil claim! Only the investigator who recorded the footage could prove otherwise. Why isn’t he here?”

  The judge looked at me.

  “The investigator is currently working on a foreign assignment. We understand he is in Germany. His firm expects him back by the end of the month.” I held up the DVD. “The identity of the subject of this footage is self-evident, and every frame is date stamped.”

  McCandless protested. “Date stamping can be faked, Your Honor!”

  “I think we can deal with that remote possibility, Mr. McCandless,” Judge O’Connor responded. He turned back to me. “Ms. Talbot, I expect the defendant’s accommodating neighbor can cast some light on this. How much time would you require to secure that person’s appearance?”

  “A moment, please, Your Honor…” I conferred quickly with Eddie and then addressed the judge. “I am told that her workplace is only a few blocks from this building. May I have thirty minutes?”

  “Make it an hour. Have Mr. Carlyle contact the witness. In the meantime, I want to see you and Mr. McCandless in my chambers. And bring that DVD with you.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, while her daughter quietly wept, Barbara Hauser was escorted from the courtroom to begin serving a ten-year sentence. Pointedly, the judge ordered her to leave her wheelchair behind.

  I delayed packing up, allowing time for McCandless to beat his dejected retreat and for the gallery to clear. I chatted with Eddie and then began loading my briefcase.

  As I turned to exit the now-empty courtroom, I saw an older gentleman sitting in the back row, watching me. I’d noticed him enter earlier, just before the court reconvened to hear evidence from Mrs. Hauser’s neighbor. The witness—a widow, we’d learned—had lived in the adjoining property for five years. She’d been only too willing to certify that the footage on the DVD had been shot the previous weekend from a guest room on the second floor of her residence. She must have had a specific reason to dislike Barbara Hauser, because she took pleasure in recounting how she came to be recruited by the insurance investigator, and how she had kept him supplied with food and drink during his two-day “stakeout,” as she called it. As I listened to her, I caught myself wondering what other services she might have volunteered.

  When the older man saw me looking at him, he rose from his seat. He was quite handsome, and he possessed something you don’t see often on men of a certain age—a flat stomach. He gave me a strange smile and then exited through the double doors to the lobby. I followed.

  I was immediately approached by a married couple I had interviewed when I was preparing the Hauser case. The wife was one of the defendant’s bilked former employees. They were both effusive with their thanks. Even though they were unlikely ever to recover their money, they seemed to derive some gratification from the stiff sentence the defendant had received. But as soon as I heard the husband utter the word “closure” for the second time, I decided it was time to end the conversation.

  The older man who had left the courtroom ahead of me was standing several feet away, watching.

  “Thank you,” I said to the yammering couple. “But you’ll have to excuse me now. There’s something I need to deal with.” I shook their hands and then walked over to the man. He was clearly a few decades older than me, but I couldn’t tell if he was in his fifties or his sixties. The lines on his face seemed to speak more of tumultuous life events than the simple grace of aging. As I approached, I noticed that his eyes were a startling shade of blue, and disconcertingly, they were showing more than a glint of male interest.

  I couldn’t help smiling inwardly. Good for you, old man, I thought.

  “Very neatly done,” he said.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the courtroom. “The way you wrapped that up.”

  “Thank you. Are you connected to the Hauser case?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Did you want to speak to me?”

  “Not yet.” There was an odd catch in his voice.

  “Not yet?”

  “That’s right. But soon.”

  His cryptic replies were faintly irritating. I decided I didn’t need this conversation. “Fine. Let me know.”

  “I will.”

  I started for the elevator.

  “By the way, you’re very beautiful.”

  I stopped and turned. “Don’t you mean ‘intriguing’?”

  “Definitely. And beautiful.”

  I smiled and walked away.

  How about that? A man who thinks I’m beautiful.

  Too bad he was twice my age.

  As I was leaving the building, an attractive young woman stopped me to ask if there was a Starbucks nearby. While I gave directions, I noticed male heads swiveling as they passed us.

  One thing was certain: They weren’t looking at me.

  The woman didn’t seem to notice. She listened intently, touched my arm to thank me, and went on her way.

  Oh, to be that oblivious.

  As I was walking away, something nagged at my memory. The woman had reminded me of someone.

  Or … something.

  Then I had it.

  The scent she was wearing.

  I had smelled it in my living room.

  I turned to look for her, but she was gone.

  * * *

  There were only four treadmills at the small second-floor fitness center where I held a membership. When I arrived that evening, two were in use and a third was out of service. That left the fourth one, which was positioned a few feet from the floor-to-ceiling bank of windows that overlooked the street. I had never been too keen about using that machine because it made me feel like I was exercising in a fishbowl. But I’d missed a few sessions lately, so I programmed it for random speeds and inclines and climbed aboard.

  My membership at the gym kept me fit and kept me off the streets at night. I preferred running outdoors, but only in daylight—something my work hours didn’t always permit. A female jogger always needs to be careful, but one who is routinely instrumental in sending people to prison needs to be vigilant. Most convicted prisoners have at least one pissed-off relative.

  The treadmill was set up parallel to the window, so at least I wasn’t staring out into the night while I ran off the day’s frustrations. But my continuing unease about being a brightly lit target for any passing wacko with a grudge and a gun caused my eyes to drift to the left from time to time. Despite the reflected glare of the gym’s lighting, the angle from my vantage point afforded me a degraded image
of the street and sidewalk below.

  Twenty minutes into my run, I caught movement. A steady crowd was filing along the sidewalk from left to right. There was a multiplex just around the corner, so I assumed a movie had just finished. Then I noticed one particular male figure in the crowd. All I could make out was a ball cap, a white shirt, and dark-colored pants. What drew him to my attention, although for only a second, was his trajectory against the flow of pedestrians. He was striding determinedly forward in a straight line, forcing a path through the oncoming flood of humanity.

  I fixed my gaze on the wall in front of me, and concentrated on my running and my pain.

  I glanced down at the sidewalk a few minutes later. The crowd had dispersed, but Ball Cap Man was still there. He was standing perfectly still next to a parked car.

  He appeared to be watching someone.

  Me.

  I couldn’t be certain, but he sure as hell looked like that older guy I’d met at the courthouse. I’d been slightly charmed the first time, but if that was him, he was getting under my skin. I launched myself off the treadmill, leaving it running, and sprinted for the stairs.

  When I reached the street, he was gone.

  Down the street, a set of taillights brightened. I had seen that LED pattern before. The car turned at the corner and passed under a streetlight before it disappeared.

  It was a white SUV.

  * * *

  That night, I had the dream again.

  It was always the same. I was back in the playground, across the street from our house in Archer. I don’t know how old I was, but the playmates who kept popping into my field of view didn’t seem much older than first-graders. I say “field of view” because the dream always made me feel as if I were watching the action through a telescope. I could never see any part of myself, not even my arms or legs. It was as if I were a disembodied observer. All I saw were kids on swings … kids on the teeter-totter … kids on our beaten-up old carousel that squealed when it turned … and a man sitting motionless on a bench, watching us.

  Watching me.

  And, always, my mother calling from the porch of our house. “Cat! Come now, please! Now, Cat! Now!”