Depraved Indifference j-3

by Joseph Teller

  "Goddamn drunken idiot!" Jaywalker yelled, by that time to no one but himself. He waited a moment for the adrenaline rush to subside, then pulled the Merc carefully out onto the highway.

  It was a full two miles and five minutes later that the true significance of the event dawned on him. Back in the parking lot, Jaywalker had briefly thought about calling 9-1-1 and reporting the other driver before the jerk killed somebody. Then he'd realized that not only had he failed to get the guy's license-plate number, he couldn't even say what make or model the car had been-if indeed it had been a car, rather than a pickup truck or an SUV-or what color it was.

  All he'd seen had been headlights.

  Yet in his written statement, Carter Drake had recounted how he'd looked up from trying to swat a wasp, only to see an oncoming vehicle about to hit him headon. Yet he'd been able to tell not only that it had been a van, but that it had been white.

  That, Jaywalker now knew for a fact, would have been totally impossible. In the dark, all Drake would have seen would have been a pair of headlights, coming straight at him and just about blinding him.

  He'd made up the rest.

  But why?

  8

  OUT FOR BLOOD

  The following day was a court day, Carter Drake's arraignment on murder charges in New City. That the charges would include murder-as well as a laundry list of lesser crimes-should have been a secret, known only to the grand jurors who'd voted to indict him and the prosecutor's office that had presented the evidence to them. But nine people had died, and this was a big case. And the bigger the case, and the more media and public interest it generated, the more leaks it tended to spring.

  Not that Abe Firestone, the Rockland County district attorney, had held a press conference or called the editor of the New York Times or anything like that. What he'd done instead was to give Judah Mermelstein a "courtesy call," designed to prepare him and his client for the worst. Or so the D.A. had phrased it. More likely, Firestone had had an ulterior motive in mind. While he was prohibited by law and ethics from divulging the specific charges contained in the indictment, no such prohibition extended to the defense. To Jaywalker's cynical way of thinking, Firestone was counting on Mermelstein to go public, thereby doing Firestone's work for him.

  It wasn't a matter of the two adversaries working together, though. Firestone, Jaywalker guessed, wanted the added publicity a murder indictment would generate. He was an old-school politician, a law-and-order former sheriff up for reelection in November. The community had been outraged by the incident, and the sentiment on many lips was that, short of a slow and painful death, no sentence handed out to Carter Drake could possibly be enough. There'd been an early rumor, stoked by a column in the Rockland County Register and fanned by local radio talk-show hosts, that because Drake had turned himself in so long after the accident, after he'd likely sobered up, he might not be able to be charged with anything more serious than leaving the scene of an accident. Abe Firestone was eager to put that rumor to rest.

  Judah Mermelstein, on the other hand, was interested in defusing the drama from the situation. Short of coming right out and announcing that Firestone had told him there'd be a murder charge, Mermelstein could say pretty much whatever he wanted to. And he did. Constantly hounded by reporters intent on keeping the story on the front page and the evening news, he took advantage of every opportunity to tell them that he fully expected his client to be indicted for murder. "Yes, murder, " he'd add solemnly. "Nine counts of it." Then he'd paused a moment for dramatic effect.

  "Now, is this really a murder case?" he'd ask them rhetorically. "Of course not. But given the very understandable anger of the good people of Rockland County, there's been a tremendous amount of pressure brought to bear on the authorities. The D.A. happens to be a friend of mine, and a good man. But he's also a politician. I can absolutely guarantee you he's going to overreact and make a point of showing everyone how tough he is. If I were in his shoes, I might even do the same thing. I'd be dead wrong to do it, of course. But that's our system for you."

  If politics makes for strange bedfellows, so too does criminal law, at least occasionally.

  Amanda had phoned Jaywalker the night before and asked him if he was going to be present in court for the arraignment. "I'm not too confident in Mr. Mermelstein," she'd confided. "And since eventually you're going to take-"

  "I'll be there," Jaywalker had told her. "But I'll be in the audience, just like you." Being suspended meant he wasn't permitted to pass the bar. The bar in this case was a literal one, a solid railing, waist high and usually fashioned out of dark wood. It had a break in the middle, where either a swinging gate or a chain, often wrapped with ceremonial red velvet, divided the spectator section from the well, the front area where the judge and other court officials sat, facing the lawyers and the defendant.

  "Do you need a ride?" Amanda had asked.

  "That'd be nice," Jaywalker had said. No need to overtax the Mercury, which was in a legal parking spot for the next two days, nothing to sneeze at.

  "Do you need me to bring my son along?" Amanda asked. "Or can I leave him home?"

  "Your son," echoed Jaywalker. That would be the kid described by Riley the bartender, the one who'd showed up at the End Zone after Drake had called home. "How old is he?"

  "Eric is seventeen," she'd said, "going on twelve."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning he's in his rebellious stage. One day it's blue hair, the next it might be a nose ring. He likes to keep us guessing."

  "Why don't we leave him home this trip," Jaywalker had suggested. "Or in school."

  "Fat chance of that."

  After he'd hung up, Jaywalker hadn't quite been able to decide if he'd excluded the son because he was afraid his appearance might work against Carter Drake, or because he wanted Amanda Drake for himself.

  Even before they reached the courthouse, it became clear to Jaywalker that they were heading into a circus of sorts. There were a dozen television vans, their telescoping antennae reaching skyward. Hundreds of people surrounded the building, spilling out into the streets and across the way. Many chanted and carried signs. A representative sampling of the ones Jaywalker could read from inside Amanda's Lexus included "MURDERER!" "DEATH PENALTY FOR DRAKE," "HOLOCAUST II," "KILL THE KILLER," and "IT WAS NO ACCIDENT, IT WAS A POGROM!" Cops were everywhere, many of them sporting riot helmets and plastic shields. Blue wooden barricades cordoned off the crowd and kept the courthouse steps clear. Jaywalker was able to count more than two dozen still cameras and almost as many video recorders, most bearing the logos or numbers of national networks or their local affiliates, or the cable news channels. Off to one side, MADD had set up a booth where volunteers were busily handing out flyers decrying the menace of drunk drivers. And some guy with a pushcart had set up shop, and was selling coffee and doughnuts. Jaywalker half expected to spot a lion tamer next, or a dozen clowns climbing out of a Volkswagen.

  So much for Judah Mermelstein's efforts to defuse the drama from the situation.

  Once inside the building, Jaywalker stood in a long line with Amanda, waiting to go through the metal detectors and the briefcase searches that had become standard since September 11, 2001. Afraid to take a chance with his homemade ID card at the Court Personnel, Police Officers and Attorneys Only line, Jaywalker opted for the All Others line, which was about ten times longer. But he didn't resent the delay. Although he was pretty confident that few Mideastern terrorists were listing the Rockland County courthouse as their next big target, he was less certain about the "Death-Penalty-forDrake" crowd. Not to mention the Mothers Against Drunk Driving.

  They found seats toward the rear of what soon became a standing-room-only courtroom, even though it was the largest in the building. But if getting to sit was the upside of their early arrival, getting to wait was the downside. Jaywalker passed the time people-watching. That, and drinking in the perfume of Amanda Carter.

  Finally, at ten-thirty, a court officer shout
ed "All rise!" and the judge entered, dwarfed by a pair of uniformed state troopers on steroids. "Be seated!" shouted the court officer, and everyone sat.

  "The People of the State of New York versus Carter Drake Three," the same officer intoned, quickly demonstrating that his reading comprehension was no match for his volume.

  So they meant to get right to the main attraction, Jaywalker realized. No lounge-act crowd warmers here. And as he and everyone else watched, an orange-jumpsuited Carter Drake was led into the well from a side door. Not only was he, too, flanked by a pair of large troopers, but he was handcuffed behind his back, and a set of leg irons restrained his ankles with a short chain.

  Judah Mermelstein rose from his seat at the defense table and greeted his client. The two of them huddled for a moment.

  "If the court please," said Mermelstein, "may my client's restraints be removed for this proceeding?"

  "No," said the judge.

  Jaywalker winced. Such things never happened in Manhattan. In Brooklyn or Staten Island, maybe, but only if the prisoner had earlier proved that he was a security risk. Up here, either it was s.o.p. or it was going to be for Drake.

  The arraignment itself took less than five minutes. The court clerk announced that the defendant had been indicted for murder and related crimes, and asked him how he pleaded, guilty or not guilty. The courtroom fell stone silent as spectators leaned forward to hear.

  "Not guilty," said Drake in a voice that was still barely audible. Though standing right next to his lawyer and surrounded by a phalanx of large men, to Jaywalker he looked absolutely alone.

  "Forty-five days for defense motions," said the judge. "Anything else?"

  "Yes, Your Honor." It was Mermelstein's voice, not much louder than Drake's had been. "My client is currently being held on five million dollars' bail. It seems to me-"

  "This is a murder case," said the judge. "He's lucky there's any bail at all."

  An approving murmur bubbled up from the audience, quickly silenced by the judge's gavel.

  "People's position?"

  Abe Firestone rose from the D.A.'s table. In New York State-court parlance, the prosecution gets addressed and referred to as "the People." The terminology had always infuriated Jaywalker, with its implication that the defendant and his lawyer were something else, something less. Non-people of some sort.

  "The People oppose," boomed Firestone in a deep, practiced baritone. Again there was an approving murmur, quickly silenced by another bang of the judge's gavel. After a beat, Firestone began recounting the horror of the deaths Drake had caused. As soon as he realized it was going to be a stump speech, all about community outrage and totally unrelated to the facts of the case, Jaywalker tuned out. He'd been up against adversaries like Firestone in the past, usually when he'd ventured outside of Manhattan. The general rule of thumb was that the farther you got from the city, the more politicized prosecutors' offices became. And a corollary to that rule was that not only did the volume increase in direct proportion to the distance, but the competence decreased.

  "…and for those reasons," Firestone was concluding, more loudly than ever, "the People request that bail be raised to the amount of f ifty million dollars."

  This time the judge was able to quiet the courtroom by simply lifting his gavel. "I'm going to split the difference," he said, "and deny both of your applications. The bail will remain exactly as it is. The case is assigned to Judge Hinkley for trial. Next case."

  It wasn't until they were filing out of the building that Jaywalker was recognized by a couple of reporters he knew. Courthouse regulars, they were, guys who used to hang around 10 °Centre Street and cover the juicy cases. On slow days, when they'd had nothing better to do, they'd sit in on a Jaywalker trial, if one was going on. Then again, a lot of people used to do that. One was from the P ost, as he recalled, the other from the Daily News, but he could never remember which was which. It didn't help that one of them stood about 5'4" and the other 5'2".

  "How ya doon?" the short one asked.

  "Not bad," said Jaywalker. He could see them staring at the beautiful blonde next to him, but he was pretty sure they didn't know who she was. And he wasn't about to introduce them.

  "You gonna take this one over?" asked the shorter one. "Mumbles Mermelstein seems pretty overmatched."

  "No comment," said Jaywalker.

  "Off the record," promised the short one, lifting his right hand in a solemn oath of silence.

  "Yeah, right," said Jaywalker, and all three of them laughed out loud.

  "I'm hungry," said Amanda.

  Great, thought Jaywalker. Not twenty minutes ago, her husband-okay, estranged husband-had been told that his bail would stay at five million dollars, virtually guaranteeing that he wouldn't get out before his trial. And getting out after his trial might well take fifteen to twenty-five years, if the parole board threw him a break. So what was her first reaction? She was hungry.

  They walked to a nearby diner and found a booth. Amanda ordered an omelet of some sort, and an order of home-fried potatoes. Jaywalker stuck with a cup of tea with lemon, sipping it as he watched her down her food. She ate the same way she made love, throwing herself into it with no hint of self-consciousness. Halfway through the meal, Short and Shorter came into the place. Jaywalker spread his jacket out onto the seat next to him, a move intended to preempt the two reporters from joining them. But it turned out not to be necessary: they had a third man with them, a taller guy who wore a camera around his neck.

  "So how do things look?" Amanda asked, wiping a bit of egg from one corner of her mouth. "And who's this Judge Hinkley that's going to try the case?"

  "Never heard of him," said Jaywalker. "I'll check with

  Mermelstein, first chance I get. As far as the case…" He finished the sentence with a shrug of his shoulders.

  "That doesn't sound so good."

  "You were there," he told her. "You saw how they're all out for blood."

  Amanda nodded.

  "There's one thing that's bothering me," said Jaywalker.

  "What's that?"

  He leaned forward so he could keep his voice low. They were in a public place, after all. "Carter claims that in the instant he saw the van in front of him, he could not only tell it was a van, but he could see that it was white."

  "So?"

  "So that couldn't have happened," said Jaywalker. "For some reason, he's making that up."

  "Maybe you misunderstood him," said Amanda. "Or misheard him."

  "No," said Jaywalker. "I had him write it out. Those were his words."

  She looked away at that point, as though her attention had been suddenly drawn to something off to one side of the booth. Jaywalker looked, too, but there was nothing going on there, nothing but the wall, the jukebox selector, their menus, and the salt and pepper shakers.

  What am I missing here? he asked.

  But he formed the words silently, asking only himself.

  9

  BACK IN THE BALL GAME

  SUSPENDED LAWYER SPOTTED STEPPING OUT WITH KID-KILLING DRIVER'S WIFE

  …read the caption beneath the photo. And there he was again, back on his least favorite place in the western world, Page Six of the New York Post.

  Not that he ever would have known about it, had it not been for a call from his daughter. A friend of hers had spotted it and phoned her, exclaiming, "Is that your father?" And there was no missing him. There he was, in perfect profile, sitting in the booth of the diner he'd taken Amanda to the previous morning. Only it didn't look like a diner in the photo; it looked like a bar. And Jaywalker wasn't really sitting at all; he was bent halfway across the table, his lips parted and within inches of Amanda Drake's, their eyes locked on each other. He remembered the moment. It had been when he'd leaned forward and dropped his voice so that he could ask her, without being overheard, about Carter's claim that he'd been able to tell that the oncoming headlights belonged to a white van.

  "Shit," he muttered. "Shit, shit,
shit!"

  There was an inch or two of text farther down the page, and Jaywalker could see his own name and Amanda's, both in bold print. He didn't bother reading it. There'd be phrases like "romantically linked," "husband in jail," and "drove off together in a beige Lexus." And needless to say, there'd be no mention that it had happened to be around noon when the photo had been taken, and in a perfectly respectable diner right around the corner from the courthouse, where Amanda had dutifully shown up as the defendant's family and Jaywalker had appeared as a private investigator working on the case.

  "Shit," he muttered again. Would he never learn?

  The letter from the Disciplinary Committee arrived two days later, by certified mail, return receipt requested. Jaywalker's right hand shook visibly as he signed for it.

  What had he done now? It had been lunch. No, not even lunch. He'd had a goddamn cup of tea, w as all.

  All morning, phrases kept drifting back to him from his previous go-round with the committee. Phrases like overzealous…utter contempt for long-established rules…open defiance of members of the judiciary… pushing the ethical envelope almost to the breaking point…conduct totally unbecoming a member of the bar… And finally, the only one Jaywalker didn't consider a personal badge of honor, a well-documented sexual indiscretion that took place in this very courthouse.

  Over the next two days, as he prepared for the Status Review Hearing the letter had informed him of, Jaywalker reviewed the transcripts of his prior appearances before the committee, researched the law, and even reached out to a colleague or two for advice-something he hadn't done for years. None of them was able to help him any more than Jaywalker was able to help himself. So far as he could tell, he'd broken no law, breached no canon of ethics, and done nothing to bring shame to the bar. Nor, most to the point, had he "engaged in the practice of law," the cardinal sin that he knew could cost him his ticket, not to mention his freedom. And if he'd partaken in a bit of sexual indiscretion, he'd done so only behind closed doors, with a very consenting adult. Or did Page Six have a photo of that, too, which they'd slipped to the judges before running it in tomorrow's edition?