Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Would Elliot Sandoval be ordered back to jail? Jane spotted Peter Hardesty, alone, intently turning pages in a manila folder, a red accordion file open beside it. The Commonwealth’s table, where the assistant district attorneys would make their case, was still empty.

  Jane slid into the polished wooden bench in the spectator area, knowing the first row behind the defendant’s side was always reserved for the press. A harried-looking stringer from the Daily, pencil stuck through the spiral of a battered reporter’s notebook, had wedged himself into a corner seat. He swung his running shoes back on the floor, standing for a moment as the judge left the room. He was on Facebook, Jane saw.

  No other reporters. And no TV cameras set up in the empty jury box. Local TV stations could take turns being pool for sessions like this, a day in court that could turn into nothing, so they sometimes hedged their news bets with a shared pool cam, knowing the video would most often be erased at day’s end. On a slow day they’d show up on the off chance some crazed spectator would lunge at the defendant, or be led out by burly court officers, shrieking bleep-worthy expletives about unfairness and justice. Apparently today’s docket didn’t interest TV. According to Marcotte, the Sandoval arraignment would only be a news brief, unless something unexpectedly blockbuster happened.

  Jane flipped through her notes from this morning’s phone calls to Liz’s customers. The Iantosca call had gone to voice mail, and Jane couldn’t quite figure out how to say what she needed in a message. But the Gantry and the Detwyler calls were productive, telling her they’d be happy to talk about their experiences at the bank. She’d arranged to meet each couple after lunch so she could cover the arraignment, call in the results to the city desk, then get the bank customers’ info.

  A chair scraped. Jane looked up, following the sound.

  Peter Hardesty had turned, scanning the audience, and eventually locked eyes with Jane.

  She tilted her head, acknowledging, and he did the same. Suit and tie, khaki and stripes, looking very lawyerly with his stack of yellow pads and a line of sharpened pencils in front of him. The chair next to him was still empty. She pointed at the chair, raised an eyebrow, questioning. Where’s Elliot?

  Peter pointed to the closed door along one wall.

  Ah. Still in holding.

  She made a gesture like—I got your call. You okay?

  He shrugged, then waggled a palm, more or less. He pointed to his watch, grimaced, pantomiming being sorry.

  Jane waved him off. No worries.

  The prosecution side, the mirror image of Peter’s wooden table and two chairs, reserved for the DA, was still empty. Strange. Jane’d never been to an arraignment where the prosecution wasn’t the first to arrive, files at the ready and gunning for the defendant. This whole thing was off, somehow.

  Someone must have given the signal.

  A door hidden in the wood paneling opened, and Elliot Sandoval appeared. A sound, someone arriving though the public door, made the defendant turn to the audience. Jane saw MaryLou Sandoval enter, eyes red, and hugely pregnant. She inched her way into a back row. Probably too awkward to get closer.

  At the same time, a door opened on the other side of the courtroom. A parade of briefcases: Assistant DA Cardell Grainger, sixty-something, dapper in pinstripes and a red tie, glasses balanced on his forehead. A chignoned brunette, Jane didn’t recognize her, the requisite white shirt, pencil skirt, and extravagantly sleek patent heels.

  Behind her, Jake, looking at the floor as he walked. Then that young uniformed cop Jane had seen at the Kenilworth Street house. The two police officers sat in the front row as the lawyers, in tandem, clicked open their blocky leather evidence cases on the table and unpacked them, pulling out yellow pads and brandishing pencils.

  Jane willed Jake to look at her, turn around, notice her. He did. She looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen him. When she sneaked a look back, ashamed at her high school tactics, he was leaning forward, talking with the DA. Jane closed her eyes, regretting. This was silly. They had to talk.

  “Commonwealth case 0014-657, Commonwealth versus Sandoval,” the court clerk intoned. “All rise for Judge Mavis Rockland.”

  With a murmur, everyone stood in a clatter and rustle of adjusting papers and laptops, then sat as the judge waved them down. This would be fascinating. And instructive. The assistant DA would give probable cause for why Sandoval should be held—that was standard procedure—and as a result, Jane would hear the key parts of their evidence.

  Peter would argue for bail, of course. But murder defendants never got bail. Not bail they could pay, at least.

  Jane flipped open her notebook. Sandoval would not get to go home today, she predicted. And who knew, he might be guilty. Either way, if all went as she expected, she was about to hear exactly why the state thought Elliot Sandoval was a murderer.

  * * *

  “And how do you plead, sir?”

  Peter had warned his client that today was about lowered expectations. Get through it, he’d instructed. Stand, look straight at the judge, say “not guilty,” sit down.

  “Not guilty.” Sandoval’s voice, sand and gravel, was the only sound in the courtroom.

  Until Peter heard someone gasp, poor MaryLou, probably, as Sandoval faced the judge, the back of his neck reddening, both fists clenched, luckily hidden behind their defense table. Peter had coached him: “Be calm, be low-key, don’t react no matter what the state says or how the DA tries to goad you.” Today’s focus was bail. Unlikely as that was.

  “Good,” Peter whispered, touching the arm of his client’s bedraggled suit coat as they took their seats again. “You’re doing great.”

  “I have both your recommendations here,” the judge said. “Mr. Hardesty is asking for no bail and a release on Mr., ah”—she checked her file—“Sandoval’s own recognizance. I’ll hear brief arguments now, if there’s anything you’d like to add.”

  Judge Rockland wasn’t looking at him, a bad sign. Peter’d never argued before her. Newly seated, and no one in the defense bar had a read on how she’d rule. She’d been an assistant DA herself, out in western Mass. Peter believed those ex-DA types never thought anyone who’d been arrested was truly innocent. Must-have-done-something syndrome.

  “Nothing to add, your honor.” Cardell Grainger stood, fingertips touching the table, his Harvard-crimson tie hitting the blocky leather evidence case in front of him. “You have our brief, as you said.”

  “Defense?” the judge said.

  Peter swallowed, surprised. He’d been steeled to hear a damning litany of the case against his client, two-by-fours, DNA, fingerprints, real estate connections, and an unpaid mortgage. God knew what else the state had up its investigative sleeve. But the DA’s office was leaving it at the paperwork? Did they think it was such a slam dunk they didn’t even need to argue? Did they have this judge in their pocket, so brazenly and obviously that they didn’t even continue a charade?

  Peter stood, disappointed in the crappy system and the all-powerful cabal of judges and prosecutors who professed to show off their law-and-order creds when they were actually preventing justice.

  He’d stand for justice. And fairness. And mercy. Someone had to.

  “Peter Hardesty for Mr. Sandoval, your honor,” Peter began. “Mr. Sandoval has no prior record, not even a traffic ticket. He’s spent all his adult life as a contractor, and married to his wife, MaryLou, who is with him today.”

  Peter paused, watching MaryLou stand as he’d instructed, allowing the judge to see how pregnant she was. A guilty person could have a pregnant wife, of course, but it never hurt to pull out all the stops. “Mr. Sandoval, as you might imagine, is not a flight risk.”

  Peter laid out his prepared argument, knowing in the pit of his stomach it was a loser. The state needed to nail someone for the Shandra Newbury murder. What the hell. Might as well go for it. Plan B.

  “And finally, your honor, last night Boston police discovered another body in an empty foreclos
ed house, similar to where Shandra Newbury was found. As you are well aware, my client was in police custody at that time. One might argue, your honor, that whoever killed Shandra Newbury—and you heard my client plead not guilty to that charge—also killed last night’s victim.”

  Peter felt Elliot shift in the chair beside him, heard a low muttering from the spectator section. He looked at the prosecution team, but they were all busy with their paperwork, probably so certain of the outcome they barely listened.

  “In closing, Your Honor, we would ask that my client, Elliot Sandoval, be released on his own recognizance. He is financially unable to provide bail. By law, bail amounts are not designed to prevent the defendant from release, but only to ensure their return. He is eager to show his good intentions, and offers to reassure the court by wearing a GPS device.”

  Peter cleared his throat, stalling, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Not that it would matter. He was sorry, but Elliot Sandoval was about to go back into custody. His first child would be born with a father in jail. Peter had done his best. That was all he could do.

  “Thank you, your honor.” Peter sat, trying to look confident, gave Elliot a pat on the back. Poor guy actually looked hopeful, which made Peter feel even worse.

  The judge closed her files, adjusted the frothy white ruffle at her throat. She smoothed her already smooth hair away from a forehead, shifted in her chair.

  “Motion granted, Mr. Hardesty,” she said. “Own recognizance, with a twice-daily check with parole. That is all.”

  “Your honor!” The DA leaped to his feet, followed by his assistant. “We would strongly—”

  “That is all, Mr. Grainger.” The judge stood, signaling the clerk. “You made your bed. Mr. Hardesty, your client is free to go.”

  52

  Holy shit. Jane almost said it out loud, stopped herself just in time. The judge was letting Sandoval out?

  The court emptied again as the judge disappeared behind the quickly closing door panel. Sandoval hugged Peter, rumpling his jacket in the enthusiasm of his embrace, as MaryLou rushed to the bar, one hand on her stomach, sobbing full bore.

  The district attorney’s table packed up its briefcases and scuttled out the side door before Jane could even try to get a statement. Jake, too, and the cop, gone in an instant. All probably huddled somewhere, speculating about why the rug had been pulled out from under their prosecution. The Daily reporter was texting madly, Jane saw. No more Facebook. This was news.

  Jane hustled toward the defense table, notebook out, needing to call this in to the desk, wishing just this once she was back on TV, or at least had TJ with her. What a moment this was, Sandoval and his wife embracing, both crying, Peter looking happy. And baffled. Small comfort that the TV stations had missed all this, though they’d certainly try to interview the newly released—Jane couldn’t believe it—Sandoval at his home.

  And of course, as she had to keep reminding herself, it didn’t mean Sandoval was innocent. But he was out of jail, a big step. That had to mean the evidence was flimsy, charges teetering on dismissal.

  “Peter?” Jane waved at him to get his attention as the court officer led Sandoval away. She approached the low mahogany bar, the thigh-high wooden barrier that kept spectators on one side, lawyers on the other. “What do you think? Were you surprised? Why do you think the judge released him?

  “MaryLou?” Jane turned to the young woman. MaryLou was still in full sob, wiping away tears with both palms. “Were you surprised?”

  “Jane? Hang on a sec, okay?” Peter interrupted, tucking a manila file under one arm and opening the bar’s low swinging door. “MaryLou, Elliot will be out in an hour or so. I’m sorry, the processing will take a while. Want to meet me in the coffee shop? I need to talk to Jane, then I’ll be right there. You all right?”

  “I’m okay, yes,” MaryLou said. “I don’t know how to…”

  “We’ll talk,” Peter told her. “See you in a few.”

  They watched MaryLou walk away, touching her hand to each of the pews as she waddled back to the heavy courtroom door. The court officer smiled as he held it open for her.

  “She must so relieved,” Jane finally said. “What an amazing job you did, Peter. I can’t believe the judge—”

  “It wasn’t me,” Peter said.

  Jane was surprised to see him frowning.

  “Aren’t you happy?” she asked. “I’d have thought you’d be—”

  “Oh, I’m happy,” Peter interrupted. “But something is up. Big time.”

  “Like what?” Jane tried to understand where he was going.

  “She didn’t even hear my arguments, you know? Wasn’t listening. And the DA not even presenting? Shit. Sorry. I mean—hell. She’d made her decision before we even came into session. I have no idea why.”

  “Your Kenilworth Street argument, don’t you think?” Jane had been wondering about the same thing, even before Peter brought it up in court. “Reasonable doubt?”

  Peter didn’t answer. He loaded his paperwork, a file at a time, into the accordion folder, carefully tucking pencils into individual leather loops on the inner walls of his briefcase.

  “Maybe they have someone, a suspect, for that?” Jane persisted. Maybe that’s why Jake had been so protective. So annoyingly silent. Maybe they’d solved the Liz McDivitt murder, and Shandra Newbury’s, and even Treesa Caramona’s. Maybe they were all connected by some bad guy still out there. “Because they were all in empty houses. But Elliot was in custody, couldn’t be involved. Exactly as you argued.”

  Peter clamped his briefcase closed. Turned to her. His tie twisted to one side, probably the result of Elliot’s awkward bear hugs. He raked a hand through his hair.

  “Wish I knew. If I did? Maybe I could get this whole thing dismissed.” Peter shrugged. “Anyway, Jane. I’m so sorry about what happened. I still owe you that dinner. How about tonight, now that my client is out? Unless that new victim is actually connected to him somehow. Then we’re in trouble.”

  Jane stared at him, looking past him, seeing into the past and the future and into the possibilities of how these puzzle pieces might all fit together. She had an hour before her meeting with Liz McDivitt’s clients. Liz. Sandoval. Newbury. Caramona.

  Was poor Liz’s death the reason Elliot Sandoval was freed? Because as Peter told the judge, whoever killed Shandra Newbury might also have killed the victim on Kenilworth Street. But because the name hadn’t been made public yet, Peter didn’t know it was Liz McDivitt, bank president’s daughter, a person who handled those high-risk mortgages and imminent foreclosures.

  Should she tell Peter what she knew was the truth?

  As a reporter she couldn’t reveal Liz’s identity to the public, but telling a lawyer, that wasn’t exactly public. And if Peter promised not to tell, she knew he was reliable. Lawyer-client privilege, after all. Though she wasn’t his client, they were working on the Sandoval case together. Kind of together. Plus, the cops would release her name any minute now. Had to.

  “Jane?” Peter had touched her arm, and she jumped back, startled. “You still with us here?”

  “Peter?” she said. “Can you keep a secret?”

  * * *

  Aaron Gianelli stood on the sidewalk, corner of Batterymarch and Liberty. Freaking out. Watching each vehicle in the lunchtime traffic, scouting for undercover cars or blue-lighted cruisers. Expecting a cop to nab him, handcuffs and sirens, any second. A bafflingly ugly statue of refugees from some faraway place centered the traffic circle, all marble and pigeon poop. Girls in sleeveless dresses sat on the statue’s pedestal, drinking Diet Cokes and unwrapping gyros from the Greek place on the corner. Pigeons battled for the crumbs, some fluttering on the refugees’ arms and dive-bombing for leftovers as the sandal-and-sunglasses crowd tossed their waxed paper in the mesh trash bins and headed back to their offices. Like normal people. Not like him. Not anymore.

  Aaron checked his phone. Quarter after. Twenty after. Ackerman was late. He’
d wanted to meet in the office, where there was at least air conditioning and privacy, but Ackerman wasn’t happy with the prospect of being seen together. So here he was, sweating it in the absurd heat. Truthfully, he’d be sweating it wherever he was. Lizzie McDivitt was dead. The “body found on Kenilworth Street” was all over TV last night, the noon news on the radio finally revealing her identity twenty minutes ago. No doubt in hell he was about to be questioned by the cops.

  He and Ack had to get their stories straight. And fast.

  * * *

  All Jake could do now was wait. When it came to Sandoval at least. The guy had to check in twice a day with a parole officer, or they could yank him back into custody in a flash. Jake predicted that’s exactly what would happen. Guy was guilty as hell. This whole bail thing was about as big a risk as he’d ever seen in law enforcement. But that’s why the Supe got the big bucks. Jake had put in his two cents, though when the Supe spoke, Jake’s two cents weren’t worth—well, two cents. Now it was all about keeping the lid on.

  At least he could focus on Gordon Thorley. The tick-tick-tick to Lilac Sunday haunted him, though it was a deadline of Jake’s own making. He felt so close to a solution. If only he could make his case.

  He parked in a loading zone, slammed his cruiser door, and headed for the glass and chrome front door of Atlantic & Anchor Bank. On TV, detectives like him were always in shootouts, car chases, saving the damsels in distress at the last minute from the marauding bad guy. Jake was about to look at pieces of paper. But justice for a long-dead teenager’s family might depend on those pieces of paper.