“I need to make a call and my cell phone is back at the house.”
“Number?”
“No idea. Can you connect me to information?”
The pilot switched over the radio controls and said, “HR 438 to Wilmington airfield.”
“Tower here. Go, HR 438.”
“Emergency request for phone patch.”
“Number?”
“Request help with number. Can search?”
“Affirmative. Name?”
Marcus was ready. “Judge Garland Perry, in Wilmington.”
“Office or residence?”
“Private residence. On Fourth Street.”
“Hold one.”
The pilot used the interim to point ahead. Through the sun-drenched bubble Marcus made out the first glint of sea-blue. Not long now.
There were a series of clicks, then, “Call ready. Go ahead, HR 438. Tower out.”
The judge’s irate voice shouted, “What in blazes is going on here?”
“Judge Perry, this is Marcus Glenwood.”
“Who?”
“Marcus Glenwood, your honor. I met you on your doorstep last weekend in regard to the Dale Steadman case.”
The judge’s ire heightened. “Is it your habit, sir, to disturb officers of the court during the little free time they have?”
“No sir. But this—”
“I was on the phone to my daughter. In Geneva. All of a sudden I’ve got sixteen dozen different operators climbing into our private conversation! And because you, sir, have the gall to declare another national emergency!”
“Not national, sir. But an emergency just the same.”
“What in tarnation is all that racket?”
“I’m inside a helicopter, sir.”
“What?”
Marcus swiveled in his seat so he didn’t have to observe the pilot’s grin. “Your honor, I’ve just learned that a New York detective has appeared at the Wilmington airport with the intent of arresting a local citizen.”
There was a longish pause as the judge switched into official gear. “You mean he’s set to arraign him for an extradition hearing.”
Legal jurisprudence required an arrest warrant from another state be served to a local judge. The judge would then issue a second warrant for extradition, assuming the evidence was sound. But big-city cops were notorious for considering the court system a foe. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you. But my guess is he plans to slap the cuffs on our gentleman and take him back.”
“Without a hearing?”
“Sometimes they do that, judge. They march in, pick the guy up, then claim later that our man consented to the move.” Our man. Making it a local issue. “Then it’s my client’s word against the detective’s.”
“Now why would he wish to rile the local court with such an outrageous act?”
“Holding an extradition hearing means I get to see his evidence, as your honor well knows. He may not want to reveal all his cards at this point.”
“I assume,” Judge Perry said, “the man in question is the client we spoke of earlier.”
The pilot pointed to a tiny island attached to the mainland by a wooden bridge. The cream-colored stone and steeply pitched slate roof gleamed with the myth of moneyed perfection. Marcus nodded affirmative and said, “Dale Steadman. Yes sir. I am still acting as his counsel.”
“I do not like this. Not one bit.” He chewed over his options as the pilot started a swooping descent. “But I like the alternative even less. You know where the courthouse is located?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Ninety minutes.”
The detective was a bulldog with a mustache. His leather jacket was emblazoned with the NYPD seal, the zipper open to reveal the gun on his belt beside his badge. Dale was stretched out on his own front lawn, his face in the dirt by the rotunda’s central fountain. The detective was in the process of fitting cuffs onto Dale’s wrists as Marcus leapt from the still descending helicopter. He shouted over the rotor’s din, “Let go of my client!”
The detective played at not hearing him, taking his time with the manacles, then hauling Dale to his feet at the very last moment. “Something on your mind?”
“I am Marcus Glenwood.”
The detective played at unconcern, though his face was pinched from the sudden reversal to his plans. “This is supposed to mean something?”
“Dale Steadman is my client.”
Dale shook his head to clear the grass from his forehead. “I didn’t kill her, Marcus. I was in New York but I didn’t do this thing.”
“Let’s hold that thought for a minute.” Marcus nudged Steadman to one side so as to focus tightly upon the detective. “Aureolietti, do I have that right? Swell job you did, informing us of your intentions.”
The detective gave Marcus the sort of flat-panned inspection he would offer a stain on the road. He glanced at where Deacon stood, the silent sentinel. He shrugged his acceptance of the new situation, attorney and witness and no way to continue with headlong intent. “Your man here consented to being transported north.”
Dale waited until the chopper rose and departed to protest, “How was I supposed to say a word with my face pressed in the dirt?”
Marcus asked, “What exactly are we talking about here?”
“What the warrant says. Murder in the first.” He handed over the folded sheaf of papers, then unwrapped two pieces of gum and stuffed them in his mouth. “Mind if we get a move on here? I got a plane to catch.”
“I’m not bound to anybody’s schedule but my client’s. How did you get my client’s name?”
“What is this, twenty questions? We got his name from the two hundred witnesses who place him at the scene of the crime.” He substituted his finger for a gun. “Which is why I’m down here to pick your boy up and carry him back.”
“I tell you I didn’t do it.”
Marcus stepped between them without lifting his gaze from the warrant. “What puts him at the scene, a gun, a knife? I don’t see anything like that stated here.”
“Then you’re not reading what’s written. Your client and the victim got into it before an audience of hundreds. She left. He followed. He did her.”
“So the murder itself did not actually take place in front of these eyewitnesses of yours?”
“The dispute did. The threatening did.”
“You’re saying my client actually threatened the victim with bodily harm?”
“Absolutely. Your boy here stalked her and threatened her. Left her so scared she ran screaming from the scene, yelling about how he’s not going to abuse her ever again.” The detective gave Dale his mobile grin. “Sound familiar?”
“My client has no criminal record of any kind.”
“You look like a smart guy. You know crimes of passion are almost always a one-off.”
“Are you aware my client is involved in a custody dispute with the victim? A dispute caused by the victim abducting their baby daughter and carrying her off to Germany?” Marcus weaved slightly, intent upon keeping himself at the center of the detective’s roving gaze. “Why would my client kill the one person who could bring his daughter back?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.” He glanced at his watch. “We done here?”
Marcus flipped through the pages, searching for the required ammo to keep Dale Steadman firmly planted on Carolina soil. “I still don’t find anything about the murder weapon.” He flipped through the pages once more. “Do you have the gun?”
“The victim was stabbed eleven times, the kind of frenzy you’d expect from a guy who’d lost his little girl. Ain’t that right, sport?”
When Dale Steadman shifted to one side, Marcus halted him with “He’s looking for a reason to charge you with resisting arrest.”
But the detective found pleasure in what Marcus could not see. “Some of the stab wounds were so deep they went right through the body and punched the limo’s seat.”
“I didn’t—”
/> “Don’t say another word,” Marcus snapped.
The detective lifted his chin, a tight little come-on. He said to Steadman, “My mother’s seen this lady sing maybe a dozen times, sport. Called her the empress of the stage. She’s gonna weep real tears when she hears what you’ve done. Gonna be a pleasure telling her I watched you shake and bake.”
“Let’s get back to business here.” Marcus swung back to the affidavit’s first page. Controlling the tempo with all his might. “So there’s no knife. What about the limo driver. Is he listed here?”
“We’re on that.”
“And the limo number, you managed to note that, didn’t you?”
“You’re the one holding the affidavit. Have a look at page three.”
“I’m just trying to get the information about this case straight in my own mind. What you’re telling me is, you don’t have the murder weapon. You have no eyewitnesses to the incident itself. And for all you know the limo driver has immigrated to Kazakhstan.”
“You’re playing attorney for the defense with the wrong party. I got enough probable cause for a judge to issue the warrant. Far as I’m concerned, we got our man. There was a fight, there was a killing. They happened in close proximity. We believe he’s responsible and the judge agrees. We straight on this? I’m asking on account of you being in my way.”
“Fine.” It was Marcus’ turn to check his watch. “The local judge should be about ready to begin our extradition hearing.”
Dark eyes burned him where he stood. “All this time, you been setting me up?”
Marcus let a little of his own rage show. “Absolutely.”
Marcus drove them to the courthouse in Dale’s Esplanade. The detective sat in the backseat with Dale beside him. Aureolietti slipped on mirror shades and practiced his sullen routine. Dale sat with cuffed hands in his lap, giving directions in a voice as bleak as his gaze.
The Wilmington courthouse fronted Water Street. Big blocks of granite formed a four-story bracket with a fountain in its middle. Half-cut pillars and tall sash windows were embedded into the building’s face. Deacon remained with the car as they made their way inside.
The judge’s third-floor offices were large and furnished with a woman’s taste for Southern plaids and warm colors. The office smelled vaguely of weekend cleansers and tobacco. Judge Perry was in the process of packing his pipe as they entered. “I’d ask if anybody minded my smoking, but I don’t care one way or the other.” He pointed at Dale. “Why is this man cuffed?”
“He’s under arrest, judge.”
“And you are?”
“Lieutenant John Aureolietti, NYPD.”
“Since when do New York detectives have license to operate in my jurisdiction?”
The detective looked ready to argue, then thought better of the issue and unlocked the manacles. Dale continued to bear the tragic expression of a man ready to gnaw off his own limb. His clothes were grass-stained, his knees caked, his forehead smudged. Marcus guided him into a seat by the side wall, then waited for the judge to point them into chairs opposite him. Judge Perry asked, “I assume you have a warrant?”
“Right here.”
The judge reached across his desk, unfolded the document, and took time lighting his pipe as he read. He asked Marcus, “You have seen this?”
“Only briefly, your honor. Standing on Mr. Steadman’s front lawn.”
He slid the papers across his desk. “All right, Lieutenant. Now perhaps you can explain why you intended to waltz in and out of here without so much as a by-your-leave to the local courts.”
Aureolietti shifted in his seat. “Look, the guy did her in.”
“Did he now.”
“Open and shut. Broad daylight, the perp assaults her verbally in front of two hundred wits, then kills her on the way out.” He shrugged. “What’s to figure?”
Marcus skimmed the papers a final time. Arrest warrants followed a standard two-part pattern. The first portion was a fill-in-the-box form—what type of warrant, what charge, who, address, and so forth. The second portion was the affidavit, which spelled out the probable cause. On most occasions, state-to-state extradition hearings were mere formalities, which was why some police officers failed to jump through the hoops. They were in a hurry, they had other cases piled on their desk, and the last thing they needed was to hang around just so another judge could sign on the dotted line. Generally a local judge required something serious to overturn what another judge had ruled as compelling evidence.
And this Marcus could not find.
Until it struck him.
He looked up to find Judge Perry watching him. “Mr. Glenwood, you have something to say?”
Marcus turned to the detective. “You’ve supplied us with a copy of the original document.”
“So?”
“So this photocopy doesn’t bear the clerk’s seal.”
The judge sat up straighter. “Let me see that.”
The detective looked pained. “What’s the problem here? We got a serious criminal who’s a flight risk. He’s already skipped the state where the crime took place.”
“Your honor, a document from another jurisdiction that is not under seal is not authenticated.”
“It was the weekend, the clerk of courts was off, and I was in a hurry,” the detective protested. “Whose side are we on here?”
“On the side of the law, sir.” Judge Perry eyed the detective over the brow of his horn-rimmed spectacles. “Let me see if I can give you a different take on this situation. You knew full well you didn’t have all your ducks in a row. So you figured on slipping down here before anybody had the first idea what was going on, grabbing your man, and handing us a fait accompli.”
“Come on, judge, give me a break here.”
“I am fully aware of the full faith and credit clause of our Constitution and the extradition laws between our states.” He used the wet end of his pipe to still the detective’s protest. “But this is a serious charge. Due process requires at the minimum that you have your paperwork in order. I am not going to allow you to drag this man’s reputation through the dirt by publicly hauling him up I-95. Not on this. When you and your friends in New York comply with the law, I will reconsider this matter.”
“So where does that leave me?”
The pipe swiveled over to aim at the door. “Unless you have some other matter to bring before this court, you are free to go.”
“What, this is your basic introduction to Southern-style justice?” The detective stalked to the door. “Or maybe I missed the family resemblance, a little backwoods connection. All you guys drawn from the same stink.”
Marcus realized Dale was not going to stand on his own, so went over to help the man. “Thank you very much, your honor.”
“Make no mistake, sir. I dislike this whole affair almost as much as I dislike you dragging me into it. But I despise being maltreated by a no ’count trash-talking big-city policeman.” He fished in his vest pocket and drew out a flat gold-plated lighter. “Who’s been handling this dispute so far?”
“Judge Rachel Sears.”
“I know her well. There’s the matter of a missing child, do I recall that correctly?”
Marcus could feel Dale flinch the entire length of his frame. “A baby girl. Abducted by the mother.”
“All right. Come Monday I’m going to remand this entire matter over to Judge Sears’ court.” He flicked the gas flame and puffed until the pipe was drawing clean. “If you truly want to show your appreciation for demolishing my weekend, sir, you will never darken my door again.”
CHAPTER
———
37
DALE OFFERED TO DRIVE them back to Rocky Mount, claiming it was the least he could do. Deacon and Marcus exchanged glances over the man’s bowed head, both of them hearing the hollow tone of one lost to all but his own wretchedness. Marcus excused himself and walked over to the bank of phones on the courthouse’s brick wall. He obtained the number for the Rale
igh News and Observer and asked for Omar Dell’s voice mail.
To his surprise, the young man himself answered the phone. Marcus asked, “What’s a court reporter doing in the office on a Saturday afternoon?”
“The editor lets me come in weekends and work on side issues. Man on the move’s gotta go the extra mile.” Omar’s voice gradually heightened in pitch. “You’re phoning me with something, right? This ain’t no weekend social call, see how your favorite hack is spending his time.”
“I’ve just gotten out of an arraignment hearing. Dale Steadman has been charged with murder one.”
“Wait!” There was the sound of a drawer being violently torn open. “All right. I’m ready!”
Marcus sketched out what had taken place. “That’s all I know so far.”
The court reporter responded to the news with his own cry of delight. “Didn’t I say this was gonna happen? The man makes it his job to light up the sky!”
“I just felt like I owed you.”
“This is the kind of payback I like!”
“I assume I don’t have to state the obvious.”
“Course not. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Who is this I’m talking to?”
Marcus hung up the phone and walked outside to where the pair waited in the Esplanade. “Let’s go.”
It was dark by the time they dropped off Deacon and drove to Marcus’ home. The silent ride had seemed endless. Dale’s morose state had defied all attempts at conversation and planning. Marcus climbed out of the car, stretched, and offered, “Why don’t you come in and stay the night?”
Dale did not turn from his grim inspection of the night ahead.
“It’s too late for you to drive back to Wilmington, Dale.”
“Shut the door.”
Marcus knew the tone and the intention all too well. “Friend, that voice you’re hearing is only speaking lies.”
In reply, Dale slapped the Esplanade into gear and gunned the engine. Marcus stepped back as the SUV shot forward. His door slammed shut with the sound of a gavel pounding nails into the grim and uncaring dark.
Marcus ate a weary dinner standing by the kitchen sink. The wall phone was there at eye level, waiting for him to end his futile debate. He called Kirsten’s hotel and left a message for her to get in touch. Then he stood cradling the phone and knowing he had to make the call.
Winner Take All Page 26
