“Mmm.” She pressed her pale pink lips together. “I’ve learned to forgive and forget. It’s much less taxing on the mind.”
* * *
Adam did not return to Vega and Charlene. Vega noticed him standing in a corner by the piano, staring at the musicians’ black lace-up sneakers. Vega was sure Adam didn’t approve.
“Detective?” Keppel’s small blue eyes tightened as he walked over. “Something with the case that can’t wait until tomorrow? I was just about to head into dinner here.”
“Sorry, Judge. Can I speak to you privately for a moment?”
Keppel turned to Charlene. “Keep my dinner warm.”
“My pleasure,” she replied.
Vega wondered if it would be anybody’s “pleasure” when Keppel found out he would likely not be returning.
Keppel suggested they walk outside. Night was closing in. The earth had gone shadowy, cut only by the twinkle of security lights along the circular driveway and the reflected golden glow from inside the clubhouse. Above, the sky remained a bruise of colors. The soft hues of overripe fruit and spilled wine. A cool breeze fanned the manicured grass, a current of air with Canada in its address.
“I thought the Talia Crowley case was being closed down?” said Keppel. “Treated as a suicide?”
“It is,” said Vega. “For now, at least. Actually, I’m here for another reason. This afternoon, Adele Figueroa was arrested.”
Vega had been in front of enough judges to know how their minds worked. They were used to controlling the flow of information and forming their own opinions. If Vega spilled out everything at once—the crime, the circumstances, his belief that Adele was innocent and possibly even framed—he’d tick off the judge. Maybe even turn Keppel against Vega for coming over here like this and using his leverage. So Vega stood very still and waited for the judge to ask the questions.
“Arrested? Hmmm.” Keppel stopped in his tracks. “Was there a civil disturbance in town today? A protest march?”
“No,” said Vega. “She was meeting with a client about an immigration matter.” Vega decided to leave out the “sanctuary” stuff. Keppel might not approve. “When she left, she noticed she had a flat tire. Officer Bale happened by and offered to put her spare on for her. When he pulled apart her trunk to get to the spare, he found a bag full of heroin.”
Vega kept his words flat and devoid of emotion. He could see he had the judge’s attention.
“How much heroin are we talking about?”
“Seven grams,” said Vega. He didn’t need to add “felony weight.” They both knew.
Keppel whistled but said nothing else. Vega knew what he wanted to add—that Adele had never used heroin in her life. But Vega could prejudice the judge and Keppel could end up recusing himself as a result. Vega didn’t want that. Still, he had to keep up the momentum.
“She’s in a Lake Holly holding cell now, Judge. Her lawyer’s at the station house. They’re talking about keeping her overnight until you can arraign her tomorrow morning. She has an important meeting with her client at nine a.m. at ICE that she’ll miss. If there was any way you could see her tonight—”
“You mean, inconvenience my schedule so she doesn’t have to inconvenience hers.”
“No, sir. Not at all,” said Vega. “This isn’t about Adele. This is about her client. If she misses that meeting, then he misses it and it could be very damaging to his legal situation.”
“I see.”
A door to the clubhouse opened and someone stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. Laughter and chatter poured onto the lawn and then died just as quickly as the door shut again. Keppel turned to the clubhouse, his pale, scrawny face and turkey neck bathed in the glow. He seemed to be debating his choices.
“This heroin,” said Keppel. “Do you know if it had a stamp on it? A brand name?” Vega noticed Keppel didn’t ask where Adele got it from or if she got it. He was trying to keep himself neutral.
“I asked,” said Vega. “She said it didn’t have a stamp on it. A lot of the stuff doesn’t these days. Dealers don’t want to get caught if one of their buyers OD’s. She did say she noticed a pale blue line down one side of the dime bags when Officer Bale pulled the bundles out of the car.”
Keppel’s face pivoted from the clubhouse to Vega. “A pale blue line? Nothing else?”
“That’s correct. I’m out of narcotics investigation these days,” Vega admitted. “The pale blue line means nothing to me.”
Keppel sucked on his teeth. Vega had a sense the pale blue line did indeed mean something to him, but judicial impartiality prevented him from explaining.
“You’re a county detective, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call someone on your narcotics squad and mention it to them. This shouldn’t be coming from me.” Keppel looked back at the clubhouse and shook his head. “I’m going to miss a lovely dinner.”
Chapter 33
“Okay,” said Paola as she took a seat next to Adele at the defense table. “Judge Keppel’s in the building and changing into his robes. McMillan’s downstairs getting coffee with the court stenographer. The judge ordered them in.” Arthur McMillan was the town prosecutor.
“Where’s Jimmy?” Adele’s cell phone was still in her handbag—which was still in her impounded car. She had to rely on Paola to communicate with him.
“He’s got a call in to a detective in county narcotics.”
“Why?” Adele couldn’t see where anything another cop said could help her right now.
“He didn’t say. But he promised he’d be up here as soon as he’s through.”
Paola pulled a yellow pad full of notes from her briefcase and settled herself at the table. The courtroom was on the second floor of the Lake Holly police station, up a flight of worn steps. There was a judge’s bench, two tables—one for the defense and one for the prosecution—a table on the side for the court stenographer, and a bunch of flags: U.S., state, and county. The whole place resembled an elementary school auditorium but without any spectators. The few seats behind the tables were empty at this hour on a Sunday night.
This little show was just for Adele.
“Where was the judge?” asked Adele. “At home?”
“No,” said Paola. “Just about to sit down to a charity dinner at the Wickford Country Club.”
Adele groaned. “I cheated him out of a good meal. He’s going to be hungry—and angry.”
“Let’s hope Jimmy got him here tactfully.”
The rear door opened. Adele and Paola turned. Arthur McMillan grunted out something that vaguely sounded like “hello” and walked over to the prosecutor’s table with his paper cup of coffee. In court, he normally favored three-piece suits and a liberal use of aftershave. This evening, he was wearing only dark khakis, an oxford shirt, and a hastily knotted tie.
The court clerk, an older woman Adele had seen before with baby blue glasses on a chain around her neck, took a seat at her table and texted something on her phone. She was here but she wasn’t. This was just a quick way to earn a little extra overtime.
McMillan settled himself at the prosecution table and angled his body in Adele and Paola’s direction. “Never thought I’d see you sitting there, Adele, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“We mind, Mr. McMillan,” said Paola. “I invite you to reserve your statements for the judge.”
Adele flushed. She felt acutely embarrassed. She knew she was innocent, but she felt like someone was holding a sign above her that read: GUILTY.
It wasn’t the first time that Adele had internalized the opinions of others, right or wrong. When she was twelve, shy and bookish, two classmates that other girls considered “cool” took Adele under their wing. One day, she accompanied them to a local five-and-dime and watched in horror as the two girls stuffed candy bars and chewing gum down their blouses. When the store manager shouted at them, they ran. Not Adele. She stood there with empty pockets, frozen by the enormity of what she’d just wi
tnessed.
The store manager clasped a hand on Adele’s shoulder and prodded her to the back of the store where he made her pull down her pants to prove she hadn’t stolen anything. Then he proceeded to feel inside her underwear.
“To make sure you’re not hiding any candy.” He didn’t stop touching her until she began to cry. Then he pushed her away. “Mexican trash,” he hissed. “You better not tell your parents you’re a thief. Your whole family could get deported.”
Adele told nobody what happened to her in the five-and-dime that day. She was easy prey—the poor daughter of undocumented immigrants. She knew it. Her parents knew it. Her Harvard Law degree was supposed to protect her against such things now. And yet here she was again, small and defenseless before powerful men who made her feel guilty for things she hadn’t done.
A door opened behind the bench and Judge Keppel climbed the steps to his seat. He hooked a pair of wire-rimmed glasses over his face and banged his gavel.
“Court is now in session. We are presiding over the arraignment of Adele Eugenia Figueroa on the charge of criminal possession of a controlled substance in the fifth degree, a class D felony. Ms. Rosado, how does your client plead?”
Paola rose. “Your Honor, we would like to request that these charges be set aside. There is no evidence my client abuses drugs or had any knowledge that those drugs were in her vehicle—”
McMillan interrupted. “Your Honor, even children understand that possession is nine-tenths of the law. Ms. Figueroa is the legal owner of the Toyota Prius in which the drugs were found. She gave Officer Bale permission to open the trunk of her car. Those facts are indisputable.”
“She is a pillar in this community,” Paola shot back. “A mother of a ten-year-old child. The founder of La Casa. An attorney—”
“Ms. Rosado,” Keppel interrupted. “Ms. Figueroa’s pedigree doesn’t automatically exempt her from anything here. Sadly, I’ve seen a lot of ‘pillars’ in this community succumb to heroin addiction lately.”
“Your Honor, if I may,” said McMillan. “Prosecution realizes that this is a first-time offense. The people are willing to reduce the charge from felony possession to misdemeanor possession with a recommendation of probation in return for a guilty plea right now and an agreement that the defendant submit to drug counseling and regular testing during the probation period.”
Adele was thankful that Paola didn’t even entertain the offer. “Your Honor, my client is willing to submit to a drug test right now to prove she’s not using—”
“Your client has been locked up since this afternoon,” McMillan countered. “Maybe she planned to go home and nod off.”
“She’s not a drug abuser,” said Paola. “She maintains that those drugs were planted in her car without her knowledge or consent. She is a defense attorney, Your Honor. Do you really think she would have consented to Officer Bale opening her trunk if she’d known those drugs were in there?”
“She can plead to a misdemeanor and she won’t automatically get disbarred,” said McMillan. “I don’t see what the problem is.”
Keppel turned to McMillan. “Mr. McMillan—your offer to the defense is a fair one. But this is an arraignment, not a plea-bargaining session. Let’s take this one step at a time. Ms. Rosado—has EMS ever been dispatched to your client’s house for issues related to an overdose?”
Adele knew that Keppel was asking a question he wasn’t technically allowed to ask because it violated patient privacy. But she also understood that he was trying to establish whether Adele did indeed have a drug problem.
Paola looked at Adele. “No,” said Adele. “I have never had EMS visit my house for any reason other than the time my daughter Sophia fell down the stairs about four years ago.”
“Is anyone in your extended family dealing with any drug issues?” Keppel realized he was overreaching. He clarified. “I’m just trying to figure out if there is a reason for those drugs being in your car without your knowledge.”
“No, Your Honor,” Adele said again. “To my knowledge, no one in my family or friend circle is abusing drugs.”
The rear door of the courtroom swung open. Adele turned and saw Vega striding down the center aisle with a piece of paper in his right hand.
“Your Honor,” said Vega. “I have some information that I think might figure into the court’s consideration of the charges against Ms. Figueroa.” He spoke formally, without glancing in Adele’s direction. Adele understood. To help her, he had to act as neutral as possible.
“Please enter your name, title, and reasons for being here into the record,” said Keppel.
“James Vega. Detective, county police,” he said. “I have nineteen years’ experience as a police officer. I am currently assigned to the homicide task force but prior to this, I worked five years as an undercover officer in the narcotics division.” Then, belatedly, Vega added, “I am also familiar with the defendant.”
“You are dating the defendant, is that correct?” asked Keppel.
“Yes, Your Honor. I am. But I’m not here to vouch for her character, although it’s unimpeachable. I’m here to make the court aware of the pedigree of the heroin found in the defendant’s possession.”
Vega and Keppel locked eyes for a moment. Adele got the sense the judge knew what was coming.
“You have examined the evidence?” asked Keppel.
“I have.”
Adele wondered which officer cut Vega a break. Definitely not Bale.
“I sent a cell phone snapshot of one of the bundles to Lieutenant Nicholas Giordano, a top-ranking officer in our county narcotics squad,” Vega explained. “Lieutenant Giordano just texted this reply. May I approach the bench and show you his response?”
“Please,” said Keppel.
Vega handed his cell phone to the judge.
“Your Honor, as you can see, Lieutenant Giordano says the pale blue stripe on the side of the bundle is identical to a heroin/fentanyl mixture seized six months ago in a multi-agency raid. A raid Lieutenant Giordano and his officers were involved in.”
“The dealers could have made more,” said McMillan.
Vega shook his head. “Lieutenant Giordano says the ring was closed down. The players are in jail. The only way someone could get this heroin right now would be from a police evidence locker.”
McMillan was on his feet. “Your Honor—there is no evidence of any kind that a police officer planted that heroin.” He gestured to Vega. “Unless the detective here is telling you he’s the one who did the planting.”
“Of course not!” said Vega. “I’m not even assigned to narcotics anymore. What I’m saying is that this particular brand of heroin and fentanyl disappeared off the streets six months ago. Nobody’s seen it since. What junkie do you know who buys fourteen bundles of heroin and then just stores it away? That stuff isn’t hers.”
Keppel handed Vega back his phone. “Please make a printout of the lieutenant’s statement at the adjournment of this proceeding so that it can be included in the record.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”
Keppel folded his hands in front of him and sat like that for a long moment. In his black robes, his beady blue eyes magnified behind wire-rimmed glasses, he looked like an enormous vulture eyeing his prey.
“Well, this certainly begs the question, how did that heroin end up in Ms. Figueroa’s car?”
Silence. Adele and Paola knew better than to fall into the trap of pointing fingers. However much it looked like Adele was set up, they’d undo all the court’s good will by suggesting that without proof. And yet Keppel was too good a jurist not to be troubled by the fact that the drugs may have been in police hands before they were in the trunk of Adele’s car.
Keppel addressed the prosecutor.
“Mr. McMillan? Please inform the Lake Holly PD that I will be making a recommendation that the district attorney’s office investigate the origin of these confiscated narcotics. Lieutenant Giordano’s statements are troubling.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor.
Keppel’s eyes then zeroed in on Adele. “Ms. Figueroa, I’m inclined to think that these drugs are not yours, despite being found in your vehicle. While I’m disinclined to countermand a police officer’s arrest, in this case, I’m going to make an exception—”
“Thank you, Judge—”
“Not so fast.” Keppel raised a finger. “I’m releasing you on your own recognizance and setting a court date for three months from now. In the meantime, you will submit to routine drug testing. If the tests all turn out negative, I will vacate the charges in three months and order the arrest stricken from your record.”
“Your Honor,” said Paola. “My client will have this hanging over her head until then—”
“That is unfortunate, Ms. Rosado. But if your client is as clean as you say she is, she has nothing to worry about. It’s an inconvenience—nothing more.”
“Your Honor,” Adele said, jumping up. She knew she was supposed to go through Paola, but this was too important not to address herself.
“What is it, Ms. Figueroa?” Keppel asked wearily.
“The police impounded my car—”
“I will sign an order of release,” said the judge. “But it’s up to them whether they want to release the car now or in the morning.”
“But my wallet and keys are in there,” said Adele.
“Along with a folder of important client documents.”
“I’m sure if you explain the situation, the officers can give you back those things, even if they can’t release your car until morning.” Keppel banged his gavel. “Court adjourned. Hopefully, I can get back to the Wick for dessert.”
Chapter 34
It took another hour for Vega to cajole the Lake Holly Police into releasing Adele’s car. He pointed out that Adele hadn’t been charged with a felony—and hopefully wouldn’t be if she stuck to the terms Keppel had outlined and her lawyer, Paola, had agreed to.
“I have to pee in a cup for three months to prove what anybody who knows me already knows?” Adele grumbled as they left the station.
Voice with No Echo Page 24
