Alan Davidson held up his hand to stop Frank from speaking and said, "That's good enough, sir. Your honor, I submit that Detective O'Ryan is credible as an expert witness, capable of rendering an opinion for the purposes of this hearing."
The judge looked at the prosecutor and said, "Any objections?"
"Several, your honor. First of all, this man has no familiarity with our local or state laws, let alone the processes that Chicago PD had to follow to establish their case. What might pass for proper protocol back in Pennsylvania is likely wildly different then protocols in place in Chicago."
Davidson said, "Your honor, the language and loopholes here might be different than they are somewhere else, but a drug dealer is a drug dealer no matter where you go. This man will not be asked anything he is not qualified to answer."
Judge Ceparullo looked at Frank and said, "I'll accept him as an expert witness. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this witness is allowed to offer something a little different than the other witnesses you've heard so far. Instead of direct testimony about things that he saw or did, he will be offering an opinion about the investigation methodologies and ahhh proper procedures, you see." Once the jury members nodded, Ceparullo pointed at Davidson and said, "You may begin, counselor."
"Detective O'Ryan, if I might ask, you mentioned that you are on disability. What for?"
"I was shot in the knee by a suspect after he killed my sergeant. I continued working for several years, but eventually the doctors decided enough was enough."
"And what is the primary drug you dealt with during your years as a narcotics investigator?"
"Heroin," Frank said. "Most of the people I dealt with became addicted to prescription drugs containing OxyCodone. They began with legitimate prescriptions for various injuries and found themselves hooked. Heroin is a cheaper and easier way for them to satisfy that addiction."
"Did you have experience with methamphetamines?"
"Rarely."
"Marijuana?"
"I turned down more weed jobs than I took," Frank said. "Marijuana was too prevalent for me to tackle with my resources. Besides, heroin was what was killing people and making them commit countless crimes, so that is what I focused on."
"What about cocaine?" Davidson said. "My client is charged with possession with intent to deliver cocaine. Did you have experience with that?"
"Yes," Frank said. "Usually in crack-form."
"So why are you able to give an expert opinion about this case if your main experience is with heroin?" Davidson eyed Roth as he said this, knowing he was getting all the hard questions out of the way on his own terms, wanting to give the appearance of complete transparency.
"When I look at a case, much in the same way as when I select a target for a narcotics investigation, I don't focus on what he sells. I focus on the methodology he employs to determine if he's a viable target."
Davidson clapped his hands to get everyone's attention on him as he walked toward the jury box. Now it was show time. Now he brought the whole thing home. "And in your expert opinion, is Mr. Keenan Marvin a drug dealer?"
Frank looked from the jury to the defense table and said, "Yes."
There was a chorus of muted laughter and people muttering "The hell did he say?"
Keenan Marvin slapped his wrists on the table, rattling the handcuffs holding them together and called for his attorney. Davidson looked stricken for a moment, like a man who'd been punched too hard in the face during the third round and the lights were flickering, about to go out. "What?" was all Davidson could manage.
"Your client is clearly a drug dealer, sir. He's been arrested twice for possession with intent and he's pled guilty to it. He's spent time in prison for it. Whether or not he's a drug dealer isn't the question I came to answer. It's whether or not the controlled substances he was in possession of the night the police arrested him, the drugs that are listed on Lieutenant Daniels' search warrant receipt, were intended for sale. And that's it."
Jack looked from the witness to the defense attorney to the prosecutor, searching each face for answers, but she was coming up short. She leaned over to Roth and asked, "Is this guy secretly on your payroll or what?"
Roth didn't respond. His hands were wrapped around the edge of the table before him, gripping it until his fingers were flat and knuckles white.
Alan Davidson rubbed his face with his hand like he was trying to scrape water off a windshield and cautiously said, "Okay…so on the night in question, were the drugs my client possessed intended for sale?"
"Absolutely not," Frank said. "The phone records clearly indicate they were having a party that evening and had the drugs on hand for their personal use. The prosecution's case for those charges is built around the quantity of drugs on hand, saying that the only possible reason Mr. Marvin and his cohorts would have so much ecstasy and marijuana in their possession was if they were going to sell it. That's simply not the case."
After that, Davidson relaxed and settled into his routine. He began holding up police statements and laboratory reports for Frank to analyze and interpret and explain to the jury why the officers had failed to establish their case for the drugs. It was a show, really, Frank thought. The drug charges were tacked on like a chef tossing a bowl of spaghetti at the wall. They were trying to see what stuck.
A piece of garbage like Keenan Marvin was already a two-time loser. Illinois didn't have a three-strikes law, but that didn't mean the judge wouldn't launch his sorry ass into orbit regardless of whether or not the murder charges held.
It seemed that for every one of his answers, the attorneys spent twenty minutes arguing about whether or not it would be admissible. They argued and the cops in the back rolled their eyes and the jury either nodded or scribbled on their notepads and Frank, bored, began skimming through the various reports in front of him. He picked up the lengthy criminal complaint filed against the defendant by the woman, Lieutenant Daniels. As an expert witness for one specific section of the case, he had limited his research. He'd never seen the full list of charges or reports.
As he came to the end of the charges leveled against Marvin, he read the final two charges: Conspiracy to Attempt Kidnapping and Rape. The victim's name was the same as the person's signature on the affidavit below.
Frank looked up sharply at Davidson first, his mouth quivering in disbelief. Davidson was too busy filibustering to notice. Frank turned his head, staring wide-eyed at the female Lieutenant, who was looking directly back at him.
It was dark by the time Frank got off the stand and most of the cops in the back had cleared out, needing to get home or go to work or simply bored of standing there listening to the details of evidence procedure and narcotics collection. Some of the jury members were still trying to hang in there, making notes as people spoke. Others were staring off in the distance and one in the back was asleep. Keenan Marvin was asleep too.
Judge Ceparullo thanked the jury for their patience that day and said, "I know it was a long one. I expect we have another full day tomorrow and then we'll move on to closing arguments after that. You can tell your families we'll be finished this week. Have a good evening."
The judge waited for the jury to leave the court and then turned to the lawyers, saying, "Right?"
Joel Roth nodded and smiled. "I'm ready for closing arguments now, your honor."
Alan Davidson rolled his eyes as he stood up and said, "I have two more expert witnesses coming in to testify. One on the weapon and one on the blood spatter. I can't guarantee how long either of them will take, your honor. My client is facing life in prison. It is in the court's best interest to allow him a vigorous defense to prevent lengthy appeals down the road."
Ceparullo looked at the sleeping defendant and said, "Apparently we've been keeping Mr. Marvin awake with all this legal nonsense while his fate is being decided."
"I wasn't sleep," Marvin muttered with his eyes still closed. "I'm just conserving my energy in case I need it."
Ceparull
o glanced at Marvin's handcuffs, making sure they were still secured and said, "One can only imagine for what, young man, but just remember one thing. There's more under this bench than a pair of old man's legs and I win every turkey shoot at my gun club, even when they don't let me. Court is dismissed."
Two sheriff's deputies moved in to pick Marvin up off the chair and Davidson stopped them, waving his hands to back them off, saying, "Hey, hey, whoa! Guys, can I meet with my client real quick before you whisk him off back to prison? I'm in the middle of a murder case here! It's a little bit more important than making sure he gets back in time for his peanut butter sandwich and applesauce."
They let him escort Marvin to the interview room adjacent to the court, where prisoners were held before being brought in. There was an iron rail that ran along the walls above a flat wooden bench and the deputies said, "You want us to un-cuff him, cuff him to the wall, or leave him as is?"
Davidson looked at Marvin, his thickly muscled arms, his dark tattoos and dull eyes and said, "Why don't you leave him handcuffed for now? Just to make it easier when you have to take him back. We won't be long anyway." Marvin snickered as his attorney shut the door and sat down next to him, "Do you have any questions about what happened today?"
"Nope," Marvin said.
"Listen, I think things are going well, but we need to be realistic here. You are probably going to eat most of these charges. The important thing is that we set ourselves up for a good appeal, which has been my strategy all along."
Marvin closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, "Whatever, man. Ain't gonna be no appeals, because there ain't gon' need to be, you heard?"
"No, actually I didn't heard," Davidson mimicked his client's language. He stopped speaking when he heard one of the deputies talking to someone, giving an order to stop.
"I'm part of the defense case," Frank O'Ryan said. "I just need to pass on some information to Mr. Davidson real quick."
The deputy opened the door to ask and Davidson waved him in and said, "Sure, sure, let's make it a party." He smiled at Frank as he got up from the bench and said, "There's the man of the hour. You did great today. Those narcotics charges are poof! Gone."
Marvin stared at Frank through narrow eyes and said, "Yeah, after your dumb ass told them I was a drug dealer. The hell am I paying you for?"
Frank nodded silently as the deputy left the room and pulled the door shut, still nodding as he waited for the soft metal click of the handle and then he spun and grabbed Alan Davidson by the throat. Davidson let out a soft squeak of terror as Frank shook him and shouted, "You let me testify on behalf of this animal? This piece of shit tried to get that woman kidnapped and raped!"
"You said you didn't want to know what else happened in the case!" Davidson sputtered. "That's what you said!"
"I asked you if any of the victims were cops."
"No!" Davidson said. "You asked me if he'd killed any cops, and the answer was, and is, no."
Frank shoved Davidson back down on the bench so hard he thought the drywall would crack and turned on Marvin, getting in the man's face, getting close enough that their spit would hit each other in the face as he said, "You son of a bitch, I hope they bury you under the jail. You understand me? I hope they bury you. Under. The. Jail!"
Keenan Marvin looked up at Frank with bored, disinterested eyes and then he smiled slightly and said, "Y'all are real funny, you know that? You think jail means anything to me? It ain't nothing. I can do more business in jail than I can on the street. I can get anything I want and get anything I want done, you feel me? Every gang on these streets was built and run from a penitentiary, with thousands of soldiers taking orders from the inside. But the funny thing is, I'll never see no time. All this is just for show."
"That's enough, Keenan," Alan Davidson said sternly.
"You planning something else?" Frank snarled. He grabbed Marvin by the orange collar and twisted it, "You going to try another move against one of us? I'll kill you myself. I swear to God, you so much as ask somebody to bump a shopping cart into one of my people at the supermarket and I'll put a bullet in your head."
Marvin glared at Frank and forced himself forward, getting to his feet to stand toe-to-toe with him, shouting, "This ain't where you from, bitch, and these ain't your people, neither. This Chicago. So go on with your gimpy ass back to Pennsylvania while you still can before somebody takes a sledgehammer to your other leg, you heard?"
Alan Davidson pounded on the interview room door, hollering for the deputies, and they finally came, yelling at Frank to back away and for Marvin to sit back down. Marvin slumped back down on the wooden bench as Frank stared at him. Marvin gave Frank his most malicious grin, revealing the white gold caps covering his teeth and the tiny diamonds built into them that spelled out "Ack Trife" and said, "Keep on looking, gimp. Take a real good look too, because when I get out of this, I'm a come see you next. That's a nice wedding ring. You got a real pretty wife, I bet. Keep looking. I'm a give you plenty to look at. Believe that."
One of the deputies grabbed Frank and shoved him through the interview room door, pulling it shut the moment he was past, just trying to remove him from the situation. Frank stood in the hallway, staring through the darkened, useless window. He tried to swallow but there was no moisture in his mouth or throat. Everything felt dry and brittle inside as he limped down the hall, moving away from the sound of the deputies shouting at Keenan Marvin to stand up and shut up as they prepared him for transport.
Jack Daniels was standing at the end of the hallway, hands stuffed in her pockets, watching him coming toward her before he realized she was there. Her expression was flat as she watched him, like the tip of an iceberg, Frank thought. He knew she wouldn't piss on him if his guts were on fire, and he didn't deserve anything else, but as he came closer she said, "Everything all right in there, Detective?"
"It's fine, they've got it under control," Frank said. He stopped and looked at her, sifting through the words like clumps of mud, but all he came up with was, "Listen, I didn't know."
"I can see that," Jack said, turning away from him to go for the door, unable to stand the sound and stench of the court house any longer. "But you certainly should have."
3.
I got into my car and sat for a moment without turning it on, holding the steering wheel with both hands, taking long, slow breaths. I told myself it was the lack of sleep. I told myself it wasn't the endless parade of maniacs showing up in my life and at my door, ready to kill me, the cat, and whatever mope happened to win the Who-I-Slept-With-Last lottery. I told myself it wasn't that I was getting old, or that I was getting tired.
That was enough of that. The parking lot was dark and empty, so I reached behind my passenger seat for my bag and double-checked to make sure no one was around before I slid out of my blazer and quickly unbuttoned my blouse. I tossed both of them in the backseat and pulled a light cotton top out of the bag and wiggled it over my head.
I looked again. No lookie-loos were peeking around any of the corners, trying to get an eyeful of me in my bra and panties. The only lights I could see were from a corner pub at the end of the street advertising ten cent hot wings, and it didn't look like the advertising campaign was drawing in too much business. Word had gotten out about a bad mugging the week before. It was going to take more than ten cent wings to bring people back around. I undid my belt, slid off my gun and unbuttoned my pants, lifting my butt off the seat and pulling the pants down to my feet.
Selecting clothes to wear for a night out is always complicated. The shirt has to be form-fitting enough so it doesn't look like I'm wearing a paper bag, but it has to be long enough and loose enough around the waist to cover up the handle of my revolver. There aren't many options for female cops. I saw a bra holster in one of the police equipment magazines left lying around the station and thought about getting one until I heard one of the guys say, "Look at this thing, it'll hold her cannons and her pistol. Har har har."
&nbs
p; By the time I got my jeans on and had my gun back around my hip, it was almost time to meet up with Phin. It was good to be back in regular clothes. Like I was human again. Back when I'd been in uniform, the first thing I did when I got home was strip and get changed, just to be out of it, only wanting to curl up on the couch wearing sweatpants and eat a bowl of cereal. The uniform and badge are a sign to the world that says, "Come to me with all of your problems, fears, and emergencies. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, how I'm feeling, or if I might get hurt. I get paid to get shot at, spit at, and have psychopaths come after me where I live. It's all right. Really. I get good dental benefits for it."
Back then, I'd carried my gun and badge with me off-duty in case somebody needed help. Now, I carried it for a different reason. Times had changed. Or maybe, times hadn't changed, but I had.
I picked up my phone and called the Violent Crimes desk. "Hey, it's Jack. I'm just checking in. Anything happen today?"
"Not that I can see. It's all good in the hood, Lieut," the cop said.
I paused for a second, biting my lip because I wasn't looking forward to what I had to say next, but it was the right thing to do, as much as it sucked. "Is Herb around?" I asked.
"I haven't seen him. He wasn't at court with you today?"
"He might have been, but he's sequestered so I didn't see him. I thought maybe he stopped back at the office."
The cop covered up the phone and I heard him yell, "Anybody seen Herb?" There were muffled voices in the background and he came back on the phone and said, "Nope. Hey, if you can't find him, just set out a trail of candy bars. He'll come to you."
I hung up the phone.
It rang a dozen times on Herb's cellphone until it finally went to voicemail. I ended the call, waited a few seconds, then called it again. The phone was off. Straight to the mailbox. I left a message that said, "Herb, it's me. Are you ditching my calls? Listen, I'm sorry about last night. I've just been…under a lot of stress lately. Call me." I called his house phone and tapped my nails impatiently on the center console until someone picked up.
Jack Daniels and Associates: Snake Wine Page 3
