“Brownie?” Smawley was still connected to the radio patch-in.
“Yeah,” the officer said disgustedly.
“What you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” Brownie said coldly. “You’ve done enough already.” Then he clicked the mike button and shut off the receiver.
He stood in the open field and put his hands on his hips, angry enough to throw a punch. But there was no one to hit.
A few moments later, Brownie walked slowly back toward the van, his mind still churning with anger. Suddenly his eye caught an open door on a shed at the east end of the field. If he retraced the path of the fleeing man, it would lead back to that area.
He ran over to the shed and looked in. It was a small, tin-roofed storage building, large enough to house two riding mowers, a stack of fertilizer bags, shovels, rakes, and trimming implements.
Brownie checked the lock on the door. It had been cut by a hacksaw. He unsnapped his flashlight and probed the interior with the beam. The construction was crude, a dirt floor, slatted wooden strips nailed across support posts, and open rafters.
He scanned the floor for footprints, but the clay was dry and hard. There were some heel indentations, but none were defined enough for an identification. He then swept the walls with the light, but nothing seemed amiss.
Suddenly Brownie’s beam caught a slat on the far wall that was not flush with the others. It stood out slightly. He rushed over and knelt down. There was a mark on the end of the slat.
Brownie removed his penknife, pried the slat loose, and shone his light into the hole. He could see a space between the inner and outer wall. Six or seven inches deep, it made an ideal hiding place.
Brownie angled off so he could direct his light down, but he couldn’t see bottom. He grabbed the next slat down and pulled it off. Then he pulled off another slat. Then another. There was only a foot left above the floor.
He pointed the light into the gap, but it was empty. He was about to pull away when he noticed something. As the beam shifted in his hands, a faint outline seemed to appear on the clay floor. There must have been some water seepage under the edge of the building, because the clay seemed softer, susceptible to impressions.
Brownie tore the slats all the way down to the floor and shone his light into the gap. “Uh-huh! Uh-huh!” Brownie exclaimed to himself.
The distinct outline of a handgun was neatly etched in the soil, defined enough to cast in plaster.
Part Six
CONFRONTATION
sixteen
The custody hearing was still dragging on. Gardner had cross-examined the therapist as intensely as he could, but she insisted that an outright interrogation of Granville was wrong, and that the boy might suffer emotional damage because of it. Gardner finally stopped questioning.
Carole then took the stand. With her dark hair piled on top of her head, she still looked quite alluring, despite the circumstances.
“Tell the court why you should have exclusive custody of Granville,” Bieman said.
Carole glanced at Gardner. “Because his father doesn’t know how to take care of him.”
Gardner Stirred in his seat.
“Granville is a special boy, very sensitive. He needs to he treated gently…”
Judge Cramer looked at the witness over his glasses. There was a sympathetic expression on his face.
“His father doesn’t understand that. He pushes him. He’s always pushing him…”
Gardner looked down at the desk, as a vision of a baseball field and a crying son flashed into his head. “Get up!” he had yelled.
“Granville is a little boy. Just a little boy. He’s not big. He’s not strong. He’s just a child…”
Gardner’s heart began to throb as the words came out. He’d always felt the same way. He’d always believed that Granville was special, a big-eyed innocent, untainted and pure in spirit. But he couldn’t he sheltered forever. He had to he shown the realities. Thoughtfully, and gently, of course. But it had to be done. The world was real. The bullets were not imaginary. Someday, he’d have to learn that.
“He was hurt at the store,” Carole continued. “His head was hit, and he was unconscious…” Tears began to roll down her cheeks. “And right away, his father comes in. The prosecutor. The almighty prosecutor! The boy is lying there knocked out, and he—” she pointed accusingly at Gardner—”he comes in! Not as a father! No! He has to make his own child a witness…” Carole was starting to lose it.
“Your Honor!” Gardner stood up shakily. The words were hitting too close to home. “This isn’t proper testimony…”
The judge looked at Gardner sternly. “Sit down, Mr. Law-son. You’ll have your turn to speak.”
“But she’s giving her opinion,” Gardner sputtered, “not fact…”
The judge was unswayed. “Opinion is what this case is all about, Mr. Lawson,” Cramer said, “opinion as to what’s best for the child. Now sit down!”
Gardner slumped into his chair.
“Granville doesn’t want to do this!” Carole continued. “Judge. You heard the therapist. He doesn’t remember! God! He doesn’t want to remember! He cries at night. He curls up like a baby. He jumps at loud noises.”
“Mrs. Lawson.” Attorney Bieman decided it was time to bring it back under control. “Do you have a plan for the child? In the event that the judge awards you exclusive custody in this case?”
Carole rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand and took several deep breaths. “Uh, yes, I do,” she said. “We plan to go away, to Switzerland.”
Gardner almost fell out of his chair. Europe? She was going to Europe? Jesus Christ, no! No way the judge could allow that!
“And why the drastic change of locale?” Bieman asked.
Carole’s eyes clouded with tears again. “Because we, uh, I mean, he’ll go crazy if he has to stay here. He’s practically psychotic now—”
“Object!” Gardner shouted. “She cannot give that kind of opinion, Judge. That’s a medical conclusion.” Gardner recoiled at his own words. It was his son they were talking about, “Grand Bill,” not some nondescript witness in some nondescript case. His emotions were running in one direction, and his legal instincts the other. And they were crashing in the center.
“I’ll accept it for what it’s worth,” the judge said curtly, his eyes urging Gardner to sit down.
Gardner was boiling.
“I’m not going to ask you again, Mr. Lawson,” Judge Cramer warned. “Sit down!”
Gardner remained standing. “Please don’t do this!” he said to Carole. There was a look of desperation in his eyes.
“Mr. Lawson!” the judge boomed.
“Object!” Bieman followed up.
“Please! Carole!” Gardner had lost his dignity. He’d decided to skip protocol and go straight to the source. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
Carole stood up in the witness chair. “No! You don’t! You’re going to kill him!” The word “kill” reverberated in the empty courtroom like a scream.
“Mrs. Lawson, uh, Mr. Lawson!” The judge had lost control.
“Judge!” Bieman hollered.
“Carole, please!” Gardner yelled.
Everyone was standing except the judge, so he too rose and slammed his gavel so hard it almost snapped in two. “Quiet everyone!”
The protagonists fell silent but held their ground.
“I realize this is a very emotional issue,” Judge Cramer said with forced composure. “But we’re not going to resolve anything if we act like this. Please!” He looked at Gardner and then at Carole. “Please let’s try to remain calm. I’m going to take a ten-minute recess so you can get yourselves under control. When I come back, I expect civility to be restored.”
Judge Cramer slammed his gavel again and swept off the bench. Gardner and Carole remained standing, glaring at each other through their tears.
Jennifer had almost worn a rut in the marble floor in front of the Grand Jury ro
om. Over three hours now without a knock at the door. This had to be some kind of record. Grand juries were supposed to be pro forma. Whatever the prosecutor asked for, he usually got. But today, they had a mind of their own.
Finally, it happened. A barely audible knock-knock on the massive oak door. Jennifer opened it and ran in.
The place looked like a bomb had hit it. The men were in shirt sleeves, and there was the odor of perspiration in the air. Two women in the back row were red-faced and sullen. And the foreman looked as if he’d just lost a heavyweight bout. He handed Jennifer the indictment sheets with a frown.
“Sorry,” the foreman said. He was a fiftyish businessman with lightly salted brown hair. “I pushed as hard as I could.”
Jennifer tore through the documents. On the third page, six charges had been crossed out in ink. She glanced at the top of the page. It read: State v. Starke.
“There was a concern about the degree of proof necessary to charge him with the actual crimes,” the foreman said wea-rily. Then he jerked his chin in the direction of the troublemak-ing housewife.
Jennifer looked at the dragon lady. “Participation at the scene in any degree, coupled with flight, is evidence of com-plicity,” the prosecutor said. “I told you that before I left the room.”
The woman shook her head. “But you never told us exactly what Starke did! How could we decide?”
Jennifer went silent. Starke was involved in the crimes. Up to his neck. They all knew that. And every honey-coated word out of Joel Jacobs’s mouth underscored his guilt. But they had no hard facts. And it was obvious that until they did, Starke would get off easy.
Jennifer put the indictments down on the desk and went back to page one. They’d had no problem with Miller. Murder. Murder. Murder. Attempted murder. Robbery. Assault. Bat-tery. Roscoe Miller had been charged with all proposed counts.
But back to page three, and it was a different story. On Starke, hardly anything had been left. No murder. No attempted murder. Not even assault or battery. The only charges they’d agreed on were the counts of accessory before the fact, a misdemeanor that carried a maximum of five years in jail.
Jennifer thanked the jury and dismissed them. It only took a few minutes for the room to clear.
The foreman lingered outside the door and came back in when the others had faded to murmurs down the hall. “Ms. Munday, I really am sorry,” he said. “You don’t know how hard I tried.”
Jennifer managed a wan smile. “I’m sure you did.”
“We knew he was guilty of something,” the foreman contin-ued. “But without evidence, we couldn’t in good conscience endorse the charges. I hope you understand.”
“You did the best you could,” Jennifer replied.
“I hope you can get him…”
“Huh?” Jennifer’s mind was trying to come up with a way to break the news to Gardner.
“I hope you find some more evidence on that guy before you go to trial.”
Jennifer nodded listlessly. “Me too,” she said. They’d gotten the Miller indictments by painting his evidence in the most favorable light, but it wasn’t that good. Most of it was sure to unravel in court. If Starke had been hit with the full list of charges, there was still a chance he could be turned against Roscoe, offered a lesser charge in return for his testimony. But now that couldn’t be. Starke’s maximum exposure was five years, and there was no way they could deal that down. With Miller overcharged and Starke undercharged, their dilemma continued. It was the worst of all possible scenarios.
Gardner was seated at the counsel table when Judge Cramer returned from the recess. Sullen and silent, Gardner looked like an English schoolboy who’d just been caned for misbe-havior.
Carole had stepped down from the witness stand and joined her attorney. Her expression was as bitter as her ex-husband’s. The tears had dried, but the pain remained.
Judge Cramer looked at Bieman. “Any more testimony, Counsel?”
The Baltimore lawyer whispered to his client, then stood to address the court. “No, Your Honor…” He had decided to pull her off the stand before she went to pieces again and destroyed her motherly image.
“Any other witnesses, then?” Cramer asked.
“No, Your Honor, but we would like to be heard in argu-ment.”
“Very well,” the judge said. “After Mr. Lawson presents his case.” He turned to Gardner. “Any witnesses, Counsel?”
Gardner stood up, his face still red. “Just me, Your Honor.” He walked to the witness stand and raised his hand. The oath was given, and he sat down.
“What do you have to tell me?” Cramer asked.
Gardner leaned forward and placed his mouth near the black gooseneck microphone. “This case isn’t about custody,” Gardner began. “It’s about survival.” He looked at Carole, and she avoided his eyes. “I love my son, Judge,” he continued. “Uh, maybe love is not a strong enough word for how I feel. He’s my only child. The one thing that Carole and I did right—”
“Objection!” Bieman roared. “He’s doing the same thing he accused my client of.”
“Noted, Mr. Bieman,” Judge Cramer replied. “Overruled.”
“I’d never do anything to hurt him,” Gardner continued. “Never…”
“So why are you pushing him so hard?” the judge asked.
“Objection!” Bieman was back on his feet.
The judge glared at Carole’s lawyer. “You have a problem with my question?”
“Not the question, Judge. The questioning.”
Judge Cramer smiled. “The man’s got no lawyer, so I’m going to fill in.”
“That’s not fair, Your Honor!” Bieman was getting frus-trated.
The judge’s smile turned sardonic. “Nothing’s fair, Mr. Bieman.” He turned back to Gardner. “Why are you forcing the boy?”
“I’m not,” Gardner said.
“Ms. Meyers and your wife, uh, I mean your ex-wife say you are.” The judge was being patient with Gardner, almost parental.
Gardner looked into Cramer’s eyes. “He’s got to deal with it someday—”
“No he doesn’t!” Carole yelled, jumping up from her chair.
“Mrs. Lawson!” Judge Cramer did not want to repeat the earlier scene.
“Please! Please sit down and let me handle this!”
Carole sat down and grabbed her counsel roughly by the arm, whispering angrily in his ear.
“Please!” Judge Cramer begged. “Let’s try to relax and get through this.” He looked at Gardner again. “You are pushing him, aren’t you, Mr. Lawson?”
Gardner didn’t respond. The answer was “yes with an expla-nation” but no one seemed to care what the reason was. If he pushed Granville to learn the truth, he was a bad father. And if he didn’t, and that allowed two murderers to go free, that made him worse.
“Mr. Lawson?” The judge was waiting for his answer.
“He’s my witness, Judge,” Gardner said forcefully. “My only witness. As State’s Attorney I’m entitled, no, required by law to ensure that a witness appears at trial and testifies. If anyone,” he glanced around the room, “I mean anyone interferes with that process it is a crime. Witness tampering. Or obstruction of justice—”
“Objection!” Bieman sensed that Gardner was about to score a hit.
“Overruled.” Cramer was listening intently.
“I am the boy’s father, that is true,” Gardner continued, “and as his father, I do not want any harm to come to him. Physical. Psychological. Any kind of harm. But I’m also the elected prosecutor of this jurisdiction. I can’t shirk that respon-sibility just because it touches me and my family personally.”
“Your Honor!” Bieman sounded almost hysterical. “This is out of order!”
Judge Cramer looked at the attorney calmly. “As I said before, Mr. Lawson is entitled to present his point of view.”
“But he’s trying to hide behind his so-called prosecutorial privilege. He’s already admitted to forcing the chil
d against his will…”
A light seemed to flash behind Cramer’s eyes. He turned to Gardner. “What about that, Mr. Lawson? By what authority do you suggest that the prosecutor’s rights supersede parental responsibilities?”
Gardner had researched last night and found the precedent. “The common law says that the right of a State’s Attorney to proceed with a prosecution is unrestricted. Not even a writ of mandamus can interfere. If I wanted to, I could keep my witness locked up until trial and deny access to him by anyone.“
“This is outrageous!” Bieman was up again.
“But Mr. Lawson,” Judge Cramer interjected. “Do you really want to do that? Put your own child under that kind of pressure?”
Gardner glared at the judge. “No! Of course I don’t want to do it. I’d do anything not to have to. But I have no choice!”
The judge nodded and folded his hands. This was a tough one. The law the prosecutor had cited was good law. A State’s Attorney could guard a witness like a mother hen, and no one could interfere. On the other hand, a father could not psychologically abuse his child. That was grounds for loss of custody. But what happened when the father and the prosecu-tor were one and the same? Which law took precedence?
“Anything further, Mr. Lawson?” Judge Cramer asked.
“No, Your Honor,” Gardner said sadly. Then he stood up and left the stand.
Judge Cramer took another short recess to consider his options. In a sense, he was in the same position as Gardner. A ruling in either direction was bound to hurt someone. The bottom line was which would do the least damage, not which would do the most good.
When the judge returned, he’d made his decision. He mounted the stand with a bounding leap, and banged the gavel. “I want to hear from the boy,” he said.
Gardner and Carole stared at each other in shock. This was unexpected.
“Is it really necessary?” Carole quaked.
“Afraid so,” the judge answered. “If you want a ruling on your petition.”
Carole went pale and nodded listlessly.
The judge turned to Gardner. “Can you bring him down?”
Silent Son Page 26
