by Randy Singer
“I don’t know, man.”
“Just do the test,” Mace persisted. “What can that hurt? It’s all protected by the attorney-client privilege. At least then we’ll know.”
Rashad fidgeted and leaned back in his chair as if he could distance himself from the whole proposal. He snuck a glance over his shoulder and then leaned toward Mace again. “You sure no one will know?”
“They’ll know you’re taking the test. But nobody has to know we’re talking plea bargain until you’re out of here.”
Rashad studied the floor.
“Look,” Mace said, “I lost my job because of what I did for my last client, and I might lose my bar license before it’s all over. Once you hire me, I’ll do anything to get you out of this mess. Or you can stay with Caleb Tate, who’s more concerned with saving his own butt than he is with yours. When’s the last time he came to see you?”
Rashad looked up and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Which means never,” Mace said. “If I walk out that door and you don’t hire me, I’m never coming back. I’ll get this deal for somebody else, and you can sit here and rot for eighty years. You like it in jail? Looks to me like you get knocked around pretty good.”
Rashad stared at Mace and shook his head a little. It was torture for this kid to decide.
Mace stood up to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To find somebody with guts,” Mace said.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Rashad said. He held out his hands, palms toward the floor, trying to slow things down. “Sit back down, Mr. James. Tell me again how this witness protection thing works.”
I spent the first part of Thursday evening meeting with Bill Masterson and Rafael Rivera in our conference room, trying to get our star witness ready to testify. When Rivera left, Masterson shook his head. “He’s our witness, and even I don’t believe him.”
I rubbed my temple, a raging headache spreading across my scalp. “I know what you mean. But how did he find out about the morphine? How did he know about the six-month time frame?”
“He’s either telling the truth or we’ve got bigger problems,” Masterson said.
Bill and I had been through this line of reasoning before. There were only a few people who knew about the fingernail results when Rivera came to us. The state toxicologist, Dr. O’Leary, LA, and the two other detectives working the case. A few staff members in our own office. Neither Bill nor I wanted to believe any of them would have leaked the results.
But every time we discussed this issue, I thought about the Peachtree Road Race and the note somebody had slipped me. I had told no one about it at the time, and it seemed too late to bring it up now. It was another one of those Jamie Brock secrets, my failure to divulge something that might get in the way of the result I wanted on the case.
I got home just before eight o’clock to prepare my second witness of the night. LA was waiting on my front steps and broke into a big smile when he saw me. “Justice has been going crazy in there,” he said. “I almost decided to break into your house, but I didn’t want you to worry about how insecure it was.”
“Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.”
When we opened the door, Justice went straight for LA. They wrestled around a little bit, and I tried not to feel jealous.
Before I knew it, the two were in the family room playing tug-of-war and causing a big ruckus. I told LA I would be with him in a few minutes and went upstairs to change.
When I came back down, there were two plates of Chinese food on the kitchen table. I had skipped supper, and the broccoli and chicken smelled incredible.
“Where did this come from?”
“Been cooking all afternoon,” LA said.
I was too antsy to relax during dinner, so I got out my list of questions and grilled LA as we ate. Afterward we moved into the war room and spent another three hours going over details of the case. By eleven thirty, I could see LA beginning to fade. The eyelids were getting heavy, despite his third cup of coffee.
“Do you ever take a break?” he asked.
“No. Now, what are you going to say when he asks about the fingerprint evidence on the pill bottles?”
LA shook his head. “We’ve been over this twice already. I’ll probably say the same thing I told you last time.”
Justice pawed at the back door, and I got up to let him out. LA followed and stood behind me as I waited for Justice to finish. My favorite detective put his hands on my shoulders and began rubbing my neck.
“Man, you are wound tight,” he said. His strong fingers started kneading the muscles.
“Mmm, that feels great.”
“You must have a wicked headache,” he said. “These muscles are about to snap.”
This time I didn’t talk. I just put my head down and leaned back into it a little bit. This guy knew what he was doing. The fingers did their work up and down my neck and along the tops of my shoulders. I took a deep breath and tried to relax, focusing on the techniques I had learned from Gillespie. Neither one of us spoke, and in the stillness I could hear the soft, rhythmic breathing of my lead detective.
I wished Justice would have stayed out all night, but he eventually returned, and I had to break the trance to let him in. I gave him a treat and headed back toward the war room.
“I wasn’t done,” LA said.
I turned to face him and knew what my decision would be. He held out his hand and led me to the couch. I kicked off my shoes, and he sat behind me, massaging my shoulders and back as I felt the tension leaving my body. After several minutes, I leaned against him and pulled my knees up on the couch. He put his arm around me and I just burrowed in, listening to him breathe, feeling the beat of his heart.
Within minutes, I had dozed into that zone between consciousness and unconsciousness, disjointed thoughts floating through my mind in a last-ditch effort to worry about the day ahead. LA had succeeded where Gillespie had failed. I felt secure, relaxed, needed. I sat against him with my eyes closed, and the world seemed to be a safe place for the first time in months. I curled my knees toward my chest and snuggled in a little tighter. I fidgeted to get comfortable, leaning my head against his chest. It all felt so natural that I don’t even remember falling asleep.
I woke up at 2 a.m. in the darkness with a blanket over me and a pillow under my head. It took me a minute to get oriented, but then I sat up and looked around. LA was gone. The house was dark. Justice was sleeping on the floor next to the couch. I got up and staggered to my bedroom, not even bothering with the sleeping pills. I was so relaxed that I felt like I had already taken them.
I brushed my teeth, changed into my sleepshirt, and climbed into bed. I set the alarm for six. And as I dozed off for the second time that night, I pretended I was in the arms of my favorite Milton County detective.
77
Unfortunately for us, Rafael Rivera decided to dress like he was up for an MTV award. He wore a dark-purple pin-striped suit with a pink shirt and a broad, striped tie. His shoes were light purple and pointed at the ends, making his feet look gigantic. I had told him to dress like he was going to church. I decided next time I would be more specific.
Bill Masterson walked to the middle of the courtroom and buttoned his old gray suit. It must have been a favorite, because it was nearly threadbare. He had on a white shirt that wouldn’t quite button at the neck and was held together by his tie. Bill liked to project a man-of-the-people image.
Rivera smiled and preened while he testified about his relationship with his former attorney. The witness couldn’t decide whether to look at the jury or at Masterson, so he sprinkled his eye contact around the courtroom as if he were a rock star everyone wanted to admire.
“Did there come a time when Mr. Tate asked whether you could provide access to certain narcotics?” Masterson asked.
Rivera chuckled. “He didn’t have to ask. He knew.”
“Did you provide him with any?”
Rafael til
ted his head a little. “Do OxyContin and codeine qualify?”
“That’s what I’m asking,” Masterson said disgustedly.
“Oh yeah. We started back in September, and then I got a big shipment in November. Anyway . . . yeah, I gave him a few drugs.”
“To the best of your memory, precisely when did you start providing drugs to Mr. Tate?”
Rivera looked at the ceiling and then over at the jury before turning back to Masterson. “Woulda been September of last year. Coupla weeks after Labor Day.”
“Other than OxyContin and codeine, did you provide any additional drugs to Mr. Tate?”
“One time. Got him some morphine. He said his wife was in a lot of pain. That was back in the summer sometime.”
“Why did the defendant say he needed the OxyContin and codeine?”
Rivera spread his palms. “He was a good customer. He was also my mouthpiece. I didn’t ask a lot of questions.”
“Did there come a time when you approached Ms. Brock with this information?”
Rafael smiled at me, and I wanted to slap him.
“Once I saw Mr. Tate get busted for offing his wife, I knew I had something you folks might want. When the po-leece picked me up on another drug charge, I approached Ms. Brock and told her I’d be willing to deal.”
“Did Ms. Brock believe what you told her?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Caleb Tate begin to rise, but then he brushed it off.
“No, the—” Rafael stopped, catching himself short. “The woman dissed me. Blew me off.”
“Do you have any personal knowledge as to why she might have changed her mind?”
“I told her about the morphine. Apparently nobody was supposed to know about that. The reports on the fingernails and stuff weren’t out there yet, and so that’s when she knew I was straight up.”
“Objection,” Tate said. “He’s not a mind reader. Move to strike.”
“Sustained.”
Masterson shrugged. “What were you given in exchange for your testimony today?”
“I got off on time served on the drug charge. Plus—” Rafael gave Caleb Tate a sly grin—“I got to fire my attorney.”
“Do you have any text messages or phone calls that would verify these drug purchases?”
This made Rafael chuckle. “Sorry, Mr. Masterson. We don’t keep very good records on our drug deals.”
Masterson looked at the judge, contempt for the witness written on his face. “That’s all the questions I have for this man,” Masterson said. He walked back to counsel table and sat down next to me, slouching in his chair. I caught myself grinding my teeth.
I had been dreading this moment since the day I’d talked to Caleb Tate after the Georgia Supreme Court arguments. I knew Tate would tear into Rafael Rivera, trying to expose my father and Judge Snowden in the process. Masterson had said he was ready. He would object at the first hint that Tate was trying to bring my father into it and ask for a private conference with the judge. He was convinced we could keep my father’s record in front of Judge Snowden out of the case.
I wasn’t so sure. My hands were leaving sweat marks on the glass top of the counsel table. My heart felt like it was trying to escape my chest. And at that moment, if I had it to do all over again, I would have taken the advice of Masterson and dropped the case against Caleb Tate weeks earlier when we still had the chance.
78
Tate walked to the middle of the courtroom and stroked his chin, eyeing the witness. Rafael shifted in his seat and changed the position of his legs, right over left.
“Good morning, Mr. Rivera,” Tate said. Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
“’Sup,” Rivera shot back.
“You understand that because you’re testifying against me today, the attorney-client privilege no longer covers our communications, don’t you?”
Rivera shrugged. “Fine by me.”
“And that I can ask you questions about things you asked me to do while I represented you?”
“If you say so.”
“It’s not me saying so; it’s the rules of ethics.”
“Whatever.”
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Rivera, that you asked me to approach Judge Cynthia Snowden and bribe her to dismiss this drug charge against you?”
I glanced at Masterson, who appeared too relaxed for my liking. I decided that, even though it would break every rule of courtroom etiquette, I needed to be ready to object myself if Tate mentioned my dad.
For his part, Rivera scoffed at the question as if it were the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. “Maybe in your dreams. In reality, nothing like that happened.”
“Do you deny telling me that some of your gang members had bribed Judge Snowden in the past?”
“Wait!” Judge Brown said. He glared at Tate, then shot an equally perturbed glance at Masterson. “Approach!”
I joined Tate and Masterson at Judge Brown’s bench.
“What’s this all about?” the judge hissed. “A three-time convicted felon trashing the integrity of a well-respected member of the bench?” Before Tate could answer, he turned to Masterson. “And why aren’t you objecting?”
Caleb Tate quickly explained his reasons for asking the question. I could tell Judge Brown didn’t like it, but there was no way he could prevent Tate from asking. It went straight to Rivera’s bias. Once Brown figured it out, Masterson didn’t need to explain why he wasn’t objecting.
“You’re on a very short leash here, Mr. Tate,” Brown said. “I don’t like unfounded accusations like this against another member of the judiciary.”
“I understand that,” Tate said. “But I’m not the one who put this guy on the stand.”
“A very short leash, Mr. Tate.”
After our conference, Tate returned to the well of the courtroom and asked the question again.
“I never said that,” Rivera claimed.
“Do you deny threatening me when I told you that I wouldn’t do such a thing and that you should never suggest it again?”
“Another ridiculous question. None of this happened.”
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Rivera, that you threatened to go to the prosecutors and testify against me in this case because I wouldn’t approach Judge Snowden?” Caleb Tate was raising his voice now, the first showing of real emotion and anger in this case. He jabbed his finger in the air, and I couldn’t understand why Masterson didn’t object. “Isn’t it true that you said you had something the prosecutors would have to believe? That you would watch them put a needle in my arm someday?”
“Mr. Tate!” Judge Brown interjected. “That’s three questions. Let him answer the first one.”
Masterson cast me a glance. See, it’s better if you let the judge intervene.
“Those are three lies,” Rivera said. “Not questions.”
Caleb Tate just stood there for a moment, nodding. He went back to his conference table and grabbed a handheld digital recorder. He gave Bill Masterson a transcript and handed one to the clerk so the court could follow along.
I felt my stomach drop to my feet. He had a tape?
This time it was Caleb Tate who was smiling. “You called me back after that first threat to give me one more chance. Do you remember that?”
Rivera eyed him warily. In all our conversations, in all my endless questioning about these events, Rivera had never mentioned a telephone call. But I could tell that his mind was reeling now, trying to recall exactly what he had said.
“You do recall that, don’t you?” Caleb Tate taunted. “Or do you need to be reminded?”
I could tell by Rivera’s body language that he remembered the call. The only question left was how stupid he had been—how much he had said and how much he had left unsaid.
“Judge, it appears that the witness may need his recollection refreshed,” Tate said.
Finally Masterson was on his feet. “We object, Your Honor. The defense hasn’t authenticated this tape yet. We’ve never heard
it. We don’t even know if it’s Mr. Rivera’s voice.”
Judge Brown was studying the transcript and looked at Masterson over the top of his glasses. “Let’s take a short recess,” he said.
A few minutes later, with the jury out of the box, Judge Brown asked Caleb Tate to play the tape. I followed along on Masterson’s copy of the transcript, my heart sinking lower with each word.
Rivera: You’ve got twenty-four hours; then I’m talking.
Tate: Be my guest, Rafael. Then you can have a drug charge and a charge for lying to the prosecutors. They’ll never believe a three-time convicted thug like you.
Rivera: People talk. I know things I’m not supposed to know. They’ll believe me.
Tate: Like what?
Rivera: You’ve got twenty-four hours.
Tate: If you go to the DA, I’m no longer your lawyer. I’m free to tell them everything you’ve ever told me. Maybe they can add a charge for attempted bribery.
Rivera: [Laughter] What makes you think they’d believe a thug like you?
[End of call]
After the recording was played, Masterson rose slowly to his feet. Like me, he was trying to process this at warp speed. It seemed to confirm what Tate was saying. But there was nothing on the tape that could explicitly give us grounds to renege on Rafael’s deal. The tape was too ambiguous to support a charge of lying to us.
“Judge, you can’t let him introduce something like this without even authenticating the voices.”
“I’m entitled to play the tape and ask the witness whether that’s his voice,” Tate shot back. “That’s how you authenticate these things.”
Judge Brown turned to Rivera. “Is that your voice?”
Rivera glanced at me, and I glared back. He looked to the judge. “Sounds like it.”
Brown took off his glasses, rubbed his temple, and turned to Masterson. “I don’t have any choice in the matter. The tape’s coming in.”
After the jury settled back in the box, Caleb Tate played the tape. I couldn’t bear to watch the jurors’ reactions. Tate then asked Rivera again whether it was his voice on the tape.
