Judgement Calls

by Alafair Burke

  turning down the job at the DA's office because of it. But I had no

  interest in the alternatives I'd been given at the city's big firms,

  and Roger knew it. There's no good way to tell your husband that

  you're making employment decisions based on an old boyfriend, even if

  it is to avoid him. So, instead, I'd played the odds that I could

  avoid one of the county's two thousand cops, at least for a while.

  When I saw his name on the police reports for my first trial, I tried

  to ready myself. I prepared the speech in my head and went over it

  again and again in the shower that morning, the way I should have been

  rehearsing my opening statement. I was going to apologize for all the

  venom that came out of me that day. Then I would laugh as I said it

  all worked out for the best in the end, since he'd accomplished what he

  wanted, and I was so happy with Roger.

  None of it was ever said. He walked into my office with his patrol

  partner, handed me a cup of coffee, and said, "Jason Hillard, meet

  Samantha Kincaid. Kincaid and I went to Grant High together. So

  what's the game plan?"

  I'd prepped them for the trial, but the case turned into a bench

  warrant when the defendant no-showed. Two years later, looking at

  Chuck with my father, I realized I'd still never apologized to him for

  how I behaved that summer, nor had I thanked him for saving me from

  having to do it when I wasn't ready that day in my office two years

  ago.

  They came back into the kitchen with the steaks, and Dad started

  heaping mass quantities of food onto three plates. I set the table,

  blinking away tears before any could roll down.

  "I was just telling Chuck about the damage you did last weekend at the

  target range," Dad said.

  My entire life, my father has enjoyed gun collecting and target

  shooting. Cursed with having a daughter as his only child, he had

  tried repeatedly to spark some interest from me, but to no avail.

  To his initial chagrin, I eventually learned to use a gun only when my

  ex-husband insisted on keeping one in our New York apartment. If he

  was going to keep a loaded handgun in an unlocked nightstand, I figured

  I sure as hell better know how to use it. So some of the agents took

  me to the aTF. firing range and taught me how to load, aim, fire, and

  reload just about every weapon available, legally and otherwise, in the

  United States. As irrational as gun ownership is as practiced by the

  most hard-core of American gun lovers, I'm a good enough shot and get

  sufficient shooting practice that I find a sense of security in the .25

  caliber automatic that I keep taped to the underside of my nightstand

  drawer.

  Chuck took his attention away from his steak long enough to say, "I

  never would've believed it if someone had told me back in high school

  that Sam would grow up to be a beef-eating gun toter who likes to put

  bad guys in prison."

  "Remember when she decided to be a vegetarian her junior year?" Dad

  was laughing so hard I thought he was going to choke. "God, she tried.

  Decided eating meat was so barbaric."

  Chuck was nodding his head in agreement. "Right. But, in the end, she

  hated the idea of being hypocritical even more, and, try as she could,

  she couldn't live a one-hundred-percent animal-friendly lifestyle."

  That's why I've always felt so at home with Chuck. He got me. He

  could take the traits that other people see as so inconsistent and

  understand that they make me who I am. I eat like a pig, but I run

  thirty miles a week. I despise criminals, but I call myself a liberal.

  I'm smart as hell, but I love TV. And I hate the beauty myth, but I

  also want good hair.

  To Chuck, it somehow all made sense, so I never felt like I was faking

  anything. Dad has never quite figured me out, but he sure enjoys

  making fun of me. "Poor girl drove me and her mother crazy trying to

  avoid leather, animal fat, anything that might make her seem like a

  hypocrite for telling everyone else how mean we were for eating

  meat."

  I had to laugh too, remembering my mother's face when she opened her

  Christmas gift one year to find the hideous macrame purse I'd

  triumphantly presented as an alternative to her tried-and-true tasteful

  brown leather handbag.

  "Does rubbing my face in my youthful attempts to be a good person make

  you guys feel good?" I said. "OK, you win. I love the smell of

  leather. I like being at the top of the food chain. I eat thick slabs

  of beef, still pink in the middle. Vegetables are what my food eats.

  Are you happy now? Maybe we should talk about the time Chuck joined

  the feminist center in college so he could scam on women. Or how

  about, Dad, when you got a CB radio and grew a mustache after you saw

  Smokey and the Bandit? What was your handle again, the Rocking

  Ranger?"

  We continued like that, recalling our most embarrassing moments at

  least the ones clean enough to tell in front of my dad until the

  high-pitched beeping of a pager broke through our laughter. By

  instinct, Chuck and I both immediately hit the "stop making that

  wretched noise" button on the right side of our waists and looked down

  at the digital display. "It's me," I said. "Grace. I better get

  it."

  Grace was calling to let me know that she'd dropped off Kendra and to

  wish me luck with trial the next day. She also told me that when she

  went inside with Kendra, Kendra had played the answering machine in

  front of her. Apparently, her old friend Haley was looking to get back

  in touch with her, had heard that she was living at home again, was

  wondering what she was up to, that sort of thing. It was hard not to

  be furious as I remembered my only encounter with the girl.

  I tried to keep cool as I dialed Kendra's number.

  "Hey there. How you holding up?"

  "Alright, I guess. I just want the trial to be over with."

  I said what I could to relieve the anxiety. In the end, there's

  nothing you can say to comfort a victim who senses the system's

  potential to fail.

  I raised the phone message from Haley with caution. "Grace mentioned

  that Haley is trying to get in touch with you. I didn't realize you

  had stayed in contact with her."

  "I haven't. She called, that's all."

  "She give you any idea what she wanted?" I said.

  The distinctively teenage sulk came through loud and clear over the

  phone. "Will you please, like, not freak out? She was just wondering

  how I was doing."

  I didn't like the idea that Haley might be working her way back into

  Kendra's life, so I said what I could to discourage her from returning

  the call. I knew in the end she'd do what she wanted.

  I'd been looking forward to curling up with a book and going to bed

  early when I got home. That's not what happened.

  I should've known something was wrong as soon as I put my key in the

  lock. Vinnie usually runs to the front door to welcome me home. OK,

  so it's more of a waddle. The point is that he comes to the door when

  he hears my keys. This time, I could h
ear Vinnie barking, but he

  wasn't at the door.

  I remember the noise behind me in the dark as I bolted the front door.

  And I think I remember feeling the crack against my head that quickly

  followed, but maybe I fabricated that memory later with the help of

  blinding head pain and a lump the size of a golf ball.

  When I came to, the clock told me I'd been out for an hour. My house

  was a wreck. Cupboards were open, cushions were thrown, drawers were

  emptied. And I could still hear Vinnie's muffled barks from somewhere

  in the back of the house.

  As much as I wanted to run to him, I'd watched enough scary movies to

  know what to do if someone might be in your house. What you don't do

  is creep around in the dark silence. That's how you wind up skewered

  by some guy in a bad mask.

  Instead, I went to my car, started the engine, and used my cell phone

  to call 911. And my dad. And then Chuck. And then I realized I could

  call everyone I knew, and it wouldn't get the first of them here any

  faster.

  So I waited and watched. Even when I could hear the sirens, still no

  sign of life. Whoever tore the place apart must have left after

  knocking me out.

  Two patrol officers swept through the house while the EMTs finished

  checking me out in the ambulance. No concussion, just assurances that

  I'd have a brutal headache for the next forty-eight hours.

  The police cleared me to enter after I showed them my ID and assured

  them I knew how to handle a crime scene. A pane in the back door had

  been smashed to gain entry.

  Chuck and Dad showed up around the time I was freeing Vinnie from the

  kitchen pantry. Knowing Vinnie, he'd made a valiant effort, but it

  doesn't take much to kick a French bulldog into the nearest closet. He

  put up a brave front when I picked him up, but I could feel him

  shaking.

  Dad kept on eye on me, while Chuck pulled rank to make the patrol

  officers page out a technician to search for prints. PPB doesn't dust

  every home burg, so I was getting special treatment. Must have been

  the nasty knock to the head.

  When he was done with immediate business, Chuck came into the kitchen

  where my dad was fixing me a drink and monitoring the ice pack on my

  head. "You doing OK?"

  "Yeah, I guess."

  "How's the mutt?" he said, smiling as he flipped one of Vinnie's ears

  over.

  "Seems to be getting over it. Dad's going to take him to the vet for

  me tomorrow just to make sure he's alright."

  One of the young patrol officers walked in and gave the kitchen a

  cursory look over "Man, they really did a number, didn't they?"

  I looked around and took in just how bad the place looked. And then I

  took it out on the patrol officer. "Better call off the crime scene

  team. McGruff the Crime Dog here has got the whole thing figured out.

  Yep, they really did a number on the place. I hadn't picked up on

  that, Mr. Sensitivity. Jesus Christ, get yourself a copy of Policing

  for Idiots before you go out on any more calls." I put my hands

  against the kitchen table, pushed my chair back, and stormed over to

  the sink to look out the window.

  Dad came to my side and patted my shoulder while I fought back tears

  and tried to regain my composure. When I'd gotten myself under control

  again, Chuck suggested that I look around when I was ready to see if

  anything was missing. As I started to leave the kitchen, the patrol

  officer said, "Just make sure you don't touch anything, ma'am."

  I didn't turn around, but I heard Chuck say, "You got a death wish or

  something, Williams? Use your fucking head."

  The only valuables I own are some jewelry I inherited from my mother,

  and I'd be surprised if anyone ever found those. If every old house

  has some irregularity that invites fantastic stories, mine is an old

  wall safe that someone had built into the baseboard of my bedroom. The

  day I was entrusted with my mother's jewelry, I locked it inside that

  safe and moved my solid maple headboard directly in front of it.

  The bed was right where I'd left it. In fact, nothing seemed to be

  missing, making me wonder why someone had bothered.

  We were throwing around theories in the kitchen, with me desperately

  searching for one that didn't involve any further mortal danger. First

  I floated the typical teenage thrill burg. Wannabes get a high off

  being in another person's house, going through their stuff, and

  trashing the place. But they probably wouldn't have slugged me in the

  noggin.

  My next front-runner was a small-time junkie thief who broke in and

  then went nuts and trashed the place when he realized I didn't own the

  kinds of things that smalltime junkie thieves steal, like CDs, DVDs,

  and other small items that are easily resalable to those who live in

  the modern world.

  That theory just might have stuck, at least for the night, if I hadn't

  decided I needed a beer.

  I opened the fridge to find my twelve-inch chopping knife prominently

  displayed on the top shelf. It secured a note that said, Next time we

  slice up you and your dog. It's that easy.

  So much for a theory that didn't scare the shit out of me.

  Seven.

  Like any other crime victim, I could do nothing about the intrusion

  into my home and assault upon my person except wake up in a messy house

  with a pounding headache.

  PPB had assured me that they'd do what they could to find prints, but I

  knew there wouldn't be any. And I assured PPB that I'd go over my

  files to identify anyone who might want to scare me, but I felt in my

  gut that it had something to do with Derringer. Unfortunately,

  Derringer currently enjoyed the greatest protections a defendant can

  enjoy. Lopez had served me and the police department with written

  notice that he was invoking his rights to counsel and to silence, which

  meant that, while his trial was pending, the police couldn't question

  him about anything, even suspected new crimes.

  The truth is that prosecutors are rarely threatened. Some speculate

  that it's because they are feared, but the real reason prosecutors are

  generally safe from the scum they prosecute

  U1

  is that they're replaceable. You take out your prosecutor and nothing

  changes. The same witnesses bring the same evidence to the same

  jurors, only with a different mouthpiece coordinating the show.

  Unfortunately, an occasional defendant is too stupid to see that

  reality, and I suspected Derringer was one of them. Now I had to go

  into trial with yet another reason to feel sick whenever I looked at

  him.

  The first day of trial was mercifully quick. Judge Lesh had reviewed

  all the written motions in advance and was ready to rule on them

  without holding an evidentiary hearing. Even though the appearance

  took only a few hours, I still found Derringer's presence

  disconcerting. I'd almost hoped he'd throw me a look to confirm my

  suspicion that he was behind the ransacking. His seeming indifference

  only served to foster the combination of
rage and fear that I'd been

  nursing since the previous night. I tried to use it to fuel my

  concentration on the pending motions.

  I was nervous about Lopez's motion to exclude the false alibi Derrick

  Derringer had volunteered for his brother the last time around. It was

  my position that this was relevant in determining whether Derrick was

  telling the truth now.

  Lisa argued that the evidence was too prejudicial to provide to the

  jury. Or, as she put it, "Your honor, Ms. Kincaid knows full well

  that, under the Rules of Evidence, my client's prior conviction is

  inadmissible. By framing this evidence as impeachment of Derrick

  Derringer, she's trying to find a way to get my client's prior

  conviction through the back door."

  Lesh went off the record. "Ms. Lopez, you're doing a good job for

  your client, but if I were you I would avoid using the term 'back door'

  when referring to his prior conviction, which I see is for attempted

  sodomy."

  David Lesh was one of those people who could say the most inappropriate

  things and yet somehow never offend anyone. A legendary story holds

  that when Lesh was still a prosecutor, one of the female judges and her

  law clerks saw him leaving the building wearing shorts. The judge

  jokingly commented that the DAs were letting their dress standards

  lapse a bit. Lesh's response? "I don't mind telling you, judge, that

  these legs are under a court order from the National Organization for

  Women. I cover these beauties, and those fanatical broads at NOW will