by Joel Goldman
“But you fucked me and my client!”
“Grow up, Alex. You guys fucked yourselves.”
Angry as she was, she grudgingly admitted to herself that Mason was right. She’d let a more experienced attorney lead her down the path. It was a valuable lesson, but that didn’t mean she had to like her teacher.
Back then, Mason had been dark haired, dark eyed, and ruggedly handsome, his six-foot frame lean and muscled. He played by the rules when he could, breaking them when he had no choice, eventually crossing the line to save the life of his best friend. He paid the price with his law license. A TV reporter stuck a microphone in his face when the news broke that the state supreme court had disbarred him.
“Did the court make the right decision?” she asked.
“I knew what the rules were and so did they.”
“Any regrets?”
Mason looked at her, his piercing eyes drilling into hers, his jaw set, letting her question hang. Seconds passed until he gave her a wry smile.
“Does it matter?” he said and walked away.
He was still fit, his swagger undiminished by time or scandal. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt and badly in need of a shave, he was still the bad boy.
“Where’s Claire?” Alex asked. “I thought she was meeting me.”
“Something came up.”
“So she sent you? Did you get your ticket back?”
Mason shook his head. “Nope. I’m Claire’s paralegal these days. Your arraignment is tomorrow morning at nine. No cattle call. Just your case. You’ll get a chance to talk to Claire afterward. She’s going to ask the judge to release you on bail. Your girlfriend is working with a bondsman.”
“Who’s the bondsman?”
“Carlos Guiterriz.”
“That slimeball?”
“That slimeball is a friend of mine, and if you get out on bail, he’ll be holding the paper on you, so I’d think of something else to call him.”
Bonnie would have to pledge her own assets to secure Alex’s bail. Public defenders were at the bottom of the lawyer compensation scale. The balance in Alex’s IRA account was embarrassing. She had a couple of thousand dollars in her checking account and a six-year-old Honda, and that was it. Bonnie made real money, and her grandparents had left her enough cash to pay for their house, which was worth around five hundred thousand dollars, and a stock portfolio totaling something north of a million dollars.
“Knowing that Guiterriz is holding my paper only makes him slimier, but if that’s what it takes to get me out of here, I’ll kiss him next time I see him.”
“On the mouth?”
“If it comes to that.”
“In the meantime, don’t make any friends up on the sixth floor. They’ll be standing in line to snitch you out in return for a plea bargain.”
“Gee, ya think? I’m not the new kid on the block you ran circles around anymore. I’ve grown up.”
“Really. Then what are you doing here?”
Lying on her bed, Alex turned that question over in her mind again and again, unable to come up with an answer that made sense or would give her a chance of walking out of jail a free woman. One minute she replayed the events in Odyessy’s living room and the next she clenched her eyes, desperate to shut them out, unable to quell the fear roiling her body.
And fear was the last thing she wanted to show in a room full of women charged with everything from molestation to murder. Worse yet, several were her clients, their eyes popping in astonishment when she was led onto their floor.
The night passed, Alex dozing but not sleeping, waking in a sweat, momentarily disoriented, reaching for Bonnie, grabbing air. Twice she rolled on her side, pressed her face against the concrete wall, and wept, covering her head with her pillow to stifle the sound. This much she knew. Their lives would never be the same. Her only hope was that somehow they would still have a life together.
The image of Dwayne lying on the floor, bleeding and dying, blinking at her, his features going slack, kept coming back to her. She knew he was dead, that she had killed him. She searched her heart and soul for sorrow at having taken his life, but relief was the only thing she felt. And that frightened her as much as anything else.
Chapter Thirty-One
IT WASN’T UNUSUAL FOR ALEX to meet a new client for the first time at the arraignment, so she wasn’t surprised that she wouldn’t see her lawyer until then. She also wasn’t troubled because the arraignment was a perfunctory proceeding that didn’t require extensive advance consultation between attorney and client.
Claire Mason would enter a plea of not guilty for her and request that she be released on her own recognizance or be granted bail in a manageable amount. The prosecutor would either oppose bail or demand an exorbitant sum. When that was settled, the associate circuit judge would assign her case to a circuit judge for trial and she would either go home or go back to jail.
Knowing that Claire would be there was reassuring. She had been Alex’s mentor since Alex clerked for her during law school, and it was Claire who had urged her to become a public defender.
Claire Mason was a fixture in Kansas City’s legal battlegrounds whenever the voiceless needed a voice. She was tall, big boned, and silver haired, gentle to those she took under her wing, ferocious toward those who would do them harm. She was relentless in her pursuit of justice and unflinching in seeking the truth, though she conceded the truth was often brutal.
When Deputy Paulson ushered Alex into Judge Noah Upton’s courtroom, she was so relieved to see Claire that she couldn’t help breaking into an ear-splitting grin. Her smile vanished in a barrage of camera flashes as a platoon of photographers captured her expression. Squinting and momentarily half-blind, she turned, gasping at the reporters, lawyers, and courthouse personnel who had packed the courtroom. It wasn’t every day that a lawyer gunned down her client. Alex’s heart sank when she realized she’d given the media a gift that would forever haunt her—a front-page photo of a happy accused murderer.
Deputy Paulson guided her to Claire, who grasped her by the shoulders.
“Eyes on me. Don’t look at them.”
It didn’t matter. The photographers pounced again, their camera shutters whirring and clicking like a horde of cicadas.
A murmur rose as the doors at the back of the courtroom opened and Lou Mason elbowed his way forward, Bonnie Long following his blocking. Bonnie pushed past Mason, oblivious to the media, engulfing Alex with both arms and giving the press another headline photo op. Though Alex was desperate to hold and be held by Bonnie, she pried herself away, imagining the caption—“Happy Accused Murderer and Her Lesbian Lover Reunited.”
Alex knew that every trial began long before the judge banged his gavel for the first time. Hers was not off to a good start.
Bonnie took a seat in the front row of the spectator section next to the bail bondsman, Carlos Guiterriz, who’d saved her a seat. Mason directed Alex to the middle chair at the counsel table. Before sitting, Alex scanned the faces in the courtroom, finding her boss, Robin Norris, standing against the rear wall next to her investigator, Grace Canfield. Robin was stone faced. Grace winked, nodded, and smiled, mouthing, Hang in there.
The rear doors opened again and Tommy Bradshaw made his entrance, trailed by Patrick Ortiz, Bradshaw’s predecessor as prosecuting attorney. Claire leaned toward Alex, whispering.
“I talked to Bradshaw this morning. His office is bowing out because of his relationship with you. He’s going to ask that Ortiz be appointed as special prosecutor.”
Alex nodded, her swirling emotions leaving her speechless. She and Bradshaw exchanged looks as he moved to the prosecution’s table. He struggled to remain impassive but couldn’t carry it off. He winced, swallowed hard, and turned away.
Patrick Ortiz was a middle-aged, pudgy, round-faced, slow-talking courtroom assassin. He was unpretentious, the kind of guy jurors wanted to have a beer with, and it was impossible for them not to like him. After losing
the election to Bradshaw, he settled for the consolation prize—teaching at the University of Missouri at Kansas City School of Law. Alex envisioned him enlarging the crime scene photo of Dwayne Reed’s bloody body, setting it next to a blowup of her giddy entrance to the courtroom, and leaving the rest up to the jury. Game over.
The door from Judge Upton’s chambers opened. Everyone stood and hushed as the judge took his seat on the bench.
“The court calls State v. Stone,” the judge said. “Counsel, state your appearances.”
“Thomas Bradshaw for the state.”
“Claire Mason for the defendant, Alex Stone, who is also present.”
“Well,” Judge Upton said. “Looks like this arraignment is today’s hot ticket. Ladies and gentlemen, you’re welcome in my courtroom as long as you stay quiet and keep your phones off and your cameras where I can’t see them. Mr. Bradshaw, I see you’ve brought someone with you. I believe I know why, but I’ll let you put that on the record.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Because of my friendship with the defendant, my office is stepping aside in this matter, and we ask that the court appoint Patrick Ortiz, who preceded me in this office, as special prosecutor.”
“Any objection, Ms. Mason?”
“None, Your Honor. Mr. Ortiz is a fine fellow.”
“Very well,” the judge said. “Mr. Ortiz, it’s your show.”
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” Claire said. “I think we can expedite this hearing. We’ll waive reading of the charges, enter a plea of not guilty, and ask that the court release the defendant on her own recognizance. She’s a respected member of the bar, has deep roots in the community, and is neither a danger to others nor a flight risk.”
“Mr. Ortiz?”
“Thanks, Judge. I also know the defendant, though not nearly as well as Mr. Bradshaw, and up until yesterday, I’d have agreed with everything her counsel just said. But a man is dead, shot dead, and according to the charges brought against Ms. Stone, she’s the one that shot him. And now she’s charged with first-degree murder. I’m new to this case and I can’t rule out that we might seek the death penalty. It just seems to me that under all these circumstances, the defendant ought to be denied bail or, if Your Honor is inclined to release her, make sure she posts bail in a meaningful amount that respects the seriousness of these charges.”
Judge Upton turned to Claire. “Counsel?”
“I noticed that Mr. Ortiz didn’t say one word about Alex Stone being a flight risk or a danger to the community, and that’s because she isn’t. She wants her day in court and she isn’t going anywhere until she gets it. There’s no need to require her to post bail to secure her appearance, and there’s no law that says you should require bail in any amount just to make Mr. Ortiz feel better about things.”
“Your Honor, if I may,” Ortiz said. “Every defendant who appears before you starts out with good intentions, but life has a way of interfering. The decedent, Dwayne Reed, was released on his own recognizance, and now he’s dead. We probably wouldn’t be here if he’d had to post a meaningful bond, because he wouldn’t have been able to do that. He’d be sitting in jail instead of lying on a slab in the morgue.”
Judge Upton stiffened, his face reddening. “Are you suggesting that this court is somehow responsible for what happened to Mr. Reed?”
“Not at all, Your Honor,” Ortiz said, shaking his head. “I’m just saying that before someone charged with murder walks out of the courtroom, they ought to post bond in a meaningful amount.”
The judge glared at Ortiz, who took the heat, calmly rocking back on his heels, waiting for the judge to rule, knowing that he’d given the judge no choice. The media had already made the same point in their coverage of Dwayne’s murder. Having been portrayed as soft on crime for releasing Dwayne on his own recognizance, the judge couldn’t make the same mistake again. Ortiz knew that and didn’t care if he’d embarrassed or angered Judge Upton. He’d be back in the classroom when this case ended, and Judge Upton would be Tommy Bradshaw’s problem, not his.
“Bail is set at one million dollars,” Judge Upton said. “Ms. Mason, will the defendant be posting bond?”
Claire turned to Bonnie and Carlos, both of whom nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. We will.”
“Very well. The only other matter for this court is the assignment of this case for trial. All of the circuit court judges except for Judge West have followed Mr. Bradshaw’s lead and disqualified themselves from hearing this case, so I’m assigning it to him. Ms. Mason, you have the right to request assignment to a different judge within ten days of entering your client’s plea of not guilty. I’m not requiring that you make that decision today, but I want you to be aware that if you do request a change of judge, this case will be assigned to a visiting judge from another circuit. Judge West, as presiding judge, will handle that.”
“Understood, Your Honor. I’ll confer with my client and we’ll make a decision within the time provided.”
“In that case,” Judge Upton said, “we are adjourned.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
ROSSI FOUND HARRIS IN THE HOMICIDE UNIT, feet up, a muffin in one hand, coffee in the other, and the newspaper tented in his lap. He snatched the paper, folded it, and smacked Harris on the leg.
“Hey! I wasn’t done with the crossword.”
“Forget it. You never get past the three-letter words anyway.”
“I figured you’d be over at Alex Stone’s arraignment.”
“If I want to go to the circus, I’ll wait for Barnum and Bailey.”
“They’ve got better elephants but their clowns aren’t as good.”
“That’s a fact. C’mon. We need to get going.”
“Where?” Harris asked.
“Chouteau Courts.”
“That public housing project on Independence Ave.?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. That dump’s got to be fifty years old. I thought they were going to tear it down.”
“What I heard last year. Long as they don’t do it before we get there.”
Harris stuffed the rest of his muffin in his mouth, washing it down with his coffee, and followed Rossi to the street.
“What’s the attraction?”
“A woman named Virginia Sprague lives there. She’s Kyrie Chapman’s grandmother.”
“And?”
“Gloria Temple’s last known address was at Choteau Courts,” Rossi said, filling Harris in on the rest as they got in Rossi’s car and headed east from downtown.
“So you’re thinking Gloria was living with Grandma,” Harris said.
“Worth a shot.”
“Gloria just might tie all of this together—Wilfred Donaire, Kyrie Chapman, and the Hendersons.”
“If she isn’t dead.”
“After what we think Dwayne did to Chapman and the Hendersons, my money is on dead,” Harris said.
Rossi didn’t answer, his grim face registering his agreement. Harris broke the silence a few moments later.
“So you put this stuff about Gloria Temple together last night after you called me?”
“Yeah.”
Harris shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Shit, man. You’re making me look bad. I told you I’d get on it today. Yesterday was a bitch, I was bushed, and my wife wasn’t making things any easier on me.”
Rossi flashed a forgiving grin. “Don’t sweat it. You didn’t have the background with Gloria. I did. Besides, I needed the overtime.”
“Fowler said there was no more overtime. You know what your problem is, Rossi?”
“I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.”
“Your problem is that you got no life outside the job. Well, I got a life and I’m not going to apologize to you or anybody else for being asleep at midnight.”
“Easy, easy, partner. Nobody’s got to apologize for anything. We’re working this thing together. And believe me, if I knew how to get a life, I’d be all over it.”
Mollified,
Harris let out a slow breath. “What about Lena Kirk, that gal from CSI? You making any progress on that front?”
“Hard to tell. She keeps saying no, but no is starting to sound a little like maybe.”
“Might help if you give her a reason to say yes.”
“I thought I’d rely on my natural charm winning her over.”
“Why not, seeing as how that’s worked so well for you up till now.”
Rossi gave him a sideways glance. “Gonna be like this all day?”
“You’re the one that woke me up in the middle of the damn night.”
“And if I promise not to do it again?”
“Won’t help much, because I know you’ll break your promise first chance you get. Let’s just go find Gloria Temple.”
**
Chouteau Courts was an apartment complex at the intersection of Independence Avenue and Forest. There were 134 redbrick units with anywhere from one to five bedrooms. Isolated from much of the surrounding area, it suffered from a high crime rate and years of neglect, reason enough for the city to want to demolish it and try again.
“Which apartment is Virginia Sprague’s?” Harris asked when they got out of the car.
“Don’t know. Denny Trumbo didn’t include her address in his list of known associates.”
“What are we going to do? Start knocking on doors?”
“Nope. We’ll try the apartment listed on Gloria’s driver’s license.”
The apartment was a first-floor unit. Rossi rapped on the door, got no response, and rapped again. He waited half a minute before knocking again, this time hard enough to rattle the door.
“Hold on! Hold on! I’m coming, I’m coming,” a woman said from inside the apartment. She opened the door a couple of inches, keeping the chain on. “What do you want?”
“Virginia Sprague?” Rossi asked.
“Who wants to know?”
Rossi showed her his badge. “I’m Detective Rossi and this is Detective Harris. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
