Murder One

by Robert Dugoni

  “We don’t know yet. Pinkett said the statement will be in the police file. She’ll expedite it after the arraignment.”

  “Why not before?”

  “The name isn’t important. The contents are. The witness claims to have seen you that morning running up an easement from the water about a half mile from Vasiliev’s home, pulling a bike from the bushes, and riding off. I know this is hard to hear, but I don’t see any reason not to stipulate. I can’t imagine a judge not finding probable cause. And if we don’t agree, you’ll definitely have to spend the weekend in jail. The arraignment won’t occur until Monday, and you’ll go through a media circus twice. We agree and they do the arraignment today; they have a judge and a courtroom for late this afternoon.”

  She considered for a moment. “What do you think?”

  “I’d like the weekend to prepare, but I’d also like to try to get you out of here today.”

  “Will they stipulate to bail?”

  “No. Pinkett says they intend to oppose any bail, but they were never going to agree. We’re going to have to fight about it whether the arraignment is today or Monday.”

  “What are the chances the judge grants it?”

  “I have someone in my office looking into it, but I’d say they’re reasonable, given who you are in the community. If the judge grants bail, it’s going to be a million dollars minimum.”

  “I can get it,” she said. “Talk to my assistant, Nina. She has all of my financial information.”

  He pulled another document and a pen from his briefcase and handed both to her. “I prepared a limited power of attorney giving me authority to have your bank release the money into the court registry.”

  Reid nodded and signed it.

  “There’s something else we should discuss,” he said. “We don’t have to decide now, but I think we need to consider not waiving your right to a speedy trial.”

  “If I get out on bail, why not push the trial out as far as possible?”

  “Because you won’t have a life until this is behind you. The media will hound you daily.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “The Times ran the story across the front page and national news agencies are picking up on it. We’re getting dozens of phone calls from newspapers and magazines from all over the country. The paparazzi won’t be far behind. The pundits are already discussing things like vigilante justice and the advantages and disadvantages of drug dealer liability acts.”

  She shook her head. “I guess I got my publicity, huh?”

  “I’m going to ask Nina to set up a meeting after the hearing so I can talk to your partners. I’ll tell them you’re innocent of these charges and will be vindicated, and not to talk to the media or to the prosecutors without me or someone working for me present. Rowe and Crosswhite have already issued search warrants for all of your e-mails, calendars, and phone records.”

  “There’s nothing there, David.”

  He held up the police certification. “I’ll know more after I have the file, but in my opinion, this is thin. It’s all circumstantial.”

  “Except the witness who says he saw me there.”

  “In the dark, on a stormy night, at three-thirty in the morning? It’s thin. They moved too quickly, in my opinion. Maybe it was the media coverage from the leak. I don’t know, but I’m thinking they want to play chicken, let’s play chicken . . . and we’ll see who flinches first.”

  FIFTEEN

  KING COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  That afternoon, when he turned the corner onto Third Avenue, Sloane saw white news vans, more than half a dozen, satellite dishes protruding high above the vehicle roofs. Reporters holding microphones jockeyed for space on the sidewalk, angling for live shots with the courthouse behind them. Though Sloane had arrived early and a light rain fell, a long line had already formed outside the glass door into the courthouse, people dressed in rain gear waiting to weave their way along the stanchions and belts, like tourists waiting for an amusement-park ride.

  Sloane detoured up the hill to the county administrative building on Fourth Avenue. Inside the building, King County sheriffs monitored a metal detector. Most of the people entering were dressed in business attire. A stark white tunnel beneath the street led to the courthouse. Most of the public didn’t know about it.

  Court Operations had called Sloane at his office to advise that the arraignment had been moved from the traditional courtroom on the twelfth floor to room 854E to accommodate the expected crowd.

  When he stepped off the elevator onto the eighth floor, reporters, including several camera crews, had gathered in the hallway. They wasted no time asking Sloane questions, which he declined to answer before ducking inside the courtroom. The five pews in the gallery running the width of the room, perhaps thirty feet, were filled. A King County sheriff in a hunter-green shirt and light brown pants put up a hand to stop Sloane, then lowered it with an acknowledgment.

  Sloane made his way to the table closest to the jury box, keenly aware that pens and pencils had materialized and the reporters sitting in the gallery had begun scratching on notepads.

  Counsel tables were arranged in an L. In civil cases, the plaintiffs took the table closest to the jury box—that was the table parallel to the judge’s bench. No railing separated counsel’s table from the first pew and several reporters approached but Sloane dismissed them. Then he sat.

  The dull fluorescent lighting, the only illumination in the windowless room, brought a perpetual feeling of dusk. Only the clock on the wall kept time. The judge’s elevated desk was centered beneath a wood carving of the seal of the state of Washington, a United States flag on one side and the green flag of Washington State on the other. The slatted wooden witness chair to its right—elevated and without any railing—looked naked. Undoubtedly, those who sat in it would feel the same. To its right, close enough that a witness could reach over and shake hands with the closest juror, was the jury box and its empty leather swivel chairs.

  The State of Washington vs. Barclay Alison Reid had been assigned to Judge Virginia Dugaw. Pendergrass had tried two criminal cases before Judge Dugaw, though nothing of the magnitude of a murder trial. He described her as fair and efficient. That was apparently the good and the bad news, since the judge who handled the arraignment could not be the trial judge. Earlier that morning, Pendergrass had mused that Dugaw’s gender would be a plus, but Sloane cautioned against any such assumption when it came time to choose a jury.

  “Some women may sympathize with her,” he had said, meaning Barclay. “But there will be others jealous and spiteful.” He knew that sitting on a jury was, for some, their lone opportunity to wield power, let alone power over someone of Barclay’s stature, and they would relish it.

  As Sloane set out his materials, the crowd stirred again. Seconds later, a heavyset man in a light brown suit, cream-colored shirt, and tan tie stopped at the edge of the table.

  “Mr. Sloane,” he said. “Rick Cerrabone.”

  Pendergrass had also provided Sloane with the rundown on Cerrabone, which, he said, rhymed with “baloney.” He’d never had a case against Cerrabone, but he knew others who had. “He’s the best they got,” Pendergrass related. “Efficient, thorough, and well respected. Jurors love him. He’s not in it for the ego or the glory. He completely buys in to the notion that he’s a servant of the people, and he is very, very good.”

  That wasn’t the conclusion one would reach upon a visual inspection. Perhaps in his late forties, Cerrabone had thinning black hair, wisps of which stood as if electrified, a heavy five o’clock shadow, bushy eyebrows, and the thick features of a man who looked to have boxed and used his face to stop most of the punches. A pair of cheater reading glasses dangled from a chain just beneath his chin.

  After introducing himself, Cerrabone pulled a box on a handheld cart to the well in front of the bench. The judge’s bailiff smiled. “I saw you in the Red Sox hat,” she said.

  “Do
n’t remind me,” Cerrabone answered. “How’d your son’s baseball game go the other night?”

  “The umpire killed us. But Jack had three hits.”

  The court reporter joined the revelry. Sloane was an experienced civil lawyer, but this was Cerrabone’s home court.

  Commotion in the hall drew everyone’s attention. Three correctional officers in navy blue uniforms, one a woman, escorted Barclay into the room. Hands behind her back, she remained in the white prison jumpsuit, white socks, and slippers.

  Barclay entered as Sloane had instructed: head held high and a neutral expression. She did not shy from looking at those in the audience when she turned to allow the sheriff to remove the handcuffs. Sloane wanted her to become the victim, a mother who had suffered one tragedy and was now suffering another because of her determination to bring to justice those responsible. He wanted her to be viewed not as a vigilante but as a citizen who refused to accept that young people should have to dodge drug dealers on their way to class, in the same way Mothers Against Drunk Driving had lobbied to change the cultural assumption that it was acceptable to have a few cocktails before getting behind the wheel of a car.

  The bailiff, an elegant-looking Indian woman who had left the courtroom when Reid arrived, reentered from the door to the left of the bench, followed by Virginia Dugaw. The judge wasted no time taking her seat and getting down to business. “Good afternoon, Counsel. Mr. Cerrabone, let’s get started.”

  Cerrabone stepped around the table so as not to be stuck in the corner of the room, the reading glasses now perched on the bridge of his nose. “Number twenty-seven on the arraignment calendar, Judge, State of Washington vs. Barclay Alison Reid—”

  Sloane approached the bench. “Good afternoon, Your Honor, David Sloane appearing on behalf of the defendant.”

  As Dugaw greeted him, Sloane handed the clerk a notice of appearance.

  “The clerk will enter the notice of appearance of Mr. Sloane,” Dugaw instructed.

  Cerrabone took another step forward, remaining on script. “Defendant is present in custody—”

  Pendergrass had advised that arraignments were cattle calls, with the prosecutor running the show and the defense attorney often ignored. Sloane was not about to be treated as some vestigial organ, knowing full well the subtle battle for control inside a courtroom.

  “Your Honor, the defense acknowledges receipt of a copy of the charging document and agrees to accept service and to waive a formal reading of those charges. The defendant is Barclay Alison Reid, a citizen of the United States. The treaties of other countries do not apply here and need not be read. We would request that the court enter a plea of not guilty.”

  The room froze, silent, as if all of the oxygen had been sucked from it, which had been Sloane’s intent by entering the plea quickly and without fanfare. After a moment, there was movement and mumbling in the gallery.

  “A plea of not guilty will be entered,” Dugaw said.

  Sloane continued, “Your Honor, we would like to discuss the issue of bail.”

  Cerrabone took another step toward the center of the room; he now stood just below the bench and directly beside Sloane. He placed his file on the railing near the court clerk. “The state objects to bail. This is a first-degree-murder case.” Sloane noticed an East Coast accent, likely one of the boroughs of New York, Brooklyn or Queens.

  Sloane moved so that he and Cerrabone stood elbow to elbow. “To the contrary, Your Honor, there is no case yet. We are here for a murder charge, and that is all it is, a charge. Ms. Reid has not been convicted of any crime, let alone the charge of murder. She is innocent until proven guilty, and that presumption of innocence applies here. The prosecutor is also well aware that every person in the state of Washington is entitled to bail. The only relevant issues are Ms. Reid’s ties to the community, of which she has many, and whether she is a flight risk or a risk to the community, which she is not.” Though Pendergrass had done his best to educate him, Sloane was, to a certain extent, winging it, his depth of knowledge as shallow as a puddle. If Cerrabone dove deeper, Sloane would quickly hit bottom.

  Cerrabone responded. “The crime of which the defendant is accused is premeditated murder. The victim was shot in the back of the head with a caliber of bullet that matches the caliber of a weapon registered to the defendant; that gun remains missing; and there is evidence the defendant was lying in wait. The defendant also has substantial resources and no familial ties to the community. She is divorced, and her only child is deceased. She has no other immediate family.”

  Sloane knew Cerrabone had purposefully advised the people sitting behind them of the charges Sloane had sought to avoid having read out loud, as well as some of the evidence to substantiate that charge. Since Cerrabone had opened that door, Sloane decided to blow through it.

  “Your Honor, with all due respect, the prosecutor is incorrect on a number of counts. While the caliber of bullet may be of interest, there is no evidence that it came from a weapon registered to Barclay or that she fired any weapon of that caliber or any other caliber. Similarly, while the killer may have been lying in wait, there is no evidence that Barclay was lying in wait.” Just as it appeared Dugaw was about to cut him off, Sloane moved on. “As for the pertinent issues regarding bail, it’s specious for the state to argue that Barclay has no ties to the community. She has been a respected member of the bar for twenty years. She is the managing partner of a law firm of more than two hundred attorneys, as the court well knows, and is involved in many charitable and civic causes. Moreover, she has no prior criminal record of any kind that would make her a risk to the community. As for her resources, she should not be penalized simply because she is successful. She has surrendered her passport. Not only is she not a flight risk, she is eager to appear in court and defend against this charge and clear her name. The court must honor her presumption of innocence.”

  If Dugaw was disturbed by the attorneys’ banter over Reid’s guilt or innocence, she did not display it. She listened patiently. When they had finished she ruled. “I am going to grant the defense’s request for bail. Bail will be set at one million dollars . . . to be deposited in the court registry.”

  Sloane felt relief. “Your Honor, we will have that sum deposited in the court’s registry within the hour.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Sloane. Anything else, Mr. Prosecutor?”

  “No, Your Honor.” Cerrabone turned from the bench.

  Sloane, however, was not finished. Pendergrass had advised Sloane that the presiding judge, Mathew Thompkins, had recently mandated a fast-track system to expedite matters and reduce the backlog of those in custody.

  “Your Honor, we note for the record that Ms. Reid does not waive her right to a speedy trial and requests that the court immediately set a case-scheduling hearing within the next seventy-two hours.”

  Cerrabone wheeled. “Your Honor,” he started, then, perhaps perceiving the game of chicken, said, “The state has no objection.”

  SIXTEEN

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2011

  LAW OFFICES OF DAVID SLOANE

  ONE UNION SQUARE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Over the weekend, Sloane and Barclay had taken refuge by day at his office and by night at her home. The gated fence served as an impediment to the media scrutiny. Sloane initially thought it best they not be seen entering and exiting her home together late at night or early in the morning, but the news of their relationship had already broken, and trying to hide it was like trying to camouflage an elephant with a dish towel.

  The stress and anxiety of the impending trial could have separated them but instead it drew them closer together. At night they released that tension in intense and prolonged lovemaking. Afterward, they would lie in bed, sometimes facing the sliding-glass door, or lying head to foot so they could look at each other as they talked—not about the law but about themselves, their pasts and their future.

  In the office, Sloane turned the big conference
room into a “war room” where they would all meet to discuss trial strategy and keep the accumulating documents. He, Barclay, and Tom Pendergrass spent long days planning her defense, making reams of notes on witnesses they needed to talk with, experts they would need, legal issues to be researched, and motions to be written.

  The media frenzy reignited the following Tuesday. The reporters returned for the case setting and preliminary hearing conference, but with no chance of a plea deal and neither Sloane nor Cerrabone willing to flinch on Reid’s refusal to waive her right to a speedy trial, there wasn’t much of a show. Judge Dugaw set the case for trial seventy-five days out—merry Christmas to all—and advised Sloane and Cerrabone that they would trail on the court’s calendar until a trial judge became available. Show over, Sloane left with a promise from Cerrabone that the police file would be delivered to his office that afternoon, a promise the prosecutor made good on, but only to a certain extent.

  As Sloane pored over the file, he began to suspect it was incomplete. He did not find statements for Felix Oberman or Joshua Blume. Neither Alex nor Carolyn had been able to contact Felix Oberman. His receptionist had offered a myriad of excuses for his unavailability, and it was becoming increasingly clear the doctor had no interest in helping his ex-wife. Oberman’s reticence did not come as a surprise, but the lack of any statement in the file did.

  “They’ll do that,” Pendergrass explained while they sat around the conference room table, “to make it more difficult to prepare for cross-examination, or if they’re concerned that the witness might say something that could be used to impeach him at trial.”

  “Something like he hates the defendant’s guts and would very much like to get even with her for every perceived ill that has ruined his life?” Barclay said.

  Oberman was important, but Sloane considered Joshua Blume the state’s most important witness and the reason Barclay was in custody. Everything else Rowe and Crosswhite had—the footprints, the fact that Vasiliev was killed with a .38, Reid’s gun mysteriously missing, her alleged statement to Oberman—was not enough to get a conviction. Blume’s statement did not just refute Reid’s alibi, it placed her down the road from the shooting and it supported the prosecution’s theory of how Reid, a triathlete, had committed the crime. The state would argue Barclay had biked into the neighborhood so that a car would not be heard or seen, and accessed Vasiliev’s property by swimming half a mile to his backyard.