Moment of Truth

by Lisa Scottoline

  His ribs ached and he fought to keep his breathing even. They must have whacked him around because he felt broken and his jumpsuit was ripped and dirtied. His head thundered but his thoughts were like lifting fog. Mary. The newspaper. The police were getting closer to finding out about Paige. And Trevor.

  Jack felt his chest constrict. His plan was threatening to unravel. Mary was yanking hard on the string and it was coming undone. He had to keep it together. If Trevor was guilty, then he would find a way to deal with it, but not until he was sure. He wouldn’t put Paige on the line, no matter what. It was the newspaper story that worried him now. If Trevor was in on Honor’s murder, he would be starting to worry about his own vulnerability. And if Trevor started to worry, Paige was in jeopardy.

  Jack struggled to a sitting position against the wall. His sides ached and he slumped forward, stretching out his feet slowly. He had to get out of prison, to protect Paige. He’d be freed after his preliminary hearing today, if he got bail. He’d need a new lawyer. A real criminal lawyer. One who would take direction. Mary was gone. He winced and shifted his weight to the other side. He wouldn’t see her again.

  Good, right? Right. Mary had been confusing him. Last night, in a moment before sleep, he’d caught himself hoping that the police would find out he was innocent, so he could go free. In one awful moment, he’d let himself realize that he had sacrificed his life when it had little value to him. Mary could have made it worth getting out of here. Now the prosecution was talking no deals. Jack would be going to trial, where he would lose. He had to; he’d rigged it that way. He froze at the thought, but he had no way out. The alternative would kill Paige. Even if Trevor were involved, Paige would be lost, too.

  He was better off without Mary, he knew. She would have been his salvation. And his undoing.

  39

  “Miss DiNunzio, what happened at the prison?” “Miss DiNunzio, why did Newlin try to kill you?” “Mary, any comment?” “Mary, did you quit?” “Over here! Just one picture!”

  It was overcast, gusty, and freezing, but for once the windchill wasn’t the big news. The press thronged around the small brick chapel of colonial vintage, in the heart of Society Hill. Reporters spilled off the narrow brick sidewalk, and news vans clogged a cobblestone street meant to support only horse-drawn carriages. Mary and Judy fought their way through the media, which snapped their photos and shoved microphones in their faces. The news that Jack Newlin had attacked his lawyer at the prison was breaking, and Mary was the quarry.

  She kept her head down and barreled through the crowd with the larger Judy running interference. They made it to the white wood entrance, grabbed a black-bordered program from a wooden stand, and ducked inside the chapel. Mary stalled at the sight; the pews were virtually empty. “Where is everybody?” she whispered, and Judy shook her head.

  “I guess nobody but reporters liked Honor.”

  “At least Communion will be short.” Mary entered the chapel, which looked more like a school than a church. The interior was small, bright white, and austere. The walls contained only a tasteful number of stained-glass windows, remarkably free of the crucifixion, cross-bearing, and bloody crowns of thorns that made Mary feel so at home. She supposed you could have a religion without suffering, but she didn’t know how.

  She wouldn’t have recognized the dais except that it was at the front. Instead of an elaborate altar that bore chalices, wafers, and wine, there was only a plain mahogany podium, an organ, and several polished wood chairs. The floor and pews had been milled from colonial walnut and were completely vacant except for Paige, her head bent in the front row, and a row of corporate lawyers that Mary was guessing were from Tribe & Wright. At the end of the row sat Dwight Davis.

  “Trevor’s not here,” Mary observed. “But Davis came. Accept no substitutes.”

  “Maybe Paige confronted Trevor.”

  “Possible.” Mary looked down the row and spotted the thick neck of Detective Kovich. Brinkley wasn’t here, and she wondered if he’d been fired. The story in the newspaper couldn’t have helped his career.

  “The service is starting, Mare. Let’s sit down.”

  “Go close to the front,” Mary said, and they seated themselves in a pew several behind Paige and the lawyers. Mary wanted Paige to see her so she’d keep in mind what they’d said in the apartment. Maybe Mary’s appeal would sink in. She could only hope, but she couldn’t possibly pray. There was no ball of smoking incense, no cup of magic wine, and none of the other equipment essential to talk to God.

  Paige sat in the front row of the service. The pastor was saying something but it didn’t matter. She didn’t know where Trevor was and she was worried that what Mary had told her was true. She’d left two messages for him but he still hadn’t called. It was weird. This had been happening a lot lately.

  She bit her lip and thought back to when it started. She had to admit it had been since she told him she was pregnant. She felt nauseous again but it wasn’t the baby. She’d been going back and forth on the decision, but still couldn’t make up her mind. She was running out of time. Trevor wanted to get married, and so did she. She hoped they would make good parents, not like the ones they had. She had even started to read about raising babies and she hadn’t taken any drugs since the crystal.

  The pastor was saying something else about her mother, even though he had never met her. Her mother didn’t have any friends at all; supposedly a society lady, she had no society. Paige felt sorry for her until she realized that she was alone here, too. She didn’t have any girlfriends either. Once Trevor had given her a button that said, I’M BECOMING MY MOTHER! She couldn’t bring herself to wear it. She thought about that for a while, her head bent, her eyes dry. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Mary, but looked away. She couldn’t think about that now.

  The service ended and Paige went with her mother’s lawyers to the cemetery. When they slid her mother’s polished casket out of the shiny hearse, Paige decided she wasn’t going to pay attention anymore. The wind gusted, blowing her hair around, and she kept her head down and her lips tight. Men from the funeral home were the pallbearers, and for a while, it was easy to ignore everything, even at the graveside service. The short little pastor, the boring hymn, the rectangular hole, the important lawyer, Mr. Whittier, checking his watch; she didn’t notice a thing.

  The casket was lowered into the grave, and she became aware of the press photographers, kept at a distance. She turned to the cameras automatically and smoothed her hair, then caught herself. She didn’t want to pose at her mother’s funeral. She didn’t want to pose at all anymore. She turned back just in time to see her mother disappearing into the earth forever, and the sight of it caught her by the throat. The harder Paige tried not to think about that, the harder she did think about it. The more she tried not to feel guilty, the guiltier she felt. The more she tried not to love her mother, the more she did.

  And she started to cry and didn’t stop until long after her mother was gone.

  40

  “The next matter is Commonwealth v. Newlin,” the court crier called. “Defendant Jack Newlin is represented by Mr. Isaac Roberts, and Mr. Dwight Davis is here for the Commonwealth.”

  “Thank you and good afternoon, counsel,” said Judge Angel Silveria from the dais. He flashed a brief smile, like a waning moon, and Mary, watching from her seat in the packed gallery, knew that it would be the last smile they’d see from him. A chubby, compact judge, Silveria was a former prosecutor who enjoyed his reputation as the most conservative on the Municipal Court bench. It didn’t matter so much at this preliminary proceeding, but Jack couldn’t have drawn a tougher judge for trial if he’d tried, and Mary wondered with dismay if he had.

  “Good afternoon to you, Your Honor,” Isaac Roberts said with a flourish.

  Mary craned her neck to get a better look at her replacement, patron saint of sleazeballs. Roberts was one of the best-known criminal lawyers in town, although he had never tried a murder
case. He plea-bargained for upper-echelon drug dealers, a specialty for lawyers wishing their fees in cash and their eternity in hell. Roberts wore the best clothes that cocaine could buy; a dark Armani suit, Gucci loafers, and a Jerry Garcia tie to complement his Jerry Garcia ponytail. Mary assumed that Roberts was confusing crackhead with Deadhead and began to simmer. He wouldn’t care if Jack was innocent or guilty.

  “Good day, Your Honor,” Davis said, shooting up like an arrow at counsel table. “The Commonwealth is ready to begin.”

  Judge Silveria gestured to the sheriff. “Please bring in the defendant.”

  Mary suppressed a pang when Jack was brought in, in an orange prison jumpsuit, handcuffs, and leg manacles, and escorted to his seat by two sheriffs. A red swelling over his right cheek distorted his handsome features, and he walked with obvious pain.

  “If I may proceed, Your Honor,” Davis began, “the Commonwealth calls Detective Stan Kovich to the stand.”

  Mary watched as the beefy detective rose, punched up his glasses, and lumbered to the witness stand where he was sworn in. Kovich looked so earnest on the stand, four-square and forthright, that she knew he’d be a terrific witness for the Commonwealth. She wondered again about Brinkley and twisted around in her seat. He was nowhere in sight, and she wasn’t surprised. She’d called the Roundhouse and left messages for him, but he hadn’t returned her calls. No surprise there either.

  “Good morning, Detective Kovich,” Davis said. “I would like to direct your attention to January eleventh of this year. Did your duties as detective cause you to interview the defendant Jack Newlin at approximately nine o’clock in the evening?”

  “Yes, they did,” Kovich began, and Davis nodded.

  “Please tell the judge, first, what you observed about defendant’s appearance.”

  “I observed what appeared to be human blood on Mr. Newlin’s hands and clothes.”

  The testimony continued with Davis taking Kovich through the high points of the videotaped confession, and Mary listened with increasing dismay. She counted only two objections by Roberts and a lame cross-examination, but nothing would have made a difference. At a preliminary hearing, the Commonwealth had only to make out a prima facie case of murder, the barest minimum, and they had that easy. The reporters scribbled and the courtroom sketch artists drew madly when Judge Silveria ruled:

  “I find the Commonwealth has borne its burden of proving a prima facie case on all counts of the charge of general murder, and I order the defendant Jack Newlin bound over for trial.” The judge banged his gavel. “Shall we set bail?”

  Davis rose quickly. “Your Honor, the Commonwealth opposes bail in this matter. We believe Mr. Newlin poses a substantial risk of flight, especially in view of the fact that the Commonwealth has made a determination to prosecute Mr. Newlin to the fullest extent of the law in this matter. We have announced today that we are seeking the death penalty in this case.”

  In the gallery, Mary felt her heart tighten in her chest. So there truly would be no deals. The prospect horrified her. She looked for Jack at counsel table but all she could see was his profile, his bruised chin held high. His lawyer rose beside him in far too relaxed a manner.

  “Your Honor,” Roberts said, “regardless of the Commonwealth’s scare tactics, Mr. Newlin poses no real flight risk. It is one thing to deny bail at the arraignment, but another to deny it after the preliminary hearing, Your Honor. I cannot recall the last case in which bail was denied at this juncture.”

  Judge Silveria banged the gavel again. “That much is correct, Mr. Roberts. Your client is hereby released on bail. Bail shall be set at $250,000. Next matter, please.”

  Mary felt relieved, despite the high number. She knew Jack could make the ten percent he needed to get free, and bail should have been granted, as a legal matter. She could use another crack at changing Jack’s mind. Maybe a taste of freedom would influence him.

  The gallery rose almost as one, with the reporters, sketch artists, and spectators filing out, but Mary remained behind. Roberts was packing his briefcase, but Jack had turned and was scanning the gallery. Mary didn’t know why; Paige wasn’t in the crowd, probably he’d told her not to come. She found herself rising to her feet as the gallery cleared completely and she realized Jack was staring at her.

  Her heart lodged in her throat, a place it had no business being, and she didn’t know what to do. He was looking right at her, his eyes betraying a tacit connection. Then they became guarded again, and he turned away. But Mary hadn’t imagined it; it had happened. He had been looking for her.

  She stood her ground in silence, which in itself made a statement. Jack was lying and he knew it, and if there was any justice in this city, all she had to do was keep standing up for the truth. She had to bear witness. She vowed never to give up and never to sit down and never to let down until she had brought the truth to light.

  She remained standing in the empty gallery long after Jack had been led from the courtroom, and her eyes wandered over the judicial dais, the nylon flag, and the golden seal of the Commonwealth; the objects and symbols she took for granted in courtrooms and had never really looked at until now. She found herself believing in the objects in a way she had never believed in the chalices, wafers, and rosaries of her childhood, and she wondered if she believed in the gavel because she didn’t believe in the crucifix. It might have been true; she wasn’t sure. Mary knew she didn’t have all the answers and wasn’t better than anyone else. But for the first time in her life, she came to the conclusion that she wasn’t any worse.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was hurrying from the Criminal Justice Center and past City Hall, the cold wind pushing her along. The press thronged behind her in front of the courthouse; she had managed to duck most of them. She had to get back to the office to try to find Brinkley. He must know something that was making him investigate Paige and Trevor. Mary had to find out what it was.

  The sidewalks were crowded and she threaded her way along, but when she got to the corner was surprised to see an attractive man approaching her with a plainly lustful look. She put her head down and hustled past him, but when she looked up again there was another man looking at her with naked interest. Mary didn’t get it. Men never looked at her like that and they wouldn’t be starting now. Her hair was messy, her coat was wrinkled, and her eyes were red from her contacts.

  “Mary,” said a voice behind her, and she turned. Standing right behind her, plainly out of breath, was Paige. “Do you have a minute?” the teenager asked.

  41

  There were worse things than being suspended, Brinkley was finding out. In truth it didn’t feel so different, except for the money. He’d never felt a part of Two Squad anyway and had been on the outside looking in most of the time on the job. Now it was just official. Also it gave him more time to freelance. On the Newlin case. He stayed in the loop, thanks to the reporters who had gotten him suspended. The newspapers had the blow-by-blow of Newlin attacking his lawyer, and Brinkley knew instantly it was a scam. The man just did not have it in him. Brinkley had also heard that the prelim had gone down with new counsel, and that the judge had ruled for the Commonwealth and also set bail.

  He was driving downtown in his black ’68 Beetle, rotted at the doorjambs and chassis. The cold wind whistled through the rust holes, and he had to keep his leather jacket buttoned. Someday the Beetle’s floor would fall out, but that was part of the fun. It ran great and the vinyl seats were still free of duct tape. Sheree had been too ashamed of the car to drive around in it and had dubbed it Shit Car. Brinkley used to call it that, too. Until today.

  He cruised forward with the aftermarket CD player loud in the midday traffic, feeling like a kid playing hooky. Beside him on the seat was the FedEx package in a soft envelope. He stopped at the red light on Broad Street, where a brother pulled up in a cherry red ’Vette. Brinkley kept his eyes straight ahead. Just let him say something. A man can drive any damn car he wants to.

  The traffic ligh
t turned green, and Brinkley hit the gas. The Corvette wouldn’t approve of his music either. It wasn’t rap or jazz; it was Elvis. Brinkley had a collection of over a hundred CDs and had been to Graceland three times. Each time he had been the only black detective from Philly in line, but he didn’t care. Sheree hadn’t gone with him on any of the trips. She didn’t appreciate the King, which bugged him, and Brinkley clung to that thought. It was good to be having some bad memories of her. Maybe he could string them along, one after the other like keys on a ring, and not want her back.

  He turned the corner, spotted the building up on his left, and slowed to a stop in front of it. Then he flicked on faint blinkers, grabbed the FedEx package, and climbed out of the Beetle.

  42

  Mary and Paige entered Captain Walsh’s office, which was surprisingly bare for such top brass. She introduced herself and Paige, then took a seat in front of his regulation-issue desk and gestured to Paige to take the other. Mary had decided to go straight to the top with Paige’s confession. The old Mary would have been intimidated, but the new Mary didn’t think twice about asking to see the manager. “Thank you for meeting with us, Captain,” she said, and Paige nodded stiffly.

  “Certainly.” Captain Walsh nodded, his thick neck folding into the starchy collar on his white uniform. He wore a dark tie and gold badge and his hair looked permanently uncombed. Mary avoided staring at his birthmark, which matched the blotches on her neck. Captain Walsh gestured to the door, opening behind her. “Here’s Detective Kovich. I think you know him.”

  “Yes, sure.” Mary twisted around. Kovich entered the office in a short-sleeved shirt and spongy brown pants that revealed he hadn’t cut down on portion size. Following him was a young man with spiky black hair moussed straight up and a black tweed jacket with baggy black slacks. Mary figured him for the Young & Hip version of detective.