Rough Justice raa-5

by Lisa Scottoline

  BUSINESS PROPERTIES— NORTHEAST. More properties, more loans. Even a criminal lawyer could see that Steere's business operations were precarious, the properties heavily leveraged. Each lease was held in a corporate name and Marta counted at least twenty different names. None of them appeared to have partnerships, since no partners had signed on any of the notes. Steere was the key man in every transaction. Marta closed the file folder and replaced it. It was intriguing, but it wasn't what Alix had been looking for. What had she wanted, and why now?

  Marta paused. Why now? That could be the answer. It could be that the missing papers would implicate Steere in Eb Darning's murder. Otherwise, why the frantic activity at this point? Assume Steere had sent Alix to get these papers after Marta had told him she'd find evidence against him. He did have a portable phone. Maybe Steere called Alix and told her to find the file and hide it elsewhere. Or shred it, keep it secret. If Steere wanted it secret, Marta wanted it all the more.

  Marta stood at the file cabinet, thinking. Then she remembered that the police had searched Steere's city town house when he was first arrested. The D.A. tried to get a warrant to search Steere's beach house, but Marta had successfully opposed it for lack of probable cause. But Steere wouldn't have taken any chances. If there were any evidence here relating to the crime, he would have had it hidden, or disguised it. It could be something that looked innocent but wasn't. Like Steere himself.

  Marta's gaze circled the home office. Across the room was a small credenza with two drawers left open. She hurried to it, opened the top drawer, and thumbed through it. Personal records. One manila folder read ANTIQUES and was filled with furniture receipts. English Interiors— One mahogany lowboy, $1550.00, read the one on top. Marta slipped it back.

  She pulled the next file, labeled BOAT. Boat? Marta didn't know Steere had a boat. She flipped to the bill of sale. FOUR WINNS 258 Vista Cruiser, twenty-five feet long. It had cost $47,425 and had been bought almost four years ago. Also in the folder were insurance documents and docking bills from LBI Marina. Piratical was the boat's name. Perfect for Steere, but not helpful.

  Fuck. What time was it? Marta checked her watch. 1:45 A.M. She tensed. The jury would resume deliberations in seven hours. Could Christopher turn them around? Where could those papers be? Maybe hidden elsewhere in the house. Somewhere she wouldn't expect. Marta abandoned the credenza in a hurry, then checked the other rooms for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Nothing.

  Marta hurried downstairs and searched the first floor. She rummaged through bookshelves and kitchen cabinets. Highboys and lowboys. Nothing. She didn't even know what she was looking for. It was an impossible task. She plopped on the living room rug. Her fatigue was catching up with her. She didn't know what else to do. On the living room wall hung a large framed blueprint of the mansion. BUILT IN 1888, TODD HUNTER, ARCHITECT, read the architectural block lettering.

  Marta blinked, distracted. She loved houses, even plans for houses. The blueprint was a deep marine color, and the architect had drawn in white. She could see the ruled lines describing the living room and dining room, then the dotted swinging lines for the double door between them. This was an old, old house. No wonder it wasn't up on stilts like the others she'd driven by. Marta knew from her beach house on Cape Cod that the newer houses would have bedrooms downstairs and living areas on the upper floor, to take advantage of the ocean view.

  Marta frowned, the house hunter in her disapproving. It was a problem with Steere's house, for all its grace and elegance. No water view. She looked at the bank of windows that faced the beach. They were large, but dunes obscured the ocean view. Snowy mounds lay around the house like loose pearls.

  Marta thought a minute. Why would Steere, who could afford any house on Long Beach Island, choose one that had no ocean view? Then she remembered something. What had Steere said? In the interview room at the courthouse? I love the beach, but I hate the water. The memory jerked Marta awake. Steere hated the ocean. He hated it so much he'd bought a house with no view of the water. So why did he own a boat?

  Marta scrambled to her feet and sprinted back upstairs.

  38

  Judge Rudolph stood behind his desk in his chambers and frowned at the handwritten motion for a mistrial, which had been hand-delivered to his chambers. His law clerk sat across the desk, red-faced. Joey had been stupid enough to accept service of the motion papers. Strike three. Judge Rudolph wouldn't take him to the high court, if he ever got there, now. "You should have refused it!" the judge snapped, throwing the papers onto his desk in anger.

  "I'm sorry, Your Honor."

  "You should have told her to file it during business hours."

  "I know, Your Honor."

  "It doesn't have a clerk's time stamp. There's nothing official about it. You could have told her you didn't have permission to take it."

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "You could have asked for her ID, for God's sake. How did you even know who she was? Why do you let strangers into my chambers like that?"

  "She wasn't a stranger. It was Judy Carrier. I know her from court, Your Honor."

  "Don't backtalk me! I have my personal things in here! This is my chambers, not yours!"

  "Yes, Your Honor. I know." Joey sat on the chair opposite the judge's desk. His head hung over the legal pad and photocopied cases in his lap.

  "The woman shows up to serve papers and you hold out your hand?"

  "Carrier said she filed it, Judge."

  "At one o'clock in the morning?" The judge was shouting now. "How could she file it, you idiot?"

  "She said it was an emergency."

  "It's her emergency, not my emergency. You know how many papers we get here that some lawyer calls emergency papers? How many, Joey? A million? Everything's an emergency to a lawyer!"

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "Who runs this case anyway, the lawyers or me? It's not an emergency unless I say it's an emergency! Until then it's just more paper. Another lawyer with another pleading. Paper. Garbage. Trash. How many times do I have to tell you?" Judge Rudolph snatched off his tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed his eyes irritably. "My God. I hate this."

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "Will you shut up? Will you just shut up?"

  Joey nodded. He thought about saying "yes," but decided against it. It was a confusing question.

  "Did you research the legal issue at least?"

  "Yes. There's no case directly on point, but I found a good law review article and researched analogous cases on the Manson trial, and—"

  "Don't write me a book, Joey. This Carrier broad filed a motion for a mistrial. I want to deny it. Will I get reversed?"

  "Not if the defendant opposes the motion, which he does in his letter."

  Judge Rudolph stared at Joey in disbelief. "What did you say? The defendant wrote a letter, opposing?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Steere himself?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Christ! Why didn't you say so, you moron?"

  "You were yelling—"

  "Give me that letter! Christ! What's the matter with you?"

  The judge snatched the paper from Joey's outstretched hand and slapped his reading glasses back on. The letter was handwritten and the judge read its contents aloud, his voice full of wonder. " 'My lawyer filed a motion for mistrial in this matter without my knowledge or authorization. I oppose this motion for a mistrial… hereby ask the Court to consider it withdrawn… I expressly do not wish a mistrial… I wish to proceed as my own counsel… Signed, Elliot Steere.' " The judge pulled his chair out and eased into it in amazement. What luck! It was almost too good to be true. "How did we get this?"

  "One of the sheriffs brought it up from the lockup."

  "So it's really from Steere."

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  Judge Rudolph shook his head, his eyes glued to the letter. He'd never had a case like this one. Had never read a case like this one. It had a life of its own.

  Joey cleare
d his throat. "I found cases saying that a defendant has the right to proceed pro se in a criminal case, even if he fires his lawyer in the middle."

  "Of course he does." Judge Rudolph skimmed the letter over and over, incredulous as a lottery winner. "It's the defendant's right to counsel. It's a personal right. He can exercise it or waive it."

  "Yes. True. I knew that. I found cases saying the rights in a criminal trial are personal to the defendant, analogous to those cases where the defendant wants the state to execute and the courts won't let the lawyers intervene."

  "That's not on point."

  "Well, in the Manson case—"

  "Shut up, Joey."

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "You're embarrassing yourself." Judge Rudolph looked up from the letter. "Has this letter been served on the D.A.?"

  "I don't know. Ms. Carrier told me she served the motion on the D.A., but I don't know about the letter from Steere."

  Judge Rudolph paused. He wasn't in the clear yet. "Get me the D.A. Think you can handle that?"

  39

  Judy had only one lead to follow and it brought her back to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge. She had grabbed a lone cab at the courthouse and the ride took only a half hour through plowed streets. There was no traffic because nobody but Judy was crazy enough to brave the blizzard.

  Grays Ferry was deserted and Judy felt uneasy as soon as the cab turned onto Twenty-fifth Street. The scene chilled her. Mary had been shot here only hours ago, yet no sawhorses or yellow tape marked the spot. Bennie had told her at the hospital that the cops were shorthanded, but what would become of whatever evidence was at the crime scene? Judy found herself staring at the spot where Mary had been shot. Fresh snow buried Mary's blood, concealing what had happened. Even Judy's skis were lost in the snow or long gone.

  "Miss? The fare?" said the cabdriver.

  "Sorry." Judy fumbled in her zipper pocket for a bill and handed it to him. "Keep it, okay?" She stepped out into the cold and walked up the street to the house.

  Judy climbed the familiar, snowy stoop next to the brown living room curtains and knocked hard with her good hand. She didn't expect an instant answer, it was the middle of the night. Judy knocked until a light went on inside the house and kept knocking until she heard voices near the front door. Then she started shouting. There would be time for apologies later. Now she had to get in and get answers.

  * * *

  Judy sat across from the mother in her living room, telling her the whole story. The room was cramped and its furnishings old, but clean and simple. A worn couch, an old TV, and a radio-cassette player on a table with some cassette tapes beside it. Children's books and X-Men comics were stacked on metal tray tables that served as end tables. The thin-paneled walls were covered with children's photographs, all boys. Their front teeth vanished in one picture and reappeared in the next, playing photographic peeka-boo. The focus of the living room was a large portrait that hung over the couch, a posed photograph of the mother and her three sons, with the small Dennell in her lap.

  The mother was tired, awakened from sleep, but listened without comment, her neat head tilted at a dubious angle. Her features were large and not entirely pretty, but her round eyes showed intelligence. She had on a thin white robe and her short hair was cut natural. The only time she touched it was when Judy explained how Mary had been shot. "Why aren't you goin' to the police about this?" the woman asked warily. "Why you comin' to me?"

  "I will, but all I have now is suspicion. They can't do anything about it tonight anyway. Besides, if your son knows something, wouldn't you rather have me talk to him than the police?"

  "At this hour of the night? No."

  "I'm sorry about that. I can't help it."

  The woman wrapped her robe closer around her slim body. "My baby Dennell don't know this homeless man you're talkin' about. Dennell never said nothin' about somebody named Eb. Or Heb."

  "I think Dennell did know him. He told us he did. Dennell plays outside a lot, doesn't he? He must have talked to Eb while you were at work."

  "Dennell don't know him. He don't know people hangin' on the street. He don't talk to those people."

  "How do you know that? You work at the store during the day."

  The mother pursed her lips. "Look, I do what I can. I work, I don't take no handouts. Rasheed, he watches the baby when I'm away, or the neighbor lady. What do you know about it anyway? You don't know nothin' about it."

  Judy reddened. "I'm just telling you what Dennell told me and Mary."

  "Like I tol' you, Rasheed watches Dennell good. I told him not to let the baby talk to no strangers."

  "Heb wouldn't be a stranger. Some of the neighbors knew him."

  "I didn't. Not me."

  "Dennell said Heb was rich."

  The mother's brow knitted. "He said that? To you?"

  "Yes, he told me Eb gave him money."

  "Dennell don't have money."

  "Isn't it possible that Heb gave Dennell money?"

  "No. I never saw a dime of it."

  "But Dennell told me about street money. Did you know about that?"

  "Street money?" the mother scoffed. "You don't know if Dennell was for real or not."

  "Does Dennell lie?"

  The mother didn't reply.

  "I didn't think so," Judy said, and the mother looked at her hard.

  * * *

  The window in the children's crowded bedroom was insulated with Saran Wrap and Scotch tape, and Dennell's skinny bed sat underneath the peeling windowsill. The little boy squinted sleepily against the sudden brightness from a ceiling fixture of old, frosted glass. "Momma?" the boy murmured without opening his eyes.

  "Dennell, wake up and talk to me a minute, baby." The mother stroked his head as he lay against a pillow covered with Star Wars characters. "There's a lady here to ask you some questions."

  "I'm the lady with the skis," Judy said softly, sitting at the foot of the bed. "Remember me, Dennell?"

  The boy's eyes remained closed, and his mother shook him gently by the shoulder. He wore a thick Sesame Street sweatshirt; the bedroom was cold despite a space heater whose two squiggly coils glowed orange in the far corner, near a bookshelf cluttered with battered board games, paperback books, and cassette tapes. The two older sons shared a double bed and one son was wide awake as the other slept. It was the oldest one who was awake, and Judy judged him to be about fifteen. He wore a bright red T-shirt that said CHICAGO BULLS. "Whas' up, Ma?" he asked.

  "None of your business, Rasheed. Go back to sleep."

  Rasheed quieted but stayed propped up in bed next to his somnolent brother, watching the odd scene. His face was long and handsome with strong features and dark, smallish eyes. Tacked on the wall above the bed were posters of Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, and Dennis Rodman's hair.

  "Dennell," said the mother, shaking the boy only reluctantly. Dennell dozed on.

  Judy considered giving up, but it was too important. Somebody had tried to kill Mary and she had to get to the bottom of it. She had a rapport with this boy, and the police wouldn't. Something was telling her it had to be done tonight. Now. "Dennell," Judy called. "Remember we played with the skis?"

  The child cracked an eye. "The skis?"

  Judy inched up on the bed beside Dennell's mother. "I slid the ski to you. We played, remember?"

  Both large eyes flew suddenly open. "You said it's not a toy!" he said in the loud voice Judy recalled.

  "Well, it isn't."

  "I fink it is!"

  Rasheed snorted. " 'Think.' You got to say 'think.' "

  "Fink!" Dennell repeated.

  Rasheed shook his smooth head. "He can't say 'th.' "

  "Shhh," said their mother, waving Rasheed off and turning back to Dennell. "Baby, you know a man named Eb Darning?"

  Dennell nodded. His round eyes rolled from his mother to Judy and back again. He had eyelashes so long they curled up at the end, like a baby camel's.

  "He give you money?"<
br />
  Dennell nodded again, and his mother groaned. "What you do with this money, boy?"

  "Did I do bad?"

  Rasheed propped himself up higher on his elbows, his expression as intent as Michael Jordan's. "Don't lie, D."

  "I ain't lyin'!" Dennell shouted, and his mother patted his leg.

  "Settle down now," she said. "Don't be shoutin'. How much money?"

  "I don't know. Two. Ten." Dennell shrugged, his tiny shoulders lost in the sweatshirt. "Ten."

  "Ten dollars?"

  "Yes. Ten."

  "Where's this money now?"

  Dennell blinked but said nothing.

  "He ain't got no money," Rasheed said, and Judy glanced over. Rasheed looked uneasy. You didn't have to be a mother to know what was going on, and the mother turned from her youngest to her oldest.

  "Rasheed. You know something 'bout this money?" Rasheed shook his head, and his mother stood up and put her hands on her hips. "Young man, you look me right in the eye and tell me you don't know what this baby's talkin' about."

  "Ma—"

  "You heard me. You look at me and lie to me. Don't be a sneak."

  Rasheed flopped backward on the bed, his eyes on the ceiling. "I ain't a sneak."

  "Nothin' I hate worse than a sneak. A sneak's not goin' anywhere in this world. No how. No way. Now you tell me."

  Rasheed sighed. "The man give him money and shit."

  "Watch your language. Now, what money?"

  "Dollar bills."

  "How many? Ten?"

  "More," Rasheed said to the ceiling.

  The mother folded her arms. "Where's this money now?"

  "I got it."

  "Get it, boy."

  Rasheed sighed theatrically, tore off the covers, and swung his large feet out of bed. He started explaining as soon as he hit the thin rug. "It's my money, straight up. Dennell give it to me."

  "Get it," his mother said.