Rough Justice

by Lisa Scottoline

  The jurors started applauding, Gussella loudest of all. Megan clapped, too, less enthusiastically because Christopher wasn’t clapping. His face was turning gray and he leaned to the right. “Chris?” she said softly.

  Nick’s lower lip began to tremble. “I wish I could see my wife. I want to go home, too.”

  Mrs. Wahlbaum patted his suit sleeve. “I miss Abe. He has a hard time all by himself, the shopping and the cooking. It’s his knees.”

  “Lord, I got to see my little grandbaby!” Gussella shouted, so loud that Wanthida jumped.

  “We all want this over with,” Wanthida said in accented English, “and we think Mr. Steere innocent. We should vote and go home.”

  “Not all of us would vote for acquittal,” Ralph said, though he couldn’t have been happier. The war was almost won and he’d taken out the opposing general. The only problem was Kenny Manning. Time to attack, when his enemy was weakest. “Kenny, what do you think? You still would vote to convict?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Kenny said, cocking his head.

  “It’s up to you, friend. I’m the first one to say that we all respect your right to vote however you want. I’m not tryin’ to put pressure on you. If you want to talk about it longer we will. I’m here to tell you that you have a right to satisfaction.”

  Christopher saw it all slipping away. Marta. The conviction. Somebody was pounding hoof nails through his stomach. Megan was saying something to him but he replied only with a gurgling sound the jurors didn’t hear. They were all looking down the table at Isaiah, who suddenly cleared his throat and hunched over the table, meeting Kenny’s glare head-on.

  “My fiancée’s pregnant, man,” Isaiah said, his voice low. “If I don’t get outta here soon and get her down an aisle, she’s gonna get her heart broke. And her momma’s. She don’t want to be showin’ in front of the whole church, and I don’t blame her neither.”

  “Shit, man,” Lucky Seven said, hanging his head. “Why’n’t you say somethin’?”

  “She told me last night, durin’ the visit. I’m sorry, Kenny, I’d like to go with you. I know how you feel about convictin’ Steere, and you might be in the right. But I don’t blame the man and I can’t stand with you, bro. I can’t even take the time to fight with you about it. I got to take care of my family. I got to get home.”

  Kenny just glared back; then his dark eyes slid over to Lucky Seven, who threw up his hands like he’d been held up. “Don’t look at me, man,” Lucky Seven said, from between large palms. “It’s up to you. I go with you, you know that.”

  “Christopher?” Megan said in alarm. She rose to her feet and was almost at his side as a wave of agony wracked Christopher and he collapsed in his chair.

  58

  Ten phone calls later, Marta sat at the edge of the futon, her thoughts racing. “So what have we learned?”

  Judy sat slumped into the white cloth cushions. A carton of milk was wedged between her legs. Crumbs were sprinkled across her gray sweats. “We learned that we’re terrible people, intruding on the privacy of the bereft.”

  “What else?”

  “That all the people we called are dead.”

  “And all died violently or by accident.”

  “Yes. In the City of Brotherly Love.”

  “And all died a little over four years ago. And they were organ donors.”

  Judy took a slug of milk. “A file of organ donors. That’s why it didn’t show up on the computer fields. The whole file is of organ donors.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In Pennsylvania, you can tell by someone’s driver’s license if they want to be an organ donor.” Judy crossed to the counter, retrieved her wallet, and handed her driver’s license to Marta. “See? It says right there. I’m an organ donor. Aren’t you?”

  “Of course not.” Marta looked down at the small plastic card. Under an unflattering photo of Judy it said in bright green letters, ORGAN DONOR. Like a grisly caption. “How disgusting.”

  “No it isn’t. Everyone should be a donor. You know how many people die each day waiting for an organ transplant? I signed up at City Hall. They have an organ drive every year.”

  “City Hall does?”

  “Sure. It’s run by the mayor’s office. It started when the mayor was D.A.”

  “When did you sign up?”

  “A long time ago.”

  “When, exactly?”

  “Must have been five years ago. They had a big drive. The whole office went. We were at Stalling and Webb then, Mary and I.”

  Marta felt suddenly antsy and rose from the futon. Her ribs were killing her, but she had to pace to think more clearly. She had her best ideas pacing or in the shower; if she could pace in the shower she’d be attorney general. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me the mayor’s office has a list of organ donors in Philadelphia.”

  “I guess. The donor drives are a high-profile thing. The city runs it with the local organ donor organization.”

  “The mayor can monitor deaths of organ donors in the city?”

  “I suppose so. City Hall could tap into a network of organ donors. I think it’s a public organization that runs the network. I doubt it’s even confidential information.”

  Marta paced back and forth. “Assume City Hall connects up with the network, so they know when an organ donor dies. Some of the donors die right before the mayoral election. Their deaths get reported because their driver’s license says they want to be donors.”

  Judy followed Marta’s line of reasoning. “Their deaths don’t show up in enough time to take them off the voter registration rolls. City Hall finds out first because they’re hooked up with the information.” The associate paused, momentarily stumped. “But why would they do that? Why would they care?”

  Marta’s eyes met Judy’s. “Ten to one, Mr. Swenson and Mrs. Minton voted in the last election. And Jacobs and Walters. All of them, on all those driver’s licenses. They all voted even though they were dead.”

  “How? How would they physically go and vote?” Judy frowned and Marta resumed pacing.

  “Good question.” Judy was more able than Marta had realized; it was almost better working together. “Maybe somebody pretends to be them and votes for them.”

  “Not possible,” Judy said, shaking her head. “There are women and men. Some are white, some are black. They’re all different. You can’t vote without somebody seeing you.”

  Marta froze. “Yes you can. An absentee ballot. Somebody makes out absentee ballots for them. Somebody finds out they’re dead before anybody else knows it — because of the donor card — and makes out absentee ballots for them. They have their signature right on the license, and they forge the ballot. That’s why they need the licenses on file. Because the licenses have the signature and they have to sign the ballot.”

  Judy’s mouth fell open. It all fit together. “Street money.”

  “Somebody gets paid to file an absentee ballot in the name of the organ donor.”

  “Eb Darning would be the somebody.”

  “Bingo,” Marta said quietly, and suddenly she saw it all. Steere’s scheme, perfectly planned and executed, years in the making. Steere had paid Eb Darning to file absentee ballots in the last election, undoubtedly voting against his enemy, the mayor. But Steere didn’t anticipate that Eb would keep his own proof of the deal. Darning must have been blackmailing Steere, and Steere killed him for it. “Get the file and notebook,” Marta said. “We have to get going.”

  “What? Where? To the cops?”

  “No time for that. To court.”

  59

  Bennie sat sweltering in her parka, growing increasingly impatient as she and Emil waited for Jennifer Pressman in the chief of staff’s office. There was no alternative to waiting, but it went against Bennie’s nature to sit on her hands. She’d excused herself twice already to prowl the corridors of City Hall, opening office doors and checking the room where the mayor had held his press conference. The co
nference had ended, and Jen Pressman was nowhere to be found. “Maybe she’s home by now,” Bennie said, nudging Emil with her elbow. “Ask the secretary to call again.”

  “No.” Emil flipped through the glossy magazine he’d found on the coffee table. “We just called. Behave.”

  “Ask her.”

  “No. Jen will be in soon, she has to be. It’s her job. She’s dedicated.”

  “I can’t wait any longer. You want the story or not?”

  Emil snapped the magazine shut. “You try me, Bennie.”

  “Thank you.”

  He dropped the magazine on the table and walked over to the secretary’s desk. “Flossie, do you think we should call Jennifer’s home again?”

  The secretary stopped typing and looked up from her keyboard. “It hasn’t been that long since last time.”

  “I understand, but this is an important matter. Would you mind very much? I consider it a great favor to me.”

  “You know — ,” the secretary hesitated, then her voice softened. “To tell you the truth, Emil, it won’t do any good to keep calling her at home. I don’t think my boss made it home last night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t think she slept at home last night.”

  Emil colored. “I see.”

  “You didn’t hear this from me, right?” the secretary said, lowering her voice.

  “Right.”

  “You’d never print anything we talk about, right?”

  “Of course not, Flossie. We’re friends, you and I.”

  “Well, I think she went to see her boyfriend last night. That’s the only time she pulls a disappearing act. She hasn’t taken off much lately, so I thought it was over. Maybe not, though. Guess they reconciled and she couldn’t get out of bed.”

  “Love weaves a spell when you’re young,” Emil said, and back at the couch, Bennie wanted to throw up.

  “Oh, this isn’t love.” The secretary leaned over confidentially and whispered, “I think he’s married.”

  “No,” Emil said, with genuine disapproval. He was the most traditional man Bennie knew, and she would have bet that he wasn’t the one frying the grape leaves.

  “Yes. I’m sure of it. In summer, she used to take off early on weekends. She’d come back tan and wouldn’t say who she went with. She never brought back any pictures.”

  “Can she be reached? Who is this man?”

  “Damned if I know.” The secretary leaned over farther. “You know, I tried to find out once. I was curious and finally I just asked her, straight out. ‘Are you seeing anyone?’ I said to her. Just straight.”

  “Good. It’s best to be honest and straightforward.”

  “Sure it is. I’ve worked for her for two years now, and we never talk or anything. You think she’d have lunch with me? Never. Anyway, know what she said when I asked her? She said, ‘I don’t discuss that with subordinates.’”

  Emil’s face fell. “How unkind.”

  “Tell me about it. ‘Subordinates!’ She said she was quoting somebody named Sun Zoo something. So I said to her, ‘Who the hell is Sun Zoo? It sounds like a suntan cream or something.’”

  Back on the couch, Bennie’s ears pricked up. Sun Zoo? Where had she heard that lately?

  “Sun-Tzu?” Emil said. “He was a Chinese philosopher. A general.”

  “That’s right. That’s what she said. I told her, ‘I don’t know from Chinese generals, honey, but I know common courtesy and you don’t have any.’ Imagine! I’m gonna transfer back to the prothonotary’s office as soon as they post it.”

  Suddenly Bennie remembered. In the conference room at the office, when she was talking to Carrier and DiNunzio. What had Carrier said? If you spend any time with Elliot Steere, sooner or later he hauls out Sun-Tzu.

  Bennie sat bolt upright on the couch. The picture came into instant focus. Jen Pressman had a secret boyfriend, but he wasn’t married. He was Elliot Steere. She’d have to keep it quiet because he was the mayor’s nemesis. In that moment, Bennie realized the whole scam. It wasn’t exactly the way she thought. In fact, it was quite the opposite. But there was no time left. She jumped up and headed for the door.

  “Bennie?” Emil asked, turning.

  “Gotta fry some grape leaves, Emil,” she said, and bolted out the door.

  60

  Judge Rudolph was presiding, though when he looked down from the mahogany dais he didn’t see a packed courtroom, he saw a running track with hurdles. The finish line was straight ahead, marked by a fluttering red, white, and blue banner that read JUSTICE HARRY CALVIN RUDOLPH. At the defense table, Elliot Steere watched him intently, and the prosecutors looked alert. In the stands, all eyes were on him. Everyone was quiet and waiting for the starter’s pistol. On your mark, get set, go! Crack!

  “Gentlemen,” the judge said, “I called you here because of an emergency that has arisen in the jury. One of the jurors has taken ill with a stomach virus and had to be sent to the hospital. The Court has been informed by another juror, acting as substitute foreperson, that the jury may be very close to delivering a verdict in this matter. The alternates have already been sent home, and by now have undoubtedly been tainted by exposure to publicity. Therefore, the issue before the Court is whether the jury should be permitted to proceed to verdict without the juror who has fallen ill.”

  Elliot Steere sat at the defense table and not a muscle on his body moved. His juror had acted. His acquittal was assured. His victory was complete. He breathed slowly, in and out, and his heartbeat thumped steadily. In his ears he heard the rhythms of his own life force. Sun-Tzu taught that victory goes to those who do not miscalculate, and Steere had not miscalculated. He had prepared for this victory and so it was at hand.

  “Under Pennsylvania law,” Judge Rudolph continued, “the jury in a murder trial may proceed to verdict with a vote of less than twelve jurors only if the defendant and the Commonwealth agree. The defendant had a constitutional right to a verdict by a jury of twelve, and such right can be waived. The Court is holding this hearing this morning in order to determine how the parties wish to proceed.”

  At the prosecutor’s table sat Assistant District Attorney Tom Moran, and this time he was wide awake. The district attorney of the City of Philadelphia, Bill Masterson, was seated on his right, so close their padded shoulders grazed. Masterson was basketball-player tall, big-boned and ruddy-faced, with a thatch of gray-blond hair and fierce blue eyes. Nobody could sit next to Bill Masterson and be unaware of his power, especially a young father of twins who had already fucked up once. Tom needed his job, now more than ever.

  Judge Rudolph prepared to jump the first hurdle. “Mr. Steere, you are the defendant in this matter, and this court has at every juncture been careful to safeguard your rights under the law, especially since you have chosen to proceed as your own counsel. Do you have any questions so far?”

  “No.”

  “Do you understand the question that is being put to you? The Court must determine if you wish to waive your right to a verdict rendered by a jury of twelve.”

  “I understand that, Your Honor.”

  “I will conduct the required colloquy to confirm that you understand your rights, but would you like to consult with an attorney before we begin? I see that Mr. LeFort of the Cable and Bess firm is in the gallery.” Judge Rudolph acknowledged the expensive lawyer with a nod. “If you wish to consult with Mr. LeFort or one of his partners, the Court would be happy to recess for fifteen minutes.”

  “I do not wish to consult with Mr. LeFort, Your Honor. It’s a straightforward question. I can give you my answer right now. I want my case to proceed to verdict as soon as possible, Your Honor, even if that means I accept the verdict of less than the full complement of jurors. I wish to waive my right to a verdict by a jury of twelve.”

  The gallery burst into excited chatter. Judge Rudolph’s gaze slipped to the back of the courtroom and he banged the gavel. Crack! “I’ll have none of
that in my courtroom. Keep a lid on it, ladies and gentlemen, or there will be expulsions. Mr. Steere, do you understand that you have the right to ask for a mistrial?”

  “Your Honor, I do not want a mistrial. I do not want any further delays in my trial. I have been in prison for a long time. I have a business to run when I am released.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Steere.” Judge Rudolph imagined himself leaping over the first hurdle and landing on the other side without breaking stride. One down, one to go. The judge turned to the prosecution table. “Mr. Moran, I see that you are joined this morning by District Attorney William Masterson. Welcome, Mr. Masterson.”

  “Good morning, Your Honor,” Masterson said.

  Judge Rudolph acknowledged the powerful lawyer with a nod. The judge knew that the D.A. wanted his job and had kissed enough of the right asses to get it when the judge ascended to the Supreme Court. Without a word being exchanged, both men knew a baton would pass, but only if the judge won his final leg of the relay. “Mr. Masterson, will you be speaking for the Commonwealth this morning or will Mr. Moran be doing the honors?”

  “Mr. Moran will,” Masterson boomed. He grinned broadly and made a note on a legal pad. “I’m just here for the ride. Mr. Moran likes my company.”

  The gallery laughed and the reporters scribbled. Judge Rudolph smiled indulgently. Very funny. Take my job, please. “Fine.” The judge prepared for the second hurdle. “Does the Commonwealth have any objection to this case proceeding to verdict with less than twelve jurors, in view of the circumstances, Mr. Moran?”

  Tom was about to object when he felt a nudge at his elbow. He glanced over, and Masterson was looking thoughtfully at the dais, the flags, and the judicial seal of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. His hammy hand rested on a legal pad that said:

  AGREE, TURKEY