His face, which usually bore a look of slight amusement at the spectacle that is we civilians, was closed. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed with me for pretending to play Perry Mason—which I was assuredly not doing—or if there were some outside pressure, maybe from others in the department, that he was feeling on the Dray Mattone case.
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” Bostwick said. “Get it straight: I’m not the friendly cop who tells you all you need to know to solve the crime yourself. It’s not your job to solve the crime; it’s mine. If you’re representing Basilico, you’ll get your information from the D.A. in discovery. If you’re not, I have absolutely no reason to give you anything at all. Are we clear?”
I folded my arms because that seemed the best gesture of either indifference or resistance, and at the moment I couldn’t tell which I was feeling. “That was very impressive,” I said. “Did you rehearse it or are you that good off the cuff?”
“I’m serious. You’ll get nothing from me. I’m not even sure why you came back here at all. Are you the attorney of record on this case?”
As I’ve said, I had absolutely no intention of trying to defend Patty against a murder charge. And as far as I knew at that moment, there had been no charge filed. But the way Bostwick was talking to me was so condescending and dismissive that I didn’t want to just turn tail and run.
Besides, I wasn’t 100 percent sure why I’d come back to talk to him either.
“Right at this moment I am,” I said. “So let’s pretend you’re a cop and I’m a lawyer and maybe you can stop treating me like the dumb blonde in a burlesque sketch. How’s that?”
Just to be clear: I am not nearly old enough to have worked in burlesque, at least not the classic definition that included so many characters of that ilk. But I was well versed enough in my showbiz history that I could make the reference without even considering whether my audience—in this case, Bostwick—would understand what I was trying to communicate.
“Huh?” he said.
That’s what I mean.
“What I’m saying is that I am the attorney of record until such time as I find another lawyer who Patty agrees should represent her in what I’m fairly sure will at the very least be a suit against the city for false arrest. So suppose you start offering me the same courtesy you would any other lawyer who walked in here representing a client, okay?”
A small hint of the familiar smirk crossed Bostwick’s face and then vanished. “I’m already treating you that way,” he said. “I’m not telling you anything I’m not required to tell you by law. And right now that’s absolutely nothing.” He pretended to be interested in a piece of paper on his desk, which I could see was a memo from the department having something to do with saving money by sending memos via email.
“Okay, since you’re going to be a jerk about it, let’s just make one thing clear: Right at this minute you have not charged my client with a crime, is that right?” I asked.
He did not look up. “Not yet.”
“So why is she still sitting in an interrogation room?” I said.
“Because we’re still interrogating her.”
“Then I want to sit in.”
Bostwick looked up. “Wouldn’t you be better served looking for a real lawyer for that?” he asked.
“Let me in with my client while she’s being questioned or don’t question her,” I told him. “And if you’re not going to question her, you need to release her.”
“That’s not my decision,” Bostwick mumbled. Even though I’d heard him, I pretended I hadn’t so he would have to repeat it. That’s the kind of mood I was in by now.
“Then whose decision is it?” I said, moving my hands to my hips like Wonder Woman. I played Wonder Girl in a sketch with my parents when I was eleven. The costume was humiliating.
“Captain,” he said, and pointed to a door behind him and to the left with his thumb. “Feel free to state your grievance.”
“Captain who?” I said. “Kirk? America? Crunch?”
“Henderson,” Bostwick grumbled.
Without saying anything else to him I walked to the door, which was marked M. Henderson, Captain of Detectives, and knocked. There was no response.
“He’s not there,” Bostwick said.
Now I was mad. I stomped back over to Bostwick’s desk and stared at him. “Why are you jerking me around, Sergeant?” I demanded.
“Call me Joe.”
“No. Now what’s your problem?”
He stood up and looked me in the eye. “I don’t have a problem with you,” he said.
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“Connect the dots. If I don’t have a problem with you and I’m acting like I do, maybe there’s a reason,” Bostwick said. “In the meantime, nobody’s going to be grilling your client without a lawyer present because that’s against the law once she’s requested an attorney. I’d advise you seriously to find a criminal lawyer to be here when they do because you don’t want to be in over your head at that time. Okay?”
Much as I hated to admit it, he had a point. “How much time do I have?” I asked.
“Best guess they’ll release her for tonight and request she show up for more questioning tomorrow. They could keep her for up to forty-eight hours, but I don’t think that’s the way this is going to go. If I knew for sure, I would tell you that because you’re the attorney of record. Got it?”
Going home was not an option until I knew for sure what Patty was facing tonight. I nodded my thanks to Bostwick—he had just given me a useful tip—and told him what I’d heard from Mandy and Harve, which he seemed to have filed away from previous interviews, but thanked me anyway. Then I walked over to a corner of the room, sat on one of the uncomfortable molded plastic chairs, and tried to think of a criminal attorney I could call.
I had never actually operated in those circles before, so the only name I could conjure up was Jamie Wallace.
Jamie had been in my class at Rutgers Law in Newark, both of us studying at night while working in other businesses during the day. He’d been so intent on getting into criminal defense that it was almost comical. Jamie was born to argue and loved nothing better than doing moot courts, a practice the rest of the law students absolutely hated. He wore suits to his; the rest of us were considered adequately dressed if we showed up at all.
I hadn’t really kept in touch with Jamie since we’d passed the bar, but I did have his phone number in my contacts because once someone is on your contact list they don’t ever come off even if they’re no longer alive. That is one of the rules of twenty-first-century communications etiquette.
After going through the inevitable secretary Jamie picked up almost immediately. “Kay!” It was nice to hear the voice of someone actually happy to find me on the other end of the phone line. Phone satellite. Whatever. We exchanged the obligatory pleasantries and caught each other up (he had a wife and a baby son; I was me) and then he asked, being astute, why I was calling.
I explained about Patty and could hear Jamie’s excitement level rising with each word. For a fairly young attorney like him to be involved in the defense of an accused killer—and one who had (allegedly) shot a TV star!—would be a career-maker. Jamie’s a nice guy, but he’s also really interested in being a hotshot lawyer.
“Okay, here’s what you do,” he said as soon as I had brought him up to speed. “Stay there until I show up, just in case they charge Patty or want to question her again. She doesn’t say one word to the cops without one of us present. Got that?”
I’d already had it, but I liked the feeling of someone else being in charge, particularly someone who might actually know what he was doing. It was a refreshing change of pace.
“Got it. Then what?”
“Then you sit back and let me handle it. I’ll consult with you along the way, but I’m willing to bet you want no part of that courtroom, and I’m happy to be there. Am I right?”
He was right.
&nbs
p; “Meanwhile,” Jamie continued, “I’ll get some people here working on discovery. Even if they don’t charge her today, they had enough to bring her in and question her. From what you’ve told me, they shouldn’t have anything. Patty wasn’t able to be in the trailer when Mattone got shot, and you can vouch for that. She also didn’t appear to have a motive. We’ll find out if she has a permit to carry a gun.”
“The gun was probably from the prop department at the studio,” I told him.
“Yeah, but I’ll bet the bullets weren’t, and she might or might not know anything about firearms. It’s not as easy to shoot somebody dead with one shot as you think, even that close up. It’s worth knowing, anyway.” I was starting to think I’d called the right number.
“You’re on your way?” I asked. The sooner he got here, the better.
“I left already,” Jamie said. “Don’t let her talk to anybody.” And he hung up.
Jamie was coming from Hackensack, easily a one-hour drive and longer if he took public transportation, which he wouldn’t. My plan right now was to blend into the appalling green paint job and wait for Jamie while following Hippocrates’s lead and doing no harm. So even when I saw the heretofore absent Captain Henderson unlock his office door and go inside, I did not storm in and demand justice for my client. For one thing, I had no idea whether she was getting justice now or not, so I might just end up looking silly, something I have tried to avoid even when walking a seriously groomed poodle (she looked like topiary) into an audition for a Lassie reboot (she didn’t get the job and the show never got made).
Then Henderson, a tall man roughly resembling a rock-climbing wall, walked out of his office and to Bostwick’s desk. He leaned over (imagine a rock-climbing wall leaning over) and talked quietly to the sergeant, who looked impassive. Bostwick nodded once or twice and then pointed.
At me.
Henderson drew himself up and walked toward me. His voice was exactly what you’d expect from someone that imposing—deep, sonorous, and generally intimidating. The guy was born to boss other people around.
“Ms. Powell?” he said, knowing full well that Bostwick had told him who I was. I stood, which didn’t help that much; my head came up somewhere south of Henderson’s shoulders. I decided not to wait and began disliking him immediately. But I admitted to him who I was.
“I understand you’re representing Patricia Basilico,” Henderson said. Again he was telling me something both of us knew. I wondered where this was going, but stuck to my policy of agreeing that true stuff was indeed true. “We are releasing her in a little while, but we want your client to remain available. Can you vouch for her reliability? Can we be sure that she won’t leave the state of New York?”
“I’m representing her only until her criminal attorney arrives, and he is on his way,” I assured the captain. They were releasing Patty, but they wanted her to stick around? What did that mean? “It might be best to wait for him.”
“It will probably take that long to get her processed and ready to leave,” he answered. This guy was being disturbingly agreeable. “Just wait here and I’ll alert you when we have all that done.”
And that was the item I was supposed to overlook. “I don’t think so,” I said. “If you’re planning on having any contact at all with my client, I’m going to insist on being present the whole time. I’m sure you understand that she has exercised her right to an attorney. This of course means she can have one present whenever the police are going to be there to possibly question her or overhear something she says. It’s my job to protect her rights until her lead attorney gets here.”
Maybe I should have gotten into this criminal defense business after all. I was starting to impress myself.
Henderson’s mouth tightened visibly, but he said, “Of course,” and gestured for me to follow him.
We walked through the halls back past the interrogation room where I’d left Patty. When we kept walking down the corridor, I said to Henderson, “My client was moved and I was not informed. You know better than that.”
“Your client asked to use the restroom. Should we have come and gotten you for that?”
I sort of thought they should have but didn’t actually know so I kept my mouth shut. I’d ask Jamie later.
Finally we reached a door marked simply 6, and Henderson nodded to a uniformed guard standing there. The guard unlocked the door and opened it.
Inside, Patty Basilico was sitting on a bench. The room also held a sink and a toilet. It was a holding cell. I gave Henderson a dark look.
“I thought you weren’t charging her,” I said.
“Not yet.”
“Then what’s she doing in a cell?”
Henderson shrugged. “She needed a restroom. This was the closest one.”
I pushed past him and had a sudden jolt wondering if the door would be locked behind me; that seemed like the worst thing that could happen. Literally. But it didn’t. The door was left open. I walked to Patty and sat close to her on the bench.
“Did you say anything to them?” I said quietly.
She shook her head. “But they said stuff to me.”
I held up a finger. “Wait until we’re outside,” I said. Patty nodded and went back to looking at the floor. Ten minutes in a holding cell and she was damaged. I couldn’t let her go into a cell for any longer than that.
I looked at Henderson in the doorway and said, “Is there any reason she needs to be in here while she’s being processed?”
He said there was not and ushered us into the hallway and then back to his office, where he started punching keys on his computer to begin the paperwork process of getting Patty out of the building. It’s amazing what happens once you’re in the system; it takes nothing short of a miracle to get you out.
Sure enough, the red tape kept us there until (thankfully) Jamie Wallace arrived and I could immediately fade into the background again. Jamie did not kick up a lot of dust with his entrance; he loved the courtroom but wasn’t the flamboyant performer a lot of litigators are, so he had a reputation for being reasonable. Until he beat you in court without making you mad. It’s a peculiar but valuable talent.
“My client has not been charged,” he told Henderson. “You can fill out whatever paperwork you want after she’s left, but she is definitely leaving. You have her contact information. When you need her back here, you know where to look, and it’s my office.” He handed the captain a business card, gestured for Patty to stand up, and we left the precinct without so much as a peep from any of the cops.
I wish I could do that. The attitude would make it so much easier to get work for cats.
Jamie made sure we kept up a very quick pace—so no time for talking, because Patty and I were essentially following him and trying to keep up—until we reached the parking lot. Patty of course didn’t have a car, so I was going to drive her back to her house.
“What did you say to them?” he asked her. “Don’t be embarrassed, just tell me the truth because that’s the only way I can help you.”
“I didn’t tell them anything,” she answered. “It’s what they said that scares me.”
I could tell Jamie didn’t care for that statement or didn’t believe her. “What did they tell you?” he asked.
“They said they knew I killed Dray because they had physical evidence that I was in his trailer.”
“What physical evidence?” Jamie asked.
“I don’t know; they wouldn’t tell me.”
Jamie shot me a look that essentially said I knew the client better than he did and I should step in. It was a very eloquent look.
“Were you in Dray’s trailer?” I asked Patty. Best to get to the heart of the matter.
“Not the day he was shot, no. But I told you, I did some training for him and Barney there a few days last week. They can find my DNA or whatever all over the place, I guess.”
I didn’t know much about crime, but I knew DNA evidence wouldn’t have come back that quickly. “What el
se did they find there?” I said.
“They found a letter I sent Dray,” she mumbled.
That was new, and I shot Jamie an equally loaded glance. “What’s in the letter, Patty?”
“I sort of … told him I was pregnant with his child.”
Jamie closed his eyes and breathed in.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As it turned out, we all went back to Patty’s house, but I drove alone and Jamie made sure Patty rode with him. He didn’t want to miss anything.
But it was clear when we arrived that she hadn’t said anything more about her rather stunning claim. Jamie looked at me and said, “We’ve been waiting until we were all together,” before we walked into Patty’s house and sat down.
I had explained where Barney was staying before, but Patty seemed distracted (imagine!) and asked me again. I said he was with Consuelo, whom Patty knows, and she appeared to be pleased with that, but kept looking at Jamie as if he were going to execute her if she gave the wrong answer. He was on her side. And he hadn’t even asked any questions yet.
She offered us pound cake, but we both declined. Patty was coughing less and seemed to be largely recovered as she sat on the sofa, just as she had at the police station. Which was odd, since she’d told me this morning that she was not feeling a lot better yet. I mentioned that to her.
“I guess the adrenaline rush from being arrested sped me along,” she said. “It’s a new experience, and not one I’d like to repeat if possible.” She looked at Jamie. “How do we do that?”
“We start by you answering everything I ask you completely and honestly, no matter how it sounds,” Jamie answered. He had a yellow legal pad (which seemed appropriate) that he had taken out of his briefcase (see previous parenthetical comment) and held poised on his lap awaiting the notes to be taken.
“I’ll try,” she told him quietly.
“There is no try. Do or do not,” Jamie answered in a relatively awful impression of Yoda. Patty looked a bit puzzled as if he had somehow insulted her. “Sorry. Bad joke. Let’s start with this: Were you in Dray Mattone’s trailer the day he died?”
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