Key Witness

by J. F. Freedman

  “Except for one thing,” Dwayne rejoined. “The day I finish my time on this one I go up on trial again on the other case. And they won’t give me bail on it, either, so I won’t spend day one out in the free world.”

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Galeygos said. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve there.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run, I’m due in court in fifteen minutes. Now here—the DA’s going to want to start talking to you, commencing tomorrow. So your testimony is iron-tight. He’s already been embarrassed in this case and he doesn’t want his chain getting pulled anymore. I can be there with you if you want—I don’t think it’s necessary, but it’s up to you.”

  Dwayne shook his head. “I don’t need you for that. I need you to get that next case against me dropped, is what I need you for.”

  “You need God for that, or at least his only begotten son, not a single practitioner with a shared part-time secretary and a busted fax machine.”

  “That case’ll be my third strike,” Dwayne reminded his lawyer. “I don’t want to die in prison.”

  “We’ll deal with that case when it comes up,” Galeygos said again. “The state’s got to try it and convict you, and I think we have a good chance of whipping their tails.”

  “That’s what you said the last time.”

  Galeygos steepled his fingers, peered over them at Dwayne. “I’m going to bring you in a washcloth the next time I come, so you can clean out your ears. You aren’t listening to me, Dwayne, and that is dangerous for you, buddy. They aren’t going to cut you that deal, not what you want, not remotely close. Your testimony on this case here isn’t worth it. And that is all she wrote, man.”

  He stood up, stuffing Dwayne’s files into his briefcase.

  “If you want something that big from them, man, you’re going to have to give them something equally big or bigger in return. You’re going to have to give them something they need so bad that they won’t care what happens to you. And that, my friend, is something that you don’t have—I know where all your bodies are buried.”

  He walked to the door and knocked for the guard to let him out. “Pray for a miracle, Dwayne,” he advised his client. “Because that’s about all you’ve got left.”

  “HOW MUCH CRIMINAL-DEFENSE LAW have you practiced?”

  “None. But I’m a quick study.”

  They sat in Wyatt’s office: Wyatt, Darryl, and Lucien Walcott, head of the Public Defender’s office. To make the meeting less formal and try to put Walcott at ease, Wyatt had suggested they doff their jackets, so they were sitting in shirtsleeves.

  Despite Wyatt’s hospitality, Walcott seemed uncomfortable, or perhaps he was awed. Wyatt had a corner office. It was like a salon, large and richly appointed, with views over the entire city to the south. There was good original regional art on the walls from Wyatt’s personal collection, as well as a small Frankenthaler. Fifty-four floors below, the river bisected its way downstream and the crisscross of traffic was so small and distanced from this aerie as to be almost inconsequential, irrelevant.

  “We all have to start somewhere,” Walcott joked. He leaned forward, trying to get comfortable—he wasn’t used to parking his ass in leather of this quality. “I’m curious, though—why someone in your position would want to do this.”

  “Because he wants to suffer,” Darryl kicked in, answering for Wyatt.

  “I want to do trial work;” Wyatt explained for himself, ignoring Darryl’s jibe. “And I want to help people who need it.”

  “How long will you be with us?” Walcott asked.

  “My commitment is for six months.”

  “Six months isn’t much time,” Walcott said, with some skepticism. “It takes about that to figure things out.”

  “He’s a quick study,” Darryl reminded Walcott, grinning at Wyatt.

  Darryl had started his career where Walcott was now: in the Public Defender’s office. They had come up together, even sharing a cubicle for a while. Darryl had moved out as fast as he could, winding up in the seat of power he presently occupied; Walcott had stayed, grinding his way up the ladder rung by rung, eventually getting the top job.

  Walcott was a good lawyer; Wyatt knew that—word gets around. But he wasn’t a risk taker. He needed the security of the sure thing that a civil-service job offered.

  “Let me explain how we work,” Walcott said, pulling the meeting together. “We handle both misdemeanors and felonies. The majority are misdemeanors, of course. And this may come as a shock, but we don’t do much trial work—we do as little as we can. We plea-bargain almost everything—it works better for us and for the prosecutor’s office, too. The system’s too clogged. And unlike crime shows on TV, ninety-five percent of our clients are guilty as charged. Going to trial doesn’t do them any good; in most cases it prolongs the agony, because we can always plea a better deal than they’ll get from a jury. The prosecutor is always willing to take half a loaf, and in most cases they’re happy with a slice or two.”

  “It sounds as cynical as what I’ve been doing,” Wyatt noted.

  “No,” Walcott corrected him, “it may be as cynical, but it has no relationship to the kind of law and the kind of clients you deal with. It’s life on the bottom floor, the subbasement. And these people you’ll be defending, they may be guilty of what they’ve done and a lot more as well, but they’ve been handed the shitty end of the stick, and we’re their last and only line of defense.”

  Wyatt liked hearing that. It was a hard world, low-rent criminal defense, he understood that that was no myth. The criminal litigators he knew—even Darryl, up here on this lofty perch with him—affected a tough attitude. You had to, because your clients were tough, and expected you to be.

  “However.” Walcott put up a hand, like a stop sign. “If you’re convinced one of your clients is innocent, and they won’t offer you a deal, we will go to trial, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

  “Good.” That felt better to Wyatt.

  “Don’t get dreamy-eyed about the reality of what goes on,” Walcott continued. “Your clients won’t thank you, and most of the time they’ll shit on you, because they don’t know any better.”

  “Sounds like a barrel of laughs.”

  “No—but it can be damn rewarding,” Walcott said. “You can make a difference.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “Good. Now about money—”

  Wyatt interrupted him. “This is strictly pro bono work. You won’t be paying me.”

  He knew how much Walcott made; he’d looked it up: $105,000. The head of the entire Public Defender’s office, supervising sixty lawyers, and he barely made six figures—and that was after twenty years on the job. No one else in that office, even senior lawyers who did the biggest trials in the county—murders, rapes, other capital crimes—pulled down six figures.

  Wyatt’s own annual draw was a million dollars, before bonuses. This year he’d made more than this man, whom he was going to be taking orders from for the next six months, would make in his entire life.

  It was a sobering thought.

  “So,” Walcott said, rubbing his hands together briskly, “we’ll see you Monday morning?”

  “Eight a.m.,” Wyatt said, standing as Walcott did.

  “You know where we’re located?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a shame, not being able to use this nice office,” Walcott commented, taking it in one last time, “but the clients you’ll be representing wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  “It wouldn’t be appropriate,” Wyatt agreed as he opened the door for his new boss. “Thanks for the opportunity,” he said, meaning it.

  “We’ll see if you thank me in six months,” Walcott rejoined.

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK IN the afternoon the mayor, flanked by the chief of police and the district attorney, held a news conference on the steps of city hall.

  “We have reason to believe that the victim found this morning was murdered by th
e so-called Alley Slasher, the same person who killed the previous six,” he announced, his voice rising with agitation and indignation. “The circumstances were roughly the same, and so was the manner in which the killing was committed.” He paused, glanced at some notes he was holding. “However, there was one major difference.”

  He looked out at the dozens of reporters, television and print, who lined the steps of the building, spilling down into the street.

  “Unlike the previous eight,” he said, “this victim … this woman … was not a prostitute. We know that conclusively. She was a workingwoman with a solid job and no criminal history whatsoever.”

  This was new and unexpected; the clamor and hubbub from the gathered reporters rose like a cloud into the air.

  “Does this mean the police are going to work harder at finding the killer?” one of the reporters called out audaciously.

  “The police are working as hard as they can,” the mayor spat back, his anger rising. “That’s not the issue.” He took a deep breath to calm himself—he couldn’t afford a show of temper, not now, although there were many times when he would love to punch out every one of these vultures.

  “The issue is simply this,” he explained. “Up until now we could concentrate our energy in one specific direction. We could pinpoint our focus; and we have, and we thought we were getting results. There haven’t been as many streetwalkers out after dark, arrests have been down, and the killer hasn’t struck for several months, we think because of these efforts, at least partially; there could have been other reasons: he could have been biding his time, or been out of town, or maybe he was in jail for some other reason.

  “But now he’s struck again,” he went on. “And this time it wasn’t a prostitute he killed, but a person who simply was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What happens now?” a reporter called out.

  The mayor looked out, a practiced eye finding the television cameras. “If you have any ideas who this vicious person might be, no matter how far-fetched you might think they are, call the police. We’ve set up a special hot line that will be open twenty-four hours a day. The number is 555-4321, an easy number to remember. Write it down, carry it with you.” He paused. “We’re going to get this bastard. We promise you that.”

  “DWAYNE THOMPSON. FANCY MEETING you here.” It was a low, husky woman’s voice, the tone a nervous mixture of sarcasm, superiority, loathing, and intense desire.

  Dwayne looked up. “Hello, Sergeant Blake,” he said to the woman, who was wearing the unisex jumpsuit uniform of the sheriff’s jail cadre.

  “It’s Lieutenant now,” she corrected him, her fingers flicking the bars on her collar. Lowering her voice, she added, “But you can still call me Doris.”

  Or desperate, or lonely, or horny, he thought. Especially horny.

  They were in the jail’s small law library. Dwayne had been granted permission to go there to prepare for his upcoming testimony. He needed a quiet place to think, and as an important witness for the prosecution he could request such perks.

  There were only a couple others in the library, trustee inmates who kept the place in good order.

  “I was wondering what had happened to you,” he said smoothly.

  “Life’s what happened. Like you.”

  They checked each other out. She could feel the flush rising up her neck. He was one of the few men she’d ever known who looked at her like a woman.

  “You’re down to testify in a trial?” she asked. She was uncomfortable with silence between them.

  He nodded.

  “Snitching for the state again?”

  “I’m doing the right thing,” he said calmly, not rising to the bait, which was transparent and pathetic.

  “Don’t you ever worry somebody might retaliate against you, the amount of men you’ve turned evidence against over the years?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a chance you take. To get something for yourself in return. So far I’ve survived okay.”

  “What’re they promising you this time?” she asked, now genuinely curious.

  “An all-expenses-paid Caribbean cruise for two, a set of graphite-shafted golf clubs, and a new Porsche convertible waiting outside the Durban gates for me the day I get out,” he deadpanned.

  She laughed. “It’s good to see you’ve still got a sense of humor.”

  “Better’n sitting around day after day feeling sorry for yourself. Which I do enough of, the time I’ve got to put in yet.”

  “I know how you feel.” She touched his wrist with her fingertips, a quick touch. “I wish I could help you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  “I do. I mean it.” Her voice was taking on a clingingness. She gathered herself together. “Really—what will you get out of testifying at this trial that makes it worth the risk?”

  “Two years’ reduction in time. It’ll kick me out in less than eighteen months.”

  “That’s good,” she commented. She hesitated; then, unable to stop herself: “You could have a life outside. A real life.” She looked around to make sure nobody was eavesdropping on them. “I could help you—if you’d let me.”

  “Yeah, that would be nice,” he said blandly. “The only problem with that is, there’s this other charge hanging over me I’m going to have to stand for, after I do this time. So the chances of a life on the outside are about slim to none right now.”

  She frowned. “That’s a shame.”

  “That’s life, ain’t it.” Changing the subject: “So what’ve you been up to the last three, four years? Which is it, three or four?”

  “Coming up on four.” She smiled, almost shyly. “You’ve got a good memory.”

  “For things that matter.” He could charm her off a tree without half trying; he knew that from their past encounters.

  “I …” She was going to say, “I’m glad I was important enough for you to remember,” but she caught herself. She had to maintain her position, especially with a man like Dwayne Thompson. “I’ve been going to law school,” she told him with pride in her voice. “That’s why I left Durban and went to work down here, even though the money isn’t as good.”

  “That’s ambitious. Congratulations. When do you graduate?”

  “I already did. Last fall.”

  “Have you taken the bar exam yet?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “So how did you do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” she answered. “They haven’t posted the scores.”

  “You probably aced them. Knowing you, you worked real hard at it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She bit her lip. “I think I blew it,” she said morosely.

  He looked at her. “When will they post them?” he asked. “Officially?”

  “A few months. You know how slow these bureaucratic things go.”

  This time he was the one who looked around to make sure no one was watching them. He leaned in close, his lips almost touching her ear. She could feel his exhalation; it almost took her breath away.

  “I could find out for you,” he said.

  She stared at him. “How?” she asked incredulously.

  “Do you have a computer?” he asked. “A laptop? With a modem?”

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  “Bring it in tomorrow. We’ll see what’s up.” He glanced around the room. “Is there someplace we can be tomorrow night by ourselves?”

  She caught his drift immediately. “I could get us in here. They close up at five. I have a key,” she added.

  “Is there a phone we can use that’s safe?” was his next question.

  “We can use one of the pay phones,” she said. “They’re clean.”

  All the telephones in the jail were supposed to be tapped, for security reasons, but they didn’t have the funds for that, so they only tapped the ones the prisoners used in the cell-blocks.

  “Then we should be okay,” he assured her; and himself.r />
  She nodded slowly. “Is this … will this, whatever you’re going to do … be legal?”

  “Nobody’ll catch on, if that’s what’s worrying you.” His smile was meant to be reassuring, but there was an obviously cynical undertone to it. Doris had seen that look on him before—she knew it well.

  She didn’t have to think twice about her decision. “Okay.” Her fingers touched his wrist again. “What can I do for you in return?” she asked tenderly.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he answered, his mind already in another gear. “After we see what I can do for you.”

  “HERE’S YOUR OFFICE.” JOSEPHINE DiStefano, the paralegal, a cup of coffee in one hand and half a bagel in the other, nudged the door open with her hip. They had met ten minutes earlier. “You share it with Max Strauss. He’s already in court this morning.”

  The office he had been assigned was a partitioned cubicle about ten feet square, half the size of the bathroom in his own office. No windows—one wall was battleship gray concrete, and the other three were particleboard at the bottom with a half-glass top that went up about eight feet. There were about twenty offices on the floor just like it, none of which had any privacy.

  Two government-issue battle-scarred metal desks facing each other, partner-style, took up most of the space, along with their desk chairs and another straight-back chair alongside for interviews, again metal. He hadn’t seen furniture this ugly since his stint in the Peace Corps in the early seventies, working in a hospital in Zaire. Up against one wall were some ancient legal-sized file cabinets, and leaning in the corner diagonally from the entrance was a wooden clothes tree, from which hung a set of sweats, assorted jackets and rain gear, and a racquetball racket in a case.

  In deference to his new job he had worn an old suit to work, a navy blue Brooks that had been languishing in the back of his closet for years. It was heavier than the svelte lightweight Armanis he was used to—already he felt uncomfortably hot. There was no air-conditioning on the floor that he was aware of, and the windows, which were open, offered little cooling.