“What?” Wyatt screamed.
The paramedic who had checked one last time for Leticia’s vital signs, a young woman who had her hair in a French braid, turned and looked at him.
“She’s dead, that’s what,” the woman said, her voice inflectionless.
They covered Leticia with a blanket. Then they lifted her onto a gurney and placed her inside the ambulance. The doors slammed and the wagon, lights flashing and siren wailing, took off into the wet night.
Wyatt stood at the side of the other paramedics’ van as Dexter was placed in it for his trip to the hospital. “I’m sorry, Mr. Matthews,” Dexter told him again. “It was my job to protect her for you, and I fucked up!” he cried out in despair.
“Don’t talk about that stuff now, Dexter,” Wyatt counseled him. “Right now all that matters is making sure you’re taken care of, and you’re going to be all right!” The words came bitter out of his mouth—he didn’t believe them, not for a second.
“He’s going to be okay,” one of the paramedics who had been working on Dexter reassured Wyatt.
They closed the doors to the second ambulance. It, too, drove off into the wet, desolate night; Wyatt stood in the middle of the street, watching it go, the rain beating down on him like a funereal drumroll.
You dumb motherfucker, he thought, watching the lights disappear down the long dark street. He was thinking that about Dexter, but it applied more to himself. This was what he got for letting the end justify the means. He had needed Dexter’s help, his ability to open the doors of Marvin’s community to him, so he had turned a blind eye to Dexter’s basic amorality—selling drugs, any way you cut it, was evil. And now his key witness lay dead because he, the hot-shit lawyer, had sacrificed principle for expediency.
But Dexter was also the one who had saved his life—so maybe there was a balance to all this. Right now, he was too distraught and anguished to know his feelings.
The bile rose in his stomach again, up his throat into his mouth, and he stood at the curb and puked his guts out.
THERE WERE NO FIREWORKS or outbursts of emotion in Judge Grant’s chambers this time. The mood was somber, depressed. Helena Abramowitz picked some imaginary lint off her skirt. Finally, she spoke up.
“This is a tragedy, Your Honor, and I feel sorry for everyone concerned, particularly this young girl and her family. But the law is crystal clear on the subject: if a witness is not subjected to cross-examination, for whatever reason, their testimony does not stand. I’m sorry,” she repeated herself.
She and Alex Pagano hadn’t celebrated when they’d heard the news last night, but they hadn’t shed any tears, either. That girl had been the rock of the defense’s case. Now it would be as if she had never existed.
Grant cast a questioning eye in Wyatt’s direction.
“I don’t know if there’s any precedent for this, Your Honor,” Wyatt admitted. He, Walcott, and Darryl had stayed up almost all night trying to find a loophole in the argument Abramowitz had just presented. They hadn’t found one.
Grant looked at Abramowitz. “Are you thinking about asking for a mistrial?”
Wyatt cringed. He had been waiting for this shoe to drop. Abramowitz had every right to ask for a mistrial, and the judge could easily grant it.
Abramowitz and Pagano exchanged looks; clearly, Wyatt thought, they had discussed this at length. Any decent lawyers would have, and they were several cuts above decent.
“No, Your Honor,” she declared. “We have already expended an enormous amount of time and energy, not to mention hundreds of thousands of dollars of the people’s money to bring this case to a speedy trial. It wouldn’t be in the public interest to delay several months and start all over. All we ask is that her testimony be stricken from the record, and the jury instructed properly as to their obligations.”
A small alarm went off in the back of Wyatt’s head. They should be asking for a mistrial. Judge Grant could tell the jury in the strongest terms possible to forget Leticia’s testimony—but they couldn’t. Her testimony, given the horrific circumstances of the situation, would now be even more sharply etched in their memories.
Grant nodded gravely. “Ms. Abramowitz’s appeal is going to be upheld. Do you have your next witness on tap?” he asked Wyatt.
Wyatt shook his head. “I was planning on resting my case after redirect of this witness. I don’t know where I’m going from here,” he admitted. “If the court would indulge me, I’d like a couple days to regroup.”
“Do you have a problem with that?” Grant asked Abramowitz.
“It’s highly irregular, Your Honor. These things happen, and everyone has to be prepared for it.”
Grant looked at her in disbelief. “A drive-by murder can hardly be trivialized as ‘these things happen,’ ” he said with ill-disguised contempt.
She flushed. “All right,” she agreed. “Since this is such an extraordinary circumstance.”
“Thank you,” Grant thanked her sarcastically.
“I thank you, too,” Wyatt added. You shameless bitch.
“As long as we’re going to be down for a few days, however, in the interest of doing something so we can move this along, I’d like to bring in a rebuttal witness in advance of defense resting their case,” she asked.
Grant pondered the request for a moment. “I don’t have a problem with that,” he decided. “Do you?” he asked Wyatt.
Wyatt’s mind was already elsewhere—he needed to get his hands on Blake’s computer, and he needed to find out from Angelo about this Elvis character. “I guess not,” he said distractedly.
“Good. When can you bring your witness on?” Grant asked Abramowitz.
“I can have him here after lunch, Your Honor.”
“The witness who testified yesterday, Miss Pope, was murdered last night,” Grant informed the jury. The courtroom was empty, cleared of spectators. Only participants were present.
Although the jury was not sequestered, they were barred from reading, seeing, or hearing any news pertinent to the case; so this announcement blindsided them. There were gasps, outcries of disbelief. Some of the women dabbed at the tears that formed in the corners of their eyes.
“The law clearly says that every witness must be examined by the opponents to that witness,” Grant instructed them. “In this situation the district attorney’s office has the fundamental right to question every defense witness, and vice versa. If the opponent is denied the right to cross-examine, that witness’s testimony must be stricken from the record; there is no discretion in the matter. Thus, this morning it is my sad duty to inform you, the men and women of this jury, that the testimony of Leticia Pope, which you heard yesterday, will be stricken from the record. It cannot be used by either side in this trial, and you are to completely disregard it. For the purpose of this trial, it never happened.”
Court stood in recess until two o’clock. Wyatt knocked on the door to Grant’s private office.
“Come on in,” the judge called.
Wyatt closed the door behind him. “Thanks for seeing me,” he said. “I know seeing me without the prosecution present is irregular, but I have good cause, as I can explain.”
“You got reamed,” Grant said sympathetically. He laid aside the Sports Illustrated he had been reading. “Tell me the purpose of this meeting.”
“Judge, I’m seeing you alone because I want to seize Blake’s computer, and if the other side knows about it, and it leaks, she may get rid of it.”
Grant arched his eyebrows.
“There’s too much smoke for there not to be a fire somewhere,” Wyatt continued. “Her relationship with Thompson, their liaisons in the jail infirmary. This snafu with her law exams. It’s dirty. It needs to be brought out into the light of day. If we draw a blank, so be it, but if there’s something in there, we deserve the right to find out.” He leaned on Grant’s desk, palms supporting him. “I need help,” he confessed, opening himself up. “You can justify this.”
Grant
thought about it. “Do you have the papers drawn up?”
Wyatt reached into his inside coat pocket and took out the papers. “Right here. All you have to do is sign it.”
Grant scanned the request. Then he reached for a pen, signed it, and handed it back to Wyatt. “Give this to the marshal’s office. They’ll serve it.” He picked up his magazine. “Pagano’s going to have a conniption fit, but that’s life. For your sake, I hope there’s something in this.”
ANGELO THE GUMSHOE, WHO could be Jimmy Breslin if Jimmy Breslin were Italian, was waiting for Wyatt back at his office. “I got a good fix on this Burnside character,” he informed Wyatt. “The guy’s done umpteen gazillion rapes and other heavy shit as well. And I was able to place him in the vicinity of three of the murders, so far.”
“Great!”
Angelo frowned. “Not so great. He fits the profile perfectly, except for one small detail.” He handed Wyatt a two-page booking sheet. “He was in the slammer when the fourth murder was committed. You’re using the one-size-fits-all theory to exonerate your guy, so the same criterion applies here. If he couldn’t have done that one, he couldn’t have done any of them.”
Wyatt looked at the document. Burnside had been in lock-up during that single murder—the fact was undeniable. “Motherfucker!” he spat out.
“Yep. He wasn’t in for long, either, more’s the pity. His probation officer paid him a surprise visit, found a six-pack of Coors in his fridge. No biggie, but it was a parole violation. He had free room and board courtesy of the county for the next forty-five days—not much time, but enough to knock him out of the box for you.”
Wyatt flipped the sheet into the air. It parachuted slowly down to his desk. “Back to the drawing board,” he groused. God fucking damn it!
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Angelo said, hoisting his bulky frame out of his chair. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate to call.”
IT WAS PITCH-BLACK SAVE for one needle-sliver of moonlight piercing the edge of the drawn Venetian blinds where they abutted the window frame. Dwayne and Doris Blake had just enough light so that they could see each other’s outlines, but not the expressions on each other’s faces. That’s how Dwayne wanted it—he didn’t want her to see the look of contempt, betrayal, and primal disgust on his face, and he sure as hell didn’t want to see the dismay and anguish that she’d exhibit when he delivered his news, which was going to crush her.
It didn’t matter that they shouldn’t, couldn’t, dare not see each other, that the sheriff would be incensed and would ream her to shreds. Dwayne had gotten word to her through the grapevine that she had to see him, it was a matter of life and death—literally. So now here they were, in her office, way past midnight.
“I heard your testimony went good,” he started out, wanting to ease into what it was he had to tell her.
“I held my ground,” she said. “That lawyer tried to break me down, but I held my ground.”
She wanted to move closer to him, so that they would be touching. She needed his touch so badly.
It was not going to be. The vibe coming off him had a jolt stronger than an electric fence.
“You didn’t tell them about the computer.” The jail guards, prosecution allies, fed him information illicitly, so he knew; but he hadn’t been there, and he needed to hear it from her mouth, directly.
“And bury my chances of ever practicing law? I may be stupid sometimes—I’m definitely stupid when it comes to you—but I’m not crazy.” Like you, she thought—you’re certifiable, I can’t not look at that any longer.
“Not that time,” he said impatiently. God, he wanted to kill this bitch, beat her fucking head into the floor. Grab her by the neck and choke her until her tongue turned black. He was quivering, he wanted so badly to stomp her into a puddle of nothingness.
“What time?” she asked. She could feel that energy flow he’d get. That’s why he’d spent his life in prison, and always would—that insane, uncheckable impulse to inflict pain.
“The time I borrowed it overnight.” His voice a viper’s hiss.
She had forgotten about that other time. Whether intentionally or unconsciously, it didn’t matter. “Oh,” she breathed.
“You didn’t.” Hard, insistent.
“No.”
Not only did she hear his exhalation, she felt it. It filled the dark room like a cloud of poison gas.
“You never can, Doris. Never. No one can ever know I used it.”
She had known what he had done, known it in her gut, but she had fought it, managed to convince herself that he hadn’t lied to her. But now she couldn’t; the betrayal was there, in front of her. “You did what they said you did, didn’t you?” She knew it but had to ask anyway. “You broke into the police files and got the information about the murders, and used it against that boy.”
Dwayne actually laughed. “You did it.”
“I did … I didn’t do …”
“You volunteered to get me some information that could help me,” he said, laying out his scenario. God, how he relished doing this to her. “I knew it was wrong, but I was weak. I was in a vulnerable place. It was my only chance to be free. So I let you talk me into doing it. It’s all there, in your computer.” He paused, feeling her slowly collapse, as if he had reached inside of her body, her bag of skin, and pulled out everything alive. “I couldn’t do it,” he said; “you know they won’t give me access to computers.”
She was going to faint, vomit, explode. Disappear, vanish from the face of the earth—that was what she wanted to do. “How could you … why?!” she cried out in anguish.
“It’s who I am, Doris. Don’t you know that by now?”
NOT ALL DETECTIVES LOOK alike, but there is a similarity to the breed, especially among the older guys who have done their thirty on the force before retiring to private practice. One of them, Abramowitz’s rebuttal witness, took the stand after lunch. In his tight shirt and tight dress pants, with his tie pulled tight around his bull neck, he looked like ten pounds of Jimmy Dean sausage squeezed into a nine-pound casing. He had a big, pumpkinlike head, and a Wimpy mustache, that made him look like Oliver Hardy.
“Detective Petty, have you been employed from time to time by Dr. Leonard Carpenter?”
“Yes, I have,” the side of beef answered.
“In what capacity?”
“Surveillance.”
“Who were you watching?”
“Mrs. Carpenter. Dr. Carpenter’s wife.”
“Who resides with her husband at 1973 Lecroix Avenue?”
“Yes.”
Where the fuck is this going? Wyatt thought. This guy hadn’t been on the prosecution’s witness list.
“How long have you been doing this surveillance work for Dr. Carpenter, Detective Petty?”
“About two years.”
“Why did he hire you?”
“He suspected his wife was sleeping around with the colored delivery boy, and he wanted proof.”
“And did you get the proof Dr. Carpenter was hoping you would get?”
“Yep. They were a couple of lovebirds. Five or six times a month, sometimes more.”
“When you presented your evidence to Dr. Carpenter, what did he do?”
“He laughed.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Wyatt called out. This was terrible.
“Sustained. Confine your questions to answers that are objectively verifiable, Ms. Abramowitz,” Grant said.
“Certainly, Your Honor.” She was angry with the judge. He had granted that order to seize Lieutenant Blake’s computer out of sheer sympathy for Wyatt Matthews, a friend from the fancy-lawyer’s club. When you scratched the surface, all these male lawyers were the same. Well, the hell with them. She was going to toss their little red wagons right into the fire, alongside Rosebud.
She glanced at her notes. “On August eighteenth of last year, were you keeping tabs on Agnes Carpenter?”
“Yes, I was.�
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“That was the night—or a night, there may have been more than one, I presume—when the defendant, Marvin White, spent the night in Mrs. Carpenter’s house? The entire night?”
“No, he didn’t spend the night at her house. Not that night. He wasn’t there at all that day,” Petty said. “Or night.”
What the fuck? Wyatt’s head swiveled to look at Marvin. Marvin looked back at him, shrugging as if to say, “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“There were some nights he slept over?” Abramowitz asked. “With Mrs. Carpenter?”
“Yeah, there were a few nights, but that wasn’t one of them.”
“You’re certain of that night? August eighteenth?” she asked.
“This White kid couldn’t have spent that night at her house,” Petty said.
“Why not?”
“Because she wasn’t home that night.”
Wyatt felt the blood rushing to his head. He looked over at the jury box. All twelve jurors were sitting on the edge of their seats, listening.
“Agnes Carpenter wasn’t home that night?” Abramowitz repeated, trying to sound disbelieving. “Where was she?”
“New York.”
“New York?”
“Yes, New York. I saw her get on the plane with my own two eyes.” He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a small notebook. Reading from it, he said, “She took USAir flight number three-sixteen to New York, nonstop. It departed locally at ten-thirty-five in the morning, arriving at La Guardia at two-seventeen. She took a taxi to the St. Regis Hotel, where she had reserved a room. She went to the Metropolitan Opera that night, to see La Boheme. Prior to going to the opera she shopped at Bloomingdale’s and Bendel’s, and had an early supper at the Cafe Des Artistes restaurant. (He Americanized the pronunciation.) The next day she did more shopping, ate dinner at the Meridian Hotel dining room, and went to a concert at Carnegie Hall, featuring a person named Yo-Yo Ma on the cello. She flew home the following day on USAir flight number sixty-six, arriving here at four-thirty-five in the afternoon.”
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