by David Ellis
We head back to the judge’s office. She is waiting for us in her black robe.
“Counsel,” she says.
Daniel Morphew introduces Ms. Johannsen to the judge. Judge Bridges says, “Nice to see you again, Counsel.” So I guess they know each other, perhaps former colleagues at the county attorney’s office. Maybe that’s why the switch of prosecutors.
“I’ve read the pretrial briefs,” says the judge. “Any changes?”
“Not that we know of,” says Johannsen.
The judge reads the papers before her. “You’re calling the ME”—the medical examiner, she means—“a security guard, a detective, a Ms. Joanne Souter, and a Ms. Sheila Paul.”
Joanne Souter is the woman whose purse was stolen, and whose cell phone was used to call me back to the office. Sheila Paul is Dale Garrison’s secretary. Her testimony will largely consist of seeing Garrison alive when she left the office at five, and the fact that it was I, not Dale, who changed the time and place of the meeting.
Judge Bridges looks up at the prosecutor. “Is that all, Ms. Johannsen?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“This shouldn’t take more than a few days, then, for the case-in-chief?”
“That sounds accurate.”
“Okay.” The judge looks at Bennett. “Counsel.” She looks down at her papers. “The defense has listed the defendant himself, as well as Senator Tully, Gabriel Alucino—”
Gabe Alucino is someone who works for the HMO that would have covered Dale Garrison for his lung cancer treatment. I say would have, because Garrison didn’t treat his cancer after the initial diagnosis and one unsuccessful surgery.
“—Dr. Roman Thorpe—”
An oncologist who treated Dale for his cancer initially.
“—and Attorney General Langdon Trotter.”
“That’s right, Your Honor,” Ben says.
The judge looks at both attorneys. Both candidates for governor are named on this witness list.
“We’d certainly like to be heard at the appropriate time,” says Erica Johannsen. She’s referring principally to our listing of Attorney General Trotter. The judge won’t hear argument on whether this testimony is admissible at this point, because we haven’t called him to testify yet. All we’ve done is reserved the right to call him by listing him as a witness. In fact, we might not put on a defense at all. As Ben has explained it, most judges don’t make the defense justify their witnesses at this early stage because it forces them to show their hand. Judges want to respect the defense’s right to keep their cards close to their vest. Among other reasons, it provides an incentive for settlement of cases.
“I understand that,” says Judge Bridges. “And I’m going to order that this witness list remain sealed for the time being. Mr. Carey, do you have any problem keeping your prospective witnesses to yourself?”
“No, that’s fine,” says Ben.
“What else?” the judge asks.
Ben clears his throat. “Judge, can we have Mr. Garrison’s computer present in the courtroom?”
The judge looks at the prosecutor.
Erica Johannsen shrugs. “Sure,” she says. She shows no outward signs of hysteria. I have no idea how long it’s been since she was handed the reins, but I’m willing to bet it hasn’t been that much time. That’s what I want to believe, of course, fantasizing as I am of utter and total chaos in the prosecutor’s office.
“Is that all?”
“Oh, Judge—” The prosecutor looks at her notes. “I almost forgot, I apologize. The defense has moved to exclude the letter we found at the defendant’s office.”
“The extortion letter.”
“That’s right.”
“Counsel, I’m going to hear argument on the motions on Monday morning.”
“It’s not that, Judge. We are withdrawing it as evidence for the time being.”
“You don’t want to use it?”
“Judge, frankly, we haven’t been able to tie it together with this murder. Until we do, it’s of little use to us.”
“Assuming I allowed it to begin with,” the judge says.
“Sure. Yes. And we are still investigating. If we can tie it together, we would ask for the opportunity to make an offer of proof. I just don’t want anyone accusing me of unfair surprise. If we can tie the letter into this murder, we will argue its relevance at that point. Until then, we don’t plan on using it.”
The judge looks at Bennett. “Counsel?” A good judge never wants to make a contested ruling if she can get both sides to concur. She can’t be reversed by an appellate court if the parties agreed.
“That’s fine,” Ben says. He then adds, “If the defense will have the same opportunity.”
Erica Johannsen looks at Ben with surprise, calculates on the spot. Ben is saying he might want to introduce the blackmail letter, which runs contrary to his pretrial motion to exclude it. “Sure, that’s fine,” she finally says.
Bennett and I went over this point. We expected to lose the argument on the admissibility of the blackmail letter, anyway. Bennett wanted the letter to come into evidence and then spring it on Lyle Cosgrove when the defense put on its case.
“That’s fine, then,” says the judge. “The parties agree to argue the admissibility of the extortion letter if and when it comes up. We’ll see you on Monday.” The mention of the day stirs the contents of my stomach. There was a small part of my brain that wanted the judge to decide, for some reason, to move the trial date, just to keep the possibility of a conviction that much farther away. But the longer the prosecution has to uncover the evidence about 1979, the better their case against me. It’s possible that they’ll never figure it out. It’s not like I was arrested, much less prosecuted. I was simply investigated, and in a case out of this state. And how likely is it that they’ll go all the way back to 1979 to find cases Dale worked on?
Cal has not yet found the guy “Rick” from 1979. I think this guy was a serious drug dealer who kept a low profile, maybe even used a fake name. He’s probably stashed away in a jail cell or living in South America by now. But he was Lyle Cosgrove’s friend back then, so maybe they still keep in contact. Maybe he was in on this somehow.
We all walk out together into the main courtroom. Bennett writes up the judge’s order—in state court, attorneys write the orders and present them to the judges for their signature. While we are doing that, Erica Johannsen looks over Ben’s shoulder. I say nothing. Daniel Morphew looks like he’s late for a meeting, bobbing from one foot to the other.
We head to the elevator together. Johannsen gets off before the rest of us, headed for another court appearance. That leaves us with Morphew. Ben turns to him and extends a hand. “I was looking forward to it,” he says.
Morphew looks at Ben’s hand a moment, like he’s not sure where it’s been. He reluctantly takes it. Some prosecutors get that attitude about defense counsel. “From here on, talk to Erica,” he says. “I’m washing my hands of this.” He turns to me and says, “Good luck to you,” as the elevator doors open at the fifth floor.
“That was weird,” I say to Ben as the doors close again.
My defense attorney nods solemnly. “This whole thing is,” he says.
I find myself walking more quickly than usual to keep up with Bennett Carey as we walk along the plaza outside the courthouse. It’s like a circus in the plaza, people enjoying the extended summer. A man is standing on the southeast end juggling baseballs, with a cup in front of him for donations. I have some spare change so I toss it in.
I avoid serious injury by stepping over a skateboard that sails into my path. “What do you think is so weird about this?” I ask.
Bennett shakes his head absently. “Like I said, everything. They offer a plea right out of the box. A pretty damn good one.”
“They wanted a conviction,” I say. “However they get it, whatever the terms. It’s better than losing. Especially for Trotter.”
“I guess.” Ben almost crosses a s
treet where the sign has just turned to a solid “Don’t Walk.” I grab him and he snaps out of his cloud. “Morphew drops out. And he makes it sound like he’s disgusted. ‘I’m washing my hands of this.’ And they drop the blackmail letter like a hot potato. They’ve never said word one about it. The whole thing’s strange.”
“Well, okay, Ben. Strange, maybe. But good, right? They offer a plea, the case must not be so good. The top guy drops off, maybe he’s jumping off the Titanic.” I take his arm for emphasis. “Goddammit, tell me this is good.”
Bennett stops on a dime. He raises a hand, which balls into a fist. Frustration. “A trial lawyer doesn’t like surprises,” he says. “And there could be a hundred lurking around the corner.” The light changes, and Bennett steps into the crosswalk, leaving me behind.
40
DARKNESS. A MAN sitting upright, Indian-style, silently in his empty, pitch-black house. Meditation would be a good guess, but I’ve never been spiritual. Never been much for religion, always just figured that if I led a good life I’d be rewarded.
There are shadows in the dark. Never noticed that. Brief but dramatic variations in the blackness. A cooling of the temperature, internally and externally. A freeing of the mind. The emergence of possibilities, turns in the road, never before envisioned. The decision won’t come from my mind but from my heart. The logic has been thought through. It’s down to instinct, to the urge for survival that grips us at our core.
My phone rings. I don’t plan on answering but I peek at the caller-identification and recognize the number.
“Hey, you.”
“Hello, Tracy.”
“Are you holding up?”
“Yeah. Holding up.”
“Good. Bennett’s a good lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“You have to believe you’re going to win.”
“I do.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“Would you like it if I came out there to visit?”
“Not necessary.” Ask me that a couple days ago, you would have gotten a different answer.
“I know it’s not necessary. But you—it can’t be easy going through this alone.”
“You’re thinking of me. You’re praying for me. That’s enough.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You sound funny.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’d love to see a bunch of people. I haven’t seen Jen and Krista and those guys for months. I wouldn’t be a distraction. I could take a long weekend. We could just have—”
“I don’t want you to see me like this.”
There is so much in that statement, more, she realizes, than she can possibly discern. I indulge Tracy’s protests but move her to a close and place the phone in my lap. That wasn’t me. But maybe it’s the new me. I stare into the darkness, challenging assumptions, thinking the unthinkable, rationalizing and fantasizing until I drift to sleep.
When I awaken, I put on my shoes and head downstairs.
41
THIS ISN’T ME. The words are nonsensical and hauntingly familiar, harkening back to a time when I didn’t fully appreciate the consequences of my actions. This isn’t me.
But we are a sum of our parts. And nobody, no thing is a contradiction. There is no such thing. One of the underlying assumptions must be incorrect.
This is me. And maybe it always has been.
The remnants of the evening rain spill off the awning of Avery’s Pharmacy. All of the customers have left the store. The lights in the front of the establishment are off, and someone working there has locked the door.
I check my watch. It’s two minutes after one in the morning, early Saturday. Lyle Cosgrove started his shift at six and is closing. I only caught a glimpse of him inside the store. The only thing prominent, from my view across the street in my car, was kinky red hair, pulled into a ponytail and reaching the collar of his denim jacket.
He was bald in 1979. And big and muscular, all in all a pretty scary dude. I couldn’t get much of a read on him from my distance this evening, but he lacked any kind of a swagger as he made it to the store. Prison can break a man’s spirit.
A young woman, Asian, walks out of Avery’s Pharmacy alone. She has no business walking on the southeast side by herself this time of night, but it’s a quick trip to her car in the parking lot around the corner from the pharmacy.
Lyle Cosgrove walks out of the store and stops, facing but not seeing me. He cups his hands and lights a cigarette, pulls up the collar on his denim jacket, turns east, and continues walking. He favors his right leg, a pronounced hitch in his step.
I wait until he’s a block away before starting up my car. I won’t lose him. I know where he’s going.
I unwrap the memo from Cal Reedy to Bennett, summarizing the criminal background of Lyle Cosgrove.
No juvenile history obtained. Driver’s license revoked on 12/18/78, following DUI convictions on 2/24/78, 8/29/78, and third arrest on 11/04/78. Pleaded no contest to final charge. Agreed to surrender license for five years.
Arrested for sexual assault on 6/19/81. Pleaded guilty to simple assault. Served fifteen months in medium-security prison.
Arrested on 4/15/88 for armed robbery. Convicted on 8/28/88. Served twelve years, paroled on 7/22/00.
The logic swims through my mind, much as I try to block it out. The different angles, the repercussions of each, the brutal honesty that must enter the equation. All roads lead to one conclusion. Lyle Cosgrove has my number. He’s got my fate wrapped around his finger.
I don’t have a choice.
And this asshole killed Dale. That has to count for something.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles are white. The turmoil is welling up within me, a combination of rage and frustration and fear that blurs my thought processes, the logical reasoning. There is a certain freedom to it, the elimination of any rational barriers, the readiness to surrender to impulse. Maybe this is how it happens.
I promised that I would spend my life repenting, making good on my silent promise to Gina Mason’s little brother, that I would live a good and decent life and not bring harm to another person. Instead, I followed Grant Tully into the world of scorch-the-earth politics, where moral rewards are there to be taken but only in the murky sea of power lust and envy and insincerity. And now, grasping the mantle of the unjustly accused, of the defender of good and evil—now this.
Where is the guilt? Where is the concern for what really happened to Gina Mason? When did my survival take precedence over all else? But that’s an easy one, that last one. The answer is June of 1979. When I knew that Grant Tully was covering for me but didn’t want to accept it. When I lied, instead of telling the truth and letting the chips fall where they may.
I drive down the avenue now, accelerating until I pass Lyle Cosgrove, walking alone on the sidewalk. I mumble to myself and slam a fist into the steering wheel. I go down three more blocks and pull into a bank parking lot, screeching the tires in the process. I’m not being discreet, not being careful, and I like it. I drive into the area farthest from the street and sidewalk and kill the engine. I sit in silence, my breathing heavy. The fury washes over me; it’s all I can do not to slam the car door as I get out.
I try to control the heaving in my chest as I creep forward in the darkness of the parking lot, as the illumination of the sidewalk ahead of me is broken by the shadow of an oncoming figure. I stifle the question screaming inside me, with such a wicked, piercing voice that I almost can’t hear the approaching footsteps of a limping pedestrian.
What is happening to me?
42
SHOWTIME. IT’S BEEN Monday, October 2, for four hours. I’ve been awake for every one of them. I’ve settled on staying in bed for the time being, the covers gathered to my neck, though the temperatures remain mild in the city.
The pugs are sharing the pillo
w next to mine. They’ve slept fitfully, periodically raising their heads to wonder what I’m doing sitting up. At the moment, they are grunting and snoring contently.
The portable phone rests in my lap. I’ve partially dialed the number five, no six times. But I’m not going to wake her in the middle of the night.
I’m sorry, I tell her again in the silent darkness. I’m sorry I wasn’t the person you thought I’d be. I’m sorry I made you believe I was someone I was not, that you wasted five years of your life with me. I know nothing’s black and white. I know we share the fault. But I’m ready to take the generous portion. I was the one who started the downward slide. I didn’t spend the time with you. I made you feel unwanted. You weren’t—you never were. But I was too self-absorbed to know what I was doing to you. You tried to tell me and I didn’t listen. And so you stopped loving me.
I’m sorry for everything I’ve done. But I’ll make you this promise. I won’t be sorry again. From here on out, things are different. I won’t lie. If they ask me, I won’t lie about anything. I’ll let my lawyer do everything he can to get me acquitted. I’m not giving in. But I’m doing it the right way now.
43
“JONATHAN SOLIDAY IS charged with murder in the first degree,” says Erica Johannsen. “He was found with the victim—Dale Garrison—in the victim’s office. He was found with Mr. Garrison dead. And when he was found, he did what a murderer in that situation would do—he tried to talk his way out of it. He tried to convince an approaching security guard that Dale Garrison had simply fallen asleep. He tried to get the guard out of the office before he could realize the truth—that Dale Garrison had been murdered.”
It’s the afternoon now. Because this is a bench trial, no jury, the judge didn’t mind cleaning up some other matters before the trial began. We finally decided to kick it until after lunch.
Erica Johannsen is standing behind her table in the courtroom, wearing a herringbone jacket and long black skirt. She speaks plainly and matter-of-factly about these events. Perhaps that’s because there is no jury at this trial, or perhaps that’s just her way. Either way, it plays well for her. It will be all the tougher to claim that this is a political smear job when the prosecutor is speaking so quietly and soberly.
