by Donald Bain
“Martone says that since Ty lives with us, there must have been numerous conversations with him about the murder. Pierce has countered with a claim that anything we might have heard from Ty would violate the hearsay rule if we were forced to testify. He’s not technically right. What a defendant in a felony case says to others can be used against him. Pierce is also claiming lawyer-client privilege because I’m a lawyer and a judge.”
“It sounds outlandish to me that the district attorney could expect to have the judge rule favorably about something like that. Isn’t there such a thing as a parent-son privilege in the law?”
“Afraid not,” Jack said. “Keep in mind that Martone is a very ambitious young man—and that he has the backing of important men in this town, including one Harrison Bennett, Sr.”
“And the district attorney’s office is an elected one,” I offered.
“Right. And those campaigns rely on contributions. Judge McQuaid is also elected, but he’s not the sort of man to make rulings based upon his political future. Then again, I may be wrong. I’ve been wrong plenty of times when it comes to reading people. It can’t hurt having you there—you’re obviously part of Ty’s life—and it may, I believe, help sway McQuaid in a positive direction.”
“This sounds more like a public-relations hearing than a legal one,” I said.
“Unfortunately, the law and PR often intertwine. That’s why judges impose gag orders on attorneys in high-profile cases, to keep them from launching their own PR campaigns out of court. I’ve done it many times. All I’m saying, Jess, is that not only will your presence be a boost to Ty’s morale, it could have a good impact on the outcome of the hearing.”
“I’ll do whatever you ask me to do,” I said. “Speaking of Ty, where is he?”
“Still sleeping,” Meg said. “I figured he could use all the rest he can get. Besides, the less time he has to think about what’s coming up this morning, the better it will be.” She stood. “Eggs over easy for everyone? I’m up for some crisp bacon. Are you?”
“Not only are you a wonderful cook,” I said, getting out of my chair, “you’re a mindreader. Let me help you. I’ll get out the eggs.”
Ty looked good for his court appearance. Meg had picked out a fresh white shirt, dark blue tie, and chino pants with razor-sharp creases for him. One of the legs bulged at the bottom where it covered his ankle bracelet. I’d heard Jack tell him to shave, and Ty had balked, but not for long. “Don’t argue with me,” Jack said. “When I say you shave, you shave.”
Ty shaved.
Meg tried to inject happy chatter during the ride to the court, but much of it fell flat. This was serious business, and no one in the car could forget that for more than a second or two.
The Mesa courthouse was a busy place when we arrived. Jack used the rear entrance we’d taken advantage of when leaving the court the last time, which spared us the media extravaganza that had gathered at the front of the low, Southwestern-style building.
I always find courthouses as fascinating as they are sad. The entire human dilemma is on display, with people trapped in the legal system by their own doing, or because they were dealt the wrong cards at birth. It was especially tragic to see young mothers conferring with their lawyers, many of them presumably court-appointed public defenders, while the mothers tried to manage a couple of naturally lively toddlers. Hopefully, many of those who crowded the halls and benches that morning would find a satisfactory resolution to their legal travails.
Judge McQuaid was holding court in a relatively small room at the very back of the building. A sign outside it read, MOTIONS—PEOPLE VS. RAMOS. The door was open. Inside, court employees scurried about preparing the room for the day’s proceedings. I spotted the district attorney near the bench, conferring with two other people. One of them, to my surprise, was Harrison Bennett. I pointed him out to Meg, who sat with Ty on a bench across the hall.
“He’s so powerful,” Meg said, shaking her head. “I sometimes think he controls everything that happens here in Mesa.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t control the legal system,” I said, hoping that was true.
Ty’s attorney, David Pierce, arrived just minutes before we were due in the courtroom. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Some mornings I just can’t escape from the infernal phone. Everyone here?” He did a head count and went to where Ty sat with Meg. “How’s my favorite shortstop?” he asked, slapping Ty on the shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Ty said without looking up.
“Hey, my young friend,” Pierce said, “lighten up and get a smile on that handsome face. Judges don’t take kindly to sullen, surly young guys in their court-rooms.”
“Listen to Mr. Pierce,” Meg said. “It’s important that you present a pleasant, cooperative image for the judge.”
“Let’s go,” Jack said.
There was a section of spectator seats to the left and right of the door that we hadn’t been able to see from outside the room. The moment we walked in, it was obvious who was filling those seats. The press!
“Damn,” Jack muttered under his breath as we went to the front row, where one side of the aisle was reserved for the defense team. “Don’t look back,” he said. “It’ll just give some damn photographer a shot of us.”
Ty took the chair next to David Pierce at the defendant’s table. Meg, Jack, and I sat behind them in the first row of seats.
“All stand!”
Judge Michael McQuaid entered the courtroom and took his seat behind the bench. He looked down and nodded at Jack, and then he grinned at me. It made me uncomfortable, and I averted my eyes from his gaze after returning a small smile.
“All right,” McQuaid said, “let’s begin this hearing. Before we do, I remind our friends from the media that no cameras are allowed in the courtroom. I will not tolerate any pictures being taken during the proceedings, still or video, nor will I allow the use of any recording device. Do I make myself clear?”
There were murmurs of assent.
“Good,” he said. “Don’t force me to have you removed. Let’s proceed.”
I glanced across the aisle to where Martone, the DA, sat with a female assistant. Harrison Bennett sat in the first row, directly behind them.
“The first order of business is a motion filed by Mr. Martone on behalf of the People. You’ve read it, Mr. Pierce?”
“Yes, sir, I have,” Pierce said, standing.
“Let’s hear it.”
Pierce gave what seemed to me to be a cogent and easily understood defense of Ty’s bail. When he was finished, the judge invited Martone to rebut. The district attorney was a smug man whose condescending expression underscored his belief that everything he said was imbued with wisdom and truth. He postured in front of the judge like an actor on stage, gesturing for dramatic effect. Pierce, in contrast, had been straightforward and sounded considerably more sincere than his adversary.
“. . . and so in conclusion,” the DA intoned, looking intently at Ty, “the defendant poses a distinct threat to the community at large. His previous record of having broken the law in another state is well documented. This is a young man who, in a fit of anger and jealous rage, bludgeoned to death a teammate, a decent young man whose future was bright. To allow this misfit and threat to the safety of our fellow citizens to be free on bail would be, in my judgment, a drastic mistake with potentially lethal consequences. Thank you.”
I was seated next to Jack Duffy, and even though we weren’t touching, I could feel his rage at the DA’s mischaracterization of Ty. His face was beet red, and veins in his neck pulsated. Please, I silently thought, don’t give vent to your feelings and lash out at Martone. It was unlikely that he would, I knew. He was a judge himself, and I was certain he wouldn’t stand for outbursts in his own court. Still, his anger was palpable, but he remained in his chair, his jaw working furiously.
Martone took his seat in front of H.B.
“Anything further, Mr. Pierce?”
“No, Y
our Honor.”
Judge McQuaid consulted some papers before looking up and intoning, “Motion denied. Bail shall remain in effect. Next motion, Mr. Martone?”
The district attorney was barely out of his seat and starting to speak when Bennett jumped to his feet and said in a booming voice, “This is a travesty of justice. I have lost a son at the hands of this, this monster and—”
McQuaid pounded his gavel. “You’re out of order, Mr. Bennett.”
“This entire proceeding is out of order,” Bennett barked back.
“Sit down, Mr. Bennett, or I’ll find you in contempt.”
Martone grabbed Bennett by the shoulder of his suit jacket and pushed him back into his seat. I glanced at Jack and Meg. She was pale, her eyes wide and frightened at Bennett’s outburst. Jack took her hand, a small smile on his face.
Martone presented his next motion, asking for depositions to be taken of Jack and Meg Duffy.
“Mr. Pierce. Your objection, please.”
Pierce kept it short and concise.
“Motion denied. Anything else, gentlemen?”
Both attorneys stood and said, “No, Your Honor.” Ty scrambled to his feet next to Pierce.
“This hearing is adjourned. My clerk will inform the parties of a trial date.”
We all stood as McQuaid left the bench. We waited until the press had departed before preparing to leave the courtroom. Martone, his assistant, and H.B. walked past us without saying a word, although Bennett couldn’t resist looking back, his face a mask of fury. As the three of them pushed through the doors into the hallway, a cry arose from reporters waiting for them, and we saw the flash of cameras.
“Round one went well,” Jack commented. “But there’s still a long hill to climb.”
We’d packed up and were about to follow Pierce from the room when a court clerk came to us. “Judge Duffy, Mrs. Fletcher? Judge McQuaid would like to see you for a few minutes in his chambers.”
“All right,” Jack said. “You and Ty stay here,” he told Meg. “I don’t want you going outside with that swarm waiting for us.”
“I’ll wait with them,” Pierce said.
Judge McQuaid’s chambers consisted of two rooms. A secretary and a law clerk occupied desks in the outer one. The judge, who’d taken off his black robe, sat behind his desk in the inner space. He wore bright red-and-yellow suspenders over a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Hello, Jack,” he said, getting up and shaking hands with us. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I said.
“Not concerned at having us back here without the other side present?” Jack asked.
McQuaid’s laugh was hearty. “Hell, no. Your lawyer’s not here. We’re not discussing the case, are we? I just wanted the privilege of meeting Mrs. Fletcher and imposing upon her to sign a few books for me and my wife.”
He’d brought six of my most recent novels to sign, and I dutifully wrote a personal message in each before signing my name.
“Much obliged, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Plan to be in Mesa long?”
“As long as it takes for—” I stopped and smiled. “We’re not discussing the case,” I said.
He laughed. “That’s right. Maybe one of these nights, before you leave town, you’d be our guest for dinner at the house. My wife makes a hell of a chicken pot pie.”
“One of my favorites,” I said. “I’ll look forward to it.”
We left the judge’s chambers and joined Meg and Ty in the hallway, where Pierce had brought them.
“What a lovely man,” I commented as we headed for the car.
“He certainly comes off that way,” Meg said. “Let’s get home.”
“Do you mind if I don’t join you?” I asked.
“No, of course not, but if there’s anything you need, we can get it for you.”
“What I need is an hour or so just to walk around town, and do a little shopping for souvenirs to take back with me. I can get a cab and catch up with you around lunchtime.”
“Suit yourself,” Jack said.
“Mrs. Fletcher, I really appreciate your being here for me this morning,” Ty said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“This morning went extremely well,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “Keep your spirits up. I’m sure things will work out for you just fine.”
I took care to leave the courthouse via a back route to avoid any lingering press, and spent the next hour doing what I’d set out to do, window-shopping and browsing the myriad stores in the center of town, many of which featured arts and crafts created by local artisans. I made a few small purchases, including a jar of chipotle sauce for Maureen and Mort.
Mesa had a lovely downtown, and I thought of Cabot Cove and its central area, not as large as Mesa’s but with a similar feel (and decidedly different weather—it was brutally hot in Mesa).
I’d reached the end of the main street and looked beyond, where an expanse of dusty desert land stretched out before me. To my right was a three-story, concrete, open-air municipal parking garage. I’d been walking in the sun, and the oppressive heat was making me light-headed. I should have bought that festive sombrero I admired in one of the shops, I told myself.
The shade afforded by the concrete overhangs was inviting. I entered on the first level and breathed a sigh of relief at the damp, cooler atmosphere. I spotted a soft drink machine in the distance, next to an elevator. I went to it, plugged in money, and down dropped a can of diet lemonade. The cold metal of the can felt good in my hand, and on my brow and cheeks as I pressed it against them. I was about to open the drink when I heard loud voices from behind a concrete pillar a dozen feet from where I stood. One of the voices was strangely familiar. Where had I heard it before? Of course. In court just an hour ago. It was H.B., arguing with someone. I didn’t recognize the other man’s voice.
“Don’t you dare threaten me, you little creep,” Bennett said.
“You owe me the money. You place a bet and lose, you owe the money,” said the second person. “My people are—”
“You tell your people who they’re dealing with. I’ve got connections all over town. I can put you out of business in a second, and don’t you forget it.”
“I want my money now,” the other man shouted, “or I will tell people that you bet against your own team. You know what people will say if I tell them that? Maybe I’ll tell the reporters at the newspapers and the television stations. Yeah, pay me the money right now or I’ll—”
“You open your mouth, and that’s the last time you’ll talk.”
The thump of someone being struck was loud enough to reach me. So was the thud of someone hitting something hard. I heard loud footsteps coming in my direction, and quickly used the vending machine to duck out of sight. Bennett rushed past me and up a stairwell, never seeing my hiding place. I listened as the sound of his shoes on the concrete echoed off the hard walls.
Moans came from where the altercation had taken place. I circumvented the concrete pillar to find their source and saw a man sprawled on the floor, blood gushing from a gaping cut on his head.
“Oh, my,” I said, going to him and dropping to my knees, ignoring the sting of the coarse concrete digging into my skin. “Sir, you’re hurt.”
His response was another pained exclamation.
I pulled a handkerchief from my shoulder bag and handed it to him. He tentatively sat up and pressed the cloth to his head wound. “Thank you,” he said.
