Her Kind of Case

by Jeanne Winer

  The detective stifled a yawn.

  “Sorry. I’ve been on night shift for the past two weeks. The answer is yes.”

  “We appreciate you being here,” Lee said. “And so during the execution of that search, you climbed a ladder and found my client sleeping in the attic?”

  “Yes, he was fast asleep.”

  “The attic was not intended for human occupancy?”

  “Well, he was living there.”

  She ignored his answer.

  “There were no walls, just exposed rafters?”

  “True.”

  “The attic had no windows, no fan, no obvious ventilation?”

  The detective carefully scratched his head and said, “I think you’re right.”

  “The space where my client was sleeping had none of the usual things you’d find in a bedroom.”

  “True.”

  “No bed, no table, no lamps, no bureau, no mirror, no closet, no rug, no computer, no television, no desk, no pictures.”

  “Correct. I think there was a sleeping bag and some personal items.”

  “Yes,” Lee said, pulling out a copy of the detective’s report. “In addition to the bag, there were three piles of clothing, two pairs of sneakers, a baseball bat, a leather jacket with a broken zipper, a gray sweatshirt, six paperback novels, a plastic bag containing a toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant, and a wallet. Does that sound correct?”

  “If that’s what my report says.”

  “The rest of the house was a mess?” She took a sip of water and glanced at Jeremy, who was clearly paying attention.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Piles of unwashed dishes, beer bottles everywhere, garbage in the kitchen, sheets tacked up over windows, overflowing ashtrays, unmade beds, cigarette burns on the furniture, broken lamps, et cetera.”

  “It definitely needed a woman’s touch,” the detective joked.

  Both the judge and the DA were smiling, so Lee smiled too. No wonder your marriage failed, she wanted to say, but of course didn’t. A smart lawyer always takes the high road; it’s no fun, but it’s safer.

  “Detective, you seized my client’s sweatshirt because there was a drop of blood on the sleeve?”

  “Yes. Later on, we tested it and the blood matched the victim’s.”

  Lee closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them. She needed to word the next few questions carefully.

  “You found blood on two pairs of boots worn by the co-defendants?”

  “Correct. They were wearing them on the night we arrested them.”

  “And the blood matched Sam’s?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you found blood in the front and in the backseat of the co-defendants’ car?”

  “Yes,” the detective said. “And the samples matched Sam’s as well.”

  “Okay. So the blood on my client’s sweatshirt could have come directly from contact with Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it also could have come indirectly from riding in a car that had Sam’s blood in it.”

  The witness took his time before answering.

  “I guess so.”

  “Thank you,” Lee said. She was in the home stretch now. “My client’s wallet contained seven dollars and thirty-two cents?”

  “Yes.”

  “You found no evidence that he had a bank account?”

  “True.”

  “You found no evidence that my client was employed?”

  “True.”

  “You found no evidence that my client was married?”

  “True.”

  “No evidence he was in the military?”

  The witness was beginning to fidget.

  “No, there was no such evidence.”

  “Just a few more questions, Detective. If he wasn’t working, was my client enrolled in school?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Before handing him over to your colleague, you determined that my client was only sixteen years old?”

  “True.”

  “And that his parents had thrown him out?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “One final question: Did my client also tell you why his parents had thrown him out?” She knew the answer but wanted the judge to hear it.

  “I’m not sure. Can I refer to my notes?”

  “Please,” she said.

  The detective thumbed through a sheaf of papers he’d brought with him to the witness stand.

  “Let’s see. Oh yeah, now I remember. ‘For being a disappointment.’ ” He shook his head and chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Normally, she’d never ask a question when she didn’t know the answer but decided to risk it.

  “Well, if that’s all it takes, I’d have tossed my kid out years ago.” He turned to the judge and the DA, expecting them to laugh, but they didn’t. “Christ,” he muttered. “I was just kidding.”

  “Well, thanks for your candor,” Lee said. “No further questions.”

  As soon as she sat down, Phil leaned over to congratulate her.

  “You got more than you should have. Well done.” He squeezed their client’s shoulder. “Oh, and both Jeremy and I think the detective’s an asshole.”

  “I’d have to agree.” Outwardly, she was calm, almost nonchalant, but inwardly she was taut, focused, and ready, a state of mind she could easily sustain for weeks. If she were younger. She could still do it now, but after a couple of days, it would become exhausting—one of the many reasons she charged as much as she did.

  Then Dan stood up and said, “The State calls Detective Roberts to the stand.” A moment later, the witness came sauntering up the aisle.

  In a contest for the best Marlboro Man lookalike, Detective Roberts would be considered a shoo-in. He had the requisite physique: tall, lean, and muscular. And the requisite wardrobe: boots, jeans, cowboy hat, a blue western style shirt, and a belt with a huge silver buckle. Jurors couldn’t get enough of him. After taking the stand, the witness removed his hat and placed it on his lap, then grinned ruggedly at the judge.

  “I know he’s the enemy,” Carla whispered behind them, “but he’s so good-looking.”

  “Gag me with a spoon,” Phil said.

  “You’re just jealous.” Carla tapped Jeremy on the shoulder. “What do you think?”

  Jeremy swiveled from Carla to Phil and back again.

  “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “Good man,” Phil laughed.

  “Shh,” Lee told them. “I have to pay attention now.”

  Dan’s direct examination was quick and effective. In less than thirty minutes, the detective explained where the interrogation had taken place, the time of night, the suspect’s demeanor, the phone call to the suspect’s parents, what the parents said, and finally, after waiving his Miranda rights, what the suspect eventually admitted. No muss, no fuss. The implication was clear: The defense, as usual, was making a mountain out of a molehill.

  “No further questions,” Dan said, looking pleased. “He’s all yours, Ms. Isaacs.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Andrews.”

  God is in the details, she thought, as she walked to the podium and began spreading out her notes.

  “Good morning, Detective,” she said.

  “Morning, ma’am.” Short for: I’m just a simple cowboy who tells it like it is.

  That’ll be the day. Lee held up a sheaf of papers in each hand.

  “Detective, I have two reports detailing your contact with my client, an official-looking typed report and your handwritten notes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The typed report is an accurate summary of your handwritten notes?”

  “Yep. That’s the way I do it.”

  “Do you have both reports in front of you?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve only got the typed report.”

  Lee turned to the judge and asked if she could approach the witness. After getting permission, she walked up
to the detective and handed him the handwritten notes.

  “My questions will mostly refer to these.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Back at the podium, Lee waited a beat.

  “So, to begin with, you knew my client was only sixteen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Then he winked at her.

  She guessed it was a facial tic and ignored it.

  “You knew he had no criminal history?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No experience being questioned by the police?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “He’d been thrown out of his home in Colorado Springs and had come to live with some older skinheads in Denver?”

  “That’s what he said, ma’am.”

  “You offered my client a sandwich and he wolfed it down and asked for more?”

  “Yep, he was pretty hungry.”

  “He gave you the name and phone number of his parents and you called them?”

  “I sure did, ma’am.”

  “And after speaking with them, you determined that my client was legally emancipated?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “At first, they didn’t know what the term meant?”

  “Correct, so I read them the statute and they agreed their son was emancipated.”

  Lee kept the pace fast and friendly.

  “And then you told them they didn’t have to come to Boulder?”

  “Yep, that was about it.” And then he winked again.

  Was he actually flirting with her? She smiled tentatively.

  “Did you tell them they could come if they wanted to?” According to Leonard, he hadn’t.

  “Nope, it wasn’t necessary. Their son was emancipated.”

  Excellent, Lee thought.

  “And so you never read them their son’s Miranda rights?”

  “No, ma’am. It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Because you’d determined that their son was emancipated?”

  “Exactly.” He made it sound like two words.

  “You’d agree that the question of emancipation is ultimately the judge’s call, not yours?”

  “That’s right, ma’am. I make the preliminary determination and then talk to the suspect. Later, after the charges have been filed, the suspect’s attorney files a motion to suppress claiming the suspect wasn’t emancipated, and then the judge either grants the motion or more often than not, he doesn’t.”

  “Fair enough,” Lee said. “And because you’d made that preliminary determination, you never told my client he was entitled to have his parents or some other adult be there?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You never even asked if he wanted his parents or some other adult to be there?”

  “No, ma’am.” The detective glanced at his watch.

  Lee pretended to be solicitous.

  “Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

  The detective stroked the stubble on his chin and said, “I do, but it’ll have to wait. This is important.” Another wink.

  It had to be intentional. What the hell. This time she smiled back warmly.

  “When you asked if he wanted to speak with you, my client simply shrugged?”

  “I think that’s right.”

  “And then you read him his rights?”

  “Yep, and he said he understood them.”

  Lee held up the detective’s report.

  “According to your handwritten notes, when you asked if he was willing to waive his rights, my client said he didn’t care.”

  “Yes, ma’am. So I asked him to sign his name, indicating his willingness to speak with us, and he did.”

  “And then you gave him two more sandwiches.”

  “Yep, the kid was pretty hungry.” He chuckled at the memory.

  “I’ll bet. And then you asked if he knew Sam Donnelly?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And according to your handwritten notes, my client said, ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’ ”

  “That’s right, but when I pressed him on it, he said the victim was ‘just a faggot who deserved to die.’ ”

  “How bitter that sounds.” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  “Yeah,” the detective agreed. “Pretty hateful. Although it’s not in my notes, I remember saying something like nobody deserves to die for being different and the kid said he didn’t believe me.”

  Lee looked toward Phil, who was busy scribbling down the detective’s last answer. She decided to move on.

  “You asked my client what part he played in the murder, and he looked down at the floor and said, ‘I didn’t help him.’ ”

  “Yeah, he was pretty evasive but eventually admitted kicking the victim.”

  Lee found the page she was looking for.

  “Actually, it went like this: You asked if he’d kicked the victim and my client said, ‘A couple of times, but he was already dead.’ So then you asked if he was a hundred percent positive the victim was dead, and he said, ‘Well, I’m pretty sure.’ And then you said, ‘but not a hundred percent,’ and he said, ‘I guess not.’ ”

  The detective smiled innocently and said, “Right. He wasn’t sure.”

  A lousy lawyer would have argued with the detective and gotten nowhere. Lee moved on.

  “Let’s talk about the last ‘admission’ by my client, that he was the lookout.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Lee held up the two reports.

  “In your official-looking, typed summary, you said my client admitted being the lookout.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “In your handwritten notes, it went like this: You asked what my client was doing while the others kicked the victim, and he said, ‘I don’t remember exactly.’ So then you confronted him by saying, ‘Come on, Jeremy. You had to be doing something.’ And that’s when he said, ‘Okay fine, I was the lookout.’ ”

  “Yes, ma’am. Then he put his head down on the table and said he needed to sleep. I asked Detective Armstrong to take him to the juvenile detention center.”

  As she gathered her notes to leave, Lee asked, “Did my client mention how he ended up living with the skinheads?” It wasn’t in either report, but Jeremy thought he’d told the detective how Rab had saved his life.

  “Hmm,” the detective said, as if he was trying to remember.

  Lee straightened up and met his gaze. Come on, she telegraphed. Throw me a bone.

  The detective’s eyes narrowed. Why should I?

  Because it’s the right thing to do. She hesitated. And I’m cute.

  The detective put on his big white hat and grinned.

  “Yeah, he said something about a fight and how the skinheads rescued him and gave him a place to stay.”

  “Thank you very much, Detective. No further questions.”

  Dan immediately stood up and said, “No redirect, Your Honor.” He was frowning a little, which meant he hadn’t liked the answer.

  As she was sitting down, Phil leaned over and said, “You were flirting with him!”

  “So?”

  “So it was incredibly effective.”

  “It helped,” she admitted, “but it’s still a long way to the finish line.”

  Detective Armstrong’s direct examination lasted till noon. According to this detective, the suspect wasn’t under the influence of either drugs or alcohol, he was coherent, mostly calm, and seemed to understand everything that was going on. He was handcuffed without incident and placed in the back of the detective’s car. On the way to the juvenile detention facility, the suspect became upset when he realized his “brothers” were being housed elsewhere. The detective told him he’d be safer at the juvenile facility, but the suspect said he didn’t care. He demanded to be taken to the jail and began pounding his fists on the plexiglass partition. The detective ordered him to stop, but the banging continued. Finally, the detective braked to a halt and said, “Look kid, it’s not up to me, okay? You’re going
to juvie and that’s the end of it. Pound all you want, but if you break the glass, I’m going to be pissed.” Then he started driving again. After a while, the suspect lay down in the backseat and a few minutes later, began to snore.

  Lee’s cross was very short.

  “Did my client say anything else during the drive to the detention center?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” the detective answered.

  Like all good attorneys, Lee stopped when she had what she needed.

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After the lunch break, Lee called her only witness, Ethan Mitchell, who had been Jeremy’s best friend in Colorado Springs. Ethan’s family belonged to the same congregation as Jeremy’s, The Word of God, and considered Pastor Matthews to be their spiritual leader. According to Ethan, who blushed almost constantly, both boys were the same age and had been friends since they were ten. In the past few years, they’d begun to rebel against their strict upbringing. For example, they’d refused to go to church more than four times a week and sometimes snuck out to “normal” movies, which their parents had forbidden them to see. They’d tried cigarettes a couple of times and had once shared a bottle of Boone’s Farm apple wine and gotten very sick.

  In high school, both boys were straight A students and were often mocked by the normal kids. As soon as they graduated, both planned to move as far away as possible—maybe to Florida or California, somewhere warm—and never go to church again. In the meantime, they fantasized about being free to hang around with people who weren’t religious zealots.

  Pastor Matthews often preached against homosexuality, calling it an abomination, but neither boy felt strongly about condemning people who were different. After all, they were different and knew firsthand what it felt like to be shunned by the normal kids. As far as Ethan was concerned, both he and Jeremy were “live and let live” kind of guys who didn’t hate anyone. Jeremy, especially, was kind and courteous to everyone.

  Ethan had been shocked when Lee first showed him his friend’s arrest photo. For one thing, it looked like Jeremy had lost about thirty pounds and for another, the tattoos on his arms were totally out of character; Ethan couldn’t imagine what had happened to his friend, but it must have been bad. When he lived at home, Jeremy had never been in trouble. Ethan couldn’t imagine Jeremy surviving on the street for more than a couple of days.