Defending Turquoise (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 5)

by John Ellsworth

  “Tommy Begay. He lives in Wells. He’s a senior and loves working on his car.”

  “Did he know about what Uncle Randy was doing to you?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m looking at everyone who had a reason to shoot Uncle Randy.”

  “Tommy didn’t know. I never told him or anyone. Except the clinic. But I told you about that, the clap and all. So Mrs. Steinmar knew too. But she wouldn’t tell Tommy. I don’t think I ever told her about Tommy.”

  “Okay. Well, they want to shut us down, so let’s say goodbye and we’ll be in touch about the bail hearing.”

  Before the girl could answer, the door swung open and the same deputy barged inside. “C’mon, little sis,” she said. “It’s almost lunchtime for B wing. Sloppy Joe’s and fries today.”

  “Later,” Thaddeus said as she was being freed from the restraint.

  “Later,” she said.

  24

  Henry Landers once told Thaddeus he took sheep temperatures anally. This was when they were ailing. “It’s just like with a man,” Henry said. “No matter how big a lie the mouth is telling, the asshole never lies. Stick your thermometer up his ass if you need the truth.”

  Which was exactly what Thaddeus was intent on doing Monday morning when he walked across to the district attorney’s office. He had a meeting with DA Wrasslin to learn what evidence they had collected against Turquoise. It was a process known as Discovery, and it was based on the 1963 Supreme Court case of Brady v. Maryland, where the Supremes ruled that if the prosecution withholds from the defense exculpatory evidence, it violates the Due Process clause of the Constitution. Which means the defendant goes free.

  “Brady Day” in Arizona courts was the day defense attorneys met with prosecutors and, as Brady had seeped throughout the system, basically opened their files to the defense attorney. In theory, any and everything got revealed because the prosecutor didn’t later want to be accused of withholding evidence that might have helped the defendant. To do so could cost a deceitful prosecutor his or her license to practice law. In practice, prosecutors still played hide-the-ball and required the highest degree of investigation and intuition or guesswork the defense attorney could bring to bear. For it was always up to the defendant’s lawyer to ferret out the truth and the whole truth from the DAs.

  Thaddeus rubbed his hands together gleefully as he swung inside the courthouse. Today he was going to take their temperature. And he was going to stick it up their ass if they lied. He figured he already knew Turquoise wasn’t guilty and knew they would be hard-pressed to turn up evidence that she was. Why? Because she had told him she didn’t shoot her uncle. And he believed her. Hell, she didn’t even squash spiders—what more did you need?

  In the DA’s waiting room, from a stiff plastic chair, he could see straight into the newly minted district attorney’s office. She was huddled at her sumptuous desk, green phone jammed against her ear, examining her nails, touching up here and there with a nail file as she spoke. She didn’t see him come in and wasn’t aware he was observing her. She held one hand up to the light and focused on the nails. Then she again undertook the task of getting them under control with the metal file. File-examine-file was how it went several times as he watched.

  Actually he was trying not to stare, but another part of him—the lawyer part—was sizing up his adversary. Was she worthy and fit? He honestly didn’t know, but she had the reputation of a brawler. The few times he had gone up against her on felony DUIs and miscellaneous misdemeanors she had come across as nervous and harried. Her right eye was a tell, twitching and jerking spasmodically as courtroom pressure mounted, on those occasions when Thaddeus was present. He didn’t know that she had seen three ophthalmologists about the twitch, or that various lotions, salves, and drops had been tried, or that the twitch had overcome them all, persisting despite the medical industry’s assaults.

  In a frustrated moment, the third and final eye doctor had referred Wrasslin to a psychiatrist, who had wasted no time prescribing anti-anxiety pills and told her to give up her courtroom duties—something no elected district attorney could ever afford to do, not if he or she intended running for reelection based on their record. In a sense she was stuck, and Thaddeus knew that if he played his cards right that morning he would soon have the twitch fired up and the prosecutor anxious to agree to some kind of settlement just to save face—if it could be called that.

  At long last the phone light blinked off on the receptionist’s phone and she told Thaddeus to go right in. He picked up his own thin file, squared himself to meet the gauche attempts at debasement attempted by all prosecutors—Wrasslin would be no different—and marched in.

  “So how’s the newest DA in Arizona?” he asked brightly, trying to set a light tone.

  “Fucked over. Defense lawyers nipping at my heels, unhappy police who think everybody belongs behind bars, secretaries with sick kids, and a nosy newspaper reporter who has requested hourly updates on the prosecution of my predecessor’s killer.”

  “You mean my client, Angelina Steinmar. Who, it is alleged, is the killer.”

  She sighed long and hard. “See what I mean? It never ends. Now who are you here on—” she said and riffled a stack of manila files. “Yep, here we are. Next up, your girl Turquoise Begay.”

  “Who actually is innocent.”

  The prosecutor’s hand, unburying the Begay file, froze in midair. “Tell me we’re not going to start like that. Please tell me.”

  Thaddeus leaned back in his chair. He waved his hand expansively. “Then tell me what you’ve got that makes you think you have a case.”

  “I’ve got motive. We picked up the IHS clinic files. Evidently he was having sex with her. We’re thinking it might have been consensual.”

  “Think again. He’s been raping her since her tenth birthday.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Even if it was consensual, Wrasslin, it would still equal stat rape.”

  “But you don’t get to murder someone for committing stat rape. Read the rules, Counselor.”

  “Very ha-ha funny. So what else do you have besides records that prove statutory rape by your poor victim?”

  “We’ve got the murder weapon. Winchester .30-.30 carbine. Fully loaded minus one. Wiped down but we’re testing it for DNA.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Someone wiped it for prints. We’re testing the stock where her face rested when she was aiming. There will be body oil there that might give up the DNA that will send your girl to prison until she’s at least sixty.”

  “So you’re thinking the gun was wiped down? Isn’t that Brady material, the lack of fingerprints? I believe I’m entitled to your lab workup.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”

  “Sure you will, madam DA. Just like you guys always do.”

  A look of concern came over Thaddeus’ face at the mention of trace DNA. He knew that advances in DNA profiling technology sometimes allowed for the analysis of minute quantities of DNA. He knew that it was possible to obtain successful DNA results from cellular material transferred from the skin of an individual who had simply touched an object. He hoped to God Turquoise was telling him the truth. It would make the case much more complex were her DNA found on a gun that had been wiped down. Of course, she could always claim that she cleaned that room and handled that gun every Saturday when she performed her cleaning duties, but the fact the gun had been wiped was in and of itself some indicia of guilt. People don’t wipe weapons down unless they’re trying to hide something. Heaven forbid any DNA testing pointed to her. He knew he could easily explain it away, but it gave the DA talking points and he wanted to minimize those.

  He cleared his throat. “So it looks like I’m going to have ask Judge Trautman for county money to have my own DNA testing?”

  The DA laughed. “Good luck with that. He’s going to tell you the cost is prohibitive, that you can use the state’s testing in your defen
se.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, he will, knowing that—” He wanted to use a profanity but thought better of it.

  “Hey, he is what he is. Some people hate him but you have to respect him. He’s damn good at judging.”

  “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion. Ours are very different, yours and mine.”

  “You aren’t still upset about him disbarring you, are you? You sure had it coming.”

  Thaddeus shook his head. “Tell the truth, I enjoyed my year off. Got to see a lot of new country, met some nice people, lost twenty pounds. A fair trade.”

  She paused flipping through the file. “Okay, we also have your client’s statement.”

  “Telling you she’s not guilty.”

  “Not exactly. She says she wanted to kill him herself and even thought of using the rifle to shoot him while he slept.”

  “But she didn’t say she actually carried through on that.”

  “She didn’t, no. But still, we’ve got her admitting she considered shooting him, at the very least, with the murder weapon.”

  “Probably not even admissible in evidence.”

  “Probably is. Shows state of mind.”

  “Which would be relevant to what known fact?”

  “DNA on gun.”

  “How about this. How about I stipulate she handled the gun. Of course her DNA’s there. She cleaned the room every Saturday. It was a job her father gave her. So, what else you got? I’m sure you ran gunshot residue testing on the shirt she was wearing when the cops picked her up off the highway. The lack of GSR is exculpatory. You got that for me?”

  She scowled. “We tested her shirt. Found GSR. They swabbed her hands and face, too. Nothing found. You’ve got me on the hands, Counsel. But I’ve got you on the shirt.”

  He had to admit he was surprised. She had said nothing about firing a gun. His pulse started to pick up. He could feel his client ever so slightly slip an inch away from his protective grasp.

  He bluffed. “So she fired a gun at some point. She guards sheep. She might’ve fired off a round at some predator.”

  “Sure, Counsel.”

  “Hey, it’s Brady material as to the hands. I want the report.”

  “Done. So are you ready to discuss a plea for this young lady?”

  Thaddeus knew he would never plead Turquoise to anything—even with the gunshot residue. They would explain that—somehow. Still, he didn’t want to lay his cards on the table. Not yet.

  He said, “Sure, let’s talk about a plea. What’s your best offer?”

  “I can do second-degree murder. Fifteen to twenty-five max. She’ll be out in ten years.”

  He was surprised. It actually wasn’t a bad plea to someone facing first-degree murder charges like Turquoise. He guessed they were somewhat backing down due to the sexual abuse, which wouldn’t play well with any jury. The girl would have a lot of sympathy and a jury would pull for her. If there was an out, they would probably give her a pass. Which made a plea bargain all but impossible. Flat out, he knew the state couldn’t convict his client. That was the bottom line. DNA testing might have some impact, but even that would be minimal.

  “Before you answer, Counsel, let me add one more thing to the plea dynamic.”

  “That would be what?”

  “She told us she made up the sex story about the uncle. She told us she was actually having sex with her boyfriend. That’s where she got the clap.”

  “What? Impossible!”

  “I’ve got it videotaped. You’ll get a copy.”

  “Did the cops take her to the hospital for a rape kit?”

  “A rape exam was done.”

  “Did she claim she was raped?”

  Wrasslin smiled. “I just told you. She never mentioned rape, intercourse, or anything like it. It just didn’t come up. They asked her, but it went nowhere. But the hospital did the swab anyhow. Standard operating procedure.”

  “The rape was ongoing since age ten. He had made her his wife since her tenth birthday. He raped her every night of her life.”

  “Nope, never mentioned it. So, rape kit came back positive for sex. Even if the DNA points at Uncle Randy and it was rape, so what? She doesn’t get to kill him for rape anymore than I would get to. Murder is murder, Counselor.”

  “Are DNA tests being done.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think if it was Uncle Randy who was raping her, that that means nothing?”

  “Pretty much, Counselor. In this country we don’t get to shoot sleeping people.”

  “Ever think self-defense? She’s been abused for six years. Every stinking day.”

  He shook his head and gave her an angry look. She picked up the nail file and acted as if she had no worries about her case.

  “Tomorrow is the hearing on my motion for bail. Are you going to object to her release to the custody of a juvenile authority?”

  “You betcha. She belongs in jail. You want I should agree to a shooter running around some foster home? You kidding me?”

  “Shooter! Please, you have zero evidence she shot anyone. None at all. You have proximity to the scene of the crime. You have a rifle that anyone could have used and certainly does not have her fingerprints on it. You have GSR but she shot at predators after her sheep. You have no witness. You have no confession of shooting. You have no case!”

  “Let’s save the argument for H. Ivan, what do you say? We about done here?”

  “What time do I get my discovery package?”

  “It’ll all be in your courthouse box before four. Fair enough? Now. The second degree is open until five o’clock today. After that, it’s all bets off, we’re going to trial and there will be no further offers.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  The DA laughed. She filed another nail and couldn’t stop smiling.

  “You defense attorneys are all the same. Nobody’s guilty of anything. Amazing.”

  “I’ll check my box at four o’clock. If the package isn’t there I’m filing an emergency motion with the judge. We have trial in thirty days and I need that discovery.”

  “And have it you shall. See you tomorrow, Counselor.”

  Thaddeus stormed out of her office and without breaking stride marched next door to the jail. He slapped his bar card down on the counter and demanded to see Turquoise without delay. The woman behind the glass gave him a funny look and shrugged. You could read her face: just another crazy, her look said. Thaddeus turned his back on her while she paged for the inmate. He was fuming and almost losing it. Incredible as it sounded, they claimed to have Turquoise on video stating there had been no attacks by the uncle.

  A thought occurred. In a way, that helped her case, the more he thought about it: without the attacks, her motive to shoot him vanished. However, there was one little problem with that: it was a lie. DNA tests would eventually prove it was untrue. So they had her in a giant lie, which would make any jury look askance at the rest of her testimony. The prosecutor would get to say, Hey, she lied to us there, what makes you think she’s not lying to you now? And so it would go. Another client with her foot caught in the trap because she violated Criminal Law Rule 1, which was to never, ever talk to the police or the prosecutors. He was fuming when the door buzzed and the deputy told him to please pass through.

  He was dismayed when he saw her. The normally black, shiny hair was flattened on her head and no longer glistened. It gave off a dull, lackluster look. Her mahogany skin looked pallid, as if she hadn’t been in the sun for weeks—which was almost true. And she looked tired. New lines around her teenage eyes revealed how little sleep she had been getting inside this nuthouse where no one ever really got to sleep anyway. All night long there was clanging, buzzing, and the angry voices of matrons coming and going in the dorms and common rooms. Inmates talked and cried out 24/7 and there was a constant buzz as the latest gossip roared around like wildfire. Someone heard they were letting half of them go because of overcrowding. Another heard it was bec
ause some federal civil rights lawsuit had won their freedom. Others were expecting loved ones to appear with cash bail at any moment. And so, all in all there was a constant, nervous air of expectancy that, sadly, never materialized into anything other than another featureless, dull day behind windowless walls and steel doors. Seldom did reality ever break the tedium; outbursts of crying for no apparent reason were common. The prison psychologists knew what prompted those eruptions: they happened when the individual suddenly realized that there was no hope and things really weren’t just about to get better. The hopeless expression of the caged inmate had settled over her normally youthful, attractive face. She was going downhill and Thaddeus felt great anxiety as he contemplated the chances of H. Ivan Trautman granting her any kind of custodial release tomorrow.

  He didn’t waste any time.

  “You told the DA your uncle wasn’t raping you?”

  She looked down and away. “Yes.”

  “Why would you tell them that?”

  “I was—it made—embarrassment. I was embarrassed by him raping me.”

  “You mean you felt ashamed.”

  “I felt like I did something wrong.”

  “Well, now we’ve got a huge lie to deal with in front of the jury.”

  “I’m sorry. I just felt too bad.”

  He touched her shoulder to give a reassuring squeeze as a big brother would to a little sister, and she pulled back.

  “No, you don’t need to be sorry. We all get ashamed sometimes. It’s just that your history of telling the truth is going to be a big deal in front of your jury. They’re going to see you lied and that makes everything you say subject to suspicion.”

  “I’m sorry. I really made this hard for you. But that doesn’t change the main thing. I didn’t shoot Uncle Randy.”

  “Did your boyfriend shoot him?”

  “He didn’t know about Uncle Randy. I never told.”

  “You never told anyone.”

  “I never told anyone. But I wrote it down.”

  “What? Where!”