Trial by Fire

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  The jury deliberated two hours.

  Having been notified by the bailiff that the verdict was in, Stella hurried back to the courtroom with Ben Growman, Larry Kominsky, and Brenda Anderson, all of them anxious. Kominsky appeared younger than his thirty-one years. A West Point graduate, he had abandoned his military career to become an attorney. Next to Stella, he was one of Dallas’s finest prosecutors, his diminutive size and fresh-faced appearance making him appear deceptively innocent and naive.

  Brenda Anderson was dressed in a conservative knit dress, the hemline several inches below her knees. Her neck was long and elegant, her hair worn in a tight knot at the base of her head. Reserved when she was in a group, but outspoken when she related on an individual basis, she was walking next to Stella with her head down.

  “We’ve got it,” Kominsky said, looking up at the ceiling as if the word had just come down from God himself. “The jury was only out two hours. Your decision to expose your scar was brilliant, Stella. There’s no way they’ll acquit the bastard now.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Growman said, yanking on his shirt cuffs. He stopped and faced Kominsky, hissing his words through his teeth. “Don’t you have an ounce of sense? Don’t you realize what it took for this woman to expose herself in front of the cameras?”

  The attorney looked at Stella and blanched. Her hair was still tied back and she had placed her hand over her cheek to cover the scar. “I’m sorry, okay,” he said. “I didn’t think. Please, forgive me, Stella, but…it was great, you know. The part I liked best was, ‘Imagine, if you can.’ Man, was that a piece of work. You should have seen the jurors’ faces.”

  “Thanks, Larry,” Stella said, flinging open the door to the courtroom. “Let’s just hope it worked.”

  The three attorneys took their seats. It was after six and most of the spectators had gone home, not expecting a verdict until the following day. Only the press and members of the immediate family were assembled in the courtroom. Since Growman was present, Brenda Anderson slipped into the front row next to Judy McKinley and a few other members of the victim’s family. Once the jury had filed in and been seated, the judge called the court to order and asked the jurors if they had reached a verdict.

  “Yes, we have,” said the foreman, an older man with wire-framed glasses and red suspenders.

  “Will the defendant please rise,” the judge said.

  Gregory Pelham was a short, dark-skinned man with heavy-lidded eyes and rust-colored hair. He was dressed in an inexpensive brown suit, a paisley print tie, and a pink shirt. When his attorney nudged him, he pushed to his feet and scowled at Stella before turning to face the front of the courtroom.

  “You may read the verdict,” the judge told the foreman.

  “We, the jury,” the foreman read, “find the defendant guilty of the offense of murder in the death of Richard W. McKinley, as charged in Count One of the indictment.”

  Stella bolted straight up in her seat. Growman pulled her back down. He was pleased, but there were additional charges, and he wanted to hear the jurors decisions on these as well. Due to the age of the case and the lack of substantial evidence that the defendant had premeditated his attack, the state had not filed charges of capital murder, an offense which carried the death penalty. They had, however, filed several other charges, the most significant of them being kidnapping.

  “We, the jury,” the foreman continued, “find the defendant guilty as charged in the crime of kidnapping, as set forth in Count Two of the indictment.”

  Kominsky leaned forward and whispered to Stella and Growman, “I’ll buy the champagne.” No longer concerned about the remainder of the charges, he slipped out the back.

  Stella listened as the rest of the verdicts were read, most of the charges classified as lesser or included crimes. Many times the prosecution would file numerous counts, all reflective of the same period of criminal behavior. If the jury convicted on one count, it could not convict on the others; therefore, Pelham was found not guilty on the remaining counts.

  Once the foreman had finished reading the verdicts, the judge set a date for sentencing and promptly adjourned. Reporters leaped to their feet and rushed the counsel table, thrusting microphones in Stella’s face. “How long do you think Pelham will be in prison?” one male reporter said, shoving several other reporters aside.

  “We hope to get the maximum sentence,” Stella said, ripping the rubber band out of her hair and pulling the right side forward so it covered her scar. “If the judge sentences consecutively on both the murder and the kidnapping charges, Mr. Pelham may never step outside the prison walls.”

  “What happened to your face? Was it a recent accident or is it an old injury? Did you decide to expose it at the last minute to influence the jury?”

  Questions flew at her from all directions. “No comment,” Stella said. She turned to say something to Ben Growman, and then walked over and embraced Judy McKinley. “It’s over, Judy,” she said. “Maybe you can get on with your life now.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said, sobbing. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you. You were wonderful today. I don’t know what happened to you but—”

  Stella released her when Growman stepped up beside her. The television cameras were rolling again and the photographers were snapping shots of the two of them together. “You’ve said you might retire next year,” a woman reporter said to Growman. “Are the rumors true that you’re grooming Ms. Cataloni as your successor?”

  Growman beamed, draping an arm over Stella’s shoulder. “That’s a clear possibility, young lady,” he said, using the relaxed, folksy tone of a seasoned politician. “To tell y’all the truth, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather endorse than Stella Cataloni. She’s the finest prosecutor we’ve ever had in this agency.” He glanced over at Stella and chuckled. “Maybe I’ll even organize her campaign. Heck, I’ve got to do something after I retire. Of course, that’s if she’ll have me.”

  Stella smiled. When a man with twenty years in on a job, one as respected and revered as Ben Growman, issued a glowing recommendation on national TV, it was tantamount to handing over the keys to his office. Feeling his hand brush against her side, she reached down and squeezed it. Stella was on a high, and she loved it. Nothing could stop her now.

  Stella, Growman, Kominsky, Anderson, and several other senior D.A.‘s were gathered in the conference room, better known as the war room. Once a week Growman assembled the senior staff and department heads, and they all faced one another around the long oak table as he made work assignments and commented about various aspects of ongoing cases. The table was now covered with paper napkins, pizza boxes, plastic cups, and open bottles of champagne, and a festive atmosphere prevailed.

  Also present was Samuel Weinstein, Stella’s planned dinner companion for the evening. They had made arrangements to get together before she realized the verdict would come in on the Pelham case. Technically, Weinstein was Stella’s divorce attorney, but even before she had hired him to represent her in the dissolution of her marriage, they had moved in the same small world. Weinstein was a close acquaintance of Ben Growman’s and had met everyone in the room on occasion. Dallas, like many towns, had well-defined social circles. People in the law game generally belonged to the same private clubs, worked out at the same gyms, had drinks at the same bars.

  Lately Stella had been spending a great deal of time with Weinstein, not all of it related to her divorce. Sam was a good-looking man and a dynamite divorce attorney, but in some ways he was old-fashioned. Only forty-three, he had been a widower for over ten years, having lost his young wife to breast cancer. Stella found him appealing, even if he was a tad too conservative. With his curly hair and penetrating eyes, his prominent nose and a strong jaw, the attorney had been a steadying influence as she navigated the emotional waters of her divorce. From time to time, he took her out to dinner, but Stella was still undecided where she wanted the relationship to go.

  “You shouldn’t drink
so much champagne,” he told her, scowling. “You’ll make yourself sick. You haven’t even touched the pizza.”

  “After today,” Stella said, tipping a plastic cup of champagne into her mouth, “I think I deserve to get sloshed. If it all comes back up, so be it.”

  The rest of the table responded with laughter. Growman stood. “To Stella,” he said, holding his champagne glass in the air. “We should all be so dedicated. Take a good look at her, people, because in a few years Stella Cataloni is going to be the new D.A. of Dallas County. Yours truly will be just another old fool puttering around on the golf course.”

  Stella grabbed her glass and tapped it against every glass at the table, leaning over to reach some of them on the far end.

  “Speech,” Kominsky called out. He had started drinking the champagne long before the others had arrived.

  “I’m too drunk to give a speech,” Stella mumbled under her breath. Then she lifted her glass again. “To Ben Growman,” she offered. “May he retire posthaste. Then I can sit at the head of the table and make your lives hell.” When she tapped Sam’s glass, it tipped and champagne spilled down the front of his suit. He reached for a napkin and tried to soak up some of the wine.

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” Stella said, frowning.

  “Coffee,” Kominsky yelled. “Get the woman some coffee. We’ve got a sauced prosecutor on our hands. Two, actually.”

  Brenda Anderson left to see if there was any coffee left in the kitchen down the hall. Seated next to Stella, Growman leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I had my secretary tape your interview off the television today. Come by my office and I’ll give you the tape as a souvenir. If you study it, you’ll learn how to present yourself to the media. That’s part of the game, you know. Once you start campaigning, you’ll want to become more polished.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” Stella’s lighthearted mood evaporated. She had exposed herself and won the case, but now it was over, and she certainly didn’t want a souvenir of herself looking like a freak. “I’m ready to go,” she told Sam, patting down the hair on the right side of her face. “It’s been a long day, and you’re right, if I keep drinking, I’m going to pass out or get sick.”

  “It’s fine with me,” he said, helping her to her feet.

  Taking his arm, she told herself that Sam was special. She had learned to respect him, even lean on him during the past months. Raising his twelve-year-old son alone while managing a busy law practice had to be a difficult task. Stella was so obsessed with her job that she couldn’t even appease her husband, let alone handle the demands associated with raising a child.

  A junior attorney, looking haggard, stuck her head in the door. “I have a call for you, Stella,” she said. “Do you want to take it or should I have them call back in the morning? It’s Holly Oppenheimer from the Houston D.A.‘s office.”

  “What line is she on?” Stella asked. Even though Oppenheimer was a prosecutor in Houston now, she had once been a D.A. in Dallas and the two women had been on friendly terms. Although they rarely socialized outside the office, they had frequently shared a table at lunch and were often seen huddled over coffee in the cafeteria during morning and afternoon recesses. Holly had also been the prosecutor when Pelham was first tried, and Stella had conferred with her on a regular basis before and during the present trial.

  “Line three,” the woman said. “It’s the only line that rings through when the switchboard is closed, and it only rings in my office. Every time I work late, I get stuck with all these calls.”

  Telling Sam she would be only a few minutes, Stella walked over to the console behind the conference table and picked up the phone. “Holly,” she said, “did you hear the news about Pelham?”

  “Of course I did, Stella,” the woman said. “How could I miss it? You’ve been on almost every TV channel. The CBS affiliate here in Houston carried it live. I couldn’t wait to congratulate you.”

  “Thanks,” Stella said, “but you know what? A lot of what I used was your doing. We filed the same charges, used the same evidence. We tried our best, but we couldn’t come up with anything new. I just dug into your old notes and put a slightly different spin on them.”

  “You’ll never know how badly I wanted that case, Stella. I got very close to Ricky’s mother. When we lost it and they kicked Pelham free, I felt as if I had failed her.”

  “She’s a nice lady,” Stella answered. Seeing Ben Growman glaring at her, she turned to face the wall and lowered her voice. “She asked about you the other day, told me to send her regards.”

  “How is she?” Holly asked. “This was so hard for her. Ricky was her only child. Since I have a daughter of my own now, I know how a mother feels.”

  “She’s better,” Stella said. “I think now that it’s over, she can finally get on with her life.” Turning introspective, she thought about her own situation. “By the way,” she said, “have you had a chance to look over the old reports on the fire? You’ve got a great eye, Holly, and you might be able to see something the earlier investigators missed. I know your time is limited but I was hoping—”

  “Oh,” Holly said. “I’m sorry, Stella. I was so excited over the Pelham case that I almost forgot to tell you. Your old boyfriend is back in town. The cops stopped him just last night. He’s coming in tomorrow morning to give us a statement.”

  “Randall?” Stella said, a hand flying to her cheek. She tapped Growman on the shoulder. “They found Tom Randall, Ben. He’s back in Houston.”

  Growman fidgeted in his seat and scowled.

  “What time is he coming in?” she asked. He’s supposed to be here at nine,” Holly said. Listen, Stella,” she continued, her voice harsher, “people thought I left the agency because I lost the Pelham case, but I left because Growman sexually harassed me and forced me to resign. Just because the review board didn’t take my allegations seriously doesn’t mean they weren’t valid.” She paused and heavy breathing came out over the line. “I know you and he are tight and he’s probably sitting right next to you, but to tell you the truth, I really don’t care.” Before Stella could respond, Holly slammed the phone down in her ear. Stella hung up with a shrug.

  “Your biggest fan,” she said to Growman.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said, tipping his chair back. “Tell me something I don’t know.” A few moments later, he straightened up, seeing the tense look on Stella’s face. “Randall’s the man you think set the fire that killed your parents. That means he’s the person responsible for your scar, right?”

  “Right,” Stella said, her eyes flashing with hatred. “You know how much I want this man? You have no idea, Ben.”

  “I’ve waited sixteen years to find this asshole,” she snarled, “to make him pay for what he did to me. You want to know what I’m going to do? I’m going to nail his fucking ass to the wall.” Her hands locked into fists at her side. “Not only that, I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.”

  Whereas the people gathered at the table had been chatting and laughing among themselves, they now all fell silent. Before today no one outside of Growman had been aware of Stella’s scar, as she had always concealed it beneath her hair.

  Brenda stepped back into the room and looked around. “Did I miss something?” she asked. “Did someone just die in here? I thought this was a party, people.”

  Stella’s eyes were glazed over and her mouth set. Her heart was beating like a drum inside her chest. Realizing the other attorneys were waiting for her to say something, she flushed with embarrassment.

  Sam quickly stood and pushed his chair back to the table. “Come on, Stella,” he said, putting his arm around her, and leading her toward the door. He could feel her trembling. “I’ll drive you home. Let’s get out of here.”

  chapter

  TWO

  The district attorney’s office was located on Fannin Street in the downtown section of Houston. A ten-story brown brick building, it housed the more than two hundred prosecutors on staff, plus an en
ormous contingent of clerical workers and other support personnel. An older man wearing a gray polyester suit, scuffed black shoes, and a large gray Stetson approached the row of glass doors in front and stepped aside, letting a woman, a man, and two small children pass. He then herded them across the lobby like a quarter horse herding cattle, and steered them into an open elevator. Once the doors opened on the ninth floor, they started walking down a long corridor. The little girl began crying and the woman swept her up in her arms, tossed her on her hip, and continued without breaking stride.

  “I’m sorry,” Detective Carl Winters said to the woman when they reached the door to the interview room, “but you’ll have to wait out here, ma’am. There’s some vending machines down the hall if you want a drink or a candy bar for the kids.”

  The woman tugged on the older child’s hand and dropped down on a bench with the toddler in her lap. She hugged the little girl close. “We’re fine,” she said. “How long will he be?”

  “Shouldn’t be too long,” the detective said, tipping his hat back on his head. At sixty, Carl Winters was overdue for retirement, but he was an old-time cop, and the job was his life. His wife had passed away years before, and there were no new females on the horizon. His face was heavily lined, his eyes small and cunning, and his weight had soared in recent years, causing a large blubbery mass to spill over the waistband of his low-slung pants. Why should he retire? He had nothing else to do. When one of his closest friends swallowed his revolver only three months after he turned in his shield, Winters decided to keep plugging away until he fell over in his tracks or some asshole pumped him full of lead. He thrived on the excitement of police work, the never-ending challenges and surprises, the inherent danger. He also liked walking around with a badge in his pocket and a gun strapped to his chest. It gave a man a sense of power and respect. He knew people laughed at him because of the cowboy hat, but he really didn’t give a rat’s ass what they said. His hair was thinning and he liked the way it felt when he put on his Stetson every morning. It was like a bell to a prizefighter, signifying that it was time to step into the ring.