Stella gawked at the headline, “D.A. IN PELHAM CASE ARRESTED FOR MURDER.” Underneath the header was a picture of Stella, taken on the last day of the Pelham trial, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and her scar clearly visible. When she tried to read the rest of the text, Winters snatched the paper back and snapped on the handcuffs.
Stella was booked into the Central Jail on Franklin Street, the facility used to house female inmates, one of the four detention facilities located in the Houston system. Although she was processed at noon, she was told she wouldn’t be arraigned until the following afternoon. She asked to make a phone call, and finally reached Mario at his apartment. “I’ve been arrested,” she said. “Someone killed Tom Randall.”
“I heard the news over the radio,” Mario answered, the line falling silent. “I tried to call you in Dallas as soon as I heard,” he said a few moments later, “but they told me you weren’t there anymore. I’ve been frantic, Stella.”
“I don’t want to talk over the phone,” she said. “Visiting hours are at eight tonight. You damn well better be here.”
“What does that mean?” Mario said. “Why are you taking that tone of voice with me? What did I do?”
“You know,” Stella hissed, keeping her voice low so no one could overhear.
“No,” Mario said, “I don’t know. If there’s something going on that I should know about, Stella, why don’t you just tell me? Why make me wait until tonight?”
“Just be here tonight at eight,” she said. “Winters is pressing me for a statement, and I have to talk to you first.” She paused and then added, “You didn’t come home, Mario. I have to know where you were and what you were doing when Randall was shot. Don’t think you can lie, either. No matter what you did, I have to know the truth. I found the cocaine in the darkroom.” Stella didn’t wait for her brother to respond. She hung up the phone and motioned for the jailer to take her to her cell.
“I can’t take your case.”
Paul Brannigan, the attorney Growman had recommended, appeared at the Central Jail the following morning, asking that he be allowed to see his potential client face to face instead of behind glass. In his mid-fifties, the man was a character, a little too flamboyant and eccentric-looking for Stella’s taste. But Growman had given him a glowing recommendation and she trusted him implicitly.
The attorney strolled in wearing a Western-cut suit, cowboy boots, a string tie, and carrying a battered leather attache case that had to be twenty years old. His hair was a dark, artificial shade, which Stella assumed was the result of hair dye, but it looked as if he had colored it with black shoe polish. Over his lip was a preposterous handlebar mustache, the kind Stella had seen only in old movies. “What do you mean you can’t take my case?” Stella said. “Didn’t Growman tell you how important this case is, who I am?”
“I’m in the midst of something else right now,” he told her, twirling the ends of his mustache. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t represent you eventually, so don’t get your pretty little face all twisted like that. I just can’t step in on such short notice.” He paused, thinking. “Now if I was in your shoes, I’d go proper, you know, represent myself. At this stage in the proceedings, it’s pretty routine and you are an accredited attorney. All you’re going to do is enter a plea of not guilty, anyway.” He laughed. “Shucks, what do you need a high-priced gunslinger like me for? You’re the gal that’s been on everyone’s TV lately.”
Stella agreed with his reasoning, knowing the arraignment would be routine. Their discussion moved on to his fees should she decide to bring him on board for the remainder of the proceedings. When Brannigan stated his terms, however, Stella was taken by surprise. “Fifty thousand?” she said. “You want fifty G’s just to look at my case? That’s almost as much as I make in a year.”
“Well, yes,” he said, “this here is a homicide case. I have to hire investigators, set aside my other clients’ needs, exhaust a great deal of time preparing and doing research, grant interviews with the media. Sweetheart, I have to tell you,” he continued, “if this here case goes to trial, fifty thousand will only be the beginning.”
On this depressing note, Stella concluded her meeting with Brannigan. As soon the guard came to escort her back to her cell, she allowed her to place a collect call to Sam from the pay phone located in the corridor near her cell. In Houston, high-profile inmates like Stella were housed in what they referred to as segregated cells. Once Stella had seen her cell, she realized what a segregated cell meant: no windows, no bars where other inmates could look inside, and a space that wasn’t much larger than a chicken coop.
How could she ever raise enough money to hire an attorney? The money she had saved over the years had disappeared from their bank accounts, thanks to Brad, and Stella had no resources other than her monthly income. With mortgage payments, insurance, and Sam’s legal fees, she had very little left over at the end of the month. She might be able to represent herself at her arraignment, she decided, but only an idiot would fail to hire appropriate representation should the case proceed to trial.
“What am I going to do?” she asked Sam, her nerves frazzled. “Did you talk to Brad, tell him what’s going on? Is he trying to come up with the money? Not only do I need it for Brannigan’s retainer, but I’ll need money if they set bail.”
Sam thought briefly of reminding Stella that he had warned her to fight for what was rightfully hers, that she might one day need the money her husband had managed to steal away. Beating a dead horse, however, was not his style. Finally he spoke, his voice strained and weak. “He’s not being very cooperative,” he said. When Stella pushed him to be more specific, he spelled it out for her. “I’m sorry, Stella,” he said. “Brad says he doesn’t have any money and that you can just sit in jail.”
“Bastard,” Stella mumbled under her breath. Once Sam had disconnected, she pressed her forehead against the dirty wall. A combination of odors drifted to her nostrils—disinfectant, body odor, human excrement. The smells seemed to be seeping from the walls. Behind her, one of the heavy steel doors that separated the quadrants dropped down and Stella jumped at the grating sound.
Of all the foul scents that assaulted her and turned her stomach, though, one was the most pronounced. Stella knew it wasn’t coming from the old urine stains on the floor or the jail’s kitchen where they prepared the slop they passed off as food. It was emanating from her own pores, being manufactured by her own body—the distinctive and pervasive odor of fear.
chapter
SIX
“State of Texas versus Stella Cataloni Emerson,” Judge Lucille Maddox said, calling the case at precisely one o’clock that afternoon, her voice amplified by a small black microphone.
Stella felt a measure of relief that she had drawn a woman judge. Maddox had a reputation of being fair. Even though Stella realized Maddox would not be the trial judge, she could well preside over the preliminary hearing. By barring the media from today’s hearing, Judge Maddox had already done Stella a favor.
Lucille Maddox was in her late forties with ash blond hair and fair skin. Stella had heard that she leaned toward leniency, another comforting fact. Texas had the greatest contingent,of what people referred to as “hanging judges,” jurists so hard-nosed that they sentenced every person who appeared in front of them to prison, and for as long as the law allowed. Stella had known for some time that if a person wanted to commit a crime, the place to do it was anywhere outside the state of Texas. The overcrowded Texas prison system had people serving outrageous and unjust terms from as far back as the 1960s. Among them were the scores of hippies and flower children still serving life sentences for possession of a few marijuana joints, an offense states like California had routinely punished with a slap on the wrists.
Another terrifying fact darted through her mind. If Fitzgerald’s office decided to file on capital murder charges, an offense which carried the death penalty in Texas, Stella knew she could be executed. Prisoners on death row used to la
nguish indefinitely, but no more. Executions now went on at Huntsville on a regular basis. The Dallas Morning News had run an article only a few weeks ago, stating that over eighty inmates had been executed since the state reinstated the death penalty. She couldn’t recall if any of them had been female.
Accepting a copy of the pleading from the bailiff, Stella quickly scanned it. The D.A. had elected not to file on capital murder charges. As she continued reading, however, her relief was short-lived. She knew she would be charged in Randall’s death, but she had never dreamed she would be prosecuted for her parents’ deaths as well. But there it was in black and white, a charge of arson in the old fire as well as two additional counts of homicide. Her blood turned to ice and she stared over at Holly at the counsel table. So, she thought, Houston officials were going for the full boat. Mario might have been foolish enough to think Holly would stand up for her, but Stella knew now that whatever friendship they had shared was dead.
Without Randall’s testimony, did the state really have a case? After giving it more thought, she realized that the D.A.‘s office had no choice but to file in the arson case. If the people didn’t establish that Randall’s testimony was vital and damning, they would not be able to prove that Stella possessed a motive to kill him. Additionally, she recognized this as a prosecution ploy, one she had used herself on many occasions. By filing all the charges, even those the state might not be able to sustain, the prosecution awarded itself sufficient leverage to plead the case out and avoid the uncertainties of a jury trial. Fitzgerald would more than likely offer Stella a deal as things moved along, agreeing to dismiss the old charges in return for a guilty plea in the Randall homicide.
Would the state try the cases together? Stella wondered, seeing dollar signs flashing in front of her eyes. If not, it would mean two separate trials, and Brannigan would probably want a hundred thousand on retainer instead of fifty.
She had her answer all too soon. As the judge’s voice rang out again over the microphone, Stella heard two separate case numbers being read and knew the cases would not be consolidated. The state would probably go forward with the old charges first, she decided, attempt to dispose of them, then move on to the Randall matter. This way, the state would have time to collect more evidence and prepare its strategy in the Randall homicide, as well as have ample time to discourage Stella from taking a chance that she might be found guilty of all the charges, thereby forcing her to settle the case by entering into a negotiated disposition or plea agreement.
Holly was poised and alert, having given Stella no more than a glance since she strode into the courtroom and took her seat beside Frank Minor. Her blond curls were slicked back with gel in a tight french twist, making her face appear hawkish and narrow. Instead of the new designer dress she had purchased for her press interview, she was wearing a severe black knit sheath, the skirt dropping to mid-calf. On her feet were a pair of clunky black shoes with low heels and laces, her overall look that of a dowdy schoolteacher.
With a conviction on any of the counts alleged, either separately or collectively, Stella could go to prison for what might amount to the rest of her natural life. She decided Holly saw this as a somber enough situation to forgo making her normal fashion statement. In all the years she had known her, she had never seen Holly Oppenheimer dress so sedately.
“We will proceed with the arraignment at this time,” Judge Maddox said. She looked directly at Stella without flinching, as if she were no different from any other defendant. “Ms. Cataloni, I understand you have no legal representation today. Is that correct?”
Stella’s throat was dry. She looked for the customary pitcher of water on the table, but didn’t see one. She swallowed before speaking. “That’s correct.”
“Will you be acting as your own counsel, then?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Fine,” the judge said. “We will begin.” She slipped her glasses on and started to read from the pleading. “Stella Cataloni Emerson, you have been charged by the People of the state of Texas with the crime of murder in the death of Thomas Randall, a violation of penal code section 19.03(a)(2), a felony in the first degree, filed as case H345672. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“You have also been charged with the crime of arson in case number H378941, a violation of penal code section 28.02(a), a felony in the first degree. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.” ‘
“Ms. Cataloni, you have additionally been charged with two counts of murder in the aforementioned case, a violation of penal code section 19.03(a)(2), both felonies in the first degree. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Lastly, you have been charged with two counts of voluntary manslaughter, violations of penal code section 19.02(a)(1), case #H378941, a felony. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty,” Stella said, realizing the prosecution had given the jurors a bailout clause on the arson. If the state couldn’t prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Stella premeditated her actions in setting fire to her house and causing her parents’ deaths, the jury could still bring in convictions on voluntary manslaughter.
“Will you be retaining counsel in the near future, Ms. Cataloni?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Stella said. “That is, to the best of my knowledge I will.”
“I highly recommend it,” Judge Maddox said, dropping protocol for a moment. No responsible jurist would condone a defendant acting as her own counsel. “I realize you are an attorney, and a good one as well,” the judge continued, “but in a case of this magnitude, you should be represented by competent and independent counsel. Surely you are aware of that?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Stella said crisply.
“If it is a matter of inadequate funds,” the judge continued, “I can appoint a public defender to represent you.”
“That won’t be necessary at this time,” she said, hoping her statement was true. She’d get a loan against the house, she decided. It was the only hope she had to come up with the cash she needed.
Holly offered a date for the preliminary hearing, and Judge Maddox asked Stella if August 20 was acceptable.
“Yes, Your Honor, that’s fine,” Stella said, realizing the date was only eight days away. The sooner the better. Then she added, “I’d like to make a motion for bail at this time. You should have a bail review completed by the probation department. I spoke with the probation officer last night at the jail.”
The judge turned to her clerk, and the woman handed her the report. “Have you seen this document. Counselor?” she asked Stella.
“No,” Stella replied. “I didn’t receive a copy. I guess no one realized I was going proper.”
The bailiff brought the bail review to the counsel table. When Stella saw the sum recommended, she gasped. A million dollars! She could never raise that kind of money. She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. At least the probation officer had recommended bail. On charges this serious, it was a miracle she had recommended bail at all.
“Ms. Oppenheimer,” the judge said, “please state your agency’s position on bail.”
Holly stood, cutting her eyes to Stella and then back to the judge. “We don’t concur with the probation officer, Your Honor. We ask that the defendant be held without bail. Ms. Cataloni has not only been charged in a crime involving the death of a state’s witness, but in two earlier homicides as well.” Holly paused, looking down at the notes she had stayed up all night to prepare. “For sixteen years Ms. Cataloni has managed to avoid prosecution on these heinous crimes—the brutal and senseless deaths of her parents. Why would we give her a chance to escape the consequences of this new homicide?” She looked up at the judge. “There’s no question that this woman should be held without bail,” she practically shouted, her voice carrying so well that she pushed the microphone aside. “To allow her to return to the community for even ,one day would be irresponsible, not to mention the danger she could pose t
o any additional witnesses the state might produce.”
As soon as Holly took her seat, Stella pushed herself to her feet, still reeling from the accusations her one-time friend had made. Growman had been right, she thought. Holly was a formidable adversary. When she spoke, her voice was shaky. “Your Honor,” she said, “I know this is a matter of bail and we are not here today to decide my guilt or innocence, but I am innocent of these charges and would like to take this opportunity to advise the court of this fact.” She paused, not wanting to grovel but determined to stand her ground.
“I appreciate the People’s position,” she continued. “If I was the prosecutor on a case of this stature, I would demand that bail be denied just as Ms. Oppenheimer has done. But I beg the court to consider the circumstances, to respectfully point out that every case must be weighed on its own merits.” Stella stopped and linked eyes with Judge Maddox. Then she sucked in a breath and slowly let it out, wanting to appear strong and confident. “I must be housed in a segregated cell at the jail,” she said. “Unfortunately, I may have to act as my own counsel until my divorce is settled and the necessary funds become available to hire an attorney. That means that I must have access to a law library and other reference materials to prepare for my defense.” Stella paused and cleared her throat. “Since I have been charged with the crime of arson, a highly technical crime in nature, in addition to the other charges, I must study and prepare even more intently. If I’m to be segregated from the main jail population, I will not have access to the law library, and therefore cannot prepare my defense.” She elevated her voice. “I consider my incarceration under these conditions to be a violation of my constitutional rights under the Eighth Amendment, which prohibits cruel and unusual punishment. I have not been convicted of a crime, and yet I am suffering a more stringent and restrictive form of imprisonment than the majority of the inmates serving time at a prison facility, let alone a presentence facility.”
Trial by Fire Page 11
