Brunelle was impressed by the force of Kenny’s reply. Chen, apparently, less so.
“Oh, poor fucking baby,” he said. “You’ve had a rough life, is that it? Lost a lot of loved ones to the mean streets of Seattle, huh? Well, suck it up, punk. I’ve stood over more dead bodies than you, and I’ll stand over a lot more before I’m done putting scum like you behind bars.”
Okay, that was a pretty good bad cop, Brunelle had to admit.
But Kenny smiled despite the barrage. He locked eyes with Chen this time. “But you ain’t stood over Amy’s body, have you?”
“Fuck,” Brunelle exhaled.
He knew the cops shared his sentiment. They couldn’t say, ‘No,’ because that would give away that they didn’t have anything. But they couldn’t say, ‘Yes,’ either. Not because they weren’t allowed to lie to a suspect—they did that all the time. But because the suspect would know they were lying.
So Moreno tried to deflect. “We know you killed her, Kenny.”
Kenny pursed his lips and grabbed his chin. He looked the two detectives up and down. Then nodded. “You don’t know shit,” he realized. So he went ahead and told a story he knew they couldn’t refute. “I ain’t seen Amy for a month. I don’t know shit about where she is. And that’s all I got to say about it.”
Chen’s hands balled into fists. Moreno’s jaw tensed and she sat back in her chair.
“You got anything to say about it?” Kenny taunted.
“Yeah.” Chen stood up sharply and sent his own plastic chair slamming into the wall behind him. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Amy Corrigan.”
Chapter 7
The arrest was on a Tuesday. That meant the arraignment would be Wednesday. By court rule—and Constitutional mandate—everyone arrested for a crime had to be brought before a judge by the next day, even on weekends. The judge would determine if there was ‘probable cause’ for the arrest and, if so, set some sort of bail.
By the same court rules, Brunelle could have asked for the suspect to be held for an additional 48 hours while the investigation continued and additional evidence was gathered. That happened a lot when a suspect was caught fleeing the scene, but the cops were still doing their jobs—especially if forensic tests were needed to identify the perpetrator. But for Amy’s murder, Brunelle figured, Why bother? The case wasn’t going to get any better.
Brunelle made his way down to the arraignment courtroom, the file under his arm, and the charging paperwork inside the file. Washington State didn’t use grand juries; the decision to charge a person with a crime was vested in the prosecutor alone. It was more efficient, but there was no one to hide behind.
With great power comes great blame.
As he walked through the gallery, Brunelle avoided the cameramen and reporters, apart from an obligatory greeting nod. There was no way he was going to give a sound bite on this one. Not before the arraignment anyway. Probably not before the trial either. Maybe after the verdict. If he got a conviction.
He passed through the secure door into the glassed-off front section of the courtroom, separated from the general public so the jailors could bring the inmates directly into the courtroom via an interior corridor from the jail, without any of the risks associated with marching handcuffed criminals through the hallways of a public courthouse. It made for a cozy, almost clubhouse like feel for the lawyers. His adversary, and friend, Jessica Edwards was waiting for him inside the clubhouse.
“Good morning, Dave,” she greeted him as she extended her hand. But not for a handshake. “Do you have the charging docs?”
Brunelle reached into his file and handed her two copies of the ‘information.’ Seattle was a nice city—‘To your face anyway,’ as a colleague from the East Coast once remarked—so prosecutors didn’t file ‘complaints.’ ‘Complaint’ was a mean word. It suggested the defendant had done something wrong, and that might hurt the defendant’s feelings. No, in Washington, the formal pleading that charged a person with committing a crime was called an ‘information’—because it ‘informed’ the defendant of the charges. Just in case he wanted to know why the mean ol’ prosecutors were trying to put him prison.
Attached to the information was a summary of the facts supporting the charge. It was called the ‘declaration for the determination of probable cause.’ Judges read it to make sure there were at least some facts to support the charges. Again, a pretty low standard, but one that had to be met before a judge could impose bail or other release conditions.
Lawyers used it too. It was a lot easier to read a two-or three-page summary of a case than wade through hundreds, or even thousands, of pages of police reports. Those few pages let the lawyers know what evidence the state had. And what they didn’t.
Edwards finished reading it and looked up at Brunelle, her expression an amalgam of surprise, curiosity, excitement, and hope. “You don’t have the body?”
“I don’t need the body,” Brunelle shot back, a little too quickly to sound as confident as his words tried to be.
Edwards raised her palms defensively. “Hey, no complaints, Dave. I’m happy to defend a murder case where you can’t even prove anyone is actually dead.”
Brunelle crossed his arms. Another failure to project confidence. “It’s called circumstantial evidence.”
“It’s called an acquittal,” Edwards muttered, only half to herself. Then, raising her voice again. “When I saw that you’d filed charges, I just figured you must have found the body.”
Brunelle’s already fixed frown deepened, but his demeanor lightened a bit. He couldn’t stay irritated at her. She was just pointing out the truth. “Nope.” With some effort he replaced the frown with a practiced smile. “It’ll just be that much more satisfying when the jury says, ‘guilty as charged.’”
Edwards smiled too, but hers was genuine—and just as challenging. “You have to get in front of a jury first, Dave. No body means the first thing I’m going to do is file a motion to dismiss for lack of corpus delicti. You can’t even show a murder has actually happened, let alone that my client did it.”
Brunelle shrugged. “I figured as much. I’ll be ready for that motion. There’s case law that a case can proceed without a body.”
That was true, but the reason there was case law decided by the appellate courts was because several trial courts had been willing to dismiss bodyless cases, thus leading to the appeal in the first place. He made a mental note to call Chen and urge him to keep looking for the body even though he’d gone ahead and filed charges. Then he made another mental note to figure out some way to get Chen to stop being mad at him. Detectives who are colleagues do their jobs. Detectives who are friends do favors.
“All rise!” The bailiff announced the arrival of the judge before Brunelle could make any more mental notes. He turned to see who was walking out from chambers. The arraignment judge varied day to day, depending on who had other things to do and who could stand to spend all day doing nothing but reading charges and hearing defense attorneys say, ‘My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.’ Some of the judges liked it—a nice break from trial work—but most of them didn’t. Who the judge was didn’t always matter, but it did when there were close calls. This was a little closer of a call than Brunelle normally liked, so who the judge was might matter after all.
It was Brian Jackson.
Brunelle nodded slightly to himself. Jackson was fine, nothing special. Your typical late-50s male, appointed by the governor a few years earlier when one of the older judges retired. He’d distinguished himself by being undistinguishing. Average appearance—thinning hair and widening waistline—and predictable rulings. He usually ruled the right way and managed not to piss off either the prosecutor’s office or the defense bar. Not yet anyway.
But there was always time for that.
Jackson told everyone to be seated, then followed suit himself. He looked down at the junior prosecutor who played maître d’ for the day’s docket of arraignments and bail hearin
gs. “Which matter is ready first, Miss Santos?”
Santos acknowledged the judge with a professional nod. “Mr. Brunelle has a matter ready,” she replied. She stepped aside to give her superior a spot at the bar. “The Kenneth Brown arraignment.”
Brunelle stepped forward, his frown threatening to return. It was already happening. ‘The Kenneth Brown case.’ Not ‘the Amy Corrigan case.’ Even his own prosecutor was doing it.
“This is the Amy Corrigan murder,” Brunelle announced as he handed the charging paperwork forward to Judge Jackson’s clerk.
Edwards stepped to the bar as well and let out a faint, yet somehow professional, scoff. “Maybe.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow at her, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he began reading the paperwork even as the jailor escorted Kenny Brown into the courtroom. He’d been booked on murder, with no chance to post bail until he’d been seen in open court. Despite the orange jail-jammies, plastic sandals, and handcuffs attached to belly chains, he somehow managed to saunter into the courtroom, as cocky as ever.
“Hello, Kenny,” Brunelle heard Edwards whisper to her client. “Just let me do the talking. I think this will go well.”
Before Brunelle could think of a comeback—let alone whether he should make one to an eavesdropped comment between attorney and client—Judge Jackson looked up from the pleadings. “There’s no body?” That eyebrow was now aimed squarely at Brunelle.
But Brunelle was ready—he hadn’t wasted his best line of his pre-arraignment banter with Edwards. “Oh, there’s a body,” he answered the judge. “It just hasn’t been recovered yet.”
Jackson’s eyebrow hesitated for a moment, then relaxed. Brunelle’s comment was sound-bitey, but it carried a point. Jackson looked to the defense. “Ms. Edwards, have you received copies of the information?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Edwards replied. “We acknowledge receipt, waive formal reading, and enter a plea of not guilty.” Then the important part. “Before the court hears argument on conditions of release, we’d like to be heard on the issue of probable cause. We believe the court should find there are insufficient facts to find probable cause and immediately release my client.”
Brunelle had anticipated that too.
Jackson looked to Brunelle. “The facts are pretty thin, Mr. Brunelle,” he said. “Do you think I can find probable cause without a body?”
Brunelle nodded. “You can and you should. As I mentioned to defense counsel prior to Your Honor taking the bench, there is ample case law supporting verdicts of murder when no body is recovered. If a jury can find murder beyond a reasonable doubt without a body, then an arraignment court can certainly find probable cause. We’d ask you to do so and then set bail.”
“Those cases are distinguishable,” Edwards was ready, too, with her reply. “The facts in those cases are very different from what we have here. A woman reported missing by her coworkers but not her husband, blood found in the residence, and no reason to expect the victim simply ran away. But in this case, the alleged victim led a very transient and dangerous lifestyle. The fact that she hasn’t been seen for a few weeks hardly supports the inference that she’s dead, let alone that she was murdered—and let alone by my client. The court should decline to find probable cause and release my client unconditionally.”
Under the law, even if a judge found no probable case, the state could still proceed with the prosecution. It was pretty rare, if only because there was usually more than enough evidence to find probable cause; the state wasn’t supposed to go around charging citizens with crimes without evidence. The real problem was that if a judge didn’t find probable cause, he couldn’t set bail—Brown would walk out the door without posting a dime.
Jackson looked back to Brunelle. “Any reply?”
Brunelle gave a small shrug. He tried to take on the demeanor of ‘reasonable prosecutor.’ The state wasn’t supposed to file charges without evidence, ergo since charges had been filed, there must be evidence. “The state believes there is sufficient evidence for the court to find probable cause and we ask you to do so. We’re then prepared to argue conditions of release.”
Jackson chewed his cheek, but only for a moment. He understood that his main job was to make decisions. “Probable cause is a very low standard,” he said. “The lowest, in fact. Basically, are there facts sufficient to support the inference of the charges? I have my doubts about whether there’s enough evidence to convict the defendant beyond a reasonable doubt, but that’s not what I’m being asked to decide. I’m being asked to decide if there are facts to support the charge, and I’m going to find that there are.”
Brunelle breathed a sigh of relief. A glance to his right showed Brown was disappointed.
Edwards was nonplussed. “Thank you, Your Honor,” she said. “We’d ask for a personal recognizance release.”
Even Brunelle was surprised by the boldness of that request. P.R. on a murder? Murderers didn’t get P.R.ed.
Jackson’s eyebrow raised again, but not as high as before. “A P.R.?” he confirmed.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Edwards replied. “The court has found the facts, as thin as they are, support probable cause, but they do not support holding my client in custody while the state flails about, hoping to find a body before the trial date. My client is presumed innocent and should be treated accordingly.”
Jackson nodded at the argument and turned to Brunelle. “Reply?”
Brunelle hadn’t thought Edwards would be bold enough to ask for a P.R., although he supposed he should have. He’d have to remember, friendly banter or not, she was going to do her best for her client.
“The defendant is charged with murder in the first degree,” Brunelle replied matter-of-factly. “The court has found probable cause for the charge. Bail for that charge is typically one million dollars. We’d ask the court to set bail at one million, along with standard conditions of no contact with prospective witnesses, avoiding the crime scene, and remaining in contact with his defense attorney.”
Jackson cocked his head. “I can’t order him to stay away from the crime scene, Mr. Brunelle. No one knows where that is.”
Brunelle didn’t have a reply ready for that either; but, then again, Jackson’s tone didn’t invite any response.
“I also can’t set bail at one million dollars,” Jackson continued. “I may have found probable cause, but Ms. Edwards is correct. Her client is presumed innocent, and the evidence in this case is far less than in the typical case.”
Damn, Brunelle thought.
“But neither can I simply release Mr. Brown on his own recognizance. The charges are serious, and the facts presented, such as they are, suggest that there is a risk Mr. Brown may not return to court without some surety.”
It was Edwards’ turn to frown.
“Therefore,” Jackson concluded, “I’m going to set bail in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars. If the defendant posts bail, then I will order him to have no contact with prospective witnesses, and that he keep in contact with Ms. Edwards.”
Again Judge Jackson threaded the needle. Neither side could say he’d totally screwed them. But Brunelle was far more screwed than Edwards. $100,000 was nothing. Brown would only have to come up with $10,000 to pay a bonding company to post the full 100K for him. He was a pimp and a drug dealer. He probably had $10,000 in his bedside table. He’d call one of his girls and be out by dinnertime.
Brunelle nodded anyway. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
The hearing was over. For Brunelle, as a lawyer who would be going home that night to a safe apartment and Chinese take-out, it was probably a draw.
But for the witnesses Brown was no doubt about to start intimidating, it was a definite loss.
Chapter 8
“Larry, it’s Brunelle. I need your help.”
Brunelle could hear Chen suppress a groan over the telephone. He had to wait several seconds for Chen to actually say anything. And then it wasn’t what he’d hoped for. More like what
he’d expected.
“Dave,” Chen practically sighed. “Look, I’m, uh, kinda busy right now.”
The fact that Chen was sitting at his desk and actually answering his phone meant Chen was anything but busy right then.
“Don’t worry, Larry,” Brunelle replied, his previous trepidation at calling his friend starting to melt away. The judgmental friend bit was growing tiresome. “This’ll be quick. The judge set Brown’s bail at a hundred-K. He’ll be out by nightfall. We need to get some protection for Linda.”
And by ‘we,’ Brunelle, of course, meant ‘you.’ Brunelle wasn’t a cop. He didn’t go around carrying a gun and talking to prostitutes. That’s was Chen’s job.
But Chen apparently disagreed. “I’m a detective, Dave, not a bodyguard.”
Brunelle twisted his mouth into a tight frown. One of the advantages of telephone conversations was that the other party couldn’t see your facial expressions. That could also be a disadvantage when you wanted to communicate the fact that the other person was being a real jerk.
“You’re supposed to serve and protect,” Brunelle countered. “Linda needs protection.”
There was no pause this time. And no maudlin sigh. They were moving past that, apparently. “Don’t lecture me, Dave. I know damn well what my job is, and I know damn well I don’t need advice from you. You stick to filing papers and fucking defense attorneys.”
Ah.
“Is that what this is all about?” Brunelle asked. “You’re mad at me because I had a relationship with someone on the other side?”
“Relationship?” Chen scoffed. “You fucked her. Big deal. And I couldn’t care less what team she’s on. But when you fucked her, you fucked over someone who really cares about you.”
One of the pieces of advice Brunelle always gave young prosecutors was to never let the other side get you angry; when you get angry, you make mistakes; you say things you shouldn’t.
Corpus Delicti (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Book 6) Page 3
