Against the Law

by Jay Brandon

  ‘I’ve just had a battle,’ David said as he seated himself. David wouldn’t look at him and he kept moving things around on his desk unnecessarily.

  ‘Are you about to propose to me?’ Edward asked.

  In a sense.

  David looked directly at him and said, ‘Here’s the deal. Literally. Your sister can plead to straight murder and thirty years. We’re taking the death penalty and life without parole off the table.’

  Edward sat wide-eyed. He heard his mouth automatically negotiating.

  ‘Cap of thirty. I can ask the judge for less.’

  David shook his head. ‘Thirty. You know what I had to do to get Admin to agree to that?’

  ‘No, what? Seriously, this comes out of nowhere. What?’

  ‘Not out of nowhere. It’s that damned DVD of the fucking victim talking right into the camera and what you said on the record after it was played.’

  About the devastating effect on the jury of Paul’s accusation.

  ‘Cynthia should never have let that in,’ David said, annoyed.

  ‘You argued strenuously for its admittance.’

  ‘Oh, tell me you never did that, Edward, when you were on my side of the desk. You push for everything you can get and more. Maybe our appeals section can still get the case affirmed on appeal, but I told Admin I doubt it. That was a devastating piece of evidence and there was really no basis for admitting it.’

  ‘Then why’d you offer it?’

  David gave him a look and Edward let him off the hook. Obviously the prosecutor had had his orders. The D.A.’s office had to fight to get its strongest piece of evidence into evidence, so they could later tell reporters: ‘We tried. It was the judge. She wouldn’t let it in.’ But even as he argued, David had been assuming Cynthia would do the right thing.

  ‘I hate being in front of a judge who doesn’t know the law,’ he muttered. ‘So that’s the offer,’ David said, standing up. ‘On the table ‘til Monday.’

  ‘This is going to be a tough sell, David. Make it easier for me. Cap of thirty.’

  David hesitated, which told Edward he was already authorized to make this backup offer.

  ‘Fine. Cap of thirty. Cynthia’ll give you the max she can anyway.’

  ‘Maybe. That’s my worry. Hey. David.’ Edward stood and held out his hand. ‘Thanks, man.’

  David took it.

  As they stood there, Edward said, ‘This is still going to be tough for me to sell to Amy, not to mention my parents.’

  ‘Well, luckily you’ve got the weekend to do it.’

  ‘Yeah, isn’t that swell.’

  To go from a potential death sentence to thirty years, parole in fifteen probably, was a win for the defense. Every lawyer he knew would celebrate that. It was the difference between having a life and not. With a death sentence or life without parole, Amy would never see the outside of prison walls again. She would go in someone, a doctor, a daughter, beloved sister and friend and colleague, and in a remarkably short time become no one; a cautionary tale about a woman who lost it all when she shot her husband in a fit of jealousy. What was her name? You know, we used to see her every day. Edward had felt that happening to him in only two years.

  But with this sentence, Amy would get out. She’d emerge. She was a young woman, she’d be out before she was fifty, she’d still have years of life. She’d have a life as opposed to death or living death.

  This was a major triumph for Edward, especially given how long he’d been out of the game.

  But he still had a strong feeling Amy wouldn’t see it the same way.

  ‘So what did he say?’ Amy asked. ‘Edward. Out with it. They made an offer. What does that even mean, if not dismissing the case?’

  They were at her house, where he’d kept her waiting while he drove around.

  ‘OK. Here’s the thing, Amy. Usually before trial both sides negotiate to see if they can reach an agreement.’

  ‘Sure. That just never seemed to be a factor here because I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Being guilty isn’t the only reason for taking a plea bargain, Amy. It’s because you look at the evidence and see if you think the prosecution can make you look guilty anyway. Believe me, there are innocent people in prison because they wouldn’t take offers because they just didn’t do it.’

  In his mind that last phrase was ironic, because almost every client he’d ever had had claimed to be innocent. He stared at Amy, wondering if she was.

  ‘You’ve been in the courtroom, Amy. Analyze. What do you think are the chances that jury’s going to find you guilty?’

  She wasn’t angry, so she didn’t overreact or snap back.

  ‘I looked them all in the eyes while I was testifying,’ she said. ‘They believed me. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Maybe. And then they saw a recording of your husband saying you killed him.’

  ‘You said that would never come into evidence.’

  ‘I said it shouldn’t. In a better judge’s court it wouldn’t have. But in the world we’re actually living in now it did. That’s what we have to deal with.’

  ‘Doesn’t that mean the case will get reversed on appeal even if they do find me guilty?’

  ‘Maybe. You can’t count on anything on appeal. And if they get a capital murder conviction and a death sentence on you, Amy, the highest criminal court in this state is very reluctant to reverse those cases. They find ways around doing it. But even if we did win, it would just mean a new trial, with you already in prison for the two or three years the appeal would probably take. And in the second trial a judge won’t make the same mistake and let that recording in. It’s only because of that that the prosecutor has made me the offer he did today.’

  She sighed, her shoulders slumped, and Amy returned her gaze to him. ‘OK, tell me this great offer.’

  Edward ignored her sarcasm, going into salesman mode. Quiet but earnest. ‘They agreed to let you plead to murder. Just murder. That’s taking both a death sentence and life without parole out of the realm of possibility. It means someday you’d get paroled. You’d live through your prison sentence and get out.’

  ‘No guarantee of that. But enough suspense, Edward. What did—?’

  ‘Thirty years. I know how awful that sounds, Amy. But it wouldn’t really be thirty years. Not even close in your case. Let me give this some context. A regular life sentence, not life without parole, is the equivalent of sixty years. That’s how they treat it for calculating parole eligibility. Even after serving half that sentence so you’re eligible for parole, it’s been thirty years. In reality that’s a death sentence for almost anybody. Even if it’s not, you come out into a world you don’t understand and where nobody remembers you.

  ‘But thirty. With a thirty year sentence, when you’re paroled, you still have years of life ahead of you. And most of the people you ever knew still waiting for you when you get out. Years of life …’

  Amy’s face and voice remained calm. ‘So when would I get out with a thirty year sentence? Eight? Nine? Do they count good conduct—?’

  ‘Because it’s murder with a deadly weapon, you wouldn’t become eligible to be considered for parole until you’d done half the sentence.’

  He watched his sister. Amy didn’t seem to have heard at first, but when she turned the lamplight caught a streak down her cheek, a tear.

  ‘I know it sounds terrible, Amy, but I did two years inside. You find out it’s a routine like anything else. Like high school, you find your group, avoid the others. There’s free time. I got a lot of reading done.’

  ‘Great. Except mine will be like going through high school four times. If I even get out then …’ She closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, opened them again, and looked at him intently. ‘Edward. I’m not some idiot. Listen to me, I’m evaluating this. I’m not rejecting it automatically.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Shut up. But I don’t have enough information. I can’t do the—’ She held her hands in front of her cupp
ed palms upward, moving one up and one down. Edward nodded. ‘So help me. Tell me honestly, I can take it. Am I going to be found guilty?’

  ‘You’re asking me to tell you the future, Amy. You know I can’t. I predicted the judge wouldn’t let in Paul’s DVD. Clearly I’m no prophet. Now you’re asking me to predict twelve people instead of one. But I know what you’re saying. I have more experience at this than you do. So I’ll do my best. Here’s the calculation for me. On your side, you look sweet and innocent and you testified as sincerely as anyone I’ve ever heard. You did great.’

  ‘That’s because I’m really—’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Please don’t use that word again. In this analysis it has no weight at all. Zero. That’s on your side. Great testimony, great face. Plus the gunshot happened so fast after people say you went in, it’s hard to believe the gun was out and a fatal argument ensued that quickly.’

  She smiled and nodded. He wished she wouldn’t.

  ‘Here’s the other side. You’re the estranged wife, the most likely suspect. He cheated on you, he dumped you and was about to be celebrated and famous – and you wouldn’t be part of it. Maybe you were starting to get back together but, even if you were, it looks like – from the dress in the closet – he was still seeing other women. And you probably knew that. You were undoubtedly there when he was killed and at least one witness put you already inside the house when the shot was fired, not out on the porch.’

  He had to take a breath to continue. ‘And finally, the recording of Paul saying you killed him. Maybe he doesn’t give good reasons, maybe he was drunk, but that doesn’t make him a liar. This is your husband talking, the one person in the world besides you who knows you best and knows your relationship best. And he says you killed him.’

  Amy’s chin was down now. She stared up at him through half-closed eyes.

  ‘And finally, Amy, I hate this but it’s true. Juries nearly always convict. That’s the unspoken extra factor on the prosecution’s side. No matter what jurors say about believing in the presumption of innocence, when they first come in and look at the defendant they think: I wonder what she did. They can’t help it. They figure the police and the prosecution did their jobs. Sometimes they overcome that and I thought for a while they would in this trial. But now I’d have to say that my best professional estimate is that the verdict is what they are in the vast majority of trials. Guilty. I’m sorry, but that’s what I think.’

  ‘I thought we were going to beat that.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She stood. ‘All right. Go away now.’

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘I know. I need to sleep on it. Thanks, Eddie.’

  He drove, thinking, but to no effect. Edward felt homeless, his car inclining toward Linda’s house, but he went to Mike’s and fell onto the couch face down. He barely slept that night, but woke up clear-headed, pulled himself together, and headed back to Amy’s.

  When she opened her door she said, ‘I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘I know,’ Edward said. Amy looked at him but didn’t have to ask a question. He could tell by looking at her that she’d decided. She could tell from a quick study of his face that he knew what she’d decided.

  ‘Taking the offer is the smart thing to do,’ she said gently.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But I can’t do it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I can’t stand up there and say I’m guilty, that I killed my husband. Because I didn’t.’

  ‘I know. And I know you can’t take the deal.’

  Amy tilted her head as she looked at him. ‘What’s happened to you? What do you know now that you didn’t know last night?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s a problem.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Amy asked.

  ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  NINETEEN

  Mike met him at Paul’s house late Saturday morning. Edward had seen the DVD of Paul’s accusation several times by now and was sure he’d recognize the room in the background; it had wood paneling on the walls and blank spots where pictures or decorations had been taken off. But there was no matching wall in Paul’s house. A quick check confirmed all the walls were drywall painted shades of beige.

  Back in the hall, Edward was looking up at a dangling string attached to a door in the ceiling for the attic access. He pulled and it turned out there was a built-in ladder. Edward climbed into darkness, hoping there was a light switch above – a light for a large finished-out room with wood paneling. When he stuck his head through the opening it was too dark to see anything and his groping hands discovered no light switch.

  ‘Here,’ Mike said below him, handing up a flashlight. Edward pointed the flashlight toward the center of the room and turned it on.

  ‘Anything?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Nothing. Damn it.’ Edward shone the light all around. Just an unfinished attic, not even with a floor, just beams with cheap Sheetrock underneath. His foot would go right through it if he tried to walk up here. ‘There’re some boxes and stuff, but no paneled wall. Damn it, this was a smart idea. Why isn’t it working?’

  ‘He just recorded it somewhere else that we don’t know about, that’s all.’

  Edward came back down the ladder. ‘He was drunk, so it was probably spur of the moment to make that. Should be at home. He wouldn’t be comfortable making that recording where he might be seen or overheard.’

  Mike peered up at the ceiling, remembering the recording. ‘Could be a cheap motel somewhere, he got a private room just to make that, maybe?’

  ‘Don’t forget the next question: who’s holding the camera?’

  ‘The woman he was having an affair with? Fits my motel theory.’

  ‘Then we’re screwed. We’ll never find that.’

  ‘Maybe credit card records,’ Mike said. ‘I’ll see what I can find the rest of the weekend. But what if we do find it? What does it prove?’

  ‘I just hoped it would lead somewhere. Tell us who he was with. We could question that person. Create a new suspect, maybe.’

  He crossed the hall to the living room. Same view, slightly different angle. From a side window he looked at the house next door, the one belonging to Valerie Linnett. He could see a slice of her living room too, so she could easily have seen Amy on the front porch as she claimed. She didn’t have paneled walls either. Must not have been a feature of this neighborhood.

  The only other thing he could do over the weekend was work on his closing argument. ‘Sweet little Amy’ was the subtext, but he needed something more logical. ‘Police just didn’t do their jobs’ sounded like a theme, but it would be nice if he could suggest an alternative suspect. Paul had made someone mad enough to kill him. Edward wasn’t even sure he’d seen that person in court. They’d all seemed so composed. Valerie Linnett, who’d seen through Paul and stopped seeing him after only one or two dates. Louise Fisher looked a better bet, with her potential personal and professional jealousies, but no one had ever seen her at the house. Ditto Laura Martinelli, who was so self-possessed and self-confident it was hard to imagine Paul getting under her skin enough to make her want to kill him. These women seemed too emotionally remote for the role of jealous, murderess mistress.

  Then who? It didn’t have to be the real killer, just someone Edward could make look like one. As he and Mike had cheerfully told Amy, they weren’t detectives, they were bullshit artists.

  There could have been a car in the alley and a man as the killer instead of a woman. But again, who? The truth was, no one looked as good a suspect as sweet little Amy.

  By Sunday afternoon he gave up thinking about it all and drove to Linda’s.

  He’d called ahead, Linda opened the door immediately to his knock. She’d put on lipstick. Her face seemed thinner than the last time he’d seen her, which was only a couple of weeks ago. She wore a T-shirt and blue jean shorts.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello, Edward. Come in.’

  She led him into the l
iving room. Her legs looked good. She looked good all over, in fact. If he said anything to that effect she’d probably answer that he must be lonely.

  ‘You’ve lost weight.’ Seemed a less provocative way to put it.

  Linda turned to face him and shrugged. ‘I’ve had more time to exercise.’

  ‘I haven’t. Could we go for a walk?’

  ‘What is it, Edward? Do you want to talk about something? Ask me something?’

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t come with a plan, or a speech. Just want to take a walk.’

  She studied his face for a minute while he tried to look sincere. ‘OK. Just let me get shoes.’

  It was a beautiful fall afternoon. Edward had been so caught up in trial he’d been indoors all day every day and had barely noticed the weather changing. Suddenly he wished this was his life, walking with Linda through a peaceful world, with the prospect of a pleasant evening and bedtime ahead of them.

  ‘How have you been?’ he asked.

  ‘You know. The job is always there. Same people around me but new clients to deal with. Do that, come home. Do it again the next day. It’s nice.’

  He hadn’t thought that’s how that recitation was going to end, but as Linda said it, it did sound like a nice life.

  ‘I know how you’ve been doing from the news. How’s Amy?’

  ‘Holding up. My parents are there most of the time. Would you mind taking a day off and coming to watch?’

  They walked on in silence for several seconds. Linda touched his arm, but only lightly and briefly. ‘What is it that you want, Edward?’

  Linda looked at him, an open, unlined face, her eyes clear and curious. And loving? Still? He couldn’t tell. She didn’t look hostile at all, but not particularly affectionate either. Just curious, like a detached bystander.

  ‘You think this is what I came over here to say, and it isn’t. My subconscious just kicked this up on me. I’d like you there. I’d like your insight. Evaluating the jury, the judge. I think Amy would like to have you there too.’