Presumption of Innocence db-1

by Stephen Penner

  He smiled at her touch. "No, it's all right," he assured. "You were right to get someplace safe. But I need to know a couple things about them. My detective says they're part of some gang that pretends they're vampires."

  Faust took her hand back and stared into her drink. "You don't get it, do you?"

  Brunelle frowned in thought. He usually got things. "Get what?"

  "You come walking into this neighborhood, in your fancy coat and tie," she reached out and took a hold of his dark red necktie, "pretending like you understand what it's like to live here because you read police reports from the safety of your desk. But when you get what you want, you leave. And I'm still here. I still have to walk home in the dark, hoping those bastards have someone else to hurt."

  Brunelle looked into her dark eyes. She still had his tie. "I, I'm not sure about that. It's just, I have a job to do. That girl was murdered. I have to hold him responsible."

  Faust set her drink down. "And I can help?"

  "Yes," he almost pleaded. He set his drink down too.

  She pulled him to her by his tie, stopping just before she kissed him. "Then you give me what I want too."

  There was no way he could deny her. "Whatever you say, Faust."

  She pushed him back onto the sofa and straddled him. She kissed him, long and probing, then pulled away again. "I say leave the tie on."

  ***

  Brunelle squinted at the bedroom clock. It was 4:42. Faust was asleep on his chest. She'd told him what he needed to know, between love-making sessions. Names of everyone in the gang, and confirmation that Karpati was one of them. Most of them were just faking the vampire bit, going along to scare people and to enjoy the drugs and women that gang membership brought. But there were a couple, like Karpati, who rode the vampire bit for all it was worth, insisting they really were vampires. And they really did need the blood of innocents. It left everyone in fear of them. Either they really were vamps, or, far more likely, they were nuts.

  Thinking of riding reminded him of the woman in his arms. He'd need to leave soon, so he'd have time to type up what he learned and get it to Welles before nine. She seemed to sense his change in mood.

  "You're leaving," she said without opening her eyes. It wasn't really a question.

  "Not yet," he answered, stroking her hair. Then, he thought for a moment. "Thank you."

  She chuckled. "Don't thank me. You don't thank someone for something they wanted to do."

  Brunelle wasn't sure he agreed, but he wasn't about to argue with her. "Well, thanks for the information then."

  He felt her nod against his chest. "I hope it's helpful."

  "It was. The trial starts in two weeks, so I'll be sending you a subpoena."

  This time he felt her shaking her head. "No, you won't," she replied pleasantly.

  Brunelle considered for a moment. "No, really. I have to."

  Again a soft shake of her head. "No, really. You won't. Use the information, but you'll find another witness for court."

  "Why?"

  This time she pushed herself off his chest. She swung herself over him and straddled him again. Her soft black hair curtained his face as he felt himself rise against her again.

  "Because, lover. I'll testify I told you all that between the times I rode you and the times you fucked me from behind."

  Brunelle blinked at her even as she ground down against him.

  "The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," she purred.

  He pressed up against her. "Okay then. No subpoena."

  She just smiled down at him.

  "Thanks, anyway," he managed to say between breaths.

  She reached down and slid him inside her again, then she leaned forward and bit his lip. "I told you not to thank me."

  Chapter 29

  The courtroom was packed. Every seat in the gallery was full. TV cameras lined the walls. A good chunk of the defense bar and half of the prosecutor's office had come too. Including Duncan, who stood at the very back, arms crossed. Some probably thought it was to put pressure on the judge. Brunelle knew it was to see first hand whether the case fell apart.

  Judge Quinn took the bench promptly and got right to business. Rather than argument, it was questions from the bench.

  Yes, Welles admitted, he received the information by nine that morning. And yes, even though it was supplemented by official reports a few days later, there was nothing new in the reports. Brunelle had to admit the evidence was thin, and it might be difficult to secure the testimony of the other No Bloods, but he insisted there was an identifiable group Karpati belonged to and the murder could have elevated his status in the group.

  Finally, Quinn announced she was done. "Okay, I believe I've heard enough. I'm prepared to make my rulings."

  The courtroom buzzed for a moment then fell silent. Even Welles sat down and shut up. Brunelle gave Yamata a hopeful smile, but she just offered a nervous nod and looked back up to the judge.

  "The first issue is the matter of the aggravating factor," the judge began. "The issue of bail is dependent, or at least impacted, by this initial question. So the question is: can the State prove that Mr. Karpati committed the murder to advance his status in an identifiable group?"

  Brunelle bristled at the framing of the question, but bit his tongue. Quinn noticed his reaction.

  "Or rather," she corrected, "is it possible they could prove it? Can they establish a prima facie case? That is, if I assume the truth of the evidence they say they'll present, and draw all reasonable inferences in favor of the State, is it at least possible that a reasonable jury could believe the aggravator?"

  Brunelle appreciated the clarification. It was a lot lower of a standard. The jury might not buy it, but he should get the chance to try to sell it.

  Quinn paused. "I'm mindful of my ruling regarding the torture aggravator. There, I found no reasonable jury could believe the aggravator. However, that ruling was based on the complete lack of evidence from the State that Miss Montgomery suffered more than any other murder victim."

  She took a deep breath and looked down at Welles. "Here, however, the State claims they will present evidence that Mr. Karpati was a member of a street gang, that members of this street gang held themselves out as vampires, and that Ms. Montgomery died from an acute and apparently intentional loss of blood. I cannot find that no reasonable jury would find the aggravator proven. I have concerns about the underlying strength of the State's evidence, but if they prevail in convincing a jury that Mr. Karpati committed the murder, the jury must be allowed to consider this aggravating factor. The defense motion to dismiss the aggravator is denied."

  Brunelle tried to keep his smile professional and not smug. And not betraying the overwhelming sense of luck and relief that washed over his insides. "That should take care of the bail argument too," he whispered to Yamata. "No bail on capital cases." His smile deepened. "Thanks to your exquisite briefs."

  Before Yamata could whisper a reply, Judge Quinn went on.

  "I do not, however, believe this controls the issue of bail."

  Another buzz through the courtroom. Even Welles and Karpati looked surprised. Then Welles unfurled his own smile. Brunelle knew there was no reason for the judge to bring it up unless she was prepared to rule in Welles' favor. Every attorney in the room knew it, including Yamata. And Duncan.

  "I am mindful of Mr. Welles' initial bail argument regarding the evidence being clear and the presumption great. The evidence here is not clear, and the presumption, as he said, is that the defendant is innocent of the charges."

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, thought Brunelle. He doodled the word hastily on his legal pad, hoping this was just judicial masturbation, the judge waxing poetic on the law to show everyone how smart she was.

  "I am also mindful, Mr. Brunelle," she paused and looked down at him; Brunelle met her gaze as neutrally as he could muster, "that the State only filed this aggravator after I had dismissed the others. Quite candidly, Mr. Brunelle, it was a move tha
t smacked of desperation, and I am hesitant to deny a criminal defendant bail based on a last minute gambit of a desperate prosecutor."

  Brunelle recalled his initial conversation with Duncan. He wanted to turn around and mouth 'told you so' to his boss, but decided better of it.

  "Therefore," Quinn turned back to Welles, "I am going to rule that under the unique facts on this case, the court is permitted to grant the defendant bail despite the potential penalty in the case."

  Welles stood up quickly, his face beaming. "Thank you, Your Honor. We suggest bail in the amount of-"

  "Ten million dollars," Judge Quinn declared.

  Welles was stunned for a moment. She pressed the advantage. "Just because I rule that he's entitled to bail doesn't mean I'm going to set a low bail. He's charged with aggravated murder, for Heaven's sake. Ten million dollars. Trial starts in one week. Court is adjourned."

  The clerk called out "All rise!" and the judge disappeared into her chambers.

  No one was quite sure who had won the hearing. Finally, after exchanging puzzled glances with Yamata, Brunelle shrugged and looked to Welles. "See you next week, counselor."

  Welles' smile hardened into a determined grin. "Indeed. I shall look forward to defeating you. Again."

  Chapter 30

  "Me?!" Yamata gasped. "You want me to give the opening statement? No way."

  "Sure," answered Brunelle. "Why not?"

  "I said my briefs were exquisite, but opening?"

  "Oh, come on. We both know behind those exquisite briefs is an even more magnificent opening."

  Yamata blinked at him for a moment. "Please tell me you didn't just say that."

  Brunelle could feel his face flush and he covered his eyes with his hand. "That's not what I meant. I just, um, that is…"

  Yamata laughed. "I know what you meant. And thanks. But sheesh, watch your words, old man. That's how you end up getting sued."

  Brunelle peered over his hand. A weak smile forced its way onto his face. "Heh, yeah."

  There was an awkward pause while Brunelle composed himself. Then he cleared his throat and straightened his tie. "So, yes, anyway. I think you should give opening." He felt the blush again. "Opening statement. Make. You should make the opening statement."

  Yamata chuckled again and shook her head. "And tell me, Mr. Brunelle," she leaned forward and purred exaggeratedly, "why should I 'give opening'?"

  Brunelle managed to ignore the suggestion and answer the actual question. "Well, we're partners. Partners split the work. And I'm damn well going to do the closing argument."

  Yamata grinned and pushed back in her chair. "Oh yeah? How come?"

  Brunelle grinned back. "Because, partner, that's where you win the case."

  ***

  Before opening statements, however, a jury had to be selected-no small task in a death penalty case. Luckily for Brunelle and Yamata, only jurors who promised they at least "could" impose the death penalty were allowed to sit on the jury. Anyone with an absolute moral objection to it-while certainly a defensible, by some a laudable, position in another setting-was excluded from the jury pool on the basis that they would refuse to impose the law duly enacted by the elected legislature. It was one of the few times the cards were stacked in favor of the State. In the end, twelve jurors were seated, plus two alternates-the suckers who had to sit through the entire trial, view all the horrendous evidence, then go home without deliberating, unless one of the regular jurors got sick or otherwise became incapable of proceeding. The fourteen of them more or less resembled the community, eight women and six men, eleven white, two Asians, and an African-American. Mostly retirees or Boeing workers-paid in full for jury duty by their conscientious good corporate citizen employer. A couple of teachers. And that one guy who said he was a consultant for some computer thing that Brunelle didn't understand. He figured Yamata did, but didn't want to ask. One, he didn't want to look stupid. Two, it didn't matter. The guy had a thirteen-year-old daughter. That was enough for Brunelle.

  The big day came after the jury had been sworn in and admonished not to talk about the case, even with each other, until the evidence-all the evidence, from both sides-had been presented. No, they wouldn't be sequestered. Yes, there would be coffee every morning. No, they wouldn't be allowed to ask questions of the witnesses. Yes, they would be allowed to take notes. Thank you very much and we'll see you in the morning.

  That next morning, Judge Quinn gave the jury some additional instructions, a little information about scheduling, and then said those words every prosecutor knows means it's time to stand and deliver.

  "Ladies and gentleman, will you please give your attention to Ms. Yamata who will deliver the opening statement on behalf of the State?"

  Yamata stood confidently and thanked the judge. She stepped into the "well"-the area between the jury box, the judge's bench, and counsel tables. The courtroom was packed again, at least half by other prosecutors who'd come to watch that month's "big trial." If Yamata was nervous, she didn't show it. She smoothed her suit, then raised her gaze and locked eyes with the jury.

  Chapter 31

  "A butcher," Yamata started. The room was silent save her voice.

  "You hear that phrase sometimes when people talk about someone doing a sloppy job. 'She butchered that presentation' or 'He butchered that recipe.' And of course, when a surgeon botches an operation, she's called a butcher."

  She frowned and raised a finger.

  "But that description does a disservice to butchers. Butchers are as exact in their work as any doctor. As any lawyer, or engineer, or," she met eyes with the father-juror, "computer consultant."

  A smile ventured respectfully onto Yamata's face.

  "Think of the last really good cut of meat you ate. Maybe it was at a barbeque. Maybe at a fancy restaurant. Maybe just cooked up in your oven on a random Thursday night. Think about the skill that went into extracting that perfect piece of food from what had once been a live animal. An animal covered in hair and skin, with organs and bones and all sorts of things you try not to think about when you're eating a hot dog."

  She shook her head.

  "No, a butcher is a craftsman, someone who knows exactly what he's doing. Someone who knows how to kill an animal in a way that doesn't damage the prize of the meat. Who can skin and cut and dismember a beast until the only thing left are a series of plastic-covered styrofoam trays on a grocery store shelf."

  Yamata paused. She had the room. Everyone was watching her, and she wore it like a silk blouse, like the lightest sun-dress.

  "No, what makes a butcher isn't a lack of skill in the cuts, it's treating the thing you're cutting like a soulless animal. Like nothing more than the hunk of meat you see it as, existing only to provide sustenance to you and others. Having no value to anyone except the value of the life-force to be stolen and exploited and utterly consumed by the cutter."

  She turned and pointed at Karpati.

  "Arpad Karpati is a butcher."

  Brunelle turned to see Karpati's reaction. The entire courtroom did, even the judge. He stared straight through Yamata, his anger blotching his face. Brunelle figured he couldn't be angry at the description; it was true. He was angry at being called on it and damned for it in public.

  Welles was the only person who hadn't looked at Karpati. He was calmly jotting notes on his legal pad, seemingly oblivious to Yamata's words.

  "Emily Montgomery," Yamata turned back to the jury. Her voice modulated perfectly from the righteous indignation to heartbroken empathy. "Emily Montgomery was thirteen years old."

  Yamata didn't meet the father's eyes this time; that would have been obvious. Her words would reach him just fine.

  "She liked to roller-blade and walk her dog. Her favorite flavor of ice cream was vanilla and her favorite color was purple. And even though she never would have told her friends, she still kind of liked Barbie and kept all her dolls and doll clothes hidden in her closet."

  Yamata paused again, as the gravity of
the impending description began to settle over the room.

  "And she liked to help people."

  Another pause, this time from an apparent lump in Yamata's throat.

  "And that turned out to be death of her. Her innocence. Her openness. All the things we wish we could be. Good, kind, hopeful, selfless. Noble. The things that we all grew up and learned not to be. Because of people like Arpad Karpati. But Elizabeth was still too young, too pure, too good, to know what fate awaited her when she befriended a troubled girl named Holly Sandholm."

  Yamata picked up a water cup from the spot she had purposefully selected on the prosecution table and took a sip.

  "Holly was a troubled teenager. A young girl who'd had a rough life, made some bad choices, and hung with the wrong crowd. She ended up in juvenile hall. Theft and drugs mostly. Now, juvenile justice is all about rehabilitation. About attempting to save at least some of these kids. To turn them back onto a good path. Maybe not the straight and narrow, but at least away from the highway to prison so many of them are on.

  "So along the way, one of the judges ordered Holly to do some community service work. She could pick any non-profit agency. She picked a church. Emily's church."

  The jurors were all watching Yamata as she stepped again to the well. She wasn't pacing; that would have been distracting. But she took a single step toward the jury box as she started to bring the story together.

  "Holly met Emily at the Westgate Christian Church one Sunday while she was doing her hours and Emily was staying after to help out. They were doing the same work, but for different reasons. Holly, because she had to. Emily, because she wanted to. Emily reached out to the new girl. They talked. Even across the gulf of their life experiences, they had things in common. They saw each other again over the next few weeks. And eventually they became friends.

  "Or so Emily thought.

  "What Emily Montgomery didn't know about-who she didn't know about-was Arpad Karpati. Because when fourteen-year-old Emily Montgomery went home to her pink-painted bedroom in her suburban home, fifteen-year-old Holly Sandholm went home to Arpad Karpati's bedroom in his downtown apartment."