In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  Russ Black had arrived early, and acknowledged Sharon with a pat on the hand as she took her seat. Anthony Gear would be absent until the testimony kicked off; the detective was hot on the trail of the burglar-alarm company. Sharon hoisted her satchel up on the table, looked to the front, and raised inquisitive eyebrows. There seemed to be trouble in paradise among the prosecution team.

  Milt Breyer and Kathleen Fraterno were seated in the far end of the jury box, away from the handcuffed prisoners, and the two prosecutors were talking a mile a minute, as if each were determined not to let the other get a word in edgewise. Breyer wore a navy blue suit, crazy-quilt tie, and terminally worried frown. Kathleen was dressed out in a charcoal gray pantsuit which nicely hugged her curves. There were dark circles under her eyes and her makeup was streaked. Sharon squinted for a better look. By golly, Kathleen had been crying; her eyelashes were stuck together in a row of dark, wet points.

  Sharon briefly pictured Cissy Breyer and her high-dollar lawyer as they’d stalked into the courthouse, then lifted and dropped her shoulders in a none-of-my-business shrug. She unsnapped the catches on her satchel, then stacked motions and briefs out on the table. She was going to be here awhile.

  Two days later, at two o’clock on Thursday afternoon, to be exact, Russ Black said to prospective juror No. 42, “You’ve never done any buddyin’ around with old Milt Breyer over there, have you?”

  The panelist, a paunchy, balding man in slacks and sports shirt, grinned and shook his head. If chosen, he would be the final juror. Those already seated consisted of four men and seven women. Three were blue-collar workers, one was a dentist. Additionally, both sides had approved five clerical people, one unemployed computer technician, and even one mortician. Once the selection of juror number twelve was complete, there would be two alternates left to pick. Jury selection was moving right along.

  Judge Griffin sternly told the prospective juror, “Speak up, please. The court reporter can’t record nods or head shakes.”

  To which the prospective juror replied, still grinning at Black, “No, ma’am, I’ve never met the prosecutor.”

  “And Miss Fraterno over there,” Black said, pointing. “You and her don’t have anything goin’, do you?”

  The man chuckled nervously. “No, sir.”

  If Sharon hadn’t been so intent on going over her witness list, she might have applauded. Jury voir dire was one of Russ Black’s specialties, the Deacon Andy Griffith act causing panelists to fall in love with him before the trial was underway. Sharon ran her finger down the column of names, paused, then leaned back and whispered to Anthony Gear, “This guy’s with the security company, right?” Gear bent forward to read the name above Sharon’s clear-lacquered nail, then nodded.

  Satisfied, Sharon got up, went over, and laid the list in front of Kathleen Fraterno, then returned to her seat. The exchanging of proposed witnesses’ names was mandatory for both sides before trial. Sharon had received the state’s list on Monday. She had promised to reciprocate by lunchtime today, and was only a couple of hours late in delivering. She pretended to be absorbed in Russ Black’s voir dire, but watched from the corner of her eye as Fraterno went over the defense witnesses. Kathleen, she knew, was about to come unglued.

  “And Judge Griffin up there,” Black said to the juror. “She ain’t one of your fishin’ or drinkin’ buddies, is she?”

  As Sharon pretended not to watch, Fraterno picked up the piece of paper and lazily scanned it. She stiffened. She laid the list on the table, yanked hard on Milt Breyer’s sleeve, and pointed at something on the page. Breyer leaned over to read, then regarded Fraterno with comically widened eyes. Sharon snickered to herself. The prosecution had just discovered that they’d be dealing with testimony from Leslie Schlee. How ’bout that, boys and girls? Sharon thought.

  Russ Black leaned back and hooked his thumbs underneath his lapels, Jed Clampett style. “Your Honor, we accept this juror here.”

  Judge Griffin looked at the prosecution side. “Any objection?”

  “None, Your Honor,” Breyer said quickly. His gaze was firmly on the witness list, and he could have been approving Midge Rathermore’s maiden aunt as a juror and never would have known the difference. He looked directly at Sharon as if he’d like to get his hands around her throat. She met his gaze with a what-me-worry grin.

  Sharon left the courthouse that afternoon with her fingertips tingling in anticipation. The opening statements in the morning would be brief and to the point, and then Stan Green would testify. The detective wouldn’t have much to say, and when he was finished, Linda Rathermore was scheduled for her stint on the stand. Before tomorrow was gone, Sharon would likely be halfway through with her cross-examination. She could hardly wait.

  34

  Just after midnight in the ninth-floor informants’ wing of the Lew Sterrett Justice Center, Wilfred Donello tenderly stroked his personal punk. Man alive, Donello had never had it so good in lockup, lording it over a cell full of chickenshits, lying back and taking it easy while gutless informants made life a bowl of cherries for him. In the two weeks since he’d given up Bradford Brie—which sure didn’t make Donello himself any snitch, dropping a dime on that insane prick, because the entire world was better off with Brie out of commission—Donello hadn’t had to lift a finger. Not to mop. Not to scrub the toilet. Not to kowtow to a bunch of jail guards, either. He didn’t even have to stir from his bunk to get his dinner; this gang of stoolies was so afraid of Wilfred Donello that they waited on him hand and foot. Why, if old Wilfred didn’t feel like walking over to take a dump, this gang of weaklings would likely carry him over and set him up on the throne.

  The punk whose backside and legs Donello was stroking at the moment was the pick of the litter. The sweetie-pie likely wasn’t over eighteen, twenty at the most, and man-oh-man, did the boy ever have an ass on him. Shaved his butt and legs just like a woman, too, and knew just how to make the woman eyes over his shoulder, bent over Donello’s bunk and waited for the big man to come and get it. Soft, moist mouth just like a girl’s. You just wait, old punk, Donello thought, you just wait ’til old Wilfred gets him a good boner up and drives it home. You’ll think you’re in heaven, old punk, just you wait and see.

  The punk’s name was Clarence, and the first time Donello had heard the name he’d gone, No shit, Clarence? You’ve got to be kidding me. Up until Donello had moved into the snitches’ tank, Clarence had belonged to a big fat black guy named James. In fact, before Donello had come along, James had ruled the entire cell. Donello hadn’t made his move right away. Stand-up experienced con that he was, Donello had bided his time.

  The time had come four days after he had stowed his gear beneath the bottom bunk, third row in the twenty-four-man cell. James had been bent over the sink washing his face, big chocolate-colored gut touching the lavatory’s rim, both hands cupped underneath the faucet. It hadn’t taken much of a shove for Donello to ram James’ head into the concrete wall, and the fight had been over before it started. James had been nearly unconscious when Donello had straddled him and beaten the slobbish black man into a bloody pulp for one and all to see. Ever since that moment the cell had belonged to Wilfred Donello, and James had been just another con in the jailhouse pecking order.

  In the darkness of the cell, Donello’s face flushed with excitement. His erect member throbbed. Spittle ran down his chin. “You ready? You ready for me?”

  The punk turned his face to the mattress. “You bring it on, Big Daddy, you hear?”

  And bring it on was exactly what Donello intended to do. He spread the punk’s hot cheeks, closed his eyes, and moved in closer. It was going to be good. Jesus, it was going to be …

  The movement behind Donello was nothing but a shadow, he thought, a shape moving among darker shapes. Likely, Donello thought, it was his own image cast by the dim lights outside in the corridor. As he returned his attention to the punk, a hand
snaked around his neck and moved like lightning.

  At first Donello thought that the stinging sensation at his left carotid artery was nothing but a scratch. Irritated more than angry, his hard-on wilting like time-lapse photography, Donello turned. Who in hell would have the nerve to … ?

  Fat James was standing there, showing piano-key teeth in a grin. There was something in James’ hand. Donello sneered. James was letting himself in for another good old-fashioned ass-whuppin’.

  Donello stepped forward. “You want somethin’ from me, nigger?” He balled his fist and swung a haymaker. James moved back a step. The punch landed on thin air. Donello staggered and righted himself. The first spurt of blood landed, thick and warm, on his forearm.

  Puzzled, Donello touched his throat where James had scratched him from behind. Thick, hot liquid squirted over his fingertips and splashed on the floor. Christ, Donello thought. Jesus H. Christ, the fucking nigger’s cut me bad.

  Donello shook his head to clear his muddled brain, gritted his teeth, and threw another punch. His limbs had no strength all of a sudden, and the blow landed harmlessly on the black man’s shoulder. James stepped forward to clamp a hand on Donello’s wrist and forced the burly prisoner downward. Donello sank to his knees and screamed.

  Suddenly the punk Clarence was there as well, grabbing Donello’s other arm, Clarence and James working together as each pinned a muscular arm to the floor. Donello thrashed weakly and kicked his legs.

  A red haze filtered over Wilfred Donello’s vision. His chest was drenched with blood, and he was growing weaker and weaker. Jesus, was it possible? Was he going to … ?

  As Donello sank into unconsciousness for the last time on this earth, the fat black man and the soft-bodied punk embraced in a lover’s kiss. That was the last thing Wilfred Donello ever saw, two men touching their tongues together while the tough stand-up con beneath them wriggled convulsively and whimpered like a dying child.

  35

  Homicide detective Stan Green wore his best gray suit on Friday morning. As he answered Kathleen Fraterno’s questions, he showed the jurors his standard, bland, protector-of-the-people expression, honing in on the twelve tried and true as if there were no one in the courtroom except him and them. One woman in the box, near the center of the second row, watched the detective with a look near pure rapture. Fraterno led Green through virtually the same testimony he’d given at Midge’s adult-certification hearing, then passed the witness with a wave of her hand. From her vantage point on the defense side, Sharon saw that Andy Wade of the News wasn’t even taking notes. Easier for him that way, she thought. The reporter could merely dig out his story about the cop’s previous testimony, change a word here and there, and write the same things all over again.

  Russ Black appeared to study a few tidbits he’d jotted down on a legal pad, but Sharon knew it was all for show. The veteran lawyer had a nearly photographic memory, and could recall every word the cop had said as easily as if he’d had a tape recorder. Black’s pretended study of his nonexistent notes was designed to create a brief period of silence, to make the jurors wonder what was coming next. He played juries like a maestro with a fine cello.

  Finally Black said thickly, “Detective Green, you said ’while ago that you were the officer in charge of the investigation. Could you tell the jury exactly what that means?”

  Green cleared his throat and hesitated. It was a favorite trick of Black’s to ask ’em what they least expected. The question was irrelevant, of course—but not far enough out in left field that Fraterno could object and have the objection sustained—and the sole purpose of asking it was to make the detective appear as though he was fumbling for an answer. Sharon reached out to pat Midge Rathermore’s hand.

  “Well, it means,” Green finally said, “that any work that’s done on the case is coordinated through me.”

  Black did a marvelous job of seeming puzzled. “Fine. You get the witnesses together, find out who know what …”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rehearse ’em on their testimony?”

  “Objection.” Fraterno didn’t quite jump to her feet, but did grip the arms of her chair with white-knuckled hands.

  Sandy Griffin yanked on an earlobe. “Sustained. Jury will disregard.”

  Twelve heads swiveled as one to look at Green, then Black, then the judge, and finally at the detective once more. The jury disregarded.

  Black straightened some in his seat as he tossed the grenade. “Well, then, let me ask you this. How much money are you gettin’ from these movie people? Round figures will do.”

  “Objection.” Fraterno was more subdued. She tossed Milt Breyer a look of anguish. Breyer’s neck seemed to shorten as he hunched down between his shoulders.

  Black didn’t give the judge a chance to rule on Fraterno’s objection. “Judge,” he said, “this line of questionin’ goes to the motives of the witness. We think it’s proper cross.”

  Judge Griffin rested her chin on her palm and thought it over. Sharon was familiar enough with Griffin’s likes and dislikes to know that the judge didn’t want to see law enforcement’s dirty underwear trotted out in public, but Black’s procedure was so right on target that no judge in captivity could cut him off at this point. Finally she said, “Objection overruled. Proceed with caution here, Counsel.”

  Milt Breyer rested his forehead on his clenched fist. He looked like the beginning of an Excedrin commercial.

  “Detective Green,” Black said, “do you know … ?” He jerked a business card from his breast pocket and looked at it. “Do you know Rayford Sly?”

  Green threw Fraterno a look that said, Help me. Kathleen’s lips parted, then closed.

  “He’s right out there in the courtroom,” Black said, turning in his chair to point at the rear. The movie guy was on his feet, headed lickety-split for the exit, but now halted in his tracks. “Looks like he was just leavin’,” Black said. The courtroom exploded in laughter. The jurors smirked at one another. Sly quickly sat down. When the chuckles had died away, Black said, “My question was, Do you know Rayford Sly? I think it’s a pretty easy question, Detective, don’t you?”

  Fraterno stiffened righteously. “Your Honor.”

  Judge Griffin pointed a finger. “Don’t badger the witness, Mr. Black.” Her tone said, however, that she definitely wanted to hear Detective Stan Green try to get out of this one.

  “Sorry, Judge,” Black said. “Detective Green, are you or are you not acquainted with a Mr. Rayford Sly?”

  Green intertwined his fingers in his lap. “I’ve met him.”

  “You’ve met him.” Black paused to let that one sink in. “He’s with”—once more referring to the business card—“Aviton Productions, idn’t he?”

  “I believe he is.”

  “You believe he is. Okay, let me ask, have you made a deal with these TV movie people that you’re to get paid for exclusive rights to your story on this case here?”

  Green was trapped like a mouse, and Sharon was enjoying every second of it. Under normal circumstances the detective would merely lie, but these circumstances were far from normal. If Stan Green answered with a forked tongue, Black would slap the movie producer’s fanny into the witness chair in a heartbeat, and Stan Green knew it. He wouldn’t worry about committing perjury—because it was a given that the DA’s staff didn’t indict their own witnesses for lying on the stand—but Rayford Sly’s presence in the courtroom made the whole thing a horse of a different color. Sly didn’t know that witnesses who aided the DA’s cause were immune from perjury charges, and would be petrified. Green looked down at his lap. “We may have talked about it.”

  “The same deal,” Black said, pointing, “that the movie people may have talked over with Mr. Breyer, the prosecutor over there?”

  “Objection.” Fraterno sounded somewhat like Bette Davis in an old forties heavy drama. “Mr. Green c
an’t possibly know the answer to that.”

  “Why?” Black’s tone increased a few decibels. “Because they might be payin’ the prosecutor more, and might not want the detective to think he’s gettin’ the short end of the stick?”

  There was another explosion, the courtroom rocking in guffaws, a few spectators even doubling over and holding their midsections. Judge Griffin banged her gavel three times. “Order here. I’m sustaining the objection. And, Counsel, no more of this.” The loud laughter ceased as if someone had turned off the radio.

  “I apologize, Judge.” Black rocked back and put his hands behind his head. “I got one more question, Detective. Idn’t you gettin’ paid for your story contingent on this little girl gettin’ convicted?” He extended his hand behind Sharon to point at Midge. She seemed oblivious, doodling on the corner of Sharon’s legal pad.

  Green swallowed hard. For once Kathleen Fraterno didn’t bother to come to the detective’s aid with an objection; Black’s question went directly to the motive of the witness and was as proper as a minister’s daughter. “I don’t remember,” Green said carefully, “any arrangement like that.”