In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  “You don’t?” Black’s tone was incredulous. “Are you tellin’ this court that you’re makin’ this deal without even knowin’ the terms?”

  “Objection. The witness has already answered.” Fraterno’s voice sounded faint and far away.

  “Sustained.” Sandy Griffin managed to sound impatient, but it likely took some effort on her part. The jurors were on the edges of their seats, which was exactly where Russell Black wanted them.

  “Detective Green,” Black said, “in your job, you’re pretty much required to know the law, aren’t you? What is and what idn’t a crime?”

  “I guess you could say that.” Green’s answer dripped with chest-out importance. Of course I know the law, buster, who do you think you’re talking to?

  “Well, do you know,” Black said, “that a public employee takin’ money, personally, for tellin’ things he learned through his employment, do you know that’s called takin’ a bribe?”

  “Objection. The law is subject to interpretation, Judge.”

  “I’ll … withdraw the question,” Black said contemptuously. He chewed on his lower lip and glared at the witness for a full fifteen seconds, giving the jury plenty of time to wonder what the hell other interpretation could be given to such a law. Finally Black said, “I got no more questions of this … witness.”

  Sheepishly Stan Green climbed down from the stand. A couple of jurors showed openly hostile looks as the detective went through the railing gate and exited to the rear. It was all Sharon could do to keep from jumping to her feet, clapping, and squealing like an adolescent at a Michael Jackson concert. All she did, however, was put her arm around Midge Rathermore and give the somber teenager an affectionate squeeze.

  Felony prosecutor Edward Teeter didn’t come into the office behind the 357th District Court until after noon on Friday, and almost failed to make it at all. The judge was playing golf, getting an early start on the weekend, and Teeter had spent the morning on the links himself—when the cat’s away, and so forth. In fact, the only reason Teeter stopped by the office at all was that he’d hustled three bets a side from the misdemeanor prosecutor in one of the lower courts, and the pigeon had forgotten his wallet. Teeter had followed the loser downtown, had gone up to the misdemeanor court to collect his money, and now decided to check his office for messages. He sauntered in wearing brown knit slacks and a green Jack Nicklaus Golden Bear golf shirt. His right hand was tanned three shades darker than his left. He flopped down behind his desk, reached for a stack of call slips impaled on a chrome spike, then paused. A typewritten note lay dead center on his desk blotter. He picked up the note and read it, murmured, “Shit,” under his breath, and picked up the phone. He punched in felony prosecutor Wendell Brat’s extension and waited, listening to a series of buzzes on the line. There were so many felony prosecutors in the DA’s office that Teeter didn’t know half of them, but he and Brat had gone to law school together and hired on as prosecutors at the same time. Brat was a superchief, specializing in high-profile prosecutions, and was a couple of steps up the ladder from his old college pal. Teeter secretly thought that Brat was an insufferable prick, but managed not to show it.

  Brat clicked onto the line. “Brat.”

  Teeter allowed the note to drift down to his desk. “What killed the fucking guy?”

  “Razor. He was trying to monkey with somebody else’s monkey, is what the guards over at the jail say.”

  “What the hell’s a guy doing with a razor in the county jail?”

  “Thank the federal courts,” Brat said. “They say the prisoner’s entitled to shave. We give ’em nothing but Bic disposables, but they just light a match and melt the plastic from around the blade. Instant shank.”

  “What’s that do to the Saw murder case against the Brie guy?”

  “What murder case? Without Donello’s testimony we’ve got nothing.”

  “I’ve got another charge to put on Mr. Brie,” Teeter said. “Break-in and possibly attempted rape.”

  “I don’t have any information on that,” Brat said.

  Teeter scratched his nose and moved the receiver from one ear to the other. “That’s because we haven’t filed on him. He was breaking in on a woman when he got busted. Before we talk dismissal of the Saw murder, give us a chance to go for the second indictment, huh?”

  There was a pause, after which Brat said, “Too late, I’ve already sent the dismissal over to court.”

  Teeter clenched his left fist and examined his tan. “Kind of jumping the gun, aren’t you?”

  “Look,” Brat said. “In the 342nd I got a guy on a capital. Three other guys blew a liquor store clerk away two weeks ago, and I just now got the file. I got cases out the ying-yang. If I can get rid of one, I get rid of it.”

  “Yeah, but … I don’t think this Brie ought to be walking around. Crazy motherfucker. I think we should call over to the jail and put a hold on his release.”

  “Hold the phone.” Brat clicked off the line.

  Teeter snuggled the receiver between his shoulder and jaw, stood, and assumed his tee-off stance. Maybe he was a bit strong with the grip; he’d been hooking the ball like a maniac.

  Brat came back on the line. “Too late again. Our Mr. Brie walked out on the street at ten past one.”

  Teeter sank into his chair. “Shit.”

  “How urgent do you think this is?” Brat said.

  “Fuck,” Teeter said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Hell, it’s Friday afternoon. Tell you what, I’ll get another indictment ready for Mr. Brie when the grand jury meets next Thursday. We know where the guy lives. He ought to keep for a week.”

  “Suits me,” Brat said. “You have a nice weekend, you hear?”

  “You, too,” Teeter said. “I think I’ll spend some time on the driving range.”

  36

  At almost the exact instant when Bradford Brie emerged from the Lew Sterrett Justice Center—snugging up his sunglasses on his nose, ambling along down the walkway between the jail and the Frank Crowley Courts Building as he sucked in free air and pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming—Sharon Hays had a sudden chill. It was the weirdest feeling she’d ever experienced. Not five minutes earlier some of the jurors had complained to the bailiff that it was hot as the blazes in the courtroom, yet all at once Sharon was freezing to death. She shuddered and hugged herself, and wondered if she might be coming down with something. The chill passed in a few seconds, and in just a few more seconds Sharon had completely forgotten about her brief discomfort. She had other things on her mind.

  The trial’s afternoon session had just begun. Linda Rathermore had had the jurors’ undivided attention for the two hours before the lunch break. Particularly the male jurors had sat up and taken notice, with Linda in a deep purple skin-tight dress and snow-white open-toed pumps dominating the scene. Sharon would bet a week’s pay that Kathleen Fraterno had had a conniption over the way her witness was dressed, but would have bet two weeks’ pay that Linda, if pushed, would have thumbed her nose at the prosecutor and worn what she damn well pleased. Linda’s horrified expression as she’d recalled the bludgeoning in her bedroom had been first-rate method acting, Sharon had thought. No wonder old Linda had received knock-out reviews up in Baltimore.

  When Fraterno had finally passed the witness, Judge Griffin had delayed Sharon’s cross-examination until one o’clock, and she had had a full hour and a half to become a bundle of nerves. The bailiff had brought her a chicken sandwich from the downstairs cafeteria, which she’d done her best to eat in the witness waiting room. She’d had one bite, washed it down with Coke, then had wadded the whole mess up in waxed paper and thrown it away. The butterflies in her stomach had beaten their wings like helicopter props ever since.

  And now it was time. Sharon turned, winked, and smiled at Deborah North—who continued to hang on to her aisle seat, second row, for dear life in the jam-pac
ked spectators’ section—patted Midge’s shoulder, acknowledged a go-get-’em nod from Russell Black, took a deep breath, and faced Linda Rathermore. She was posed in the witness box like a model in a Nothing Beats a Great Pair of L’Eggs commercial. A pin dropped in the courtroom at that moment would have shattered eardrums.

  “Mrs. Rathermore,” Sharon said, and was shocked at the strength of her voice, having been scared to death that all she’d be able to do was croak timidly at the witness, “you testified earlier that you and William Rathermore were married for seven years, is that right?”

  “Yes.” Linda’s plucked right eyebrow lifted slightly; otherwise her expression didn’t change.

  “And that the two of you lived together before you married, and that you carried on an affair with him while he still lived with his first wife?” Sharon was only reaffirming what the jury had already heard; Fraterno had had the good sense to go into the affair in detail during her direct examination. We’ve got nothing to hide, jury; what’s a little intermarital screwing around got to do with this murder we’re trying?

  “That’s correct,” Linda said.

  “Mrs. Rathermore, during the time you and William Rathermore were married, was it your practice to have teenagers over to your house from time to time?”

  There was just the slightest wavering in Linda’s gaze. “Bill liked to have his kids’ friends come by.”

  He certainly did, sweetie, Sharon thought. She reached down and unsnapped the catches on her satchel, giving Midge an apologetic glance as she did. Midge was dressed in a denim skirt and white peasant blouse, neither of which fit very well. Deb North had done what she could, but shopping for Midge’s clothes after the drastic weight reduction in jail was, at best, a guessing game. During Fraterno’s direct examination Midge had acted as though she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in what Linda had to say. Sharon would give anything if she could remove Midge from the courtroom before she started her next line of questioning, but that was impossible. Sharon extracted her brief file from the satchel and set it on the table. May as well get it ready, she thought. She looked once more at Linda Rathermore.

  Sharon drew a shallow breath and forced herself to keep her tone on an even keel. “Mrs. Rathermore,” she said, “how long after you and Mr. Rathermore were married did he begin to have sexual relations with his younger daughter, Susan?”

  Sharon heard three distinct gasps, one from the jury box and another a couple of rows deep in the spectator section. The third came from the witness box as Linda put her hand over her mouth. Clothing rustled and panty hose whispered throughout the courtroom. Sharon waited for Fraterno’s objection, but apparently the question had so rattled Kathleen that she was having trouble getting the word out of her mouth.

  Finally Fraterno spoke. “Objection. Irrelevant, designed to be inflammatory. The deceased isn’t on trial here.”

  Sandy Griffin’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and judgelike concern. She toyed with a gold ballpoint.

  Sharon rose. “May we approach?”

  “I think you’d better, Counsel,” Judge Griffin said.

  Jurors frowned and twisted as Breyer and Fraterno came around the state’s table and Sharon walked up from the defense side. Russ Black kept his seat, rocking back and looking slightly amused.

  Sandy Griffin leaned over the bench and virtually hissed, “Exactly where are you going with this, Miss Hays?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know.” Fraterno favored Sharon with an icy stare. Milt Breyer looked frightened out of his wits.

  Sharon folded her hands in front. “The fact that these kids were abused goes to the core of our entire case, Judge.”

  Griffin raised lightly penciled eyebrows. “Which is?”

  “That she acted in self-defense,” Sharon said.

  Fraterno stared at Sharon as if she’d just grown a second head. Griffin said, “It’s what?”

  Sharon stood her ground. “Self-defense,” she repeated.

  “You’re saying that your defense to murder-for-hire charges is that your client acted in self-defense?” Griffin rolled her eyes.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so far out in left field, Your Honor,” Fraterno said, but didn’t sound convincing.

  Sharon gestured toward the inch-thick stack of papers, held together by a rubber band, which lay near Russ Black’s elbow. “We’ve prepared briefs, Judge.”

  Griffin squinted toward the defense table. “Miss Hays, if this is a delaying tactic …”

  “It isn’t, Your Honor,” Sharon said.

  Breyer looked as if he’d swallowed a frog.

  Sandy Griffin sat back, composing herself. “I suppose I’d better deal with this in chambers.”

  “I thought you’d say that,” Sharon said.

  Judge Sandy Griffin was a no-frills operator when it came to office decor, which, Sharon thought, was unusual for a female. There were no potted plants, no richly upholstered leather furniture, no paintings or photos on the walls. The entire layout was government-issue stuff: a plain gray metal desk with a thin rubber covering on top, wooden slatted chairs for visitors, one coat tree in the corner on which hung the judge’s charcoal gray blazer. As Judge Griffin sat down at her desk, she undid the top button on her robe to reveal a plain white blouse underneath. Behind her on the wall hung her sole decoration, a sign hung in between her framed bachelor’s and law degrees. The sign read, in simple black letters, COST CUTTING BEGINS AT THE TOP. Sharon reminded herself that it was an election year.

  Since the office contained only three visitors’ chairs, Russell Black had to borrow a seat from across the hall. Sharon sat down directly in front of Sandy Griffin while Fraterno and Breyer occupied chairs on either side of Sharon. Black placed his borrowed chair near the door and lounged, one arm hooked behind him and his legs crossed.

  Sandy Griffin peered around Sharon to speak to Black. “What’s your theory here, Russ?”

  Black smiled blandly and pointed at Sharon. “Miss Hays came up with it. She can explain it better’n I can.”

  Griffin blinked. Fraterno and Breyer turned to stare in unison at Sharon. Like getting the third degree, Sharon thought.

  “It’s all in our brief, Judge,” Sharon said. “It’s a variation on the burning bed law, if that makes it clearer.”

  Fraterno stiffened visibly. “That statute doesn’t apply here. It only applies to battered wives.” She hadn’t thawed toward Sharon since the flare-up at Joe Willie’s Restaurant, and she apparently intended to keep things status quo. She ignored Sharon, directing her words to Judge Griffin.

  Griffin picked up the brief, which Sharon had placed on the desk just moments ago. She’d also given a copy to Fraterno. Kathleen had yet to glance at her copy. The state was accustomed to having any defense motion automatically denied, particularly motions which required the judge to do any research. Where Sandy Griffin was concerned, Sharon was praying, the state might just be in for a surprise.

  Griffin once more peered around Sharon as she pointed down at the file. “Have you looked this over, Russ?”

  Sharon’s hackles stirred. She expected to play second fiddle—that was part of her employment arrangement—but she was damned if anyone was going to treat her like a stick of furniture. She spoke up before Black had a chance to answer: “We’ve discussed it at length, Judge. Our theory is basically this. If our client did contract for her father’s death—and we’re certainly not prepared to concede that she did—but if the jury decides that our client hired those kids to kill Mr. Rathermore, she was entitled to do so. Same as a battered wife who can wait until her husband is asleep. Midge acted, if she did so, only to protect herself and her sister from sexual abuse by their father.”

  Fraterno leaned forward. “In all due respect, Your Honor, this is a waste of time. There’s no precedent for this.” Breyer kept silent, scowling in supp
ort of his assistant. Sharon would say this for the womanizing bastard, he knew when he was out of his element.

  “It isn’t a waste of anybody’s time when charges this serious are brought against our client,” Sharon said. She tried to emphasize the word our without being too obvious.

  Griffin leaned sideways and spoke once more to Black. “You’ve read this, have you?” God, Sharon thought, she’s going to get a crick in her neck.

  He casually waved a hand. “Not only have I read it, Judge, I’ve tried six ways from Sunday to shoot holes in it for weeks. Miss Hays knows her stuff.”

  Griffin regarded Sharon with an expression of sudden respect. Russ Black was sort of the E. F. Hutton of the courthouse; when he spoke, people listened. Sharon felt like hugging the older lawyer and giving him a peck on the cheek.

  “Judge,” Fraterno said rather lamely, “I don’t think we should string the trial out over something like this. Even if the theory held water, which I don’t believe it does, the defendant was a minor child. She didn’t have constitutional rights.”

  Sharon sat up straighter. “She does now. The state’s seen it fit to certify her as an adult.”

  Griffin smiled curiously and ran a thumbnail across her upper lip. She picked up the brief in both hands as if weighing the pages. “I’m afraid she’s got you there, Miss Fraterno. And as for how long the trial is delayed, that depends on how long it takes for the state to give me a responding brief on the issue. With all the law clerks you folks have got running around, that shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. I’m prepared to keep us overtime tonight if necessary, because I agree with the state’s concern. I don’t want to carry the trial on any longer than necessary.” Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “That is your concern, isn’t it, Miss Fraterno? Not wasting the court’s time?”