Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  “Suit yourself.” She started toward the gathering, then stopped. “But try not to make any remarks about her panties, okay? That sort of thing can really mess up an interview.”

  Derek’s face was so flushed and angry Christina began to wonder about his blood pressure. “Are you telling me you want this court to grant relief based upon your hearsay testimony regarding the statements of a woman who is not only not present—but dead?”

  “That’s about the size of it, your honor.”

  “Ms. McCall, the only reason I have not already thrown you in jail is that I know you are a recent graduate and that you’ve probably acquired your understanding of evidence law from your co-counsel.” Derek’s quick glance in Ben’s direction was enough to send chills down his spine. “That could account for a multitude of sins. Incompetence is contagious.”

  “I have researched this, your honor,” Christina said firmly. “There is precedent for making hearsay exceptions. For instance, the rule regarding dying declarations.”

  “Which this isn’t.”

  “Granted, but it only missed by a few hours.”

  “You’re not helping yourself, Ms. McCall.”

  Maybe not, but she wasn’t going to let him bully her into stopping the attempt. He might terrorize Ben, but to her he was just a blowhard with an overinflated ego and a bad hairpiece. “There are also hearsay exceptions pertaining to any situation where the declarant is unavailable.”

  “Those exceptions presume that the statement has been made in such a way or under such circumstances as to suggest truthfulness. Here, I have only the word of counsel for the defendant—the one who’s trying to escape a rapidly impending execution date. Does that suggest truthfulness to you?”

  Christina looked the judge right in the eyes. “I take my professional reputation and my ethical responsibilities seriously, sir. If you’re suggesting that I’m making false statements to the court, with no basis whatsoever, I will not hesitate to file a judicial complaint.”

  “Young lady—”

  “Don’t you young-lady me. I don’t care if you’re a federal judge or the Prince of Wales. I will not allow you to cast aspersions on my character.”

  Ben stared at her, his eyes wide as balloons. Did she want to spend the night in jail?

  To his amazement, Derek backed down. “Counsel, let’s return to the case at hand, shall we? I am not going to allow this pseudo-testimony into evidence, and I am certainly not going to reverse a well-reasoned jury verdict on its basis. Do you have anything else?”

  Christina’s voice dropped several notches. “We’ve made several allegations of error in our petition.”

  “All of which have been ruled upon previously by other courts. Do you have anything that is remotely new?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then under those circumstances, Ms. McCall, I’m afraid I have no choice but to—”

  “Wait a minute. I do have something else. Something the police missed entirely.”

  Ben sat up straight. Christina . . .

  “And what would that be?”

  “The fact that Ray Goldman couldn’t be the killer who massacred the entire Faulkner family.” She paused. “Because there were two of them.”

  “Two? Miss McCall, what do you take me for?” If Derek had been angry before, now he looked ready to gnash Christina’s law diploma to pieces with his bare teeth.

  Baxter nailed the boyfriend—James Wesley—on her first guess. Not that there were that many candidates at the funeral from whom to choose.

  She discreetly flashed her badge, introduced herself, and asked if they could talk a moment in private.

  “I suppose.” His expression was phlegmatic and contained. Was he really so unmoved? Or was he putting a brave face on it? “This day can’t get any worse.”

  They moved to the shelter of a large oak tree in the corner of the cemetery. “I know this must be hard for you. I understand you were Erin Faulkner’s boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend may be pushing it.” He was a handsome black man, well educated. Way too young for Baxter, but he had an obvious appeal. His curly black locks alone would be the envy of many a woman. “We went out maybe five or six times.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Sheila Knight referred to you as Erin’s boyfriend.”

  “Too bad she didn’t tell Erin.”

  “Something happened between the two of you?”

  “Not that I know about.” Wesley ran his fingers through his curls. “Everything went fine on our dates. They were a trifle slow or awkward in places, but for first dates, really, they were fine. I wanted to see her again.”

  “And you asked her?”

  “Repeatedly. But she turned me down.”

  “Did she give an explanation?”

  “Not really. Just said she couldn’t do it again. Something like that.”

  Baxter whipped her pocket notebook out of her jeans and made a few notes. “Any idea why?”

  “How would I know? Maybe I was a lousy kisser.” He paused. “But I don’t think that was it. I think . . .” His eyes wandered about the green expanse of the cemetery. “I think she was afraid of getting too close.”

  Huh. And I thought that was only men. “Why do you say that?”

  “Do you know what happened to her family?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, she never got over it. Not in seven years. It was like after she lost everyone she had ever loved—she never wanted to love again. Wouldn’t allow herself to love again.”

  A possibility, Baxter supposed. “Was she seeing anyone else?”

  “Not that I know about. Scratch that. I’m certain. I think I was the only guy she went out with the whole seven years. As far as I could tell. And I saw her pretty regularly, when I worked at the organ clinic.”

  “You did? But you’re not there now?”

  “No. I’m self-employed now. I have a hobby that I managed to turn into a profitable business.”

  “So that’s why you left the clinic?”

  “Well . . . no.” Wesley made a coughing sound, deep in his throat. “There was a misunderstanding with Dr. Palmetto. I was asked to leave.”

  “Care to tell me the nature of the misunderstanding?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  Baxter decided to let it go. For the moment, anyway. “So you left?”

  “Yes. And I’m making twice now what I did then, thank you. But I missed seeing Erin every day. That was when I first got up the gumption to ask her out. After I left. I just missed her. We had worked closely together for four years. And I think she missed me, too.”

  “But not enough for another date?”

  “No,” Wesley said quietly. “I guess not.”

  “Where were you when she was killed?”

  “At home, as far as I know.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “I’m afraid I live alone. Housekeeper wasn’t in.”

  Baxter nodded and made a few more notes. “Any idea what might’ve happened to her?”

  Wesley suddenly seemed supremely uncomfortable. “I’ve . . . assumed she killed herself.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “That’s what it sounded like. In the papers. Gun still in her hand and all.”

  “Any other reasons?”

  He pushed himself away from the tree. “She was a very unhappy young woman. Many of us at work tried to help. We talked to her, included her in after-work get-togethers. But there was always . . .” His face contracted, wrinkles outlining his confusion. “A barrier. Between her and the rest of the world. Something that prevented her from making contact.”

  “Any idea what that might be?”

  He shook his head. “There was the tragedy, obviously. But I think there was more. I can’t explain it, but—I think she had a secret. Something none of us knew. And it tormented her.”

  “Any idea what that secret might’ve been?”

  Wesley turned away, staring off at the gravedigger
s who were finishing their work, burying Erin once and for always. “I wish to God I did. Because if I’d known, I might’ve been able to help her. And she needed someone to help her. More than anyone I’ve ever known. But as it was, I was useless.” He turned away. “I was no help to her at all.”

  “So let me get this straight, counsel.” Judge Derek leaned back in his black padded chair. “You’re saying your client should be released from prison—because he didn’t act alone?”

  Christina pressed her fingertips against the podium. “He didn’t act at all, your honor. He wasn’t there. But my point is that the law enforcement version of what happened—upon which the conviction of Ray Goldman rested—is absolutely inaccurate. The crime has never really been investigated. Not thoroughly.”

  “But of course you have no proof.”

  “We are actively following up every—”

  “With all due respect, counsel, this crime occurred over seven years ago. It’s a little late.”

  “We have several new leads.”

  Derek shook his head. “Judicial decisions, at some point in time, must be granted finality. Imagine what would happen if I allowed every conviction to be overturned—or every punishment to be delayed—because seven years later someone comes up with a new theory.”

  Ben saw tiny beads of perspiration appearing on Christina’s forehead. She was up against the wall, literally fighting for Ray’s life—and she knew it. “Your honor, we could not possibly anticipate that a critical prosecution witness would recant her testimony, much less that she would die soon thereafter.”

  “Yes, but the problem is that all of this comes from the defense attorney. I can’t make a ruling based on theories and investigations cooked up by lawyers.”

  “Sir, the police department is also investigating.”

  That caught his attention. “They are?”

  “Yes. They have two homicide detectives working this case as we speak.”

  Jerry Weintraub rose. “Excuse me, your honor, but the AG’s office has been in communication with the Tulsa PD. I believe those detectives are looking into the death of Erin Faulkner—not the slaughter of her family seven years ago.”

  “And we don’t have any reason to believe the two are related, do we?” Judge Derek asked.

  “It is certainly possible.”

  Ben noted the tightening of the jaw that signaled all too clearly that Derek was losing his patience.

  Weintraub jumped back into the fray. “Your honor, Erin Faulkner’s death appears to be a suicide, and although the police are required to investigate, nothing they’ve uncovered proves otherwise.”

  Derek looked at Christina harshly. “Is this true, counsel?”

  Christina swallowed. “Your honor, if it was a clear-cut case, there would be no investigation.”

  “What’s more,” Weintraub added, “the death of Erin Faulkner was nothing like the hideous murders of the rest of her family seven years before. There was no torture, no mutilation, no sexual assault. No eye gouging. The weapon was a gun, not a knife.”

  “MOs could change over seven years,” Christina said.

  “The point,” Weintraub continued, “is that there is absolutely no reason to believe a connection exists between the crime for which Raymond Goldman was convicted and the recent unfortunate death of one of the witnesses who testified against him.”

  “Your honor,” Christina pleaded, “if there is any possibility—”

  Derek shook his head. “I’m sorry, counsel, but I’m afraid you just don’t have the goods.”

  “But your honor—”

  “I have no choice but to rule—”

  “Your honor, please!” Christina stepped away from the podium. “We’re talking about a man’s life here!”

  “I am aware of that, counsel. Nonetheless, we must show due respect to the rulings of the state courts.”

  “Habeas corpus relief doesn’t exist to show respect to the state courts. Pretty much the exact opposite.”

  “Counsel, you are not helping yourself. Or your client.”

  “Furthermore, your honor, if you refuse to use the powers that have been granted to you, you show disrespect to the Constitution and the entire federal judiciary.”

  Derek bobbed forward, as if bouncing up on his toes. “Counsel, you go too far.”

  “I mean, what’s the point of having federal judges, totally independent and appointed for life, if they’re too cowardly to intervene to prevent injustice?”

  “Counsel!” Derek rose to his feet, visibly trembling. “Maybe this is how your cocounsel has taught you to behave in the courtroom, but I can assure you that I will not tolerate it!” He pointed the gavel in her direction. “Consider yourself sanctioned. You may deposit a check for five hundred dollars with the clerk of the court on your way out of the building.”

  Christina was unrepentant. “I’d pay five hundred thousand dollars if it would prevent the warden in McAlester from executing an innocent man.”

  “Ms. McCall!” Derek’s voice boomed across the room. He swiveled his gavel around in Ben’s direction. “Why is it I only have these problems when that man is in the courtroom?”

  “She’s just doing her job,” Ben said quietly.

  Derek was seething, practically foaming at the mouth. “I’ve already fired you, Kincaid. Maybe I should finish the job and disbar you as well.”

  Ben held his tongue. He knew the best thing he could do for Ray now was to keep as low a profile as possible.

  “Your honor.” Christina’s voice was quieter, but no less insistent. “At the very least, give us more time. Let us—and the police—continue to investigate. That’s all we ask. Just stop Ray Goldman’s hourglass while it still has a few grains of sand left in it.”

  “The man has been on death row, at the taxpayers’ expense, for seven years. I will not delay his execution date with no better cause than you have given me.” He slowly lowered himself back into his chair. “I will, however, continue this hearing to a later date.”

  Christina’s lips parted. She and Ben exchanged a quick and amazed look.

  “I should simply deny the petition and end this protracted case. But since the law enforcement community is still investigating a matter that might have some bearing on this case, however slight, against my better judgment I will continue this matter to next week. We will reconvene, and I will expect to be told what, if anything, you’ve learned. I will make my final ruling at the time. And I do mean final.”

  Derek lifted his gavel and rapped it against his desk. “This hearing is adjourned. Now get the hell out of my courtroom. Both of you!”

  Sheila Knight was stunning. Mike was not one much given to hyperbole, particularly when it came to women. His mother had been lovely, judging from the pictures he’d seen. His ex-wife, Julia, had been drop-dead gorgeous—when she wasn’t drowning her sorrows in potato chips. But the woman who stood before him now was absolutely stunning. Her dark hair was a mess, her face was streaked with red, her black dress was magnificently unflattering—and she was stunning, just the same.

  “I loved Erin so much,” she said, her voice quavering. “I loved her like a sister. Like a mother almost.”

  “You can’t be much older than she was,” Mike said gently.

  “No, I’m not. But Erin was one of those people who need someone to take care of them. Even before the tragedy with her family. And I tried to be what she needed.”

  “You knew her even before the deaths?”

  Sheila nodded, wiping her nose. “We met in junior high school. Hit it off almost immediately. She was not an outgoing type and neither was I. We didn’t care who was hot and who was not. We didn’t go to football games and we couldn’t care less about the pep squad. We were a good pair.”

  “So you were still her friend when . . . ?”

  “When it happened. Yes. God, I can’t tell you what that was like. Horrible. Horrible.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I mean, I knew t
hose people, every one of them. I’d played Monopoly with the whole family. I’d even sat for the baby.”

  “You must’ve been a great comfort to Erin.”

  “Not really.” She removed a Kleenex from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “I wanted to be. I stayed with her when she was in the hospital. I came to physical therapy with her, when she was learning to walk again, with the cane. Something had happened to her. Something . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know. But something had changed.”

  “You continued to be her friend, though?”

  “I tried. We became more distant, after we got out of high school. We both went to OU, but somehow, we never saw each other. Until we both came back to Tulsa.”

  “And you resumed your friendship?”

  “Pretty much so. We’d put down a lot of miles together, and that meant something. We got along well.”

  “But not always?”

  Her eyes darted downward. “No one gets along all the time.”

  True enough. But Mike couldn’t let it go with that. “Were there problems?”

  “Nothing serious. I thought at times she might be . . . jealous of me.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I had a much more developed social life. I had a boyfriend. I wasn’t seeing a shrink. And didn’t need to be. She, on the other hand, was all but a hermit. Till she started working at the organ clinic.”

  Mike thought he detected a subtle change in her eyes. “What did you think of that job?”

  “I thought it was spooky. I still do. Being around all those body parts. Trafficking in organs. Counseling distraught families and dying children. Not that their work isn’t important. I understand the value. But I wouldn’t want to do it.”

  “But Erin did.”

  “Right.”

  “Dr. Palmetto seemed to think that the job was helping her get over the horror of what happened to her family.”

  “Did he? Huh.” Again the subtle variation in her expression, her voice. “Well then.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  Sheila shrugged.

  “You don’t much like Dr. Palmetto, do you?”