Trial and Terror

by ADAM L PENENBERG

  She logged on. Marsalis had clearly juiced up her computer with more RAM, speed, a faster modem, and software that could download full-motion video and stereo sound.

  She typed in the address Marsalis had left her, and the software spirited her through cyberspace to a homepage plastered with a photo of herself. A banner underneath said, Click here, Summer. When she did, she was faced with a conundrum.

  The answers are the passwords. Without the passwords, you will be denied the answers you seek.

  What answers? she wondered. About Sonia, Wib, Strickland, the existence of the video of Gundy’s murder? Or were these answers to questions Summer hadn’t even thought of?

  It was a test. She answered basic questions like date of birth, year of high school graduation, college graduation, law class ranking. Then the questions got more personal: form of birth control, favorite sexual position, the name of the last man she’d spent the night with.

  When she lied (or forgot), the computer chastised her and wouldn’t let her go on.

  Summer’s hands were sweaty; her fingers slipped on the mouse. She was on a scavenger hunt for her life. But to learn what Marsalis knew meant she had to play his game.

  Now she was on a site labeled Summer’s Big Secrets. Ringing the edge of the screen were miniature banners, actual documents, certificates, letters, news stories—all details obscured.

  Choose one. Summer clicked on an official-looking document affixed with the icon “Sonia’s Crime,” and the screen flowered.

  But instead of answers, more questions.

  What time of day were you accosted?

  Summer crashed her fist into the keyboard. gbmgyg, the screen read.

  Data error.

  Fuck you, Marsalis. She hit “return.”

  Data error. One more incorrect answer and this session will be terminated.

  Summer couldn’t face not knowing about Sonia. What crime? Was this the reason her mother had vanished? Shaking from the cold and the fact that Marsalis had her psyche on the rack, Summer typed, Dusk.

  The weapon?

  A knife, lodged under my chin.

  From which direction did the attacker approach?

  Behind.

  What did he do next?

  Why are you doing this to me?

  Data error.

  He forced me inside.

  Then?

  He wrapped duct tape around my face so I couldn’t identify him.

  What did he do next?

  He beat me, and tied my hands up with more tape.

  Then?

  Sliced off my clothes with the knife.

  What else?

  He heated the blade of the knife on the stove and burned my back.

  Did you beg him to stop?

  Yes.

  What did he do next?

  Summer yanked at her hair. She didn’t know how much more she could take.

  Unless you respond within 10 seconds, this session will be terminated. 9-8-7-6-5-

  He raped me, OK?

  Did it hurt?

  She had worked so hard to blot out these memories. She stood up, walked away. When she looked back at the screen, the count was on. 4-3-2-

  She typed: Yes, it hurt.

  When he was done, what did he do?

  Summer was beyond pain now. He urinated on me.

  Then what?

  He doused me with bathroom cleaner, to mask the urine in case the crime lab tried to analyze it.

  Before he left, what did he say?

  “Don’t worry, bitch, I used a condom.”

  And?

  Told me he should have cut me up.

  Were you lucky?

  I’m still alive.

  But inside you died just a little bit?

  You’re a bastard, Marsalis.

  Data error.

  When her time was almost up and everything she’d just gone through might be for naught, she gave in. Yes.

  She was trembling. The memory of the rape tearing her up inside, the pain, humiliation, all of it pushed into the front of her mind. A tear dripped on the keyboard.

  The screen grew into full-frame. “Congratulations, Summer!” Marsalis’s recorded voice. “Your reward for successfully completing this examination is information. What you choose to do with it is entirely your affair.”

  A death certificate for a four-year old child hovered in the middle of the screen. Her eyes settled on the name.

  Summer Neuwirth.

  Part III

  UNREASONABLE DOUBTS

  Chapter 13

  Summer was in the office early, breakfast having consisted of a gin-soaked olive. Levi was already there, in the computer room. Summer peered over his shoulder. He was surfing the net. Summer could barely watch.

  Levi glanced up, then immediately looked away. “You look like hell.”

  “I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” she said. “What’re you looking for?”

  “Information on the appeals process for death penalty cases. I want to make sure I have updated information.”

  “SK may thank you for this.”

  Levi shrugged. When he clicked, the screen froze. “Shit. That’s the third time. Must be all the pirated software we run. I half-expect the D.A. to bust down the door and indict us all.”

  Levi shut the machine off and rebooted. “I’d tell you to go home and get some sleep, but since we’re so short-staffed, how about a Tic Tac?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “What’s the latest on SK?”

  “Get this,” Summer said. “Gundy’s place was wired for surveillance. Raines told me the cops found hidden cameras all over the place hooked up to a computer.”

  “Hmm. Well, don’t sweat it until we know for sure it’s not Gundy’s private porn habit run amok.” Levi chewed on his pinky nail. “I have some news that should cheer you up. I got SK moved to a new cell. Five-fucking-stars, compared to the last one.”

  Summer smiled and took a seat. “Is it our anniversary?”

  “Let’s just say the warden’s son got into trouble once and I helped smooth things,” Levi said in his usual off-handed way. “But there was a tradeoff. You won’t be able to visit SK in her cell; it’ll have to be between glass. He can’t look like he’s backing down because of political pressure, so he’s by the book on this one.”

  “I’m sure SK won’t mind. What do you think of Hightower being assigned the case?”

  “I’d say that next to Judge Kelly, it was the last thing you wanted. But not a lot we could have done about it.”

  “Raines wins either way.”

  “Yeah, but all’s not lost. Hightower’s up for re-election, and guess who’s running against him in the primary?”

  “Raines?”

  Levi slapped the side of the monitor and it flashed to life. “How’d you know? It’s been a more tightly kept secret than Coke’s formula.”

  “Tai told me.”

  Levi grinned. “I must say, he has his ear to the ground. Anyway, I’m sure they’ll both pander shamelessly to the media, but they’ll also be on their best behavior. If you make a motion, you can be sure Hightower will ponder it rather than rejecting it out of hand just because it comes from the defense.”

  “Maybe.” The thought of doing battle with Raines in Hightower’s court brought on a surge of adrenaline. She dropped her files and books on the floor, and suddenly felt a razor-sharp pain on her finger. She was bleeding. “Shit. A paper cut,” she said, sticking her finger in her mouth.

  “Band-Aids are in my desk,” Levi said, getting back to the computer.

  Holding her finger aloft, Summer went into Levi’s office and sifted through his desk drawer. After wrapping her finger up and stanching the blood flow, she noticed a stack of photos rubber banded together, the top one of the office Christmas party: Summer, Rosie, and Levi, drunk and red-eyed from the flash, falling over, arms around one another’s shoulders.

  The memory made her sad.

  Chapter 14

 
Summer was facing SK, plexiglass between them. She picked up the phone. SK followed suit. They stared at each other, static over the line. Summer could hear other jailhouse conversations, other languages, around her.

  “You’re welcome for getting you a new cell,” Summer said finally.

  SK remained quiet, her angry eyes locked on Summer.

  Summer continued, “I haven’t received any notification, so I assume you haven’t tried to Marsden me yet.”

  “You said it yourself,” SK said. “Even if I did try to Marsden you, it’s nearly impossible to remove an attorney.”

  “Then let’s get down to business.” Summer wrestled with the urge to make a clean break. Speaking through pursed lips, she said, “I’m curious about the boot. How did glass and blood get on it?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself.”

  “What happened during the search of your residence?”

  “I’m not sure. I got home in the middle of it.”

  “How many cops were there?”

  “About half a dozen.”

  “Were they paired up or working solo?”

  “Some solo, some in teams.”

  “What about Detective Tyler?”

  “I don’t now. Fifteen minutes after I walked in, he told me I was under arrest for the murder of Harold Gundy.”

  “And you just bolted?”

  “I panicked,” SK said defensively. “I saw an open window and jumped through. Then I just ran.”

  “The boots, they are yours, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told me you dropped off the pictures of your late husband at Gundy’s. When?”

  “The afternoon he was murdered.”

  Summer covered her mouth with her hand, then removed it. “That could account for your fingerprints on the outside of the door and on the pictures. But if the D.A. shows you visited Gundy’s the day he was murdered, a jury is likely to convict you.”

  “Not if I take the stand and explain.”

  Summer shook her head. “You have priors for prostitution. That would be big trouble if you testify.”

  SK cocked her head. “I thought they weren’t allowed to bring up convictions for crimes not related to the one you’re being tried for.”

  “Except these are what they call ‘crimes of moral turpitude.’ You get on the stand, the D.A. will roast you alive.”

  “I’m taking the stand.”

  “We’ll talk about it later.” Summer knew when to duck. “I’ll find a way to make sure the jury hears about all the wonderful things you’ve done for the community, the childcare center, rape-crisis hot line, the hostel for battered women—”

  “But not the dojo?”

  “Oh, I’m sure the D.A. will mention that.”

  “How do you think I paid for it all?” SK said edgily. “From working as a stripper and a prostitute. I figured the way to bury my sins was to improve the plight of women.”

  “I’m curious. What made you change?”

  SK drew her hair into a ponytail and knotted it to get it out of her eyes. “Business was great for a while, and I was making a ton of money, but then the Haze County cops ran me out of town. Then in New York I was raped. And the cops’ view was like, Hey, you’re a fucking whore, so if some guy goes for a little bonus nookie, why not?”

  Summer flashed to her own rape.

  “I didn’t see him until it was too late,” SK continued. “He pulled a gun on me right outside my building, told me to take him past the doorman and up to my apartment. He terrorized me for eight hours. I thought he was going to kill me.”

  Summer peered through the barrier at SK, separated by glass and years but not experiences. “That’s the worst part,” Summer said distantly. “Not knowing whether he’s going to kill you or not. Afterward, I wondered if I would have been better off if he had. These bastards use sex as a weapon, they take away our security. I thought of killing myself after—”

  SK was staring.

  Summer dropped the phone. It clattered. Trying not to totally fall apart, she ran out of the room, didn’t stop until she had gotten to the prison parking lot, where she picked up her truck and gunned it to the office.

  Safely inside, her door shut, she murmured, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” in a mantra. She had blown it. SK would never retain a lawyer who couldn’t keep herself together. She wondered why she didn’t feel relieved.

  Rosie opened the door, then knocked. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Summer said. “Been one of those kinds of days.”

  Rosie laughed. “Usually I’m the one losing her shit.”

  Summer needed Rosie, needed to lean on her, but was afraid to put herself out on a limb.

  Rosie kept her distance, staying in the hall. “Are you all right?”

  Summer wanted to let it all pour out, but knew if she did, she would never be able to put it back. “I’m OK. Thanks.”

  “Good, good. Listen, one of my clients, a prostitute, was busted for possession and intent to sell. She said to give this to SK’s attorney. That’s you, right?” Rosie handed her an envelope.

  Summer resisted the urge to tell Rosie to keep it for herself—or pass it on to Brockton. “What’s a B-girl want with me?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Melba Ignacio.”

  It didn’t strike a chord.

  “Can I ask you something, Rosie?”

  “Maybe.”

  As in, not if it has to do with us, Summer realized. Fine. “What do you know about Tai Sanborn?”

  Rosie was caught off guard, but quickly righted herself. “Besides that he’s half-Japanese and so fine he could be modeling underwear? Only that the cops hate him. The story goes some of the boys were skimming crack from the drug lab and then reselling it. When Sanborn got wind, he bled it to internal affairs. They reassigned him to another division, but not for long. He was chasing this perp into a crack house when his partner ran out of there like a candy-assed baboon. The perp winged him.”

  “Where was he hit?”

  “His gun hand.”

  “So that spelled the end of his cop days?”

  “You can’t be a cop if you can’t shoot straight.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Rosie blew on her fingernails and brushed them against her chest. “Who do you think defended the perp?”

  Rosie returned to her office. Seconds later, Summer’s phone rang. She picked up.

  “Just so you know,” Rosie said, “I got him a real good deal, too.” Click.

  Smiling, Summer hung up and tore open the letter from Ignacio. The handwriting was flowery and adolescent, a bubble dot over the ‘i.’

  I saw who killed Gundy.

  Chapter 15

  The sun peered over knobby mountains, casting oblique shadows around the parched tombstones. Two burly men in windbreakers, the faded logo of the Haze County Medical Examiner’s office on their backs, were thigh-deep in the earth, shoveling dirt. There was a numb clank when metal struck coffin.

  Summer was sitting on a headstone flipped sideways. Between dangling legs, she could read part of the epitaph: Sean Alvin Strickland. March 1, 1949 - May 24, 19—. Spray-painted profanity covered the rest, but she knew when he was supposed to have died. It was amazing, Summer reflected, how few people could spell “Satan.”

  One of the diggers scrambled out of the ground and up to a crane while the other donned gloves and swept dirt from the top of the coffin. Summer wondered what Strickland’s victims would say to his unburying. If she tried hard enough, could she hear their diphthongs of grief and rage?

  “Hey,” Chantelle N’Dour, the medical examiner, said, handing Summer coffee in Styrofoam. “I’m just in time for the tricky part.”

  West African by birth, American by choice, Chantelle was a wet-dream witness for the D.A.: intelligent, well-prepared, and her science was beyond reproach. White jurors, always the majority in Haze County, convinced t
hemselves they weren’t racist by giving Chantelle’s testimony extra weight. Summer had cross-examined her many times, knew that Chantelle was as beautiful and brilliant as she was statuesque—6’2”, all bone and moonless-night complexion.

  Summer sipped coffee. “What’s tricky about lifting a coffin out of the ground?”

  “You mean raising the dead? He’s been in the ground a long time—” She shouted at the gloved digger, who was fumbling with cable. “Make sure you triple the straps, Boyd. We don’t want Mr. Strickland’s remains to tumble out.”

  Summer detected a hodgepodge of accents: African, French, British, and New Jersey, where Chantelle had studied for her doctorate.

  Boyd yelled back. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make you a deal, Chan. The guy falls out, treat me like your ancestors would.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Throw me in a pot of boiling water and serve me as soup.”

  Chantelle laughed. “You can eat me, too, Boyd.”

  Summer envied how easily she got along with men.

  Chantelle plucked at her blouse, fanning her chest with the material. “I can’t believe how fucking hot it is, and it’s only dawn.”

  “Isn’t West Africa hot?” Summer asked.

  “Not this hot,” Chantelle said. “How did you keep the press away?”

  “The last thing Raines wants is a media shower. Did you bring breakfast?”

  “Like I promised.” Chantelle reached into a paper bag and handed Summer a bagel. “What does this exhumation have to do with the demise of Mr. Gundy?”

  Summer unwrapped the bagel, licked the cream cheese oozing out of the side, and took a bite. Chewing, she said, “Everything, nothing. I’ll let you know after you tell me what you find out. For now, I just want to know if the guy in that coffin really is Sean Strickland.”

  “You think it’s possible it’s not?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here on my day off.”

  Boyd finished wrapping up the coffin and grunted his way out of the pit.

  Chantelle edged off the tombstone. “Come on.”

  Summer joined Chantelle, their toes brushing the grave’s edge. The other digger cranked up the crane.

  “Wait!” Chantelle skimmed the side of her hand against her throat. When the crane stopped, she said, “Boyd? Where’s the tarp? If this coffin breaks apart, I want to make sure that we catch all of whatever is left of the dearly departed.”