by David Ellis
I have largely dropped out of the work on the case, my role restricted to giving an occasional suggestion about a witness. Paul and Mandy continue to make suggestions about Rachel—will the prosecution be able to prove we were having an affair? I have put them off, as always. What can they do but accept my story?
My lawyers and I had a talk about Rachel. Paul told me that we should consider suggesting that Rachel was involved in the murder, and how would I feel about that? I gave him something close to a green light. There are things he can do to suggest Rachel’s involvement. He doesn’t have any hard proof, of course, and if things got really tight I could always make it go away for her, confess to the whole thing. Short of that, however, the most he can do is draw some inferences. It’s not much different than what Rachel is doing with me, giving the prosecution little nibbles to save herself but not dropping the bomb on me. At any rate, Paul never really asked my permission; he’s made it clear that he calls the shots, and there’s no way I’m changing lawyers at this point.
I park my car along the same side street I used last time. The air is crisp, only a slight breeze on my face. A far cry from last time, with the swirling winds.
I jog over to the bushes and work my way through them sideways, using the shovel to whack at the branches to clear a path. As I step through, looking out over the large school yard, the rush, the little thrill that I felt last time I was here, returns with a flourish. That there is no remorse, no pang of guilt, is not nearly as surprising to me as the fact that I actually enjoy the feeling. A part of me wants to dance now, to round the bases of the baseball field and slide into home plate above the rotted corpse. Why is there no conflict within me? Why am I not troubled by this?
I walk up to the chain-link backstop and look out over the baseball field. The bleachers along the baselines are gone now, as is the outfield fence. The school must have finally decided it didn’t make sense to section off this huge space into a bunch of baseball diamonds. Even the pitcher’s mound, I notice, has been flattened. I wonder if this is how the diamond looked on the night of November 18.
I walk around the diamond and lean against the backstop, very close to the burial site. I should be crouched down, I suppose, alert to every sound, looking for shadows. But I stand here with a sense of invulnerability, absolute power. Is this the feeling that flows through the veins of killers? Is this the stimulus they live for, not the actual killing, but the control? Is this what I’m living for?
I suspect it is. This, after all, is why I am here. Control. The thought has never left me over these past months, be it a distant awareness or a thundering strike of reality as I lay in the dark contemplating sleep: Michael Sprovieri, who saw me, might have followed me that night. He might know where the body is buried. It would be hard to believe, I realize; it would involve a number of assumptions I’m not ready to make. But it’s there, regardless. And after days of fearing a flash bulletin on the news or a call from my attorney that they found the body, it has come to this. Control your surroundings. Eliminate any uncertainties.
The sand is uneven, I can see despite the dark. I did the best I could that night to smooth it over with the shovel and my feet. I guess it doesn’t look half bad. Hell, no one’s noticed almost six months later.
Yes, all in all, a job well done, I tell myself as I scoop the shovel into the earth. It’s almost a pity to ruin it.
55
“HELLO.”
“Hi, Marty.”
“Hey, little sister. What’s up?”
“Are you hanging in there?”
“Like a trooper. How are the little ones?”
“They’re great. Tommy talks about you all the time.”
“He’s a sport.”
“Do you know what tomorrow is?”
“Yeah. Monday.”
“Marty.”
“Really, Jamie. Today’s Sunday, tomorrow’s Monday.”
“You know what tomorrow is, don’t you?”
I make a noise.
“You do know, don’t you?”
“Yes, sweetheart, I know.”
“Well, I was wondering.”
“Yes?”
“If I were there, I would want to take some flowers to the cemetery.”
“So you want me to put flowers on her grave? Is that what you’re saying?”
She sighs. “Listen, I don’t want to have a fight, okay? I know you’ve got plenty on your mind right now. But she’s our mother.”
“She was our mother. She’s dead now.”
Silence. Then, softly, “The things you say.”
“Sorry.”
Sniffing on the other end.
“Really, Jame, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t put this on you.”
Another sigh. “I know you start things tomorrow. I wouldn’t ask, but I really want to do something. If I could come out—”
“I told you, I don’t want you coming here. I’ll do it, okay? After the motions, I’ll go out there and I’ll put flowers on her grave.”
“She liked lilies.”
“Lilies, then.”
“Very colorful. Get an arrangement.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“You know I do, but you know I’ll do it for you.”
“And tell her we love her.”
“I’ll tell her you love her.”
“You love her, Marty. Whatever else, you love her. And you know it.”
“I’ll give her the flowers. I’ll tell her you and the kids send their hellos. I’ll even sing her happy birthday. Good?”
“Thanks.”
56
ROGER OGREN WALKS INTO JUDGE MACK’S COURTROOM with a new sidekick, a tall, grave woman in a long skirt and white silk blouse, with the posture of a marine. She strides ahead of Ogren and introduces herself to Paul as Gretchen Flaherty. She and Mandy smile warmly at each other and shake hands; old friends from Mandy’s time at the C.A., I imagine. I wait for my turn, even hold my hand out, but she pretends not to see it.
A voice calls out from across the room. A young guy in a shirt and tie, his hair hanging down in his face, announces that the judge will see us in about ten minutes. I take a deep breath and exhale. Court proceedings, I find, are pretty much hurry-up-and-wait. This is especially true when your lawyer is Paul Riley. We have never made it from the front door of the criminal courts building to the courtroom without at least two or three people stopping and addressing Paul by name, either by extending a hand or, if their standing is sufficiently exalted, a slap on the back. Mandy and I will often stand idly by for ten or fifteen minutes while Paul catches up with whomever about whatever. Paul is never in a hurry; like most people of his professional standing, everything can wait for him, even a court appearance. Although we have managed to make it into court every time before the judge has entered, I always find myself sweating it as we walk briskly to the courtroom at a minute or so before the hearing. For today’s ten o’clock hearing, we arrived at 9:58.
The clerk reappears shortly and tells us the judge is ready. Paul holds his arm out to his adversaries, after you. They walk in front of us, Gretchen Flaherty cutting a look in my direction but still not acknowledging my presence.
I whisper to Mandy as they walk away, nodding at Flaherty, “What’s her story?”
Mandy gives me a look, rolls her eyes. She mouths the word: “bitch.”
His Honor is not wearing his robe as we walk in. He is in a starched white shirt with a blue striped tie and gold cuff links. His frame is even more frail than it looked in the robe. He has bony shoulders and a skinny neck. He is coughing, as always, and I can’t help but wince once or twice as he threatens to expel a lung. His whole body moves as he coughs, his shoulders chopping up and down, the flap of skin under his chin bobbing. He really doesn’t look well. But his voice is clear and strong when he speaks, once again surprising me.
“We have a new face here,” the judge says, with a tone probably reserved for women. Call him old
-fashioned.
Roger Ogren introduces Gretchen Flaherty, who will be his assistant at trial.
The judge resumes his agitated mood. He shuffles around papers, looking for this or that, stopping occasionally to rub his bald, spotty forehead with his index and middle fingers, until the clerk comes in and shows him that it is the heap of papers sitting almost right in front of him that requires his attention. He barks at Ogren to raise his first motion.
The prosecution starts with the biggest pretrial motion: Ogren wants to keep out all evidence of Dr. Reinardt’s abuse of Rachel. “The decedent’s abuse of Mrs. Reinardt is not relevant to these proceedings,” Ogren argues. “It would do nothing more than inflame the jury’s passions and turn them against the victim.” He carries on for a few minutes, talking about case law and fairness.
Ogren speaks deferentially, as any lawyer would to a judge. But he’s also got sort of a know-it-all attitude. Obviously, he says about one case. Clearly, Your Honor. Ivy League, I’d bet my mortgage. I know he’s the guy trying to send me to the chair, so I’m a little biased, but really, this guy is such a weasel. His chubby pink face, the stupid slicked-back hair, that sort of righteousness that must come with always being the accuser. The way he holds a cupped hand out in front of him as he speaks, like he’s lecturing us all. You know that he was one of those kids who always got beat up on the playground, the kid whose hat you would yank off and make him be monkey in the middle. And I can see him just encouraging his tormentors, running from kid to kid trying to retrieve his hat, while it is passed just out of his reach to the next kid in the circle. He’s a big prosecutor now, made a name for himself; maybe some of the wounds have closed. But you know that underneath that gray suit is the pudgy kid who still wonders what people are saying about him behind his back, whose eyes dart self-consciously around a room. The kid who is sizing everyone up, wondering whether they were one of those bullies who terrorized kids like him. Maybe this is what has inspired him to be a prosecutor, to be able to punish someone for his suffering. Professional success, after all, is the nerd’s ultimate payback.
Mandy is handling the motions on our side. Paul will handle the majority of the trial, and this is his little present to her. Besides, Mandy has been in the criminal courts more recently than Paul, and she has tried some cases before Judge Mack. All convictions. So she’s got more than her share of credibility.
“One of the potential theories the defense will be pursuing,” Mandy says, “is that Rachel Reinardt was involved in the disappearance of her husband.” Disappearance, not death. We’re not conceding anything. “The fact that she was subjected to countless episodes of spousal abuse is highly relevant to her motive to harm her husband. It is, in fact, the primary reason the prosecution—the prosecution believed Mrs. Reinardt was involved in her husband’s disappearance. Let’s remember that they charged her with this crime. So I find it curious that they now argue that the abuse is irrelevant.”
“Prior-act evidence is not admissible for this purpose,” Ogren says. “The defense is trying to play the easiest card here, beat up the victim, make the jury hate him. But the character of the victim is not at issue here.”
Mandy has been shaking her head while Ogren speaks. “The defense is absolutely entitled to pursue the theory that Rachel Reinardt was involved in the disappearance of her husband. Your Honor, she was charged with this crime! And the abuse she endured is her motive, at least one of them. We will argue that this is why she killed, or otherwise harmed, her husband. I submit, Your Honor, that it would be grossly unfair to allow us to argue that Mrs. Reinardt was involved in this crime but deprive us of the evidence that supports her motive.”
Judge Mack raises his hand.
“Your Honor,” Ogren says, “if I could—”
“No,” the judge says. “The motion’s denied. Evidence of abuse is relevant to Mrs. Reinardt’s motive. And relevant only for that purpose. I will instruct the jury as such.”
I quietly let out a sigh, not realizing that I had been holding my breath. In the space of less than five minutes, an issue that we have considered for hours, days, weeks has been settled. We will be able to tell the jury what Dr. Reinardt was doing to his wife. The judge will tell the jury that they can consider it only in regard to Rachel’s motive, but it won’t matter. The jury will be thinking of this poor victim as someone who got what was coming to him.
Mandy told me that the prosecutors have a nickname for Judge Mack: “Potluck.” He tends to let in more evidence than some judges would. He thinks that the more you throw in, the closer you get to the truth. Score one for us.
Roger Ogren sits back in his chair, stoic, save for a curling of the lip. He shoots a look at Gretchen Flaherty. He knows he missed a big one. I wait for him to look over at me, but he doesn’t. I had an oh-so-subtle smirk ready for him. Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah.
57
JUDGE MACK RAISES A FIST TO HIS MOUTH AND clears his throat, a painful sound resembling a car engine turning over. “Is the defense prepared to make its motions in limine?”
“We are, Judge,” Mandy says. “The first motion we would raise is the motion to exclude certain portions of Rachel Reinardt’s testimony. Your Honor, we expect that Mrs. Reinardt will testify that my client would often spend time outside the Reinardts’ home in the evenings.”
“Right, right. His obsession with Mrs. Reinardt.”
“Yes, Your Honor, and it is inadmissible and prejudicial character evidence. The prosecution will attempt to prove that my client was standing outside the Reinardt home on the night in question, and they will use his supposed prior actions as proof of conformity. It is inadmissible, and it is grossly prejudicial.”
Judge Mack rests his chin on his hand now, and sort of hums to himself. I fear for a moment that he will break into song, or fall asleep. His eyes roll over to Gretchen Flaherty. “Response?”
“Thank you, Judge. This evidence is not offered to show propensity. It is offered to demonstrate the state of mind of the defendant. It illustrates the extent of his infatuation with Rachel Reinardt in a way that no other piece of evidence can.”
“Your Honor,” Mandy says, “this is thinly veiled character evidence. They are offering this to make it more believable to the jury that my client was outside the Reinardts’ house on the night in question.”
“No,” Gretchen Flaherty states decisively, “this evidence is—”
“I’ve heard enough,” Judge Mack says. “This one kept me up last night, and that doesn’t happen very often these days.” The judge looks at the attorneys, not even smiling, but allowing them time to laugh at his little joke. “I do believe that this evidence could be relevant to the defendant’s state of mind. For that limited purpose, it would be admissible. On the other hand, I’m not blind, at least not yet.” The judge winks, I think at Mandy, when he says this. “I realize that this evidence carries the grave danger of being considered as character evidence, regardless of any limiting instruction I give. This comes down to a matter of weighing probity against prejudice.”
The judge leans back in his chair. “This is, without question, the best evidence the state has that Mr. Kalish was taken with Mrs. Reinardt. If I exclude this, they are left with some statements the defendant supposedly made to Mrs. Reinardt, and some general observations from people that the defendant seemed interested in her. I hesitate to remove a piece of evidence that, in my mind, sheds significant light on the relationship between these two.”
Come on, Judge. Enough of the potluck. Say “however.” However, I must exclude this evidence . . .
“On the other hand—”
Close enough.
“—this evidence is quite prejudicial to the defense, not for the purpose for which it is admissible, of course, but for the purpose for which it is inadmissible. We all know that this evidence is going to make it more likely for the jury to accept that the defendant was outside the house on the night in question.”
You could hear a pin drop in these
cramped chambers. Aside from the evidence of the spousal abuse, this is the biggest ruling we will get on the pretrial motions. No, this is bigger. If the jury never hears that I used to stand outside her house, then the prosecution’s circumstantial case becomes that much less believable.
The judge massages his forehead with his fingers. “Any of you have sinus problems?” he asks.
My mouth drops open. Sinus problems?
Paul doesn’t miss a beat. “I sure do.”
“Yeah, Judge,” Gretchen Flaherty says, “the season came early this year.”
What, the side with the most allergies gets the ruling? Fuck, I’m stopped up from May to September. Can I get the charges dismissed?
“Usually, it doesn’t come until April at the earliest,” says Judge Mack. “We get one god-dang warm spell and bang.” He nods toward me, of all people. “Could I bother you for a drink of water?”
There is a water cooler behind me, one of those plastic bluish jobs. I stand up and pull a wax cup from the dispenser attached to the side. Shit yes, you can have a drink of water. I’ll pour it down your throat myself, you give me the ruling.
All of us sit there as calmly as possible. Paul’s foot swings ever so slightly on the crossed leg. Mandy’s thumbs twiddle in her lap.
The judge has already screwed the top off of his prescription bottle. He accepts the cup from me without comment. He pops two pills into his mouth, pours in some water with a shaky hand, and thrusts his head back. His head falls forward again, and he coughs loudly. He puts his fingers in his mouth and removes one of the pills.
“The pipes don’t work as well as they used to,” His Honor informs us with a sour face. The pill goes back in, another drink of water, another head thrust, and we learn from his calmer expression that the pill has gone down.
The judge crinkles the cup in his hand and tosses it under his desk, hopefully into some sort of garbage can. Then he looks at Paul. “Well, I think the best thing to do is to let the evidence in.”
