by Mike Pace
“The defendant will rise.” Tom paused for a second, looking to Eva. Big mistake. “I said rise!”
Tom shot up as if he’d been goosed.
The Fuhrer continued. “Are you Thomas Michael Booker?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Booker, you have been arrested and charged with first-degree murder, to wit: that you with premeditation and malice aforethought, did cause the death of one Jessica Marie Hawkins. The purpose of this proceeding is simply to notify you of the charges, and advise you of your right to retain counsel, and if you can’t afford counsel to provide you with an attorney.”
Eva stood. “Your Honor, I’ll be representing Mr. Booker in this case.”
The judge frowned. “It’s my understanding the defendant is an attorney in one of the largest firms in the city. Are you telling me he can’t afford his own representation and is asking the hardworking taxpayers of this city to pay for his defense?”
“Your Honor, Mr. Booker is divorced, and pays substantial alimony and child support. He lives in a modest one-bedroom apartment, and drives a five-year-old car. He’s assured me that he will contribute whatever he can toward his defense, which will go toward partially defraying PDS’ costs of defending others who are less fortunate.”
Schnabel deepened his scowl. Tom panicked. Could the judge bar Eva from representing him because she was paid by the government? After a long pause, the judge responded. “Very well. The clerk will enter Ms. Stoddard as counsel of record. Mr. Booker, you are advised you have a right not to make a statement to the police or anyone else, and that anything you say to anyone other than your attorney may be used against you. Do you understand?”
Tom was so relieved Eva was going to be able to represent him he almost smiled as he answered. “Yes, sir.”
“You are entitled to a preliminary hearing to determine whether there is probable cause to bind your case over to the grand jury. You also have a right to waive the preliminary hearing and go straight to arraignment.”
“Defendant does not waive his right to a preliminary hearing,” said Eva.
The judge glanced down at his clerk sitting directly below him at a tiny desk.
“Monday, three weeks from now,” said the silver-haired lady.
“Acceptable to you, Ms. Lutz?”
The prosecutor checked her calendar on her laptop. “Fine, Your Honor.”
“Set the date.”
Tom noted that the judge didn’t even offer Eva the courtesy of inquiring whether the date worked on her calendar as well.
“Anything else, Ms. Lutz?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Bailiff, please call the next—”
“Excuse me, Your Honor—” Eva cut him off; he was not pleased. “Defense would like to briefly address the matter of bail.”
“This is a murder case, Ms. Stoddard.”
“I’m well aware of that, Your Honor. But, Mr. Booker is a respected member of the bar. He grew up in the metropolitan area. He works for one of the most reputable firms in the country, and he has been volunteering pro bono to represent the city’s indigents in this court system. His daughter resides in Arlington, and he has no prior record. His former wife is here today to offer support.”
Tom turned to see Gayle sitting several rows back. She offered as close to a reassuring smile as he had a right to expect. Sitting directly behind her was his cousin, Estin, who offered a thumbs up. Eva continued her pitch.
“In addition, Mr. Booker’s cousin, Estin Booker, is present to vouch for defendant. Estin Booker is the sheriff of Cumberton, Maryland, and as an officer of the law, is well aware of both the seriousness of the charges and the defendant’s obligations to appear when scheduled. He’s ready and willing to take full responsibility for defendant’s appearance. Finally, we note that the government’s case is paper thin. They have the murder weapon found near his car and a partial print that likely won’t survive a motion in limine. The trumped-up motive appears to be a very brief, minor exchange during a birthday party for his firm’s senior partner. Accordingly, we request defendant be released on his own recognizance, into the custody of Sheriff Booker, or at most, be required to post modest bond.”
Tom saw it as a minor victory that the Fuhrer didn’t immediately crash his gavel to his desk and shout “denied.” Instead, he turned to the prosecutor.
“The Government, of course, strongly opposes the defense request,” said Lutz. “As Your Honor aptly observed, defendant is charged with first-degree murder, and thus will have the highest motivation to flee the jurisdiction, and even the country. We see—”
Eva interrupted. “Mr. Booker would be more than willing to surrender his passport, Your Honor. Moreover, he’d agree to limit himself to the District, Maryland, and Northern Virginia, pending his next appearance, unless specifically permitted to go beyond those boundaries by the court.”
“An innocent young woman has been murdered,” countered Lutz. “The government believes it has accumulated more than sufficient evidence to convict defendant of this heinous crime, in which case he’ll be facing the very real prospect of spending the rest of his life behind bars. That’s powerful motivation to—”
“I’ve heard enough,” proclaimed Schnabel. “Bail will be set at three million dollars.”
Eva pleaded, “Your Honor, imposing three million dollars is the same as no bail. As I said earlier, Mr. Booker is not a wealthy—” She stopped mid-sentence upon seeing the judge, bailiff, court reporter, and clerk raise their heads and look to the back of the courtroom.
She and Tom turned to observe Bat Masterson himself striding up the aisle.
CHAPTER 50
“Is this good or bad news?” Tom whispered to Eva.
“Masterson was the AG when Schnabel received his judicial appointment, so we’ll see very shortly.”
Masterson’s voice filled the room, and every reporter scribbled furiously. “Your Honor, might I impose upon the court’s largesse to very briefly interrupt these proceedings to address the court on this matter?”
Schnabel smiled, and Tom saw the two men lock eyes, as if an unspoken message was being conveyed. “The court recognizes former Attorney General Masterson.”
“Your Honor, Mr. Booker has been and continues to be a very valuable associate at our firm. I can’t for a moment conceive of him committing the crime of which he’s charged, but that will be determined at future proceedings. With respect to the instant matter, I respectfully request the court reconsider its ruling. I will personally vouch for Mr. Booker, and assure you he’ll be present for all proceedings in this court in order to fight these baseless allegations and clear his good name.”
Lutz sputtered in her attempt to respond to Masterson. “Your Honor—”
Like a maestro conducting an orchestra, the Fuhrer raised one hand, and Lutz stopped her counter in mid-sentence.
After a long pause, Schnabel responded. “This court has the highest respect for Mr. Masterson, but—”
“Damn,” whispered Tom.
“—releasing defendant on his own recognizance would be highly inappropriate, given the gravity of the offense. However, Mr. Masterson’s support does highlight the points raised by counsel regarding defendant’s community ties. Therefore, the court will modify the bail amount to one million dollars with a 10 percent bond.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Masterson. “And we think so highly of Mr. Booker, I will present a check for one hundred thousand dollars to the clerk immediately following this proceeding to assure this innocent man not have to remain incarcerated one more minute than necessary.”
The Fuhrer banged his gavel. “Next case.”
Tom drained half the can of Bud in one swallow as he drove north on Rock Creek Parkway toward Adams Morgan. The trees in the park were now mostly bare, and though a sunny day, their stark black trunks, lined up like faceless soldiers, appeared vaguely sinister. He shivered, then finished the Bud.
It had taken till midaft
ernoon before he’d been released. Eva had arranged to have him exit the restricted entrance in the rear of the building to avoid the media jackals gathered on the front plaza. After a quick kiss, she promised to come by after cleaning up a few things on her desk. Zig offered a ride home, but if Tom was going to save his daughter, he needed wheels. He’d insisted Zig drop him off at a Hertz office downtown, where he’d picked up a small Ford, then made a quick stop at a liquor store.
Janie was the last target. He was now free to save her. No need to worry about getting caught. One life, any life. If he knew for certain his own would qualify, at the next curve he’d veer into the nearest tree without a second thought. With one hand and a practiced thumb, he popped another beer.
He attempted to pass a big black Mercedes in front of him. As he pulled even, the driver accelerated. Some fat-cat jerk, thought Tom. Can’t stand that a little Ford Escort or Eclipse, or whatever the hell he was driving, would pass his hotshot car. Tinted windows prevented Tom from seeing the driver’s face, but he flipped the finger anyway.
The Mercedes accelerated. One life, any life. Why wait till the last minute? Won’t have to think about an exorcism. Finish this right here, right now. Driver probably wasn’t a killer, but no doubt had done some unsavory things in his life. Hell with it. Hell with it. Funny.
Tom saw the sharp left curve ahead. He stepped on the gas and accelerated past the Mercedes, then cut the wheel sharply to the right, attempting to force the Mercedes off the road into a huge oak hurtling toward them.
The driver slammed on his brakes. With tires squealing, the big black car spun in a full circle, out of control, heading straight for the oak. But at the last moment, the driver was able to bring it to a stop on the shoulder facing backwards.
Tom slowed and checked his rearview mirror. The driver got out. No. A young woman, early twenties. She opened the back door and pulled an infant from a car seat.
Oh, my God.
His shoulders heaved as the tears came and continued all he way home. He wouldn’t have stopped them even if he could.
Tom finished the Stella. He was in his apartment, sitting across his table from Zig.
“Now that you’ve washed the edge off, you want to walk down to Napoleon’s for some real food?” asked Zig.
“I’m starving for anything that isn’t white, limp, or damp, but given my new celebrity, not sure that’s a great idea.” Tom got up and rummaged through his cupboard and in the back corner found a can of chicken noodle soup that had probably been there for over a year.
“Don’t you dare,” said Zig. He pulled out his phone and tapped a speed-dial number. “One large, no, make that two large, with sausage, mushrooms…” He looked to Tom.
“Peppers, double peppers.”
Zig finished the order, provided the address, and terminated the call.
Tom replaced the soup and returned to the table. “I know I already said this, but I can’t thank you enough. And I never had a chance to thank Mr. Masterson.”
“You’re welcome. What are your immediate plans?”
“Good question. I don’t know how I can go back to PDS. Doubt any court would approve my appointment to represent an accused. Judge would be afraid if the man were found guilty, the conviction would be overturned because of the likelihood a juror who thought I killed Jess would convict the client by association. What about the firm?”
“It’s not my call, but Bat said to tell you to lie low for a few days. You know, till things cool down. And you’ll continue to be paid, of course.”
“Again, thank you.” Tom really did appreciate the firm’s help—otherwise, he’d still be living in the D Street Hilton. But although socializing with Zig felt great, he couldn’t keep his mind from the exorcism to rid his body—his soul?—of the demons inside him.
If they were inside him. After the incident on the Parkway, Tom had resolved to put his faith in Father Sheran. As soon as he’d arrived at his apartment, he’d excused himself from Zig and gone into the bathroom to call the priest. Matthew explained he was working on setting up the ritual and promised to get back in touch soon. Tom resisted the strong impulse to press him further. In the meantime, he would try to act as normal as possible. Which meant engaging in discussions about his case with the people who cared about him.
Zig continued, “The free time will allow you and Eva to concentrate on your defense, and maybe even finding Jess’ real killer.”
Tom’s response was interrupted by a knock.
“Too soon for pizza,” said Zig.
Tom opened the door to greet Eva. She carried a six-pack of Bud and a bag surrounded by the seductive aroma of hot french fries. She set the beer and food on the table, then turned and embraced him.
“I never really thought you’d get out,” she said.
“A lack of confidence from my own attorney is not very comforting.” He smiled broadly and kissed her.
“Hey, you want I should leave?” asked Zig.
“No, no. Join us,” she responded. “There’s an extra burger in there.”
“Already ordered pizza, but whatever’s left over will keep,” said Tom. He kissed her again, then opened the bag, removed a large container of fries, and ate half of them in one bite.
“A couple days in the slammer and you eat like a pig,” said Eva.
Tom’s voice was partially muffled by the butts of fries sprouting from his mouth. “And your point is—?”
They all laughed, and it was all Tom could do to keep from choking on the fries.
With Tom vacuuming in the food like a Hoover, they’d killed the burgers, the pizza, and most of the second six-pack. Tom heard Zig and Eva discussing his case, but their voices sounded like they were at the far end of a tunnel. His mind was consumed with the exorcism and the chance to rid his body, his life, of the threat to his daughter.
“Tom—Tom, are you even listening to us?” asked Eva.
“Yes, sure, of course.” He tried to focus on their conversation.
“Okay, the police believe the ransacking of Jess’ place was a clumsy attempt to deflect suspicion from the fact that she knew the killer,” said Eva.
Zig, reclining in Tom’s red chair, grabbed a beer from the lamp table next to him and tossed the two remaining cans to Tom and Eva sitting on the couch. “What do you think?” he asked.
Eva set her beer down on the coffee table unopened. “From the discovery they’ve given me so far, they’re probably right,” she responded. “There’s no evidence of sexual assault. Nothing missing from the unit—money, jewelry, were all easily findable but nothing taken. It has all the earmarks of the killer trying to throw off the cops. But don’t get me wrong. At trial, we’ll definitely use the spooked, robbery-gone-bad theory to try to establish reasonable doubt.”
“Trial?” asked Tom.
Eva hastily stepped back. “Highly unlikely we’ll get that far.”
“Guys, remember why Jess wanted me to come over,” said Tom. “She said she needed legal advice and was scared. You saw her at the party, she was highly agitated. Said ‘they’ were looking for something, which fits in with the ransacking.”
“The problem is, you’re the only witness to that conversation,” said Eva.
“Assuming it wasn’t a burglary gone bad, anyone else who’d have a motive to take her life?” Zig asked.
“No idea,” replied Tom. “I mean, I hardly knew the girl. What does Marcie say? Anybody who would hate her enough to kill her? Any idea what she was hiding?”
“Clueless,” Zig responded. “Although after the medics took Jess’ body away, Marcie said she looked for Jess’ phone so she could find contact info for her family and friends, but couldn’t locate it.”
‘You think Jess hid her cell phone?” asked Eva.
Zig shrugged. “Who knows? Could be she had some information or pictures on the phone the intruder wanted.”
“But why wouldn’t Jess pass on any troubling information to Marcie? Why the cloak and dagger?” a
sked Tom.
“Again, no idea.” responded Zig. “Marcie’s still a little traumatized by the whole thing. After all, if she hadn’t been with me, she could be dead. Maybe with time she’ll remember something. The question is, why wouldn’t Jess tell you her little secret over the phone? Or at least, where she was hiding the phone, if that’s what it was?”
Now it was Tom’s turn to shrug. Suddenly, he remembered Jess’ last words. “She did say, just before she hung up, she said if something happened to her, remember doo-wop.”
Eva appeared perplexed. “Doo-wop?”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” asked Zig.
“Got me. I assume it’s some kind of code.”
“Maybe a location to whatever ‘they’ were looking for,” said Zig. “If you find what she was hiding, it could lead cops to the real killer.”
“Why didn’t she just tell me? Why the code?”
“It could be she was worried your phone was bugged. Or maybe she thought you were with somebody. Who knows?”
Tom shook his head. “Doo-wop’s music from the late ’50s, early ’60s. I don’t see a connection to anything.”
Eva turned to Zig. “I need to get into some attorney-client stuff here with Tom, so why don’t you excuse us for a little bit, and then if he wants to see you later, he can call?”
Zig smiled. “If he calls to spend time with me instead of you, then he no longer has to worry about conviction, ’cause he’ll have a slam-dunk insanity defense no jury could deny.”
Eva chuckled as Zig got up and moved to the door. “I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
“Hey—” Tom rose from the couch and embraced his friend. “Thank you.”
