by Paul Bishop
“Will do,” Hatch said. “Your shiner is going to look great on television.”
“It would get my sympathy vote,” Monk said.
“Shut up,” Fey said without heat. There was nothing behind the gentle ribbing. “You should both be doing stand-up.” She glanced around the squad room. “Speaking of clowns, where's Colby?”
“Court. He's got the prelim on Mason Dunnet today.”
Fey nodded, remembering. “Should keep him busy for a while.”
The Dunnet case had been a self-solver. Neighbors reported gunshots from inside the Dunnet residence. When patrol officers arrived, they found Dunnet standing over the rapidly cooling body of his wife. He was literally holding the smoking gun. Dunnet had happily confessed, but now a public defender was grandstanding. Using a male version of the burning bed defense, the PD maintained Dunnet had been forced to kill his wife before she killed him through ongoing physical and mental abuse.
At her desk, Fey gathered up the reports pertaining to Miranda Goodwinter’s murder and Cordell’s arrest. Car keys in hand, she signed herself out to the District Attorney's Office in Santa Monica. It was time to file the case and get Cordell arraigned.
“Cases like Cordell’s convince me God is a man,” she said to Monk and Hatcher as she was leaving.
“Why?” asked Hatch, ever willing to play the straight man.
“Because if God was a woman, she wouldn't have screwed things up this badly.”
Fey drove the short distance to the DA's office on autopilot. Her conscious mind filled with the possibilities Janice Ryder had brought to the surface. There was no telling what a jury or a judge would do with the double jeopardy situation.
Fey remembered a well-publicized case where patrol officers arrested a burglar inside a residence while the owners were on vacation. It seemed dead-bang until it went to court. In front of the judge, it was revealed the arresting officers had been overzealous, putting a parking ticket on the defendant's car parked in front of a fire hydrant for a quick getaway.
While out on bail, the defendant appeared in traffic court. He pled guilty to the parking infraction, receiving a fifty-dollar fine. When the burglary charges came to court, the defense attorney argued his client already pled guilty to a charge stemming from the case and been punished by paying a fine. To try him on further charges would place his client in double jeopardy. The judge agreed. Instead of going up the river for five years, the defendant was immediately released to return to his chosen profession.
In a court of law, anything was possible.
Janice Ryder was right on one point – dead bang didn't mean squat.
There were also a ton of things demanding attention before the case would be ready for court. There were unanswered questions from the first case in San Francisco, plus unknowns related directly to the victim.
Before this point, Fey and the other homicide detectives had been scrambling to beat the magical seventy-two-hour deadline when the chances of solving a case drop dramatically. In accomplishing the feat, they had burned through a lot of mental and physical energy. The fast and loose part of the case was over. It was time for the grunt work of making sure the case held up. A tough task, especially with a firecracker like Janice Ryder trying to thwart their every move.
Now, sitting across from Jake Travers, Fey felt overwhelmed by the magnitude of things still to be accomplished. “Can you handle this from the arraignment on down?” Fey asked. “I don't know what Ryder is going to throw at us, but I'd feel better with you there to handle it.”
“I haven't said I'm going to file the case.”
“You'll file it,” Fey told him.
“Because why?”
“Because you can't resist a challenge, and because you won't be able to resist taking on Janice Ryder.”
“You mean personally or in the courtroom?”
Fey gave Jake a sly smile full of open sexuality. “In the courtroom, of course. If you take this on, I promise you won't have energy left to deal with her personally.”
Jake Travers looked suitably shocked. “Promises, promises,” he said.
Fey knew she was playing dirty pool, but when life got tough, you used whatever weapons were in your arsenal. Sex was constantly used against women. Sometimes it was nice to turn the tables to your advantage.
She also knew she enjoyed sex a lot more when she controlled the reins.
Chapter 18
Isaac Cordell's arraignment was to be held in Division 90, located in the court buildings across the street from the West Los Angeles Area police station. Fey managed to get the complaint filed and typed in time for afternoon court.
This required her to walk Cordell from the station jail – where he had been held overnight – to the sheriff’s lockup at the back of the court building. If the no bail status held during the arraignment, he would be transported from the courthouse to County Jail, a facility run by the sheriff's department. He would remain there until his preliminary hearing.
Colby was back from morning court when Fey returned to the station. She collared him to assist in escorting Cordell across the street. Going into the station jail to take custody of the prisoner, Fey felt her guts begin to churn. Every ache and pain in her body seemed to intensify. She had taken a couple of painkillers, but she felt exhausted. She knew she had to get through the afternoon before she could collapse.
Cordell stood up from his bunk when he saw Fey and Colby approaching the bars of his cell. The jailer unlocked the cell door, and Fey moved to stand in front of it. Her eyes locked with Cordell's, but the big man didn't move or say anything.
“We're here to take you to court,” Fey told him. Her mouth was dry. She struggled to keep her voice even. “Turn around so I can put the handcuffs on you.”
Cordell didn't move.
Fey shrugged. “Don't screw with me, Cordell. Don't make me come in there and kick your butt again.”
Cordell stared at her. “You’re one tough dyke.” His statement held a curious note of respect.
“I'm old and tired and I ache everywhere. Now, turn around.”
Cordell slowly turned his back to her.
“Put your hands behind your back, palms together as if you're praying.”
Cordell complied. Fey moved into the cell with her handcuffs in her hand. It was one of the toughest things she had ever done. She realized she was scared of this man. It made her angry.
His presence brought out all the childlike insecurities she thought she had conquered long ago. She realized, not for the first time, it was impossible to escape your childhood. Its dark edges and hidden frights were always waiting to ambush you at any given moment.
As she got closer to Cordell, the smell of the man's stale sweat filled her nostrils. She saw the tension ripple across his shoulders, but she did not hesitate to firmly grab his left wrist and secure the first cuff around it. Holding on to the second cuff, so Cordell couldn't pull it away from her if he decided to go off, she waited for a second before securing the other wrist. The small wait between the handcuffing of the hands sent a very strong message. It told Cordell if he wanted to go for it, she was willing to go up against him again. The second ticked past, and with it, Fey achieved psychological dominance.
The short trip to the sheriff's lockup was done in silence. Fey walked on one side of Cordell, Colby on the other. The weight of Fey’s .38 revolver, which Colby had recovered from the arrest scene, hung heavily under Fey's arm. It was as if the inanimate object was fanning the embers of her anger toward what Cordell tried to do to her. Their hidden secret.
The gun seemed to be whispering in Fey's ear – the words echoing over and over – Shoot him. Kill him. Make him pay. Put him out of your misery. Fey struggled to shove the thoughts away, grateful when they reached the back door to the lockup.
A uniformed sheriff's deputy took custody of Cordell.
“He's for afternoon arraignment,” Fey said, handing over the prisoner and the transfer paperwork.
&
nbsp; “No problem,” the deputy said. He knew Fey slightly and looked pointedly at the bruising on her face. “Somebody put you through the ringer.”
“You should see the other guy,” she told him, and pointed her chin toward Cordell.
“Really?” the deputy said in surprise. He took in Cordell's size with a brief, impressed, glance then hefted his baton from the ring on his belt. “You want us to teach him a few manners?”
“Things are pretty even right now,” Fey said. “No lessons are necessary.”
“Too bad,” the deputy said. Fey, the deputy, and even Cordell knew the exchange was merely a ritual, not a legitimate threat.
The deputy removed the cuffs from Cordell's wrists. Handing them to Fey.
“Thanks,” she said. Cordell still had his back to them as she and Colby turned to walk away.
Another deputy used a key to open the lockup door for the detectives to exit. They nodded to him and stepped through.
“She’s one tough woman,” Fey heard Cordell say as the deputy slammed the lockup door behind them.
Colby turned to look at her. “From tough dyke to tough woman,” he said. “Progress.”
Division 90 was on the ground floor of the court building. At one-thirty Fey met Jake Travers at the front doors, entering with him.
Bill Swanson, the regular arraignment DA, was surprised to see Travers. He was relieved when Travers explained why he was there.
“Only this case,” Travers told the younger DA. “The defense lawyer is full of tricks. I want to handle any surprises.”
“No problem,” Swanson said. He considered himself a climber. He didn’t want a problem case rocking his boat. If there were fireworks, he was more than happy to have Travers take the heat.
Looking around the courtroom, Fey saw a handful of people scattered through the visitors' chairs in various states of anxiety. An empty jury box lined the left wall. The traditionally high judge's bench stood imposingly in front of the counsel table, which was piled high with briefs.
The doors to the courtroom opened and Janice Ryder stepped in. She had changed her outfit since her morning confrontation with Fey. She looked stunning in a pale blue sheath with pearls at ears and neck. Her hair fell attractively over her shoulders in soft curls. Her calfskin briefcase had been switched for a white leather model matching her pearls.
“Is she the piranha?” Jake asked softly.
Fey nudged him hard with her elbow. “Stop drooling.”
There was the sound of a buzzer and the bailiff stood up announcing, “Please remain seated. Division 90 is now in session, the Honorable Judge Martin Beckworth presiding.”
The level of noise in the room dropped to a low murmur as the judge exited his chambers while still zipping up his robe – an action revealing a T-shirt and jeans underneath. He took his seat behind the bench and reached for the docket the court clerk held out.
Putting on a pair of cheap reading glasses, Beckworth peered at the notation on the docket. “Call People v. Isaac Cordell. Case number SA-zero-four-seven-one-five.”
Jake and Fey sat next to Bill Swanson at the counsel table. Travers stood up to speak. “Jake Travers for the people, Your Honor.”
Janice Ryder pushed open the wooden swinging gate separating the gallery and the courtroom's working area. She stepped to the counsel table and placed her briefcase on top. “Janice Ryder for Isaac Cordell, Your Honor,” she said, flashing perfect teeth.
“What have you got me into?” Travers asked Fey in a murmer.
“Where is the defendant?” Beckworth asked.
As if waiting for the perfect cue, there was a knock at the back door of the courtroom. The bailiff opened it to admit Isaac Cordell and an accompanying deputy. The bailiff took custody of Cordell, walking him over to sit next to Janice Ryder. The bailiff removed the cuff from Cordell's left hand and secured it around the right arm of the chair.
Beckworth peered over his reading glasses at Cordell. “Sir, is Isaac Cordell your true name?”
Cordell stood up, trailing his still-cuffed arm behind him. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“You may be seated,” Beckworth told him. He shifted his gaze to the much prettier Janice Ryder. “Counsel, is your client ready for arraignment?”
Janice stood up. “No, Your Honor. There is a jeopardy issue here. My client has already been tried on these charges. Any further prosecution is barred by my client's Fifth Amendment right precluding double jeopardy.”
Beckworth looked surprised. Arraignments were almost always routine. He didn't like to be in the middle of a problem situation – it was why he was in the arraignment court. Janice Ryder didn't look so attractive anymore. “Mr. Travers?” he asked the DA, looking for clarification.
“Your Honor, I'm not sure what counsel is alleging. Since the people have had no formal notice of such a motion, I feel it would be inappropriate to litigate at this time. I believe any question of jeopardy would be better handled during a preliminary hearing.”
Janice Ryder came to her feet. “Excuse me, Your Honor. This is a fundamental right. Neither the people nor the court have jurisdiction to proceed as jeopardy prevents further prosecution.”
Beckworth was not happy. He looked at the tower of dockets for the afternoon session, thinking about the eighteen holes of golf he wanted to play before dark. All things considered, especially his golf game, his decision was easy – pass the buck.
Beckworth looked at Janice Ryder. “Counsel, this is a calendar court. I am not in a position to litigate this issue. The appropriate forum is Judge Grant's court before the prelim.”
“Your Honor…” Janice Ryder attempted to interrupt.
Beckworth forestalled her, holding up his hand. “I'm sorry, Counsel. I have made my decision.”
He shifted his focus to Cordell. “Mr. Cordell, you are charged in complaint number SA-zero-four-seven-one-five, one count alleging a violation of Penal Code section one-eighty-seven – murder. Counsel, do you waive further reading of the complaint and charges?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Janice Ryder said. Her jaws were visibly tight.
Fey smiled, loving every second of it.
Beckworth continued. “I am therefore going to enter a plea of not guilty for your client. I am putting it on the record this arraignment will not affect your ability to pursue the matter in Judge Grant's court.”
Beckworth turned to his clerk, an older woman with an orange flower-print dress, a bun of flyaway gray hair, and steely intelligent eyes. “Becky, what's the matrix day on this case?”
Becky shuffled a stack of papers on her desk to consult her calendar. “Your Honor,” she said after a moment, “the ninth day is Wednesday, the eighteenth.”
“Fine,” Beckworth said, making a notation on the docket. “This matter is set for prelim on Wednesday, the eighteenth of January, in Municipal Court Division Ninety-six.”
He flipped to a page in the docket, peering at it briefly. “I see the defendant is being held without bail. There is also a parole hold. This seems appropriate. Counsel, do you wish to be heard?”
“Your Honor, if the facts surrounding this case were known, it would be clear there should be no parole hold or charges against my client…”
“Ms. Ryder,” Beckworth interrupted. “I have ruled on this issue. I am not going to waste time repeating myself. Do you have anything pertinent to the question of bail?”
Janice Ryder's cheeks glowed from the rebuke. She had a tough time getting her next words out through her teeth. “No, Your Honor. The defense would request an own recognizance report be prepared before prelim.”
“So ordered.” Beckworth happily banged his gavel. “Next case.”
The bailiff handcuffed Cordell again, releasing him back to the custody deputy. Janice Ryder picked up her briefcase and stalked out of the courtroom without a backward glance.
“Whew,” Jake said. “She is wound tight enough to explode.”
Fey agreed. “She went all out to fight for Cordel
l’s parole. But now he’s blown everything.”
“You think she's pissed because Cordell turned on her?”
Jake and Fey moved out of the courtroom behind Ryder. They watched her through the building's glass wall as she walked quickly through the civic center.
“Could be,” Fey replied. “She’s a crusader, but there's more to it.”
“Find out,” Jake said. “We don't want her exploding all over us.”
Chapter 19
Isaac Cordell sat on a bench in the lockup chained between a Mexican junkie and a black robbery suspect. He tried to calm himself. He had survived this before –
thrived actually. He would survive again.
His head hurt. The throbbing came from the center of his brain. It wasn't a new pain. He'd lived with it for two years. The prison doctor told him what it was, but hadn't offered hope for a cure. Cordell knew what caused the pain, and it made him angry. He hadn't deserved to go to prison. But because of what happened to him there, he had the relentless pain in his brain.
He'd been innocent when they convicted him. But it hadn't done him any good. The law didn't care about innocence or guilt, right or wrong, justice or injustice. The law twisted only to the advantage of those who controlled it.
He had hoped Janice Ryder knew how to control the law. She had done it before. Somehow, she had convinced the prison board to grant him parole. If she stayed with him, she might be able to do it again.
If she stayed with him.
All the women to Isaac Cordell knew had used him and abandoned him. It didn't matter he would have done anything to please them. Love, like the law, was twisted those in control.
He had loved his mother, for all the good it did him. Like his father, nothing he did pleased her. He'd been tied to her by an emotional umbilical cord tough enough to resist the sharpest scalpel. Despite his physical size, he had never been strong enough to break away from his mother's demanding presence.
Living at home, he had watched in silent agony as his mother drove nail after nail into his father's coffin. The Cordell's Furniture stores were a testament to how much a desperate man can achieve, yet still fall short of expectations. Finally, Isaac's father had swallowed a .22-caliber bullet on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Even then, he'd tried to accommodate his wife by committing suicide in the shower stall with a small-caliber bullet so there wouldn't be much mess.
