He unsnapped the locks on the briefcase. “They told me this. It’s why I asked permission to talk to you. I know because of where the world is right now that something like a trial must seem trivial, but Arcadia is serious about upholding laws. This town is trying very hard to make things as normal as possible. The only way to get things back on track is by having and abiding by laws.”
“Are you on my side?”
“I am interested in defending you against the charges that have been filed,” he said.
“Were you a lawyer before the infected?”
He seemed to think about the question. “The infected?”
“Before the zombies.”
“Yes. I was. A pretty good one, too.”
“I acted in self-defense. I am not a citizen of this town. I just want to leave.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“They can’t keep me here,” she said. It sounded hollow, empty, because she was sitting in a locked room, and after her meeting with Trieste, she’d be escorted back to a cell. Despite her protests, they were keeping her.
“If there hadn’t of been an apocalypse, okay, and you were in, let’s say, another country, and you were accused of committing crimes, you would stand trial in that country, even if you thought it was unfair and wanted to leave.”
“I’m not in another country. I’m in my country. This is still America. I still have rights.”
“Following that line of logic, then so did the people in the Bent Elbow,” he said.
Char folded her arms.
“Do you want me to leave?”
Char stared at the attorney. She thought for a few moments about what she wanted to say, before answering him. “I want you to help get me out of here.”
Trieste smiled. “I would like that. We have a lot to do in a short period of time. Your trial has been set for two days from now.”
“Two days!”
“Docket’s not exactly full. In fact, between now and your trial, there is nothing else on the docket.”
“What about picking a jury? Doesn’t that take time?”
“We’re handling jury selection tomorrow morning. I want to be able to spend the rest of today, and after jury selection tomorrow interviewing witnesses.” Trieste removed a legal pad and two pens from the briefcase and began scribbling down notes.
“This is crazy.” Char pushed her fingers into her hair and along her scalp. “What are my chances of getting out of this? You think I’ve got a chance of being let go?”
Trieste set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. “This is a quiet town. Real quiet. People are not used to seeing or hearing about the kind of thing that happened at the bar. Most of these people were here right after, and some even before the zombies took over. This is shocking.”
“So I don’t have much sympathy from the townspeople?”
Trieste shook his head. “And to compound matters, the people you allegedly killed were suppliers.”
“You mean raiders.”
He shrugged. “They brought the town supplies. Where and how they got the items isn’t what’s going to be on trial.”
“I am.” Char ground her teeth. “Well. I killed them. If the situation came up again, I’d do it again. They got what they deserved.”
“It’s obvious to me that you and Frank Broadhurst knew each other. So, let’s go back, okay? Let’s start at the beginning. I want you to walk me through everything. Start with how the two of you met.”
“What do you want to know?”
“One thing that was brought to my attention. The story going around is that you may have robbed Broadhurst, stole a truck with supplies meant for Arcadia.”
“Is that a question?”
“Did you?”
Anyone who knew the truth was dead, or not in Arcadia, she thought. “I don’t know anything about a truck with supplies.”
“Because if we could send a team to recover the truck, it could buy some of that sympathy you were wondering about.”
It was important not to think about the now, but to concentrate on the future. She did not want to wind up in prison. She did not feel hopeful that a sentence could be avoided. The truck was tucked away. If she gave that up, when the time came, she’d have nothing. “I don’t know anything about a supply truck.”
Trieste looked at her for a moment. She didn’t think he believed her.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Next question.”
# # #
Char stood next to Carl Trieste just outside the courtroom. The nameplate slid into place on the large wood doors read: Hon. Rachel Walton.
Char hated how normal these people pretended everything was. It made everything surreal. Inside the Arcadia dome it was as if the world had never changed. That should be a good thing. She struggled to appreciate their progress, or lack of regression.
There were plenty of people milling about in the halls. She guessed they were waiting for the doors to open. Everyone probably wanted a good seat. Why wouldn’t they. This had to be some of the best entertainment they’ve had in years.
Trieste rested a hand on her shoulder. “How are you doing?”
“I’m sick to my stomach,” she said.
“Are you okay?”
“I will be.” They’d talked more last night. According to Trieste, he was happy with the jurors selected. It was a mix of men and women of varied ages. She didn’t think it would matter. He’d also had a chance to talk with witnesses from the Bent Elbow. They’d gone over her statement numerous times. As normal as they wanted their legal system to be, no depositions had been taken, and there had not been any discovery. Trieste was not aware of what the district attorney planned to ask, what evidence they possessed, or what witnesses they’d call.
“What happens? I mean, if we lose this. What should I expect?” Char knew how murder worked in the U.S. pre-apocalypse. Even at fourteen she was aware of high profile trials that took place. Media made sure people were aware. It just never seemed like prison terms were consistent. Some went to prison for twenty-five years for possession of weed, while manslaughter cases landed a defendant seven to ten years behind bars. It all seemed to depend on which state and city you were tried in.
“We have time to talk about that,” he said.
“I’d like to be prepared.”
“I don’t plan on losing, but if we do, if you are sentenced to a prison term it could be anywhere from ten to life, depending on the counts against you. There are two counts of Second Degree Murder, and two counts of Voluntary Manslaughter. Worse case, we will spend the time during the trial to plant the seed of a self-defense manslaughter case. If the jury agrees, you could get one to six years and expect to be out in as little as three.”
Three years. “That can’t happen.”
“Don’t get nervous. We have our one ace in the hole,” he said.
Benjamin. He was not just there; he’d been a part of the fight.
“Have you got experience with murder cases since Arcadia became its own country?” She chewed on a fingernail.
“Not murder, no. There haven’t been any killings in the last three years.”
“Great.”
“But I tried a pretty big case at the end of spring. A gang had entered Arcadia, one and two at a time. They were real sneaky about it. Our sheriff noticed what was going on. They tried to rob some of our storage units, but the police were ready for them.”
“You defended them?”
“They were innocent until proven guilty,” he said.
“And you won?”
“I lost. The Morales Gang is in prison now.”
“How long did they get?”
“Most of them received a ten year term. The leader, Gonzales Morales, he’s doing fifteen with no time off for good behavior.”
The door to the courtroom opened. An officer waved them in.
They were led toward the front, through a swinging gate and sat at a table on the left. Triest
e set down his briefcase and made a show of unlocking it and removing items from inside.
Char turned to watch spectators file into the room and fill the seats. It became quickly apparent it was going to be standing room only for the show.
She pushed fingertips to her temples. It didn’t stop the spinning she felt. She closed her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t get dizzy and spill out of the chair.
“Char? Are you alright?”
She nodded, but stopped, afraid the movement would jar her brain loose. “I’m getting a headache.”
“I can see if anyone has aspirin.”
“I’ll manage,” she said.
The District Attorney entered the courtroom from a back door near where the judge would sit. He wore a dark grey suit that almost matched dark hair with a splash of gray along the sides and top. He approached them and held out his hand.
“Carl.”
“Ed.”
They shook hands.
“And you’re Charlene McKinney? I’m Ed Connors. The D.A.”
“Charmed,” she said, refusing to shake the offered hand.
He took a seat across from them, his files and folders already arranged on the prosecution table.
Although the trial had not even begun, Char was anxious for it just to be over.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Rachel Walton,” the officer who had opened the courtroom doors said. He stood by the judge’s bench with his hands folded together in front of him.
Everyone stood.
The door Ed Connors emerged from moments ago, opened again. This time a black woman in a black judge’s robe entered. The red collar of a blouse worn underneath was visible. She took her seat behind the bench. “Please, be seated,” she said.
“Court is in session,” the officer said, as everyone sat and adjusted getting comfortable.
“I don’t see Ben,” Char said, whispering to her attorney.
“I’m sure he’ll be here,” Trieste said.
“What if he’s not?”
“We’ll have him subpoenaed.”
“You have those?”
“I don’t know. We’ve never needed them. One way or another, Ben will sit on that witness stand.”
Chapter 21
Opening arguments were brief. Ed Connors spoke for less than fifteen minutes. Char’s attorney talked for twenty. The twelve jurors appeared to listen intently to both attorneys. Char couldn’t gauge their reactions to anything stated.
“Prosecution, are you ready to proceed?” Judge Walton said.
“We are, your honor,” Connor said.
“You may call your first witness.”
Ed Connors stood by his table and shuffled through some documents. He took a moment to bang them lightly on the table and evened them up sliding his palm over the top before setting them back down. “Prosecution calls to the witness stand, Benjamin Forti.”
Char sucked in a breath and held it. She turned around to see if he’d entered the courtroom. The door to the hallway opened. Benjamin was led in by an officer. He was walked down the center aisle, head down as if unwilling to look Char in the eye.
Carl Trieste set a hand on her thigh. There was nothing sexual about the gesture. She knew he was merely trying silently to ask that she control her reaction. The jury would be watching. They’d see everything she did, every expression she made.
“He’s testifying for them,” she said. She thought she might be whispering. She worried that everyone heard her question.
He patted her thigh, a lame attempt at reining her in.
Benjamin took a seat in the witness box. He was dressed in his police uniform.
Ed Connors went through preliminary questioning, establishing that he knew both the victims and the suspect in question, that he was with them at the Bent Elbow on the night of the murders, and that he had witnessed the events from start to finish.
Benjamin’s answers were simple yes responses. They required little else.
Char willed him to look up at her. His eyes rarely looked away from his own lap. He didn’t make eye contact with the prosecutor or the jurors seated in the box to his left. His answers were weak and barely audible. She wrapped an arm across her stomach, she didn’t like the way he testified. Something was about to happen.
“And, Mr. Forti, can you tell us about what happened that night in the Bent Elbow, starting with when Olivia Ragone, Jason Iamuzzi, and Frank Broadhurst entered the bar? In your own words, Mr. Forti. Please.” Connors stood with his back to the defense. He stared directly at the jurors while addressing Benjamin.
Char hadn’t known the names of the other people with Broadhurst. It didn’t change anything for her. If put in the same, or even a similar situation, she’d still have killed them.
Benjamin recounted events truthfully. Char listened to every word said as if someone narrated while the events replayed in her mind. It was almost like sitting in a movie theater. She didn’t cringe, or close her eyes. She felt no remorse.
“Olivia Ragone died from a gunshot wound. Did you see who shot Ms. Ragone?”
Benjamin nodded his head.
“You have to respond verbally,” Connors said. “Did you see who shot Ms. Ragone?”
“Yes.”
“And was it the defendant, Ms. McKinney.”
Carl Trieste stood up. “Objection. Leading.”
Judge Walton nodded. “Sustained.”
“Can you identify the person who shot Ms. Ragone?” Connors said.
“Yes.”
Connors waited a moment, but when Benjamin did not continue, he said, “And is that person in this room today?”
“Yes.”
“Can you point to that person for the jury?”
Benjamin pointed in Char’s direction.
“Are you identifying Ms. McKinney?” Connors said.
“Yes, but Ms. Ragone had pulled out a knife.”
“Had Ms. Ragone attacked the defendant with the knife?”
“No, but—”
Ed Connors did not let Benjamin finish. “Mr. Forti, after the defendant shot and killed Ms. Ragone, did there come a point when you informed Ms. McKinney to stop?”
Benjamin pressed his chin to his chest.
Char adjusted the way she sat in the chair, leaning forward, her ribs to the table.
“I didn’t hear you answer, Mr. Forti.”
“Repeat the question, please.”
“Isn’t it true that, not only did you tell Ms. McKinney to stop, but that you told the defendant multiple times to let you handle the situation?”
It was one of the few times that she caught him looking up. He didn’t look at her. He looked at the jury. She wished she could see his eyes.
“Mr. Forti?”
“I did tell her to stop,” Benjamin said. He looked at his attorney. Their eyes locked. “The situation was still volatile, but—”
“And did she stop?”
“No, but Broadhurst still had—”
“And how many times did you tell Ms. McKinney that you would handle this, that you wanted her to stop so you could handle the situation?”
“You are not letting me answ—”
“Answer the question asked, Mr. Forti.”
Trieste stood up. “I object, your honor. Prosecution is badgering his own witness.”
“It’s my witness,” Connors said.
“Overruled, Mr. Trieste. Mr. Connors, if you ask your witness a question, I would like to hear his entire answer, if you don’t mind,” Judge Walton said. “Proceed.”
“Read back the last question, please?” Connors said to the person taking notes. There was no stenographer.
“And how many times did you tell Ms. McKinney that you would handle this, that you wanted her to stop so you could handle the situation?”
“Thank you,” Connors said, then turned to his client and repeated the question.
“A couple.”
“How many times is a couple?” Connors said.
“I’m
not sure.”
Connors turned to look at the jurors. “More than once?”
“Yes.”
“Five times?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Between two and four times?”
“I don’t think I said stop, or let me handle this four times.”
“Between two and three times?”
Benjamin nodded.
“You actually need to answer,” Connors said. “Did you tell Ms. McKinney to stop and let you handle the situation between two and three times that evening?”
“That sounds about right,” he said.
“Did she know you were a deputy? That you are a public figure with some authority in Arcadia?”
Char hated seeing Ben testify. She could tell he did not want to be up there, that he might be forced to testify. She figured the mayor was behind it, or possibly the sheriff. She couldn’t say anything though. Everything asked and answered so far had been nothing but the truth.
“She knew.”
“How do you know she knew?”
“She’d seen me in my uniform, I imagine. I’d mentioned it to her, as well, I guess.”
“Objection. Calls for speculation,” Trieste said.
“Sustained,” Judge Walton said.
“Did the defendant ever see you in your uniform?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wear a badge on your uniform?”
“Yes.”
“So she knew you were a deputy. She heard you tell her to stop and let you handle the fight. And yet, she didn’t listen to your commands.”
“Objection,” Trieste said. “Counsel is merely summarizing.”
“Do you have a question for your witness, Mr. Connors?” Judge Walton said.
“Just a few more.”
Connors enjoyed the drama. It was evident. He was into the theatrics. Char wanted to punch him the face. Even in the midst of an apocalypse people strived for personal success. She figured this guy wanted to win cases to vie for the mayor’s seat during the next election. It was the only motivation she could fathom for why he acted like such an asshole.
Arcadia (Book 1): Damn The Dead Page 15
