Endangered (8 page)

She scooted forward on the cushioned bench. Sitting a little taller, she looked the judge directly in the eyes.

“Your Honor, that's all very nice, but the law is the law,” the prosecutor retorted. “Section 6303 of the Pennsylvania Code makes clear that murder is an excluded offense. This case should have gone automatically to adult court. Any petition the defense wishes to file needs to be filed there.”

The judge shrugged his shoulders. “That's my understanding of the Code,” he agreed, directing this comment to Roger.

“Your Honor, I have a copy of the law right here, and there is no language in it forbidding Your Honor from hearing a reverse waiver. Moreover, I submit that because there is nothing substantively different between a transfer waiver and a reverse waiver hearing, Your Honor is in an excellent position to hear this. Indeed, you hear these waivers all the time, they're just simply called ‘transfer' instead of ‘reverse.' All the elements of proof are identical.” Roger offered up his copy of the law to the judge; then he turned, briefly, toward the prosecutor, smiled, and then gave the judge his complete attention. “Your Honor, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

The prosecutor curled her lips. “Your Honor, the defense is clearly trying to benefit from an error in processing.” She sighed. “This case cannot be before you. This is a—”

The judge cut her off. “But it
is
before me. And the question is whether or not it will
stay
before me.”

“Your Honor”—now the ADA softened her tone—“if you'll take a look at section 6322, the language of that section speaks to an adult court judge determining if he or she will transfer a case from adult court to juvenile court. The defense has already conceded that this defendant falls within the purview of this section. If you accept his concession, then the reverse waiver hearing must be presided over by an adult court judge.”

Roger jumped at her words. “There is no concession!”

The judge perked up and adjusted himself in his leather seat. “There is no concession?” he said, revealing his own sincere curiosity.

“Absolutely not, Your Honor. I was merely speaking to the charges that the prosecution has actually brought against my client. The district attorney's office has charged him with first-degree murder. I agree that a first-degree murder charge would trigger a section 6322 hearing. Yet under that scenario I still believe you could preside over the hearing, since, as I said earlier, the only difference between the two waiver hearings is the name. However, on the facts of this case”—Roger searched through the papers in his file; when he found what he was looking for, he raised it up above his head as though he held the antidote to a previously incurable disease—“if Your Honor would take a look at the probable-cause affidavit that the arrest warrant was based on, it's clear that the prosecution has overcharged him. Every statement supports a manslaughter charge. Let me be clear, there is no admission of guilt by the defendant. I am merely arguing from the probable-cause affidavit that supported the arrest warrant. Your Honor, the Commonwealth has a tendency to overcharge. This is a well-documented fact, and they have done so in this case. If this defendant had been properly charged we wouldn't even be having this debate over transfer versus reverse waiver hearing because he would be entitled to a presumptive waiver hearing in front of Your Honor under section 6355 of the statute.”

The assistant district attorney was back to gritting her teeth. “The prosecution has every right to charge the defendant according to the crime committed. A person is dead, Your Honor.”

“Sorry, but you do not have the right to charge him with crimes that are not supported by the warrant, the affidavits, or anything that formed the basis for the arrest in the first place. The judge does, however, have every right to dismiss excessive charges.”

Judge McCormick raised his hand, commanding complete silence in the courtroom. He grabbed his file on the case, leaned heavily back into his seat, and studied it, pensively.

Judge McCormick moved forward slowly. Both attorneys stood. The judge cleared his throat. “Ms. Dembe. Mr. Whitford. I've read everything in this”—he fanned the thin file in front of him—“and I believe Ms. Dembe is correct.”

She smiled triumphantly at Roger as her hands loosened their grip on the prosecution table. Roger shifted subtly in his chair. Malik leaned away from him.

The judge continued: “Ms. Dembe, I believe your reading of section 6322 is accurate. First-degree murder is a statutory exclusion, which in this commonwealth requires a juvenile defendant's case to go straight to adult court. And then, and only then, can the defendant request a reverse waiver back to juvenile court. However,” he said, “I also agree with Mr. Whitford. The charges do appear to be excessive. Based on the affidavit, the bare-bone facts allege that the victim and the defendant argued, a fight ensued, and the victim was found dead a short while later. There is no allegation of lying in wait. No intent—at least not in this affidavit. We are dealing with a street fight that possibly went terribly wrong. And this defendant does not have a record, and the victim, by the way, had a pretty extensive rap sheet, considering his age at the time of his death.” The judge cleared his throat. “This is what I am prepared to do. Either I will hear a reverse waiver”—he paused to eye the displeased prosecution—“or I will dismiss the first-degree murder charge with prejudice.” He paused. “We'll make this a voluntary manslaughter case and hear a presumptive waiver hearing under section 6355.”

Judge McCormick banged his gavel. “The waiver hearing is set for three weeks. Let's give it the date of Tuesday, March fourth. Next case, Tony.”

Janae rose to meet Roger at the wooden bar that separated the well of the courtroom from the gallery.

“Malik,” she said, slightly above a whisper. He turned to her just as the guard entered the courtroom. His smile was broader this time—it touched his eyes—and he seemed like himself again. She reached for him. When she felt his skin at her fingertips, her eyes welled with tears.

“I love you.”

“Me too, Moms.” The guard promptly grabbed him by the elbow and escorted him out of the courtroom.

Janae watched until he was completely gone, and then the tears came stronger.

“Why are you crying, Janae?” Roger questioned. “Today could not have gone any better. We got exactly what we came for.”

“If only that was true,” she muttered.

She didn't want to seem ungrateful. Any step toward Malik's freedom was a step in the right direction. But he wasn't home.

Roger abruptly turned away from Janae and spotted Calvin.

Roger held up his right index finger, requesting him to wait so they could speak outside the courtroom. Calvin nodded.

“Calvin, it's a surprise to see you here,” Roger said a moment later, swinging his briefcase as he exited the courtroom.

Calvin smiled broadly and took a few steps toward Roger. “What you did in there was amazing.” He gave Roger a pat on the back and a firm handshake.

“Thank you,” Roger said, the tips of his ears turning beet red.

“Really, it was pure genius how you pitted the judge and ADA against each other. Stroking the judge's ego by telling him that he was
all-powerful and qualified
to hear the waiver—all the while knowing you didn't have a legal leg to stand on, but offering him a moral argument that he could not resist. Loved it.”

Janae turned slightly toward Roger and smiled to acknowledge his accomplishment.

Roger shook his head. He put his hand on Janae's elbow. “Calvin, I want you to meet my client's mother. Calvin Moore, this is Janae Williams.”

Calvin eyed Janae as she offered her delicate hand for him to shake. He was sure he didn't know her, but there was something about her that seemed familiar. She reminded him of his past—of Grandma Pearl, and home.

She was gorgeous. Her hair pulled back off her face revealed a soft golden-brown jawline that she held firm. Her teeth shown dazzling white between her full lips.

“Have you changed your mind about being my cocounsel?” Roger asked.

“No,” Calvin said, his eyes slowly drifting from Janae to Roger. “I haven't changed my mind.”

Calvin noticed a shift in her body. She leaned to her right, in Roger's direction, putting all her weight on that leg, and her right hip made an exaggerated curve in that purple form-fitting dress.

She touched Roger's arm as she leaned further toward him. “I think I'll wait for you outside,” she said in a loud whisper.

“Oh, Janae, that's not necessary. Just give me a moment with Mr. Moore here. I'm feeling lucky this morning. I think I might just get my way with him, too.”

Janae gave Calvin one of those quick, fake smiles. Her coyness caught Calvin off guard, and he chuckled to himself, charmed.

“No, really, I'd rather wait for you there.”

“Well, if you insist. Here take my keys. There is no point in you standing in the cold. It's the black Taurus on the second level of the garage. It's right next to the elevator. You can't miss it.”

Janae hesitated for a moment before taking the keys. “Thanks.” She walked over to the elevator. She could have sworn she felt Calvin Moore's eyes on her as she waited for the doors to spring open. Her back to them, she put on one of her gold hoop earrings. The other fell to the floor.

Calvin quickly closed the distance between them and stooped to pick up the earring. He flipped it over a couple of times in his hands before extending it toward her.

“Thanks.”

He smiled. “Would you like me to hold your coat while you put that one in?”

“No. I'm good.” Janae swept her coat over her small, curvaceous frame, then put the second earring on. She pressed the button for the elevator, again.

Roger and Calvin watched as Janae entered the elevator and turned toward them. Before the door closed, Calvin's eyes met Janae's again, but this time he held her gaze.

“Isn't she cute?” Roger said, turning his attention back to Calvin.

“Congratulations on today, you really pulled it off,” Calvin said, ignoring Roger's comment.

“Well, I thank you,
again.
” Roger smirked at his much-taller colleague from over his glasses. “Let's not change the subject.”

Calvin smiled, not giving up anything. “By the way”—he unfastened the snap on his briefcase—“I'm here to return the files you shared with me.” He extended the research to Roger.

“I have my own copy. That's yours. Is that really why you're here? To hand-deliver the files?”

“No, not exactly,” Calvin said reluctantly. “Okay . . .” He paused. “I will admit I was curious. I wanted to see.”

“Yes? And?” Roger pressed him.

“I don't know. I was on my way to work and I ended up here. That's full disclosure.”

“For someone as smart as you—the whole Yale thing and all—you sure are dense. Do I have to call our alma mater and tell them they need to reconsider that degree of yours?”

Calvin smiled, unoffended.

“You're here,” Roger said, prepared to school him, “because what's in that file is an atrocity and it is a damn shame it has been going on as long as it has. So are you in or out? We would love to have you, and I know this case would be all the better for it. But as you can see, I am moving forward regardless.”

“As you should. As you should.” Calvin glimpsed at his watch. It was already after nine and he had a nine-thirty meeting. “I can't stick around. I want you to know that I think what you are trying to do is amazing—no, more than that, it's admirable.”

Roger shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you don't get if you don't ask. I had to ask. I think you are making a mistake, but it is yours to make. I'm sure that firm of yours is secretly glad about your choice.” Roger patted Calvin's arm. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

“It was the least I could do. I plan to follow this. The media are going to go wild when they get a whiff of that ESA complaint.”

Roger smiled broadly. “I'm counting on it. Ultimately it's the public that's going to drive this sucker. This is not the last you've seen of me. If I have my way, you could be anywhere in this country at any given time and be hearing about this one.” He winked at him. “You just wait and see.”

Chapter Twelve

JANAE WAITED FOR ROGER IN HIS CRAMPED CAR. IT WAS PRETTY MUCH A replica of his office, stacks of papers and files covering nearly every available surface, including the dashboard. From the passenger seat she scooped up a thick sloppy file with papers hanging partially out and put it on the only clear spot in the car—the driver's seat.

Although she was in the car, it felt as if she was still in the courtroom, seated on the fabric-covered bench, just inches away from Malik. She knew that each minute he was locked up threatened to change him. And her.

What dogged her was the fact that she was unprepared for this—the murder, Malik's arrest and detainment. All the warning signs stared her in the face day after day. She and Malik lived in the midst of an urban war zone. Unless she got him out of there, it was inevitable that he would become a casualty.

Janae had turned a blind eye to certain friends of his she should have said no to. And why was it enough that he just not flunk out of school? Maybe he would have done more if she had expected more from him.

Janae pressed her fingertips against her temples and began to move them in slow circles. She could feel the throb of a headache building. She reached for the radio dial and turned it on. She would have bet money on Roger being a lover of country music, maybe even bluegrass. Instead, the smooth jazz sound of a soprano sax filled the car. It took her mind off her troubles long enough for her to lean back into the headrest, close her eyes, and just let the sound of the horn wash over her.

Music had always had a calming effect on her. It was her escape from everything. It was more than something she listened to, it was an extension of her. It was also part of the reason she was attracted to David.

As she allowed the melody to consume her attention, she heard a faint knocking on the window. Her eyes fluttered open. Roger was stooped over, peering in the car window. Janae released the car lock.

She smiled bashfully as he angled himself into the car. “Sorry about that. I wasn't asleep. I was just trying to ease this headache.”

“With music?” Roger said with a crinkled brow as he reached behind him and dropped his files on the backseat.

“Music is my Aleve, my glass of wine—or your shot of whiskey,” she said and winked at him.

He nodded. “I get it. Say no more.” Roger started the car. “Where are we off to?” he asked as he backed out of the parking spot.

Janae looked at him quizzically.

“I figured I might as well drive you home. Kill two birds with one stone. I need to talk to you about this morning, about what to expect over the next several days.”

“Can't we just go back to your office to discuss this?” She could just see them getting off of the Schuylkill Expressway and heading up the main drag in her neighborhood, house after house in increasing stages of disrepair and neglect.

“We could. But you will still have to go home afterwards. May as well save you some trolley fare. Plus I want to know exactly what I am dealing with.”

“Excuse me?” The words jetted out of her mouth. “I'm poor; I get it. But that doesn't mean that you have to be an ass.” She'd never had anyone in her home who didn't live in similar conditions.

Roger looked at her and snickered. “And Margaret thought you couldn't handle it. You're a little spitfire, aren't you?”

“Handle what?”

“Everything that's about to come your way.”

“Like what, exactly,” she said reluctantly.

“Well, that's what we need to discuss. I need to see how bad they are going to try to paint the picture. You know, you being a single mom from the inner city, poor, black. All that stuff.”

He was casual about the truth. He seemed unfazed by it.

“Well, that's a pretty accurate picture.”

“No, the picture is what we will see on TV. You'll be surprised at how bad or good they can make it. It's all in the story they want to tell.”

“What do you think the story will be?”

“Oh, that's easy. We are trying to get your son off on a murder charge. We live in a society where someone must pay. And we are trying to say, ‘Hold up, let's give this a second look-see here.' ” He looked at her intently and spoke soberly. “They'll paint you as the ignorant ghetto mom, and Malik as a delinquent not worth that second look.”

Janae's palms began to sweat. She suddenly felt winded. She searched for a place to direct her pain. A tear coursed down her cheek.
How could I do this to Malik? How could I keep him there with violence all around him? Why didn't I do more?

Humiliated, she avoided Roger's gaze. Instead, she studied the dashboard as though she was going to be quizzed on the intricate patterning of the wood grain.

“Janae,” Roger said. “Let me tell you something that my mother always used to tell me when I was a kid. She'd say, ‘Roger, there's a difference between facts and truth. It's a fact that we ain't got much of anything, but the truth is we are hardworking folk. Your daddy works hard, and so do I, and one day you will see that it will pay off.' ” He touched her hand lightly. “Neither of my parents graduated from high school. That's a fact too. But the truth is, out of all the people I have encountered in my life”—he peered at her from over his glasses—“and I have encountered a lot of people, no one has taught me more about life and what's important than they did. Now”—and he slapped the steering wheel as if to say that settled the matter—“you need to play your own game of facts and truths. Where are we off to?”

“Thirty-eight-hundred block of West Cambridge Street,” she said, while thinking that she would do anything for Malik. “From here I would just pick up the Expressway heading west.”

It was late morning and traffic was pretty clear. Roger was moving slightly above the speed limit.

“You need to get off at exit 351 and then make a right.” Janae was nervous. She imagined that Roger lived in some big white house surrounded by a vibrant green, expansive lawn.

The Taurus maneuvered over that bump right at the start of the exit ramp. Her heart contracted as the front tires touched road again. At the top of the exit ramp there was a traffic light that she prayed would be green. But of course it was red when they got to it. There, seated aimlessly on the road divider, was Mr. Johnny. He wasn't always a crackhead; he used to work for the Water Department. When Janae was a young girl he was still a good-looking man. Tall, with muscles galore bulging from his light-blue button-down work shirt. Inevitably, he stopped going straight home to his wife and kids, and would hang out on the corner with other men from the neighborhood. They would down some beer, maybe smoke a little weed, shoot dice, and flirt with the ladies that passed by. After a while, he was no longer Mr. Johnny to the neighbors, but Crackhead Johnny.

Before Janae realized what Roger was doing, his arm was already hanging out the driver's window with a dollar bill in his hand. Mr. Johnny was shuffling toward the car looking worse than ever, darting his head from left to right as if he was about to take something that didn't belong to him. She squirmed in her seat. As Mr. Johnny reached for the money, his eyes locked with Janae's for just a fraction of a second.

As Roger raised the window she said, “You know he is just going to buy drugs with that.”

“You don't know that, Janae. He might just buy something to eat. He's gotta eat at some point, right?”

She sucked her teeth. “Yeah, okay. Let's hope you're right.”

Janae's neighborhood was a collection of dilapidated structures. Abandoned and burnt-out houses were mixed in with occupied ones, which were in only slightly better repair. Some of the lived-in houses had broken windows that were painstakingly covered with a trash bag and held in place with electrical tape. A thin blanket of snow covered unkempt yards strewn with trash.

The owners were mostly absentee landlords who were just waiting for gentrification—which surely would happen, just a matter of when.

There were only a handful of long-term neighbors left: retired schoolteachers, corner-store owners, even a few police officers. They were there when kids rode their bikes up and down Poplar Street, played Double Dutch and hide-and-seek, ate water ice on ninety-degree summer days, and played in the shower from the sprinklers attached to the fire hydrants when the water ice wasn't enough to cool them off.

There was a time when people mattered to each other. Those who remembered held tight to those memories, and to their deteriorating properties.

Janae studied Roger. Her thoughts raced back to his comment: “You black girls.” Those three words were loaded with accusation. It was belittling to be summed up in that way, but Janae sucked it up. This was about Malik, not her ego.

“When you get to the corner, make a right and then a left at the stop sign. That'll be my block. My apartment is three houses in.”

“Oh, okay,” he said with a genuine smile.

There were a few people on their porches. There would have been plenty more if the weather wasn't so damn nasty. Victor Mann, a boy a few years older than Malik, hand-maneuvered his wheelchair along the passenger side of the car. He looked into the vehicle at Janae and nodded his head in acknowledgment. She raised her hand, slightly moving her fingers. It had been three years since he was paralyzed by a gunshot wound while on his way to the corner store for his mother.

Roger shoehorned his car into the only available parking spot and turned the ignition off. He sat beside her, totally calm and collected, as though he showed up in the hood every day of his life.

“Look, Roger, if you like . . . if you prefer to do this at your office, that's fine by me. We can, we can turn around and go straight there.” She stumbled over the words.

“Well, that's just silly, Janae. We're here.”

“But”—and she paused, not sure what she had planned to say.

As she exited the car, Janae saw an old friend whom she hadn't seen in years. She'd lost contact with Antonio Reed when she started dating David, back at the beginning of high school. The last she had heard of him was he was serving time for having held up a store.

“Antonio?”

“Hey, shorty,” he said with a smile of recognition.

“What you doing around here?”

The man, who looked older than his years, stuffed a brown paper bag in his coat pocket. “My moms lives on this block.” He pointed to a converted apartment building several doors down from Janae's home. “I'm staying with her, you know, just until I can get on my feet.”

Janae's head bobbed up and down slowly. “Oh, okay. You, you take care of yourself,” she said, turning away.

“I heard about your son.”

Janae turned back around. Her eyes locked onto Antonio's.

“Get him out as soon as possible. He don't need to be in there. It's bad news.” Antonio put his hands in his pockets and walked away.

Janae's eyes met Roger's, and then she began searching her overstuffed handbag for her keys. Her thoughts wandered to the roaches in her apartment. She wondered if they would be on their best behavior or come and show themselves, like they were expecting company.

Inside her cramped apartment, Roger made himself comfortable, even commandeered the hand-me-down coffee table for a makeshift desk. He pulled out his court files, clearly ready to get their meeting started.

Roger didn't even seem to notice that no two pieces of furniture in the entire place matched. There was a hole in the ceiling right above him that she patched together with some plaster that a friend had left over from one of his subcontracting jobs.

“Janae, have a seat. Let's get started.”

She pointed over her shoulder behind her to the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink or anything?”

“I'll have some water.” He smiled.

“Um, I don't have any bottled water.”

“Tap is fine.”

“You sure? I have cans of soda. They're unopened.”

“Tap is fine. Really.”

She wrung her hands together in the kitchen. She opened her cabinets, already knowing what was in them—not one piece of glass. She had plastic cups up the wazoo, some she bought from the dollar store and others she collected. Malik was not allowed to use her personal favorite; she knew it would have ended up in the trash, like all the chipped glasses she used to have, if he got his hands on it. It looked like glass, even felt like glass, but was really a tall, clear, hard-plastic cup tinted red. She grabbed it from off the shelf, washed it with dish detergent, and then filled it up. She walked it over to Roger.

He's going to think I
'm so ghetto.

“Why are you acting like you don't see?” She swung her arms wide from left to right, covering the span of her apartment. “You see this?”

“I see it all right.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his notes. “I've seen worse. Much worse.” A smile crept up on his aging face. “Okay, so you don't live in the lap of luxury. But I've been to every continent. I've seen kids nearly naked walking the streets, searching through trash for their next meal. There are parents who sell one of their children into prostitution in order to feed the rest. I see it, Janae, and it could be much worse. Can we get down to business now?”

“Fine!” She crossed her arms.

Roger took a large gulp of water and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, so where are we? We're going to have a press conference, hopefully tomorrow morning if Margaret can get everything set up by then.”

Janae nodded.

“We're inviting all the major news outlets. We should expect national interest in this case, particularly with my filing the complaint to broaden the scope of the Endangered Species Act.”

“I guess this is the part that's not about Malik?”

“No, I wouldn't say that. The entire case is about Malik.” He paused. “I am going to do everything in my power to get Malik out. You need to get clear on that or this is not going to work. If you don't believe I have your son's best interest at heart, then you are not going to trust me. And this case requires absolute trust. This is not going to be easy.” He sighed.