First Offense (46 page)

Growman leaned into Stella’s face. “You have to bring in this conviction,” he said, his breath as hot as a blow torch. “We can’t let this man go free again. We’re lucky he didn’t kill this other kid or throw battery acid in his face like he did with the McKinley boy.”

“Look,” Stella said, her temper flaring, “I’ve done everything I can. Don’t you think I want this as bad as you? I’ve spent so much time on this case my husband frigging left me. What do you want from me?” she spat at him. “Blood?”

“Control yourself.” Growman jerked his head in the direction of the reporters. “Save your energy for the courtroom.”

Stella slapped back against the wall, her dark eyes blazing. Taking several deep breaths, she tried to compose herself as the doors to the courtroom swung open and people started streaming in and scrambling for seats. Growman had taught her that emotional outbursts were nothing more than unnecessary expulsions of energy. With careful coaching he had channeled what he had seen as Stella’s raw and somewhat uncontrollable talent into qualities that had made her a consistent winner.

In many ways, though, Stella felt like Growman’s invention. His career had been on the skids several years back, and in Stella he had created the exact vehicle he needed to propel him back to the top. She was his rocket launcher, his henchman, his gunslinger. In her present position Stella acted more as an administrator and counselor to the scores of attorneys who worked beneath her, advising them on finer points of law, helping them devise case strategies, analyze jurors. Dozens of other prosecutors could have tried the Pelham case, able attorneys who weren’t sitting on top of a perfect conviction record and had less to lose. Growman had insisted that she take on the case, though, claiming she was the only one who could bring home the prize.

“Ricky McKinley is dead,” he said, his voice low. “Are you going to let the person who put him in his grave go free? You, of all people, should know the agony he suffered. A poor, pathetic kid, Stella. How many more kids are we going to let him kill and mutilate?”

Stella blinked back tears. Then an idea suddenly appeared in her mind. She could dispel her image as a bully in the eyes of the jurors, and at the same time, bring the case back to life the way an actor brings a character to life on the stage. Blood rushed to her face. Could she do it? Everyone was counting on her. How could she let this monster walk out of the courtroom again when his fate rested in her hands?

This time, Stella thought with steely determination, Gregory James Pelham was not going to escape punishment. As far she was concerned, Mr. Pelham had reached the end of the line. “Quick,” she said. “I need a rubber band.”

Five minutes later, a different prosecutor strode down the aisle to the counsel table. Now Stella’s hair was secured in a tight ponytail at the base of her neck, and an ugly, abraded scar was fully visible on the right side of her face. Her walk was more tentative, her eyes downcast, and she sucked a comer of her lip into her mouth to keep it from trembling.

Every seat was taken. Reporters and spectators were standing along the back walls, the air inside the packed courtroom already stagnant. As Stella continued down the aisle, she heard people gasp and whisper, their combined voices becoming an annoying buzz inside her head. They were like a hive of killer bees, she thought, ready to swarm all over her and sting her to death. When she reached the counsel table and dropped down in her seat, a reporter crept over and started snapping pictures from a kneeling position. “What happened to your face?” he said. “Is that scar real?”

Stella became enraged over the man’s stupidity. “You’ll get your chance later,” she said, lashing out with her hand and knocking the camera away. Seeing the jurors being led in by the bailiff, she quickly organized her notes on the table and tuned out the cacophony around her. The judge was on the stand, the jury in the box, and Stella was ready to get down to the business at hand.

A woman with large, expressive eyes and a regal face was seated at the counsel table between Stella and her co-counsel, Larry Kominsky, an bright young attorney with red hair and freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. Brenda Anderson was the D.A.‘s investigator assigned to the case. An African American, Anderson held an undergraduate degree in computer science and a master’s in criminology. She had worked her way up through the ranks of the Dallas Police Department before obtaining her present position, and was now recognized throughout the state as the technical wizard of the Dallas area, her expertise in great demand. Seeing what she had never seen before, she exclaimed, “My God, Stella, what did you do to yourself?”

“I’ll tell you all about it later, Brenda,” Stella whispered. “Right now we’re going to kick some ass,”

“Ms. Cataloni,” Judge Malcolm Chambers said into the microphone. Chambers’ face was tired and lined, his white hair unruly, his glasses perched far down on his nose. If he noticed the scar on Stella’s cheek, he didn’t react. “You may resume where you left off prior to recess.”

“Thank you. Your Honor,” Stella said. Standing and glancing over at the jurors, she saw the shock register on their faces when they spotted the scar. Look all you want, she told them in her mind, just listen close because I’m about to connect the dots.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, turning slightly so she was facing the jurors, but keeping the right side of her face clearly within their sight. “Before we recessed, I reiterated the facts presented in this case. Before you begin your deliberations, I want you to remember the victim in this case. Remember the autopsy photos you viewed during the course of this trial.” Stella lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “Imagine, if you can, what Ricky McKinley would have looked like had he managed to survive the defendant’s savage attack.” She stopped speaking and waited, standing as still as a statue, her face completely expressionless.

“Why am I asking you to do this?” she finally continued. “I’m asking you to do it because Ricky McKinley didn’t survive. He isn’t here to confront his attacker, to tell you firsthand of the agony and horror he was made to endure at the hands of the defendant. Even if this child had escaped death somehow, he would have led a life of anguish and despair. He would have never looked normal, never been accepted by his peers, never been free of fear. You can’t hear his pleas for justice, for they are only ghostly cries from the grave,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I can hear his cries, though, just as I can imagine the unbearable pain he must have suffered when the defendant tossed battery acid in his face.”

Stella walked over to the jury box, one finger trailing along the railing. “For six years Ricky McKinley has been dead,” she said forcefully, “and for six years the man who murdered and brutalized him has walked the streets as a free man.”

The courtroom was silent. No one whispered, no one moved, no clothes rustled. Every eye was glued on Stella, the jurors tracking her as she paced, never for one second looking away. Stella’s brow and upper lip were moist with perspiration, and she could feel sweat trickling between her breasts and soaking her armpits. “This despicable person, this predator,” she said, throwing her arm out in the direction of the defendant as she walked, “lured Ricky McKinley into his car, drove him to a cheap motel, and viciously sodomized him. Then he beat him to within an inch of his life, sprayed shaving cream in his mouth and nose, and made him cower in the comer under a table. Was that enough?” Stella said, arching an eyebrow. “The defendant’s perverted cravings were satisfied. What more did he need?” She stopped and shrugged, as if she were waiting for someone to give her the answer.

“No,” she suddenly shouted, her body trembling with emotion, “it was not enough.” Her speech became faster now as she gathered momentum. “He proceeded to carry Ricky’s bloody and battered body to the trunk of his car. He then drove to an isolated field and threw battery acid in his face, eating the skin off the bone. He didn’t care that Ricky was mutilated beyond recognition, that his body would later be identified only through dental records, his face unrecognizable even to the woman who gave birth to him. All the defendant cared about was avoiding arrest, making certain that this pathetic child never identified him and caused him to suffer the consequences of his actions. In order to feel safe,” she said, “Gregory Pelham had to blind an eight-year-old child.”

Striding back to the counsel table, Stella’s eyes fell on Judy McKinley, the victim’s mother, seated in the second row behind the counsel table. The woman’s shoulders were shaking and tears were streaming down her face. Turning around and touching her arm, Stella spun back to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “the fate of this man now rests in your hands, along with the fate of his future victims.” She searched the jurors’ faces, as if she were committing them to memory and holding each of them accountable. “Once you have considered the overwhelming evidence the state has presented,” she said slowly and distinctly, “you will know that there is only one verdict that can be returned in this case. As Ricky’s avenging angels, you must put this man behind bars where he belongs and allow this poor child’s soul to finally find peace.”

The jury deliberated two hours.

Having been notified by the bailiff that the verdict was in, Stella hurried back to the courtroom with Ben Growman, Larry Kominsky, and Brenda Anderson, all of them anxious. Kominsky appeared younger than his thirty-one years. A West Point graduate, he had abandoned his career in the military to become an attorney. Next to Stella, he was one of Dallas’s finest prosecutors, his diminutive size and fresh-faced appearance deceptively innocent and naive.

Brenda Anderson was dressed in a conservative knit dress, the hemline several inches below her knees. Her neck was long and elegant, her hair worn in a tight knot at the base of her head. Reserved when she was in a group, but outspoken when she related one on one, she walked next to Stella with her head down. Their heels tapped on the linoleum flooring.

“We’ve got it,” Kominsky said, looking up at the ceiling as if the word had just come down from God himself. “The jury was out only two hours. Stella’s decision to expose her scars was brilliant. There’s no way they’ll acquit the bastard now.” He paused and smiled, about to do one of his notorious tap dances. Every time he won a case, Kominsky did a little dance in the lobby of the D.A.‘s office. “Shit, I feel it in my bones.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Growman said, yanking on his shirt cuffs. He stopped and faced Kominsky, hissing his words through his teeth. “Don’t you have an ounce of sense? Don’t you realize what it took for this woman to expose herself in front of the cameras?”

The attorney looked at Stella and blanched. “I’m sorry, okay,” he said. “I didn’t think. Please, forgive me, Stella, but…it was great, you know. The part I liked best was, ‘Imagine, if you can.’ Man, was that a piece of work. You should have seen the jurors’ faces.”

“Thanks, Larry,” Stella said, flinging open the door to the courtroom. “Let’s just hope it was worth it.”

The three attorneys took their seats. It was after six in the evening, and most of the spectators had gone home, not expecting a verdict until the following day. Only the press and members of the immediate family were assembled in the courtroom. Since Growman was present, Brenda Anderson slipped in the front row next to Judy McKinley and a few other members of the victim’s family. Once the jury had filed in and been seated, the judge called the court to order and asked the jurors if they had reached a verdict.

“Yes, we have,” the foreman said, an older man with wire-framed glasses and red suspenders. He was a retired engineer who had once worked at Texas Instruments.

At the judge’s instructions the bailiff collected the forms from the foreman and delivered them to the court clerk. “Will the defendant please rise?” the woman said.

Gregory Pelham was a short, dark-skinned man with heavy-lidded eyes and rust-colored hair. He was dressed in an inexpensive brown suit, a paisley print tie, and a pink shirt. When his attorney nudged him, he pushed himself to his feet and scowled at Stella before turning to face die front of the courtroom.

“You may read the verdict,” the judge told the clerk.

“We, the jury,” she read, “find the defendant guilty of murder in the death of Richard W. McKinley, as charged in Count One of the indictment.”

Stella stood straight up from her seat. Growman pulled her back down. He was pleased, but there were additional charges, and he wanted to hear the jurors’ decisions on these as well. Due to the age of the case and the lack of substantial evidence that the defendant had premeditated his attack, they had not filed charges of capital murder, an offense that carried the death penalty. They had, however, filed several other charges, the most significant of them being kidnapping.

“We, the jury,” the clerk continued, “Find the defendant guilty as charged in the crime of kidnapping, as set forth in Count Two of the indictment.”

Kominsky leaned forward and whispered to Stella and Growman. “I’ll buy the champagne.” No longer concerned about the remainder of the charges, he slipped out the back.

Stella listened as the rest of the verdicts were read, most of the charges classified as lesser or included crimes. Many times the prosecution would file numerous counts all reflective of the same period of criminal behavior. If the jury convicted on one count, it could not convict on the others. As Stella had expected, Pelham was found not guilty on the remaining counts.

Once the clerk had finished reading the verdicts, the judge set a date for sentencing and promptly adjourned. Reporters leaped to their feet and rushed the counsel table, thrusting microphones in Stella’s face. “How long do you think Pelham will go to prison?” one male reporter said, shoving several other reporters aside.

“We hope to get a maximum sentence,” Stella said, ripping the rubber band out of her hair and pulling the right side forward so it covered her scars. “If the judge sentences consecutively on both the murder and the kidnapping charges, Mr. Pelham may never step outside the prison walls.”