Key Witness (16 page)

“T
HERE’S A SURVEILLANCE CAMERA?”
Walcott asked. “That isn’t in any of the police notes, is it?”

“No,” Wyatt answered. “Which means the police don’t know about it.”

“Or they’ve seen it and there’s nothing on it that serves their cause. In either case, it’s good work.” Walcott chucked Wyatt on the shoulder.

“I’m sure it would be exculpatory.” Wyatt laid a rudimentary hand-drawn layout of the store on Walcott’s desk. “Take a look at this floor plan I made.” He traced his finger along the path from the front door to the counter. “I counted the steps from here to here. Eleven paces—that’s over ten yards. A cannon couldn’t blow someone Marvin’s size that far, let alone a shotgun firing bird-shot pellets.”

“The kid was running away when he was shot,” Walcott said, getting the implication.

Wyatt nodded. “And here’s the backup for that theory: there were no bloodstains anywhere inside the store. Not on the floor or on any of the counters. The only blood was outside, from where the kid landed on the sidewalk.”

“Might be a good idea to subpoena those tapes,” Walcott mused. “You don’t think there’s anything on them that could backfire on us, do you?”

“What difference would it make? He’s going to be found guilty as things stand now; if these make us look bad we haven’t lost anything, and if they help, they help.”

Walcott turned to Josephine. “Type up a subpoena for the tapes from that evening, if there are any.”

“Instead of just that evening, why don’t we ask for a week of tapes?” Wyatt suggested. “If this really is a numbers drop, like our client claims it to be, that could be a nice negotiating chip.”

Walcott smiled. “I like your style, Counselor.”

T
HE SUBPOENA FOR THE
videotapes caught the prosecutor’s office flatfooted. Walcott broke his best investigator free to accompany Wyatt and Josephine and ensure that the tapes didn’t mysteriously become misplaced or erased. By the time a representative from the DA’s office had arrived on the scene the location had been secured.

The deputy DA, a cynical middle-aged black woman, looked over the subpoena, shaking her head in displeasure. “Do what it says,” she ordered the storekeeper sharply.

The Korean pulled the DA aside. They huddled away from Wyatt and his crew, talking animatedly. Wyatt watched as the deputy DA threw her hands up in disgust. “Do as it says,” she told the store owner again, leaving the store with unseemly haste. “Exactly what it says—don’t think about getting cute with anything.” She shot Wyatt a murderous glance as she left.

They found the tapes in a storage room at the rear of the store, neatly lined up on shelves and labeled as to the date. Four to a day—the week for which the subpoena was certified covered thirty-two tapes in all. The detective stacked them neatly in a large cardboard box he had brought with him for that purpose, sealed the box, wrote out a detailed inventory of what they were taking, and gave it to the owner. They would be returned when the Public Defender’s office was done with them; he couldn’t say when.

Wyatt called Moira from his car to tell her he’d be working late and wouldn’t be home for dinner. It was after seven when he led Josephine down the long, thickly carpeted hallway to his office. Over his shoulder he carried the heavy box of videotapes like a sack of potatoes. A few of his colleagues were still working, and he waved and smiled as he passed their open doors, but the place was pretty empty.

He had assumed they would be looking at the tapes at the PD’s compound, but both video players were out of commission, so he moved the parade to his own office. That he was taking a temporary leave didn’t mean he gave up his privileges. Besides, they could work more comfortably up here.

“This be it,” he motioned, unlocking his office door and ushering her inside. Setting the box of tapes down next to a stressed pine cabinet that was situated against the far wall, he opened the doors to reveal a thirty-five-inch Sony and a host of equipment, including two VCRs, a laser-disc player, and a full CD stereo system on which he played his large in-town collection of jazz albums.

“Where’s the sauna?” she cracked, pivoting to take in the full office and the views below.

“A floor above, where the gym is. Do you need a break?” he asked solicitously. “I was about to order in some dinner, so if you want to, go ahead. I’ll let you in. We have steam, too, and a Jacuzzi. Whatever you like.”

He was serious, she realized. Her attitude had gone right over his head.

“I forgot my bathing suit,” she replied. “Next time.”

“Anytime. It’s open to everyone that works here, so it might as well get used.”

He knew she felt she was out of her league. He’d only known her a short time and he was already fond of her. She was smart, feisty, attractive—very attractive, in an earthy, gutsy way—and he was sure she would make a first-rate lawyer.

He brought in a few menus from his reception area outside, tossed them to her. “Deli, pizza, Chinese. Your call. The deli isn’t bad.”

They ordered in dinner—she had gone for Chinese—and opened the box of tapes. “Here we go,” she said, pulling out the tape that had the correct date and time of day on it and handing it to him. “You’d better run it—this machine is more complicated than the ones I’m used to back in steerage.”

“I’ll bet you’re smart enough to figure it out once you’ve watched me do it,” he parried, slipping the tape in and turning it on.

The tableau they began watching was shot with the one fixed camera, with a fish-eye lens that took in the entire store. No sound. Most of the time nothing happened. The store was empty except for the Korean owner, stoically standing behind his counter. Then a customer, an older Asian woman, came in and started walking around the aisles, dropping items into a shopping basket. A second Asian woman came in shortly after, doing the same thing. The women didn’t acknowledge each other. The first paid for her items, the owner bagged them, made her change, she left. Same thing with the second. The most crowded the store got at any one time was less than a dozen customers.

Josephine pointed. “There’s our boy!”

The camera looked down on Marvin walking into the store, peering furtively over his shoulder.

“Brimming with confidence,” Josephine remarked, jotting down the time code number for future reference.

There were two other people at the counter ahead of Marvin, who patiently waited in line while they finished their transactions. As they watched, the Korean slapped a pack of cigarettes on the counter in front of Marvin, hesitated, then replaced it with a different pack from the rack behind him.

“I’ll bet that owner’s motto is ‘The customer is never right,’ ” Josephine said. “Especially when the customer is black.”

Wyatt nodded. On the screen the Korean gave Marvin his change. Marvin left the store, looking around as he did—obviously checking it out.

“Well, we know he was there,” Josephine commented dryly.

“More than once. Not good. That implies planning—criminal intent.”

“Yes,” she answered soberly.

He fast-forwarded the tape. The people in the store moved around like actors in silent movies, everything herky-jerky. The intercom buzzed. He put the tape machine on hold, picked up the telephone. “Yes, that’s ours. Send him up.”

The delivery boy deposited the bags of food on the coffee table. Wyatt went to his secretary’s station and brought in plates, napkins, and silverware, signed for the food, and tipped the boy in cash. “Drinks in there,” he told her, pointing to a cabinet on the far wall. “Refrigerator behind the door. I’ll drink whatever’s there, as long as it’s nonalcoholic.”

When they worked this late at the Public Defender’s office they drank beer, courtesy of Joe Taxpayer, whose interests they were defending. She took out a couple Snapples. There had been beer in the refrigerator, Beck’s and Urquell, and some bottles of white wine that looked expensive. When you have an office like this, she thought, you don’t drink the cheap stuff.

They loaded up their plates while watching the screen. With the tape speeded up it didn’t take long for Marvin to make his next entrance.

Suddenly, they put their plates down and got serious: the gun was out of Marvin’s pocket, pointing in the owner’s face.

They viewed the incident all the way through, then rewound the tape and looked at it again. Then a third time. As the owner fired his shotgun, Wyatt put the recorder on pause.

“He had his gun to the man’s head,” Josephine commented. “You can’t deny that.”

“But you can’t even see Marvin White,” Wyatt countered; “he’s so far away he isn’t even in the picture.” He got up and walked to the television, bending over to get a closer look. “I had a sense that the owner was lying. The kid was out the door, turned away from him.” He pointed to the set. “This proves it, in living black and white.”

“You’re right,” Josephine said. “Although I don’t know how a jury would feel, seeing a young kid pointing his gun at an older man.”

“We need to make a copy of this for protection.”

“I’ll get it done first thing tomorrow morning,” she promised. Then she expressed a thought: “Why isn’t that video camera in plain sight? The point is supposed to be to discourage people like Marvin from robbing you. If the camera isn’t visible, it isn’t doing its job. Is it?”

Wyatt snapped his fingers—the puzzle was coming into focus. “You are a smart lady,” he praised her. “Self-defense is why that owner shot Marvin, all right,” he mused, “but not from some scared kid who’s hightailing it out the door.” He crouched down at the box containing the tapes, looked at the times and dates on the end labels.

“What’re you looking for now?” she asked.

“The kid said the store was a numbers drop. Mondays and Fridays are the days the winners are paid off, so if that’s true they’d collect on Sunday and Thursday, probably at night.” He pulled another tape out. “Here’s the previous Thursday night, nine until one in the morning, closing time.”

They ran the tape on fast-forward. The scene was similar to what they’d been watching, minus Marvin White.

About halfway through, a piece of business caught Wyatt’s eye. He slowed the tape to regular speed.

Two uniformed cops came into the store, waved to the owner in greeting, and went over to the drink cooler, taking out a six-pack of root beer. Then they helped themselves to a couple of premade sandwiches, an assortment of fruit, and finally a carton of cigarettes, one of the cops reaching around the owner to get them from behind the counter. They talked for a few moments with the man, who nodded, shrugged, shook the hand of one of them, and gave them a paper bag to put their stuff in. They sauntered out without paying.

“Interesting,” Wyatt commented.

“So they helped themselves to a few freebies,” Josephine said. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s against the law.”

“So’s jaywalking. You want to go to jail for crossing against the light?”

“That’s not the point,” Wyatt said. “You met that owner—he wouldn’t comp his mother a bag of potato chips, let alone give twenty-five dollars of free merchandise to a couple of beat cops.”

“So why is he?”

“To look the other way, maybe.” He set the machine to fast-forward again.

They didn’t find what they were looking for until near the end of the tape.

“Back up!” Josephine said excitedly, spotting the action.

Wyatt rewound the tape and slowed it to normal. They watched the screen intently, leaning forward.

The store was empty. Then the two cops who’d been in earlier walked through the door, followed a moment later by a young man of Asian origin, wearing the street uniform of white T-shirt, khakis, combat boots, and an Oakland Raiders cap turned backward. He shut the door behind him and rotated the sign on it from Open to Closed, while the cops took positions near the windows, to keep an eye on the street.

As the Asian approached the counter the Korean owner was already opening the back cabinet and taking out a manila envelope and a canvas bank bag, the kind that has a lock built into it. The young bagman opened the envelope and looked at the slips while the Korean was unlocking the bank bag. He handed the bag to the courier, who reached in, pulled out a handful of bills, rifled through them with his thumb, put them back.

The men exchanged a few words; something the bagman said made the owner laugh.

“Gee, he’s human after all,” Josephine remarked.

On the screen, the two men had finished their transaction. The bagman gave the cops some bills, and they left. He waited a couple minutes; then he, too, exited the store, helping himself to a Coke on the way out.

After he was gone the owner locked and bolted the door, shut off the lights, and left the room.

Wyatt ejected the tape and shut the set off. “By the balls,” he crowed. “And with the city’s finest riding shotgun!”

“Why would they tape their own illegal actions?” Josephine asked.

“Quality control. Make sure there’s no skimming.” Quickly crossing the office, he picked up the phone, speed-dialed. “Hi,” he said after a beat, “did I wake you? I’m sorry, babe, I got involved, I lost track of the time.” He listened. “On a case.” Another moment. “No, by myself,” he said, glancing in Josephine’s direction, who was studiously looking out the window at the lights far below. “You, too. Good night.” He hung up. “I don’t like her worrying,” he told Josephine’s back. “Come on. I’ll walk you downstairs.”

The car-service Buick was waiting at the curb. The driver hopped out and opened the passenger-side back door.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Your ride.”

“Are you paying for this?”

“Company policy. A woman works past seven-thirty, we give her a ride home.”

“I don’t work for your company.”

“You’re working with me. This is the way I work.”

“You’re going to spoil me,” she said.

“Is that so bad?” He smiled at her, to try to put her at ease.

“In six months you’ll be a memory as far as the Public Defender’s office is concerned and this nice car will turn into a pumpkin again.”

He hadn’t been thinking along those lines. “Let’s get through the rest of this week,” he soothed her. “Six months is a long time from now.”