Key Witness (17 page)

She slid into the car, looked up at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome. See you mañana.”

The driver closed the door, got behind the wheel, and headed off down the street. Wyatt watched from the curb until the car was out of sight.

“I
SCRATCH YOUR BACK,
you scratch mine, no?” Dwayne asked Doris Blake.

They were in the infirmary. It was night.

An idea had come to Dwayne that afternoon, which he needed to act on while he could. In a couple more days he’d be testifying at trial, and as soon as he was done they’d ship him back to Durban.

“I’ll scratch your back anytime,” she purred.

They had already fucked. Half-dressed, they sat in the shadows, on the bed that had been Marvin’s. His back was against the wall; she rested against his chest. In the dim light his tattoos radiated off him like phosphorescent holograms.

Whenever possible, Dwayne kept the lights off when he was with Doris Blake—the less he actually looked at her, the better. When he was screwing her he could close his eyes and imagine the sexiest, most erotic women in the world; but when that was over he had to open them and look at what was real, which right now wasn’t the most appetizing of pictures.

From Blake’s standpoint, being caught flagrante delicto with an inmate would be ruinous. It was a chance, though, that she was willing to take; once they were in actual copulation nothing else mattered.

“Do me a favor?” he asked her casually.

“You know I will.”

“Do you have your computer with you?”

“It’s in my office.”

“I need to use it tonight. You can come get it in the morning.”

“What do you want it for?” she asked, warning bells going off inside her head.

“I need to access some information on this case I’m down here testifying for,” he told her. “This chickenshit law library doesn’t have hardly anything I need.”

“You aren’t going to do anything …
illegal
… are you?”

“I’m not going to do anything that’ll get you in trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he told her bluntly. “And it’s late in the day to be worrying about the consequences of our actions, isn’t it?”

“I …”

“I don’t mean this,” he said, a hand cupping her ponderous breast, his fingers feathering the wrinkled nipple, which immediately began stiffening. He leaned forward and lightly bit the back of her neck, which caused spasms and shivering all up and down her body. “We’re talking about two people who care for each other and want to help each other, that’s all.” The hand on her breast was moving down her body, past her waist to her turgid pussy. He stuck one finger in, then another. “You do care about me, don’t you? You do want to help me.”

She moaned, her behind wriggling on the bed in rhythm with the movement of his hand inside her.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I want to help you.”

T
HELMA FULLER, THE DEPUTY
DA Wyatt had encountered in the store, sat next to him in one of the two chairs facing Walcott’s desk. Her expression was grim. The three had just come from watching the incriminating videos in the Public Defender office’s conference room—Wyatt had commandeered a VCR from his own office to run the tapes.

“What’s your pitch?” Fuller asked Walcott, pointedly ignoring Wyatt.

Walcott extended his arm to Wyatt. “Mr. Matthews is the attorney in this case. Talk to him.” He leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, a grin lighting up his face.

The woman looked at Wyatt. “I’m listening.”

“You’ve got a middle-aged Asian immigrant who shoots a young African American in the back. The kid has no record, and he had his back to the shooter. You saw that with your own two eyes.”

“Are you planning on playing a race card here?” she asked, her voice rising in anger.

“These are facts,” he retorted. “And the larger community does come into play, let’s not pretend it doesn’t. We have an illegal gambling operation captured on film. And it’s their own film, there’s no sting involved, they stung themselves. And we have cops taking bribes, also on film.”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Fuller said.

“We don’t file suit for wrongful assault, police Internal Affairs can deal with their own people, and you’ve got the tapes to prosecute on the numbers stuff. Hey, you threaten to deport this guy, he might give up the heavies he works for.”

“What do we give you in return?”

“You drop the charges.”

Fuller came out of her chair. “Never in a million years! Marvin White stuck a loaded gun in a man’s face. It goes off, we’re talking murder one. I can’t let that slide.”

“Okay. Try this, then. A year’s probation, a hundred hours of community service, and he has to go back and finish high school.”

“A year on the honor farm, two hundred hours, plus the high school diploma,” she parried.

“Two years probation, a hundred hours, high school. No jail time beyond what he’s already served.”

“The kid’s a scumbag,” Fuller protested. “He has to do some time. Sober him up, show him what he has to look forward to the rest of his life if he keeps going down this path.”

Wyatt shook his head. “You’re not his mother, his shrink, or his priest. No jail.”

“You want to come out of the gate hot, don’t you? That’s what this is all about.”

He smiled at her. “You’ve got a guilty plea. Save the taxpayers some money. Take it.”

She snatched her purse up off the floor. “I’ll check this out with the powers that be and get back to you.” She walked out the door, slamming it behind her.

“And a pleasant day to you, too,” Wyatt called after her.

“T
HIS IS DETECTIVE DUDLEY
Marlow, homicide division.” Dwayne remembered the name on the news, from where they’d found that last body. If this guy was heavy enough to honcho that case, he’d have access to every file in the police department.

“Yes, Detective. What can I do for you?” The woman’s voice at the other end indicated to Dwayne that she knew who Marlow was, and that he was important.

“I need to review some files,” Dwayne said over the telephone, camouflaging his voice. “I’ll access them over the line here, into my computer. Would you set that up for me, please?”

“Yes sir. It’ll just take a few minutes. I’ll need your badge number for verification.”

The cop had only been on the television screen for a few seconds, but that had been long enough for Dwayne to have locked the badge number into his brain.

He gave her the badge number. There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Thank you, Detective Marlow. What files were you looking for?”

He told her. A few moments later, he began downloading the files.

Dwayne was a thorough worker. It was almost dawn when he was finished reviewing the material to his satisfaction, so that it was indelibly burned into his memory. Then he very carefully hid the information in a program he knew Blake would never use. There was a bit of danger to that, but he wanted to keep the stuff available, in case he’d ever need to refresh his memory on a particular detail.

Blake slipped into the infirmary before seven. “Did you get the information you were looking for?” she asked.

“Everything I needed.”

“You didn’t do anything that could get me into trouble, did you?” she asked fretfully, slinging the computer over her shoulder.

He shook his head. “Not to worry—protecting you protects me. We’re partners, Doris.” He gave her a friendly smooch on her cheek, patted her ass. “Better get going—you shouldn’t be seen down here alone with me this early in the morning.”

“I’ll come down later,” she told him. “When I’m done work.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he smiled. “I ain’t going nowhere.”

T
HE BLACKBOARD ON THE
wall of the visitors’ waiting area had the rules posted in English and Spanish. Wyatt read them.

VISITING AREA RULES

1) No physical contact.

2) No passing of objects.

3) No food or drinks.

4) Prisoners sit across from visitors.

5) No objects on the table.

6) Hands must stay on top of table.

7) Children must remain seated on lap.

8) Violations may lead to loss of visit rights and more jail time.

9) All rooms are on camera.

He was there to meet Marvin’s mother, Jonnie Rae Richards. After he talked with her they’d both meet with Marvin. He wouldn’t discuss anything with his client that could breach the attorney-client privilege, but he wanted to see them together, get a feeling for their dynamic.

It was Saturday morning, and the place was packed. Almost all the visitors were women, and most of them had two, three, or more young children in tow, the kids running around the large central waiting room, playing with toys, crayons, and coloring books that the jail provided. It was noisy as hell, everyone talking, yelling, laughing, complaining. Most of the women were black, he noticed, with a good smattering of Latinas. The few white women were rough-looking blue-collar types, biker mamas and Southern redneck ladies. If there were any white-collar inmates, they weren’t being visited by their friends and families.

There was a big hand-lettered warning posted over the door through which all visitors passed. Three lines:
NO GANG CLOTHING. NO SIGN-THROWING, NO FIGHTING.
Wyatt noticed a few males, young adults, in the mixture. Except for two Latinos and one white, who wore biker colors in defiance of the regs, they were black.

He’d driven in from home, and since it was the weekend he was dressed casually, although he wore a sports coat, which was more dressed than he would have been if he’d been meeting a corporate client. He wanted the boy and his mother to know they were getting decent representation, not being shuffled around in the system.

As a lawyer with an appointment, Wyatt had priority—they met in one of the rooms reserved for lawyers, where they could talk freely. It was an open secret that conversations in the regular visiting rooms were taped. He guessed the woman’s age to be under thirty-five.

“I’m Mr. Matthews, Mrs. Richards,” he said, introducing himself and shaking her hand. “I’m Marvin’s lawyer.” She was starchy-overweight, but she had a pretty face. She was alone.

She took a good, hard look at him. “How bad is it for that boy?”

“Not as bad as I originally expected it would be. He isn’t going to have to go to jail.”

“Not go to jail?” She clearly didn’t believe him.

“We agreed on an appropriate punishment, the district attorney’s office and I,” Wyatt explained. “He will be on probation for two years, and he’ll be assigned community service, and most importantly, he’ll have to finish high school and get his diploma. If he doesn’t, they can pull the offer and then he will have to do his time, so he’ll have plenty of incentive to stay in school and finish up there. And he can’t hang out with any of his buddies who are shady characters.”

“I don’t see none of that happening,” she said, looking him square in the face.

“Why not? It sounds reasonable to me.”

“That boy is a gangbanger, Mr. Lawyer. He don’t know nobody that ain’t no shady character.”

“If he goes back to school he can make new friends,” Wyatt argued. “One of the conditions of his probation is that he lives with you and stays clean.”

“I’ve already kicked his sorry ass out,” she informed him.

“I know. He told me. But if the alternative is jail, won’t you take him back in? Give him another chance?”

“Another chance? You know how many chances I’ve given this boy?”

“More than a few, I’m sure. But this time the stakes are higher, he has more reason …” He was going to say “incentive,” then caught himself; maybe she wouldn’t know that word, and immediately he chastised himself inwardly. Why did he think that, except that she was poor and black? Continuing: “… more incentive to do good.”

“You should have let him go to jail,” she said. “Made a man of him.”

He felt a prick of displeasure—what had he worked so hard for if it wasn’t appreciated?

She picked up on his distress. “I’m running my mouth too much, that what you think? I got three younger ones at home, Mr. Lawyer, and I’m working two jobs to keep us off welfare and I ain’t got no time to baby-sit no eighteen-year-old whose only ambition in life is to be dealing crack and driving some fancy car.”

The jail-side door opened before Wyatt could come up with a suitable reply. A deputy escorted Marvin in, exited, and locked the door behind him. Marvin slouched into his chair.

“Hello, son. How they treating you?” Mrs. Richards asked brusquely.

Marvin shrugged. “Good enough.”

“Mr. Matthews here tells me you ain’t gonna have to serve any time. He did good by you, Marvin.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I hope you appreciate what he’s worked out for you.”

“Yeah, I do.” His eyes were looking down at the floor, unable to meet her own.

Wyatt explained what was going to happen. They were going to court on Monday morning. Marvin would plead guilty to a single count of robbery, but the armed part of it was being dropped. The DA’s office would present their plea bargain to the judge, and Marvin would walk out of the court and go home.

“And if you fuck up, you’ll find your ass right back in here,” his mother said emphatically, leaning toward Marvin across the table.

“He isn’t going to mess up,” Wyatt said. “Are you?”

“Nah.”

“You’re going back to school, get a new job, and help your mother out.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

He’d say whatever he had to. Once he was out, that was another story.

T
WO VISITATION ROOMS OVER,
Dwayne was meeting with Galeygos, his lawyer. “I hope this is good,” Galeygos said. “I’m passing up a free lunch with a client who has actual cash dollars to pay me.”

Dwayne was sitting perfectly still and yet he seemed to be vibrating, his aura was so strong. Allowing himself a tight, controlled smile, he asked his lawyer, “What we were talking about before—what I have to do to get them to knock down what I’m serving, forget what’s ahead, and let me walk out a free man?”

“Yeah?” Galeygos was already rueing his decision to pass up that free lunch. There would have been a couple of premium bourbons to go with it.