Key Witness (21 page)

Pagano looked at his senior deputies in turn, making brief eye contact with each one. “You’re all good,” he said. “That’s why you’re sitting here and two hundred other lawyers in this department aren’t. Every one of you could do a great job, and every one of you, I’m sure, could convict this piece of shit. So it has to come down to public perception, and my gut.” He paused. “I should sleep on this,” he continued, “because you all did make good presentations, I’m serious; but I don’t have the luxury of doing that. The mayor and the city council and the newspapers and TV stations and every Tom, Dick, and Dumbfuck is on my case like white on rice, so I’ve got to choose, and hope to God I’m doing the right thing.”

He stood up. “Helena’s right. The lead DA should be a woman. This is a crime against women, it’s payback time, and that’s how I want the public to perceive it.”

The four men at the table shook their heads in disagreement and frustration.

“Sorry, guys,” Pagano told them. “There’s more where this came from.”

That was patent bullshit and they all knew it. But that was it; he was the boss.

He turned to Helena. “It’s yours. You’ll have the entire resources of this office at your disposal, including everyone sitting here if that’s what it takes.”

“Thanks, boss.” She was shaking inside. “I won’t let you down.”

All business now. “Who do you want to be your co-counsel?”

“Norman,” she said without hesitation, looking at Norman Windsor, who was sitting across the table from her. He was the only black senior deputy at the table.

“Great choice,” Pagano seconded. “Norman, will you do it? I know it’s not the lead, but there’s plenty of glory to go around.”

Say yes, schmuck, he thought. We need a black face at our table.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” Norman Windsor said. As if he had any choice. He knew the politics involved. He reached across the table and shook Helena’s hand. “Let’s kick ass, lady.”

“That’s what I do for a living,” she answered him.

A
FEW BLOCKS AWAY,
in the Public Defender’s offices, a similar process was taking place. Walcott’s own office was too small, so the meeting took place in what passed for their conference room, a large storage space in the basement where decades of old files were kept.

There were no windows in this decrepit mausoleum. The lights were old flickering hanging fixtures in wire cages. The crappy, inadequate ventilation came from two overhead fans that moved the tepid air around, blowing papers onto the floor more than cooling things down. The room was hot and muggy, the walls leaked moisture. People sweated freely; after fifteen minutes you felt like you were in a Turkish bath.

Walcott hated this space. Tempers flared easily, things got personal. But there were times when he had to get everyone together in the same room. This was one of those times.

Besides Walcott, Wyatt, and Josephine, every single senior lawyer in the Public Defender’s office had crammed into this space, two dozen advocates for the public welfare and their own ambitions.

Wyatt was seated near the head of the table, to Walcott’s right. Josephine was squeezed in next to him, their chairs touching.

“You haven’t met most of the team, have you?” Walcott asked Wyatt.

Wyatt looked around. None of the faces were familiar. “No, not yet,” he answered easily. “But I’m looking forward to it.”

No one smiled back. He didn’t expect anyone to.

“That’ll come,” Walcott said. “Right now we’ve got a situation on our hands.”

“We’ve got a crisis is what we’ve got. A disaster if we don’t get our shit together muy pronto.” The voice came from the other end of the table.

Wyatt didn’t feel comfortable; even though his jacket was off, he was sweating. You can’t think straight under physical conditions like these, he thought. More important than any physical discomfort was the resentment toward him from the lawyers in this room; he was the outsider, the invader.

Tough shit. He had come here to do a job and that’s what he was going to do.

He got up from his seat and walked the length of the table to where the man who had spoken out was sitting. The man was middle-aged, rumpled, overweight but solid. He looked like a junior high football coach.

“Wyatt Matthews,” he said, offering his hand.

The man, startled by Wyatt’s temerity, shook his hand before he realized what was happening. “Josh Dancer,” he said.

“Good to meet you, Josh.” Wyatt walked back the length of the table and took his seat.

“This is not a disaster, Josh, or anything like it.” Walcott took charge. “We’ve got a case here and we’re going to win it, and when we do, we’re going to be heroes.”

“
If
we win this,” a second voice, another middle-aged man’s, said, “we sure as hell aren’t gonna be heroes. More like pariahs, you ask me.”

“What’re you talking about?” Walcott asked testily.

“Young black kid? Got a juvie record an inch thick? You walk this kid, the public’s gonna roast your ass.”

Others murmured agreement.

“Even if he’s innocent?” Walcott asked Dancer.

“Like O.J. was in the criminal case?” the speaker shot back. This man, like several of the lawyers in the room, was black. “How many people’re happy about that?”

This was true, Wyatt thought. Moira had been outraged by the process in the Simpson criminal trial, and had felt a sense of relief when the civil verdict came down on the side of the Goldmans and the Browns. Why would anyone defend him? she and others had asked at the time. She was going to be asking him the same question about Marvin White—and taking the answer personally. He knew that, and dreaded it.

“Anyway, this case has already been tried in the press all over the damn country,” a third lawyer said.

“So what?” Walcott said. “Does that mean you think he’s guilty? Beyond a reasonable doubt? What do you know about this, Larry?”

“I’m just saying it’s going to be an uphill struggle,” Larry, the man who had spoken up, pointed out.

“All our cases are,” Walcott said. “That’s why the DA has a ninety percent conviction rate.” He exhaled through his nostrils. “Okay.” He looked around the room, avoiding Wyatt. “How are we going to divvy this up?”

“What does that mean?” Wyatt asked immediately.

Walcott turned to him. “You’re not trying this case,” he told Wyatt bluntly.

“What?”

“You’re not a trial lawyer. You’ve never tried a criminal case in your life.”

“I’ve tried dozens of cases. For millions of dollars. Billions.”

“Who gives a shit about any of that crap?” Dancer was on his feet now. “I’ve been in this office almost twenty years, paying my dues. I’m a good lawyer—I could go into the private sector and make much more money than I do here. I’m in this job for the same reasons the rest of you are—the indigent need good lawyers, more than most defendants. And I’m an action junkie, I admit it. So if you think I’m gonna sit back and let some hot-shit silk-stocking lawyer from the outside come in and steal this from under our noses, you’ve got another think coming.” He thumped the table for emphasis. “This belongs to one of us. Not him,” he said, pointing a meaty finger at Wyatt.

Walcott made a time-out signal with his hands. “Let’s calm down, everyone.” He turned to Wyatt. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

Wyatt took a deep breath before he responded. “Well, I’m sorry, too,” he said. “But this man is my client. That relationship has already been established. That’s protocol, that’s the way the law is practiced everywhere I know. If I wanted to turn it over to someone else, that would be a different story. But right now this is my case, my client.” He looked down the length of the table. “And I, for one, am not about to give up on him before I even start.” He turned to Walcott. “A few days ago you were telling me what a brilliant job I was doing! Well, I’m the same lawyer I was then.” He stood up. “I didn’t give up a multimillion-dollar practice to push papers around down here,” he said aggressively. “I came because I have skills and talents
you
need. And I’m going to use them. On this case.”

“I make those decisions,” Walcott answered him stiffly. The man was trembling, he was so angry. Wyatt wished he hadn’t thrown down the gauntlet so nakedly; but this was a power game, at which he was a master.

“I’m going to give this serious thought,” Walcott told the assemblage. “We’ll meet again tomorrow and make our decisions. My decision,” he added for Wyatt’s benefit.

Wyatt and Josephine were in a bar a few blocks from their offices. A no-frills place where people came to drink and talk after a day’s work. Hard liquor and beer—he didn’t see three wineglasses.

“It’s funny,” Wyatt said, looking around, “in all the years I’ve worked downtown I’ve never been in here.” He was drinking Johnny Black on the rocks with a water back.

“This is a cop bar,” Josephine said. “Cops, prosecutors, defenders. Like goes to like.” She took a sip from her margarita. “Where do you drink, hang out?”

“I’m a member of the University Club.” He felt a tickle of discomfort, telling her that.

“Very uptown,” she teased him. Leaning in closer, she said, “Listen, Wyatt. You are a winner and these people aren’t. You know that better than me. The Public Defender’s office has a loser mentality, especially with high-profile cases like this one. And especially with people at the bottom of the food chain, like Marvin White. Even the black guys in the department hate clients like him; they think of him as one more piece-of-shit nigger without a future.”

He looked sharply at her.

“Hey, it’s their word, not mine. I don’t use words like that. You hear it all the time, all the time. Especially from the black lawyers. That’s what they call people like Marvin. They hate people like him.”

“You won’t hear it from me,” he said with genuine anger.

“Or me either again, okay?” She could feel the heat of his passion.

“Okay.” He smiled at her.

“What it really is, they’re scared,” she confided.

“Of what?”

“Of ‘there but for the grace of God.’ ” She finished her drink. “I’m going to have one more, for the road. Can I buy you one?” she asked.

“I’ll join you, but I’m buying.”

“Okay. This time.” She caught the waitress’s eye, pointed at their glasses, and twirled her finger. “The thing is,” she said, “I know what they’re talking about.”

“About what?”

“ ‘There but for the grace of God.’ That’s me. That’s how I feel. That’s why I know how scared you can get, and how much that hurts.”

M
OIRA WAS LATE GETTING
home (not that she was on a compelling timetable). She’d had lunch with some friends at a new French bistro out on Highway 83 and lingered with them over coffee and dessert until after three. They were old companions from college she didn’t see very much anymore; their husbands, while successful, weren’t in Wyatt’s stratum, and over the years they’d drifted apart. But once or twice a year they got together and talked about their lives, their kids, old times and new.

After she’d finally left the restaurant she had gone by the new bookstore site. The lawyer (not Wyatt’s firm—they’d be too expensive, and anyway she wanted this to be all hers, so they had hired a local attorney who was perfectly adequate) was preparing the lease. She and Cissy would be signing it next week. She’d had butterflies in her stomach, standing in the parking lot and looking at the vacant shop, visualizing what it would look like when it was full of books and CDs and people.

After that she’d dropped by her tailor’s to have a pair of slacks altered, which had taken longer than she’d anticipated, and then she had stopped at a few specialty shops to pick up certain things the supermarket didn’t carry—a particular type of wine she wanted to have with dinner tonight, some bagels for breakfast tomorrow. It was already dark when she drove down the road toward home.

She was actually past the Spragues’ house when out of the corner of her eye she saw the For Sale sign planted in the grass next to the driveway. She hit the brakes, backed up until she was level with their driveway, and turned her car in, pulling up in front.

There were lights on inside. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

The door, secured by a chain, swung open a few cautious inches, Ted Sprague peered out at her.

“Oh, Moira, it’s you,” he exclaimed with relief. “Hold on a second.” He closed the door so that he could unlatch the chain, then opened it fully.

“How’s Enid?” Moira asked, feeling guilty; she hadn’t been over to check on the older woman’s condition since the night of the shooting.

“She’s okay. She’s doing fine. Come on in.” He stepped aside so she could enter. “She’s in the den watching the news.”

“I can only stay for a minute,” Moira said apologetically.

“Hi, Moira,” Enid called out from inside the house. “Come look at my scars.”

Enid was sitting in a wing chair, her slippered feet propped up on a brocaded ottoman. “Do you want something to drink?” she asked. Holding up a flute of champagne, “I’m into the good stuff. I’m pampering myself these days.”

“As well you should,” her husband asserted stoutly.

“No, thanks,” Moira demurred. “I can only stay a minute. I wanted to check up, find out how you’re doing.” Her elderly neighbor didn’t look good. She’d aged five years since she’d been shot.

“I’m still ticking.” The older woman smiled. “I was lucky. Another inch and I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes.” Moira didn’t know what else to say about that. “You’re selling your house,” she said instead, almost blurting it out.

“Yep,” Ted confirmed. “We’re flying the coop. Moving out to California. Carmel. Golf every day, and no shoveling snow.”

“That’ll be awful, losing you as neighbors.” Moira was genuinely upset at the prospect. “But I guess you’ve outgrown this; or it’s outgrown you, more accurately.”

Enid shook her head. “I thought I’d live in this house until the day I died. Which I almost did.” She shivered reflexively, poured herself some more champagne from a bottle sitting in an ice bucket at her elbow. “I don’t feel safe here anymore,” she said. “I’m afraid of what’s going on, all around us.”

“I can understand that,” Moira sympathized.