Key Witness (22 page)

“You
think
you can,” Ted corrected her sternly. “But until it’s actually happened to you, you don’t really know.”

“I guess that’s true,” Moira said defensively. She didn’t want to be here anymore—there was a smell of decay in the air, emotional more than physical. She leaned over and kissed the older woman’s cheek. “I’ll try and stop in on you tomorrow.”

“That would be nice.” Enid looked up at Moira. “You know, there’s only one thing I really regret about this horrible incident.”

“What’s that?” Moira asked.

“That I didn’t shoot the bastards when I had the chance.”

She looked up at Moira from the comfort and security of her armchair. “If you ever find yourself in a similar situation,” she warned the younger woman, “don’t ever make that mistake.”

“The Spragues are selling their house.”

Wyatt nodded. “I saw the sign. I wonder what they’re asking.”

“They’re afraid of living here anymore.”

“Probably about a million two, a million three, wouldn’t you say?”

“Old people shouldn’t be afraid like that. Not in their own homes. Nobody should be.”

“Although I heard the housing market’s going up again, finally. It’s a good place, they could maybe ask a million five. It doesn’t matter,” he went on, “a couple hundred thou one way or the other won’t mean much to them. Is Michaela going to be home for dinner? I hardly ever see her anymore.”

He’d gotten home later than he’d wanted—his one more with Josephine had turned out to be two more, with a lot of conversation wrapped around the drinks. The case primarily, but a few personal things, too, not only from her but from him as well; he had been surprised that he had talked about himself to someone he didn’t know that well. Josephine was a good listener; they had an easy camaraderie. You either have that with somebody right off or you don’t, he thought.

“She’s already had dinner. She went to the library. Group study time.” She looked sharply at him. “You haven’t heard a word I said.”

“Michaela had dinner. She’s at the library. I heard that.” He was uncorking the bottle of wine she had bought.

“About why the Spragues are moving.”

He looked at her calmly. “I know why they’re moving.”

“Doesn’t it concern you?” she asked, her voice rising.

“No, and it shouldn’t concern you, either.”

“How could it not?”

“Because what happened to them could have happened anywhere in this country. Anywhere in the world, for that matter. What do you think, this neighborhood’s going to be a hot spot for robberies all of a sudden?”

“That’s my whole point, Wyatt! That’s what I’m afraid of.”

They were in the living room, waiting for Cloris to warm up the dinner that had been prepared to be eaten an hour ago. He pulled the cork with a loud pop. Pouring two glasses, he handed one to her. “Well, it isn’t happening here, not this moment, so take it easy, okay?” He clinked glasses with her. “How was the rest of your day?”

She told him about her lunch and about going to the bookstore site, how good it felt that it was actually going to happen. “And you?” she asked, trying to keep it light. “How go the wars down there wherever it is you’re fighting them these days?”

“The head of the Public Defender’s office wants to take me off the case,” he told her glumly.

“Finally,” she said brightly. “Rationality returns.”

“I’m not giving it up.”

The glass from which she was about to drink stopped halfway to her lips. “Oh, Wyatt. Why?”

“Because it’s what I want to do. What have I been talking about for the last month if not this? I thought you were behind me on this.”

“Where did you ever get that idea?”

“Because you’ve always been behind me, on everything.”

“And I am, but for God’s sake, not this—this is going to be an absolute quagmire. This is going to be one of those awful cases where the lawyers are on TV every day, and the press is going to be snooping around our house, everything. We’ll be in
The National Enquirer
!”

“Don’t get hysterical, Moira. I’m defending a man who’s been accused of a crime. It’s what I’ve been doing the last twenty-five years.”

“A kid from the ghetto who raped and killed seven women!” she screamed. “That is
not
what you have been doing the last twenty-five years!”

He set his glass down. “Which bugs you more? That he’s accused of these crimes—and I say ‘accused’ deliberately; so far he hasn’t been convicted of anything, in case you’ve forgotten—or that he’s ‘from the ghetto,’ as you so elegantly put it?”

“Don’t try to guilt-trip me. You know what I’m talking about.”

“This is part and parcel of what happened next door, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered firmly.

“And the fact that this kid is black—is that a component?”

She stared at him. “Are you saying I’m a racist? I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

Cloris stuck her head into the room and coughed discreetly. “Dinner is on the table,” she said. She disappeared immediately.

Moira pointed at their housekeeper’s retreating back. “What about Cloris?” she asked. “Do you think I’m prejudiced against her?”

“No.” He’d pushed too hard. “Look, honey, I know you’re not racist, or anything remotely like that. It’s—”

“I don’t want you defending a rapist and a murderer,” she said coldly, cutting him off. “I don’t give a damn what color he is.” She brushed by him, leaving the room. “You can eat dinner alone tonight. I’ve lost my appetite.”

H
ELENA ABRAMOWITZ SAT A
safe ten feet away from Dwayne Thompson, in interview room 1 at the county jail. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all white, and the overhead fluorescent lighting cast deep shadows under Helena’s and Dwayne’s eyes, which made both of them look older and him more sinister. The room was bare except for the chairs they were sitting on, and it was completely secure—no one could listen in to what they were saying, including members of the sheriff’s office.

It was 8:15 in the morning. Helena had been up half the night going over Thompson’s grand jury testimony, highlighting the most significant areas, where he had the most specific knowledge of the murders and Marvin’s links to them. She had also tagged certain parts of his testimony that were of concern to her; either they were too nebulous, too general, or more troubling, were not credible—to her. She knew the police would buy what they wanted, that they would skew anything that made their case look better, but she couldn’t afford to do that. Whatever she used at trial had to be as clean as it could be, because the other side would hammer at any inconsistencies.

This case would have racial overtones—it was inevitable. She assumed that at least half the members of the jury would be black, and although there was widespread outrage regarding the rape-murders, the black community’s hostility toward the police ran deep, and with good reason—the same reasons there was tension between black communities and police all over the country.

Countering that antipathy would be the racial makeup of the victims. Most of them had been black women, and although they were prostitutes (except for the latest one), they were still victims whose skin color was black. She wouldn’t need a jury consultant to know that the more black women, particularly young and independent, that she could pack into the jury, the better off she’d be.

Today was the first time Helena had actually laid eyes on Dwayne. She found his presence unsettling. Anyone who had been around the system could see that he was a psychopath. She hated this kind of witness because even when they were right, in the legalistic, technical sense, they were wrong. And he was her main witness, the only one who could conclusively put Marvin White in the murderer’s shoes.

She had gone over Dwayne’s jacket and his psychological profile. They were in the open folder she held in her lap, along with his grand jury testimony. He really did have the crack stoolie’s knack for getting people to open up to him and confess their worst sins. He had sent three men up for life, not counting the case in progress he’d been brought down here for.

Marvin White would be five. They were all good cases. Solid, compelling testimony.

“I’m Helena Abramowitz,” she said, introducing herself. “I’m the senior deputy district attorney who will be trying this case.” She didn’t offer her hand.

He nodded, his reptilian eyes scanning her top to bottom. She was not dressed flamboyantly, but she hadn’t worn her most conservative outfit, either. She was wearing a knee-length wool-knit dress, dark stockings, and black pumps. She could feel his eyes on her legs.

His eyes locked onto hers. The whites were tinged with yellow, like a wolf’s. “Dwayne.”

“Dwayne Thompson.” She tapped the thick manila folder on her lap. “I know all about you.”

His eyes hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked. “No one knows all about me,” he told her in a low monotone.

He was wearing his infirmary whites. Legs planted on the floor, palms on thighs. His eyes moved slowly down to her breasts, brazenly checking them out, to her legs again, then back up to her face. She felt an urge to cross her legs, to flash some thigh and jerk him around with the swishing sound of rubbing nylon, but she resisted it. You don’t fuck with heads like his, even when you’re in the jail and he’s your witness.

“What about you?” he asked her.

“What about me.”

“How long you been a DA?”

“Over a dozen years.”

“How many murder cases have you tried?”

“This will be my eighth.”

“How many have you won?”

“All of them.”

The barest of smiles edged his mouth. “Sounds like you’re the right woman for the job.”

“I’m the right lawyer for the job, yes.”

“The right woman lawyer.”

She let that run over her back—she wasn’t going to get into any bantering with him. She flipped through a few pages of his testimony until she got to a highlighted section. “Let’s go over some of your statement,” she began.

“You married?” he asked.

She looked up. His eyes were boring into her. Curtly: “No.” Pressing straight on: “The first time you and the accused, Marvin White, talked about the killings was in the jail infirmary the day after he was brought in? Or was it later? The information is unclear on that point.”

“Divorced, or never were?”

“Divorced, no children, my life is my own and none of your business, please answer the questions I ask you and that’s all.”

“You want to win this, don’t you,” he asked, sizing her up. “You want to win it bad, you can taste it. You’d rather win this case than have sex with Kevin Costner and that other faggot, what’s his name.” His eyes were locked on her calf.

Helena smoothed her skirt down over her knees. She had been in close contact with hundreds of hardened male criminals in her time at the DA’s office, and she had handled all of them with comparative ease, but there was something about this one that set him apart. This man seemed to be totally devoid of any human feelings. She’d heard of people like this—the Jeffrey Dahmers and Ted Bundys of the world. The scariest part was that if this case went to trial, and she won, Dwayne Thompson was going to walk out of prison a free man.

“When did Marvin White first broach the issue of the Alley Slasher murders?” she asked, consulting her notes again. “Was it the first day after the night he was brought in?”

“Something like that. Yeah, that sounds right.”

“It’s what you said in your testimony. Do you remember precisely what the circumstances were?” This interview had started off on the wrong foot. If he couldn’t remember something as basic as when he and the defendant had started talking about this case, how could he remember the more important and much more specific details?

His smile was that of the cat who had finally caught and eaten Tweety Pie. “It was the first morning I was on infirmary duty,” he began. “Eleven o’clock, I had switched the television set to the news at the top of the hour. The lead story was about the latest killing and they had a shot of a reporter standing in the location where the killing had taken place. I had finished changing the dressings on his ass—excuse me, his posterior—where he’d been shot up with birdshot. We were watching together. He said, ‘I know where that is,’ or words to that effect, and he told me he used to work in that neighborhood. He knew the exact address of the alley.” He stared at her hard, challengingly. “I’ve got a photographic memory, lady lawyer. Once I hear something, or read something, I know it. Cold. So don’t worry about my testimony holding up, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I’ve got to be careful with this one, she thought. A photographic memory? What other surprises did he have in store for her? Aloud, she said, “The more precise you are the better it will be for us. And for you, given the deal you cut with my boss.”

“I scratch your back, you scratch mine, lady prosecutor,” he said. “I give good back-scratch. You want to check it out, you let me know.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms now folded across his chest, and as she looked up from her notes she saw that his pants were rising in the crotch. He looked at her; and then slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips, his serpentine tongue traversing his mouth from one side to the other.

“I have a back-scratcher,” she informed him, looking away.

“In case you forget it sometime.”

When pigs can fly, asshole.

Looking up again, she saw that his pants were quivering from the force of his erection. Don’t come in your pants, you piece of garbage. Not while I’m alone in the room with you.

“I need to take a short break,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Maybe you need a break, too.” She stood up. The door immediately swung open, the burly deputy on duty sticking his head in.

“We’re going to take a five-minute break,” she informed the deputy. “Mr. Thompson needs to use the bathroom.”

She smoked a cigarette in the lawyers’ lounge and reread some of his testimony. His grand jury statement about how he and Marvin White had first started discussing the murders was exactly what he had told her, almost verbatim. He really must have a photographic memory. He’d be a tough witness to break down under cross-examination.