Key Witness (23 page)

She didn’t have to like Dwayne Thompson. She didn’t like plenty of the witnesses she used, especially the criminals. All she wanted from them was their help in winning the case.

When she returned to the interview room he was already there, waiting for her. The bulge in his pants was gone. She asked him questions, he answered them. The light was gone from his eyes.

T
HE STORM CAME DOWN
from the north overnight, bringing a hard, driving rain. It fell in heavy, cold sheets, the strong wind off the water blowing it sideways.

Wyatt and Jonnie Rae Richards sat in a coffee shop across the street from the jail. Outside the greasy storefront window the drops punched the potholed asphalt street like BB pellets, bouncing high into the air. Already, at seven-thirty in the morning, the gutters were overflowing onto the sidewalk, sloshing muddy water on the shoes of the passersby who were running to get inside wherever they were going.

Even though she had an umbrella Jonnie Rae had been soaking wet when she pushed the door open and sat down in the corner booth across from Wyatt. She grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser on the table, took off her plastic rain hat, and patted down her face, neck, and hair.

“Excuse me,” she apologized to Wyatt, “but I can’t afford to get a cold.”

Balling up another handful of napkins, she unceremoniously pulled off her shoes and stuffed the paper around in the insides of her low pumps, which were misshapen from years of conforming to her wide, flat feet. Wyatt noticed that the heels on her shoes were run-down and the soles had holes in them.

“How far away did you have to park?” he asked. He’d lucked out, finding an empty space right in front.

“I don’t have no car,” she said, shucking out of her raincoat and draping it over the back of the booth to dry out. “Took the E bus to Merchant Street and then the 34 trolley,” she told him. “The trolley-stop roof leaks like a sieve, that’s how come I got so damn wet. Damn transit company ought to fix up their trolley stops,” she complained.

Wyatt hadn’t been on a trolley car in decades. His mother used to take him for rides when he was little, for a treat. It had been fun, watching the driver shift the levers that activated the overhead electrical current. He rarely took public transportation anymore; the cars were crowded and dirty, and it took too long to get from one place to another.

“If the weather’s like this next time I’ll send a taxi for you,” he volunteered. It was inconvenient having to ride the buses for however long it took to get here; an hour or more, with the transfers and the waiting. Getting soaked to the skin on top of that was ridiculous.

“Don’t worry about that. I ride three buses every day to get to my work. I buy the monthly pass, so I can ride as many times as I want, don’t cost me any extra.”

The waitress came over to their table, pad in hand.

“Just coffee for me,” Wyatt ordered.

“I’ll have the same,” Jonnie Rae seconded.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” he prompted. “We pay for it,” he added, trying to make it sound like it was an everyday occurrence. It would come out of his pocket—big deal.

“Well, in that case, let me have a bowl of hot cereal and some toast. White toast,” Jonnie Rae told the waitress.

“Oatmeal or Cream of Wheat?”

“Oatmeal. With brown sugar if you’ve got it.”

The waitress went away to put in their order. “Something hot to take this chill off,” she said, as if apologizing for his spending money on an order of cereal and toast.

The waitress plonked down two thick mugs of hot, tarry coffee. Jonnie Rae put three sugars and a large dollop of cream in hers.

“Let me explain what’s going on,” Wyatt began.

She licked her coffee spoon clean before putting it down on the table. “We’re meeting with Marvin, aren’t we?” she asked. “To do whatever it is you lawyers do?”

“Yes and no.”

This was not going to be an easy conversation. In a few minutes he would walk her across the street to the jail, where they would meet with Walcott and Josh Dancer, who, Josephine had cued him, was the senior Public Defender in the office. Wyatt knew that Dancer had been working overtime behind his back to convince Walcott the defense had to be handled by a career staffer, not Wyatt. If Walcott and Dancer got their way, by lunchtime Dancer would be the lead attorney on the case and he would be a backup.

He would never be a backup to anyone.

Walcott had called him with the news last night Dancer was going to be given the case. He’d lost his temper and reamed Walcott’s ass royally, accusing Walcott of using the good offices of Wyatt’s prestigious firm when it was expedient and turning a cold shoulder when it wasn’t.

Walcott had held firm. His men and women had to be taken care of.

Wyatt took a sip from his coffee. It was too hot; he scalded his lips. He put the cup down.

“I’m not an experienced lawyer in criminal trials,” he told Jonnie Rae. “I’m a very good lawyer, of course, I’ve won hundreds of important cases”—he wasn’t going to back off who he was—“but in this situation, Marvin should have someone who has been down this road before, so to speak. You see,” he explained, “I don’t practice this kind of law for a living. I’m working for the Public Defender as a volunteer.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, confused. “You done good by him already, with that robbery charge. Why couldn’t you do good on this part of it?”

Good question, he thought. “The head of the department makes these decisions,” he told her. “It’s out of my hands.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” she came back.

“It’s not your choice.”

“Why not?” She was getting angry, and building up a good head of steam behind it. “I’m the boy’s mother, ain’t I?”

“Yes, but he’s legally of age, so the decision will be his, not yours or anyone else’s. You can counsel with him, and you should, but it’s a decision he has to make.”

“It sounds like a bunch of bureaucratic bullshit to me,” she said.

Wyatt had no answer for that, so he didn’t offer one.

The waitress put Jonnie Rae’s cereal and toast down in front of her. Jonnie Rae liberally sprinkled the cereal with brown sugar, buttered her toast, and went directly at her breakfast.

Wyatt took another try at his coffee. It wasn’t too hot to drink now; it just tasted like shit in his mouth. He drank it anyway.

Walcott and Dancer were waiting in the front lobby. Walcott looked wary, but relatively calm. Dancer was fidgety, bouncing from the ball of one foot to the other. He avoided direct eye contact with Wyatt, who ignored him in turn.

Wyatt made the introductions. Jonnie Rae looked disdainfully at the two men, whom she’d never met. They didn’t make much of an impression, compared to Wyatt. They wouldn’t be sending taxicabs for her and buying her breakfast, one look at them and she knew that for a fact.

“Before we talk to your son,” Walcott said to Jonnie Rae, trying to be charming and considerate, neither of which he was good at, “we should talk for a minute amongst ourselves. We can go in here,” he added, pointing to a small visitors’ anteroom off the main guard station.

She shook her head emphatically. “He’s the one got his butt in the sling,” she said. “You do your talking to him. I’ll listen and counsel him, if it comes to that. That’s what a mother is for when her child becomes old enough to get hisself into trouble.”

Wyatt turned away so they couldn’t see him smiling. She was almost parroting what he’d told her, word for word.

“Fine by me,” Walcott said, taken aback. He walked over to the duty sergeant and announced their presence.

A deputy accompanied them through the secure gates and into a small visitors’ room. They sat at a table, all on the same side. Wyatt sat next to Jonnie Rae, shielding her from the others.

The door from the other side, the jail side, swung open. Marvin was led in by two deputies. He was in handcuffs and leg-irons, shuffling his slippered feet along the floor. His complexion was ashen, his hair was all kinked up like it hadn’t been washed or combed out in days, and his eyes and nose were runny. He looked down at his feet as he came in, unable to look up at his mother’s face.

“Oh, baby,” Jonnie Rae cried out. “What have they done to you in here?” Instinctively, she jumped up and tried to reach across the table to hug him.

One of the deputies immediately stepped between them, blocking her. “No physical contact,” he said sternly, pointing to the instructions on the wall.

Wyatt was on his feet, and not as a courtesy to Marvin. “Why is this man shackled?” he demanded. “Who authorized this?”

“The sheriff,” one of the deputies answered curtly.

“Shackling an inmate in the presence of his attorney and family is against regulations,” Wyatt told the deputy. He was pissed—Marvin had been under indictment less than forty-eight hours, he still hadn’t been formally arraigned, and they were already treating him like an animal. Walcott started to stand also, to add to the protest, but Wyatt waved him to sit down. “This man has been convicted of no crime,” he said aggressively, “and has demonstrated no threat to anyone in this institution. So take the metal off him right now, or I’ll get an order to do it, and I’ll file an official complaint against your department and against the two of you personally.”

The deputies exchanged a look. “You assume full responsibility for his behavior?” the lead one asked.

“Don’t play games with me, pal,” Wyatt warned the deputy. “Take off those handcuffs. Right now.”

The deputy made a show of shrugging, as if to say “It’s on your head”; then he unfastened the cuffs and leg and waist irons, gathering them up in his arms. Marvin rubbed his wrists vigorously.

“We’ll be right outside the door,” the deputy said ominously.

“We’re shaking,” Wyatt answered back. As they were leaving: “I don’t need to remind you that this is a privileged conversation. If you give us one iota of suspicion that you’re violating our confidentiality, you’ll be in front of the grand jury. And please close the door firmly behind you on your way out.”

The deputies left, making a show of shutting the door tight.

“Sit down, please,” Wyatt said to Marvin.

Marvin sat. “You bad, man,” he said to Wyatt.

“That’s not my style, but you do what you have to do,” Wyatt told him. “There are better ways to get someone’s attention than to get in their face, but sometimes a two-by-four between the eyes is the only way.”

Marvin laughed. “Shit, man, I know how that one goes.”

Walcott and Dancer had watched the display between Wyatt and the deputies, and his easy bantering with Marvin, with interest and some apprehension.

“That was a good show,” Dancer told Wyatt, breaking into their conversation, “but it can have repercussions down the line.” He nodded toward Marvin as if with grave significance.

“It won’t in this case,” Wyatt answered.

“How can you be sure?” Dancer countered.

“Because I won’t let them.” Taking a deep breath, he plunged in. “Marvin, these men are with the Public Defender’s office. This is Mr. Walcott”—he indicated Walcott, sitting to his left—“and his senior associate, Mr. Dancer,” leaning across Walcott to point to Dancer.

“May I?” Walcott asked Wyatt.

“Yes.” Wyatt turned back to Marvin. “Mr. Walcott is an experienced and highly regarded defense lawyer,” he said. “So listen carefully to what he has to tell you.”

Walcott leaned his elbows on the table so that he could be closer to Marvin. “You’ve been accused of a very, very serious crime,” he said as prelude to his presentation. “You understand the seriousness of this, right?”

“Yeah, man, I understand all right, but I didn’t do it!” Marvin said loudly.

“Okay, I hear you, and that’s good,” Walcott said, “but you are going to go to trial for murder, whether you did them or not. The grand jury has brought a bill of particulars against you—that means they’ve charged you with seven counts of murder. The charges will be formalized by the end of this week or earlier. Which means you have to have the best and most experienced criminal-trial lawyer you can afford.”

“I do,” Marvin answered. He pointed to Wyatt. “I got him.”

Walcott nodded slowly. “Mr. Matthews has been your attorney up to now, that’s true. And he has done an admirable job for you.” He leaned forward again, steepling his ringers, talking slowly and precisely. “Mr. Matthews is one of the best lawyers in this country. One of the very best—”

“Yeah, I figured that out myself,” Marvin interrupted. He flashed his mother a grin.

Jonnie Rae was gripping the edges of the table so hard her knuckles were almost white. Wyatt put a calming hand on top of hers.

“—but he is not experienced in criminal cases such as yours,” Walcott went on. “He has never tried a capital case. A murder case in the first degree with extenuating circumstances; which could bring the death penalty, if you were to lose,” he said, emphasizing his point.

“I didn’t do it, man,” Marvin said, flaring. “This is a frame-up.”

“Well, the state is going to have to prove you did, beyond a reasonable doubt,” Walcott said, “and they are going to have a very heavy burden of proof; and if you didn’t do it, as you claim, it’s going to be very hard for them to prove otherwise.”

Marvin flared up immediately. “What do you mean, ‘as I claim’? I flat-out
did not do it,
man. I don’t give a shit who says otherwise. Whoever says I did is a goddamn liar, and I’ll tell him to his motherfucking face!”

“Marvin!” Jonnie Rae called out.

“Sorry, Mama,” Marvin said, abashed. “But these guys’re saying I killed those women, and I didn’t!”

“No,” Walcott corrected him. “You misunderstood me. The state is claiming that. They have to prove it. We don’t have to prove you didn’t. All we have to do is show the jury that the state hasn’t proved that you did.”

“Same difference,” Marvin said.

“No, it’s a huge difference,” Wyatt cut in. “May I?” he asked Walcott.

Walcott nodded reluctantly.

“I can explain this,” Dancer cut in. Coming up out of his chair and leaning toward Marvin, he said, “It doesn’t matter if you’re guilty or not—”