Key Witness (27 page)

The cop scowled as he checked Wyatt’s name against a list he had on his clipboard. “Waste of time and money,” he scoffed as he realized who Wyatt was. “Ought to ice the son of a bitch right now and save us all the expense.”

“And you have a pleasant day, too,” Wyatt replied, rolling up his car window and driving through.

Inside, he made his way to the small room set aside for defense counsel. This would be a simple proceeding, lasting less than ten minutes. Marvin would be brought in, the charges against him would be read, and he would make his plea: not guilty. Of course, anything could happen.

Walcott showed up a few minutes later. “Quite a show,” he commented.

“I’ve been involved in some pretty huge cases,” Wyatt agreed, “and I’ve never seen a circus like this.”

“Murder has sex appeal,” Walcott observed sardonically. “Back in medieval times, when they’d hang a man in the public square, the whores would do their best business.”

There was a knock on the door. A deputy ushered Jonnie Rae and her three younger children in. Two girls and a boy, dressed up in their finest and scrubbed squeaky-clean. Wyatt guessed their ages to be between sixteen and nine or ten. Cute kids. They were intimidated by the entire process, he knew; what kid wouldn’t be? He could imagine Michaela having to deal with something like this.

Actually, he couldn’t.

“How are you?” Wyatt asked Jonnie Rae solicitously, offering her a chair.

“Frightened to death.” She looked over at Walcott.

“I’ll meet you inside the courtroom,” Walcott said. He went out, closing the door behind him.

“Marvin got his fresh clothing?” he asked.

“Had them at the jail six on the dot, minute they opened.”

“Did you manage to get here without too much trouble?” he asked. He should have sent a car for her; having to go to the jail and then come here, with three children in tow, was unfair. If he’d been working this case out of his office, arranging her transportation would have been taken care of automatically. This was a different world. He couldn’t take anything for granted.

“One of Marvin’s friends carried us down,” she said.

A bailiff opened the door and stuck his head in. “They’re ready upstairs.”

Wyatt sat at the defense table. Walcott and Josephine were in the first row directly behind him, alongside Jonnie Rae and Marvin’s half-sisters and brother. Marvin hadn’t been brought in yet.

Helena Abramowitz was in the lead position at the defense table. Her matching skirt and jacket were dark blue, her blouse was white, her stockings were ultrasheer black, and her black pumps had a three-inch heel. Her lipstick was dark red.

When she had entered the chamber, a few moments after he did, she took her place at the prosecution table, made eye contact with Wyatt, and nodded blandly. Then she consciously turned away from him and began conversing with other members of her team. Wyatt noticed that the other prosecuting attorney was a black man.

They were in the big courtroom, Room A, a much more commodious and formal room than the one he’d been in last week. It was a high, domed-ceilinged room, with seating for 108 spectators. All the seats were taken; there were people standing in the aisles in violation of the fire regulations. About three dozen seats, in the first three rows, had been allotted to the press and certain police and government officials.

All the way in the rear, standing with their backs to the wall, he noticed three very tough-looking young black men. Looking more closely at them, he recognized one from the earlier time they’d been in court, when the picture had been considerably rosier; the one wearing the $1,500 suit with all the accessories. That’s who brought the family today, he realized, which accounted for how they’d gained entrance to this hot-ticket event. Marvin’s friends, who by their appearance were drug dealers or gang leaders.

The young man caught Wyatt looking at him. He stared back, his eyes black and impassive, showing no feeling of anything.

He’d have to ask Marvin who that was. If the fellow, who looked to be Marvin’s age, was close enough to Marvin to have driven the family here, and then hung around to watch the proceedings and take them home, he would be someone Wyatt would want to talk to.

There was a stirring in the audience as Alex Pagano entered the room. He came in from the doors in back, stopped briefly and dramatically to milk the moment, then slowly made his way up the crowded aisle, greeting various friends in the congregation until he reached the turnstile and pushed through.

He approached Wyatt, holding out his hand. “A fair fight,” he said. “A good fight.”

“Like letting me find out about it on the eleven o’clock news instead of calling me first, a professional courtesy I’ve always extended. You want a fight, ace, I’m your man.”

Pagano’s smile abruptly faded. He turned away and sat down with his people, engaging them in conversation.

A sudden collective gasp: Marvin White, dressed in white shirt, tie, and dark pants, was led in by two jail deputies and brought to the defense table. The deputies removed his handcuffs and took their places along the far wall close to the defense table, assuming an at-ease but alert position.

“Don’t you have a sports coat?” Wyatt whispered in Marvin’s ear, leaning in close to his client.

Marvin shook his head. “Not one I could wear in here.” He rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had chapped them. Wyatt made a mental note to get Marvin’s sizes and send Josephine out shopping. The kid would need some decent clothes when he came to trial—a couple sports coats, some white dress shirts and ties, decent slacks. He wouldn’t bother going to Walcott for the money—he knew what the answer would be. He would pay for it out of his own pocket.

“How do you feel?” he asked, turning to Marvin again.

“Scared,” Marvin answered with a nervous hiccup.

“This’ll be over fast. When the judge asks how you plead, you stand up and say, slowly and clearly, ‘Not guilty.’ Don’t be belligerent, or embellish it with some line of crap,” he instructed Marvin. “ ‘Not guilty’ and then sit down.”

Marvin nodded.

A small door opened behind the judge’s bench. “Oyez, oyez, oyez,” cried out the bailiff. “All rise! This court is now in session, Judge William T. Grant presiding.”

Judge Grant was the senior judge in superior court. He was going to run this one himself, to make sure it was done the right way. And if the publicity helped him get a seat on a state appeals court, or better yet, a federal judgeship, that would be okay, too.

Wyatt knew Bill Grant socially, to say hello to. Grant was a conservative, a stern jurist who didn’t put up with any nonsense in his courtroom. He knew the law and expected the advocates standing in front of him to know it as well. He’d reamed plenty of lawyers out over the years for not being prepared to his standards. The stories about Grant had amused Wyatt when he’d heard them at cocktail parties. He didn’t know how funny they’d be if they were directed at him.

Wyatt rose to his feet, buttoning his jacket as he did so. He touched Marvin’s shoulder to make sure Marvin didn’t take his time standing up. First impressions were important.

Judge Grant swung his gavel once, hard. “Be seated,” he commanded. There was a shuffling of chairs as 115 people sat back down. “Call the case,” Grant said to his bailiff.

“People versus Marvin White,” the bailiff sang out.

Grant looked down toward the prosecution table. “Are the people ready?” he asked.

Helena rose, smoothing her skirt. “We are, Your Honor.”

He swung over to the defense. “And the defendant?”

Wyatt stood in place. “Ready, Your Honor.”

“Nice to see you in my court, Mr. Matthews,” Grant said, his pale gray eyes flashing a brief tight smile behind his rimless wire glasses.

“It’s an honor to be here.”

He remained standing for a brief moment; not so long as to be overtly obvious, but enough so that his psychological presence, his gravitas, was clearly felt. Then he sat down. In the legal world he was important, a major player nationally; not in criminal court, perhaps, but a force to be reckoned with. Grant couldn’t help himself; he’d had to acknowledge that.

He glanced over at the prosecution table. Pagano had studiously turned his back, but Helena was staring at him, taking his measure. Seeing that she’d been caught looking, she turned away—a bit too quickly for the nonchalance she wanted to affect.

Grant leaned forward in his chair, his eyes on Marvin. “The accused will rise.”

Wyatt nudged Marvin. Marvin stood up.

“You have been accused of the crime of murder,” Grant said, looking down at Marvin with a stern visage. “How do you plead?”

Marvin took a deep breath. “Not guilty,” he said, slowly and clearly, like his fancy lawyer had told him to.

Grant nodded. “I’m going to set the trial date for”—he leafed through his calendar—“July sixth.”

“Isn’t that fast?” Wyatt asked with concern.

“The law guarantees every defendant the right to a speedy trial,” the judge answered. “I would think you would want to get at this as quickly as possible, Mr. Matthews, for your client’s sake.”

“For my client’s sake I want to be as prepared as possible,” Wyatt rejoined. “Mr. White has been arraigned on seven counts of murder. Setting up a defense for seven crimes of anything, let alone murder, could be a long process, Your Honor. I don’t know that it’s possible to prepare properly in that short a period of time.”

Grant looked over at the prosecutor’s table. “Do you have a position on this?” he asked.

“We can be fully prepared in that time,” Helena said smoothly, rising to her feet. “We don’t feel it would be in the interests of justice to drag this out unnecessarily.”

“The court agrees,” Grant said without thinking further about it. “July sixth it is. If you run into unforeseen hardships, Mr. Matthews,” he said to Wyatt, “you can come back in here and ask for a continuance. I’m not trying to tie your hands in any way, Counselor, but I agree with the state—it’s in everyone’s interest to move this along.”

The deputies handcuffed Marvin and led him out. Wyatt spoke for a moment with Jonnie Rae, reassuring her as best he could. She left in the company of her children and Marvin’s tough-looking friends.

Wyatt handed his briefcase to Josephine. “I’ll be back in the office in about an hour. We’ll start looking into discovery.”

“I’ll be there.” Lugging the bulky case, she left with Walcott.

Wyatt waited until the courtroom had cleared. Then he went outside.

It was bedlam. The entire corridor was jammed with reporters. Wyatt pushed his way through the throng, assisted by some deputies who flanked him and shoved people out of his way, literally pushing them to the side.

“Mr. Matthews. Can you tell us …?”

“What is your reaction to …?”

“How did you get involved in …?”

He pushed forward, not answering, fighting through the thicket. Then he was by them and on the elevator and the police were blocking access to everyone else, and he rode it down to the ground floor. He wanted to make a statement but he needed a few minutes to get his thoughts in order.

The major television networks and stations had set up shop on the courthouse steps. Alex Pagano stood in front of a massive bank of microphones, simultaneously answering questions and issuing his statement, putting his spin on what had happened inside. Standing behind him, his staff, with Helena Abramowitz in the foreground, hovered like a protective and adoring flock.

“Today is a giant step in the right direction for this city,” Pagano was saying. “Tonight, for the first time in a long time, our citizens can sleep with the knowledge that in one way at least, they have freedom from fear. Thank you.” He moved off, protected by a dozen or more policemen who cleared his path.

Wyatt, watching and listening to this, wanted to spit. What sanctimonious, pompous bullshit. There had been 796 homicides in the metropolitan area the previous year: he knew, he’d looked it up. This case comprised seven, over two years. Whoever had been doing this was a monster, he agreed with that. But to say that things were better, in any way, was a lie.

“Mr. Matthews!” a reporter’s voice called out. “Do you have anything to say about this morning’s proceedings?”

Wyatt nodded. He walked down the granite stairs to the same bank of microphones Pagano had just vacated and stood in the glare of the midmorning sun, feeling the lights of the camera crews beating down on his face, trying not to squint in the ten-thousand-watt glare.

“What is your reaction to the charges?” a reporter called out.

“Unlike the district attorney, who is a politician first and a lawyer in search of justice second, if at all, I’m not going to try my case in front of the media.”

He paused for a moment. Speaking publicly during a trial wasn’t something he was accustomed to; his work almost always took place behind closed doors.

“However—I’m not going to
not
speak out when I feel I have to set the record straight, and this is one of those times. Basically, I only have one thing to say: this whole episode is a charade, a travesty, a joke. Except it’s a bad joke, and it’s on all of us. This isn’t about justice, about who committed these terrible crimes. This is about finding a scapegoat as soon as possible, and ramming him down the collective throats of the public. What a wonderful convenience this whole thing is,” he went on, building a good head of steam, “that in such a short period of time after the latest killing the police find a young man, who—surprise, surprise—happens to be black, who has no adult criminal record whatsoever, who has been working for the past two years to help out his mother and younger sisters and brother, and who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. And because some career criminal with nothing to lose concocts some wild fairy tale, this young man is going to spend the next several months in the city jail, until I can convince a jury that he had nothing to do with any of this.” He stopped, looking out over the crowd, waiting to make sure his words were being felt, and transmitted.

“The case the DA is bringing is not about innocence or guilt. It is about expediency, and getting it over with. Eeny meeny miny mo … you know the rest.” He shook his head, a broad gesture for the TV cameras to catch. “They want to put a young man, a lifetime resident of this city, on death row solely on the testimony of a hardened convict. Well, I can tell you this: we’re not going to let them. Because if they can do this to Marvin White, they can do it to any one of you.