Key Witness (38 page)

Wyatt nodded.

Now that Dexter had bared his soul, he was embarrassed—he covered it by making a show of checking the time on his Rolex. “I’ve got to go. See you around,” he said. “And from now on, if you want to go down to my part of town, call me up first? So’s I can give you an escort. Make everybody’s life a whole lot easier.”

“I will. And thanks for saving my life.”

“You’ll make it up to us.”

The lobby was deserted, except for the cleaning crew. In the elevator, riding up to his floor, he started shaking. He thought he might collapse, he was shaking so hard. He had almost been killed tonight; another minute and he would have been dead.
Dead.

He knew this would be part of him for a long time—probably forever.
You wanted a change in your life. You wanted some excitement. Well, you got enough excitement tonight to last you a lifetime.

There were three miniature bottles of Scotch in the room minibar, two Chivas Regals and a White Horse. He emptied them all into a water glass and drank the mixture down in one swallow. Then he lay down on the bed in his clothes, trying to will the shivering to stop.

He was never going to tell anyone about this. Especially Moira. If she heard about what had happened it would break their marriage—he’d promised her he’d never go back down there. This was a secret he would take to his grave; thank God he hadn’t taken it there tonight.

“W
HAT TRUCK DID YOU
step in front of?” Josephine wisecracked.

It was almost eleven the following morning. Wyatt had drifted off to sleep at dawn, and didn’t wake up until the room maid came in and found him sleeping on top of the bed, still fully clothed. He’d showered, shaved, and put on a fresh change of clothes, but he had black circles around his eyes as big as a raccoon’s and his face felt raw, like it had been scrubbed with a wire brush. And although he had brushed his teeth and gargled with Listerine and brushed his teeth again, his mouth tasted like a herd of elephants had taken a collective dump inside of it.

“A big one.” He didn’t elaborate, and she was wise enough not to pursue it.

He thought about going over to the courthouse and watching Dwayne Thompson testify some more, but Dwayne’s testimony was going to drag into next week; he’d go back when Dwayne was being cross-examined, to see how he held up. So after lunch (lunchtime—he didn’t feel like eating anything, his stomach was still emotionally churning from the events of the night before) he went to the jail to see Marvin.

He and Marvin sat across from each other. His notes were spread out in front of him on the table.

“Agnes Carpenter. She lives on Westmont Street. Pickup on Mondays, delivery on Thursdays. Do you remember her now?”

Marvin stared at him dully. “Yeah, I know Mrs. Carpenter.”

“You slept with her? On a regular basis?”

“That what she say?” He squirmed in his chair, fidgeting, his eyes roaming around the room, looking at everything but his lawyer.

“She’s given me a sworn statement that on the night of one of the murders you’ve been charged with you spent the night at her house. The entire night. Do you remember that?”

Marvin’s shoulders lifted and dropped. “If that’s what she say …”

“No, Marvin. Not what
she
says.” He was losing patience. “I want to hear what
you
have to say about that. Were you fucking this woman and did you ever spend a night at her house? Neither of those things should be hard to remember.” Dealing with Marvin was like slogging through hot tar. The kid was his own worst enemy.

“Yeah,” Marvin finally copped. “I screwed the old bitch, here and there. She paid me,” he added forcefully, “good money. I wasn’t fucking her ’cause …”

“Because why?”

“… because I wanted to. I didn’t find her sexy or nothing. She paid me, man. Hell, she’s old enough to be my granny. It was for money. Good money, too,” he repeated.

“What about spending the night? Do you remember that?”

Marvin picked at his nose. “I might’ve,” he said grudgingly. “I don’t think about shit like that, I put it out of my mind as soon as it’s over.”

Wyatt leaned forward, his weight on his forearms. “Listen to me, Marvin. You’re not helping yourself here. Mrs. Carpenter is willing to take the chance of blowing off her marriage by going on the stand and swearing under oath that on the night of one of those murders you were with her. All night long. In her bed. Now if she’s willing to put herself in that kind of jeopardy for you, the least you can do is remember it, and admit it straightforwardly. And act sure about it—‘Yes, I did.’ We’ll research the dates, we’ll find ways to refresh your memory for you. But you’ve got to change your mind about how you’re dealing with this. You have to be positive and aggressive.”

Marvin looked away. “Yeah. If you say so,” he mumbled. “You’re the lawyer.”

Wyatt ran his fingers through his hair. He was feeling shitty anyway, from the trauma of the night before. Coddling someone accused of seven counts of first-degree murder with special circumstances wasn’t a condition he felt like putting up with—not today.

“Marvin,” he asked in an impatient voice that he didn’t try to conceal, “what is your problem with this? Would you mind filling me in? I am your lawyer, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Mrs. Carpenter?”

“Yes?”

“She’s gonna stand up at my trial and say this?”

“If we need her to.”

“That I was fucking her?”

“She’ll say ‘make love’ or words like that, but yes.”

“And spent a whole night there? In the same bed with her?”

It suddenly hit him—so
that’s
what this is all about. “Are you going to be embarrassed that this older woman is going to tell the world that you were her lover?”

Marvin rolled his eyes. “What the fuck you think, man?” There was a fear in his voice, almost a pleading. “People are gonna think I’m pathetic, screwing some old woman like that.”

Wyatt exploded. “For God’s sake, Marvin! The state, wants to
execute
you! Is worrying about what some of your friends might think about you more important than your life?”

Marvin looked at the wall.

Wyatt took a calming breath. Then he stuffed his notes in his briefcase, stood up, and punched the button by the door to signify that he wanted out. “The next time I come down here, you’d better have had an attitude adjustment, Marvin. You hear me?”

No reply.

“Did … you … hear … me?”

“Yeah,” Marvin barked. “I hear you.”

“About the way you deal with me, about the way you face what’s in store for you if you don’t change. Because if you bring this kind of attitude into the courtroom the jury will
hang
you, and I won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

Marvin nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I hear what you’re saying.”

“Good. So to tie this up for today: you were having a sexual relationship with Agnes Carpenter.”

In a low voice, as if the world were eavesdropping: “Yeah.”

“And you did spend at least one night with her in her house? One entire night, until morning-time or later.”

Marvin nodded. “But it was for the money. That’s all.”

“That’s fine,” Wyatt agreed. “We’re not saying you were in love with her. You were performing a service that she requested.”

“Yeah.” Marvin’s face lightened up a little bit. “That’s what I was doing.”

The door on Wyatt’s side swung open. He was going back to the free world, unlike his client. Marvin would go through another door to get to where he was going.

“If I tell you something you promise you won’t spread it around?”

He turned back to Marvin. “What?”

“Mrs. Carpenter? She isn’t all that bad a person. I kind of like her, you know? As a person. The way her old man treats her and all. But you can’t tell anybody I said that, right?” he said quickly.

“What we talk about is strictly between us, unless you say otherwise.”

“Yeah. Good.” Marvin exhaled in relief. “But the sex part—that was for the money, strictly,” he said adamantly. “It wasn’t like I did it … because I wanted to or anything.”

“For the money,” Wyatt agreed. “Strictly business.”

W
YATT WENT BACK TO
his own office near the close of day, casually bantering with the secretaries and some of his colleagues. Alerted to Wyatt’s presence, Ben Turner came out of his office to greet him. Wyatt looked better than he had that morning, but his face was still showing the previous evening’s wear and tear.

“How are you?” Ben asked, showing concern beyond the normal salutation.

“Good. Frazzled some. This is no Sunday picnic in the park, I’m finding that out more every day.”

“Are you making progress?”

“I am. We’re doing well, better than I thought we might be at this point.”

“Do you think you have a chance of winning?”

“Oh, yeah. A decent chance, maybe better.”

Putting a fatherly arm around Wyatt’s shoulder, Ben pulled him into his office. “Wyatt, I have to ask you this directly. Is there any chance this boy is actually innocent?”

Wyatt stiffened under the paternal gesture. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Because I want to know, that’s why.” Ben let go of Wyatt’s arm. “I expect you to give him a crackerjack defense, a Wyatt Matthews job, whether he’s innocent or not—whether you even know it or not. That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, Ben?”

“You may be working this case off the books, Wyatt, but you’re a senior partner here, vital to the health and welfare of this office. We have very important clients to think about. About how they perceive us.”

“Defending a mass murderer could hurt the firm.” This conversation was getting ugly.

Ben threw it back in his face. “Of which you are a major shareholder.”

“I don’t know if he’s guilty or not,” Wyatt answered, keeping his cool. “He says he isn’t. I’m going to fashion a strong defense, more than strong enough to raise reasonable doubt in any fair-minded person’s mind. That’s my job. Nothing more, or less.”

Ben stiffened. “Then do it well. I know you will.”

They walked out into the corridor. It was quitting time for those who didn’t have to stay late. The secretaries were shutting their computers down for the night, some of them slipping out of their heels and putting on the running shoes that they wore to come and leave in.

“It’s good seeing you, Ben.”

“It’s good seeing you, too, Wyatt,” the old man replied. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Not to worry.”

Ben reached out and touched Wyatt’s shirt—a light touch; barely connecting, but affecting in a way Wyatt rarely felt from Ben. “I’m not going to be around much longer, Wyatt. I’m looking to retiring toward the end of the year. This work is too rugged for a man my age. And I don’t want to die in my office, passed out over a brief. You’re my logical replacement; you know that and so do all the others. I want to make sure you’re standing tall and unbloodied when that day comes.”

Wyatt was touched. “I will, Ben. That’s a promise.”

“Good.” Ben pumped Wyatt’s hand vigorously. “Wyatt?”

“Yes, Ben?”

“Between us—is he innocent? Or guilty? What’s your lawyer’s gut reaction? You have a nose for these things.”

“I hope he is. But honestly, I don’t know. I wish I could give you more.”

“I wish you could, too. I wish you could.”

The reason Wyatt had come to the office was to see Darryl Davis. He had called Darryl and asked to have dinner with him, tonight—he needed to pick the brain of the head of Waskie, Turner’s criminal-defense division.

He made reservations at the Steak Joint. There are times when a man needs a couple of stiff drinks, a great New York strip, charred medium-rare, with a baked potato on the side and a good bottle of California cabernet. This was one of those times.

The restaurant was one of the oldest in the city, a favorite watering hole of the politicians, lobbyists, high-priced lawyers, and all-around wheeler-dealers—men (and women) like them, along with the ubiquitous gaggle of Japanese businessmen (several parties of them were on the premises tonight, tucking into the biggest porterhouses the joint offered). There was a throwback element to the Steak Joint—it was, in the last decade of the twentieth century, still a man’s restaurant, in the classic sense of the term—women were outnumbered three to one. Decorated like a private club, it featured red leather banquettes, thick plush carpeting, English hunting prints on the walls. And it was arrogantly expensive—most patrons came here on their expense accounts. Darryl would bill this dinner to the firm, since Wyatt was technically on leave.

Wyatt knew more than half the people in the place. Several passed by their booth to meet and greet and offer their encouragement. “Give Alex Pagano a good ass-kicking” was the general tenor of their remarks.

After they were left alone, he told Darryl of the events of the night before. Darryl listened silently, shaking his head a few times in stunned disbelief. “Sounds like you had a guardian angel on your shoulder,” was his first comment when Wyatt had finished.

“I could as easily not have.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Not go down there alone at night, for one thing.”

The waiter placed their two-inch-thick steaks in front of them. The plates were sizzling. He freshened their wineglasses and left discreetly.

“Let me ask you a straight-up question,” Darryl said.

“Shoot.”

“Are you looking for a way out?”

“No,” Wyatt answered firmly. “I’m not quitting this. But I am worried.”

“You should be. If you weren’t I’d think you’d gone brain-dead.”

“Not about my safety. I’ve learned my lesson there—I hope.” He cut into his steak—perfect. “About my ability to try this case.”

“Because you haven’t done criminal work before?”

Wyatt shook his head. “Because my client comes from a world that is completely alien to me.”

“Ah.” Darryl held his wineglass up to the light, “Do you know what are some of the greatest things in the world about making it?” he asked Wyatt.

“You tell me.”

“This kind of stuff.” He waved his arm around the room. “The great wine, the food, the atmosphere. Vacations in Vail, suits by Armani, a Mercedes car. The material benefits, the so-called shallow, narcissistic pleasures of life.” He took a sip of wine and rinsed it in his mouth before swallowing. “Yes, there are oceans between you and that housing project Marvin White lives in. But you can get on a Concorde airplane today and fly across the Atlantic Ocean in less than four hours. It isn’t that big a gulf between any two people in this world anymore. Didn’t you tell me his friend that pulled your ass out of the fire drives a tricked-out Jeep that goes out the door at thirty thou plus?”