Key Witness (39 page)

“Yes, but look how he makes his money.”

“Everything is relative, Wyatt.” Darryl held up his wineglass for inspection. “Look around you. People in this room ruin and otherwise fuck up people’s lives every day: That’s the world. You live in it, you benefit from it.”

“I try not to.” The statement sounded lame before it was even out of his mouth.

Darryl cackled. “Sure you do. You own stock, don’t you?”

“Okay, I get the point. I know where this is going.”

Darryl cut him off. “No, let me ramble a little. I’m in a philosophical frame of mind tonight. You got me going here. Okay. We have the head of AT&T. Cuts forty thousand jobs from the payroll, fucks up
forty thousand
lives, the economy applauds it and AT&T gives him a million-dollar bonus. Some kid from the ghetto sells crack cocaine, fucks up what—
dozens
of lives?—we put him in jail. But isn’t he also contributing to the economy? You think the bozo that sold him his Jeep or his suit or his fancy watch cared where his money came from? Or where Baby Doc’s money comes from? Alcohol used to be illegal and cocaine was legal, so who’s to say? More important, who’s to judge?”

“I don’t equate drug dealing with anything.”

Darryl scowled. “I don’t think Jonathan Swift wanted people to eat babies, either. I don’t advocate drug dealing, that’s not my point. This is the world, Wyatt. And it’s a tiny, tiny,
tiny
little world. The difference between you and the Marvin Whites of this world is getting smaller every day. Which is a good thing, I’m sure you’d agree. Whether or not you like the means.”

“What’s the moral of this story?”

“You’re a lawyer, Wyatt, not a social worker. If you’re defending the CEO of a major corporation do you go to his house for dinner and ride around with his teenage kids?” Answering his own rhetorical question: “Of course not. You’d consider it a waste of your time and irrelevant to the issue, unless his home life was a factor, which isn’t really the case here. This is about whether or not Marvin did it—not his family history, poverty in America, the corruption of the welfare system, or anything else that social thinkers like to chew the fat over. Look at the
small
picture—he couldn’t have done it because a, b, c, etc.”

Wyatt took a mouthful of steak, chewed, and swallowed before continuing. “But it’s hard for me to separate these things out. That corporate executive you mentioned? I don’t have to look at his life, because I already know it. See,” he continued, feeling some kind of juice stirring, “what I think is screwing me up here is the
why
of my doing this work. Do I want to defend people who need it, or do I …”

“Want to change the world? Is this about some kind of rich white man’s guilt trip? I thought you had resolved that issue already.”

“I’m still fighting with it.”

Darryl nodded sagely. “Wyatt, you didn’t invite me to have dinner with you tonight because I’m some fount of wisdom. You wanted to talk to me because I’m black and you don’t know how you’re supposed to act.” He lifted an eyebrow. “True?”

Wyatt’s tension broke. “Yes. That’s exactly why. Is that …?” He didn’t know how to put what he wanted to say without offending his partner and friend.

“Patronizing?” Darryl finished his thought. “One could say so, if one wanted to look at it that way. But so what? Sometimes it can’t be helped, there’s no other way.”

Wyatt felt truly grateful. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay.” As Darryl finished his glass the waiter was miraculously at his shoulder, filling it up again to the exact proper amount.

“These waiters here are good at what they do, aren’t they? Came a time, not so long ago, the only black faces you’d see in here would be waiters and busboys; but that’s for another long night. So okay—here’s my suggestion, as a lawyer and a black man, which in this case dovetails almost completely. Either you’re in … or you’re out. If you’re out, get out, right now. Tomorrow morning. But if you’re in, put all this extraneous bullshit aside and prepare your case. Your soul might belong to Jesus, Wyatt, but Marvin White’s ass is going to belong to the state, unless you stop that from happening.”

“I
JUST FOUND THIS.”
Josephine dumped a thin file on Wyatt’s desk. She looked unhappy. “This is …?”

“An addendum to your client’s juvenile records. Somehow it got left out of what you’ve already seen.”

“I take it you’ve read this.” He didn’t like the unhappy tone of her voice.

She patted the top of the file gingerly, as if it could be a package bomb. “The best you can say about this is that the other side won’t be able to use it, since juvie records are inadmissible. Although I’ll bet they’ll try like hell.”

He opened the file. Josephine walked out of his cubicle. A moment later, she stuck her head back in. “I almost forgot. The woman who identified Marvin in the police lineup has agreed to come in and meet with you—the one who claims she saw him outside the bar. I ran it through the DA’s office. They have to comply, but they weren’t overjoyed about it.”

“When is this?”

“This evening. She said she could come by around seven-thirty. It was the earliest she could make it. I hope it doesn’t mess up your plans, having her come in late.”

“I don’t have any plans for tonight,” he said. “Actually, I was going to ask you if you wanted to have dinner, since I’m staying in town for the next few days. After the interview?”

She hesitated. “I’d love to. But I can’t tonight. My aunt’s birthday party. I have to go,” she added.

“No problem.”

“Can I have a rain check?” she asked.

“Any time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said with a quick smile before taking off. He heard the tapping echo of her heels growing fainter as she walked to the elevator. The elevator doors opened and closed with a whoosh. Then it was quiet, the only sounds a barely perceptible buzzing coming from a malfunctioning fluorescent light somewhere out in the hallway and the hum of traffic from the street, six floors below.

He turned to the new documents Josephine had brought in. The charge that hadn’t been in what he had read was an allegation of aggravated rape, when Marvin was fifteen. The girl, who was Marvin’s age and who knew him, told the police that Marvin had enticed her into going alone with him to the roof of her apartment, another building in Sullivan Houses. She thought they were merely going somewhere private to make out—she had an admitted crush on him, as did many of her friends. There he had raped her at knifepoint, and after he raped her he forced her to commit fellatio. Again with a knife at her throat, threatening mutilation or worse if she didn’t comply.

The girl had not gone to the police willingly. Her mother had noticed bleeding in the girl’s underpants, although it wasn’t her time of the month. The girl had finally broken down and told her mother of the assault, although she didn’t give a name then. The mother took the girl to the hospital, where a sympathetic female doctor examined her and said that indeed there had been penetration, which certainly could have been of a forceful nature. The doctor had reported her findings to the police, as is required under law. That’s when the cops took over, bringing the girl and her mother in for questioning. It took some hemming and hawing, but the girl finally gave up her assailant’s name: Marvin White. According to the girl’s mother, whose statement was included, the girl had been a virgin.

Wyatt rocked back in his chair, cursing. Fucking civil-service bookkeeping. Helena Abramowitz surely would know about this. It might not be admissible in court, and there would be strenuous arguing back and forth, but it was a compelling piece of corroborating evidence against Marvin. He was an accused rapist and he had threatened to kill his victim if she didn’t comply.

Maybe he had learned his lesson—don’t let them live so they can go to the police.

Wyatt read on. Marvin had been arrested. Unable to post bail, he had been detained in juvenile custody for two months, until shortly before his trial.

At that point, everything started to get murky. Two of Marvin’s friends (Dexter was one of them) swore that Marvin had been across town with them at the time of the alleged rape, at a Martin Lawrence movie. Also, it came to light that the girl had a record of her own, including shoplifting and using a stolen credit card. And she had dropped out of school, which Marvin, at that point, had not yet done. All of which made her a less-than-sterling candidate to hang a successful prosecution on.

Two days before the trial was to begin the girl got cold feet and told the prosecutor’s office she wasn’t going to testify. There was nothing she could get out of it, and she had already been humiliated enough. She flat-out was not going to get on the stand.

In a finding that accompanied the case file, there was a memorandum from the assistant DA handling the case to the head of the juvenile prosecution division, offering the strongly held opinion that there had been intense pressure put on the girl and her mother to walk away from the case. It was assumed that Marvin and/or friends of his, gang members; had threatened the girl and the mother, scaring them off.

The upshot was that the district attorney’s office had no alternative—they had to drop the case. Marvin walked. But the authorities believed that he was guilty, as he had originally been charged.

One more crack in the system.

Three months later Marvin was arrested for robbing an appliance store of a video camera. This time there was no backing off by his accuser, the store owner. He was convicted and sent to six months at the county juvenile farm.

Wyatt got out the comprehensive file he’d read earlier and went through Marvin’s sorry history again. There wasn’t much redeeming material: no affidavits from sympathetic teachers, no letters asking for clemency from the minister of the church Jonnie Rae attended. No one seemed to give much of a damn for Marvin White except his friends, and most of them had records as bad as Marvin’s, or worse. He was a gangbanger (possibly not an official member of a gang, maybe only a hanger-on), a school drop-out, a thief. And, a rapist who had managed to beat the charge.

After he had reread as much of Marvin White’s encounters with the law as he felt like stomaching in one sitting, Wyatt went back through the accounts given by the woman who had ID’d Marvin as being outside the club in the same time frame the murder and robbery took place. Her testimony seemed to be very straightforward, convincing material.

The elevator doors opened with their particular pneumatic sound. Then the sounds, much like those made by Josephine earlier, of a woman’s heels on linoleum. He glanced at his watch—7:30 on the button.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s throaty voice called out, “is there anyone here?”

“Back here,” he answered. He stood and came around toward the doorway as she approached.

She was wearing a rayon-cotton summer dress that clung to her body. The cavernous hallway was poorly lit, and what light there was came from behind her, so that for the moment her face was in shadow, but there was no hiding the shape of her body. The backlight had the seductive effect of illuminating her figure, which was full and womanly, attractively so, her hips flaring out from her waist under the skirt.

Generous of size without being heavy, there was a ripeness about her that comes to certain women when they’ve reached their thirties and beyond. An ample, tight behind. High breasts. Strong legs.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologized as she came toward him, “I took a wrong turn in traffic and had to circle all the way around. The streets are all one-way.”

He knew all about wrong turns. “Not at all,” he answered cordially, stepping out into the hallway so she could see him more easily. “Please, come in.” He gestured with his arm toward his open door. “I appreciate your coming down here and meeting with me.”

As she reached him, the light caught her face. It had something compelling about it. Not beauty, or prettiness—there was no conventional beauty in it, she was too much of peasant-type stock to be considered beautiful—yet it drew him in. It exuded openness, genuine warmth.

She extended her hand. He shook it. Her grip was strong, but the hand was soft. She puts cream on her hands every day, he knew. A strong woman who wants to be feminine.

“I’m Violet Waleska,” she announced herself.

“Wyatt Matthews.” He gestured to his office. “Come in, please. Have a seat.”

She sat in the only visitor’s chair in the small room, across from his desk. Crossing her bare legs, she rested her purse on her lap. The skirt of her dress rose up her thigh about six inches; nothing risqué or provocative, but he took a good look over her shoulder before he sat down in his own chair. He noticed that she didn’t wear a wedding ring.

He opened her file. It contained her initial interview with Detective Pulaski at Marcus Meat Packing, her place of employment, where the murder victim had also worked. She doesn’t look like someone who works in a processing plant, he thought, although she does have strong hands.

The interview with Detective Pulaski covered her seeing a young African American male, estimated height and weight and age, etc. The time it occurred, as best she knew. And what had transpired between her and the young man. Right down the line, no bullshit, no “I thinks” or “maybes.”

The second report was that of her lineup identification. Again, a no-nonsense statement. He was the man who was in the parking lot. She knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt; certainly beyond any reasonable doubt, the criterion by which Marvin would be judged.

He asked her some basic questions, keeping his voice calm, deliberate. Tonight his objective was to make her feel comfortable with him. They could go on the record next time, with Josephine and a stenographer present.

“I’m looking at the time frame here,” he said, the initial police interview in front of him. “You stated that you went out to your car after the band had taken a break.”

“Yes.” Her voice was throaty, low. It sounded like wild honey, still on the comb. “I believe that’s right.”

“Right after?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

He thought for a moment. “Let’s look at this together,” he said, rotating the report around so it faced her and she could see it. He rose from behind his desk and crossed to her side, standing at her hip, leaning down to place his finger on the document where he had quoted it. Her perfume, night-blooming jasmine mixed with a delicate scent of perspiration, permeated his nostrils with a fragrant sexual aroma.
Cool it, Jack. This is an adversarial witness who must not be fucked with under any circumstances whatsoever, and you are a married man.