Key Witness (47 page)

“How is your daughter?” a reporter called out.

“She’s doing well,” he replied. “She’s out of danger.”

“What about your wife?” called out another reporter, jockeying for position.

“She’s coping. This has been a terrible experience for all of us.”

“Why did your wife shoot your daughter?” a third reporter asked.

Wyatt winced at the question. “Our neighborhood has been suffering burglaries recently,” he began, launching into what would forevermore be his official explanation.

“Our next-door neighbors were robbed, and one of them was shot and almost killed. My wife was understandably frightened under the circumstances, and bought a gun for self-protection.”

He paused for a moment. He was lying—not this part, but the whole tone of what he was saying and doing. Moira had done the worst thing he could think of—she had almost killed their child—and he was standing here protecting her.

He continued. “We thought our daughter was a burglar. It was a tragic, senseless accident.” That their neighbor was shot with her own gun wasn’t a piece of information he wanted to divulge. He and Moira were grieving. They didn’t need to look like idiots as well. “That’s all I have to say,” he finished. He started to go.

The question, shouted at his retreating back, stopped him. “Will this affect your participation in the Marvin White murder trial?”

He turned. They were all looking at him in anticipation. “Absolutely not. I have a family that needs me, and I’m going to be there for them. And I have a client who also needs me, and I’m going to be there for him as well.”

It was almost dark when he got home, but he went for a run anyway. He needed to sweat, to cleanse himself. He ran longer than normal, a hard hour, at the end of the run bent over, spent, gasping for oxygen.

He showered and had a drink, a straight-up Stoli chased with a Heineken. He didn’t want anything to eat, he had no appetite. His child, his precious daughter, could be dead. And then, alone, the physical part settling, it hit him: his wife had shot her daughter, the fruit of her own womb. You don’t bring life into the world and then turn around and try to destroy it; that goes against all laws of man and God.

It had been an accident. Growing out of honest fear. Don’t ascribe blame. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

He was fighting something, and he knew what it was: his role in this drama. If he hadn’t left the firm; if he hadn’t taken on Marvin White as a client; if he hadn’t gotten involved in the lives of Marvin White’s family and friends, to the point of letting them know it was all right for them to come to his house, which he had to know would scare his wife—if all those things hadn’t happened, would Moira have bought that gun, and would she have used it? If only one of those links in the chain hadn’t happened, would she have been more cautious?

Don’t ascribe blame. Including to yourself.

He walked across the lawn to the pool house, let himself in, and picked up his trombone. His mind started drifting, back to when Michaela was born, when they brought her home from the hospital, a tiny bundle in a pink blanket. Their only child, the first and as it turned out the last time they would come together in that most basic and binding of souls.

He started out playing “Yesterday,” then “If I Loved You,” and then one of his all-time favorites, “It Never Entered My Mind,” hearing the round, warm tones filling the room, filling his heart, bringing solace. He played late into the night, and only stopped because he had to go on with the rest of his life.

T
HE INCIDENT WAS BROADCAST
on the Saturday night local news and appeared on page one of the metropolitan section of the Sunday paper. Wyatt called Walcott at home in advance, so the man wouldn’t feel blindsided.

“Where are you with all this?” the head of the Public Defender’s office asked with concern.

“Shook up,” Wyatt replied. “But she’s going to recover, and so will I.”

“You’re sure?” Walcott asked.

“Absolutely. I’m onto some very serious stuff with the case,” he added, “and I’m looking forward to developing it.”

“You’ll be keeping me abreast, of course.” The question came across veiled, as Walcott meant it to be. Don’t go out soloing was what he was saying between the lines.

“I’m on your team,” Wyatt assured him.

He spent most of the day formulating his theories and figuring out how he wanted to work them. Later in the afternoon he went back to the hospital. Michaela was alert, recovered from the anesthesia-induced grogginess. Moira, her face puffy and tense, was seated at her side. She had a hard time looking her husband in the eye.

“Dr. Levi was by,” Moira told him. “He said things were looking good, better than he might have anticipated. He wants to operate on Wednesday.”

“Good. I’ll make sure I’m free all day Wednesday.”

They went out into the hallway to talk. Full of remorse and shame, she told him how she’d come to have the gun. “I bought it at a gun store. It was all legitimate.”

“When?”

“After the Spragues were robbed.”

“What made you think you would know how to use a gun?”

“I took lessons.”

Stunned: “You did?”

“I’ve been to the police academy four times. They tell me I’m a very good shot.” She paused. “Thank God I wasn’t.”

He was livid. He wanted to scream at her—he could punch her in the face, he was that enraged. “What if Michaela had accidentally gotten her hands on that gun, or one of her friends?”

Shamefaced, she said, “Michaela has … practiced with it.”

His legs were turning to jelly. Michaela knew about this? His baby? “She has?” he croaked.

“She’s been to the range with me. She’s a better shot than me. She’s a natural.”

“Didn’t you stop to think of what happened to the Spragues?”

“I was thinking of the Spragues,” she told him. “I was thinking of what Enid told me.” She stared at the floor. “She told me the one thing she regretted was that she didn’t shoot the bastards when she had the chance. Those were her exact words. ‘If you ever find yourself in a similar situation,’ she warned me, ‘don’t make that mistake.’ ” She looked up at him. “I didn’t intend to. And so I almost killed our daughter.”

He stayed with them until dinnertime. On the way home he stopped at the police station where Moira had been questioned. They had been holding the gun, a .32 automatic, as evidence, but since she wasn’t going to be charged they didn’t need it anymore. He signed for it and they returned it to him.

Driving home, he felt the weight of the weapon in his pocket. It felt hot, like a hand grenade with the pin pulled out, ready to explode. Navigating the bridge over the Sisquyouc River that was the city-county line, he stopped the car midway and pulled off to the side. He got out, walked to the railing, took the gun out of his pocket, and flung it as far as he could into the water below.

“I
MET YOUR FRIEND
Leticia Pope.”

Marvin squinted at him. “Where was that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Dexter brought her to see me.” He didn’t mention where Dexter had brought her; that was too raw, given Michaela’s shooting and all that had provoked it, and where they had met didn’t matter anyway.

“She’s a ’ho,” Marvin said contemptuously.

They were together in one of the small lawyer-client rooms. Wyatt leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, eyeballing his mindless client. “You don’t have much good to say about almost anybody, do you?” he asked.

“Not them dumb bitches,” Marvin said.

“What is it, Marvin, if a woman sleeps with you she’s automatically crap?”

“No.” Marvin squirmed uncomfortably under Wyatt’s intense scrutiny.

“Then what?” He leaned forward. “You know, Marvin, there’s two women, Leticia and Mrs. Carpenter, who are going to testify at your trial that you were with them on the nights of two of these murders. If you get off, it’s going to be because of that, in large part. So maybe you should think about changing your attitude toward them, at least until the trial’s over, okay? Alienating either one of them would not be in your interest, pal. Think about that.”

“Yeah, okay.” Marvin fidgeted in his chair.

“Okay is right.” Wyatt pulled a folder out of his briefcase. “The night you were with Leticia. Did you go out to get something to eat, late?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you get?”

“Went got some ice cream.”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah. Leticia got a sweet tooth.”

“She says the same about you. Sounds to me like you two are a good match,” Wyatt, said, tweaking Marvin.

Marvin’s face scrunched up. “No way.”

Wyatt let that go. “Do you remember the flavor of the ice cream?” he continued.

“Rocky road, I think.”

“And before that, you saw a movie on television? At her apartment?”

Marvin thought for a moment. His face brightened. “Yeah, it was that Bruce Willis flick. Not
Die Hard.
What do you call it? The monkey movie.”

“Twelve Monkeys.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Bitchin’ movie.”

Good, good, good. The girl wasn’t lying, about the little stuff or the big. He should go by the drugstore, verify that the photo machine had been in proper working order that night—if he could—so that the date on the backs of them would be firm evidence.

He stood up. “Things are going along well,” he said. “Your friend Dexter has been a tremendous help.”

“Dexter’s good people. When I get out of here him and me’s gonna be partners.”

“I hope not,” Wyatt said. “Not in the business Dexter’s in now. Because when you get busted for dealing, I won’t be around to defend you.” This conversation was pissing him off, royally. “Are you ever going to learn a lesson from what’s happened, Marvin? Crime doesn’t pay, man. Get that through that damn thick skull, will you?”

“I didn’t do them killings, damn it!”

“But you did do the botched robbery that got you put in here in the first place, so don’t give me any more bullshit, Marvin!” Wyatt shot back. “Just shut the hell up and be a good citizen, even if you have to fake it.” He stuck the file into his briefcase. “And another thing. No more talk about the life of crime you’re going to lead
when
—let’s make that
if,
there’s no guarantees you are going to get off, you’re not a sympathetic defendant, not the way you’ve been acting—
if
and
when
you get out of here.”

“Yeah, okay,” the boy mumbled.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He rang the buzzer to be let out. “Oh. One more thing. Was there anyone else in the infirmary when you and Dwayne Thompson were chatting things up?”

“Guy that runs it,” Marvin said.

“The male nurse?” Another potential source of information. He’d try to see him today, along with Blake.

“Yeah.” Marvin’s face screwed up with distaste.

“He was around when you and Dwayne were together?”

“He was hovering.”

“Hovering?”

“Yeah, lurking around. Like …”

“Like what?”

“Like every time he’d be checking me he’d be trying to get a look at my pecker, it seemed like. Trying to get his hands on me. Gave me the creeps.” Marvin shuddered at the thought of it.

“What about deputies?” he asked. “Were there deputies around?”

“Deputies around all the time. It’s a jail, man, what do you think?”

“Is it possible any of them overheard your conversations with Thompson?”

Marvin thought for a moment. “Don’t remember that happening,” he said. “Stuff like that, you don’t talk about it when guards’re around. You don’t say jack shit when guards are around, they like to use that shit against you.”

“But there were deputies inside the infirmary.”

“I just said that. It’s a jail, the fuckers are everywhere.”

“Were there any female deputies in the infirmary when the two of you were together? You and Thompson?”

Marvin nodded. “Yeah, there be one.”

“What was she doing? Escorting a prisoner?”

Marvin shook his head. “No, she’s a boss. I seen her talking to Thompson.”

“A big woman?” Wyatt asked. “Large in frame?”

Marvin guffawed. “Large? Shit yes! That woman is one great big woman! She’s practically tall as me.”

The guards opened the doors. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Wyatt paused. “And work on that attitude adjustment,” he reminded his client.

The male nurse first. He’d more likely be a cooperative witness than Blake. If Blake was in any way involved with Dwayne Thompson, she’d be smart not to talk at all.

He presented himself to the duty officer at the central desk, who called Captain Michaelson, the officer in charge. A few minutes went by. Wyatt cooled his heels. He could have simply made an appointment, but he wanted to get at this, and he wanted there to be some surprise to it, if possible.

The elevator doors opened and Michaelson stepped out, a big, burly man with a perpetually suspicious attitude. “How can I help you, Counselor?” he asked politely. The word had come down from the sheriff that Wyatt Matthews was to be treated with kid gloves, no impediments put in his way as long as he was pursuing legal channels.

“I want to interview anyone that’s come in contact with my client from the moment he was brought in here,” he stated. “Starting with whoever runs your infirmary.”

“That’ll be up to the parties involved, of course,” Michaelson said, “but I can set you up with whoever you want to speak to. If they want to talk to you, fine. If not, you understand they don’t have to.”

“I know the law, but thanks for reminding me,” Wyatt said genially; the unspoken point—I’m the lawyer, you’re not—was clearly made.

Michaelson flared crimson. “Anything else?” he asked, his voice neutral.

“Who assigned Dwayne Thompson to infirmary duty?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you find out? Someone must have.”

“I can try. Who did what and when can get fuzzy, with all the comings and goings in here.”

“I would appreciate anything you can do.”

“Yes sir. In the meantime, I’ll have a guard escort you down to the infirmary.” Michaelson picked up the desk phone, spoke briefly. “Your escort will be right up,” he said. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”