The Guilty (34 page)

“Ah, so that’s your secret plan.”

“I know it doesn’t seem like much of a plan,” Bratt said, although he liked its backward logic. “But I’m not going to let that punk enjoy his moment in the sun for one second longer than necessary.”

The jurors filed back in, Green limped up to his seat, and Marcus Paris, almost strutting despite wearing shackles around his ankles, was escorted to the witness box by a prison guard. Bratt thought of a speed-chess tournament he had seen in a park once. Hit and run, don’t give your opponent time to think, score as many points as fast as you can. He picked up his legal pad with its pages of prepared questions, opened his briefcase, dropped the pad inside it, and closed it with a snap. He had something else on his mind.

Paris stood staring at the wall behind the jury, totally disinterested in Bratt’s presence. Bratt decided to get his attention.

“Tell me, Mr. Paris,” he began in as casual a tone as he could, “how many people have you killed?”

From the jury box Bratt heard several breaths quickly sucked in at the question.

Paris’s look darted to Bratt’s face and for a moment the young man’s confusion was evident. His eyes finally pulled away from Bratt’s, and he stretched his frame up on his toes as he breathed in deeply.

Answering the question as casually as Bratt had asked it, he said, “Just the one guy
, that I shot myself.”

“Dexter Phillips.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Didn’t seem very hard for you to do. Feel bad about it?”

“Not really.”

“He had it coming?”

“His fault for being there. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“So why’s he still the only one? If it didn’t bother you more than that, I mean?”

“Dunno. Cops caught me a couple weeks later, you know.”

“Are you implying they cut your career short?”

Paris sneered, as if he found the thought funny.

“
That’s okay, I’m still young.”

Bratt paused briefly. He was intentionally giving Paris enough rope to hang himself, but the young killer’s braggadocio was helping his case all the more. With each answer, Bratt felt his internal thermometer creeping closer to the boiling point.

“Besides,” Paris decided to add on his own, “I only got nine years and a bit left.”

Good,
Bratt thought.
Make my point for me, you little shit.

“Beats twenty-five
to life, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“Goddamn right it does.”

Bratt glanced up at Green, but the judge said nothing to the witness about his language. He was surprised to see that Green wasn’t even taking notes, but simply sitting back in his chair, staring at Paris with a look of dull anger. Bratt allowed himself a brief look at the jury and found similar expressions of distaste on their faces as well.

Okay, so you all hate him
.
Let’s make sure that translates into points for our side.

Bratt turned and looked at his client in the prisoner’s box for a moment, thinking that it hadn’t been so long ago that Small was the sole object of his ire. He turned his attention back to the witness.

“So, why’s Marlon Small the lucky lottery winner?”

“He shoulda knowed better,” Paris turned to face Bratt now, a thin smile playing on his lips. “I was barely eighteen.”

“So it was all his idea, right? You were just going along for the ride?”

Paris didn’t answer this time, just shrugged slightly and stared off into space again.

“No,” Bratt continued, “I guess you’re not a guy to ride on somebody else’s coattails, are you?”

“I’m my own man.”

“A big man?”

“You know it.”

“But not big enough to do the time for what you did, are you?”

“Hey, I’m still in jail.”

“That’s right. All of nine years and four months left. And two men dead.”

“I didn’t make the law, man.”

“No, but you did make the deal, didn’t you?”

Again, Paris just shrugged, but the thin smile reappeared on his lips at the mention of the plea
bargain.

“It must have been hard on you to accept the Crown’s offer.”

“Hell, no. Why should I spend more time than I got to in jail?”

“So, you were even willing to testify against a close friend.”

“The fool’s no friend of mine.”

Bratt feigned surprise at this news.

“You mean you guys don’t even like each other?”

“Like him? Man, what shit’s he been telling you?”

Green cleared his throat loudly at the expletive, but still said nothing.

“Isn’t Marlon your sister’s boyfriend?”

“No, he just thinks he is. He’s the guy who raped her, is who he is.”

“He didn’t really rape her now, did he?”

“He took advantage of her and she was just a little girl. She was only fifteen when she had his baby.”

“You don’t seem too happy about that.”

“Damn straight. I shoulda shot him too, but Karen begged me not to.”

“So, you would have liked to kill him?”   

“And he knew it too.”

“But you still went ahead and did this holdup with him.”

“Business is business.”

“Something heavy like that, don’t you have to trust the man you’re working with?”

“I know.”

“So, you hated him and wanted to kill him, but still you trusted him enough to put your life in
his hands?”

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

“No, I guess you won’t. But you’re also telling us that he knew you wanted to kill him and he still went along with you, putting his life in your hands.”

“That was his problem.”

“Any chance that you wouldn’t have done such a foolish thing?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean was there any chance that the man you were with last June 14 was not Marlon Small?”

“I think I woulda knowed if it was somebody else.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did know.”

“You saying I’m a liar?”

Now he’s got the idea,
Bratt thought. His control on his temper loosened just enough to raise his voice a notch or two.

“I’m saying you and someone else went to that apartment and shot those three young men.”

“You’re way off.”

“Marlon Small was nowhere near the crime scene. You just decided you’d take him down with you and save yourself
at least fifteen years of jail while you were at it.”

“No way, man. Whatever he’s been selling you, you shouldn’t be buying it.”

Bratt stepped closer to the witness and leaned aggressively closer.

“And just what are you selling us?”

“I’m telling it like it went down.”

“And we’re supposed to believe you?”

“It’s how it happened.”

“So you say. Why should we believe you?”

Now Paris looked flustered for the first time.

“I’m telling it like that other guy told you.”

“What other guy? The one who managed to survive your killing spree?”

“Yeah, him.”

“He’s got a name,” Bratt said, his voice rising. “Don’t you even know it?”

“They told me, but I forget. Anyway, I know he says it was Brando shot him.”

“So the only reason to believe you is because you’re repeating what Dorrell Phillips said?”

“I never said that’s the only reason.”

“So let me repeat my question: why should we believe you?”

“Why would I lie?”

“Why
wouldn’t
you lie? You hate Marlon Small and would love to see him dead. Twenty-five years to life is pretty close to dead, isn’t it?”

Paris didn’t answer, but his constant sneer had begun to waver.

“You’re saving yourself fifteen years in jail,” Bratt continued. “Great for you, too bad for the guy you hate, isn’t it?”

“I’m just lucky, I guess,” Paris’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Yes, you are lucky. Dorrell Phillips picked out the picture of your worst enemy and gave you a chance to save yourself while getting rid of him. Isn’t that what happened?”

“I wouldn’t lie about it.”

Bratt laughed, surprising himself as well as the rest of the courtroom. As he continued, though, it was anger, not humor that came through in his voice.

“You wouldn’t lie about it? Gimme a break! You want us to believe you wouldn’t lie to get the biggest break of your miserable little life?”

“Mr. Bratt,” Green finally spoke up, albeit mildly and looking a bit like he just woke up from an unhappy dream. “Please calm yourself.”

Bratt tried to control the trembling in his voice caused by the rush of hatred filling his mind.

“Maybe I’m a bit slow. Can you explain why you say you’d gladly kill him, but you don’t expect us to think you’d lie to put him away for good?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Of course not. After all, you may be a cold-blooded murderer, but you’re not a liar.”

Green cleared his throat again, making a half-hearted attempt to protect the witness.

“Just answer me this one simple question,” Bratt said, lowering his voice. “Are you saying that you would
never
lie to get Marlon Small convicted
and
to save yourself fifteen years in the pen?”

Paris sneered again, trying to regain his earlier arrogant attitude. He looked around the courtroom and could surely feel how unwelcome he had become.

“Yeah, I’d lie,” he bragged, in defiance of the obvious hostility that surrounded him. “I’d do whatever I had to to put that motherfucker away.”

“Mr. Paris,” Green exploded, but the witness just ignored him.

“Getting fifteen years less is just a bonus for me.”

His point made, Bratt sat down quietly, although his heart was racing. He vaguely heard Green berate Paris for his foul language in court, and from the corner of his eye he saw Parent standing up,
attempting to apologize on his witness’s behalf.

But Paris seemed to be paying no attention to the commotion he had caused. His eyes were glued to Bratt’s, and they looked cold and lifeless. Bratt looked at the thin smile on Paris’s tightly pressed lips and shuddered. He wondered if that was how he had looked at Dexter Phillips just before shooting him. In his mind Bratt saw the image of a shark about to calmly rip into its prey, and thought that Paris would be flattered by the comparison.

That was the end of Marcus Paris’s brief moment in the limelight. Two prison guards led him through the box where Marlon Small sat, and into the detention area. Neither of the chained young men looked at each other. They both seemed to be denying the role that each played in the other’s ultimate fate. In the courtroom, nobody looked happier to see the witness being led away than Francis Parent, who began to breathe palpably easier once the door to the cells were closed behind his witness.

Parent now found himself with a problem: he had expected Bratt to spend several hours questioning Paris, as he had done with Phillips the week before. But Bratt’s uncharacteristic brevity had caught him off-guard because the pathologist, whose turn to testify was next, had only been subpoenaed for the following day. Judge Green, looking very much like someone who wanted to get this trial over with as soon as possible, begrudgingly adjourned for the rest of the day, giving everybody the afternoon off.

Despite being satisfied with how things had gone Bratt fumed quietly all the way back to his office, hardly noticing the wet snow that clung to his glasses like spilt soup. Kouri, sensing how angry he was, kept his mouth shut.

Once back at the firm Bratt greeted nobody, but strode straight into his office. Kouri, ever the dutiful assistant, signaled to Ralston and Kalouderis that they would be better off leaving their irascible friend alone for a while. He then followed Bratt in and gently closed the office door behind him, all the while maintaining his silence. Bratt saw this, but said nothing.

They had both been sitting silently for several minutes, their winter coats still on, when there was a timid knock at the door. Kouri jumped up to answer it and found Sylvie on the other side. Bratt heard them whispering, then saw Kouri back away from the door and let her in.

“What?” he glared at her.

“There’s a woman to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment.”

“If she doesn’t have a damn appointment why’re you bothering me?”

Sylvie seemed stunned by his reaction and looked to Kouri for help. He stepped quickly forward and took her gently by the arm, as if to reassure her, then turned to Bratt.

“It’s Detective Morin.”

Bratt knew he’d had no reason to snap at Sylvie, and tried offering her a weak smile in apology.