The Guilty (35 page)

“OK. I’m sorry, Sylvie. You can let her in.”

Kouri followed the receptionist out the door and after a few seconds Nancy appeared in the office doorway, hesitating and looking unsure whether she had done the right thing by coming there.

“Hey,” she whispered. “You all right?”

He hadn’t expected her to be worried about him and he stood up to show her he was all in one piece.

“Yeah, great. I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while now. You get my note?”

“I did, and it really took me by surprise. I wasn’t
too sure how you’d react to my message.”

“
Oh, I’m not so sure about that. I think you knew exactly how I’d react. Anyway, between your feeling so bad and my having to listen to St. Jean and Parent ripping into you behind your back, I began to wonder where my own priorities were. I’m sure there’s more to it than that, but I can’t really express it any better right now.” A brief look of sadness flickered over her face. ”It seems there are assholes even on the good guys’ side and I don’t want them controlling any part of my life.”

“Fair enough,” he said, not wanting to push her any further than she wanted to go just yet. “Although since the note you haven’t exactly been, um…accessible.”

“I still think we should take things slow for now, particularly with this trial. Maybe I’m not as self-assured as you might think I am.”

“But you’re here now.”

“You had me worried today. I never saw you so angry before.”

“I didn’t think I was
that
angry.”

She stepped slightly closer to look into his eyes.

“Believe me, you were. When did you begin letting your personal feelings affect how you did your job?” 

“I thought I did pretty well today.”

“Yes, I’m sure the jury thought you were defending your client with great passion. But don’t tell me you suddenly fell in love with Marlon Small over the weekend. There are some things I’m not ready to believe.”

He leaned back against his desk.
How do I tell her that my anger at Paris was on behalf of Dorrell Phillips, and not my own client?

“I guess I just don’t like stool pigeons,” he answered.

“You’re not the only one. Parent’s probably showering in disinfectant as we speak.”

They both smiled at the image and looked at each other silently.

“How was your weekend?” she asked unexpectedly.

He shrugged in response, realizing that the conversation risked taking a very serious turn, and unwilling to bring up the images Dorrell Phillips had left to haunt him the previous Friday.

“Oh God, now you’re giving me the silent treatment,” she smiled, not looking at all concerned that this might be the case.

“
No, not at all. I’m still just getting used to having you here.”

She approached, still smiling as she leaned toward him, and reached her face up to kiss him lightly on his lips.

“You’ll get used to it. But I have to go now.”

“No. Stay.”

“I can’t. We’re having a little strategy session to talk about how it’s going.”

Bratt smiled slyly.

“It’s not going too well, is it?”

“Don’t get too cocky. The jurors only have to like one of our witnesses to put your guy away for life.”

“Uh-oh, we’re slipping into shop talk again. Maybe you should go before I reveal any defense secrets.”

She touched his cheek lightly and looked again into his eyes, searching for any residue of his earlier anger, but it all seemed to have dissipated.

“I’m glad to see you smiling again. I’ll see you in court tomorrow.”

Bratt had to admit her arrival had helped him get over much of his anger at Paris, and he continued smiling as she quickly left.

Now that I’m over Paris I can go back to hating Small,
he half-joked to himself.

He stepped out of his office and headed for the reception area where Kouri and Sylvie were huddled.

“Grab your coats, kiddies. I think I owe Sylvie a nice dinner.”

“It’s only four o’clock,” she protested.

“So, we’ll have a few drinks first. Uh, soft drinks, perhaps. Put the phone on the answering service and let’s go. I’ve got some cobwebs to shake off.”

As simply as that he had buried all thoughts of Marcus Paris deep in his mind, where they could fester and grow quietly in the dark, while at least giving him a few hours of peace.

The next two days of the trial were a pure joy compared to what had gone before. Bratt let Kouri take over much of the cross-examination of the next few witnesses. There was the ballistics expert who explained which guns had been used against which victim, as well as the directions and distances from which the shots had come. The fingerprint expert confirmed that other than Paris’s prints on the small revolver there were no other usable prints found on either of the guns or anywhere in the apartment. The pathologist explained which bullets were fatal (in the case of Dexter Phillips any of the three bullets which struck him could have caused his death, testifying to Paris’s accuracy with a gun, as well as a tendency toward overkill.). There was testimony from members of the hospital staff who treated Dorrell Phillips, removing bullet fragments from the base of his skull and somehow managing to keep the young man alive. 

Finally, there was S/D Philippe St. Jean, who told the jury of the difficulties the police had faced in their investigation, with little in the way of clues to go on until the famous “anonymous phone call” had led them to the Dorset yearbooks. He testified about the various statements and descriptions that Dorrell had given investigators over time, unable to deny the fact that the surviving victim had provided very few details about his assailant until after he spotted Small’s picture among the class of 1996.

Bratt cross-examined St. Jean himself, and as much as he would have enjoyed provoking and toying with the detective, especially with memories of their run-in at the bar still fresh in his mind, he was able to control the more mischievous side of his nature. St. Jean was probably quite surprised at how politely Bratt asked the few questions he had for him. Bratt took only the time that was necessary to get St. Jean to confirm some of the weaknesses in the identification process, before letting the detective go off to enjoy his retirement.

At that point it was late Wednesday afternoon and Francis Parent stood up to announce that the case for the Crown was closed. With that, the hardest part of Bratt’s work was done. He no longer had to plan attack strategies against witnesses, or react on the fly to any unexpected answers they might give. All that remained was to call his own witnesses and hope that the time spent in their preparation, particularly by Kouri, paid off.

He stood up and announced to the jury that he would present his
defense beginning the following morning, and the person they most wanted to hear from, Marlon Small, would be the first witness on the stand. Their eyes turned en masse to the prisoner’s box where the long-delayed star of the show sat, gazing calmly back at them like they were all just passengers with him on a bus. Bratt held his breath for a moment, suddenly certain that something disastrous was about to happen, but nothing did. Judge Green adjourned the court, the jurors filed out, and Marlon Small remained an enigma to them for one last day.

Bratt and Kouri squeezed into the tiny cubicle in the courthouse basement. Across a glass partition from them sat Small, in an equally tight space. Bratt reflected on how they had first met under similar circumstances at R.D.P., and how loud and cocky his client had been then. Over the past ten days Small had hardly said a word to them other than a grunt of greeting at the beginning of each court day. Now, he looked tense and apprehensive, fully aware that the ball was about to be handed off to him and his lawyers could do nothing to help him if he should fumble it.

Bratt had little
new to tell his client, but knew this visit was necessary as a morale-booster for Small, so he avoided showing any impatience with him.

“How’re you feeling, Marlon?”

“OK, I guess,” Small shrugged. “Looked like it went pretty well.”

“About as well as we could have hoped for. All that’s left is for you and your friends to put us over the hump. Just keep your temper in check. Copping an attitude like Paris did won’t help you a bit.”

Small’s expression changed at the mention of Paris’s name, and he was back to the street-tough punk they had first met at R.D.P. 

“Don’t worry, I know better than that bitch. I saw how you led him right where you wanted to, an’ that was real good. But I’m smarter than he is, so I’m gonna keep my story simple and nobody’s gonna rattle me.”

Bratt nodded thoughtfully. Maybe a little feistiness from his client wouldn’t be such a bad thing. There was no point letting Parent steamroll over him.

“How’s your mother doing, by the way?”

“She’s OK. Why?”

“She’s been going out of her way to avoid us the past couple of weeks. Any idea why?”

“Ah, she’s just superstitious, that’s all. She’s pretty happy about how the trial’s been going, though.”

“Yeah? Good. All that’s left, then, is for you to do your part.”   

There was another long pause, with little happening except for Small nodding his head occasionally as if agreeing with some voice that only he could hear. Bratt knew that the time for chitchat was over and it was time to leave Small alone with his thoughts. He stood to go, considered placing his palm up against the glass partition to wish his client well, but couldn’t get himself to do it.

“We’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and squeezed past Kouri and out of the tiny room. He heard Kouri whisper a few words of encouragement to their client and then follow him out, his face showing signs of nervousness. Bratt squeezed his assistant’s shoulder.

“Relax, Pete. Tomorrow we throw him in the deep end and see if he can swim.”

Small’s defense was deceptively simple. There were only so many ways he could deny that he had committed the crime, after all. His alibi was almost idiot-proof. He was playing basketball in the park and only heard about the shooting the next day on the news. The only facts he had to remember were who was with him and how long they stayed there. The fewer opportunities there were for him to make a mistake or contradict himself, the better.

Bratt knew it was the type of
defense the prosecutor would hate, because the only way to attack the witness’s credibility was by trying to trip him up on minor details, and that was rarely what impressed a jury.

It took the
defense lawyer barely thirty minutes to have his client tell the court how he had spent the night of June 14, 1999, then he sat down with a satisfied look on his face. There seemed to be little for Parent to work with.

The prosecutor stood and looked at Small for several seconds before asking his first question.

“So, Mr. Small, I understand you like having sex with fifiteen year-old girls.”

Holy shit!
Bratt’s mind screamed, the question jolting him out of his complacency.

“Objection!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “What kind of question is that?”

Green was barely able to disguise his displeasure at Bratt’s outburst.

“This isn’t a rodeo, Mr. Bratt. There’s no need for you to go whooping in my courtroom.”

Bratt tried to compose himself, realizing that his reaction had drawn some smiles and even snickers from the jury box.

“Sorry about that, My Lord. But you have to admit that my colleague’s question was clearly intended to shock.”

“And is that all you’re objecting to? You’ve been known to push the dramatic buttons yourself on occasion.”

“I’ve got nothing against drama. But the question is totally irrelevant to this case, and you certainly shouldn’t allow it.”

Green’s eyes narrowed and his face reddened. He jabbed the pen he was holding in Bratt’s direction.

“I don’t need advice from you on how to do my job.” His voice was almost cracking. “As long as you’re not up here on the bench, and that might still be a while yet, don’t you forget your place.”

Bratt was embarrassed at having his judicial ambitions mentioned in open court, but he didn’t sit down.

“I’ve made an objection, My Lord,” he stated, trying to remain outwardly calm. “Would you please rule on it.”

Green glared at him for several seconds before finally turning to Parent, who had been quietly enjoying Bratt’s discomfort.

“Mr. Parent, your question is irrelevant…for now.”

Parent turned to Small and smiled.

“Well, now that that’s settled, tell us, Mr. Small, what’s your relation to Marcus Paris?”

“His sister Karen’s my baby-mother.”

“Baby-mother, yes,” Parent spoke the words as if they were somehow unclean. “And she was how old when you got her pregnant?”

“I never asked.”

“I hear she’s sixteen
now, is that possible? So, she was probably all of fifteen when you got her pregnant.”