Twisted: The Collected Stories (34 page)

But people don’t tell the truth, of course, and so the judicial system relies on a jury to look at the eyes and mouths and hands and postures of witnesses and listen to their words and decide what’s the truth and what isn’t.

The jury in the case of the
State
v.
Hartman
had been out for two hours. Tribow and his assistants were holed up in the cafeteria in the building across from the courthouse. Nobody was saying a word. Some of this silence had to be attributed to their uneasiness—if not outright embarrassment—at Tribow’s unfathomable line of questioning about the game Hartman had allegedly bought for the victim’s son. They would probably be thinking that even experienced prosecutors get flustered and fumble the ball from time to time and it was just as
well it happened during a case like this, which was, apparently, unwinnable.

Danny Tribow’s eyes were closed as he lounged back in an ugly orange fiberglass chair. He was replaying Hartman’s cool demeanor and the witnesses’ claims that they hadn’t been threatened or bribed by Hartman. They’d
all
been paid off or threatened, he knew, but he had to admit they looked and sounded fairly credible to him; presumably they’d seemed that way to the jury as well. But Tribow had great respect for the jury system and for jurors on the whole and, as they sat in the small deliberation room behind the courthouse, they might easily be concluding at this moment that Hartman had lied and coerced the witnesses into lying as well.

And that he was guilty of murder one.

But when he opened his eyes and glanced over at Adele Viamonte and Chuck Wu, their discouraged faces told him that there was also a pretty good chance that justice might not get done at this trial.

“Okay,” Viamonte said, “so we don’t win on premeditated murder. We’ve still got the two lesser-includeds. And they’ll
have
to convict on manslaughter.”

Have
to? thought Tribow. He didn’t think that was a word that ever applied to a jury’s decision. The defense had pitched a great case for a purely accidental death.

“Miracles happen,” said Wu with youthful enthusiasm.

And that was when Tribow’s cell phone rang. It
was the clerk with the news that the jury was returning.

“Them coming back this fast—is that good or bad?” Wu asked.

Tribow finished his coffee. “Let’s go find out.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.”

The foreman, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and dark slacks, handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge.

Tribow kept his eyes on Hartman’s but the killer was sitting back in the swivel chair with a placid expression. He cleaned a fingernail with a paper clip. If he was worried about the outcome of the trial he didn’t show it.

The judge read the slip of paper silently and glanced over at the jury.

Tribow tried to read the jurist’s expression but couldn’t.

“The defendant will rise.”

Hartman and his lawyer stood.

The judge handed the paper to the clerk, who read, “In the case of the People versus Raymond C. Hartman, on the first count, murder in the first degree, the jury finds the defendant not guilty. On the second count, murder in the second degree, the jury finds the defendant not guilty. On the third count, manslaughter, the jury finds the defendant not guilty.”

Complete silence in the courtroom for a moment,
broken by Hartman’s whispered, “Yes!” as he raised a fist of victory in the air.

The judge, clearly disgusted at the verdict, banged his gavel down and said, “No more of that, Mr. Hartman.” He added gruffly, “See the clerk for the return of your passport and bail deposit. I only hope that if you’re brought up on charges again, you appear in
my
courtroom.” Another angry slap of the gavel. “This court stands adjourned.”

The courtroom broke into a hundred simultaneous conversations, all laced with disapproval and anger.

Hartman ignored all the comments and glares. He shook his lawyers’ hands. Several of his confederates came up to him and gave him hugs. Tribow saw a smile pass between Hartman and his choirboy buddy, Abrego.

Tribow formally shook Viamonte’s and Wu’s hands—as was his tradition when a verdict, good or bad, came down. Then he went over to Carmen Valdez. She was crying softly. The DA hugged her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You did your best,” the woman said and nodded at Hartman. “I guess people like that, really bad people, they don’t play by the rules. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes they’re just going to win.”

“Next time,” Tribow said.

“Next time,” she whispered cynically.

Tribow turned away and whispered a few words to Detective Moyer. The prosecutor noticed Hartman walking toward the front door of the courtroom. He stepped forward quickly, intercepting him. “Just a second, Hartman,” Tribow said.

“Nice try, Counselor,” the larger-than-life man said, pausing, “but you should’ve listened to me. I told you you were going to lose.”

One of his lawyers handed Hartman an envelope. He opened it and took out his passport.

“Must’ve cost you a lot to bribe those witnesses,” Tribow said amiably.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Hartman frowned. “That’d be a crime. As you, of all people, ought to know.”

Viamonte leveled a finger at him and said, “You’re going to stumble and we’re going to be there when it happens.”

Hartman replied calmly, “Not unless you’re moving to the south of France. Which is what I’m doing next week. Come visit.”

“To help the minority community in Saint-Tropez?” Chuck Wu asked.

Hartman offered a smile then turned toward the door.

“Mr. Hartman,” Tribow said. “One more thing?”

The killer turned. “What?”

Tribow nodded to Detective Dick Moyer. He stepped forward, paused and gazed coldly into Hartman’s eyes.

“Something you want, Officer?” the killer asked.

Moyer gripped Hartman roughly and handcuffed him.

“Hey, what the hell’re you doing?”

Abrego and two of Hartman’s bodyguards stepped forward but by now a number of other police officers were next to Tribow and Moyer. The thugs backed off immediately.

Hartman’s lawyer pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

Moyer ignored him and said, “Raymond Hartman, you’re under arrest for violation of state penal code section eighteen point three-one dash B. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney.” He continued the litany of the
Miranda
warning in a rather monotonous voice, considering the frenzy around him.

Hartman snapped to his lawyer, “Why the hell’re you letting him do this? I’m paying you—do something!”

This attitude didn’t sit well with the lawyer but he said, “He’s been acquitted of all charges.”

“Actually not all charges,” Tribow said. “There was one lesser-included offense I didn’t bring him up on. Section eighteen point three one.”

“What the hell is that?” Hartman snapped.

His lawyer shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You’re a goddamn lawyer. What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Tribow said, “It’s a law that makes it a felony to have a loaded firearm within one hundred yards of a school—Sunday schools included.” He added with a modest smile, “I worked with the state legislature myself to get that one passed.”

“Oh, no . . .” the defense lawyer muttered.

Hartman frowned and said ominously, “You can’t do that. It’s too late. The trial’s over.”

The lawyer said, “He can, Ray. It’s a different charge.”

“Well, he can’t prove it,” Hartman snapped. “Nobody saw any guns. There were no witnesses.”

“As a matter of fact there
is
a witness. And he happens to be one you can’t bribe or threaten.”

“Who?”

“You.”

Tribow walked to the computer on which Chuck Wu had transcribed much of the testimony.

He read, “Hartman: ‘No, I wouldn’t’ve had time to go home after church and get the game. Mass was over at noon. I got to Starbucks about ten minutes later. I told you, my house is a good twenty minutes away from the church. You can check a map. I went straight from St. Anthony’s to Starbucks.’ ”

“What’s this all about? What’s with this goddamn game?”

“The game’s irrelevant,” Tribow explained. “What’s important is that you said you didn’t have time to go home between leaving the church and arriving at Starbucks. That means you
had
to have the gun with you in church. And that’s right next to the Sunday school.” The prosecutor summarized, “You admitted under oath that you broke section eighteen thirty-one. This transcript’s admissible at your next trial. That means it’s virtually an automatic conviction.”

Hartman said, “All right, all right. Let me pay the fine and get the hell out of here. I’ll do it now.”

Tribow looked at his lawyer. “You want to tell him the other part of eighteen point thirty-one?”

His lawyer shook his head. “It’s a do-time felony, Ray.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“It carries mandatory prison time. Minimum six months, maximum five years.”

“What?”
Terror blossomed in the killer’s eyes.
“But I can’t go to prison.” He turned to his lawyer, grabbing his arm. “I
told
you that. They’ll kill me there. I can’t! Do something, earn your goddamn fee for a change, you lazy bastard!”

But the lawyer pulled the man’s hand off. “You know what, Ray? Why don’t you tell your story to your new lawyer. I’m in the market for a better grade of client.” The man turned and walked out through the swinging doors.

“Wait!”

The detective and two other officers escorted Hartman away, shouting his protests.

After some congratulations from the police officers and spectators, Tribow and his team returned to the prosecution table and began organizing books and papers and laptops. There was a huge amount of material to pack up; the law, after all, is nothing more or less than words.

“Hey, boss, sleight of hand,” Chuck Wu said. “You got him focusing on that game and he didn’t think about the gun.”

“Yeah, we thought you’d gone off the deep end,” Viamonte offered.

“But we weren’t going to say anything,” Wu said.

Viamonte said, “Hey, let’s go celebrate.”

Tribow declined. He hadn’t spent much time with his wife and son lately and he was desperate to get home to them. He finished packing up the big litigation bags.

“Thank you,” a woman’s voice said. Tribow turned to see Jose Valdez’s widow standing in front of him. He nodded. She seemed to be casting about for something else to say but then she just shook the
prosecutor’s hand and she and an older woman walked out of the nearly empty courtroom.

Tribow watched her leave.

I guess people like that, really bad people, they don’t play by the rules. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes they’re just going to win. . . .

But that means sometimes they’re not.

Danny Tribow hefted the largest of the litigation bags and together the three prosecutors left the courtroom.

T
he little things.

Like the way she’d leave the office at five but sometimes not get home until six-twenty.

He knew his wife was a fast driver and could make the trip in maybe forty minutes that time of day. So where did she spend the remaining minutes?

And little things like the phone calls.

He’d come home and find Mary on the phone and, sure, she’d smile at him and blow him a little kiss-across-the-room. But it seemed that the tone of her voice would change as soon as she saw him and she’d hang up soon after. So Dennis would go to take a shower and pretend to forget a clean towel and call for Mary to get one for him, please, honey, and when she disappeared into the laundry room he’d go into the kitchen and debate a minute or so but then he’d go ahead and hit redial on the phone. And sometimes it turned out to be a neighbor or Mary’s mother. But sometimes nobody picked up. He remembered
seeing in a movie once, about spies or something, one guy would call this other one and they’d let it ring twice then call back exactly one minute later and he knew it was safe to pick up. Dennis tried to figure out the numbers from the sound of the dialing but they went too fast.