Ben Naylor walked to his desk, a Styrofoam coffee cup in his hand. He used his other hand to thumb through his in-tray. Three sheets down he found what he was looking for, the lab report from Karl. He drained the cup and dropped it in his trash basket, then opened the envelope and pulled out the four page report. He flicked through the pages skimming the text, taking in the highlights. The report said that CSI could not positively match the gun to the bullet, not because of differences but because there were no distinctive marks on the steel bullet. However, the inside of the gun barrel was found to contain minute traces of Teflon. ‘Son-of-a-bitch,’ he said, a little too loud. He looked up and saw the faces of the office on him. ‘Son-of-a-bitch,’ he said again, to himself this time. He dropped the report on his desk and sat down to read it in full making notes with a pencil. He had no idea why Chris Sanders would kill his work colleague in this way, but he knew he now had enough to keep him locked up while he gathered evidence. Even better, Chris’s big shot lawyer had withdrawn from the case. Getting this guy put in holding with no bail was going to be easy.
Ben picked up the report and the other case notes and walked through to the holding cells. He opened the door to Chris’s cell and found him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
‘Come on Chris,’ he said, ‘it’s time to go see a judge and find out if you’re going home any time soon.’
‘What’re the chances?’ Chris asked.
‘Slim to none,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to get yourself together. I’ve arranged a duty lawyer to meet us at the courtroom if that’s what you want.’ He walked back out of the cell but the door remained open. Two uniformed officers stood at the door.
Chris used the can in the corner of his cell. The uniformed officers had the decency to look the other way. He washed and tried to get cleaned up as much as he could, running water through his hair with his hands. He was sure he looked a mess, but the judge had probably seen worse.
The traffic in Washington D.C. could be unpredictable but whatever the reason for this morning’s holdup, Bob was frustrated at the slow pace he was making towards the eighth district precinct. He’d not called ahead, figuring he’d make plenty of time, but now it looked like he was going to be late and he’d tried calling through to Detective Naylor but had only gotten his voicemail. He hoped he would get to the station before they left for the courtroom. For one thing, Michelle would be pissed if Chris ended up going to jail when he could have been there to prevent it. She had such faith in Chris, and some of that conviction had rubbed off on him.
The traffic crawled another few feet and then stopped once more. The heat of the day was oppressive, even for nearly 9:00 AM, but thankfully Bob was comfortable in his air-conditioned luxury car. Some of the other commuters didn’t look to be quite so comfortable and tempers were beginning to wear thin. Another shuffle forward and Bob applied the brakes, then felt the breath knocked from him, as though he’d been punched in the back. His body was thrown forward when his car crunched into the car in front, in a split second the air bag deployed and stopped him from striking the wheel. His head whipped back and hit the head rest. He felt shocked and disoriented. The seat belt had tightened across his shoulders and he felt tight across his chest. It took a few moments for him to gain his composure and to realize that the guy behind had not been paying attention and had rear-ended his car with enough force to make him hit the car in front.
Bob looked in his rear view mirror. He could see a large Ford SUV with tinted windows. The driver was getting out, presumably to check if he was OK. He undid his seatbelt to try to alleviate the tightness around his chest, but it didn’t go away—he must have gotten quite a smack.
How fast could he have been going? We were crawling for God’s sake.
Bob reached across and opened the door. He swung his legs out of the car and stood, expecting to see the driver from the car behind with a sorry look on his face, no doubt hoping to avoid a lawsuit. When he found out who he’d hit, he was going to have an aneurism. Bob smiled to himself at the thought, but the tightness in his chest seemed to be getting worse now, damn those seatbelts, he should have just used the airbag instead, but Michelle insisted he wore it. Thinking of Michelle made him remember where he was going and why. Now he was definitely going to be late. Bob rubbed at his chest and shoulder, trying to get the aching to go, but now it was getting heavy, really heavy. The guy from the car behind started to run towards him with his arms stretched out, like he was going to hug him, and then Bob felt his legs give way and he hit the ground like a sack. The face of the driver appeared above him, saying something, but Bob couldn’t quite make out what it was. There were more faces too, gathered round looking down at him. They all looked concerned. The pain was getting quite strong now, pushing down on his chest, squeezing and now stabbing across his shoulder and through his neck and jaw and then suddenly he realized what was going on. He looked to the driver with pleading eyes and tried to raise his hand. He thought of Michelle, of his wife Susan. He felt sad, then angry. What a stupid fucking way to die. He tried to tell the driver to call Michelle but he was on the phone already, calling the paramedics, he guessed, but there was no point. He knew it was over. He would like to see his family one more time. He thought of Michelle and then a massive pain swept over him like a wave starting in his chest and flowing out through his entire body. He arched his back, trying to get some respite and then he let go, his vision faded to black.
The journey to the courtroom for the hearing was short and there was no conversation. Chris wondered about Michelle and Bob, he’d not heard anything since Bob had left yesterday. He hoped beyond all hope that Michelle had somehow seen that this was all a big mistake, but he doubted it.
He was taken to a meeting room in which waited the duty solicitor and was allowed a ten minute meeting in private before the hearing. The lawyer introduced himself as Andrew Sarrs, he looked barely old enough to have passed the bar and Chris shook hands but didn’t expect much from him.
Andrew fumbled through his notes and looked embarrassed. Chris sighed and stared at the ceiling. He was screwed.
Andrew said, ‘This arraignment is intended to confirm the charges against you and to determine whether you can be released on bail until the preliminary hearing.’
Chris waited for the young man to tell him something he didn’t know. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Well,’ he said, appearing to struggle to find quite the most tactful way to break the bad news, ‘I don’t hold out much hope of you getting bail.’
Chris said, ‘You have done this before haven’t you?’
The young lawyer blushed. ‘Of course I have,’ he said. ‘The thing is, you’ve been charged with first degree murder and typically that means no bail. Furthermore, there is considerable evidence suggesting you did it. The gun found in your locker appears to have been used to have fired the shot that killed Jasmine Allan. Records show that you visited the gun club around the time of the murder giving you ample opportunity to have collected and returned your gun. There is a considerable trail of evidence to suggest that you were having an affair with the victim, which you neglected to mention to the police. You have no alibi. The only thing in your favor is the fact you have no prior convictions, but to be honest, there’s no way you’re getting bail.’
‘Thanks for your confidence in me,’ Chris said.
‘I’m sorry Chris,’ said Andrew. He pushed the notes to one side and closed the manila folder. Chris thought the young man looked genuine and he felt sorry for him. ‘I’m afraid that’s just the way it is,’ he said. ‘The best thing you can do right now is prepare yourself for some time in jail.’
Chris knew this was coming, but still, it hurt. Surely there was something he could do? He thought about Bob, maybe he’d changed his mind. ‘Has there been any word from my wife or from Bob Whittaker?’ asked Chris.
‘I have no messages for you. Would you like me to pass a message on?’
Chris watched Andrew as he opened his folder and pulled out a pen. At least he seemed to be able to take messages OK, even if he wasn’t such a great lawyer. ‘Tell Michelle I love her and I didn’t do it and I wasn’t having an affair.’ Chris watched Andrew as he wrote, his handwriting was neat. When he’d finished he looked up, seemingly happy to have found something he could finally do to help.
‘And any message for Mr. Whittaker?’ he asked.
‘No. No message.’
The courtroom was empty. Chris was led in by a uniformed officer, Andrew followed behind and they sat at a wide table. It smelt of furniture polish. The officer of the court told them to stand and the judge walked in through the door behind the bench and walked straight to her seat and sat. She didn’t look up. Chris thought she looked pissed. That’s all I need, he thought. The judge leafed through her notes. Chris was pretty sure this wasn’t the first time she had looked through her notes, was she playing a power game? Drawing out the time, trying to make him sweat? Or was she really just catching up on the latest formality? She stopped reading and looked up at Chris, then glanced over to Andrew, then back to Chris.
‘Mr. Sanders,’ she said, ‘do you understand this is an arraignment to decide on whether you are eligible for bail?’
Chris nodded, but the judge continued to stare. He figured he needed to answer. ‘Sure,’ he said. The judge didn’t look too impressed and continued with the formalities and Chris tried to tune her out—he watched her talking but in his mind her volume was set to low. There was no way out of this. Andrew sat and scribbled notes. After a while the judge finished her little speech and stated that, under no circumstances, should Chris be allowed to go home. So that was it. He was going to jail. As he was led away, Chris thought about Michelle.
Michelle was sitting in Chris’s office at the university. Everything was pretty much as it had been on Monday morning when she’d brought in breakfast for Chris, maybe a little tidier. How things had changed from that morning when they’d both had no cares or worries. She was amazed to see that the rooms looked so tidy in comparison to Chris’s workspace at home. Chris was a brilliant man but when it came to tidying up he was useless. She hoped the cleaners that worked in this room had more patience than she. Michelle thought about the cleaners. What if they were in early on Monday morning? It’s possible they had seen Chris on the sofa asleep. He could have a concrete alibi. She grabbed her bag and rushed to Frank Myers’s office. She looked at her watch—it was past midday, she wondered why she hadn’t heard from her dad. Maybe he was held up, or maybe the arraignment was taking longer than expected. Michelle didn’t have much hope for Chris getting out on bail, as he was charged with first degree murder. Her time around her father had taught her that, when dealing with murder charges, bail was only posted on the rarest of circumstances. Michelle ran up to Frank’s office door and burst in.
‘What time do the cleaners visit Chris’s room?’ she said. Two faces stared up at her and she realized that in her excitement, she had totally forgotten where she was.
Frank gave a kind smile and turned to the student, ‘Would you mind if we conclude our meeting tomorrow?’ The question didn’t need an answer and the student got the hint and began hurriedly stuffing books and papers into her backpack.
Michelle felt embarrassed; she gave an apologetic look to the young girl who was desperately trying to avoid eye contact. The girl left the room and Frank came over to Michelle, his arm extended as though he was going to put it around her shoulders, his other hand gesturing to the seat, as though he could somehow use his arms to channel people to where he thought they should go.
‘Now Michelle,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’
Michelle didn’t accept the seat, ‘The cleaners, Frank,’ she said. ‘What time do they clean Chris’s room?’
Frank looked puzzled but his many years of dealing with students had taught him how to remain sympathetic when others would have reacted differently. Right now Michelle wasn’t making much sense, but he knew that she was a smart woman and, so far, she had not been prone to emotional outbursts.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Most of the cleaning happens when the students are not here. I’ll have to check the roster.’
Michelle said, ‘Find out who was cleaning on Monday. Find out what time they went to Chris’s office. Don’t you see? They might have left his office alone because he was sleeping. In fact I think that’s exactly what happened. When I came in to see him on Monday morning there were food cartons from the day before. They must have left his office when they saw him in there.’
Frank’s face changed, as though he’d finally caught up with what Michelle was saying. ‘The cleaners don’t speak English too well,’ he said, ‘maybe they don’t understand what’s happening to Chris.’ Frank was now sitting at his desk tapping away at his computer. ‘I’ve got the address,’ he said. ‘How’s your Spanish?’
‘Hablo perfecto español,’ she said.
Frank stared at her, clearly his Spanish was not too good. ‘It’s fine,’ she said.