Authors: William Lashner
“I am very concerned,” said Judge Armstrong from high on his bench, shaking his big round head with great concernedness, his voice falsetto high. “Very, very concerned.”
I leaned over to Beth at the counsel table in Judge Armstrong’s courtroom and said, without moving my swollen jaw, “I think he’s concerned.”
“What?” she said.
“Forget it,” I said.
“What?”
This is what happens when a tooth is pulled out in pieces and half of your jaw swells to the size of a grapefruit: No one can understand a word you say.
My visit to the dentist ended with Bob pulling my tooth, a grisly event that I still shudder to recall, which was why it was Beth who had put on the evidence at François Dubé’s hearing for a new trial and why Beth had made the argument. On one side of her sat François, in his prison jumpsuit, looking ever suave in maroon. I sat on the other, offering encouragement and trying not to spit blood onto the courtroom floor.
“The Supreme Court has said repeatedly that impeachment information can be crucially important to a fair trial,” said the judge. “In light of the circumstantial nature of the evidence in Mr. Dubé’s trial, the testimony of Seamus Dent, putting the defendant at the scene of the crime, was particularly significant. If the information about his drug use had been available to the defense, his credibility could have been shattered.”
“But, Your Honor,” said A.D.A. Mia Dalton, standing for the District Attorney’s Office, “in light of the fingerprint evidence, in light of the motive evidence, in light of the photograph of the defendant grasped in the victim’s hand, the proof in this case remains—”
“I know the evidence, Ms. Dalton. I sat through the trial, remember? The standard is whether the impeachment information could reasonably be taken, in light of the whole case, to undermine confidence in the jury’s verdict, and I believe Ms. Derringer on that point is persuasive.”
“We respectfully disagree,” said Dalton, standing straight, if not tall, at the prosecution’s table. Mia Dalton, all five foot one of her, was a hard woman in a tough spot. The François Dubé case had not been hers when it was originally tried, but the prosecutor who had handled it was now the elected district attorney, and so Dalton was saddled with the burden of defending her boss’s handiwork. “Even without Seamus Dent’s testimony, the prosecution would have no trouble proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Well, Ms. Dalton, you may have the chance to show us. I think my responsibility here is clear. The impeachment information was both material and in the hands of the police at the time of the trial and therefore was required to be handed over to the defense.”
“But it was not in the hands of the prosecution, Judge.” Dalton turned and glared at Patrick Gleason, who was sitting behind her in the courtroom. “Detective Gleason failed to inform the acting detective, Detective Torricelli, or the prosecutors of what he knew of Seamus Dent’s past. How can we be held responsible for Detective Gleason’s failure?”
“I’m not saying your office did anything wrong here, Ms. Dalton. Like I tell my daughter over and over, it’s not all about you. We’re talking François Dubé’s constitutional rights.”
“What about the rights of Leesa Dubé not to be shot in the neck?”
“Are you being argumentative, Ms. Dalton?”
“Being as this is argument—”
“The Court in
Brady
says it doesn’t matter if the prosecution’s failure to turn over impeachment information was intentional. And in
Kyles v. Whitley
the Court reaffirmed that the prosecution has a duty to learn of any favorable evidence known to others acting on the government’s behalf, including the police.”
“That puts too high a burden on our office.”
“No, it doesn’t, Judge,” said Beth, standing now and entering the fray.
“Any other rule would allow the police, not the prosecutor or the courts, to make the determination of what evidence should be turned over to the defense. Which, I might add, is exactly what happened here.”
“Absolutely right, Ms. Derringer,” said the judge.
Dalton glanced over at Beth with something close to admiration in her eyes and then down at me. As I grinned at her as best I could, she puffed out one cheek, aping my swollen jaw. Sweet.
As the argument continued, I turned to take in the rest of the courtroom crowd. A few reporters, a few bored lawyers looking for some entertainment, and then those with a more direct connection to the case. There was an angry claque sitting together on the prosecution’s side of the courtroom, leaning on one another, offering support. In the middle, stone-faced, sat an older couple, both looking like they were trying hard not to burst a vein. It is a common sight in a murder case, the victim’s family and friends putting on a show of support for the dear departed. The older couple were Leesa Dubé’s parents, guardians now of Leesa and François Dubé’s four-year-old daughter, who was not in the courtroom. I smiled at them, they studiously avoided looking back.
Detective Gleason was sitting up front, taking his medicine with a mournful, startled expression. Things would not be going well for the detective; two Internal Affairs officers had been in the courtroom during his testimony, taking notes. But to the detective’s credit, he didn’t hem and haw up there on the stand as Beth questioned him about Seamus Dent. He swore his oath to tell the truth and then followed it like a path to redemption, a rarer event in the criminal courts than you would imagine. I also couldn’t help noticing that his southern drawl was replaced with a flat Philadelphia accent, as if the Elvis had been knocked out of him by the troubles I had brought down upon his head. Which was a shame, I thought, because if ever he needed a little Elvis in his life it would be over the next few months.
Behind our table Whitney Robinson nodded at me, something wary in his eyes. Beth had also wanted to argue ineffective assistance, and Whit would have gone along, testifying to all his mistakes in the first trial if we had asked him. But I convinced her against it, partly because it would dull our argument that the failures were the government’s fault and partly because I didn’t want to tarnish Whit’s legacy. He deserved better, I figured.
And then in the back, arms crossed, luscious lips pursed, sat Velma Takahashi in a smashing turquoise suit. I was surprised to see her, actually, but there she was, making sure she was getting value for her cash retainer, no doubt. She was looking pretty good, was Velma, she was money, all right, and we would have to have another chat soon. Maybe as soon as the judge ruled.
“As I stated before,” said the judge, scratching now his scalp as if to scratch up an answer, “I am concerned, very concerned. I remain horrified at the depravity of this crime and am aware of the importance of finality of judgment. At the same time, I am duty bound to follow the dictates of the Constitution.”
“Can I say something, Judge?” said François Dubé, standing as he spoke. It was the first time he had said anything at the proceeding, and to hear his reedy French voice in the courtroom was jarring.
This was not good, this could only hurt his cause. I grabbed at Beth and shook my head. Beth leaned over and said something into his ear. He gently pushed her away.
“Judge,” he said, “can I please say something?”
“You are entitled to your say, Mr. Dubé, but it looks like your counsel is trying to prevent you from speaking, and I recommend you listen to your counsel.”
“No one today has said anything about whether I did or didn’t do what I am accused of.”
“Convicted of,” said Dalton.
“I want you to know, Judge,” said François before he turned to face the angry claque on the other side of the courtroom, “and I want Leesa’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen, to know that I did not kill Leesa. I loved Leesa. We were having our problems, yes, but I loved her, and I always will.”
The old woman in the middle, her face set, her jaw clenching as if she were cracking chestnuts, said in a low voice, “Sit down. God, do us all the favor and just sit down and shut your mouth.”
“Quiet now, everyone,” said the judge. “Your protestations of innocence have no effect on the matter currently before me, Mr. Dubé. You made the same protestations at your trial, and they were not believed by the jury.”
“But I didn’t do this,” said François Dubé. “I’m an innocent man. And
ma mère, papa,
” he said, facing again the Cullens who were swearing at him with their eyes. His use of the familiar paternal and maternal forms of address brought a gasp from the courtroom. “I want to see my daughter. Please let me see my Amber. Please.”
At that moment, Mrs. Cullen stood, swallowed a sob, and quickly slid past the other people in her bench before rushing out of the courtroom. One of the younger women in the claque stood, glared at François, and then followed her out. Mr. Cullen continued staring with a hatred that could have smashed boulders.
François turned back to the judge. “That’s all I have to say.”
“I think that was quite enough,” said the judge, with a bite of anger in his voice. “Now, sit down, and not another word. The Cullens have endured a great tragedy. There is nothing you can do to assuage their pain, Mr. Dubé, but I won’t let you make it any worse.”
“Your Honor,” said Beth, “Mr. Dubé was only—”
“I know what he was trying to do, Ms. Derringer. But it is your responsibility to control your client. He has made this decision ever more difficult, but I find I have little choice. Mr. Dubé, I’m granting you your new trial.”
There was a gasp, a series of exclamations of incredulity and anger from the crowd. François Dubé stood again and hugged Beth. Mia Dalton shot up and said, “But, Judge—”
Judge Armstrong slammed his hammer twice, the bailiff yelled out, “Quiet.” The noise in the courtroom ceased.
“We’d like the opportunity to brief the issues raised in the hearing,” said Dalton.
“No, I don’t need your briefs.” The judge put his hand on a stack of paper two feet high sitting beside him on the bench. “You’ve all written enough briefs on this matter to kill a forest. I’m as disappointed as you, Ms. Dalton, but I read every case you both cited, and I don’t see that I have a choice. Don’t look to me, look to Detective Gleason. Are you prepared to go forward and prosecute this case again without Mr. Dent’s testimony?”
“Absolutely, Your Honor,” said Dalton.
“Who’s trying it for the people?”
“I am, Judge,” said Dalton.
“Need much time, Ms. Dalton?”
“No, sir.”
“How about you, Ms. Derringer?”
“The sooner the better, Judge.”
“Good. Put on your seat belts, people, because this case isn’t going to sit. I’ll hear you on bail, Ms. Derringer.”
As Beth stood and began to speak, trying to get François Dubé out of jail pending his trial, I looked back at the courtroom, saw the resigned weariness on Detective Gleason’s face, the sad compassion on Whit’s—compassion for whom, for me? I saw the anger and bereavement flood through Mr. Cullen’s eyes. And I spied the slender turquoise high heel, the narrow back, and the glistening blond hair of Velma Takahashi as she exited the courtroom door.
Like a mongrel chasing a purebred bitch in heat, I followed.
I caught up to her at the elevator. She smelled rich, like a lilac bush. On a citrus farm. In spring. With a servant serving cocktails and a light breeze coming off the sea. Yeah, like that.
“Did you enjoy the show, Mrs. Takahashi?” I said.
“No, I’ve never been to Tallahassee, Mr. Carl, why?”
“Who said anything about Tallahassee?”
“I’m not sure I understand a word you are saying. Are you inviting me to Tallahassee? That’s quite forward of you.”
I pushed my tongue through the gap in my molars, rubbed it along the scab where my tooth had been. Dr. Bob had told me under no circumstances should I disturb the scab with my tongue, which was why I couldn’t stop myself.
“Is something wrong with your head?” she said. “It appears today to be particularly misshapen.”
“I lost a tooth.”
“Yes,” she said, “I think the truth is always best, don’t you?”
I slowed down my speech, enunciated as precisely as I could in my current condition. “I lost a tooth.”
“Ah, I see,” she said, pushing the elevator button. “That would explain the drool. Well, let’s hope you find it.”
“Do you have a minute?”
She looked at the elevator door as if hoping it would open and save her, but when it did, instead of getting on, she let it close without her and stepped to the side. She seemed quite uncomfortable to be there, in that hallway, with me. Funny, having seen my grossly swollen jaw in the mirror that morning, I could understand. I was tempted to give her the whole
I am not an animal, I am a human being
speech, but I worried that she might just think I was inviting her to Cleveland.
Speaking as clearly as I could, I said, “I mentioned before that we would need an additional retainer if we succeeded in getting Mr. Dubé his new trial.”
“So you did. But can we discuss this at a different time and place?” She glanced over her shoulder, I turned to follow her gaze. Mrs. Cullen was staring at us from just outside the courtroom door. Interesting.
“Sure. I was only reminding you. Anytime that’s convenient would be fine, as long as it’s soon. Preparing for a trial requires a big commitment of both time and money.”
“And you prefer checks.”
“You remembered, how sweet. The judge is probably going to set bail for François. It will be high, but reachable for a Takahashi. Are you willing to put up what’s necessary?”
“No.”
“Cash would work, but some sort of guarantee could be arranged, too.”
“Backed by my signature?”
“Or your husband’s.”
“I won’t put up a cent. Tell François to raise the bond money on his own. Maybe his father-in-law will help.”
“Somehow I don’t think so. I don’t understand, Mrs. Takahashi. You’re willing to pay for his defense, but not his bail?”
“At least your hearing is clearer than your speech. François has spent three years behind bars. I think he can handle a few months more.”
“Just so long as your husband doesn’t learn of your assistance to the cause.”
“Is that all? Can I go now?”
“Someone’s been laying flowers at Leesa Dubé’s grave. Every Thursday. Quite touching, actually.”
“Her parents loved her very much.”
“I’m sure they did, but it is not the Cullens leaving the flowers. Every Thursday afternoon your driver takes you to the cemetery. You step across the other sites, kneel at Leesa Dubé’s grave, and lay a single white rose on the grass above her coffin. Then you stay there awhile, smoothing out the grass, cleaning off the leaves, taking away last week’s offering.”
“She was a dear friend,” said Velma Takahashi.
“Weekly visits and tears three years after the fact are not the acts of friendship. They are acts of something else. Love, perhaps. Or guilt.”
She looked at me, something dark and fierce in her eyes, and then she stepped away to the elevators. She punched the down button, crossed her arms, tapped a tidy toe, before stalking back to me.
“You had me followed.”
“But only out of a deep and abiding affection,” I said.
“Don’t forget your place, Mr. Carl. And be certain of one thing: Whatever you do, you will leave me out of it.”
The elevator doors opened. She reached out and sharply pinched my swollen jaw before marching off into the elevator, leaving me collapsed against the wall in pain.
It was the second time she had treated me like someone she had bought and paid for, someone whose sole purpose of existence was to serve her own mysterious ends. It was the second time she had treated me worse than a dog.
This was starting to be fun.
Mrs. Cullen now stood directly between the courtroom and me. She was a solid, pale woman with short white hair and navy shoes to match her stolid navy suit. Altogether formidable, and not looking too kindly at me as I made my way toward her. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about courtroom work, the gentle feelings of all the participants, one to the other.
And if you think divorce cases are tough, try murder.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cullen,” I said slowly and clearly as I approached. “I know how difficult this is for you.”
“Do you now, Mr. Carl?”
“No, I suppose I can’t. Not really.”
“She was my youngest daughter, my last child. She came late, a gift from God.”
“We don’t mean any disrespect toward your daughter. We’re only trying to ensure that Mr. Dubé gets the fair trial he deserves.”
“He got everything he deserved, trust me on that, young man. And what did my daughter deserve?”
“She deserved better than she received,” I said.
“I saw you speaking to Velma Wykowski.”
“Wykowski, huh?”
“That was her name when she roamed about the city like a feral goat. What business could you have with a woman like her?”
“Whatever it is, it’s my business,” I said.
Mrs. Cullen let out a perfect middle-class humph. “She’s a molten one, isn’t she? Warming to look at, but dangerous to the touch. You know, she was with him first.”
“With whom?”
“Your client. But he wasn’t rich enough for her tastes, so the tramp tossed him and his toys to my Leesa.”
“Toys? What toys?”
“It’s not important. What is important is that she sent him my daughter’s way. I’ll never forgive her that.”
“Velma seems to have genuinely cared for your daughter.”
“Not enough to keep Leesa away from the French snake who became her husband. He’s a bad man, a charmer to be sure, but bad. A man can be a snake and a charmer both. He charmed my daughter, yes, but all the time I knew. I told her so, but Leesa wasn’t one to listen. So, against our best judgments, we gave him our daughter, and look what happened. I knew it, from the first. I could see the darkness in him.”
“And what does that look like, Mrs. Cullen,” I said, “the darkness in a man?”
She took a step closer, grabbed the fabric of my sleeve. “A flash of light where there should be none. Look in his left eye, Mr. Carl. It is there to be seen.”
“The flaw in his eye?”
“A sign.”
“But that doesn’t mean he murdered her.”
She let go of my arm, turned toward the courtroom door. “Maybe not, but it means he had it in him.”
Funny, I thought, that was exactly the way I felt about François Dubé, too. Except that wasn’t what he was on trial for. Sometimes I had to remind myself of why I ended up a criminal defense attorney. It wasn’t the money, really, because, truth be told, I wasn’t making enough, and it wasn’t because I believed that my clients were ultimately good souls wrongly accused, because generally they were neither good nor innocent, they were a bad lot, and François Dubé might just have been one of the worst. No, the root reason I was a criminal defense attorney was that I was always most comfortable on the side of the guy everybody else was against.
“You can be assured,” I said, “that Ms. Dalton, who will be prosecuting the case, is a highly competent trial attorney. If there is enough evidence to convict Mr. Dubé again, she will get it done. My job is just to make sure that the trial is fair.”
“That’s a lie, Mr. Carl. I know what your job is. Your job is to disseminate the perjuries he gives you, to make the truthful look false, to spread doubt like a farmer spreads manure.”
“We all need to have faith in the system, Mrs. Cullen.”
She lowered her head so that she was peering angrily at me from beneath her brow. “That’s not where my faith lies.”
There was something interesting in the malevolence she aimed at me just then. “If you can see darkness in François Dubé, what do you see when you look at me?”
She took a step forward, reached out a hand as if pulling a message from my soul. “I see something missing, is what I see.”
“Any idea what?”
“Well, for starters,” she said, a smile breaking out on her face, “a tooth.”
I gave her a small laugh, nodded, and started toward the door, but before I got past, she grabbed my arm again.
“He’s a charmer, like I said, and a snake, too, Mr. Carl. You should be on alert for who he’s charming now.”
It was sort of creepy, my hallway discussion with Mrs. Cullen, which might explain the strange image I carried in my head when I opened the door to the courtroom. In fact, I almost expected to see in the courtroom a giant cobra with a flaw in its eye, waving back and forth as it rose out of its basket, itself wearing the turban, itself playing the pipe, not itself subject to the beck of a charmer but looking to do some dark charming of its own.
What I saw instead was François Dubé, standing at the defense table, a sheriff with one hand on François’s shoulder, his other hand on François’s arm, about to step François back and take him off to prison. But François wasn’t looking at the sheriff, no. The sheriff was behind, and François was looking forward, directly into the eyes of my partner, Beth. He was holding her hands and gazing into her eyes, and speaking as calmly and softly as a hypnotist.
And my partner, Beth, God help her, was looking back and listening both and seeming to fall ever deeper under his spell.