Authors: William Bernhardt
“Thank you, Grayson. Dismissed.”
Grayson left the bathroom as quickly as possible.
“Bit hard on him, weren’t you?” Swift asked. “Since he was basically right. You’re out of your jurisdiction.”
“Details, details . . .” He grabbed Baxter’s arm and pulled her over. “Let’s test your deductive reasoning powers, Sergeant. What did this poor schmuck do for a living?”
She stared at the contents of the bag. “Dog collar. Ruler. Little bracelets.”
“And spermicide,” Mike added. “They all add up to? . . .”
She shook her head. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s all right. It’s not a sign of inferior detective skills. More like a sign that you’re a wholesome person. Now, Special Agent Swift here probably got it a long time ago. Am I right?”
Swift grinned. “My mama didn’t raise her girls in a convent.”
Baxter looked annoyed. “So spill already. What does it all add up to?”
Swift batted her eyelashes. “Sex, sugah.”
“Sex? I mean, I get the spermicide, but—” She stopped short. “Ohhh. I am so embarrassed.”
“I would say kinky sex,” Swift added, “but that’s so judgmental.”
Mike smirked. “You may recall that Shelly—the bartender at Remote Control—told us about a chicken? A male prostitute, for the unenlightened. Charlie, I think she called him. She said he was at the bar the night Tony Barovick was killed. Left not long after Tony did.”
“Just like Manny Nowosky.”
Mike nodded. “These people are all linked—and not just by the fact that they’re now dead. They’re being systematically picked off because they are all connected to . . . something. And the most likely candidate?”
Swift agreed. “The Ecstacy ring.”
“Wait a minute,” Baxter said, trying to catch up. “If the victims were all involved in a drug ring, that would mean that Tony Barovick—”
“Was not exactly the saint the popular press has made him out to be.”
Baxter’s eyes widened. “If you’re right, a lot of protesters currently camped out in front of the courthouse are going to have to repaint their placards.”
“Yeah. And find a new martyr.” Mike grabbed his trench coat. “Come on, gang. Let’s check out this loser’s apartment.”
“Right behind you, tiger.”
“Oh, and Baxter?”
She stopped at the door. “Yeah?”
Mike smiled. “Those weren’t little bracelets.”
She covered her face with her hand. “Oh, geeeez . . .”
35
As Christina hurried down the long courtroom corridor, she listened intently to the words coming over her cell phone.
“I really do think there may be a connection, Chris. Between Tony Barovick, and the drill bit through the head guy, and this new victim. I know the evidence is slim, but my instincts tell me there’s something there.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea. But I intend to find out. So let’s stay in touch with each other, okay? And exchange information. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for keeping me informed, Mike. I really appreciate it.”
“Least I can do. Hey—do me a favor. You and Ben be careful.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Someone tried to off your client once, remember? Trashed your place, took a few potshots at you. From what I hear, these ANGER dudes are seriously militant. I don’t want you to get caught in the cross fire like the last lawyer did.”
“Understood.”
“Not that I normally think taking out defense attorneys is a bad thing. But I make an exception for you.”
“Thanks, Mike. You’re sweet.”
“I suppose there’s no point in trying to talk you into dropping the case.”
“ ‘Fraid not.”
“Right. Can’t be sensible. You get that from Ben. I could probably get the local PD to assign a security detail.”
“I can’t do my job with security dogs hanging over me.”
“Yeah. That’s what Ben said, too. Give my best to that former brother-in-law of mine, okay?”
“Will do, Major. Talk to you again soon.”
Christina gazed at herself in the mirror. No matter how many times she tried a case, she knew she would never get used to it. The pressure, from the first smash of the gavel to the last, was unrelenting. And it was worse when the stakes were so high. Worst of all when she knew the next witness was a critical one, perhaps the critical one. And she had to cross-examine.
Life was simpler when she had been a legal assistant. But not as much fun.
Before she left the ladies’ room, she made the traditional last-minute glamour check. Hair all properly pinned back. Check. No makeup smears. Check. Lipstick not on teeth. Check. Lunch not in teeth. Check. Everything as it should be.
She took a deep breath and smiled at that cute freckled face in the mirror. Show time.
Roger Hartnell was waiting for her in the corridor outside the courtroom. He was using a cane today but seemed to be able to get around reasonably well. “Ms. McCall! I need to speak to you.”
“I’m surprised to see you up on your feet so soon.”
“Turned out it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Bullet just winged me.”
“Hurt much?”
“Only when I move.”
“Then why aren’t you at home in bed?”
“Because I need to talk to you.”
“Look, if it’s about my dropping the case—”
“I’ve just come from a meeting of the ANGER steering committee.”
“Mr. Hartnell, I understand how you feel about our representation. I’m sure if I’d known Tony I’d feel the same way. But I can’t drop the case. So no matter what you and your committee think—”
“Miss McCall, you have been targeted.”
Christina felt a cold grip at the base of her spine. “You mean—the sniper—the figure hanging in the lobby.”
“I don’t know anything about that. We don’t condone violence. What I’m talking about is . . . publicity.”
“I’m not following.”
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a display mounted on stiff cardboard. “Starting tomorrow morning, these ads are going to run in major newspapers and magazines all across the country.”
The layout contained four photos. The top and largest bore the caption:
THIS IS TONY BAROVICK.
Below, in a photo that appeared to have been taken at Remote Control, were seven people, including Roger and Shelly and the club owner, Mario Roma.
THESE ARE HIS FRIENDS.
The third photo was captioned:
THIS IS THE MAN WHO KILLED TONY BAROVICK.
Johnny Christensen, dudded out in his prison coveralls. And the final row of photos was captioned:
THESE ARE HIS FRIENDS.
There were only two. Ben and Christina.
Christina felt her jaw stiffening. “You can’t do this. This is slanderous.”
“Our attorneys assure me it is not. All we say is that you have befriended your client, which you clearly have done.”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Johnny. This ad calls him a killer—which has not yet been established in a court of law. He could sue you.”
“But by the time that case comes to trial, this murder trial will be over, and he will be a convicted killer. Imagine a convicted killer crying because we called him a killer a week early. I just don’t see him raking in the dough.”
Christina pushed the layout away in disgust. “You’re determined to see that Johnny is convicted, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am. I loved Tony. I want his killer punished.”
“No, you want Johnny punished. You have no idea who killed Tony. All you know is what the police tell you. And take it from me, Roger—sometimes they’re wrong.”
“Not this time. I’m certain of it.” He put the layout back in his briefcase. “And soon the rest of the world will be certain, too.”
As soon as Christina saw DA Drabble coming through the metal detector, she stepped forward. “Oh, Richard! Glad I bumped into you. The courtroom assignment has been changed.”
He looked at her warily. “It has?”
“Yeah. Apparently a larger room opened up when Judge Pennington finished a big rape trial. We’re going to take over his space.”
“And that’s? . . .”
“Top floor. End of the corridor.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Vengeance is sweet, huh?”
“I don’t get you.”
“But he who laughs last, laughs best.”
“You’re just a bundle of clichés this morning, aren’t you?”
He laughed. “Nice try, Ms. McCall, but you’re not going to throw me for a loop on my own home court.”
“You don’t believe the court has been moved?”
“Oh, I can believe that easily enough. I was in the clerk’s office last night and heard them talking about a reassignment. But they were discussing the possibility of going to Judge Cantrell’s courtroom. In Building Three.”
“But there was—”
“So nice try, little lady, but it’ll take a better scam than this lame bit of business to make me late for Lacayo’s court.” He grabbed his briefcase and hurried merrily down the corridor.
Ben came up behind her. “We really are going to Judge Pennington’s courtroom, aren’t we?”
Christina nodded. “Cantrell’s has to be fumigated. Someone saw a rat.”
“And you knew Drabble wouldn’t believe you when you told him.”
“Which is why I met him at the door. Before he had a chance to hear it from someone he trusted.” She checked her watch. “He’s going to be fifteen minutes late. At the least.”
Ben whistled. “You know, Christina, you are just evil.”
She held up her hands. “I can’t help it if he’s a suspicious person.” She smiled. “Who needed to learn a lesson about the consequences of messing with me.”
Among the reasons Christina wasn’t looking forward to this cross was the fact that Amber Wilson seemed like a nice person who was, after all, only doing her job. But in this case, the coroner’s testimony was too important to give her a pass. She had to cross the lady as if she were a combination of Satan, Hitler, and Richard Nixon combined.
Once court finally got under way—and Judge Lacayo finished tongue-lashing Drabble and his entourage for being late—the DA began his direct examination.
“Dr. Wilson, would you please tell us when you became involved in the Tony Barovick case?”
Wilson twisted around to face the jury. “I arrived soon after the body was discovered.”
“And what did you find?”
“A severely damaged corpse. As was immediately apparent, the victim had a shattered jaw, two shattered legs, and numerous cuts and abrasions. The body was covered with blood.”
“He was dead?”
“Very.”
“Were you able to determine a cause of death?”
Wilson ran a hand through her brown hair. “Technically, the cause of death was cranial asphyxia—technically, that’s the cause of almost every death. What caused oxygen starvation of the brain is more difficult to say. In this case, the victim had been so mistreated, had been so . . . damaged in so many ways, it’s impossible for me to say exactly which blow killed him. It could have been the one to his neck and jaw causing a closure of the respiratory passages in the neck, or a compression of the major blood vessels in the neck—the carotid arteries and jugular veins. The blows to the legs could have caused shock, leading to heart failure.”
“Are there ways to determine which blow resulted in death?”
“Not reliably, not in this case. The body was too severely damaged. I did detect evidence of heart failure—but he had been beaten so severely that he had two cracked ribs. He’d been subjected to intense electric shock. Any of those things could have been lethal. It’s really just a matter of which one kicked in first.”
“And you can’t say for certain which did?”
“Not reliably.” She glanced at Christina. “And I feel certain the defense counsel wouldn’t want me to speculate. Bear in mind—contrary to what some people believe, the human body’s physiological and muscle systems do not immediately shut down at death.”
“But you can reliably say that the beating caused the death.”
“Absolutely. That was evident.”
Christina could see that Wilson had prepared carefully for this testimony. She also appeared to have anticipated Christina’s planned line of attack; she was very carefully delineating what she could be certain about and what she couldn’t. While at the same time making sure she gave Drabble what he needed to get a conviction.
“Dr. Wilson,” Drabble continued, “the defendant has raised some questions regarding when death occurred. Is it possible for a medical examiner to make a determination as to the time of death?”
“Yes, it is. There are several methods of doing it. Liver mortis—which is the discoloration of the skin to a pinkish color caused by the settling of blood cells in the small vessels of dependent skin and tissues—does not begin until one to two hours after death, and rigor mortis—the progressive stiffening of the body caused by chemical changes in the muscle tissues—does not begin until two to four hours after death. Since only a short period of time had passed, neither of those were very useful. Fortunately, there are other indicators of the stage of decomposition—body temperature, analysis of the stomach contents, and so forth. Immediately following death, the human body begins to decompose. The rate of decomposition is steady, predictable, and measurable, and barring extraordinary circumstances, will provide a reliable measure for at least the first two hours after death.”
Drabble nodded. “I see. Did you reach any conclusions regarding time of death in this case?”
“Absolutely.”
“So the time of death would be . . .”
“Eleven p.m. Eleven-fifteen at the latest.”
Drabble nodded thoughtfully. “The defendant has suggested that the beating took place at another location at around 9
P.M.
—just after Tony Barovick left the club—and was over by 9:30.”
“No. Not possible. The beating might have begun then, but the killing stroke—the death of Tony Barovick—came later.” She was adamant, and with good reason, Christina knew. Johnny was with fraternity brothers who could alibi him from about 9:30 to 10:45. Wilson was placing the murder at a time when Johnny was alone, before he rejoined his friends at Remote Control.
Christina watched carefully as several of the jurors shifted around in their chairs. They’d been hoping medical science could tell them with certainty who was lying. And that was what they were getting now—or so they thought.