It Should Be a Crime (17 page)

“Good point, Dex,” Ford observed. “Gerald, what does the State have to prove in order to convict Mr. Chavez?”

Morgan idly wondered if Ford was avoiding questioning Parker since she was likely to know all the answers. How many times had Parker sat across the table from an accused person, using all the skills at her disposal to draw out a confession? Had she followed the rules to the letter, or had she developed her own set of guidelines for the right way to get to the “truth”? Morgan had a healthy respect for law enforcement. When they did their jobs properly, she truly believed the world was a better place, but over the years she had seen a fair share of everything from cut corners to outright dishonesty in the name of justice. This tape was exhibit one in the cutting corners category, and she wondered what Parker, a former cop, thought of Keaton’s technique.

Gerald responded to Ford, “Motive, means, and opportunity.”

Morgan bit her tongue and glared at Ford, willing him to put this doofus in his place. He did.

“Show me the part of the Code you’re referring to, Gerald.”

Morgan watched while he fumbled through his bright, shiny, and obviously never-cracked copy of the Penal Code searching for salvation from his own stupidity.

“Well,” he equivocated, “it doesn’t exactly say those words, but essentially those are the things the State has to prove.”

Morgan couldn’t stand it any longer. “Parker, can you help Gerald out?”

Parker shot a look at Dex, who was trying not to laugh. “I can take a stab at it. The state has to prove each element of the statute, beyond a reasonable doubt. Murder is intentionally or knowingly causing the death of another, so there are three elements: intentionally or knowingly; causing; the death of an individual. Motive and opportunity are not elements of the offense and don’t have to be proved in order to sustain a conviction.”

Ford chuckled. “Good stab, Parker. Now, let’s talk about whether this ‘confession’ is admissible. Dex, you’re up.”

Dex didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

Morgan wasted no time taking over from Ford. “Really, Dex?”

Dex looked puzzled that his conclusion was called into question, but he stood by the confidence of his conclusion. “Sure. She read him his rights and he waived them.” He swiveled in his chair and solicited Parker’s support. “Did you see anything wrong?”

Morgan hung on her answer, knowing that whatever it was it would speak volumes about what kind of cop she had been. Parker appeared uncomfortable at the prospect of dissecting Skye’s methods, and her response was cagey.

“She didn’t finish the warning.”

Dex interjected. “She read the Miranda warning verbatim.”

“I keep forgetting you worked for the Feds.” Parker grinned at the reminder of their friendly rivalry. “If she’s recording his statement to use at trial, she’s got to ask him, on the tape, if he ‘knowingly, intelligently, and voluntarily’ wants to waive his rights and answer questions.”

“She did,” Dex insisted.

“No, she didn’t. She just asked him if he understood his rights, not whether he wanted to waive them.”

“Even if you’re right, what’s the difference? He waived his rights by answering her questions.” Dex’s tone suggested he thought the distinction Parker made was insignificant.

Parker’s response was heated. “The difference is she’s not allowed to assume he knows the difference. She has a duty to follow the law.”

Morgan had been watching the exchange with interest, but she decided it was time to intervene. Parker obviously had strong feelings on the subject, though Morgan wasn’t sure if the subject was Skye’s methods or Skye in general. “This is perfect. Since you two have very different views on the subject, you’ll be a great team to work on the research. I want a brief in support of a motion to suppress Luis’s statement.”

Gerald piped in. “Why do you want to suppress it if he didn’t admit to anything?” His question was a challenge with a hint of sarcasm.

Morgan’s answer was quick and to the point. “Because we can.” Once she had everyone’s attention, she continued. “I realize nothing Luis says can be construed as a confession, but look at his mannerisms. What do you see?” She rewound the tape and waited for their responses.

“He’s nervous. He never looks Keaton in the eye.” Dex observed.

Parker joined in. “He’s sweating and look at his right leg. It looks like it’s about to bounce out of its socket.”

Ford joined the conversation. “And he always hesitates before he answers a question, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. So, folks, what’s the jury going to think about all that?”

“He looks like he’s lying,” Gerald volunteered.

“Or he looks like someone who was torn from his bed in the middle of the night, hauled to jail, and charged with a serious crime he didn’t commit. His fear can be attributed to the fact English isn’t his first language, he’s been arrested before, and his citizenship may be in jeopardy.” Morgan paused as she considered the pros and cons of trying to get the taped statement thrown out. Luis never wavered in his denials. He had not murdered Camille Burke. He had not struggled with her. He had not shot her. Morgan reflected, ruefully, if she was successful in suppressing the tape, the only way the jury would hear from Luis would be if he took the stand. No matter what the law said, juries wanted to hear the accused say they didn’t do anything wrong. When questioned after a trial, they invariably attributed their verdict to the words, or lack thereof, from the defendant. Amazing, considering during voir dire, they all agreed they could follow the law, which requires they attribute no importance to the fact the defendant may not testify. Though it was common practice not to allow her client to testify, Morgan always kept this nugget of information in the back of her mind when planning a case. Her concerns in this particular case were focused on Luis’s criminal record and how it might influence a jury. She could fight to keep the information out, but if Luis took the stand and opened the door, all bets were off. If his statement was introduced into evidence, the need for him to testify and the associated risk were diminished. She explained her concerns to the group and wrapped up their session by divvying up assignments.

“Parker and Dex, I want you two to research and prepare a motion to suppress. Ford and I will make a decision over the weekend about whether to file it in time to take it up with the judge at the pretrial hearing next week. If nothing else, it will distract the prosecutor from trial prep.” She looked at Gerald, who was expectantly waiting for his assignment. She quickly came up with a do-no-harm task for him. “Gerald, I need you to catalog the rest of the evidence. Ford will show you how he wants our trial notebooks arranged and you make a checklist of anything we still need in order to be prepared.” She took note of how he fumed at being assigned what was obviously busywork, but she couldn’t afford to give someone so clueless a project of any consequence.

Morgan stood. “We’ve been at this for a while. Let’s quit for the night and we’ll meet again on Monday. Have a good weekend, everyone.”

Dex followed Parker out of the room. “Hey, Casey, wanna a grab a bite to eat and go over this stuff?”

Parker, who had been watching Morgan make her way out of the room, struggled to wrench her attention away from Morgan’s retreating form and focus on Dex’s question. Funny Dex should bring up dinner. She had been thinking she would corner Morgan and tell her dinner would be a good payback for the house-hunting boondoggle earlier in the week. Surely they could break bread without breaking the boundaries of friendship. She made excuses to Dex in a hurried tone. “Sorry, pal, I already made other plans. Let’s meet in the morning, my place? We’ll get an early start. I’ll make breakfast.”

If Dex noticed Parker seemed anxious to leave, he didn’t give a hint. “Sure, Casey. See you bright and early.” As he strolled away, Parker glanced around and noticed Morgan was gone. Hoping to catch her, Parker walked briskly toward the professor’s office.

*

As Morgan fumbled in her purse for her office keys, all she could think of was a hot bath and room service.
I have to buy a house soon or I will forever be spoiled by hotel living.
Leaning on the door to dig deeper for the hiding keys, she realized her door was slightly ajar as it swung open into the room. Her first assumption, that the janitorial staff was hard at work within, was dispelled by the sight of a man seated behind her desk.

“Good evening, Professor Bradley. My, you’re working late hours.”

Steeling herself for whatever might follow, Morgan decided to play along with this man who knew who she was and didn’t seem to think introductions were necessary.

“I’m dedicated to my work.”

“Clearly.” His words dripped with heavy sarcasm.

“Obviously you expected to find me here this late or you wouldn’t be waiting. What can I do for you?”

“What can you do for me? What can you do for me?” His repetition was mocking and his voice rose as he spoke. “You, my dear professor, can concentrate on your classes and leave your extracurricular activities to real lawyers.”

Morgan resisted the urge to engage in a verbal battle. Instead, she put all her mental faculties to use in an attempt to figure out who she was dealing with. Her silence had the unintended effect of unnerving her visitor, and he spoke through the uncomfortable quiet.

“Surely you must know who I am? I find it hard to believe you haven’t done your homework with regard to this case and, if you have, you must have realized I would come to call.”

She was sure she had never seen him before, but there was a certain familiarity about his features. She looked hard at him. Something about the lines of his face—she had seen a similar face recently. Her memory recalled a beautiful woman, with sad eyes. The stark features of the face she recalled were reflected in this man, but there was no beauty here, only sharp features, too coarse for sadness, but hardened and shiny with hate. Finally, the pieces fell into place and she realized the identity of her after-hours visitor.

“Why, of course I know who you are, Mr. Burke. You’re the late Camille Burke’s brother.”

“I have a name!”

The nature of his outburst was strange and Morgan wondered about his mental stability. She had been in a hurry to grab her things and leave, but she resolved to take her time sorting through this situation, sensing any sudden action on her part would stir the volatility simmering below the surface. She concentrated on making her voice sound soothing.

“Mr. Theodore Burke, everyone knows who you are.”

He settled back in the chair, apparently pacified by her acknowledgment of his fame and reputation. He nodded toward a chair on the visitor’s side of the desk. Morgan sat and faced him, allowing him to take the lead.

“I’ve come to talk to you like rational people, rational professionals.”

“Certainly, I am happy to hear what you have to say.”

“You cannot represent my sister’s killer. I’m sure you realize it was a mistake to think you could do so. Perhaps you got yourself in too far, thinking it would be a quaint little school project.” He paused as if to give her time to acknowledge his insight. She rewarded him with a slight jerk of her head, urging him to continue. “But I am here to give you a way out of your benevolence. I forbid you to work on this case.”

Morgan had realized Theodore Burke was a bit off the moment she saw him seated behind her desk. She decided to cut him a little slack once she realized who he was. After all, his family gave so much money to the university, it was likely he suffered from the delusion he owned the place. And he had been through a lot with the brutal murder of his sister and having his family affairs dragged through the news day after day as the trial date of the accused murderer drew closer. However, his pronouncement forbidding her from working on the case made her wonder if more than mere emotional turmoil drove him to confront her. His eyes were red and the pupils were dilated. His appearance was unkempt despite the sleek tailoring of his designer suit. His hair looked unwashed. He seemed unbalanced, edgy, almost cracked. Again, Morgan had to check her normal impulses, which were all telling her to waste no time ordering this man from her office. She sensed a direct confrontation would only fuel his erratic behavior. Eyeing him warily, she rose and slowly crossed the room. She offered Theodore Burke her hand.

“Mr. Burke, I am sorry for your loss. I can see the extent of your grief. I will consider, very carefully, your request.” Morgan walked toward the door. “Now, I am sorry, but I must be going.”

“You will not consider anything!” His eyes bulged and his shout was punctuated by the crash of Morgan’s chair, which he knocked over while standing to emphasize his point. “You will withdraw immediately! I will not finance the defense of my sister’s murderer!”

Morgan lost her composure and backed away from the force of his outburst, connecting hard with someone standing behind her. Turning her head slightly, she realized the impediment was Parker, glaring ferociously at Theodore Burke. Morgan felt Parker grab her around the waist and push her back, taking long strides toward the desk where Theodore seemed torn between anger and surprise at the new addition to the tableau he had created. His surprise was heightened when Parker grabbed the lapels of his fancy suit and pushed him to the floor. Standing over him, she growled, “Lower your voice.” She turned back to Morgan and asked, “Is there any reason this gentleman shouldn’t be leaving?” Without waiting for Morgan’s response, Parker pulled Burke to his feet and propelled him toward the door, shoved him through, and shut it behind him.