Mad Max: Unintended Consequences (24 page)

I nearly laughed when I saw Whip appeared decked out in his Tuesday-go-to-court clothes. It was déjà vu all over again, except his suit no longer fit. The pants were too tight across his thighs, the waist was too large, and the suit jacket strained across his shoulders. Working out like a fiend had paid off. With a shave and a haircut, Whip looked transformed. Underneath his clothing, though, I was pretty sure he sweated like a pig.

I couldn't wait for the hearing to be behind us. I ran a million scenarios through my head: The judge would be prejudiced and keep Whip in jail; the judge would be enlightened and read the district attorney the riot act; the judge would be fair and let Whip go. If I flipped a coin, it would have landed on its edge. I twisted in my chair in the holding room and jumped at the slightest sound.

After what seemed like a hundred years, Vince entered the room with the biggest smile I'd ever seen on his face. A huge smile for Vince was a minor-league curl of the outer corners of his mouth. Today's corners pointed skyward. Piranha teeth glinted.

“What?”

“Time for an old-fashioned district attorney ass-whipping.”

“We've got ‘em?”

“And how. This is going to be fun.”

A trial attorney's idea of fun was entering a courtroom with a portfolio of district attorney bait. My idea was driving Whip to a restaurant, going out for dinner with the kids and letting him sleep in his own bed.

“Two minutes.” A court official knocked on the door.

“Showtime,” Vince said.

“See you inside.” I hurried to the seat Emilie held for me. The courtroom was packed with the ghoulish and just plain curious.

A policeman led Whip in. Alex, Emilie, and I were in the front row behind the defendant's table. I felt more confident than I had in months. Alex squirmed and waved; Emilie looked very serious, hopeful and fearful, all at once. The Pughs were in the second row. The Colonel gave a thumbs-up, Bette a tight smile. We chatted with Whip and waited.

The prosecution trickled in and settled down. This time George Weed glad-handed his way down the center aisle. Ever the politician, the district attorney exuded Old Spice-scented confidence. Julie Hamada, who led the arraignment, was bumped to second chair, with a black attorney I didn't recognize in third.

The district attorney and two assistant district attorneys for an evidentiary hearing? Outrageous waste of time and expense.

Miss Hamada arranged and rearranged her files and looked smug. The third assistant district attorney was expressionless. Whip glanced at Vince.
Hmm.
A district attorney butt-kicking in front of two of his staff was going to be fun after all.

Fifteen minutes later, the bailiff called the court to order. “All rise.”

Everyone stood, and the judge entered. Vince had told us we'd drawn Judge Hamilton, but he failed to mention this judge was a woman too. I stared at her as thoroughly as I did a piece of art I wanted to add to my collection.

Gray-white hair curled at earlobe level. Black robe, of course, collar of a white blouse, a broad gold band on her left hand, a diamond ring of no small size on her right. Watch and gold studs. Very little makeup. I couldn't decide if she'd be a ball-buster or fair. God, I hoped fair.

We were so wound up we all jumped at the sound of the gavel, all but Emilie, who looked calm and serene.

“The court will come to order. This is case number zero-three-five-four-nine-eight, People versus Winston I. Pugh. This is an evidentiary hearing requested by Mr. Vincent Bodine, counsel for the defendant. Are we ready to proceed?”

“We are ready, Your Honor, although we'd like it entered into the record this is a waste of the court's precious time and wholly unwarranted.” George Weed stood and smiled at the judge.

“So recorded. The court appreciates your interest in our precious time, Mr. Weed. Let it be recorded my precious time is being wasted because the district attorney's office hasn't released the evidence as ordered. Let me further remind the district attorney the law will be followed in my court. Do you have further comments?”

Round one for Whip. I exhaled as slowly and silently as I could.

“No, Your Honor.”

The nattily dressed district attorney flushed crimson and sat in his chair. He turned and glared at Assistant District Attorney Julie Hamada, who studied a spot six inches above her tidy stack of folders.

“Proceed, Mr. Bodine.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. If it pleases the court, when we requested copies of the evidence, we received a list of documents the district attorney intends to use against my client, Mr. Pugh. I haven't been given all the documents and frankly question the relevance of some of them. May I approach the bench?”

When Judge Hamilton nodded, Vince walked forward and presented a single sheet of paper, yellow highlighter marks visible. He turned and returned to his place behind the defendant's table.

The judge raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Weed, why have you withheld these documents? Have you forgotten the rules of evidence, that the burden of proof is on you and that you're required by the law of this state to give copies of everything to the defendant's counsel?”

Weed rose to his feet, braced himself on his fingertips, and lifted his head. “I thank the court for the reminder of my duty, Your Honor. We have the documents and can turn them over later today.”

“Mr. Weed, it's within my power to review the evidence. I want to see if you have a case you can prove beyond a reasonable doubt. Do you have such a case?”

“Of course we do, Your Honor.”

“You'd better, or I'll send you back to your office for a further review of the law.”

Had I retained a modicum of sympathy, I wouldn't have wasted it on the district attorney or Julie Hamada. Weed's jaw clenched so hard the muscle in his cheek jerked with a will of its own. I was almost embarrassed to witness a public dressing down, but my son-in-law's future was at stake. I relaxed and enjoyed it.

“Mr. Bodine, continue.”

Vince rose and opened the first of his now-familiar color-coded folders.

“Your Honor, the district attorney indicates divorce papers filed between Mr. and Mrs. Pugh are germane to the case. I examined the various filings and conclude what Mr. Pugh was offering Mrs. Pugh, who admitted in her filing she was having an affair with one Dr. Randall Andrew Hunter and intended to leave the family home to live with said doctor, was more generous than required by law.”

Vince handed the legal documents to Judge Hamilton. The judge put on a pair of half-glasses and scanned the documents. She raised an eyebrow at Weed.

“Continue, Mr. Bodine.”

“Thank you. Next on the list is a temporary restraining order. I assume the district attorney plans to use this to show Mrs. Pugh was in danger from her husband.”

Vince glanced at the district attorney, who nodded. “We do, Your Honor.”

“I've highlighted two key points in the TRO. If it pleases Your Honor, would you look at those sections?”

Vince handed the second document to the judge, who glanced at it.

“Mr. Weed, I fail to see how this has any relevance on the case at hand. Can you explain it to the court?”

“Yes, Your Honor. We will use it to show Mrs. Pugh was worried enough about Mr. Pugh's violent temper to seek protection. We consider this important in light of the fact Mrs. Pugh was murdered.”

“I see. Do you have anything else, Mr. Bodine?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Two more documents. One, a police report about a domestic violence call at Mr. Pugh's house and a hospital record of a visit to the emergency room.”

Judge Hamilton took more time looking at the newest papers before setting them on the stack.

“Is this your last document, Mr. Bodine?”

“Yes, Your Honor, but we have a request. We'd like to see the glove.”

“The glove?”

“Yes. Item number eighteen on the list. We'd like to see the glove.”

Weed sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, I protest. We found a glove in the apartment where Mrs. Pugh was brutally murdered. This is our most important piece of evidence, Your Honor. We don't have to turn it over to the opposing counsel.”

“You're right, Mr. Weed, but I will see it.”

“Your Honor, I must protest.”

“Protest away, Mr. Weed. Send someone to fetch it. The court will take a ten-minute recess.”

The gavel banged the session to a close.

Whip turned to Vince, who held up his hand. “Why don't you talk with your children?”

Whip leaned toward the rail, asked Alex some questions, smiled at Emilie, and nodded at his folks. Johnny slipped into the courtroom and sat behind me. He made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, grinned like a Cheshire cat, and sat back with his arms folded across his barrel chest.

The rear door of the courtroom banged open. Nine minutes into the recess, a clerk raced down the center aisle and handed a sealed evidence bag to the district attorney before running out.

Precisely one minute later, the bailiff rose and called the court to order. Almost before he got the words out, Judge Hamilton entered and took her place behind the bench and banged the gavel.

“Mr. Weed, I assume you have the glove.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, Your Honor. Sealed in our evidence bag. I must request, however, we not have an O.J. moment here.”

“Rest assured, I won't ask the defendant to put it on.”

Weed walked to the bench and handed the bag to the judge. She laid it on the stack of papers.

It looked like a surgical glove. Whip glanced at Vince, who nodded. Whip was home free. It was all over but the whuppin'.

“Someone here is a village idiot. I assure each of you it's not me. I've examined the documents given to me by Mr. Bodine. I assume they're the same ones you've already reviewed, Mr. Weed.”

Weed nodded and leaned back in his wooden chair, hands relaxed on the arms. Only the muscle in his cheek, the one with a life of its own, danced a samba.

Judge Hamilton shuffled the papers. “I'll set aside the divorce filings to start with the TRO. This seems to form the core of your case against Mr. Pugh.”

“That, the police report, and the glove, Your Honor.”

“Have you read this report, Mr. Weed?”

“Well, Your Honor, as you know, I have a very heavy caseload. My assistant reviewed it.”

“And that would be…?”

“Hamada, Your Honor. Julie Hamada.” The woman in the middle of the table rose and sat in one fluid motion.

“Miss Hamada, can you read?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Miss Hamada rose as she responded. Her face turned a sickly pale gray.

“Then you are aware, Miss Hamada, this TRO was taken out by Mr. Pugh against Mrs. Pugh.” Again a statement. “How is that relevant to Mrs. Pugh's murder?”

“Your Honor, I don't understand.” Weed sprang to his feet.

“I'm sure you don't. Mr. Pugh charged Mrs. Pugh with a physical attack and received a TRO to prevent his wife from visiting the house or seeing their children without supervision.” The judge set aside the filing.

Weed glared at Hamada.

“Next, the domestic violence report. The police were called to the Pugh residence where they found Mr. and Mrs. Pugh involved in a loud altercation. According to the report, they found blood all over the porch and a knife on the concrete.”

“That's right, Your Honor,” Weed broke in.

“I'm glad you agree. The report further states Mrs. Pugh attacked Mr. Pugh with the knife. Officer Jerome Skelton arrested Mrs. Pugh for assault and took her to jail. Is there a reason for you to enter this into evidence?” The judge raised her expressive eyebrows and peered over her half-glasses once again at the now twitching district attorney.

“I was led to believe the police report would incriminate Mr. Pugh.”

“And that would be by Miss Hamada?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Miss Hamada again performed her fluid rise-and-sit motion.

“Please remain seated, Miss Hamada. We're not playing Whack-A-Mole.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Julie Hamada started to rise but caught herself. Her butt remained Velcroed to her chair.

“Were Mr. Pugh the victim, we might be looking at Mrs. Pugh for murder. As it stands, this proves Mr. Pugh is guilty of marrying a woman who was unfaithful and violent.”

“But, Your Honor…”

The district attorney rose.

“Yes, you have something to add, Mr. Weed?”

“Not at this time, Your Honor.”

“Then sit down and be quiet. I'm not through with you.”

Weed glared at Assistant District Attorney Hamada. My ever-intuitive gut said she'd be out of a job by noon. Sundown at the latest. She was sloppy and could have cost Whip his life had this been a capital case. As it was, she cost him his freedom for far too many months.

Judge Hamilton next took up the evidence bag. This was the famous glove that could convict him.

“This looks like a surgical glove. Is that what you see, Mr. Weed?”

The district attorney nodded. He'd passed puzzled two minutes after the second session began and was approaching catatonia.

“Mr. Weed, I have to commend you and your team. Never in my thirty years on the bench have I seen a case as thoroughly mishandled as this. If you'd done your homework, you would have learned the truth about the TRO and the police report. If you'd followed up on the police report, you would have gone to the hospital and subpoenaed the report on Mr. Pugh's injuries. Then you'd know your key piece of evidence could never have been used by Mr. Pugh.”

Weed slumped in his chair, no longer capable of sitting upright. So much for a shoo-in re-election. I clapped my hands, in my imagination, of course. In reality, my hands remained relaxed in my lap.

“Will you read the warning highlighted at the top of this emergency room report?”

Weed stumbled to the bench, took the paper in a trembling hand, and stared at the top of the page. His face went from red to purple.

“Read what it says out loud.” Judge Hamilton's voice was calm.

Weed cleared his throat. “It says,” he cleared his throat again, “latex allergy.”

Vince turned toward Whip; his teeth showed in a grin.

The judge pushed harder. “Is the surgical glove you entered into evidence made of latex?”

“I believe so, Your Honor.”

Although Weed's voice was barely above a whisper, the judge didn't demand he repeat his admission.

“Mr. Pugh, if you put this glove on, what would happen?”

“My throat would close up in a matter of seconds. I'd be unable to breathe. In a couple minutes, I'd be in anaphylactic shock or dead.”

“What do you have to say, Mr. Weed?” The judge took off her glasses and folded her hands.

“It, um, it looks as if we may have made a mistake.” Weed sat down, deflated.

“You don't have the murder weapon. You don't have DNA or even a fingerprint linking Mr. Pugh to his wife's murder.” The judge ticked off the points on her fingers. “You don't have evidence. Period. Not only couldn't you convict Mr. Pugh, you didn't have enough to arrest him. I will deal with you later.”

The judge turned toward Whip. We held our collective breaths. We had to hear it from her lips.

“It is so entered into the record that there is insufficient evidence to arrest, prosecute, or convict Mr. Pugh of the murder of his wife.” Judge Hamilton looked Whip in the eye. “Mr. Pugh, all charges are dismissed with prejudice. You are free to go. You have the court's deepest apology.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Whip's voice was a croak.

The gavel banged one last time. Whip was free. He turned just in time to brace himself for Alex's launch over the railing. Emilie pushed through the swinging gate and threw herself into his arms as well. Behind both kids, Bette and the Colonel were hugging and crying, and Johnny and I hugged and cried.

Whip freed a hand and gripped Vince's. His attorney, his Vinnie, had gotten him off.

As Vince started up the aisle, Johnny and I flanked him, talking earnestly but quietly. Vince stopped, asked a couple of questions, and took a thick envelope from Johnny. He turned back toward Whip and mouthed, “I'll call you.”

Waving the envelope, Vince left.