“I sat up. Now I’m wide-awake. And decide it would be a good idea to get out of there.”
“Did you go downstairs to see what was going on?”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t run toward trouble. I was going up and out of here.”
“Okay, Malibu. This is the new part I was telling you about. Before you went up the stairs, did anybody else come down from Bush Street?” Glitsky knew the answer because he’d seen the surveillance footage. When he’d been brooding in his office earlier, it had occurred to him that the homeless man on the landing—Malibu—had undoubtedly been sitting right there as the man who perhaps killed Anlya came barreling down the stairs to see what had transpired below, if he had to make sure she was dead.
Malibu scratched at his beard, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Now that you mention it. A young white guy, a business guy . . . in a raincoat or some kind of overcoat.”
“Why do you think he was a business guy?”
“He had a necktie on.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
Malibu paused, considering. “Pretty damn good, I’d say. He came down the steps and stopped when he saw me sitting here, and looked right at me, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe I was there, and kept moving around and down.”
“You saw his face?”
“I just said, we looked right at each other.”
“And how was the lighting down here?” Glitsky indicated the spot above, where a bulb behind a wire mesh covering was dark, either turned off or broken. “Does that thing work?”
“Yeah. It was on,” Malibu said. “You watch. It’ll light up in a couple of hours. It’s
always on after dark, automatic or something.” He pointed up to the corner. “They need it for the camera. It’s the problem with sleeping here. You gotta cover your head up completely.”
“Do you think you could identify him again, this guy?”
“I don’t know. Young white guy, you know. He looked like a lot of people.”
Before he’d left the Hall of Justice, Glitsky had put together a “six-pack,” printing out the picture of Greg Treadway from his California driver’s license and inserting it into a six-pocket plastic sleeve with CDL pictures of five other young white males who were neither balding nor bearded. Glitsky took the six-pack from his pants pocket and read Malibu the admonition on the back that said, among other things, that he was not obliged to identify anyone, he was not to assume the suspect’s photo was there, and that it was just as important to free innocent people from suspicion as to identify guilty ones. Then he handed the six-pack to Malibu. “Can you see these faces? Would you rather go up on the street?”
“No. It’s good here.”
“So what do you think? Could any one of those pictures be of the man you saw here on this landing just after you heard the woman scream and the cars crash on last Wednesday night?”
Malibu didn’t take long, and when he looked up, he spoke with finality. “It’s this guy on the lower left, no doubt. I mean, absolutely, that’s the guy. Couldn’t be anybody else.”
Glitsky had Malibu sign and date the six-pack and circle the person he’d identified.
Greg Treadway.
A
LLIE
J
ENSEN KNOCKED
at their bathroom door. “Beck? How are you feeling?”
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“I’ve got some tea brewing, and I’ve made some dry toast. When you come out.”
“I don’t know if that will help, but thanks. I’m not sick. It’s nerves. I’ve just got to get myself together.”
“You’ll do it, don’t worry.”
“I am worried. That’s the problem. What if I get into court and this is still going on? ‘Excuse me, Your Honor, let’s put the trial off for a while until I get so I can be here and represent my client without barfing.’ How much time do I have?”
“You’re fine. It’s only seven-thirty. You’ve got all the time in the world. The tea’s waiting.”
“I’ll be out in a minute. I hope.”
• • •
“D
IZ,
” F
RANNIE
ASKED
through their bathroom door, “are you all right?”
“Not perfect, no. I feel like I’m going to be sick again. Except that I’ve already been sick enough for one day. This is worse than my own first day in court.”
“I doubt that. If memory serves, you sometimes get a little uptight when you’re about to start a trial. Even after all the ones you’ve done.”
“But not physically. Not like this.”
“True. You actually get the real flu or whatever else is floating around in the ether.”
“It’s a stressful business.”
“Over time, I’ve figured that out.”
The toilet flushed and the door opened. Hardy had splashed his face and was drying it with a towel. “I don’t know how she’s going to do this. Should I call her?”
“Maybe not now, first thing in the morning. Give her a chance to wake up.” Frannie took the towel and touched it to his face in a few places. “Besides, I think the four calls last night might be enough to give her a general idea of what she can expect.”
“A general idea isn’t going to do it.”
“I bet it will. It doesn’t get specific until it starts. I remember you telling me your legs went out on you just before your first opening statement.”
“They did.”
“But then there you were, standing on them, and they came back, didn’t they?”
“Don’t try to confuse me with facts.” Hardy checked himself in the mirror. “I’m pale as a ghost, and all of my blood is in my face. How can that be?”
“Magic?”
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Actually, I’m taking it just seriously enough. This isn’t your trial. It’s Beck’s. You’ll be there in case she starts to fly off the rails, which she will not do. She’s smart and well prepared. She’ll be fine.”
“So’s Phil Braden. Smart and well prepared, I mean, which is why Wes assigned the case to him. Plus, he’s experienced. You know how many cases our assistant district attorney has done in his first two years in Homicide?”
“Unless he did another one since Friday, when you mentioned it last, that would still be six. Right?”
“Six wins. No losses.”
Frannie clicked her tongue. “Imagine that. Good for him. Sounds like somebody I know on the defense side. It’s too bad they didn’t give him any of the African-American victims’ cases before. Maybe Wes wouldn’t have been in so much of a hurry to get this one to trial. Which, you’ve said yourself, ought to be to Beck’s advantage.”
“Slightly. Though she never should have caved in to Treadway’s refusal to waive time.” Not waiving time meant that the client had de
manded a trial within sixty days of his arraignment on the indictment, which presented all kinds of logistical problems for both sides, although maybe fewer—marginally—for the defense.
“Maybe not,” Frannie said, “but the same thing’s happened to you, and more than once. Innocent people don’t want to stay in jail for a year, waiting for their trial. And you always say it’s to the DA’s disadvantage, having to hurry. Plus, as you also admit, the case against Greg, evidence-wise, is pretty weak, isn’t that true?”
“As far as it goes. Still . . .”
“Still, Diz, really.” She touched his face. “She’s your daughter. Have faith in her.”
“I do.”
“Okay, then I’ve got one last little bit of advice for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Have more.”
• • •
T
HE BECK WORE
a conservative dark business suit, a white blouse, low heels. She’d had her hair cut back to shoulder-length over the weekend. At nine o’clock, she entered Department 24 of the Hall of Justice, Judge Karl Bakhtiari presiding. The door was open, the lights were on, and some of the other courtroom personnel were present, because the judge had a number of other smaller matters to handle before jury selection in Rebecca’s case was scheduled to begin at nine-thirty.
Walking up through the fifteen rows of seats in the gallery, she carried a thick briefcase—a gift from her parents when she’d passed the bar—that now, filled with her notes, binders of discovery material, legal pads, laptop, and other paraphernalia, weighed close to twenty pounds. The room felt surreal to her, the prosaic setting at first hard to reconcile with the roiling emotions she’d experienced back at her apartment. Viewing it objectively, Rebecca was struck by its institutional character. She had been inside the hall and its courtrooms many times, but today everything about it felt different.
She hesitated for half a second before pushing open the gate and stepping into the bullpen. She was now “before the bar” in a murder case, and the realization hit her that all of her law school training, all of the hours and hours of studying, then working at her father’s firm, had finally led her to this.
Setting her briefcase down beside her, she drew in a sharp breath and placed her hand on her stomach, hoping she wasn’t going to get sick again. Another minute passed; apparently, she wasn’t. She took a few long, deep breaths to relax. The crisis passed, and she lifted her briefcase and moved over to the right to the defense table, positioned farthest from the jury.
After a couple of minutes during which Rebecca arranged the contents of her briefcase on the table, the door behind the judge’s bench opened, and a middle-aged woman came in. Rebecca came forward and introduced herself to the court reporter, Theresa Shepard. “Hi. I’ve got the trial here,” she said. “Sometimes I talk a little fast, but I take direction. If I’m going too quickly, just give me the high sign and I’ll slow down.”
The woman smiled.
“May I ask you a question?” Rebecca asked.
“Sure.” Ms. Shepard was setting up her own workstation, just in front of the judge’s desk. “What’s on your mind?”
“Is there any chance my client is already back in the hallway?” Rebecca was referring to the small holding cell behind each department where defendants were kept before a bailiff came to escort them into the courtroom. “It’s his first time dressing out, and I want to make sure his clothes fit and he’s presentable.”
“I didn’t notice, but there’s no rule against looking, I think, as long as you can get a bailiff to let you in.” She pointed to the table. “I’ll keep an eye on your stuff. And welcome to the show.”
“Thanks.”
• • •
I
N THEIR VERY
first telephone conversation, Greg had told her there was no way he could afford her regular hourly rate. Now, for every day Rebecca was at trial, she would be billing him at twice that, nearly five hundred dollars for every hour spent in the courtroom. And her father, Dismas, in hard-ass mode, had argued that was too low for a murder trial.
Nevertheless, that was the number they’d come to, and once Greg found himself arrested and charged, he had called his parents, Barry and Donna. After they’d gotten over the shock and disbelief of not only the basic fact of Greg’s position, but
what it would cost them to pay for his defense, they’d taken a second mortgage on their Lake Tahoe cabin and written the first check—seventy-five thousand. And that was basically a placeholder until the real bills started to come in.
Another expense was for three conservative business suits, something Greg hadn’t had much need of before. His classroom attire ran to corduroy slacks, four or five ties, and a couple of sport coats that he alternated between daily.
But, as with nearly everything else that occurred in the courtroom environment, there was a precise strategy involved in what the defendant wore at court. By now it was a well-established fact that a defendant showing up at trial in a jail jumpsuit was prejudicial: Jurors tended to equate the jail garb with guilt. So defendants were allowed, if not mandated, to “dress out” in civilian clothes. Different defense attorneys took different approaches to sartorial style, but the norm was a decent, although probably not extravagant, business suit. (Off the clock, Rebecca had gone with Donna to a sale at Jos. A. Bank with Greg’s measurements, and they’d picked up three suits for the price of one.)
The first bailiff she saw in the hallway—J. Finian, by his name tag—told her that they’d dropped off the first string of defendants only a few minutes ago. (Shackled together in chains, they came from one of the two jails attached to the Hall of Justice—across the building from one or downstairs from the other.) Finian said he would be happy to escort Rebecca down to see if Greg was one of the ones who’d already been dropped off and deposited in his five-by-seven-foot locked cage.
He was.
It was decidedly chilly in the hallway, and Greg had the suit coat draped over his shoulders, his hands cuffed in front of him. He sat on the cement bench that provided the only seating in the holding cell. Sitting hunched over, his tie hanging between his legs (in leg irons), his elbows resting on his knees, he was the very picture of despair. Rebecca had been visiting him in jail, and after the first few times, she had grown accustomed to the orange jumpsuit. Now, seeing him in regular clothes but handcuffed and shackled was nearly as great a shock as it had been the first time she’d seen him in jail.
Finian put his key in the lock, and Greg looked up at the noise, then
pulled himself to his feet. He made an effort to smile in greeting, but it didn’t take.
“Hey, sailor,” she said. “Nice threads. How’s the jacket fit?”
“I won’t know until I can get my hands in the sleeves.”
“It’ll work. Your mom was careful about getting your exact sizes.” She stepped forward and adjusted the knot in his tie. Backing away, she gave him another quick up-and-down. “Pretty good,” she said. “The tie’s not too tight?”
“The tie is fine. If it’s time to go in, maybe they could take these chains off?”
“We’re still a little early yet. It’ll happen soon enough.”
“No, it won’t.”
She gave him a sympathetic look. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” And she was sorry. She shouldn’t have come back here early and allowed him to think they’d be unshackling him right away. He had at least another half hour before J. Finian or another bailiff would set loose his hands and his feet. She tried to imagine herself in handcuffs, her ankles bound in iron, a heavy chain between them. It was a terrifying thought. “I just wanted to stop by and make sure you were all right, see if you needed anything. Any last-minute questions about what to do out there?”