The Victim (16 page)

She resumed typing, directing her attention to her computer. “If you’re here to discuss a plea bargain, this isn’t the way to get into my office. Call my secretary and set an appointment.”

“
This is a B case; you know that. There’s no reason why you of all people should be handling it.”

In addition to her caseload of capital murders, Sylvia was the chief of Felony Prosecutions. Second in command to the elected state attorney and a rumored successor.

She smirked, folded her hands on her desktop. “Bryan Avery’s a dangerous man. By the grace of God, his poor wife’s still alive. If I recall the A-Form, didn’t he tell his wife that he wanted her dead?”

Anton remembered his conversation with Daniella.

He said he’d rather see me dead than living on my own without him.

“
Not sure that’s quite how he put it. Allegedly, of course.”

“
Of course. Well, coupled with the act of strangling her with a belt while committing a burglary, I’d say verbalizing his desire to see her dead qualifies as attempted first-degree murder.”

“
This isn’t fair. You don’t handle these types of cases.”

“
Oh, so what? Your defense strategy was to let some burnt-out B neglect this case and let it fall apart while you rest on the fact that the victim’s not onboard? Or even better, you file a non-prosecution affidavit prior to arraignment and get yourself a no action? What, you think prosecutors aren’t aware of defense tricks? I know I’m probably going back to when you were in middle school, but I was the Chief of Domestic Crimes before I became Chief of Felony Prosecutions.”

Anton thought about the
Herald
article.

“
You’re full of shit, Sylvia. This is all ’cause I made you look bad in front of the PBA yesterday in court. They want a quick trial and a public hanging for Quincy Arrington and you’re not getting the job done fast enough. I saw the
Herald
this morning. I know the PBA president is pissed. And who does the PBA give campaign money to? Your boss in her cushy little suite on the fourth floor. Shit flows downhill in this office.”

She threw up her hands. “So you’re saying that I’m handling a case just because you’re the attorney? That I want to make things difficult for you because my feelings are hurt?”

Anton nodded. “That’s exactly it. You’re certainly vindictive enough.”

Sylvia held up a dismissive hand. “Anton, grow up. Get over yourself.” She stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder. “I have a deposition at the Medical Examiner’s Office. It’s in preparation for
trial,
something you might know about if you stopped kicking your cases down the line.” She motioned for Anton to follow her to the door. She shut off the light and nudged him out into the hallway and closed her door. “Please see my secretary on your way out to schedule those outstanding depos looming over the Arrington case. And please get on with your little DNA charade. I’m planning to retire one day and I’d like to get this case tried before then.”

She turned and walked down the hallway.

Anton glanced around. Several offices were empty as most of the ASAs were still in court. The few that were back were at their desks, speaking to witnesses, poring over files in preparation for upcoming soundings. The secretarial pool was abuzz with phone calls, copies being made, trips to the kitchen for Cuban coffee. A roided-out narcotics detective waiting on a pre-file flirted with a victim-witness counselor. Anton was a ghost.

Sylvia hadn’t locked her door.

With his back to the door, he reached behind him, gingerly twisting the knob. He leaned into it, opening it just a crack and slipping inside before shutting it quietly. The lights were off but enough sun trickled in through the vertical blinds. He went to her computer, waggling the mouse, disrupting the screen saver.

The bulky Dell was the same computer he had looked at every day for the three years he had spent as an ASA, albeit faster due to the office’s upgrading from DSL to wireless Internet. Outlook was a minimized file on the bottom of the screen. He clicked it, enlarging it. She had a steady stream of unread emails. He clicked on her sent folder in the status bar in the margin.

He scrolled down, minding the time that the emails had been sent. He arrived at one, sent that very morning just after eight. The email was sent to
All ASAs
, an office-wide contact group comprised of the email addresses of every assistant state attorney.

He clicked it open and read the message.

If anybody has a case with defense attorney Anton Mackey, please call me at extension 0485.

CHAPTER 16

Mandy nodded emphatically.

“
Mira
, it’s not an ethics violation.” He grabbed one of the oyster shells off his tray, slurped up the meat. “She’s the highest ranking trial lawyer in that office. She can handpick her cases if she wants.”

The lunch crowd at Flanigan’s occupied the U-shaped bar and tables spread throughout the dining room. Old photos in craggy wooden frames hung from the walls depicting sunburned, shirtless fishermen posing with their trophy marlin, halibut, and tarpon. A group of county court ASAs occupied a booth, taking advantage of the five-dollar lunch specials.

Anton poured another pint of Bud Light from the pitcher on the table. Normally he didn’t drink at lunch but he needed something to temper his frustration.

“
But she doesn’t, that’s the thing. At least not non-homicide cases. Now look, Quincy Arrington? I understand that. Obviously the state attorney wants her handling such a sensitive case. But this? This is just some personal shit. She’s pissed off ’cause the PBA president’s probably calling the state attorney complaining about the pace of this thing. She takes it out on me. Standard operating procedure in criminal law. A good ol’ fashioned game of fuck me? Fuck you.”

“
You think that’s the case?”

“
You read the
Herald
.”

Mandy drummed his fingers on the table, the cords of muscle in his forearm trembling, shaking the dragon’s tail. “You read her email. How’s that for ethics violation?”

Anton drew lines in the beaded condensation on his glass. “She’s a public servant. Her emails are subject to disclosure.”

“
Through the proper channels. I would imagine that sneaking into a senior ASA’s office and reading the thing straight off her computer would constitute some type of unauthorized surveillance.”

“
Let’s not get all NSA on me, now. I was just confirming my suspicions. She sends out that email out alerting the office to contact her if I’m the attorney on a case. I file my notice of appearance for Bryan Avery and the Domestic Crimes intake prosecutor calls Sylvia. Then Sylvia takes it.”

Mandy shook Tabasco over his oysters, filling the half-shells with red liquid. “So? Sylvia’s the ASA on the Avery case and Maximum Morales is the judge. Tough shit.”

“
Yeah, tough shit. I get fucked twice. This case ain’t gonna go away. Sonia Morales was an ASA until she was appointed to fill a vacant seat back in ’08. She and Sylvia are very close friends. I’m gonna get double-teamed, and I don’t mean that positively.

“
Sonia Morales ain’t a bad looking lady.”

“
That’s what makes her so frustrating.”

“
You don’t take a case thinking it’s gonna be easy.”

“
Sylvia’s got a shit-ton of pull in that office. If I get Daniella to file an affidavit of non-prosecution and dodge service of process, Sylvia’s not gonna write a close-out memo detailing all of the cover-your-ass measures she took trying to get the witness in and call it a no action. She’ll send detectives to her house. She’s gonna get a writ of bodily attachment. She’ll lock up this woman and force her to testify. Sylvia’s ruthless. And she wants to be vindicated. A dangerous combination in a prosecutor.”

Mandy sucked down an oyster, the hot sauce provoking beads of sweat underneath his eyes. “You may not have to rely on the witness not testifying.”

“
What do you mean?”

Mandy took a swig of his beer. “’Cause things ain’t what they seem, bro.”

Anton was right. Mandy had not hesitated in getting a jumpstart on the investigation.

He reached down and grabbed his iPad off the chair next to him. He turned it on and fiddled with the touchscreen.

“
Coupla things. I got the head of security at the Templeton to make me a copy of the surveillance video. He was an ex-cop himself, Aventura. We got a chance to play ‘Who do you know?’
Anyway, he copies everything onto a flash drive for me and I upload it onto the iPad. It’s all compatible with QuickTime.” Mandy tapped on the QuickTime icon and spread open the viewing window with his thumb and forefinger. “There are cameras everywhere. At the valet stand, inside the lobby, even the elevators.”

“
What about the hallways?” Anton’s eyes grew with anticipation, assuming that Mandy’s urgent request to meet was predicated on something the hallway surveillance showed, or hopefully, didn’t show.

Mandy shook his head no. “Already checked. There are cameras at the elevator banks and at the front of each of two hallways that split off to the wings. Daniella’s unit is too far down the hall. Her front door’s out of the camera’s range.”

Anton brushed it off. No case was that open-and-shut.

“
Fine. What were you able to see?”

Mandy pressed
play
and turned the screen toward Anton. A grainy high-angled image showed a yellow Porsche Boxster swooping into view at the bottom of the screen. In jerky resolution, the car jounced up the inclined driveway before disappearing under the portico.

“
No cameras under the portico,” Mandy said, thumbing the restart button. He played the few seconds of footage again. “The camera’s up in a tree, facing down. The windows are tinted.”

Mandy slowed the footage so that it played frame-by-frame. When the Porsche rounded the driveway, its driver-side window threw off a splash of white.

“
The driver-side window must be reflecting a light.”

“
Top’s up. You can’t see inside the car.”

Mandy nodded. He selected a second piece of footage and queued it up.

“
This is the lobby.”

Sliding glass doors automatically parted as two figures stepped into the marble lobby. A slender woman in a fitting black top with jeans, a thick silver belt, and a shawl draped over her shoulders. A man came in two feet behind her, hair spiked and tousled. They stopped at the front desk where the woman leaned over and filled out the guest log. The man stood behind her, hands in his pockets, swaying side-to-side, eyes fixed on the floor. The security guard, seated behind the desk, waved to the woman as she walked toward the elevator bank. The man followed.

Anton squinted, zeroing in on the screen. “He doesn’t seem drunk.”

Mandy rewinded the footage. The angle was broader, a fixed image enveloping the breadth of the lobby. The camera was not panning but was situated in the ceiling, in a dome. Anton watched the seconds roll by on the timestamp in the lower right-hand corner of the footage. Daniella appeared to be taking her time, chatting with the security guard as she filled out what was likely standard information—her name, her guest’s name, her unit number. According to the timestamp, the process took forty-seven seconds.

Bryan just stood there, teetering side-to-side, shifting his weight listlessly from one foot to the other, his eyes just little reflective dots.

“
Yeah, but does he seem sober?”

“
Seems out of it.”

Mandy queued up the elevator footage. Daniella stepped in first, Bryan followed. She dug into a small Chanel purse and retrieved her phone. She thumbed what appeared to be a text message during the ride up while Bryan sat perched on the railing, back to the mirrored wall, spacey eyes angled toward the floor.