The Victim (17 page)

Mandy minimized QuickTime and set the iPad down on the table. “He looks like an invited guest to me. Not a violent estranged husband.”

Anton searched for some form of exculpation. “I mean, you see no sign of a struggle. Clearly they’re walking in together. She signs him in. They get into the elevator. She’s off in la-la land, texting away and he’s just standing behind her, doing nothing.”

“
Yeah but on the other hand, assume that Sylvia ain’t gonna contest that they went up to her door together. She said so yesterday. Said he started getting pushy at the door, tries to kiss her. And then when she tries to get in her apartment and close the door, he barges in. That footage doesn’t exist. You can make two arguments about his blank stare. One, he’s on something, which may help you to mitigate his intent for purposes of a plea. Or the other, it’s the dissociative stare of a psychopath, mentally preparing himself to do violence to this woman.”

Anton shuddered. He imagined Sylvia Kaplan saying those very words to a jury.

“
Get anything from Blue Room?”

Mandy nodded. “I stopped by last night after I left the office. The manager let me see the footage from the night before. Saw Bryan and Daniella at the bar like she said. But too many bodies crowding the bar, didn’t see much. Couldn’t tell you how much he drank. Talked to the valet guys, too. The closest security camera is outside the Starbucks across the street, which wouldn’t capture anything at the valet stand. Two of the valets had worked the night before but neither of them could remember a yellow Porsche Boxster, let alone who was in it. Just sayin’. This could be a setup. Maybe she wants to strong-arm him into a settlement. Get a few bucks out of this.”

Anton pictured the terror in Daniella’s eyes, the way she sat with her shoulders hunched in, hands fidgeting in her lap. The marks on her neck, the bruising, the crimson streaks where the edge of the belt had dug into her skin, breaking the blood vessels—those were genuine injuries.

“
Didn’t look that way.”

Mandy glanced at Anton’s hands on the table. “Your right hand’s covering your left.”

Anton looked down. So be it. “And?”

“
You covering up your wedding ring?”

“
Huh?”

“
It’s a subconscious thing. When I started talking about Daniella being a liar you instantly placed your right hand over your left.”

“
You don’t miss a beat, do you?”

Mandy slugged the last of his beer and waved for the check. When the waitress brought it over Mandy lunged for it, digging down into his pocket, peeling two twenties off a thick wad of cash. Knowing Mandy, he would blow through the ten grand in a week.

“
Daniella’s a very pretty lady. A regular damsel in distress. But she’s the victim, not the accused. You’re representing him, not her.”

***

Anton had an afternoon hearing up in Broward that concluded around four. A three-car pileup reduced I-95 to one lane just south of the Golden Glades Interchange. It was almost dark by the time Anton returned to the office.

Yessenia had left for the day but Jack stood in the center of the lobby, staring at the wall. The setting sun filled the suite, forming a dark halo around him.

“
Jack?”

“
Huh? Oh, hey kiddo.” His words were thick. The peaty aroma of single-malt lingered on his breath. His eyes bore a glassy sheen. “You know there was no body in this one,” he said, studying the sketch of the Osvaldo Garcia case. “No body and the jury convicted. You know why?” He turned fast, sending Scotch sloshing over the rim of his glass, dripping down his fingers. “You know why they convicted him? Because he confessed. Yessir, that fucking Mexican drifter confessed. Dumbshit probably thought he could talk his way out of trouble.”

Anton nodded. It wasn’t totally off the mark. The nature of the charge—murder—was enough to strike some measure of fear into even the hardest convict’s heart. A confession isn’t always derived out of forethought and careful deliberation. It’s a survival mechanism. The sincere belief that you can talk your way out of the trouble you’re in.

“
I wouldn’t beat yourself up too much. A confession’s powerful evidence.”

He rocked on his heels. “It is, and the cops know it. But our clients? Fuck. They don’t. They think they’re doing themselves a service. You ever watch those Holocaust shows on the History Channel? When the Allies came to free the prisoners at Auschwitz they found fingernail scratches up and down the walls of the gas chamber. Fingernail scratches in concrete. Walls a foot thick. The Nazis used this gas called Zyklon B. It’s basically cyanide. And it would fill up the room. You couldn’t smell it; the krauts were smart about that. But you could see it, pouring out of the vents. Your skin would blister, your mouth would foam. Sometimes your ears would bleed. So what do these people do? They crawl all over each other to get to the wall so they can claw their way out with their fingernails. Convinced that they can dig with their bare hands through a foot of concrete in an effort to save themselves. Same shit when our clients spill their guts to the cops. They’re just clawing at concrete when the gas is pouring in the room.”

Jack’s eyes lined with intense focus, staring at the courtroom sketch as if he were looking into the abyss. The shading captured the subtle folds and creases in his black pinstripe suit. His hair, a greying coif; his skin, coppery and worn. His elbow was perched on the podium, his left hand pointing at a witness not depicted in the picture. His sharply angled brows evidenced the fire in his voice, and captured the confidence with which he tried his case. He didn’t just utter the words; he believed them. He may not have always believed in the innocence of his client, but he always believed in the noble purpose of the process itself—the fight of the perpetual underdog, the little guy who stood accused against the immeasurable force of the government.

“
It’s still a confession,” Anton said, standing back, giving him space. “Juries have a hard time believing that an innocent person would admit to a crime, despite the tactics used by the cops.”

Jack did an abrupt half-turn, waves of Scotch crashing in his glass. “That’s where you’re wrong.” A mist of wet breath pelted Anton’s face. Jack jammed a stiff finger in his chest. “Osvaldo Garcia was in Desert Storm. Marine Corps, Expeditionary Force. Stationed in Kuwait. His unit didn’t see a whole lot of action; their job was to guard the bulk fuel used by US fighter jets, transports. You know, those big C-130s?

“
His parents were Mexican immigrants. They lived in Albuquerque. Owned a landscaping business. Made a pretty nice life for themselves considering they ran across the border from Palomas when his mother was eight-months pregnant with little Ozzie. Anyway, he’s career military. Makes it all the way up to staff sergeant. Sees a little action in Kosovo, clears a village after Milosevic’s troops had gone in and massacred everybody. Women, children. Fucked-up shit, Anton. Images burned into his memory.

“
He gets out of the Marines and discovers crystal meth. Huge epidemic in New Mexico. The real life
Breaking Bad.
Goes from a hundred and eighty-five-pound strapping Marine to a hundred and twenty-five pounds soaking wet. Family kicks him out. Sick and tired of him getting arrested all the time, stealing money from their business. By this point, he looks like a poster boy for an anti-drug ad. Cheeks all hollow, his face all scabbed up from constantly scratching and picking. That’s the thing about meth. The drug makes you believe that insects are burrowing under your skin; addicts try to dig them out with their fingernails. The teeth he had left were loose and gray. Just a loser, a total drug fiend.”

A steady rhythm built in his voice. It had been nearly ten years since the Osvaldo Garcia trial, but the facts were fresh in his mind.

“
When the cops got him on the murder, he was hiding out in the forest. Never found a body. Can you believe that shit? I go in there thinking I’m some hotshot Miami lawyer and the jury convicts my client of murder without a body. First no-body murder conviction in that district. Nice designation I get. Not a trace of physical evidence, just a confession from a guy whose brain is so fucked on meth, PTSD, and manic depression that he would have said anything to get out of that interrogation room after seven hours. And you know what? Motion to suppress denied. The judge ruled that no coercive tactics were used during questioning and that the length of the interview was not unreasonable. To add insult to injury, the government had a shrink testify that long-term meth use coupled with post-traumatic stress disorder and bipolar disorder does not necessarily impair a person’s ability to make a knowing and intelligent waiver of their rights.”

Jack sighed, forced a laugh to lighten the mood. “Jury convicted of murder but found enough mitigating evidence based on his mental issues and drug problems. Decided not to execute the dumb fuck. Life without parole.”

“
You saved his life.”

Jack clicked his teeth, waving dismissively. “Fuck that
you saved his life
shit. Stay away from the capital murder arena, kiddo. Seriously, you’re not gonna win any prizes trying death cases. You got a death case, you plea it out. The minute you empanel a jury in a case where the State’s seeking the needle, you’ve already lost. Government offered eighteen years before trial and we turned it down. Stupid.” He gazed at the marble floor, shaking his head.
“Goddamn stupid!”

“
For all your victories, you sure dwell on this one. You gotta let it go. You’ll never win all your cases. You told me that my first day in private practice.”

Jack put a hand on Anton’s shoulders, perhaps more for stability than sentiment. “You won’t. But a thousand not guilties won’t undo the feeling that somebody trusted you with their life and you failed them.” He slugged the last of his Scotch and walked back toward his office. “The past doesn’t let you forget,” he said, disappearing down the hallway.

Anton nodded, gnawing his bottom lip. “I know,” he whispered.

CHAPTER 17

For the third time that morning, Anton’s cell phone vibrated with the same number flashing on his screen. He’d been in court, unable to answer the first two. On the caller’s third attempt, Anton was outside of a courtroom on the third floor of the Gerstein Building. He answered the call, darting to the far end of the hallway where the cell reception was best.

An automated prompt said,
“This is Jail Connect, America’s leading provider of inmate telecommunications. You have a collect call from—”

“
Bryan Avery.”

Three calls in less than one hour. Clearly he was going to be one of
those
clients.

“
To accept the charges, please press zero.”

Anton pressed zero. “Hello?”

“
Yeah, Anton, this is Bryan. Your client?”

“
I know who you are, Bryan.” Anton stuck his finger in his ear, angling his body into the corner between the wall and emergency exit to drown out the noise. “What’s up?”

“
I need to see you.”

Anton began to wonder whether $30,000 was enough to hold Bryan’s hand through the progression of a life felony.

Anton kept cool, understanding that the case was in its infancy and that Bryan was in custody. New clients, especially those in jail, required the most attention. After a few days, their phone calls became less frequent and they simply let their lawyer do his job. Most of the time. The rest were those who needed to be babysat.

“
Bryan, there’s nothing new to report at this time. My investigator and I are doing all the pre-file work we can. A prosecutor’s been assigned, arraignment’s not until the first week of February. Still working on Daniella to get her to sign that affidavit.”

He breathed heavily into the receiver. “You gotta get me outta here.” Anton could almost hear him looking over his shoulders. Dropping his voice to a mere whisper, he said, “I’m the only white guy here.”

Anton had checked online and had seen that Bryan’s cell location had changed. Corrections had probably swapped out his red jumper for a traditional orange one. There were a limited number of single cells, and they must have figured if the guy hadn’t tried to hang himself within the first forty-eight hours, then it was a pretty safe bet he wouldn’t. Since Bryan was still out at Metro West, general population meant dormitory housing. Thirty to fifty inmates sleeping in bunks in a room the size of a high school gym.