An Accidental Life (24 page)

Keeping things low-key was the goal. Mac laughed off the possibility. But Peter thought the strategy might work since
Roe v. Wade
was old news now from the media’s point of view. And, he reminded Mac, the city of Gretna was a ferry and a bridge and a world away from the city of New Orleans.

The next morning Peter sat at the prosecution table in the courtroom, waiting for Vicari’s first appearance. The other half of the prosecution team sat beside him. Dorothea St. Pierre, known as Dooney, was a young assistant district attorney who’d recently graduated from LSU Law School. She was seven years Peter’s junior. Dooney would sit as second chair. She was quick, precise, and driven, glossy and slick on the outside, but soft inside, reminding him of Rebecca in that way. They’d worked together before.

Dooney was very good with juries, and that was the main reason that he’d picked her to assist him on this case. As a woman prosecutor she related well to both men and women on juries; she was professional and efficient with a feminine touch, and she was smart. He would take the lead in the courtroom; she was too fresh out of law school to question material witnesses.

He’d pulled Dooney into this case while preparing for the grand jury. Now, as they waited for court to convene, she leaned over and said that Mac had called just before she’d left her desk. He’d phoned from Baton Rouge where he was looking for that nurse, Alice Jean Braxton. Lucy Ringer had guessed right. Alice Braxton’s nursing license was on record, since 1945.

Peter nodded. Good. Maybe they were getting somewhere.

The docket was heavy this morning, and
State of Louisiana v. Charles Frank Vicari
was next up. But the judge, an interim judge from Houma named Rafael Plaissard, had just called a short recess and turned away to confer with his clerk. The clerk’s desk was located to the right of the bench, between the witness stand and the jury box, but back against the wall so as not to disrupt the jury’s view of any witness.

A few minutes passed while the judge and his clerk spoke, and then His Honor stood and disappeared through the door behind the bench. Peter tapped the tabletop with his pen, his eyes roaming over the well of the courtroom while they waited. Dooney began reading something she’d pulled from her briefcase.

Between the prosecution table where he sat, and the bench, the court reporter sat, winding tape into her machine. To his left was the defense table, currently occupied by three lawyers, stragglers from earlier hearings, talking and laughing while they stuffed papers into their briefcases. They walked off, and then Vince McConnell tapped him on the shoulder as he made his way to the defense table where he took a seat. He sat alone. His client would be brought into the courtroom by the sheriffs when called.

Just then several lawyers pushed through the gate in the rail behind Peter, and to his left. The rail separated the well of the courtroom from spectators. The group stormed toward the clerk’s desk, all hunched, charging like bulls.

Opening the briefcase on the table before him, Peter pulled out a yellow legal pad. The first page was covered with scribbled notes. He set the tablet down on the table, snapped the briefcase shut, and pushed it out of his way. Behind him he could hear the melancholy hum of mothers, fathers, wives and girlfriends, children—the families and friends of defendants waiting in the holding cell outside the courtroom, most gathered to catch a glimpse of their loved ones when they appeared one by one before the judge at some time during the day. For the most part they were impatient, bored, irritable, unhappy, and uncomfortable on the wooden benches, but there was nothing for them but to wait because you never knew when, or who, would shuffle through that door.

To the right of the prosecution table where he sat was the empty jury box. As in every courtroom in the building, twelve chairs in the box were welded to the floor of a slightly raised platform, with two movable chairs at the end for the alternates. A railing separated the jurors from the well.

Suddenly, like a flurry of small fish sensing the presence of a shark, stragglers in the space between the railing and the judge’s bench, including the three lawyers surrounding the clerk, all scattered. The door behind the bench opened and Judge Plaissard appeared. The bailiff announced that court was back in session and called the case,
State of Louisiana v. Charles Frank Vicari
.

The judge took his seat and looked at McConnell and then at Peter. “Are counsel present?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Peter and Dooney stood and gave their names as counsel for the State. McConnell did the same, announcing for the defendant.

Judge Plaissard instructed the bailiff to notify the deputies to bring in the defendant. Peter and Dooney sat down and turned, watching as the door to the hallway at the back of the courtroom opened. Charles Vicari had been in custody now for twenty-three hours. The defendant’s looks and demeanor after time spent in a jail cell would telegraph clues to his attitude and resolution.

Surrounded by deputies, Charles Vicari walked into the courtroom with his chin high and his expression blank. His hands were cuffed before him, but his legs weren’t shackled. His hair was brown and neatly slicked back from a receding hairline, as if he’d just come from a barber shop. He was tall, about six feet. His forehead was high and smooth, although lines between his eyes were deeply furrowed, more with anger than fear, Peter judged. The doctor’s fine arched brows formed a perfect V over his dark eyes. And despite the night in lockup, his tailored gray suit was unwrinkled. His shoes shone. His white collar was pressed. Vince must have gotten the clothes to him right before the appearance.

When they reached the defense table, one of the deputies pulled out a chair and stood aside. Vince McConnell greeted the doctor like they were old friends, shaking one hand and pressing his other on the defendant’s shoulder as he sat. The doctor did not respond. The deputies moved to one side, standing near the wall. Peter watched with curiosity as McConnell sat back down and bent his head toward the defendant. They were in this together, he was probably whispering. They would run this race together, and they would win.

Charles Vicari listened and then nodded and sat back. He adjusted his jacket collar, yanked down his sleeves, and turned, letting his eyes roam over the courtroom, over the spectators behind him, his gaze drifting with studied disinterest past Peter and Dooney and on to the judge.

The arraignment was brief, as expected. Judge Plaissard read the State’s charges against the defendant: Second Degree Murder, with lesser charges included.

Defendant entered his plea. Not guilty.

The judge then looked at McConnell. “I understand we have some motions?”

McConnell stood. “Yes, Judge.”

The clerk handed some papers to the judge, which he scanned, frowning. And then the clerk walked over to the prosecution table and handed copies to Peter and Dooney. Peter looked down, read, flipping through them one at a time, and then he rose. He objected that he’d not seen these motions before, and he’d been given no notice that they were coming. Vince argued that they were routine, and that they’d only just been completed a few minutes before he’d left his office for this hearing. He’d been working on them through the night. After some back and forth, Judge Plaissard overruled the State’s objection.

Peter began reading the paperwork as the judge turned to McConnell. Plaissard spread his hand, palm up. “These are your motions, Counsel.”

McConnell nodded and stood. Holding the pages in one hand, he spoke without looking at them. “In the first motion, Your Honor, Defendant moves for release on bond, pending trial. In the second . . .”

“Let’s take the first one, first,” replied Judge Plaissard.

“Yes, Judge. Defense is requesting release on recognizance, or alternatively, on bond, pending trial.”

Peter rose, fingers pressed down, arched against the table as he looked at the judge. “The Defendant is on trial for murder, Your Honor. The State objects to his release pending trial. Given the nature and seriousness of the charge, the State believes the Defendant is a danger to the community.”

Vince’s tone was weighted with sarcasm as he replied. “Given the situation, Your Honor, it’s clear the Defendant won’t be practicing medicine between now and the trial. Doctor Vicari owns property here; he is the sole owner of a business in Jefferson Parish. He’s a respected physician, practicing fourteen years.” He spread his hands. “He’s a danger to no one.”

Peter walked around the table toward the bench. “The Defendant is a flight risk, Judge. He moved to New Orleans six months ago and rents an apartment. He does own property here, the Alpha Women’s Clinic in Metairie. But he has no family in the area other than his wife, who came here with him. He has no established connections to this community. And, we ask the Court to take into consideration the fact that the Defendant, as a medical doctor, is charged with committing a particularly onerous breach of public trust.”

“We object to the State’s inflammatory characterization.” McConnell threw Peter a heated look. “Perhaps the State thinks a trial is unnecessary?”

The judge scowled and the gavel banged. “That’s enough. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars.”

Five hundred thousand dollars was high, but given the fact that the first Republican governor of the State of Louisiana was in office, Vicari could count himself lucky it wasn’t more. With a bondsman and the clinic for collateral, he’d be out in a couple of hours. No surprise. As Peter returned to his seat, he glanced at the defendant. McConnell was still standing.

Charles Vicari sat looking ahead, stiff and straight-backed, his chin still lifted, his face cold and filled with disdain, and arrogance. But his shoulders were relaxed, like a man who wasn’t worried. And his cuffed hands were loosely clasped before him on the table. Peter had observed many successful defendants sitting in that seat over the years, and overall he’d found that each one’s demeanor at this first hearing generally painted a true picture of their character. Some radiated charisma, despite their crimes. Charles Vicari was not one of those. Vince had his work cut out for him with a jury, he mused, feeling good. This defendant was not a sympathetic client.

Vince was explaining the second motion. Under the Speedy Trial Act, defense had the right to demand trial within one hundred and twenty days. In the usual course of events, with bail granted, a defendant would want to stall. This motion caught Peter by surprise. They were putting the pressure on and turning up the gauge.

“Is the state ready to proceed to trial?”

Peter rose. “Yes, Your Honor.” To stall, to argue that the State needed more time to prepare the case was a losing battle. The right to a speedy trial was the defendant’s to demand. “The People are ready to proceed,” he said. But he knew what this meant. Life outside this case would stop for him, and for Dooney, for the next six months.

The judge nodded. “Defendant’s motion for speedy trial is granted. Trial to be set within one hundred and twenty days.” This was June 15. Trial would be set around December 15, he guessed, just around the time of Rebecca’s due date. Inside, Peter groaned.

O’Connell stood with the defendant as the deputies stepped forward. He remained standing while his client walked from the courtroom back to lockup to wait until bail had been arranged. After the door closed, the judge’s clerk called the next case on the docket.

Peter gathered up his files and stuck them in his briefcase. Dooney did the same.

“Peter.”

He looked up and stuck out his hand. “Vincent.” They shook. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“We want this thing set as early as possible. I’ll call you tomorrow; see if we can agree on a date.”

Peter thought quickly. The earlier the better, given Rebecca’s due date. “That’s fine. I’ll check my calendar.”

“We need to talk about discovery.”

“I’ll give you what we have.” Peter, still jolted by this turn of events, was curt. He’d have to rearrange his trial schedule for the next six months. Eying Vince, he knew he’d give Vince everything the defense was entitled to under the law—anything he discovered that would benefit the defendant’s case—but that didn’t include Mac’s ongoing search for Alice Braxton, or his discussions with Lucy Ringer in Chicago. All of that was still mere speculation.

Vincent nodded. “Talk to you soon.”

As Vince walked through the gate, Peter swung his briefcase from the table, and turning, stepped aside for Dooney. He followed her down the aisle just behind McConnell. When they reached the hallway, however, they stopped and stood near a window until Vince boarded an elevator.

Dooney turned to Peter. “Do you think he’ll want to bargain?”

“A plea?” He shook his head. “No. Not Vince. And we won’t make an offer.” Another elevator arrived within the minute. This one was empty. Dooney stepped on and he followed. He pressed the button for the tenth floor and looked at the closed metal doors.

“My guess is the defendant doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong,” Dooney said as they ascended in the green glass tower. “My guess is he’s going to hold us to the fast track so Doctor Vicari can get back to business as usual.”