Hate Crime (12 page)

I held Gary all night long, trying to comfort him, because I think I understood what he was going through better than he realized. It’s even worse, I thought to myself, when you’ve lost your father—and he only lives about two miles away.

12

Christina berated herself all the way to the courtroom. Good grief, girl. It’s not as if this is the first time you’ve ever come to a courthouse by yourself. But Chicago was a very different city; skyscrapers towered all around her, and everyone seemed so busy, busy, busy. She dodged taxicabs seemingly intent on murder as she crossed the street, avoiding well-dressed panhandlers on her way up the courthouse steps. Yes, there was something different today, but it wasn’t just the fact that she was away from home. It wasn’t the pressure, the imminent trial date, the parade of protesters camped outside the courthouse. She had been spilling files and dumping coffee on her briefs and generally acting like a flibbertigibbet all morning long. It wasn’t her usual leitmotiv, and she didn’t like it a bit.

She intentionally arrived early so she would have a chance to meet the district attorney, Richard Drabble, in his office—not in the courtroom. She still hoped she could talk some reason into him; there was no reason for a protracted trial played before all America. Surely they could reach some sort of understanding. And she wanted a chance to size the man up, to get some idea who she was up against. She’d seen him on television, of course, but it wasn’t the same. When she met someone face-to-face, looked into their eyes, shook their hands—that’s when she started to get a picture of who this person really was.

She found the DA’s office near the door and introduced herself to the receptionist. She was surprised—and impressed—when the man himself appeared barely more than a minute later.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. McCall. Thank you for stopping by.”

She took his hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t drop in sooner.”

“Very brave thing you’ve done—taking over this case on such short notice. And with so little prep time.”

“Well, you have to play the hand you’re dealt.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” He chuckled. He was a handsome fellow, Christina thought—intense blue eyes, a square jaw, salt-and-pepper hair. Early fifties, she guessed, but the years were making him look stronger and more distinguished, not less. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat awkwardly, “I did wonder if you’d consider any sort of deal that—”

He held up his hand. “I’m sorry, Ms. McCall, I can’t. There’s just too much pressure bearing down on us, demanding a conviction. And frankly—our case is too strong. I don’t envy your position at all. I know you can’t win, but I sincerely hope you can save face and not appear incompetent.”

“Or perhaps I prefer cases that come with built-in excuses because I really am incompetent.”

He flashed some teeth. “Don’t be modest, Ms. McCall. You’ve had a distinguished little career. Not many legal assistants make it to your level.”

She hesitated. “But—you understand—I’m a lawyer now.”

“Of course. But that’s a recent development, right?”

“Well, relatively speaking, I suppose.” And your point is?

“Most of your death penalty cases have actually been handled by your partner. What’s his name again?”

“Ben Kincaid,” she said slowly.

“Right, right. You two handled that cop killer case. Very impressive.”

“Well . . . thank you.”

“I’m glad I haven’t had anything like that on my watch. This Barovick case has been my highest profile gig yet, and I’m glad of it. I just want to do my job, without all the interference you had to brook in that case. Of course, Tulsa is not Chicago by any means. You don’t have our resources. I’d like to think we could’ve taken care of that here in one trial and a lot less time. But it all worked out in the end, right?”

“Riiiiight.”

“Have you met Judge Lacayo yet?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Well, he hasn’t always been the most open-minded about women lawyers. Especially as lead counsel in important cases. But I’m sure it will be fine.”

So was this guy deliberately trying to psych her out, Christina wondered, or was it just the effect of her own insecurities impinging on an innocent conversation? Didn’t matter—time to bring this conversation to a close.

“I should probably be getting to the courtroom.”

He checked his watch. “Oh, me, too. Gotta meet a reporter first, then I’ll be right there.”

“Can you give me directions?” Christina asked. “This is my first time here.”

“No problem. Lacayo’s courtroom is not in this building. Cross over on the catwalk to Building Two, then keep going to Building Three. Take the elevator down to the basement and turn left. His courtroom is the last one on your right.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“Sir,” the receptionist said, interrupting, “here are the briefs you wanted.”

He appeared mildly distressed. “Oh, geez, Mona, I can’t carry those to my interview. What would the reporter think? I told you to have them couriered to the courtroom.” Again he glanced nervously at his watch. “Now it’s too late.”

“No problem,” Christina said. “I’ll take them.” She held her briefcase horizontally in both hands, taking the tall stack of manila envelopes on top.

“Are you sure?” Drabble said with concern.

“It’s a snap. See you in a few minutes.”

“Yes, see you.”

Fifteen minutes later, she was five minutes late, still hauling all those papers, sweating profusely, and nowhere near the courtroom. She had found Building Two with ease, but somewhere along the way to Three, she’d gotten lost. She’d ended up on the wrong side of the building and had to go down to the ground floor and reenter in order to get to the catwalk. It took her forever to find the elevator; her arms felt as if they were about to give out. With great relief, she punched the button marked B.

And stepped out to find nothing.

Not nothing in the strictest sense, but no sign of life. Before her was a dirty, dank corridor filled with cleaning supplies and a floor waxer. Certainly no courtrooms. Not even close.

She glanced at her watch again. Ten minutes late, now.

She’d been hometowned.

Summoning her strength, she got back in the elevator and ran all the way to Building One. She got directions from the man at the newsstand. Turned out Lacayo’s courtroom was near the front door—just down the hall from where she and Drabble had had their little conversation. By the time she finally arrived, she looked as if she’d just run the marathon and was almost twenty minutes late. She assiduously avoided the throng of reporters and spectators and made her way to her table.

“You look as if you could use a hand,” Drabble said, offering to take some of the paper load.

“Imagine that,” Christina said, as she dumped it all on the defendant’s table.

“I take it you’re Ms. McCall?” Lacayo said, leaning down from his bench. He looked almost reptilian, hovering, his beak nose pointed downward, and was obviously unhappy.

“I am, sir.”

“You’re not a member of our bar, are you?”

“No, sir. But Kevin Mahoney has filed a brief on my behalf to be admitted
pro hac vice
.”

“Apparently local counsel failed to give you adequate instruction, Ms. McCall, so allow me to fill in the gap. I’m not a stickler for much, but there is one thing I absolutely insist upon. And that is punctuality.”

It would be. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Ask any lawyer in this county and they will all tell you the same thing. Judge Lacayo is a tolerant, patient man. But he will not put up with dillydallying. Everyone knows that.”

Of course they do, Christina realized. That’s the whole reason for this little prank. Poisoning the well before I have a chance to take a drink.

“Maybe they do things differently in—” He glanced down at his papers, then made a face as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. “—Ok-la-homa. But here in Cook County, we expect our lawyers to behave as professionals.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s more than just nit-picking. It goes to the whole caliber of representation. A tardy lawyer is a sloppy lawyer. That’s what I always say.”

“Certainly, sir.” Should she tell the judge what happened? Of course not. Then he would consider her a whiner—and a stooge—in addition to a dillydallyer.

“I’ll overlook your flagrant misconduct this one time, Ms. McCall, but only this once. If it happens again, there will be consequences. I’ll be watching you.”

She glared at Drabble, who studiously avoided her gaze. He’d won this round and they both knew it. He’d ensured that she got off on the wrong foot with the judge—and the client as well, since Ellen Christensen was in the gallery. All she could do was grit her teeth and bear it—and plot her revenge.

“Are you ready to move forward, Ms. McCall?”

“I am, your honor.”

“And you are death-qualified?”

“Yes, sir.” Though perhaps not in the way that he meant . . .

“Very well. We shall proceed.” Christina had no experience with Judge Lacayo, but she couldn’t believe that he normally behaved this way. He seemed uncommonly stiff and formal, doing a stern paternal routine that almost seemed like an
SNL
send-up of a judge. Probably the influence of all the reporters in the courtroom, she speculated. Not to mention all the protesters outside.

Judge Lacayo called the case and got right to the nitty-gritty. “Ms. McCall, I have your motions before me. Normally, I would not allow what are essentially pretrial motions at this stage of the proceeding—when the jury has been selected and the trial is simply in recess—but as we all know, there have been some extraordinary circumstances, so I granted this hearing.”

“Thank you, your honor.”

He turned his attention to the papers on his bench. “Predictably enough, your first motion is another request for a continuance of the trial date. I thought I had already made clear—”

“If I may, your honor.” Christina grabbed her notes and headed for the podium. “I know the court is anxious to get this trial moving, but as you’re aware, I received this case only a few days ago.”

“We’re all aware of the regrettable circumstances that required Mr. Mahoney to step down.”

“Exactly. So given the magnitude of the penalty potentially faced by my client, I’m requesting a three-month continuance in order to have time to thoroughly prepare—”

“Do you have access to Mr. Mahoney’s notes?” the judge asked, cutting her off.

“Well, yes, sir, I do.” The problem was, there was nothing there.

“And I believe you even have access to Mr. Mahoney himself.”

“That’s true, your honor. He’s been very good about—”

“So I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem, sir—” Christina took a deep breath. The trick was to make her point without suggesting that Kevin Mahoney had been negligent in preparing the defense the first time around. “—is that every attorney has his or her own style, and while the materials that Mr. Mahoney was prepared to use at trial might have worked for him, I’m finding them somewhat . . .”

“Yes, counsel?”

“Unavailing. If the court would simply allow me adequate time to prepare my own defense, I think the results would be far more salutary.”

“If I may, your honor,” Drabble said, rising to his feet, “the State would oppose giving the defense additional time to fish around and see if they can come up with something better.”

“It’s not a matter of fishing around,” Christina insisted. More like praying for a miracle. “But in a case of this magnitude—”

“If I understand what you’re saying,” Judge Lacayo said, “you’re essentially asking for more time because Mr. Mahoney had a different defense style than you do. I’m sure you take great pride in your style, Ms. McCall, but if the defense has had adequate time to prepare—and this one has—I see no need to extend it. Furthermore, the speedy trial provisions of the Constitution mandate that we proceed.”

“But your honor—”

“If, on the other hand, as I suspect, you just want more time to see if you can dig up a better defense, it would be positively unfair to allow you more time. So if you have nothing else . . .”

Christina rifled through her notes. Where was that case? “Your honor, I would direct the court’s attention to
State v. Harmon
.” Thank goodness for Paula. Christina had found this case in her e-mail this morning, with the rest of Paula’s invaluable research. It was exactly what she needed.

“I know the case, counsel.”

“Then you know that the Harmon court established that in addition to the needs of the defense and the interests of fairness, public policy considerations should be examined when determining whether to grant a continuance.”

Judge Lacayo sat up at attention. “Are there public policy issues here, counsel?”

“Yes, sir. Needless to say, there has been an enormous amount of public interest in this case.” She glanced back to both sides of the gallery, making her point. “It’s more than just a murder case. In the eyes of many, it has taken on a symbolic mantle. It’s become about tolerance, diversity, and the effectiveness of the American criminal justice system. People are looking to this case, this courtroom, to give them a sense of resolution and, if I may say so, a sense of justice. It is important that we don’t fail them.”

Lacayo appeared to be listening intently. “Go on.”

“If I am required to proceed with haste, there will always be some who will say the result was tainted by the circumstances in which the defense was prepared and presented. In order to give people a sense of resolution, we must assure them that the trial was conducted in such a manner as to give the truth a full and fair opportunity to arise.”

“So what I hear you saying, counsel,” said Lacayo, inching forward, “is that in order to keep people from claiming your client was railroaded, I have to give you everything you want.”

Christina felt the prickly heat creeping up her collar. “I wouldn’t put it like that . . .”

“And how far does that go, Ms. McCall? I notice you’ve also filed a motion to suppress. Do I have to cave in on that one, too? In order to assuage the public need for resolution.”