Mean Streak (18 page)

He'd seen the inevitable, and he couldn't face it.

It was a hell of a way to admit guilt.

And it wasn't admissible.

There was no way I could say to the jury:
Dwight Straub killed himself so he wouldn't have to take the stand and admit the truth about what he did with Eddie Fitz. Consider that when you deliberate upon the guilt or innocence of Matt Riordan
.

A man was dead, and I was mentally rewriting my summation to include his suicide.

The law is a cold business. Dwight Straub was dead, but my client was alive and he needed me on top of things.

I glanced at Riordan, who'd slipped into the courtroom and now sat silently beside me in the defendant's chair. Was he thinking along the same lines? Had I become him, in my quest to make it to the big time?

The door behind the bench opened and Nick Lazarus strode into the courtroom. He was followed by Judge de Freitas, who stepped up to the bench and signaled the court reporter that we were about to go back on the record. The jury remained outside; this matter was not for their ears.

Someone told the press people out in the hall, and in a matter of seconds the first row filled with reporters and sketch artists. Everyone wore an air of subdued expectation; Straub's suicide was hot news, but it was also a sobering reminder that this case involved real people who could bleed and die.

“It appears,” the judge began in his dry, thin voice, “that a witness the defense intended to call has become unavailable. I am told that Mr. Lazarus, of the United States attorney's office, wishes to make a statement for the record. Mr. Lazarus, you may proceed.”

Lazarus' tone was heavy with irony. “The witness is more than unavailable, Your Honor,” he began. “The witness is dead. The witness is dead because the defense chose to go on a fishing expedition, interrogating this man without a shred of evidence that he had anything to contribute to this trial. The defense showed itself both irresponsible and ruthless in its efforts to deflect the attention of this jury from the facts and to distract it with forays into irrelevant matters. Your Honor may recall that this office opposed the issuance of subpoenas for Detectives Stanley Krieger and Dwight Straub.”

Judge de Freitas shook his head. “Mr. Lazarus, all that is water under the bridge. The only thing this court intends to concern itself with is the progress of the trial before it.”

But Lazarus wasn't about to let himself be dismissed so cavalierly. “Your Honor, this office demands that Ms. Jameson be admonished that in future she is to—”

I leapt to my feet. Lazarus wanted
me
admonished. The man who had listened to TJ tell him all about Eddie Fitz's street action wanted
me
admonished. The man who'd had every intention of indicting Dwight Straub as soon as he was finished with Riordan's trial wanted
me
blamed for Straub's suicide.

“Speaking of dead witnesses,” I began, not bothering to modify the sarcasm in my tone, “this court should hear about a man known as TJ, a man the defense had every intention of calling to the stand. Your Honor may recall that I asked Detective Fitzgerald more than once if he knew TJ; his name is in the record. Well, Your Honor, the defense has reason to believe that Mr. Lazarus met with TJ, that TJ told Mr. Lazarus things about Detective Fitzgerald's conduct as a police officer that would have had an adverse effect upon his credibility as a witness in this case. And the defense has reason to believe that Mr. Lazarus deliberately suppressed this information, that he permitted Detective Fitzgerald to testify under oath and deny wrongdoing when the prosecution in fact knew he had engaged in many acts of misconduct. In addition, the prosecution never turned over information about TJ to the defense in spite of the fact that it constitutes
Brady
material.”

This last contention was a serious allegation.
Brady
v.
Maryland
was an old case involving deliberate withholding of exculpatory evidence by a politically ambitious district attorney. To accuse a prosecutor of holding back
Brady
material was tantamount to calling him a liar and a cheat who would convict an innocent man on evidence he knew to be false. It was an accusation not to be made lightly—and I was making it with the full knowledge that I'd have to back it up.

Lazarus jumped in. His face was a mottled red; he looked ready to explode. “If Ms. Jameson has any proof whatsoever, Your Honor, she should be made to present it to this court. If she doesn't, she should be held in contempt of court for even suggesting such a thing.”

“Do you deny that you met with TJ on at least one occasion?” I shot back. The judge frowned; one of the rules of etiquette in court is that lawyers do not address one another directly. But I was too angry to play Miss Manners. All the pent-up fury and sick rage I felt at the death of Dwight Straub fueled me as I stood toe-to-toe with the man whose overreaching ambition had started this whole mess.

“Ms. Jameson, kindly clarify the relevance of this TJ,” the judge commanded.

I backed up, and started with the rumors I'd heard about a Brooklyn cop who'd cut himself in on a drug dealer's street action. I named TJ as the dealer and Eddie Fitz as the cop. I went on to say that I now knew that TJ had visited Lazarus, and when he'd gotten no satisfaction in the Southern District, he'd taken his story across the river. As corroboration, I pulled out the internal memorandum from Di Blasi's office, recording TJ's visit. I handed the document to the nearest court officer, who proceeded to walk toward the bench. “Show it to opposing counsel,” Judge de Freitas ordered. As if programmed, the uniformed man wheeled and headed toward the prosecution table.

Lazarus gave the memo a quick glance and tossed it onto the prosecution table. “Your Honor,” he began, “defense counsel is making a mountain out of a molehill here. This man TJ was a self-confessed narcotics dealer and convicted felon. He came to my office with a cock-and-bull story about Detective Fitzgerald. I had his story checked out by my top investigators, Your Honor, and found that there wasn't a shred of truth in any of his allegations against the detective.”

“You checked him out?” The words burst out of me, but this time I caught my mistake and turned my attention to the judge. “Your Honor,” I amended, grabbing onto my self-control with both hands, “if the prosecution checked out TJ's allegations, then we not only should have been informed about the existence of TJ, we should have been provided with the results of the investigation. This entire matter has been swept under the rug by the prosecution in an attempt to keep vital information from the defense, information that would have seriously undermined the credibility of the chief witness against Mr. Riordan. This calls for a mistrial, Your Honor.”

My voice was shaking, a combination of rage and nerves and sick regret. Dwight Straub was dead, and my response was to castigate Nick Lazarus for withholding evidence. But somehow it seemed right to open up all the closets, to let all the skeletons dance through the courtroom, to strip away the façade of civilized justice and reveal the bull walruses butting their heads against one another until the blood ran down their faces.

I'd seen that once on Channel Thirteen. One of those nature shows where the camera lives with the animals, showing in grotesque detail everything from birth to carnivorous mealtime. The walruses had all gathered on a frozen island; breeding was about to begin. And the males fought for the prize females, banging their heads together horribly. Armless, they threw themselves at the bigger males, drawing blood and grunting. The loser slunk off and died of shame and exhaustion; the winner went on to impregnate as many females as he could find.

It was one hell of a way to insure more walruses.

Somehow the spectacle this trial had become reminded me of those walruses. Lazarus and Riordan were both bloodied, both charging at one another, roaring their masculine pride as each attempted to destroy the other.

“This is nothing more than a smoke screen, Your Honor,” Lazarus pronounced by way of reply. “This TJ has nothing to do with the matter at hand; Ms. Jameson is trying to divert attention from her client's guilt and put Detective Fitzgerald on trial in his place. I am outraged at her suggestion that this office would deliberately suppress evidence. She has all but accused me of suborning perjury in this case, and I demand an apology at once.”

You could hear a pin drop. Or a pen scratch; behind me, a sketch artist drew swift lines on an oversized drawing pad.

“Ms. Jameson,” Judge de Freitas said in his dry, inflectionless voice, “I am going to proceed with this trial in a moment. But I am ordering you to produce before this court any and all evidence you have indicating that Mr. Lazarus has committed any act of wrongdoing in this case. I am also,” he went on, turning toward Lazarus, “going to require the United States attorney's office to produce all memoranda, including internal work product, that involves this TJ.”

There was a distinct rustling in the press seats behind me. The reporters were eager to race out of the courtroom toward the public phone banks. But the judge wasn't finished.

Fixing Nick Lazarus with a basilisk eye, the former law professor said, “And if I find that the United States attorney's office has withheld
Brady
material or otherwise conducted itself in a manner inconsistent with the Canons of Professional Ethics, I shall take whatever steps I deem necessary.”

A surge of elation swept through me; we were on our way toward achieving justice at last. But then the judge turned his attention to me.

“If, on the other hand,” he went on, “I am satisfied after perusing such evidence that the defense allegation is unfounded, then I will consider holding Ms. Jameson in contempt and imposing sanctions accordingly. Do I make myself understood?”

I stood up a little straighter and answered “Yes, Your Honor” with just a hint of defiance.

I'd just put my own career on the line; either I proved my allegations against Nick Lazarus and beat Matt's case, or the two of us went to jail together.

The reporters swallowed us up the minute we stepped outside the courthouse onto the stone steps. There was no time to position ourselves for maximum photo opportunity; microphones were thrust at Matt and Lazarus, Singer and me, with seemingly random abandon. They wanted a sound bite, and it didn't much matter who uttered the words.

The questions peppered me like buckshot: “Are you really calling Lazarus a liar?” a black reporter asked. “What's this about a cop killing himself?” another demanded. Ginger Hsu, a concerned look on her photogenic face, wanted to know how it felt to have a witness commit suicide rather than face my questions in court.

That one I answered quickly and emphatically. “It feels like hell,” I said.

“What do you think Dwight Straub could have contributed to this trial?” Ginger persisted.

I took a deep breath and weighed my options. I could go public with all my suspicions about Eddie Fitz and his partners, or I could tell the reporters to wait and see what turned up in court, or I could—

Lazarus' piercing voice cut through my thoughts. “Not all the police officers in this city deserve the name New York's Finest,” he said. “It's an unfortunate fact, but it's true.” For a wild moment, I thought he was about to admit to the city press corps the truth about his Hero Cop, but instead he said, “And I'm sorry to have to admit that Dwight Straub, who worked closely with Detective Fitzgerald at the Seven-Four precinct, was apparently one of those officers who succumbed to the temptations of the street. My office, as you know, has been investigating corruption in the police precincts, and I can say now that an indictment will be filed shortly, and—”

“Are you saying,” Carlos Ruiz jumped in, “that you were about to indict this Straub guy?”

“Does this mean,” Tom Delaney of Channel Four cut in, “that your star witness was a corrupt cop, too?”

“No, no,” Lazarus replied. “Detective Fitzgerald was the one man in that precinct who refused to go along with what was happening. He was the one man who blew the whistle on the drug dealing, and Ms. Jameson and her client should be ashamed of themselves for suggesting that he has anything to hide. As for Dwight Straub,” the prosecutor went on, “all I can say is that a man who disgraces his badge by acts of corruption has reason to be afraid when an honest cop speaks the truth.”

The reporters lapped it up. They flocked around Lazarus like hungry pigeons falling on a crust of bread, pecking and scratching and begging for more.

I felt sick. How the hell was Annie Straub going to feel, watching this performance on the six o'clock news? And was there anything I could say to counter it, or should I hold my fire until I had all my ammunition ready?

At the edge of the clutch of reporters stood Jesse Winthrop. His face was drawn and pale; he looked as nauseated as I felt. He knew, thanks to me, that his Hero Cop was the real disgrace to the badge. I wondered whether he would finally write everything he knew.

The court clerk had given me an envelope containing subpoenaed material; I ripped it open and glanced through the police reports. The final item caught my attention: TJ had been in the Brooklyn House of Detention shortly before he died. He'd been released on bail posted by Jack Vance.

The sign in the window said “Jack Vance, Bail Bonds, All Hours.” On the sign there was a cartoon drawing of a man in a striped prisoner suit behind bars; underneath was the slogan “A Friend in Need Is a Friend Indeed.” There was an 800 number for those too panicked to enter the 212 area code lest the warrant fall and they spend the night in jail. It was a sleazy little office on a sleazy little street, the kind of street that hides behind the skirts of courthouses everywhere. A service-providing street: bail bonds, investigations, cheap-copy stores, lawyers with signs offering everything from divorces to name changes to notary services at five bucks a pop. The kind of street a self-respecting lawyer didn't step into without making the sign of the cross: Please, God, please, don't ever let me sink this low.