Murder One (21 page)

“So Rowe has to have something more,” Jenkins said. He stood and poured a glass of water.

“Who could have taken the gun?” Pendergrass asked.

“She doesn’t know, but she said a couple of weeks ago she got home from work and had a feeling someone had been in the house.”

“You said there was an alarm,” Jenkins said.

“There is, and she’s religious about setting it.”

“Religious before or after this incident?” Jenkins asked.

Sloane made a note to ask Barclay and to find out more about the security system, whether they could determine if and when it had gone off.

“Was anything stolen?” Jenkins asked.

“She didn’t think so, but she never checked to see if the gun was still there. She was thinking jewelry or money, valuables.”

“Any ideas?” Jenkins probed.

Sloane shrugged. “Maybe someone in Vasiliev’s organization.”

Jenkins shook his head. “I don’t see it. These guys are cowboys. They would have just killed her and been done with it.”

“Not with the U.S. attorney going after Vasiliev,” Sloane said. “The feds would have been all over Vasiliev and anyone associated with him. When I spoke to Vasiliev, he was more worried that I might sue him. He said he wanted Barclay to let the matter go. Maybe someone in the organization was worried she wouldn’t and what it might lead to.”

“Maybe I’m dense, or maybe I’m tired, but I’m still not following,” Jenkins said.

“I’m saying that maybe they decide to kill two birds with one stone. They get rid of Vasiliev to end the inquiries and they get Barclay off their back.”

“Then why not leave the gun for the police to find?”

“Too obvious.”

Jenkins frowned, unconvinced. “It sounds like Vasiliev was moving a lot of product, which means a lot of money for the organization. If he was also laundering the proceeds, he was a valuable asset.”

“
Was
,” Sloane said. “Rebecca Han said that all stopped with his arrest, that the organization wasn’t going to take a chance with the feds watching. And the civil suit would have made his suppliers really uncomfortable. In a civil suit I can go after all of Vasiliev’s financial records, including his business records.”

Carolyn pushed open the door and stepped in, her eyes finding Sloane. “The King County prosecutor’s office is on the phone.”

S
EVENTH
F
LOOR
N
ORTH
K
ING
C
OUNTY
J
AIL
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

Sloane stood in the broom closet he had left just hours before. Barclay entered, this time wearing a white jumpsuit with ultra-high security stenciled in black on the back. Her hands remained handcuffed to the belly belt. She looked even more tired.

“The King County prosecutor wants to cut a deal,” he said.

Reid shook her head. “No—”

“Not to the charges.”

“Then what?”

Sloane had been on a conference call with Rick Cerrabone and Amanda Pinkett, the King County prosecutor. “Given the media circus, Pinkett saw no reason to put you through both a probable-cause hearing
and
an arraignment. She wants us to stipulate to probable cause.” Sloane held out the police certification Pinkett had faxed to his office. “They have a witness who puts you at the scene the morning of Vasiliev’s murder.”

“What?” She took the certification, reading it.

“They also say that you told your ex-husband you intended to shoot Vasiliev in the head.”

“Are you kidding me? My ex-husband hates me, David. He’d say just about anything to hurt me.”

“Did you say that to him?”

Her voice rose. “Of course not.”

“You said something similar to me.”

“I did?” She sat back. “I don’t know. Maybe a figure of speech. Why would I say something like that if I intended to do it?” Her voice lowered, an exhausted whisper. “That’s ridiculous.” She considered the report again. “Who is the witness?”

“We don’t know yet. Pinkett said the statement will be in the police file. She’ll expedite it after the arraignment.”

“Why not before?”

“The name isn’t important. The contents are. The witness claims to have seen you that morning running up an easement from the water about a half mile from Vasiliev’s home, pulling a bike from the bushes, and riding off. I know this is hard to hear, but I don’t see any reason not to stipulate. I can’t imagine a judge not finding probable cause. And if we don’t agree, you’ll definitely have to spend the weekend in jail. The arraignment won’t occur until Monday, and you’ll go through a media circus twice. We agree and they do the arraignment today; they have a judge and a courtroom for late this afternoon.”

She considered for a moment. “What do you think?”

“I’d like the weekend to prepare, but I’d also like to try to get you out of here today.”

“Will they stipulate to bail?”

“No. Pinkett says they intend to oppose any bail, but they were never going to agree. We’re going to have to fight about it whether the arraignment is today or Monday.”

“What are the chances the judge grants it?”

“I have someone in my office looking into it, but I’d say they’re reasonable, given who you are in the community. If the judge grants bail, it’s going to be a million dollars minimum.”

“I can get it,” she said. “Talk to my assistant, Nina. She has all of my financial information.”

He pulled another document and a pen from his briefcase and handed both to her. “I prepared a limited power of attorney giving me authority to have your bank release the money into the court registry.”

Reid nodded and signed it.

“There’s something else we should discuss,” he said. “We don’t have to decide now, but I think we need to consider not waiving your right to a speedy trial.”

“If I get out on bail, why not push the trial out as far as possible?”

“Because you won’t have a life until this is behind you. The media will hound you daily.”

“How bad is it?”

“The
Times
ran the story across the front page and national news agencies are picking up on it. We’re getting dozens of phone calls from newspapers and magazines from all over the country. The paparazzi won’t be far behind. The pundits are already discussing things like vigilante justice and the advantages and disadvantages of drug dealer liability acts.”

She shook her head. “I guess I got my publicity, huh?”

“I’m going to ask Nina to set up a meeting after the hearing so I can talk to your partners. I’ll tell them you’re innocent of these charges and will be vindicated, and not to talk to the media or to the prosecutors without me or someone working for me present. Rowe
and Crosswhite have already issued search warrants for all of your e-mails, calendars, and phone records.”

“There’s nothing there, David.”

He held up the police certification. “I’ll know more after I have the file, but in my opinion, this is thin. It’s all circumstantial.”

“Except the witness who says he saw me there.”

“In the dark, on a stormy night, at three-thirty in the morning? It’s thin. They moved too quickly, in my opinion. Maybe it was the media coverage from the leak. I don’t know, but I’m thinking they want to play chicken, let’s play chicken . . . and we’ll see who flinches first.”

FIFTEEN

K
ING
C
OUNTY
C
OURTHOUSE
S
EATTLE
, W
ASHINGTON

T
hat afternoon, when he turned the corner onto Third Avenue, Sloane saw white news vans, more than half a dozen, satellite dishes protruding high above the vehicle roofs. Reporters holding microphones jockeyed for space on the sidewalk, angling for live shots with the courthouse behind them. Though Sloane had arrived early and a light rain fell, a long line had already formed outside the glass door into the courthouse, people dressed in rain gear waiting to weave their way along the stanchions and belts, like tourists waiting for an amusement-park ride.

Sloane detoured up the hill to the county administrative building on Fourth Avenue. Inside the building, King County sheriffs monitored a metal detector. Most of the people entering were dressed in business attire. A stark white tunnel beneath the street led to the courthouse. Most of the public didn’t know about it.

Court Operations had called Sloane at his office to advise that the arraignment had been moved from the traditional courtroom on the twelfth floor to room 854E to accommodate the expected crowd.

When he stepped off the elevator onto the eighth floor, reporters, including several camera crews, had gathered in the hallway. They wasted no time asking Sloane questions, which he declined to answer before ducking inside the courtroom. The five pews in the gallery running the width of the room, perhaps thirty feet, were filled. A King County sheriff in a hunter-green shirt and light brown pants put up a hand to stop Sloane, then lowered it with an acknowledgment.

Sloane made his way to the table closest to the jury box, keenly aware that pens and pencils had materialized and the reporters sitting in the gallery had begun scratching on notepads.

Counsel tables were arranged in an L. In civil cases, the plaintiffs took the table closest to the jury box—that was the table parallel to the judge’s bench. No railing separated counsel’s table from the first pew and several reporters approached but Sloane dismissed them. Then he sat.

The dull fluorescent lighting, the only illumination in the windowless room, brought a perpetual feeling of dusk. Only the clock on the wall kept time. The judge’s elevated desk was centered beneath a wood carving of the seal of the state of Washington, a United States flag on one side and the green flag of Washington State on the other. The slatted wooden witness chair to its right—elevated and without any railing—looked naked. Undoubtedly, those who sat in it would feel the same. To its right, close enough that a witness could reach over and shake hands with the closest juror, was the jury box and its empty leather swivel chairs.

The State of Washington
vs.
Barclay Alison Reid
had been assigned to Judge Virginia Dugaw. Pendergrass had tried two criminal cases before Judge Dugaw, though nothing of the magnitude of a murder trial. He described her as fair and efficient. That was apparently the good and the bad news, since the judge who handled the arraignment could not be the trial judge. Earlier that morning, Pendergrass had mused that Dugaw’s gender would be a plus, but Sloane cautioned against any such assumption when it came time to choose a jury.

“Some women may sympathize with her,” he had said, meaning Barclay. “But there will be others jealous and spiteful.” He knew that sitting on a jury was, for some, their lone opportunity to wield power, let alone power over someone of Barclay’s stature, and they would relish it.

As Sloane set out his materials, the crowd stirred again. Seconds later, a heavyset man in a light brown suit, cream-colored shirt, and tan tie stopped at the edge of the table.

“Mr. Sloane,” he said. “Rick Cerrabone.”

Pendergrass had also provided Sloane with the rundown on Cerrabone, which, he said, rhymed with “baloney.” He’d never had a case against Cerrabone, but he knew others who had. “He’s the best they got,” Pendergrass related. “Efficient, thorough, and well respected. Jurors love him. He’s not in it for the ego or the glory. He completely buys in to the notion that he’s a servant of the people, and he is very, very good.”

That wasn’t the conclusion one would reach upon a visual inspection. Perhaps in his late forties, Cerrabone had thinning black hair, wisps of which stood as if electrified, a heavy five o’clock shadow, bushy eyebrows, and the thick features of a man who looked to have boxed and used his face to stop most of the punches. A pair of cheater reading glasses dangled from a chain just beneath his chin.

After introducing himself, Cerrabone pulled a box on a handheld cart to the well in front of the bench. The judge’s bailiff smiled. “I saw you in the Red Sox hat,” she said.

“Don’t remind me,” Cerrabone answered. “How’d your son’s baseball game go the other night?”

“The umpire killed us. But Jack had three hits.”

The court reporter joined the revelry. Sloane was an experienced civil lawyer, but this was Cerrabone’s home court.

Commotion in the hall drew everyone’s attention. Three correctional officers in navy blue uniforms, one a woman, escorted Barclay into the room. Hands behind her back, she remained in the white prison jumpsuit, white socks, and slippers.

Barclay entered as Sloane had instructed: head held high and a neutral expression. She did not shy from looking at those in the audience when she turned to allow the sheriff to remove the handcuffs. Sloane wanted her to become the victim, a mother who had suffered one tragedy and was now suffering another because of her determination to bring to justice those responsible. He wanted her to be viewed not as a vigilante but as a citizen who refused to accept that young people should have to dodge drug dealers on their way to class, in the same way Mothers Against Drunk Driving had lobbied to change the cultural assumption that it was acceptable to have a few cocktails before getting behind the wheel of a car.

The bailiff, an elegant-looking Indian woman who had left the courtroom when Reid arrived, reentered from the door to the left of the bench, followed by Virginia Dugaw. The judge wasted no time taking her seat and getting down to business. “Good afternoon, Counsel. Mr. Cerrabone, let’s get started.”

Cerrabone stepped around the table so as not to be stuck in the corner of the room, the reading glasses now perched on the bridge of his nose. “Number twenty-seven on the arraignment calendar, Judge,
State of Washington
vs.
Barclay Alison Reid
—”

Sloane approached the bench. “Good afternoon, Your Honor, David Sloane appearing on behalf of the defendant.”

As Dugaw greeted him, Sloane handed the clerk a notice of appearance.

“The clerk will enter the notice of appearance of Mr. Sloane,” Dugaw instructed.