The Advocate's Daughter (26 page)

“My experience has been that even smart people do incredibly stupid things in the stress of covering up their crimes.” It was a fair but unsatisfying answer.

“Did you look into my daughter's e-mail account?”

Fallon's lips tightened. “We're looking into it, Sean. But one step at a time. And you're forgetting we have other evidence. Today we need to focus on the motion to suppress…”

“What other evidence?”

Fallon let out a breath. “Like that Abby visited the Supreme Court Police office the day she was killed. She reported that a law clerk had threatened her and she wanted to know what could be done about it without ruining his career. We have a police report showing she was there that afternoon.”

This knocked Sean back in his seat. That night at the Supreme Court when they searched for Abby the chief of the court's police hadn't mentioned this. He probably didn't know. Some low-level officer probably interviewed Abby and the report wasn't taken seriously until
after
she was killed.

“That's pretty damn important. Why hadn't someone told me this sooner?”

Fallon put her hand on Sean's arm. In a soft voice, she said, “I know this is terrible. I cannot imagine what you're going through. But Sean, Malik Montgomery murdered your daughter. Can we count on your help tomorrow?”

Sean hesitated, then nodded. The group made their stiff good-byes. As he left, Sean noticed Fallon and her hound-faced colleague meet eyes. They were concerned.

In the hallway, he saw Carl Martinez, the chief of the Supreme Court Police. He was probably there about the hearing as well. Sean felt a surge of anger that the court's police could've possibly prevented Abby's murder.

“Sean,” the chief said, walking over. “It's good to see you. How are you holding up?”

Sean gave a
been better
tilt of the head. His jaw tightened as he debated whether to bring up Abby's report to the Supreme Court Police.

The chief said, “It's hard not to lose your faith in everything when you lose a child. When someone takes them from you.” There was something about the chief's tone, the look in his eyes. There was a knowing melancholy to it.

“You know?” Sean heard himself ask. He wasn't one to seek comfort in others and had shut down even the thought of attending a parent support group. But at this moment, he wanted to speak with someone who knew. Someone who may have the answers on how to survive the
After.

The chief studied Sean. “Hit-and-run,” he said after a long moment.

“Does it ever get better?” Sean asked.

The chief took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Patti Fallon, who must have heard them talking, stepped into the hallway. “We're ready for you, Carlos…”

“I'll be just a second,” he said.

Fallon hesitated, but ducked back into the room.

The police chief contemplated Sean's question another couple of seconds. “The only thing that helped me was getting the son of a bitch who did it.” The chief then looked deep into Sean's eyes and said, “And, you can trust me on one thing: tomorrow we're gonna get the bastard who killed your daughter.”

The chief then did something unsettling. Something that explained why he hadn't mentioned Abby coming to the police office to complain about a law clerk. Something that explained how this new piece of highly incriminating evidence against Malik suddenly surfaced. The chief looked Sean in the eyes. And he winked.

 

CHAPTER 70

Another sleepless night and another crying jag in the shower. It was now close to nine a.m. and Sean gazed out of the cab's window. The E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse was crowded with television reporters holding microphones and burly men with heavy cameras balanced on their shoulders. The front of the blocky gray building also was lined with protesters. Some held signs while others chanted—
“Free Ma-lik Mont-gom-ery! Free Ma-lik Mont-gom-ery!”
—in the fresh air of the spring morning. A handful of U.S. marshals kept watch.

As Sean and Emily climbed out of the cab, everyone on the plaza seemed to descend on them at once. Sean put his arm around Emily to shield her from the onslaught, but she wriggled her shoulders away. She reached for Sean's hand and led him toward the entrance, moving resolutely through the crowd and camera flashes, ignoring the aggressive questions shouted at them. Halfway to the entrance they were met by Cecilia. She pushed them through the reporters and into the courthouse.

They journeyed through the metal detectors, to the elevators, and through the doors of Courtroom 4. Cecilia took them to their reserved spots in the front row of the gallery. Sean peered over his shoulder. Every seat was filled. He saw familiar faces from both the Supreme Court press corps and the national morning shows. A court officer walked the center aisle shushing, but the place was abuzz. Sean faced the bench and watched as the court reporter adjusted her equipment and a law clerk nervously shuffled some papers. Patti Fallon sat in front of Sean and Emily at the prosecution table, her hands folded. Calm. Poised.

Sean always admired trial lawyers, the soldiers on the front line. They dealt with real people—people who had something to lose, whether it be their money, their kids, their freedom. In his entire career he'd never participated in a trial. He'd read a lot of trial transcripts, the bloodless record on appeal. But his search was not for the truth. An appellate lawyer's search is for legal errors made along the way. And were there ever errors. Real trial work isn't pretty. But most mistakes and shortcuts aren't enough to reverse a judge or jury's decision. And by the time a case made its way to the Supreme Court, it was in a pretty little package—after years working through the meat grinder of the system, everything usually boiled down to a single legal issue. Sean's job wasn't to stoke the passions of twelve jurors in the heat of trial, but rather to convince nine smart people through a civilized ritual of briefing and thirty minutes of oral argument.

Fallon occupied the space like she owned it. Sean and Emily were there as props for the media. Fallon had called the night before to say she didn't need Sean as a witness. She didn't say why, but perhaps Sean's questions had spooked her.

The gallery grew quiet, and Sean turned to see what had captured the room's attention. Blake Hellstrom walked down the aisle in his scuffed shoes. His left hand clutched a worn barrister's bag, his right a soft guide on his client's back. Malik Montgomery, dressed in a conservative suit and tie, looked younger than Sean remembered him. Hellstrom and Malik strolled through the swinging gate and took their station at the defense table. Malik's father, a handsome man in his sixties in a gray business suit, moved to a seat in the gallery behind his son. Hellstrom approached Patti Fallon and they shook hands. Fallon did not look intimidated, though the lawyers on her team each seemed to swallow hard at the sight of Hellstrom.

A loud chime echoed from the ceiling and everyone stood as the Honorable Mara Chin entered the courtroom. As she took her seat behind the bench, she waved for the lawyers and gallery to follow suit. Emily squeezed Sean's hand, and he pushed himself closer to her on the uncomfortable wooden pew seats in the gallery. Sean had read about Judge Chin in the
Almanac of the Federal Judiciary,
which contained her bio and anonymous comments from lawyers who appeared regularly before her. Chin was in her late fifties, an Obama appointee, liberal-leaning, no bullshit. The consensus: tough but fair.

Judge Chin had dark hair that touched her shoulders and deep smile lines. Her gaze cut to the lawyers and she began.

“Good morning. The court will hear case number 1-2-2-9-9-8,
United States versus Montgomery.
Before the court is defendant's motion to suppress evidence. Counsel, please make your appearances.”

Fallon stood. A clear of the throat, then from the diaphragm: “Your Honor, I'm Patricia Fallon and I represent the people.”

Blake Hellstrom rose slowly, his chair scraping against the courtroom floor. No straightening of the tie, no preening. He held a slight smile as did the judge, as if they were old friends pretending to act formally. “I'm Blake Hellstrom, Your Honor.” Hellstrom looked toward Fallon and added, “I also represent the people—just one at a time.”

Laughter filled the gallery. The old lawyer had effortlessly broke the tension in the room. The judge gave an exasperated shake of the head.

“All right, all right,” the judge said, giving the room a chance to quiet. “Any opening remarks before we begin, Mr. Hellstrom?”

Hellstrom stroked his chin. “Your Honor, I will keep it short. My client is innocent. The government has no witnesses connecting Mr. Montgomery to this terrible crime. No murder weapon. No DNA or other physical evidence. What they have is a rush to judgment driven by factors that should have no bearing in a court of law. What's—”

“Your Honor,” Fallon said, already on her feet. “Mr. Hellstrom is improperly arguing the merits. We're here
today
to hear his motion to suppress evidence—a curious motion given that he's so confident in the supposed
lack
of evidence.”

Judge Chin swatted away the bickering with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Hellstrom, save it. The same goes for the government.”

Hellstrom flicked an admiring glance at Fallon. “Your Honor, the government has the burden of showing its search did not violate the Fourth Amendment, so I will defer further remarks until we've had the opportunity to hear from
the people.
”

The judge looked toward Fallon, who offered a small roll of the eyes, but nodded.

“The government calls Franklin Pacini.”

As Pacini took the stand and was sworn in, Sean noticed Hellstrom sneak a glance in Sean's direction. Hellstrom whispered something to Malik Montgomery, who nodded, and both turned back to Pacini. Fallon had warned that Hellstrom may request that Sean be sequestered while Pacini was testifying, a common procedure to avoid one witness from influencing the testimony of another. But Hellstrom, who didn't know if Sean would take the stand, apparently decided against it. Why?

Sean listened as Patti Fallon walked Pacini through that night. From Sean's call, to Abby's apartment, to Malik's place where they found the phone. Emily sniffled and Sean wondered if they both would have been better off sequestered. Fallon skillfully led Pacini down a path to establish two things. First, he was there that night as a friend, not as a government agent, which was important because Fallon argued that the Fourth Amendment did not apply to private searches. Second, that Malik had consented to the search of his home, which again precluded any finding of an illegal search. Fallon then turned to Malik's statements to Pacini and Sean.

“At some point during the night did your role change?”

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“I mean you started off helping out just as a friend, but at some point did you put your FBI hat on?”

“Yes, after Sean found the phone hidden in the defendant's house.”

“And what did you do?”

“I interviewed the defendant.”

“Did you read the defendant his Miranda rights before asking him questions?” Fallon asked.

“Yes. I remember because the defendant got angry about it. He said, ‘I'm not like the poor dumb black kids you're used to dealing with,' and that he had nothing to hide.”

A rumble filled the spectator section and the judge gave a glare that spanned the room.

“Did you ask the defendant when he'd last seen Abby?”

“Yes, he said they'd had a fight at dinner and Abby stormed out of the restaurant. He said he went after her and gave her a ride to the Supreme Court, where she liked to study. He said the last time he saw her was when he dropped her off at the curb in front of the building.”

“What happened after you spoke to the defendant?”

“Some agents came to speak with him, and Mr. Serrat and I headed over to the Supreme Court.”

“You thought Abby would still be at the court a day later?”

“No. But I thought it would be helpful to speak to officers from the court's police department and see if security camera footage showed Abby in the building.”

“And you went to the court?”

“Yes.”

“Did the officers show you any security footage?”

“Yes, footage showed Abby Serrat entering the court and walking to the library. There's no cameras in the library, so we couldn't see inside, just that she walked there.”

“Was she alone?”

“At first, yes.”

“You said that the defendant told you he didn't go inside the court that night, correct?”

“That's what he told us at his house. He said he dropped her off at the curb and that he went home.”

“Did you see anything else on the surveillance footage?”

“About ten minutes after Ms. Serrat arrived at the court, the defendant entered the building.”

“So, he'd lied to you?”

“Yes.”

Sean looked over at Hellstrom expecting an objection, but Hellstrom just sat at counsel's table and gave an audible yawn.

“And you went to the library?”

“Yes.”

Fallon waited a long beat before the next question. “And what happened in the library?”

The courtroom was still. Not a sound.

“We found Abby Serrat.” Pacini let out a long sigh. “Her body was shoved into a bookshelf. Her face was covered in blood. It was obvious”—Pacini paused a moment—“she was gone. Mr. Serrat fought past the court's officers to get to his daughter. We had to subdue him until he collapsed from shock.”

Fallon let the image hang there. Sean wasn't sure how long, but it seemed like forever.

“Nothing further.”

 

CHAPTER 71