The Victim (58 page)

Exactly the way she had planned.

Anton retrieved his photocopy of the judgment and sentence, several pages that included the plea waiver; the court’s judgment, imposing a conviction and sentencing Lola to credit for time served; and an assessment of court costs. Lastly, there was a page with her fingerprints, having been taken in that Flagstaff courtroom after entering the guilty plea.

Anton held up the prints. “If you won’t answer my question, why don’t you engage in a little demonstration? Let’s get a fingerprint examiner in here right now to take your fingerprints and compare them to the ones I am holding in my hand.”

“
Judge, please,” Sylvia pleaded. “Sidebar.”

Morales nodded yes. “I agree, Ms. Kaplan. I think I need to speak with the lawyers privately. Now.”

Sylvia, Melissa, Jack, and Anton crammed into the narrow corridor beside the stairs with the court reporter lugging her stenotype machine and setting it down. Judge Morales wheeled her chair to the edge of the steps and leaned in toward the huddle of lawyers.

Preempting Sylvia, Morales whispered, “Okay, Mr. Mackey. I’ve given you enough leeway and I have no idea what you’re doing. Can you please proffer to the court what it is that you are trying to elicit from Ms. Avery?”

Anton thought before he spoke. Jack’s words on the flight back to Miami were seared into his brain.

It’s a risky move but you can pull it off if you can remove yourself from the equation. She doesn’t want to give her secret away anymore than you do.

“
Judge, my investigation of this case in preparation for trial has led me to the conclusion that Ms. Avery is not who she says she is.” He held up the fingerprints. “These prints were taken in court after the entry of a guilty plea to petty theft in Flagstaff, Arizona, early 2003. The defendant in that case was a young girl named Lola Munson who was presumed murdered that same year. It is the defense’s position that Daniella Avery is an assumed name and that she is, in fact, Lola Munson, who had deliberately and with the assistance of many people, faked her own death.”

Sylvia’s jaw unhinged. “Judge, this is obviously the first I’ve heard of this incredulous accusation. Never before in almost thirty years of practicing law have I ever heard of a witness being accused of faking her own death. This is unsubstantiated and just a cheap ploy by the defense to confuse the jury. I am asking that Your Honor put an end to this insulting line of questioning and that we move ahead with relevant matters.”

Morales clenched her jaw, her eyes cast down on the Xeroxed fingerprints, studying the smudgy whorls and loops.

“
Mr. Mackey, can you tell us how you reached this conclusion?”

He felt Jack’s elbow in his ribs. “I’m afraid that would constitute attorney work product and I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. However, as an officer of the court, I can assure you that if we can get a technician up here to take the witness’s prints and compare them to the fingerprints in this judgment and sentence, the results will be one and the same.”

Sylvia held up her hand, grabbing the judge’s attention. “Your Honor, this is entirely improper. What Mr. Mackey is suggesting is without legal authority or prior disclosure to the state.”

Morales sucked on her bottom lip. “Mr. Mackey.
As an officer of the court
…” She spoke those words carefully, slowly, implying that he had better not be bullshitting. “Are you telling me that Daniella Avery is really this person named Lola Munson and that a fingerprint analysis will prove that?”

He nodded confidently, meeting her stare. “One hundred percent, Judge.”

She sat up, ready to rule. “This is what I’m going to do. Over the state’s objection, I’m going to excuse the jury. I’ll have Diego contact the Miami-Dade Police Department and we’ll get a fingerprint examiner over here. Ms. Avery is still under subpoena, so she needs to stick around. Based upon your representation, Mr. Mackey, I’ll allow this analysis to take place outside the presence of the jury. But be warned: if you’ve wasted the court’s time, or if there is anything remotely spurious about your request…let’s just say I hope you brought your toothbrush.”

He bowed his head. It was understood. “Judge, I’ll run the risk of a contempt charge.”

The lawyers returned to their tables and the judge went back on the record. She explained to the jury that the lawyers needed to address some legal matters outside of their presence and that they would be taken back into the jury room for the time being. Sensing the collective groans, she informed them that Diego would be temporarily returning their cell phones that he had collected that morning so that they could contact their loved ones. She reminded them that the calls would be made one at a time and that Diego would be watching. No comments about the trial were to be mentioned nor were they to use their phones to access any news or social media sites.

Everyone rose as the jurors collected their belongings and exited the courtroom. Some of the spectators in the gallery whispered to one another, trying to figure out what was going on. Anton was relieved at the lack of press. David Ovalle had dropped by earlier to catch an update, but the shooting death of Armando Guerrero had quickly become yesterday’s news. Miami-Dade County saw about 225 murders a year, the overwhelming majority of which involved a firearm. By Anton’s count on local news websites, since Mandy’s death there had been a drive-by that killed a sixteen-year-old gang member and a Cuban divorce that claimed the lives of two children, a young wife, and the husband, after he turned the gun on himself.

With the jury gone, Morales turned toward the witness box and said, “Ms. Avery.” She gave the witness the benefit of her assumed name. “A technician from the Miami-Dade Police Department is going to be coming up here shortly to take your fingerprints. They are then going to compare your prints to the ones that Mr. Mackey has in his possession. I apologize if this causes you any inconvenience or embarrassment, but the defendant in this case is entitled to a vigorous defense. If you are who you say you are, then this has all been a waste of everyone’s time and I apologize. If not,” she looked at Sylvia, eyes narrowed, “then the state may need to reevaluate their case.”

The witness nodded. “That’s fine. May I…can I use the ladies’ room?”

“
Of course. You’re still under subpoena so you can’t leave the building. I expect you back here in five minutes. Is that enough time?”

“
Oh yes, plenty.”

She got up, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked out into the hallway.

Diego used the phone on the clerk’s desk to contact the Miami-Dade Police Department’s Court Liaison on the third floor of the Gerstein Building. Diego hung up, advising all that Court Liaison had confirmed that there was a latent examiner already in the building, sitting outside of a courtroom on the second floor, waiting to testify in an ongoing murder trial. Since he wasn’t expected to be called to testify for at least another two hours, he would be promptly sent up.

Within a minute, a short, pudgy man in his mid-fifties came trundling in, lugging what looked like a fisherman’s tackle box. He wore khakis and a white polo bearing the insignia of the Miami-Dade Police Department. A laminated ID card worn around his neck indicated that he was not a law enforcement officer, but a civilian member of the Department’s Forensic Services Bureau.

He exchanged pleasantries with Sylvia and Melissa, whom he seemed to know from previous cases. Anton vaguely recognized him, thinking back to a burglary case he had tried when he was a C prosecutor, wondering if this was the same witness.

“
Thank you for coming so quickly,” Judge Morales said.

The latent examiner passed the railing and stepped before the court. “Happy to assist, Your Honor. What can I do for the court?”

Morales apprised him of the recent developments in the case. The examiner shook his head in a few preemptory nods, implying that the task of taking standards of a witness and then comparing them to a prior set of prints was laughably simple.

Anton handed him the photocopied prints, hoping that the resolution was clear enough so that a comparison could be made. The examiner replied that there was enough ridge detail that he should be able to use them.

The examiner set his box down on the jury box railing and opened it up, the layered compartments fanning out. He removed a sheet of card stock that he would use for the standards, as well as a roller and pad of ink.

Judge Morales looked up at the clock. “Ms. Kaplan, could you go check on Ms. Avery? It’s been five minutes.”

Sylvia stepped out into the hallway, returning several minutes later, her cell phone in hand. She took slow, arrhythmic steps into the courtroom, her disbelief resonant in the cloddy smacks of her high heels on the floor. A look of shock tugged at her face as she approached her podium.

“
I don’t know what I can say, Your Honor. I’ve checked the bathrooms on this floor and two others. I’ve checked downstairs. I’ve called at least ten times. I’ve texted. I don’t know what else to say at this point. She’s gone.”

CHAPTER 63

The thick travertine marble tiles glistened with a drying film of water and Pine Sol. That floor had always been such a pain in the ass to clean until they found Luisa. Gina resented the idea of a housekeeper at first, a stubborn subscriber to the notion that if she wasn’t going to be traditionally employed, the least she could do was mop once a week. It was actually upon Anton’s insistence that they hired her, a decision based upon the glowing recommendations of friends and neighbors who used her services.

The forty-something woman paid dutiful attention to her work. A cloth was wrapped around a rounded T carved out of pine—a Cuban mop. She dipped it in the bucket of scalding hot water and Pine Sol, employing the secrets both her mother and
abuela
back in Veradera had relied upon for generations.

She wore loose-fitting jeans and a gray sweater, bunched around her stubby middle. Her black hair was streaked with gray, worn in a simple ponytail. She zeroed in on a dried spot of week-old apple juice, sloshing back and forth, determined. A quiet smile emerged at the corner of her mouth as the stain began to fade. She took enormous pride in her work.

Marta, Luisa’s younger sister-in-law, was spraying the guest bathroom mirror with a frothy coat of Windex. The sharp ammonia scent trickled out into the hallway.

Gina power-walked through the bedroom, mindful of the time as she realized she was going to be late for the appointment. She tugged on her black yoga pants and slipped a V-neck over her sports bra. Charley’s whines cut through the static of the monitor. Gina grabbed the first set of earrings she could from the vanity and stared at herself under the lights of the bathroom mirror.

“
Fucking horror show,” she deadpanned, critiquing her unmade face, namely the splotches of light brown underneath her eyes.

The “mask of pregnancy,” or Chloasma, as her OB explained, was a temporary symptom of pregnancy triggered by hormonal changes. They were supposed to fade away with time, but when?

She brushed on a cursory layer of Clinique powder and slid on a hairband, tamping down her greasy blonde tresses, trying to figure out when a shampoo and a blow dry had become a luxury.

Gina darted out into the hallway and checked on Charley. She gripped the crib railing, rocking backing and forth, her mouth parted in a two-toothed grin. She bounced on her mattress with unbridled excitement as Gina picked her up, held her bottom to her nose, and did a quick smell check. All good.

The crib was a shrine to self-soothing. A fuzzy blue elephant clipped to the slats played a music box rendition of “Lullaby and Goodnight”
when you pulled its tail. A plastic fishbowl Velcroed to the top rail lit up a multicolored array of sea life when turned on, serenaded by the ebb and flow of a digitized tide.

Gina placed Charley back in her crib and grabbed her favorite stuffed bunny off the shelf. Charley grabbed the bunny with eager arms, steadying herself, hands free, on the crib mattress before falling onto her butt, gnawing on the bunny’s substantially worn ear.

“
Luisa,” Gina called, walking out into the living room, grabbing her purse off the coffee table. Mustering up her best Spanish, she said, “Uh…
estare en una hora,
” hopefully advising that she would be back in an hour. She pointed down the hall toward Charley’s room. “
El bebe?
”