Three Strikes and You're Dead (26 page)
Read Three Strikes and You're Dead Online
Authors: Jessica Fletcher
Ty shaved.
Meg tried to inject happy chatter during the ride to the court, but much of it fell flat. This was serious business, and no one in the car could forget that for more than a second or two.
The Mesa courthouse was a busy place when we arrived. Jack used the rear entrance we’d taken advantage of when leaving the court the last time, which spared us the media extravaganza that had gathered at the front of the low, Southwestern-style building.
I always find courthouses as fascinating as they are sad. The entire human dilemma is on display, with people trapped in the legal system by their own doing, or because they were dealt the wrong cards at birth. It was especially tragic to see young mothers conferring with their lawyers, many of them presumably court-appointed public defenders, while the mothers tried to manage a couple of naturally lively toddlers. Hopefully, many of those who crowded the halls and benches that morning would find a satisfactory resolution to their legal travails.
Judge McQuaid was holding court in a relatively small room at the very back of the building. A sign outside it read, MOTIONS—PEOPLE VS. RAMOS. The door was open. Inside, court employees scurried about preparing the room for the day’s proceedings. I spotted the district attorney near the bench, conferring with two other people. One of them, to my surprise, was Harrison Bennett. I pointed him out to Meg, who sat with Ty on a bench across the hall.
“He’s so powerful,” Meg said, shaking her head. “I sometimes think he controls everything that happens here in Mesa.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t control the legal system,” I said, hoping that was true.
Ty’s attorney, David Pierce, arrived just minutes before we were due in the courtroom. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Some mornings I just can’t escape from the infernal phone. Everyone here?” He did a head count and went to where Ty sat with Meg. “How’s my favorite shortstop?” he asked, slapping Ty on the shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Ty said without looking up.
“Hey, my young friend,” Pierce said, “lighten up and get a smile on that handsome face. Judges don’t take kindly to sullen, surly young guys in their court-rooms.”
“Listen to Mr. Pierce,” Meg said. “It’s important that you present a pleasant, cooperative image for the judge.”
“Let’s go,” Jack said.
There was a section of spectator seats to the left and right of the door that we hadn’t been able to see from outside the room. The moment we walked in, it was obvious who was filling those seats. The press!
“Damn,” Jack muttered under his breath as we went to the front row, where one side of the aisle was reserved for the defense team. “Don’t look back,” he said. “It’ll just give some damn photographer a shot of us.”
Ty took the chair next to David Pierce at the defendant’s table. Meg, Jack, and I sat behind them in the first row of seats.
“All stand!”
Judge Michael McQuaid entered the courtroom and took his seat behind the bench. He looked down and nodded at Jack, and then he grinned at me. It made me uncomfortable, and I averted my eyes from his gaze after returning a small smile.
“All right,” McQuaid said, “let’s begin this hearing. Before we do, I remind our friends from the media that no cameras are allowed in the courtroom. I will not tolerate any pictures being taken during the proceedings, still or video, nor will I allow the use of any recording device. Do I make myself clear?”
There were murmurs of assent.
“Good,” he said. “Don’t force me to have you removed. Let’s proceed.”
I glanced across the aisle to where Martone, the DA, sat with a female assistant. Harrison Bennett sat in the first row, directly behind them.
“The first order of business is a motion filed by Mr. Martone on behalf of the People. You’ve read it, Mr. Pierce?”
“Yes, sir, I have,” Pierce said, standing.
“Let’s hear it.”
Pierce gave what seemed to me to be a cogent and easily understood defense of Ty’s bail. When he was finished, the judge invited Martone to rebut. The district attorney was a smug man whose condescending expression underscored his belief that everything he said was imbued with wisdom and truth. He postured in front of the judge like an actor on stage, gesturing for dramatic effect. Pierce, in contrast, had been straightforward and sounded considerably more sincere than his adversary.
“. . . and so in conclusion,” the DA intoned, looking intently at Ty, “the defendant poses a distinct threat to the community at large. His previous record of having broken the law in another state is well documented. This is a young man who, in a fit of anger and jealous rage, bludgeoned to death a teammate, a decent young man whose future was bright. To allow this misfit and threat to the safety of our fellow citizens to be free on bail would be, in my judgment, a drastic mistake with potentially lethal consequences. Thank you.”
I was seated next to Jack Duffy, and even though we weren’t touching, I could feel his rage at the DA’s mischaracterization of Ty. His face was beet red, and veins in his neck pulsated.
Please,
I silently thought,
don’t give vent to your feelings and lash out at Martone.
It was unlikely that he would, I knew. He was a judge himself, and I was certain he wouldn’t stand for outbursts in his own court. Still, his anger was palpable, but he remained in his chair, his jaw working furiously.
Please,
I silently thought,
don’t give vent to your feelings and lash out at Martone.
It was unlikely that he would, I knew. He was a judge himself, and I was certain he wouldn’t stand for outbursts in his own court. Still, his anger was palpable, but he remained in his chair, his jaw working furiously.
Martone took his seat in front of H.B.
“Anything further, Mr. Pierce?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Judge McQuaid consulted some papers before looking up and intoning, “Motion denied. Bail shall remain in effect. Next motion, Mr. Martone?”
The district attorney was barely out of his seat and starting to speak when Bennett jumped to his feet and said in a booming voice, “This is a travesty of justice. I have lost a son at the hands of this, this monster and—”
McQuaid pounded his gavel. “You’re out of order, Mr. Bennett.”
“This entire proceeding is out of order,” Bennett barked back.
“Sit down, Mr. Bennett, or I’ll find you in contempt.”
Martone grabbed Bennett by the shoulder of his suit jacket and pushed him back into his seat. I glanced at Jack and Meg. She was pale, her eyes wide and frightened at Bennett’s outburst. Jack took her hand, a small smile on his face.
Martone presented his next motion, asking for depositions to be taken of Jack and Meg Duffy.
“Mr. Pierce. Your objection, please.”
Pierce kept it short and concise.
“Motion denied. Anything else, gentlemen?”
Both attorneys stood and said, “No, Your Honor.” Ty scrambled to his feet next to Pierce.
“This hearing is adjourned. My clerk will inform the parties of a trial date.”
We all stood as McQuaid left the bench. We waited until the press had departed before preparing to leave the courtroom. Martone, his assistant, and H.B. walked past us without saying a word, although Bennett couldn’t resist looking back, his face a mask of fury. As the three of them pushed through the doors into the hallway, a cry arose from reporters waiting for them, and we saw the flash of cameras.
“Round one went well,” Jack commented. “But there’s still a long hill to climb.”
We’d packed up and were about to follow Pierce from the room when a court clerk came to us. “Judge Duffy, Mrs. Fletcher? Judge McQuaid would like to see you for a few minutes in his chambers.”
“All right,” Jack said. “You and Ty stay here,” he told Meg. “I don’t want you going outside with that swarm waiting for us.”
“I’ll wait with them,” Pierce said.
Judge McQuaid’s chambers consisted of two rooms. A secretary and a law clerk occupied desks in the outer one. The judge, who’d taken off his black robe, sat behind his desk in the inner space. He wore bright red-and-yellow suspenders over a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Hello, Jack,” he said, getting up and shaking hands with us. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I said.
“Not concerned at having us back here without the other side present?” Jack asked.
McQuaid’s laugh was hearty. “Hell, no. Your lawyer’s not here. We’re not discussing the case, are we? I just wanted the privilege of meeting Mrs. Fletcher and imposing upon her to sign a few books for me and my wife.”
He’d brought six of my most recent novels to sign, and I dutifully wrote a personal message in each before signing my name.
“Much obliged, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “Plan to be in Mesa long?”
“As long as it takes for—” I stopped and smiled. “We’re not discussing the case,” I said.
He laughed. “That’s right. Maybe one of these nights, before you leave town, you’d be our guest for dinner at the house. My wife makes a hell of a chicken pot pie.”
“One of my favorites,” I said. “I’ll look forward to it.”
We left the judge’s chambers and joined Meg and Ty in the hallway, where Pierce had brought them.
“What a lovely man,” I commented as we headed for the car.
“He certainly comes off that way,” Meg said. “Let’s get home.”
“Do you mind if I don’t join you?” I asked.
“No, of course not, but if there’s anything you need, we can get it for you.”
“What I need is an hour or so just to walk around town, and do a little shopping for souvenirs to take back with me. I can get a cab and catch up with you around lunchtime.”
“Suit yourself,” Jack said.
“Mrs. Fletcher, I really appreciate your being here for me this morning,” Ty said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“This morning went extremely well,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “Keep your spirits up. I’m sure things will work out for you just fine.”
I took care to leave the courthouse via a back route to avoid any lingering press, and spent the next hour doing what I’d set out to do, window-shopping and browsing the myriad stores in the center of town, many of which featured arts and crafts created by local artisans. I made a few small purchases, including a jar of chipotle sauce for Maureen and Mort.
Mesa had a lovely downtown, and I thought of Cabot Cove and its central area, not as large as Mesa’s but with a similar feel (and decidedly different weather—it was brutally hot in Mesa).
I’d reached the end of the main street and looked beyond, where an expanse of dusty desert land stretched out before me. To my right was a three-story, concrete, open-air municipal parking garage. I’d been walking in the sun, and the oppressive heat was making me light-headed.
I should have bought
that festive sombrero I admired in one of the shops,
I told myself.
I should have bought
that festive sombrero I admired in one of the shops,
I told myself.
The shade afforded by the concrete overhangs was inviting. I entered on the first level and breathed a sigh of relief at the damp, cooler atmosphere. I spotted a soft drink machine in the distance, next to an elevator. I went to it, plugged in money, and down dropped a can of diet lemonade. The cold metal of the can felt good in my hand, and on my brow and cheeks as I pressed it against them. I was about to open the drink when I heard loud voices from behind a concrete pillar a dozen feet from where I stood. One of the voices was strangely familiar. Where had I heard it before? Of course. In court just an hour ago. It was H.B., arguing with someone. I didn’t recognize the other man’s voice.
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