Until the Final Verdict (14 page)

T
HE OLD RUSTY
E
CONOLINE VAN
creaked into the parking place beside Granz' Buick.

The driver shut off the engine, and cracked the driver's window to keep the windows from fogging up. He sat listening to KESP, a Spanish music station, until 8:45
A.M.,
then pressed the fake gray mustache against his upper lip to set the glue, pushed the phony bifocals onto his nose, placed a gray human-hair wig on his head, and secured it with a wide-brimmed straw hat, then checked himself in the mirror.

“Muy bueno—un bracero anciano.”

He pocketed the car keys and dashed toward the court building, the size-thirteen Goodwill work boots rubbing blisters on the heels of his size-nine feet, the tattered, dirty shirt and jacket doing little to protect him from the cold, penetrating morning drizzle.

The metal detector didn't pick up the cheap Polaroid inside his jacket because it was mostly plastic. He shuffled over to the calendar posted outside the door to Judge Jesse A. Woods' Superior Court Six.

A deputy spotted him trying to figure it out, and strolled over. “Need some help, old man?”

“Sí. ¿Habla Español?”

“No, and I figured you prob'ly couldn't read English, either. Whatcha lookin' for?”

He pointed at the line that said,
Dependency hearing, in re Emma Mackay.
“What that say—traffic court?”

“No, that's juvenile court.”

“Oh. I get speeding ticket, got to see the judge.”

The deputy pointed. “That way, round the corner, downstairs, to your left.”

“Gracias.”

“You're welcome. Have a nice day.”

He watched the deputy return to his station, say something to the other cop, and point his way. They both laughed, then turned their attention back to the metal detector.

“
Racist pig, I speak better English than you,” he muttered. He made sure no one was watching, pulled out a cheap Polaroid without a flash unit, and surreptitiously snapped several quick shots of Emma Mackay, who was standing by a large potted plant across the hall from the courtroom door.

When he spotted Granz leave the bathroom and head Emma's way, he pocketed the snapshots, dropped the camera in a trash can, and headed toward traffic court.

In the basement cafeteria, he grabbed a cup of coffee and a bran muffin, then ran back to the van. He stuck the key
in the ignition, started the engine, and turned the heater up high. Then he removed the straw hat, wig, glasses, and mustache, and tossed them on the pavement next to Granz' car.

Sipping his coffee and nibbling at the muffin, he flipped through the photos and studied the face.

“Perfect. I'd remember that face anywhere,” he finally said aloud. “These will do just fine.”

T
HE DOOR ON THE RIGHT SIDE
of the wall behind the vacant jury box in Superior Court Six swung open.

Bailiff Harold Benjamin stood. “All rise. Department Twelve of the Santa Rita County Superior Court is now in session, the Honorable Jesse Augustus Woods presiding.”

Santa Rita County had only ten courts and judges, but Department Twelve was a special designation for the separate court established by California law in every county to meet the unique needs of juveniles—persons under eighteen years of age.

Woods swept past the jury box, settled into the chair behind the bench, slipped on drugstore reading glasses, and gazed into the almost-empty room.

“Please be seated.”

In his sixties, Woods was tall and athletic, with square shoulders, large hands, and a thick mop of unruly white hair that defied both time and comb. His stern, bearded, intense face and booming voice belied a well-known underlying sensitivity.

A respected jurist with a deep affinity for kids, Woods had presided over juvenile court for many years. During testimony he often appeared bored, turning aside and gazing into space or closing his eyes, but lawyers who practiced before him knew that this was simply a technique for concentrating—he missed nothing.

Court Clerk Cathy Radina announced, “In the Superior Court of the State of California, in and for the County of Santa Rita, case number DP12-200237, adjudication hearing for dependency petition of minor child Emma S. Mackay, the People . . .”

Woods noted Emma's worried look, and removed his half-glasses. “Let's skip the formalities. For the record, the Court notes the presence of Frederika Guererro of Child Protective Services and their attorney, County Counsel Daniel Burford, Court-appointed attorney Martin Belker for Emma Mackay, and Roger Griffith representing Kathryn Mackay and Sheriff David Granz.”

He paused to let the court reporter catch up. “Bring in Kathryn Mackay.”

Benjamin opened the door through which Judge Woods had previously entered, disappeared for a couple of minutes, then returned holding Kathryn Mackay by the right elbow. A collective gasp rose from the room.

She looked like she'd gone fifteen rounds with the heavyweight champ. And lost. A bandage was wrapped around her left ear and forehead, and her face had ballooned to twice its normal size, reducing her eyes to tiny dark slits. Her whole face was a massive purple bruise, and by pulling the gauze from her nostrils, she released two trickles of bloody mucus onto her puffy lips.

Dwarfed by the oversized maroon jail jumpsuit, she duckwalked down the row of jury seats and sat in chair 6, then tried to smile. She raised her hands to wipe her mouth, but the handcuff chain, which was looped through a heavy belt and connected to ankle shackles, stopped them at midchest. Benjamin wiped the mess from her mouth.

Emma stared for a moment, pushed her chair away from the table, and headed toward Kathryn. Benjamin stepped in front to intercept her.

Woods cut him off. “Let her be with her mother for a moment, please. Step back and give them some room, and remove the restraints.”

When Benjamin unlocked the handcuffs and shackles, Emma dropped into a chair beside her mother. “The Judge will let me live with Dave, won't he, Mom?”

“I hope so, honey, but it's his decision.”

“I don't want to go back to Mrs. Roseboro's tonight.”

“I know.”

“How long will it take Judge Woods to make up his mind?”

“We'll know before we leave. Now, please go sit
with Dave and Mr. Griffith so we can get this over with, okay?”

Woods watched until Emma sat down, established eye contact with her, and winked. “This morning, Mr. Griffith submitted to the Court a certificate establishing that Kathryn Mackay and David Granz are now husband and wife.”

He looked at Burford. “Did you get a copy?”

Burford rose. “Yes. As a result, I request a continuance until next week.”

“What for?”

“To ascertain the legal status of the so-called marriage between Ms. Mackay and Sheriff Granz.”

“What makes you doubt its legitimacy?”

“It was performed in a foreign country, and—”

“Sit down, Mr. Burford. Last I heard, Spain was a civilized nation. If I think your concerns ought to play a part in my decision, I'll hear them later.”

“The marriage certificate could be a phony.”

“So could your law degree. Court is in recess while I speak with Emma in chambers.”

Woods walked to counsel table and leaned over so that his eyes were at Emma's level. “Would you mind coming to my chambers so we could talk privately?”

She looked at Dave, who nodded.

“I don't mind.”

Woods pulled his robe over his head, hung it on a hook behind the door, loosened his tie, and suggested they sit on his leather sofa.

“You know why we're here today, right, Emma?”

“Why don't you let my mom go home so I can
stay with her? She told me she didn't kill Doctor Simmons.”

“It's not that simple, Em—may I call you Em?”

“That's what Dave and my mom call me.”

“Okay, you call me Jesse.”

He leaned back and crossed his legs. “Em, I don't give a hoot what those lawyers out there say, the only thing I care about is that you're safe and happy, that you have a good home, and that you go to school every day. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Guererro says you skipped school yesterday. What happened?”

“She forced me to go to Mrs. Roseboro's. I don't like her.”

“You don't even know her. I'm being straight with you, why don't you be straight with me, too.”

“I was scared. I wanted to see my mom and Dave. If you send me back, I'll keep running away.”

“You could get in a lot of trouble.”

“I don't care.”

Woods looked at her for a long time, and she held his gaze.

“What do you suggest?” he finally asked.

“I want to stay with Dave. He's almost my dad now.”

Woods contemplated. “If I let you stay with him, will you promise you won't run away again, and that you'll go to school every day?”

“Yes, I promise.”

Woods pulled a business card from his wallet, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to Emma.

“This is my private telephone number. Call me every Friday afternoon at five o'clock—no exceptions—and tell me how things are going.”

“Okay.” She slipped the card into her wallet. “Does this mean I can stay with Dave until my mom proves she's innocent and gets out of jail?”

“That's what it means.”

Emma put her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Jesse.”

When she let go, he lifted his judicial robe off the hook and slipped it over his head, then extended his hand and helped her to her feet.

“Then why don't you and I go back out there and tell everyone what we decided.”

T
HE
S
ATURDAY MORNING,
March 23,
Santa Rita Centennial
lead story began:

EX-DA FIGHT AGAINST DEATH STARTS MONDAY

The jury trial in the highly publicized murder case of ex-DA Kathryn Mackay begins at 9
A.M.
next Monday. Renowned local defense attorney Roger Griffith will make a last-ditch effort to throw out the special circumstance of murder by poison to save Mackay from the death penalty. Jury selection is scheduled to start Tuesday morning. Judge Reginald
Keefe has ordered most of the courtroom spectator section reserved for the media, with the few remaining seats raffled off to the public.

By dusk the next day, the media and public swarmed over the County Government Center like yellow jackets at a Fourth of July picnic. Trucks, RVs, and tents jostled for space in the parking lot with television broadcast vans, which pointed their antennae at invisible geostationary satellites that collected, then scattered their pictures and commentary instantaneously across the state.

By nightfall, the acrid odor of cooking meat and charcoal lighter permeated the cool spring air, and mingled with the gasoline-oil fumes from portable generators that struggled to power dozens of news anchors' dressing rooms, scores of light banks, and hundreds of coffeepots. An impromptu band blasted out country and western music below a makeshift bandstand until the Sheriff's Department shut them down at 2:00
A.M.

Shortly after, lines started to form on the courthouse steps.