A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (24 page)

“Excuse me?” she stalled.

“Out of five cases at nine a.m., why take mine?” I asked her calmly. She wanted to know more about me. I needed to know more about her. She placed her right hand over her stomach and let it rest there.

“Gut feeling,” she said firmly. “Besides, you have no idea what kind of charges they are cooking up for you at the arraignment or
how many eyes are watching this case because the shooting allegedly took place in the presence or proximity of a New York state senator. There is major media hysteria, but let me tell you something: most reporters in particular and people in general have a short attention span. This will be a big story until the next big story comes along and buries it. The thing is, even though all may forget you and forget what happened, if your case is not handled properly,
you’ll
never forget because the consequences are quite severe. I got your arraignment postponed today and it’s a good thing I did. You got six stitches in your head and a couple of fractured ribs—good for you. The rest of your medical results will come back sometime tomorrow. I ran the information I received today over to the district attorney’s office. They needed to know that some wonderful policeman beat you before you were ever booked and arraigned. Now I’ve got the medical record to back it up. And tomorrow’s arraignment is our last chance to squeeze this matter in for this week. Tomorrow is Thursday. Friday will be motion day at the courthouse. The courts will be focused on something completely different. I don’t see how they could possibly delay your arraignment any further, pushing it back until Monday. If they try, I’ll know they’re just buying time in addition to breaking the law, due to lack of evidence to even charge you with the felony crimes. Then I’ll get them for unlawful imprisonment.” She was thinking and speaking at the same time. She was revealing her passion. I liked that. I could see that she somehow enjoyed the fight. Maybe she even chose the most challenging situations on purpose.

“What if you’re wrong? Your gut feeling?” I asked her.

“I’m hardly ever wrong. And I studied this case from the beginning, which is always good when a defendant’s lawyer is brought onto the case early. The earlier an attorney gets involved in your defense, the better.”

“Why were you studying the case from the beginning?” I pushed. It seemed like there was more to this woman than just me being one of her 212 open cases. After being questioned for more
than four days, I knew not to accept just anything some official was saying.
Dig deeper
, I told myself.

She paused before responding, folded her arms in front of her, and exhaled deeply. Then she unfolded her arms and moved her hands beneath the table, almost as though trying to hide them. She began spinning her black embroidered bracelet around on her left wrist, like a nervous quirk. Finally, she leaned back in her chair.

“Do you like animals?” she asked me. I thought of camels and horses and giraffes, beautiful and amazing creatures that Allah created.

“Yes,” I responded.

“Do you believe that animals have a soul?” she asked strangely. “That they can feel and cry and mourn and hurt, the same as human beings?” She sounded absolutely serious and emotional, after not being emotional at all. I paused, thinking. I knew how I would answer as the Muslim man that I am. It is a good answer that would take me some time to explain. But this situation required me to give her the answer that would most benefit me in this scenario, I could tell. I assembled my words carefully. Handpicked, they were also words that are true to me.

“Animals are living and breathing, seeing and hearing. They each make sounds that suggest that they communicate and express. So of course they can feel,” I said, avoiding the soul part of her question. “But what does this have to do with you and me?”

“Lance Polite comes up on my list,” she said.

“List?” I repeated. She paused.

“American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I’ve been a member since I was a teenager. We keep a list of offenders and pay close attention to repeat offenders,” she said. I was lost. She seemed smart and sharp at first. Now I was debating whether or not she was crazy. What was she talking about?

“Lance Polite is a repeat offender, a guy who has been reported, accused, and convicted more than once for cruelly killing animals
for no reason at all. It goes back to even before he became an adult. If this man was killing animals even when he was a kid, he must be a pretty sick creep. And it all goes together with his criminal past and convictions of molesting boys and girls. This is a guy who I peg as a sociopath. I’m a lawyer, not a doctor, but I feel that anyone who hurts animals or children . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence.

“Anyone who kills animals or hurts children, you go after them,” I stated. It wasn’t really a question.

“On the day of the murder of Lance Polite, a cat was found choked to death on the floor of the basement of the building directly in front of the murder scene. It was reported to the ASPCA and we collected the body. Well, not me, our organization. We have investigators as well. So I’ve been thinking and putting things together in a way that the police department never would,” she said thoughtfully.

I was alarmed, but my face was blank. I made an expression as though I didn’t understand her talk or her direction. But I understood her now. Lance had killed Naja’s cat. Her organization picked up the cat’s body. And they must be extremely serious about animals if they came to my block and entered the basement in one of my buildings. But what alarmed me was what else they might have seen or picked up or reported about the basement of that building where he held Naja hostage. Did they snag the kunai knife that may have been on the basement floor? Or was the knife still sitting there waiting to be discovered possibly by the police if they were continuing their murder investigation? Or did the savage yank the knife out of his eye, panic at the pain and the site of his own blood, then run straight out to the ambulance that was parked at the concert? Did he take the knife with him? The knife would have Chiasa’s prints on it for sure.

But the ASPCA is an organization, not the police
, I thought to myself. She had said that they had their own investigators, but they didn’t have police power, I assured myself. And the police had no
reason to check the basement of that building. I slaughtered the sucker out in the open, outdoors on the block.

The lawyer interrupted my thinking. “I’ve confided something to you. I’ve answered your questions. Now you need to confide something to me and answer some of my questions about this crime and your role in it,” she said, switching from her animal-lover personality back into the legal eagle.

“Were you defending a child or an animal from Lance Polite, the predator? The photo, which according to the police detective allegedly is you, looks emotional. It looks like a deep hatred being expressed through violence. If that is the case, then I understand. However, legally, this places you in the absolutely most vulnerable position to be sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison. Meaning you either knew Lance Polite or you saw him do something disgusting and then you went after him. Meaning you thought about it, which makes it legally premeditated murder, and then you carried it out. To be convicted of this crime means that you’ll be over forty before you will ever be unbarred, unchained, and uncuffed and free.” She was emotional now, leaning forward and searching me for a reaction.

“Have you heard or read about this young lady who was sentenced to be put to death this summer? Her name is Paula Cooper. She’s from the state of Indiana. Now, the laws from state to state vary. However, she was sentenced to death recently. The details of her case are completely different than yours, I suspect. But it might not be a bad idea for you to consider and know about her outcome on a similar charge. She’s sixteen now, same as you,” she said, guessing at my age again. Her points were clear to me though, and once again, the threat of twenty-five years to life was circulating in my chest.

“If you tell me that you were defending an animal or a child, I’ll work my ass off to get you the best results, the least amount of time. Of course, if my gut is wrong and you turn out to be guilty of armed robbery or distribution of crack cocaine or anything of that nature, I can’t guarantee you my best effort or the best outcome,” she said.

“How long do I have?” I asked her. She checked her watch. “Well, it’s almost nine p.m. I’d like to leave here no later than ten. I work in the system, so I know what goes on in this city, especially late at night. I prefer not to ride the train after eleven p.m.”

“No husband?” I asked her. “No man would allow his woman to move around the city alone late night,” I said, changing the topic from the heavy reality I faced.

“I’m not the kind of woman who would allow a husband to control me,” she said sternly.

“I wasn’t talking about controlling you. I was talking about loving you.” Then, I just looked at her.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll decide that you’re an adult, not a juvenile or an adolescent,” she said, flexing the power she believed she had to move my life in one direction or another. Then she held up both of her hands and wiggled her ten fingers, causing her bracelet to reveal more of the deep scar she used it to cover.

“No rings on my fingers.” She smiled halfway. Then I knew. Someone had hurt this woman, and she had planned and trained to protect the hurt animals and hurt people. But in my case, she planned to protect the man who murdered the man who murdered animals and molested children. I thought about it.
She’s glad he’s dead.
So am I. We had the same understanding. We were on the same team, I decided.

“About court tomorrow: will all of this be decided on tomorrow in front of the judge?” I asked her.

“Oh no, tomorrow is simply the arraignment. It takes three minutes or less. They read you the charges against you. That’s it. I don’t believe they’ll charge you with murder tomorrow, although you never know. My gut tells me aside from the detective’s affidavit, they have not organized enough evidence. If there is a murder charge tomorrow, the prosecution gets two weeks to organize its investigation and bring you before a grand jury.”

“Do they expect me to talk at this arraignment tomorrow?” I asked.

“No, I’m your attorney. I’ll speak for you. They’ll hold you in the bullpen until your case comes up, just like they did this morning. Then an officer will escort you out. You’ll stand before the judge and hear the charges, and the judge will decide if he’s going to set bail.”

“I don’t want bail,” I said swiftly. She gave a surprised look, as though she normally knew what to expect, was used to following a certain procedure, and even knew beforehand what each person and side would say and do and how she needed to react, exactly.

“If I go directly to the jail where they’re going to keep me, as soon as I get there, I’ve started serving down my time, right?” I asked her.

“Yes, that counts as time served, deductible against whatever you might be sentenced to,” she confirmed. “But that’s down the line,” she added, and her face revealed a new suspicion. “And that’s only if they get a conviction. Hopefully your refusal of bail is not a vote of no confidence in your attorney’s ability to win this case.”

“And you said the prosecution has two weeks to organize their case against me, right?”

“Exactly. They have two weeks after having arraigned you on murder to bring you before the grand jury seeking an indictment. During those two weeks I’ll be communicating with them also.”

“If I don’t have to talk in the courtroom tomorrow, then why wait?” I asked her. She looked at me curiously. “You said that you’re my lawyer. You can go hear the charges and tell me about it. I’ll be locked up already,” I said solemnly.

I don’t like those hand- and footcuffs and the chain that connected them together and me to the others. Behind bars I would be confined, true, but I could still move around and work out, I believed. More importantly, behind bars I could make prayer, I believed. In the bullpen, in the courthouse, before the judge and prosecution, I was hemmed in and still protecting my true identity. I had been six days without prayer, like those American cats who were locked up with me. Of course I could pray within myself, silently, but I could not make the
salat
or press my head to the floor.

“Why wouldn’t you want bail?” she asked me sternly.

“I’m alone in this world. I have no family. The guardian I do have, he has no money, no property. He’s sick and won’t be able to come to court or anything like that,” I told her because that’s what I wanted her to believe, and because it was also what anyone would believe about any African American: no family, no money, no property.

“Sick, how sick?” she asked me.

“He had a stroke, can’t talk and can barely see,” I told her, sealing her options or anyone else’s of interviewing him. “Besides, if he knew I was here, it would kill him. I can’t let him find out. I can’t let that happen.” She looked moved.

“Regarding the murder, the person you were protecting, was she or was he a friend, neighbor, or a relative? Was it a small boy or girl? Or were you protecting an animal?” she asked me. I paused. We stared at each other for some seconds.

I was curious if she caught on to me, the way I caught on to her. I was hoping my silence could convey to her that of course I was protecting people I know and love, my sister, a blood relation, and my wife who hurled the knife. Our Mrs. Marcy, who was our family’s only loved senior in the USA. But at the same time, of course, I was never going to tell her or anyone else that aloud and have some dishonorable authority sentence me to twenty-five years to life, like the good detective wanted to do, over the slaughter of a lesser man. She and I both knew and understood that this particular murder had to be committed, I could tell.

“How much time could I get for ‘resisting arrest’?” I asked her, overlooking all of her most serious questions.

“Six months to a year,” she said. “It depends on how bad they want to keep you. And then there’s the possibility of an ‘assaulting a police officer’ charge. There are a lot of variables. Maybe an officer or even the accusing detective will show up, and his presence in the courtroom may impact the judge in a particular way.”