Hate Crime (13 page)

“Your honor, equity always plays a larger role in continuance motions, and here—”

“No, I’m sorry, counsel.” He eased back into his black leather chair. “When you raised the public policy concerns, you had me going for a moment. But you have to realize there are many factors that favor going forward—principally an increasingly clogged criminal docket. Also, if I continue this case for three months, the jury will have to be dismissed and a new one impaneled. And for what? So you can appease the public? So you can develop a defense that’s more in your style? I’m sorry, Ms. McCall, but you just haven’t given me adequate grounds for a continuance. Motion denied.”

“But your honor, the needs of—”

He looked at her harshly. “Here in Cook County, Ms. McCall, when the judge says he’s ruled, it’s over. Move on.”

Christina reluctantly turned to the next page. That was by far her best shot—the motions to suppress evidence were major-league long shots.

After Tony Barovick’s body was found in the frat house, the Chicago PD put out an APB and began rounding up every member. They found Johnny and Brett, along with several other frat boys, at Remote Control, the bar where Tony had worked. A visual inspection showed that both Johnny and Brett had scraped knuckles and blood splatters on their clothing. They arrested the two and read them their rights. Johnny stayed cool for a while, but the police continued to needle him, hoping he would do exactly what he did—display some of the temper that would’ve been necessary to exact the punishment visited on Tony Barovick. He pushed the officers away, screaming, “Who the fuck cares what happened to that flaming faggot?”

It was not a confession, but to the jury, it would have the exact same effect.

“First of all, your honor, we move to strike from the prosecution’s witness list all those persons who overheard statements made by Johnny Christensen and Brett Mathers at the bar the night of the murder. Allowing them to repeat what was said by a third party is, by definition, hearsay.”

“We don’t disagree,” said Drabble, rising once again. “But it falls within acknowledged hearsay exceptions. The defendant’s statements are admissions against his interest. His partner’s statements are admissible because the declarant is obviously unavailable—being dead.”

“Hearsay exceptions are allowed at the court’s discretion,” Christina rejoined, “and should only be permitted where the circumstances suggest reliability. Here, there are no such assurances. The men were all drinking heavily. The two suspects were both puffing, trying to impress their friends.”

“By bragging about mercilessly beating a man,” Drabble added.

“The point is that nothing about this scenario suggests trustworthiness.”

Lacayo shook his head. “I’m sorry, counsel. Once again, I can’t agree with you. The statements combined with the close proximity in time to the murder suggest trustworthiness to me. The fact that they even knew a beating had taken place so soon after the event, only minutes after the body was found, suggests that the statements were truthful. And, frankly, if someone’s stupid enough to make remarks of that nature in a public place, they deserve to hear them repeated in court.”

“Pardon me, sir, but it sounds as if you’re punishing my client for being stupid.”

“No, ma’am. Life punishes the stupid. No need for the courts to get involved.”

Christina felt her knees weakening. She was bombing out here, and she damn well knew it. If she couldn’t do better than this, Johnny Christensen was a dead man.

She glanced over her shoulder to the front row of the gallery. Since her client hadn’t been released for this hearing, his mother—as the woman who had hired Christina—was the most important person in the room. Ellen Christensen sat with a remarkably stoic expression.

“Your honor,” Christina said, trying to pull herself together, “if I might direct your attention to one statement made by my client after he was taken into custodial arrest.”

“That’s the one we like to call ‘the confession,’ ” Drabble said.

Christina flashed him an evil look.

“You’re talking about the”—Lacayo cleared his throat, then spoke in lowered tones—“the ‘flaming faggot’ remark?”

“Yes, your honor. Contrary to being a confession, this statement isn’t even relevant to the crime. It doesn’t indicate what he did or did not do, only his . . . opinion regarding persons of different sexual preference. It should be excluded, since it is potentially damaging and not probative of the matter at issue.”

“I greatly disagree,” Drabble said. For the first time, his voice rose. “This statement is uniquely probative of one important fact—the defendant’s venomous hatred of homosexuals. This was a hate crime. And this statement evidences that hate more clearly than I could do in a thousand closing arguments.”

“I’m sure the DA would love to have this statement in his closing argument,” Christina said, “but that doesn’t make it relevant.”

“It goes to motive,” Drabble said. “More than that, actually. It proves motive.”

Lacayo shook his head. “I’m afraid that once again I’m inclined to agree with the prosecutor.”

Christina tore desperately through her notes. “What about Miranda rights?”

Lacayo glanced down at his briefs. “I have an affidavit stating that the rights were read and that the defendant waived them.”

“The defendant had been drinking,” Christina insisted. “His table was littered with tequila shot glasses. The police saw that. They knew he was in a vulnerable mental state. So they read him his rights real quick and started pounding him with questions.”

“Again, counsel, I’m not willing to give the man special privileges because he voluntarily engaged in foolish conduct.”

“Your honor, if the police can do this, they could pick up any kid who’s had a few too many and start hassling him till he says something incriminating. No one would be safe.”

Lacayo removed his glasses. “I think this is getting a bit far-fetched.”

“It goes to consent, sir, and the Constitution and the rulings of the U.S. Supreme Court require that Miranda rights be knowingly waived before the police may question. In his state of mind, he couldn’t possibly—”

“Let’s just cut through the baloney, could we?” Lacayo said, revealing another spark of temper. “Do you have any evidence indicating that your client did not understand his rights when they were read to him?”

Christina hesitated. “Well, the whole scenario—”

“I thought not. And if this man had his wits about him enough to brag about a hideous crime, he was able to understand the rights which he’s probably heard on television a thousand times before. Forgive me for saying so, counsel, but this argument is weak.”

“Your honor—”

“I don’t normally try to advise counsel, but I’m going to make an exception here, Ms. McCall, because you’re new to our court. I know this case has been thrust upon you in difficult circumstances. But you do not do your client any favors with these desperate arguments.”

Christina’s lips parted.

“To the contrary. By making it seem as if you’re floundering about, grasping for any straw no matter how feeble, you disincline the court to grant any relief in your favor and make a bad situation worse.”

Christina was speechless. Chewed out in open court, in front of the woman who hired her and a host of state and national media. Of course Lacayo was grandstanding for the reporters, but that made no difference. This was devastating.

“The best thing you can do now,” the judge continued, “is to stop making motions, go to trial, present what evidence you may have in a calm and reasoned manner, and let justice take its course. That public policy you were so concerned about earlier is not served by these frivolous attempts to suppress the truth.”

Christina fell into her seat, so choked she couldn’t speak.

“Your motion is denied. All your motions are denied. So if there is nothing else—”

“If I may, your honor,” Drabble cut in. “The state has a pending motion to bifurcate the evidentiary portion of the case from the sentencing portion. I filed a brief.”

The judge nodded. “I don’t have any problem with that.”

“Wait just one moment,” Christina said. “I didn’t get his brief.”

Lacayo peered across the room at her. “You have not received a copy?”

“Excuse me,” Drabble said, “but isn’t that your copy on your table, Ms. McCall? In the manila envelope.” He turned back to the judge. “I handed it to her myself.”

Christina ripped open the top envelope he had given her a few minutes before—that she had volunteered to carry for him. Sure enough—a motion to bifurcate.

The man had suckered her. Not once. But twice.

“So when you told the court that you did not have the brief, Ms. McCall,” the judge said, obviously angry, “that was something less than the truth?”

“I—I guess—I had it. I just didn’t—”

“Ms. McCall,” Judge Lacayo said, “this court feels just as strongly about truthfulness as it does about punctuality.”

“Of course, but—”

“Perhaps the least appealing quality of the unprepared lawyer is the tendency to make excuses for her failures.”

“But your honor—”

“The motion to bifurcate will be granted. This hearing is adjourned. Have a nice weekend, and I will see you all again Monday morning when we begin this trial.” He glared at Christina. “And I will expect rather better preparation and performance than I have seen in this courtroom today.” He slammed the gavel.

As soon as Lacayo was out of the courtroom, the noise level in the courtroom became deafening, at least to Christina. She just hoped to God that Drabble didn’t come over to extend his sympathies. That would be too much. She might have to slug the man. The reporters would be waiting for her outside, but she knew if she sweet-talked the judge’s clerk, he might let her exit via chambers.

So this was what it had come to—sneaking away from the courtroom, head hung in shame. What the hell had she thought she was doing when she took this case? She might sneak away from the reporters, but she knew she would still have to face Ellen, if not here, then back at Kevin’s office. What would she say?

She needed help. She didn’t like to admit it, but it was true. She was in over her head. As she packed away her materials, she noticed an e-mail she had printed out this morning.
INTERNS SEEKING PART-TIME POSITIONS
.

If Ben refused to help her, he couldn’t complain if she found someone else who would, right?

By the time she’d made it back to the street, Christina was already on her cell phone setting up interviews. As far as she was concerned, she had no choice. After a performance like today’s, she had to do something. Anything. Because when this trial started, it would be about a good deal more than her professional reputation. It would be about whether a young man who insisted he hadn’t committed a murder would be sentenced to death—because his attorney blew it.

13

Charlie the Chicken sat opposite the desk and stared at the man in the gray, off-the-rack J.C. Penney’s suit. He was the natty sort—everything in its place. You could see it on his desk; you could see it in his clothes. A hanky tucked in his jacket pocket. Even wore a tie tack, for God’s sake.

“Tell me about yourself,” the man said, folding his hands into each other.

“Sure.” It was a tiny office with plywood walls; the man shared space with a bail bondsman. “I grew up on the South Side. Dropped out of high school, moved downtown. Adventures in the big city—you know how it goes. Had some idea I was going to get involved with a theater company, but so far that hasn’t happened. I had to take a trip out of town recently, and . . . unfortunately, that caused a break with my previous employer. Now I’m back and looking for something to do.”

“Are you still interested in theater work?”

“Yeah. But at the moment, I need to earn some bread. But that’s okay. I mean—it’s all performing, isn’t it? When you get right down to it. Playing a role. Assuming a character. Trying to please the audience.”

Charlie had to fight to keep from laughing. Even a grin would probably be a mistake at this juncture. Who knew how much of a sense of humor this guy had, given what he did for a living? He came off as such a starched shirt. Charlie had expected a significantly higher sleaze factor—silk shirt, or perhaps Hawaiian, open at the collar, collar flared. Fat, feet on the desk, leaning back in the chair. Like a porn film producer, maybe. Instead, he got the man in the gray flannel suit.

“As you might imagine,” the man continued, “our hours are at times somewhat irregular and unpredictable. Would that be a problem?”

“Not at all.”

“Afternoons are common. And sometimes late nights. Very late.”

Charlie spread wide his hands. “Hey, I’m at your disposal.”

“Splendid. Do you have a cell phone?”

“No. Unfortunately, I’ve had to scale back a bit of late. Cut out the nonessentials.”

“I understand entirely.”

The most remarkable part, all things considered, was how utterly respectable this office seemed. From all outward appearances, he might as well be interviewing for a job as church secretary, perhaps the mayor’s aide. But this sort of thing had to be low-key, he supposed. Couldn’t attract attention. A big neon sign reading
PIMP
would probably be a mistake.

“Do you have any hobbies? Other than your theater work?”

“Well, I haven’t had too much time for it lately, but, yeah, I love to read. Haunt the libraries, you know. Learned most of my best tricks and techniques there, courtesy of the Cook County taxpayers. And I make boxes.”

“Boxes?”

“Hard to explain. I got the idea last time I was in Santa Fe. It’s kind of like painting, except on a three-dimensional surface. Sometimes I follow a theme, sometimes I go more abstract. I got one in a gallery on Michigan once. Never sold, though.”

The man smiled pleasantly. “My late wife was fond of miniatures. Little dollhouses, I called them.”

Charlie tried to suppress his urge to barf. “Well, that’s . . . somewhat similar, yeah.”

“Where are you living?”

“I’m kind of between places at the moment. I’d been rooming with a guy for years but . . . well, you know how these things shake out sometimes. It didn’t work anymore. Then I left town and, since I’ve been back, I’ve been squatting in a real dive. One of those rent-by-the-week joints. I think some of my neighbors may be renting in five-minute increments.”