Moment of Truth (6 page)

“Yes, I head the estates department. After I told the police what had happened, they started asking me questions and I realized I was out of my depth. I wanted to talk to a criminal lawyer before I signed the confession. I figured I could plead guilty, and with a criminal lawyer, I could get the best deal.”

“Why did you talk to the police at all? As a lawyer, you had to know not to.”

“I was emotional, I was all over the place, but I’m not expecting miracles from you. I don’t expect you to get me off. As I said, I’m fully prepared to plead guilty.” His tone remained calm and even commanding, but his eyes seemed uneasy to Mary. His jaw clenched and unclenched, suggesting buried emotion.

“Mr. Newlin, Jack, I see why you want to plea bargain. They’ll have a ton of evidence against you. But it’s kind of premature to talk about pleading anything now.”

“Why?”

Mary didn’t know. It seemed like common sense. “It’s common sense. I’m not sure what kind of deal we can get you at this point. First, you confessed, and they have the videotape, so your bargaining power is already low. Secondly, you have a preliminary hearing coming up, which is where they have to prove they have enough evidence to hold you.” She was remembering from her bar review course. Had the Constitution been amended when she wasn’t looking? “Why should we try to bargain before then? In the meantime, we can do our own investigation.”

“Your investigation?”

“We always do our own investigation for the defense.” At least they had on
Steere
and
Connolly,
Mary’s universe of experience with murder cases.

“But I told you what happened.”

“We have to learn about the evidence against you.” For verification, Mary glanced at Judy, who smiled yes. “We have to understand the prosecution’s case against you with regard to degree and possible penalties. We need a colorable defense to threaten them with. We can’t bargain from weakness.”

“Hear me, Mary. I want this over with now.” Jack’s mouth set in a firm line, and Mary frowned in confusion.

“But it’s not usually the defendant who benefits from a rush to judgment, it’s the Commonwealth. Rushing hasn’t helped you so far. If you had called us before you talked to the police, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. We’re talking about a possible death penalty, do you realize that?”

He seemed to gloss over the statement. “I want it over with because I want my family affected as little as possible. I have a daughter, Paige, a sixteen-year-old who’s a model. She’s still got a career if this blows over quickly and quietly. She doesn’t even know that her mother is dead. In fact, I’d like you to go to Paige’s apartment and tell her. I don’t want her to hear it from TV or the police.”

“Her apartment? She doesn’t live at home?”

“No. Paige has her own place. Her condo is right in Society Hill, it’s not far.” Jack rattled off an address that Mary jotted down. “Please go after we’re finished here. Can you imagine hearing the news from the police?”

Mary met his gaze again, and his eyes focused intently, suddenly lucid with concern. Could someone who had killed his wife worry this much about their daughter? It was confounding. “You want me to tell your daughter? I’m not sure what to say.”

“Tell her everything. Tell her the truth. Tell her what I told you tonight.”

“I can’t do that. What you told us is privileged.”

“Not as against her. I waive the privilege as against her.”

“You can’t.” Mary double-checked with Judy, who was already shaking her head no. “It wouldn’t be in your best interest. What if they called her as a witness at your trial?”

“What trial? I’m going to plead guilty.”

Damn. “You can’t be sure you’ll plead guilty and we have to preserve your options. That’s why I won’t tell your daughter any more than necessary. I’ll tell her that her mother is dead and that her father is being held by the police.”

“But I want Paige to know that I’m owning up to what I did. I want her to know that as awful as I am, at least I’m not so cowardly as to avoid responsibility for my crime.” His strong jaw set solidly, but Mary noticed that small muscle near his ear was clenching again. Eyes and jaws, what did it mean? Anything? Nothing?

“Fine, I’ll tell her that you’re considering a guilty plea, but that’s it. The cops will probably leak that much by tomorrow morning. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Also, I have to ask you a personal favor, if I may.” Jack looked plainly uncomfortable, which disarmed Mary. A handsome, wealthy killer who acted like a nice guy. Confusing, to say the least.

“Sure, what?”

“Paige will be very upset about this news. If she is, would you stay with her awhile? She doesn’t have many friends.”

“Yes,” Mary answered, though it went without saying. But something didn’t jibe. A pretty, rich girl, without friends? What was up with this family? “What about her classmates? Where does she go to school?”

“Paige is not your typical sixteen-year-old. She looks adult, acts adult, and earns money like an adult. She’s privately schooled around her work schedule. She left most of her peer group behind a long time ago, and her boyfriend, at least this latest one, isn’t much help. Just stay with her until she feels better and see if she wants to come see me. I’d love to see her tonight and try to explain this to her.”

“I’ll tell her that, too.” Mary couldn’t imagine the daughter wanting to see her father in these circumstances. She stood up and packed her pad and pen away. “I think we’re finished here, for now. The next step for you is an arraignment, which is when they charge you formally and make a bail determination. I would guess they’ll do that in the morning, but there’s a chance that it could happen tonight.” She glanced at Judy, who nodded. “Judy will stay at the Roundhouse until I get back, in case they do. Do you have any questions?” Mary stood up with her packed briefcase, and Jack smiled, which had the effect of making her feel like a grade school kid, her briefcase transformed into a school bag.

“No questions at all. You did pretty well,” he said, and she laughed, flushing, as she led Judy to the door.

“Beginner’s luck. See you in the morning.”

“Take care of Paige,” he said, and the slight crack in his voice made Mary pause.

“Don’t worry,” she heard herself say, without understanding why.

When a homicide as big as Honor Newlin’s happens in a city as small as Philadelphia, everybody knows about it right away. Emergency dispatch hears first, then homicide detectives, EMS drivers, reporters tuned to police scanners, the M.E., the crime labs, and the deputy police commissioners. Simultaneously the mayor, the police commissioner, and the district attorney get beeped, and the district attorney assigns the case as soon as the call comes in. The assignment, as crucial as it is, doesn’t take much thought, because the result is preordained. In death, as in life, everybody has a pecking order; when a nobody gets killed, the case gets assigned to any one of a number of bright young district attorneys, all smart as hell and fungibly ambitious. But the murder of a woman the status of Honor Newlin, by a lawyer the status of Jack Newlin, could go to only one district attorney.

“Go away,” Dwight Davis said, picking up the phone.

Even though it was late, Davis was at his desk at the D.A.’s office, putting the finishing touches on a brief. His desk was cluttered, the room harshly bright, and a Day-Glo blue jug of Gatorade sat forgotten on his desk. A marathon runner by hobby, Davis seemed hardwired never to tire. A constant current of nervous energy crackled though his body, and if he missed his daily run, he was unbearable. The secretaries had been known to throw his sneakers at him, a heavy hint to take off, since they thought Davis got away from work by running. They didn’t know that when he ran, all he thought about, stride after stride, mile after mile, was work. Murder cases, crime scenes, and jury speeches fueled his longest and best workouts.

“You’re shittin’ me,” Davis said into the phone. “At
Tribe
?”

He often woke up with a legal argument on the tip of his tongue. He thought up his best closing arguments on the john. He told the funniest war stories in the D.A.’s office and laughed the hardest at everyone else’s. Nothing thrilled, intrigued, or delighted him as much as being a prosecutor. In short, he loved his job.

“They got it on video? That, plus the nine-one-one tapes? Oh that’s beautiful, that’s just beautiful!”

Davis burst into merry laughter. At what? At how the mighty had fallen? No, he wasn’t mean. He was just happy. Happy to be alive, now, here, to draw the Newlin case. It was the reason he had turned down being promoted every time they’d offered it to him. The pay was better but he didn’t want to process vacation requests, count sick days, hire secretaries, or fire paralegals. Why be a desk jockey when you can try cases? Why walk when you can run? And why try birdshit when you can try Jack Newlin?

“They got the knife? They got his prints on the knife? Tell ’em to move their asses down there!”

He couldn’t stop smiling, he felt so good. The biggest case in the city, bar none, and Newlin had the bucks to hire the best. Competition thrilled Davis, and he had the best record in the office. Why did he win so much? The question engendered gossip, speculation, and jealousy among the other D.A.s. Some thought he won because he was decent-looking and juries loved him. Not a bad theory. Clear hazel eyes, thick black hair, a well-formed mouth, and a sinewy runner’s body. He was just under average height, but even his relative shortness worked in his favor; he managed to appeal to women jurors without threatening male jurors. But his looks weren’t why he won.

“Who’s on it from Two Squad? Brinkley, Kovich? Excellent!” Davis ran a hand through his hair, cut short for convenience. “Chief, don’t let Diego anywhere near that house, you hear? The man’s a loose cannon!”

Other D.A.s thought Davis won because he worked his ass off. It was plausible, considering his hours. He lived the job and was there all the time; in the morning when others straggled in and at night when others staggered home. The life of a typical D.A. was a constant battle for time; it was almost impossible to try cases all day in court and still do the paperwork that had to get done, but Davis managed both. Of course, he had no personal life. His marriage didn’t survive the first year and they’d had no children. He kept a small, empty apartment in town. He didn’t even have a dog to run with. But his dedication wasn’t why he won, either.

“Who’s Newlin got for representation? Don’t tell me it’s a P.D., not with his money. Hey, I heard a good joke, Chief—what do a nun and a public defender have in common?
Neither can get you off!
”

The reason Davis won was simple: he won because he loved to win. The man was a self-fulfilling prophecy with a briefcase. He won for the same reason that money comes to the rich and fortune to the lucky. Winning was his favorite thing in the world. Winning was what Davis did for fun.

“Who? DiNunzio? What’s a
DiNunzio
?”

He loved to win like a thoroughbred loves to race. As a little boy he’d shoot the moon, playing hearts at the kitchen table, and as a college quarterback he’d try the Hail Mary to the end zone. In court, he did anything he had to do to win, took whatever risks he had to take, and made whatever arguments he had to make. And it was precisely because he took those risks and made those arguments that they became the right risks and the right arguments and he won. Nor was Davis afraid of losing. He knew that losing was proof of being in the game. You couldn’t win if you were afraid of losing.

“Oh, oh, only one problem, Chief,” he said suddenly. “Bad news. I just realized something. I can’t take the Newlin case. I can’t take this case for you.”

His expression sobered abruptly. His face fell into the lines of nascent middle age, a wrinkle that bracketed his full mouth and a tiny pitchfork that popped in the middle of his forehead. Something chased the delight from his keen eyes. His mouth drooped at the corners.

“Why, you ask? Why can’t I take the Newlin case, Chief? I’ll tell you why.
Because it’s too fuckin’ easy!
”

He howled with laughter as he hung up and threw his Bic pen at the dartboard hanging across from his desk. He didn’t look to see where the pen had landed because it didn’t matter. He rose quickly and grabbed a fresh legal pad, for that clean-slate feeling. Davis didn’t have time for games.

He was on his way to a murder scene.

Detective Reginald Brinkley stood alone in Two Squad’s coffee room, which was shaped like a shoe box on its end. Yellowed panels of fluorescent lighting intensified the grim cast to the room without illuminating it. Sparsely furnished as the rest of the Roundhouse, the coffee room contained a steel-legged table on which rested a Bunn coffee machine and a square brown refrigerator. Everybody used the coffee machine; nobody used the refrigerator. Inside it was an open can of Coke, a white plastic fork, and twenty-odd packets of soy sauce.