Stray Bullets (36 page)

“This is a message I received ten minutes ago from the jury foreperson,” he said. “It reads: ‘Your Honor, we are deadlocked.’”

He called the jurors back in and admonished them in his best, deep, judge’s voice. Told them they were in a better position to find a verdict than any jury could be, that he was impressed at how hard they were working, how he was absolutely certain they could arrive at a just verdict, and how important it was that they, and not another jury, reach a decision. Blah, blah, blah.

“Rothbart’s going to want a verdict soon,” Greene said, as he packed up his file, tightened his tie, and pointed to a calendar on the wall. “He’s supposed to be in New York tomorrow for his annual trip to see his Broadway buddies.”

“Holy shit,” Armitage said. “I forgot all about that.”

“I bet our honorable high court justice remembered,” Greene said.

Out in the hall the gang of reporters was thicker than ever. “Why do you think it’s taking the jury so long?” Zachery Stone asked, perching himself right under Armitage’s elbow.

“Maybe they like the free food,” he said.

“Great quote,” Stone said.

“No, no, Zack, that’s off the record.”

Everyone laughed.

Rothbart was already seated when they came into court. He was scowling. Nancy Parish rushed in, yanking on her robes, and took her seat. Rothbart drummed his fingers impatiently while Larkin St. Clair was led back in and his handcuffs were undone. He looked pale and distracted.

Rothbart unfolded a piece of paper that was the only thing on his desk. “I have another note from the jury. It says: ‘Your Honor, we are hopelessly deadlocked.’ The word ‘hopelessly’ is underlined.” He threw up his hands. “What do counsel suggest?” he asked both lawyers.

“I think you send them back out to try again,” Armitage said. As much as he feared losing the trial, the thought of having to do it all over again was even worse. Especially with Ozera still out there. God, he just wanted this to be over.

“I agree,” Parish said. She looked exhausted too.

The unwritten rule with hung juries was “three strikes you’re out.” In other words, usually judges didn’t let them off the hook and declare a mistrial until they’d complained at least three times that they couldn’t reach a verdict. More often than not, the last go-round seemed to work.

But judges, who lived in fear of being overturned by a higher court, all knew that declaring a mistrial was the one thing they could do that could never be appealed. They could do it with impunity at any time.

“I disagree,” Rothbart said, slapping his hand down on his desk. “Enough is enough. Bailiff, bring back my jury, I’m going to declare a mistrial. I’ve already got a new trial date lined up a month from now.”

This nightmare’s never going to end, Armitage thought, exchanging despondent glances with Parish. They had to do this all over again just so Ollie Rothbart could go down to New York for his little theater tour.

“Ms. Parish, how does your client feel about the hung jury?”

“Ms. Parish, is there any chance of a plea bargain now?”

“Ms. Parish, are you surprised Judge Rothbart didn’t make the jurors keep deliberating? At least for a third time?”

“Ms. Parish.”

“Ms. Parish.”

“Ms. Parish.”

Nancy Parish stood on the courthouse steps and looked across the sea of reporters in front of her. Others were on both sides of her, pushing in, shoving microphones in her face. The press called it a scrum, and their close proximity reminded her of her days playing rugby at her all-girls high school. A few weeks ago when the trial had started, she’d been shocked to have her personal space invaded in this way. Late at night, when she’d finally get home from the office and watched herself on the TV news, she’d looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

Fortunately, Ted DiPaulo and Awotwe Amankwah had been giving her some useful tips for handling the media: look directly at one camera at a time, keep her answers short, and always have one good quote. Give the reporters a six-second clip and they were happy. Her favorite trick was Awotwe’s suggestions of how to handle a question she didn’t want to answer. “Look the reporter straight in the eye and say nothing. Nothing is never news.” So far today, she hadn’t said a word.

“Ms. Parish, will you change your trial strategy next time?”

“Ms. Parish, will your client now apply for bail?”

“Ms. Parish, will you do the retrial or hand it off to another lawyer?”

Oh, how I’d love to get rid of this case, she thought. Be able to spend just one night at home. And in theory it would be a good idea to let another lawyer take a fresh look at everything. But Rothbart had set the trial date too soon. Besides, there was no way St. Clair would let her pass his file to another lawyer. A half an hour before, down in the jail cell minutes after the mistrial had been declared, he’d been in
high spirits. “Hey, Nancy, look, we didn’t lose,” he told her. “We’re still in the game.”

“Ms. Parish, what do you think swayed the jurors either way?”

“Ms. Parish, how surprised are you that the jury was hung?”

“Ms. Parish, is it tougher to do a second trial?”

That was a good question, she thought. Usually the Crown did better on a retrial. They’d seen all the holes in their case and had time to fill them. But this time, the trial had exposed new and unexpected testimony, and now Dewey Booth’s evidence was fixed under oath. This was much better for the defense than just having his affidavit. If only they could prove that he’d lied on the stand in this first trial, then Armitage’s stupid deal with Cutter would be null and void and Booth could be charged with murder. That would change everything.

“Ms. Parish, will Ralph Armitage do the second trial for the Crown?”

“Ms. Parish, if you could ask one question of the jurors, what would it be?”

“Ms. Parish, how about you? How do you feel about doing this all again?”

She scanned the crowd and saw Awotwe’s smiling black face. The only one in the all-white press corp. His was the best question of all. How did she feel about this? She put her hand up and everyone grew silent. What power I have, she thought, chuckling to herself. Amazing how suddenly everyone wanted a piece of her.

Yesterday Brett, the young waiter from the Pravda Bar who’d been scared off when he found out she was on this case, had sent her a text wishing her good luck and wondering when she was free “for a drink.” Karl, the jerk from Cleveland, had left a message on her answering machine at the office, saying he’d been reading about her trial online and expected to be back in Toronto this summer. Even her ex-husband had e-mailed her while the jury was out and wished her
“courage, mon ami.”

She picked a TV camera to stare into. “I feel very enthusiastic about doing this trail again.” It was a complete lie. She was exhausted. Dying to get back to a normal life. To stop living at the office. Find some new guy to go out with.

“My heart goes out to the Wilkinson family, who have to live through this all again. But I’m sure, like all of us, they don’t want to see the wrong person convicted of this terrible crime.”

There, she thought, that’s your six-second clip.

“Ms. Parish.”

“Ms. Parish.”

“Ms. Parish.”

“No more questions,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to work.” Actually Zelda had already texted her to meet at the Pravda and plan to take a cab home. Late.

She stepped forward and the reporters parted in front of her. It was quite remarkable how they fell away, like flies blown off by a strong wind.

By the time she got to the sidewalk, she was standing with her briefcase. Alone.

“Hello, Detective Greene,” Cedric Wilkinson said, standing in the doorway of his apartment, offering his hand to shake. “Nice of you to come over to say good-bye.”

Ari Greene hadn’t seen Wilkinson for a month, since the end of the trial. The man kept dropping pounds. It had been half a year since his son was murdered, and he looked as if he’d lost almost half his weight. “Least I could do.” He reached out and grasped Wilkinson with his free hand. In the other he held his briefcase.

Wilkinson ushered him inside. Most of the furniture had been removed. The Persian carpets were all rolled up and stacked along the living room wall, and their voices and footsteps made a hollow sound. Rows of plastic bins were piled high in the hallway. “Madeleine and Kieran left on Monday, so I’m on my own for a week. Movers come on Friday morning and I fly out later that night. There’s hardly any food here. Can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of water’s fine.”

Greene followed him into the kitchen. All of the appliances were gone from the countertop, except a big coffeemaker that was almost full. The table had a setting for one.

Wilkinson opened the fridge. Inside were an unwrapped iceberg lettuce, brown around the edges; an opened packet of sliced salami; a bowl filled with precut mini carrots; half a loaf of bread; and a jar of peanut butter with no top on it. “I don’t think I have any bottled water,” he said.

“I prefer tap water.” Greene pulled a glass from the overhead cupboard. “Tap water and public education, the only two things I believe in.”

Wilkinson chuckled. “I wish. We were going to send Kyle to public school here, but back in California no way. I’m saving up for Kieran already.” He poured himself a full cup of coffee and drank about half of it. “Figure I might as well drink as much as I want, since I don’t sleep anyway.”

Greene filled his glass over the sink.

Wilkinson took another big gulp. “If you are here to try to convince me to stay for the retrial, forget it,” he said at last.

Greene took a sip. The new trial was set to go next Tuesday, after the upcoming long holiday weekend. “I understand why you want to leave,” he said.

Wilkinson eyed the briefcase in Greene’s hand. “I spoke to the company’s lawyers and they got me a firm legal opinion. You have no legal grounds to make me stay in Canada, and once I’m in the States you can’t force me to come back.”

“Even if I could, I’d never force you.” Greene motioned toward the outdoors with his glass. “Let’s go on the balcony. Beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky.”

The porch furniture had been packed up as well. There was nowhere to sit. Not that it mattered. The trees had burst into bloom, covering the valley below in a spectacular canopy, and it was pleasant to look over the railing. Greene put his briefcase on the ground and tilted it against the barrier.

“You know, I never understood all this fuss people from up north made about the spring,” Wilkinson said. “I have to admit, a beautiful day like this after such a long winter is special.”

“Can’t beat Toronto in May,” Greene said.

Wilkinson took another big slurp of his coffee.

“I’ve got something for you.” Greene pulled a large manila envelope from his briefcase that was bulging out at the sides. “These are the cards and letters people left at the shrine outside the Tim Hortons.”

Wilkinson put his empty cup on the ground and took the package.

“Take one out. Any one,” Greene said.

Wilkinson closed his eyes and put the envelope to his forehead.

A gust of wind rolled up from the valley, blanketing them in warm air. Greene smelled the scent of lilacs.

Wilkinson pulled the envelope back, reached in, and pulled out a handmade card with childlike writing in crayon. “‘Dear family,’” he read. “‘My mommy told me what happened and I am so, so sad for your family and we love you.’ Love is spelled l-u-v.” He slipped the card back in with the others.

Greene finished his glass of water and bent to set it on the ground.

Wilkinson reached for his hand. “Let me get you another glass,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Greene said.

“I need more coffee anyhow.” He put the envelope against his heart. “I want to put this in a safe place.”

He took the glass and went back inside. Greene looked over at the impressive layer of foliage far below.

Wilkinson walked back onto the porch, coffee in one hand and water in the other. “Here,” he said, handing the glass to Greene, “take this.”

Their eyes locked.

“‘Here, take this,’” Greene said as gently as he could. “Those were the last words you said to Kyle, weren’t they?”

Wilkinson, his clothes hanging on his narrowing frame, standing against a backdrop of the blue sky, seemed suspended in space and time.

Greene picked up his briefcase.

Wilkinson watched in silence as Greene passed him a set of papers. He glanced at them for a moment, and then handed the pages back. He looked over the railing. “You know, detective, when we first got this place, I used to come out here in the mornings and stare at those trees. I’ve lived in California my whole life. I’d never seen that kind of fall color before. Like this amazing painting. Then winter came and the trees were bare. I could see all those streets, those houses. The people rushing to work. Now it’s all covered up again.”

Greene shuffled the papers in his hand. “I kept wondering about Kyle, holding that pretend cell phone, still in its wrapper. I got your cell phone records.” He pointed to one entry that he’d highlighted in yellow. “November fourteenth at five-oh-one. You took a call from your office. Probably seconds before the shots were fired.”

Wilkinson took his mug and poured the coffee over the edge. It swirled up in the wind for a moment before breaking up into liquid pieces and cascading earthward.

“You never told us you were on the phone when all this happened,” Greene said.

Wilkinson’s eyes were downcast, looking into the valley.

Greene put the papers in his case and zipped it up slowly, letting the ticking sound fill the silence between them. “Witnesses said that just before they heard the first gunshot, someone said, ‘Here, take this,’ and the voice was coming from near the front door. We assumed all along it was Dewey or Larkin.”

Wilkinson put his free hand over his eyes. “I couldn’t tell Madeleine,” he said. “She didn’t want me feeding Kyle junk food. Didn’t
want him to have a weight problem like his father. It was bad enough that this happened when I was taking him for a doughnut. But she hated the way I was on the cell all the fucking time.”