The Last Good Girl (31 page)

The audience was packed with family, friends, journalists, and curious court employees. Dylan's parents sat in the row behind their son, stiff-backed, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore everything around them.

Jack sat in the row behind Anna, in the audience. “It's your case,” he'd said. “I'm just here for moral support.” He was trying to do what she'd asked—give her more authority, more autonomy as a lawyer. He was taking a backseat so she could run her own case. She tried to smile as she thanked him.

Dylan's lawyer stood next to him. She'd seen his name on briefs and in the
ABA Journal
often enough, but this was the first time Anna had met Justin Dillon in person. He was a slim, handsome man who looked younger than his prominence would suggest. He wore a tailored gray suit and stood pointing a finger at Anna.

“The prosecutor's conduct has been egregious.” Justin said it with so much conviction, Anna almost believed it herself. She had to remind herself that
she
was the prosecutor, and she'd done nothing wrong.

“To begin, she kicked the defendant in the groin,” Justin said.

Judge Ella Hughes peered at Anna over her reading glasses. She was a pretty woman with strawberry blond hair and a reputation for intelligence. “Is that true, Ms. Curtis?”

Anna stood. “Yes, Your Honor, I did have to use a defensive move when the defendant grabbed me during questioning. Mr. Dillon has already moved to recuse me, and Judge Schwalbe is holding an evidentiary hearing on the matter on Monday.”

The judge nodded and sighed. “At this point, I'll credit the prosecutor. A suspect can't get a prosecutor removed from his case by assaulting her. We'll move the evidentiary hearing to my calendar. Anything else, Mr. Dillon?”

“She had a plane detained without the proper FAA paperwork,” Justin said. “She accompanied the FBI agent onto the plane to arrest the defendant, making herself a witness to the arrest. And she deliberately made an end run around Judge DeLuca.”

Wait till he hears what my sister did with nail polish,
Anna thought.

“Ms. Curtis?” said the judge.

“The government's actions in this case have been proper, Your Honor. The airline voluntarily helped us. A prosecutor may of course accompany a police officer, and I did not become a necessary witness—Agent Randazzo is perfectly qualified to testify about everything that happened on the plane. Finally, the grand jury is entitled to make its own finding of probable cause. This grand jury heard even more evidence than was in the complaint and arrest warrant quashed by Judge DeLuca. This indictment is perfectly valid. We're here today for the very simple procedure of arraigning Mr. Highsmith: reading the charges against him, hearing his plea, and making an initial determination about whether he should be held in jail.”

“I agree,” the judge said. “Defense counsel, please limit yourself to those issues for now. There will be an appropriate forum to discuss allegations of misconduct at a later time, if you choose.”

“Oh, I will,” Justin said ominously.

Anna sighed. Attacking the prosecutor was often part of the defense strategy, even when there wasn't so much to work with. She tried not to take such allegations personally, although they always felt personal. She saw the reporters scribbling in their notebooks and imagined this afternoon's headline: “Prosecutor Accused of Misconduct.”

“The defendant clearly poses a risk of flight,” Anna said, trying to get the hearing back on track. “For three reasons. The first is where he was arrested, on a flight bound to Venezuela . . .”

After an hour of argument from both sides, the judge agreed with Anna. Dylan was ordered held. A marshal led Dylan back to the holding cell. It was a satisfying sight. At moments like this, Anna felt like there was nothing in the world more gratifying than being a sex-crimes prosecutor, knowing that her efforts had gotten a predator off the streets.

The crowd started filing out of the courtroom. Anna picked up her phone and looked at what had come in during the hearing. The title of a new message jolted her. She read its contents twice, to be sure.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
March 30, 2015

Re:
Identification of Remains

Per your request, the FBI DNA Laboratory expedited its review of the female remains found in Detroit's Central Station. A DNA profile was determined and compared to the known profile of C-1. The chart below shows the respective alleles at twelve locales. You will note that none of the alleles are a match. We conclude that the person found in the elevator shaft is not the same person as C-1, to a scientific certainty.

The Laboratory then ran the DNA profile of the decedent in the Combined DNA Index System [also known as CODIS]. The decedent's profile matched the known sample of one Kathleen Legendre, a.k.a. Lola Isblissful, to a one in 545,000,000 certainty. Ms. Legendre's DNA was added to CODIS when she was convicted of one count of aggravated assault in 2011. Her NCIC record is attached.

Anna scanned the NCIC criminal history. The girl in the elevator shaft was a homeless felon. Where was Emily Shapiro?

Anna went over to the defense table. “I'd like to set up a meeting to talk to your client.”

“No thanks.”

“There's still a missing girl. Your client was the last one to see her. We need to know what he knows.”

“I'm not letting him talk to you.”

“If you sit down with me today, I'll give you early discovery. I'll turn over the grand jury transcripts to you now, instead of months from now, which, as you know, is perfectly within my rights.”

She was offering him a good deal, and one that could hurt her. Sam's testimony in the grand jury summed up the entire investigation. Justin could start making allegations of misconduct immediately. He already wanted to turn the entire case into a witch hunt about what Anna had done—and this would give him the basis he needed to try. She was willing to take that risk. Only Dylan knew what had happened to Emily. Only he could give that closure to her family.

“I'll give you an attorney proffer,” Justin said.

“Okay,” she said. “If we do it now.”

Dylan poisoned Fenwick. That asshole went to the vet clinic, took the dog for a walk, and fed him rat poison.

Or Peter did it—for Dylan. Or with Dylan. Who knows. They're sick, they're just totally sick.

I went to the clinic today for our regular walk. But when I opened the door to Fenwick's little cubby, he didn't jump up like normal. He was lying in a corner, a pile of yellow fur over ribs going up and down too fast. His eyes were all dull. I went up to him and was like, “Hey, Fennie, what's wrong?” He didn't move, just licked my hand. He didn't give me that happy Fenwick smile.

I'm thinking he's sick, but a walk'll be good for him. So I put the leash on, and he still doesn't get up. I give him a tug and I'm like, “Come on boy, let's go.” He gets up real slow like it hurts him to move and comes with me to the front of the clinic. Walking like an old man, hanging his head down, taking forever. And then, right in front of the front desk, he starts shaking all over, and then convulsing, and I look at the guy behind the desk, like, what's going on? Then Fenwick throws up: this big mound of pink meat, right there in the middle of the waiting room.

He's shaking and twitching like crazy. I'm yelling for the vets to come, and someone in a white coat runs out and bundles him away. I try to go with, but they say I can't go back in the vet area. So I'm standing there, shaking almost as much as Fenwick, and I look at the vomit. It's half-digested hot dogs and these little turquoise pellets. I show it to the guy behind the desk. He's one of the student vets, and he's like, “That's rat poison.”

I'm going, oh my God, oh my God. Then I'm, like, “Where did Fenwick get rat poison and hot dogs from? Do you keep those in the clinic?” And the guy is like, “No, that's terrible for them, we wouldn't keep it here.” So I go, “Did anyone else walk him today?” And he looks in the log—'cause you have to leave an ID when you take a dog out—and it says Peter York walked him this morning.

Peter York. Dylan's best friend. I'm like, “Are you going to arrest him?” And the guy's like, “We're not the dog police.” I'm like, “So anyone can walk in here and poison a dog?” And he's like, “We'll take care of this; go home and get some rest; you're hysterical.” “You're hysterical” is what men say to women when they don't give a shit and think you shouldn't either.

They pumped Fenwick's stomach, but it wasn't enough. He'd eaten too much poison. So now they have him in surgery, with some vet student doing whatever vet students do. And I'm back here just pacing and pacing and waiting to hear from them. They promised they'd call when he got out. Do you think they'll call? They might forget. I'll call them now. I've already called three times, though.

Oh crap. I really can't handle this. That dog was the one thing in Tower that really loved me. I swear, if Fenwick doesn't make it, I'm going to fucking lose it.

T
hey sat in an interview room in the basement of the courthouse, a windowless cubby with a small table and four chairs. Anna and Sam faced Dylan and his lawyer across the table.

In the courtroom, Dylan had managed to look polite and confused for the benefit of the cameras and judge. Back here, he was free to cross his arms over his orange jumpsuit and glare. Anna was happy that was the only thing he was free to do. After their conversation, he would be put on a prison bus and transported back to a central detention facility.

“Mr. Highsmith,” Anna said, “we're here for a proffer. Agent Randazzo and I would like to know your side of the story, and your attorney is willing to give it to us.”

“But I'll be doing the speaking,” Justin said to his client, “as we discussed. Only me. You don't say anything.”

Anything that came from the lawyer's mouth during the proffer could not be used against Dylan. But they could use it to find Emily. If Dylan himself said something, it was fair game anywhere.

Dylan nodded. He'd been prepped.

“So,” Anna said, “why don't you tell us what happened between Dylan and Emily the night of March 23?”

Justin read from his notes.

“On March 23, my client went to two classes at Tower, the final one of which ended at four
P.M.
He then returned to the Beta Psi house, which is his residence, and worked on some flyers for his Readers Are Leaders campaign.”

Anna managed not to roll her eyes. She didn't want to interrupt. She'd listen to whatever sugarcoated story he'd tell her, and then follow up with questions.

“At around 11:45
P.M.
, he and some other young men decided to leave the fraternity house and patronize some local bars. Around midnight, they arrived at Lucky's. Ms. Shapiro was apparently just leaving the bar. Dylan said hello to her and they exchanged a few more words.” The lawyer looked down at his notes. He was reading them Dylan's story. “Ms. Shapiro was highly intoxicated. My client was concerned about her walking home alone. He offered to walk with her. She refused and began walking away. He followed in order to make sure she was all right. She began running, and he jogged to keep up with her. But she told him to leave her alone. So he turned around and rejoined his friends at the bar.”

Justin looked up.

“That's it?” Anna asked. “You're done?”

“That's all that happened.”

“We pulled all the video from that night. It shows Dylan chasing Emily down the street. It doesn't show him turning around and walking back to the bar.”

“He went back through the neighborhood, which was quieter, and used the bar's back door.”

“Do you have people who can attest to that?”

Justin gave her the names of six Beta Psis. She would follow up with them.

“Why was Emily's blood on Dylan's car?” Anna asked.

“He has no idea.”

“Why was her scarf in his room?”

“Ah. It fell off when the young lady was stumbling home. Dylan picked it up and tried to give it back to her, but she kept walking. He held on to it thinking he would give it to her at a later time.”

“What was Dylan doing in Detroit that night?”

Justin looked uncertain for the first time. He leaned over and whispered to his client. Dylan gestured and whispered loudly. Justin turned to Anna. “Excuse me. I need a moment alone with my client.”

Sam and Anna walked out of the room and shut the door. A burly U.S. marshal was sitting outside, keeping guard. Anna offered everyone a mint and checked her phone.

The top headline in the
Detroit Free Press
read: “Frat Used Medical Cadavers to Decorate House.” It described how dental records had matched the skeleton in Beta Psi's basement to a person who had donated his body to the medical school. Family members had initiated a class action lawsuit against the fraternity. Anna hoped they got some tremendous settlement; at the same time she was relieved that the bones weren't from a more heinous crime.

She clicked over to the national news. One of the top stories on CNN was: “Rape Protesters Pay Fine with Mattress.” She scrolled through the story. Tower's top lawyer sent bills to dozens of students who'd taken mattresses from their dorms to carry in the protest. He fined them $250 each, for destruction of university property, citing a section of the student handbook that said university furniture couldn't be taken out of dorm rooms.

The protesters responded by paying the fine in a single big check made out to Tower University in the amount of $35,250, written on a twin-sized mattress. A group of pretty young women stood on the steps of the administration's headquarters holding up the mattress check. It immediately went viral, as evidenced by the fact that Anna was reading it on CNN.com.