Court of Killers, page 16
“I’m probably going to be buried between now and trial. Do you need anything? Can I do anything for you?”
Camila’s raised eyebrow made that question sound more suggestive than he had intended. “I think I can manage. But let me say this so there will be no misunderstanding later. I want to testify.”
“That’s an incredibly bad idea.”
She waved his objections away. “I know what you’re going to say. It’s too dangerous. They’ll tear me to shreds on cross.”
“They will.”
“But the jury will expect me to speak. I am their mayor, after all. They know I can handle myself. If I don’t take the stand, they will assume I am hiding.”
“In a way, you are. Not in the guilty way. In the common-sense way. Because no defendant comes out of a cross looking good. Especially not when it’s handled by someone as sharp as Jazlyn.”
“Nonetheless. It is my right, and I wish to do it. If I am to have any future in politics, the people must hear my story.”
“Your primary concern should be avoiding the death penalty, not grooming your political image.”
“I’m focused on both. What’s the point of surviving this if I do nothing with the rest of my life? I will not be stifled by these people who want to crush me. I am stronger than that. I will show them my resolve.”
He knew he wasn’t going to talk her out of this. But he didn’t like it. “We don’t have to decide today. Let’s wait until the time comes. See how the trial is going.”
“I will not change my mind.”
On the one hand, he admired her strength. On the other hand, he feared she was committing suicide.
“If we fail,” she continued, “I will not blame you. I know you will do the best for me that you can, and I will accept the consequences.”
“And if we win?”
Her face brightened. “I want you to take me kitesurfing.”
He tilted his head. “It’s dangerous.”
She grinned. “Story of my life.”
Chapter 27
Dan and his team huddled around the only booth at Beachcombers, hidden in the back corner. Beachcombers had some snacks, but it was basically a bar, and a fairly seedy one at that. He liked it because it was near the marina where he kept his boat, and because it was open 24/7. And in truth, he kinda liked the seediness. It appealed to his inner beach bum. Lots of Jimmy Buffett music. Even though he had made a point of surrounding himself with the best things in this life, he could have been a Parrothead in another. Beachcombers reminded him where he came from.
“I’ve read your trial plan cover-to cover, Maria. As usual, you’ve done a magnificent job.”
She batted her hand in the air. “Thank you, sir.”
“Seriously. This is incredibly useful. If you assume that long-range strategy planning is better than my usual approach.”
“Making it up on the fly?”
“Basically.”
“We have such an unusual, even...outré crime, I don’t think the jury will believe there are a host of people who could’ve committed it,” Maria explained. “We’ll have more success if we narrow the range and suggest the crime was politically motivated. People were killed not because of who they were but because someone wanted to incriminate Camila. That seems more credible, given the circumstances. They created a heinous crime scene that couldn’t be ignored. And they left clues pointing straight to Camila. The prosecution followed their lead without seriously considering other possibilities.”
“I like it. But you’re dodging the central question. Who did it?”
“Because I don’t have an answer to that question. And let’s face it, we don’t have to prove that someone else did it. We just have to prove there is reason to doubt Camila did.”
“As long as she remains cool and collected, I think any rational person would have trouble believing she committed a crime like this.”
“Don’t assume the jury won’t be able to conceive of Camila as a murderer. There’s a gigantic amount of cynicism out there. Especially when it comes to politics.”
“And lawyers,” Garrett added. “And both will be sitting at the defense table.”
On that sobering note, all four took another drink.
“Also, kudos on the research, Garrett.”
“Does this mean I get a raise?”
“Take that up with Mr. K. But I appreciate the good work. Your witness outlines are excellent, too. Makes my job a thousand times easier.”
“That motion in limine could still come back to bite you,” Garrett warned. “Make sure you stay clear of any testimony about Camila’s temperament or demeanor.”
“Will do. Jazlyn’s got a long list of co-workers. She’s hoping that eventually someone will slip in something about the mayor’s tantrums. You think there were that many?”
“My research suggests so. Many people complained about it. A few HR reports. Camila would fly off the handle and...well, by all accounts, behave in an unprofessional manner.”
His face hardened. He sensed there was something Garrett was thinking but not saying. “What are you suggesting?”
Garrett drew in his breath. “Okay, I’m only going to say this once, but I feel it’s my obligation. Are we sure we’re on the right side of this?”
“We’re on the essential side of this. Everyone is entitled to a defense. Otherwise the system doesn’t work. Defense attorneys are all that separates the country from a fascist state run by cops and bigwigs like Sweeney.”
Garrett raised his hands. “I don’t need the sixth-grade Civics lecture. I’m just saying there is a significant amount of evidence against Camila. And no other credible suspect. You know—Sweeney isn’t completely wrong.”
“You believe Camila is a threat to the American way of life?”
“No. But this country is failing. We’re not as strong as we once were. Maybe it’s time we started rethinking things.”
“And pass the reins to rich white males?” Maria said. “Because that’s what Sweeney wants.”
“There’s a middle ground. Preserving our values without completely undermining the American character.”
“I’m sure. But we need to focus on the case, not the politics surrounding it.” He adjusted his gaze. “Jimmy, heard anything useful down at the courthouse?”
“Lots of gossip. But not much I’d call useful. I don’t sense the DA is planning any dirty tricks.”
“Jazlyn doesn’t go in for that.”
“Agreed, but her boss is calling the shots. Still, I think it will stay on the up and up.”
“Good to know.”
“On the other hand, Judge Hayes’ clerk, Meredith, tells me the judge does not like Mayor Pérez at all.”
“She said that?”
“No, of course she didn’t say that. But Meredith has worked for him almost fifteen years. She says Hayes didn’t vote for her.”
“Big surprise.”
“And wishes he hadn’t been assigned this case. The sooner it’s gone, the happier he’ll be.”
“He could dismiss the charges.”
“Natural twenty! But we both know that won’t happen.”
And he had no idea how the judge’s hostility would play out in the courtroom. But he probably shouldn’t expect any favors. Not that he ever did. “Anything else we need to discuss?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “How do we keep Sweeney from interfering with the trial?”
A thought that had troubled him as well. “I think he was just blowing smoke. I mean, seriously—what could he do?”
“Buy off the jury. Buy off the judge—who may already be on his payroll. Blow up the courthouse. Have us assassinated. I don’t think there’s anything that man wouldn’t consider. He thinks he’s the big cheese in this town, and he doesn’t like Camila Pérez sitting on the Iron Throne.”
“Sweeney talks big, but at the end of the day, I don’t see him taking major risks just to influence a trial. Why would he? The papers are acting like it’s a slam dunk, like she’s all but convicted.”
“True,” Garrett said. “Most of my friends dropped the adverb ‘allegedly’ from their discussions of this case a long time ago.”
“We’ll do our job, and do it well, because that’s how we roll. If you’ll excuse me”—he tossed a twenty onto the table—“I’m going to wander back to my boat. We should all get a good night’s sleep. Long days ahead.”
They exchanged greetings and parted.
He walked outside. The cool sea air was bracing. He loved this town, night or day. He loved the sun beaming down and the wind whistling through the palm fronds. But he also loved the stillness of the night, the lapping of the water, the quiet song of the seagull.
He stepped onto the street. Just a short walk and he’d be back at the marina. Five minutes from now, he’d be tucked—
He heard screeching tires behind him.
He whirled around. A car was racing down the street, much too fast. He couldn’t tell which lane the car was in. Both, basically. Right down the middle. Going at least a hundred.
Straight toward him.
He dived away at the last possible moment. He could feel the rush of air as the car sped past. His face ground down into the pavement, scraping one side of his face, reopening the old wound.
Was that the same car as before, the one that abducted him and took him for a thrill ride? He thought so, but it was hard to be sure in the darkness. And no chance he could get a license plate number.
He hobbled off the street onto the sidewalk.
The car slammed on its brakes at the end of the street, executed a controlled jackknife, and came back for him.
What the hell? He wasn’t even on the street any more. What—
The car jumped the curb. No question—it was coming for him.
He needed to get someplace a car couldn’t drive, and he needed to get there fast.
He could feel blood tingling on his cheek. He’d cut himself worse than he realized, but he didn’t have time to perform an analysis. The marina was at least three hundred feet away. And there was nothing between it and him except pavement and dirt.
And a few trees.
That was his only hope.
He watched carefully as the car approached, trying to time it perfectly. Just as the car was almost upon him, he leapt to the right.
But not quite fast enough. The right side of the front hood caught his leg. It felt like it had been shattered. He rolled for several feet, dirt and mud mingling, getting in his face and nostrils and teeth.
He wasn’t sure he could walk. But at least he wasn’t dead. Yet.
If he could just get to the nearest tree...
He knew he couldn’t climb. But if he stood behind the tree, would the driver risk hitting it? He hoped not.
He hobbled in that direction. Sword blades of pain raced up the injured leg. It did not want any pressure. But that couldn’t be helped.
He got behind the tree.
The car slammed to a halt. Not a hundred feet away from him.
A dirt cloud billowed between them.
He peered at the windshield but couldn’t see anything. Same driver, different driver? He had no idea.
He pulled out his phone and made a show of dialing 9-1-1. He knew where the police were this time of night. They could be here in five minutes. Maybe less.
The driver-side window rolled down. A gun emerged. “Final warning, lawyer!”
He ducked, but not before the gun fired. The report split the night, so loud it shattered his senses.
The car backed away, not turning until it was so far away he couldn’t read the plate. Then the driver swerved, floored it, and disappeared.
He collapsed on the ground, nursing his injured leg. He wasn’t sure if it was broken. But he wouldn’t be kitesurfing for a while.
In the distance, he heard a siren.
It was going to be a long night, and a long time before he was sleeping on his boat.
Last warning, the driver had said, leaving no doubt what this was about. The attack wasn’t random. This was someone who wanted him to lose Camila’s case.
Or someone working for someone who wanted him to lose Camila’s case.
And if they were willing to do this—what wouldn’t they do?
He planned to save Camila from the hangman’s noose. But it would be a bitter victory if it ended with his neck in there instead.
The Twittering Cloud
Chapter 28
Camila stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the light. Time to put her face on. Which meant opening her eyes. Even though it was five a.m. But she was accustomed to getting up early. She liked to have time to think before she started her day, and she didn’t like being rushed.
How much to do? Her instinct suggested that her makeup should be subdued. She didn’t want the jury to think she was artificial. They would see her live and up close, not from a great distance or through a camera lens. She wanted to be pleasing—but not too pleasing. There could be no suggestion that she was putting on a fake front to win over the men or anything like that.
She leaned into the mirror. Just enough paint to take off the rough edges, she decided. She was still young. She didn’t need to hide anything—actually, no one did, so far as she was concerned. The female jurors might feel the same way, and she didn’t want to alienate them. If they felt ordinary and she came off looking like Angelina Jolie, it would not engender their sympathy. She wanted them to feel they wanted to take her under their wing and protect her, not scold her for being brazen.
There was so much to consider. And all she was doing was putting on her face. Men had no idea.
At this rate, by the time she had to decide what to wear, she might be completely overwhelmed.
She needed coffee. She shuffled into the kitchen and pushed a button. She had loaded the coffeemaker the night before, so she’d have java in five. The Keurig would be quicker, but that never tasted as good to her as coffee that had actually percolated. And those spent cups were a blight on landfills.
Had to pass the time somehow. She picked up her phone.
She saw a new text waiting, sender Unknown. That was unusual. She didn’t give this number to anyone other than a close circle of intimates and co-workers.
She tapped the screen. The text message popped up.
I WILL RAPE YOU AND CUT YOU AND THROW YOU IN THE OVEN LIKE YOU DID YOUR BOYFRIEND
She almost dropped the phone.
How—
She used her thumb to scroll through the previous messages. There were dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Somehow, her number had gotten out. And been distributed. To people who hated her.
She switched to her Facebook app, then Twitter. It was all the same. Her newsfeed was flooded with hate, memes and fake news articles about her, none of them remotely true. Some had links to webpages that looked like newspapers, with headlines exposing her “crimes.”
Twitter was worse. She didn’t know you could use words like that in the Twitterverse without being banned. Of course, there were probably all fake overnight accounts, so they didn’t care if they were banned.
She fell back against the kitchen counter and suddenly realized she was trembling, head to toe. She could barely stand. She gasped for air.
Come on, Camila, she told herself. You’re tougher than this.
But the trembling would not stop.
Where the hell was that coffee?
Was it too early to call Dan?
She heard a buzzing, and against her better judgment, she lifted the phone and looked.
YOU WILL BE PUNISHED FOR YOUR CRIMES, BITCH. YOU MELTED THEM. I WILL MELT YOU
* * *
Dan stared into the bathroom mirror. Not that he had much choice. The so-called bathroom on The Defender was little larger than a coat closet, and the shower took most of the space. There was nowhere else to look. But when he stared into that mirror, he felt as if he barely recognized the face. Who was that man? And why did he look so worried?
Sure, his life had been threatened, and last night some speedster had demonstrated just how serious the threat was. His leg wasn’t broken, but it still hurt like hell. He liked to tell himself the driver was only trying to scare him—again—but he was not completely convinced. If he hadn’t leapt at just the right moment, he would’ve been flattened. If he hadn’t shielded himself behind that tree, he would be dead.
Someone wanted Camila convicted. And felt the surest way to make that happen would be to take out her attorney.
He couldn’t let that get to him. Camila was counting on him to save, not only her, but her future. Her potential. All the good she might do in the world, if this concerted effort to take her out failed.
What had happened to him? He had made a name for himself handling tough cases and winning far more than he lost. But he also knew that to a large degree—he distanced himself from the cases, and especially the clients. He compartmentalized the work. He cared about the justice system, about preventing innocents from being railroaded by the government. But individuals....
When he joined Mr. K’s firm, for the first time, he gained a sense of being part of a team, working with others in a concerted effort to help people and make the world a better place, all the stuff lawyers frequently said they were doing but too infrequently did. And he was no different, until he started working for Mr. K. Until he met Esperanza, the young girl he’d represented in that first case. She depended upon him to save her. And he did everything possible, not for an abstract concept or ideal, but for her.
Once that paradigm shift occurred, everything changed for him.
And now he was feeling exactly the same way about Camila. Maybe for different reasons. But just as powerfully.
Maybe even more so.
He didn’t want to let her down. He cared about her.
And that was another cause for concern.
Ever since this case began, people had accused him of being sexist. He pretended it didn’t bother him, but it did. He’d always thought of himself as progressive. He’d marched in equal rights demonstrations. He’d lobbied for equal pay. He understood the importance of consent in relationships and never pressured anyone. Anytime he’d been in a position to hire, he made sure women were equally represented. He didn’t discriminate. To the contrary, he preferred the company of women.
