A Killing Night Part 17

Their project was already some thirty stories high. You could watch the d.a.m.n thing go up day by day as an observer, from poured foundation to concrete columns to prefabricated steel floor stacks and still find yourself stunned at the end of a month to see what men could raise. As I sat sipping a large Styrofoam cup of coffee I'd watched the distant small figure of a tower crane operator climb hand-over-hand like an insect up a ladder enclosed in a tall column of crisscrossed steel. When he got to the gla.s.s box at the top, he disappeared inside. I was too far away to hear him start the electric motors that powered the crane, but I saw it begin to move, swinging its balanced, perpendicular arm to the west and silently dropping its hook three hundred feet to pluck yet another load of materials needed at the top. A project manager in Philly had once told me that a good tower crane operator controlled nearly everything that went on at such a site. He had a bird's-eye view of all that was below him and as the building went up he was the one bringing the world up to join him. At thirty bucks an hour he was the master each and every day. Not a bad feeling, I thought, for a working man to hold.

At eight thirty I saw Billy walking up the wide stairway of the jail. He was dressed in a dark business suit. Conservative, not showy. Professional, not overly so.

"M-Max. You l-look tired," he said, shaking my hand.

"Sleep deprivation therapy," I said. "Does wonders for the soul."

"Yes. Those b-bags under your eyes certainly do m-make you look wiser, and older."

"Thanks."

He opened his leather briefcase and took out a photograph and handed it to me. Even though the lighting was dim and the shot too close, the detail was sufficient. The man was handsome. A strong cleft chin. Cheekbones high but perhaps that was from the shadows. The bridge of his nose was as straight as a rule. Never been broken, I thought. He wasn't a close-in fighter. The eyes were dark and even though they were focused off in another direction, one had the feeling that they were very aware of the photographer if not the actual lens of the phone camera. In the background I could make out the front of the jukebox at Kim's and the reflection of mirrors.

"F-From our client," Billy said. "You can explain later w-why you are farming out surveillance. R-Right now, we are due in c- court."

Inside, the lobby of the county jail was done in all government design. The floor was that easy-to-clean polished stone. The walls an inst.i.tutional bone white. Floor-to-ceiling windows, double pane, made up the wall to the east and, since the entrance was actually two floors above ground level, there was a view of the river and the condo building going up on the other side. The preconstruction prices across the way were starting at $375,000 to $1.2 million for the top floors. The future residents would have a wonderful un.o.bstructed view of the seven-story jailhouse. Real estate in Florida, I thought. Some gang of government officials had approved the building of a house for criminals on waterfront property. Location, location, location.

On the other side of the lobby were three lines queuing up to Plexiglas-covered windows as if they were selling tickets. There were women in work clothes, two toting small children. A man wearing navy, grease-stained pants and a light blue s.h.i.+rt with his name over the pocket was arguing with a young woman whose tear-stained face held a look of worry, heartbreak and befuddlement all at once. Both of them were comparing the content of their wallets, searching, I figured, for some way to make bail for a family member inside.

Down a wide corridor a security checkpoint was set up and beyond it a single wood-veneered door. It was topped with the sign MAGISTRATES COURT MAGISTRATES COURT. We pa.s.sed through the metal detectors with all the requisite emptying of pockets, removal of pagers and cell phones. Billy went through with smiles and nods. I had to stop for a wand check of belt buckle, sungla.s.ses and the metal b.u.t.tons on my canvas s.h.i.+rt.

"Clothes m-make the man, Max," Billy said.

"And the terrorist?" I answered.

He grinned but then went all business when we entered the courtroom.

There was nothing ornate about the place. The judge was already sitting up behind the large raised desk, his reading gla.s.ses down on his nose, his hands shuffling paper to a woman clerk standing beside him. There were less than a dozen people in the gallery, which was made up of rows of plastic chairs instead of the usual wooden pews. There was a freestanding half-wall that separated those chairs from another row. Two tables, left and right, that acted as a buffer between those empty seats and the judge.

I sat behind the wall while Billy went around to the table on the left and introduced himself to a harried, middle-aged man in a suit who seemed mildly surprised as he shook Billy's hand. He then sorted quickly through a sheaf of papers and handed Billy two pages. He almost looked relieved. Billy sat at the defense table to read and I watched the judge take a moment to look up over his gla.s.ses to access the new presence in his court. At the table on the right, an equally busy and equally suited younger man was going through his own stack of files. He would be some low-on-the- seniority-scale attorney for the prosecutor's office. He too stole a look at Billy.

At exactly nine, a barrel-chested officer who had been standing near the bench, apparently flirting with the judge's clerk, became serious and opened an adjoining door. Twenty men filed in, handcuffed in twos, a left wrist to a right wrist.

They were instructed to sit in the row of chairs in front of the short wall. They came in with the sound of shuffling feet and the soft clinking of loose stainless steel. Some were still wearing the street clothes they had on when they were arrested. Others were dressed in orange jumpsuits. They all had tired eyes and unshaven faces. A few looked tentatively around the room, into the gallery to find a family member or a friend. There were twenty of them and eight of us.

O'Shea was the twelfth man in, attached to a huge black man in a jumpsuit. His face was a stoic mask. He would not have said a word all night. He would have stared at a spot on the wall with the smell of gang sweat and alcohol puke and the single open toilet for ten men in the holding cell without comment or expression. His reaction to any attempt at conversation or query would have been that same hard stare that held his face now. I could not measure the anger or frustration behind his eyes as he came in and looked around the room, finally finding me and raising his stubbled chin in acknowledgment.

There was no formal call to order. When the men were seated the judge simply nodded his head and the clerk began to call out names. Each man would stand with his handcuffed partner, who was forced to rise with him. After the first few calls the named arrestee learned to raise his unshackled hand when the judge repeated, "Which of you is Mr. Whomever."

The charges against the man were then read. He was asked if he was represented by counsel or wanted the judge to appoint the public defender to act on his behalf. Again, it took only a few examples before the next man repeated: "Public defender, sir."

The P.D. would then walk over to his newest client with paperwork and have a quick and far from private discussion, and then return to his table.

"Status, Mr. Marsh?" the judge would repeat.

Marsh would then request bail, in the standard amount that he no doubt had memorized: $10,000 for a DUI or battery charge to $1,000 for loitering. The judge would ask the prosecutor for an opinion, which was a standard: "The state has no objection, your honor," and the rhythm moved on.

They were halfway through the alphabet when I picked up on movement near the entrance to the room and turned to see Detective Richards enter. She too was in a dark suit. Her hair was pulled back. She was with a man who had the look of a supervisor. I looked away for a few moments and by the time I did a double take, she had spotted me, and probably Billy, too. Her eyes met mine and they were as cold as O'Shea's and I wondered why the h.e.l.l I'd even gotten myself involved in this duel. Richards and her companion sat somewhere behind me and I did not turn around again. Billy continued his reading, though he could have memorized the few pages by now. If it was his protection against nervousness, it was a good one.

The clerk called out "Oglethorpe, Richard," and the black man next to O'Shea stood, bringing his partner the ex-cop up with him.

"Mr. Oglethorpe?" the judge said.

"Yes, sir." The man raised his free hand. He was as tall as O'Shea but outweighed him by a good sixty pounds and I could tell by the way the orange fabric stretched across his back that most of it was muscle. His skin was the dark brown color of a water tupelo trunk and from the back it appeared that the man was not in possession of a neck.

"Mr. Oglethorpe," said the judge, shuffling the papers and rereading for the first time this morning. "Mr. Oglethorpe you have been arrested on charges of two counts of murder in the first degree, two counts of aggravated s.e.xual a.s.sault of a minor child under the age of twelve, battery of a law enforcement officer and attempted escape."

Although they had endured the earlier exchanges without reaction, the rest of the arrested men all leaned forward or back to catch a look at Oglethorpe like rubberneckers at a car wreck along the road. O'Shea maintained his stoic composure, though I could see the muscle rippling in his jaw at the effort.

The judge had removed his reading gla.s.ses and looked out, no doubt, at the two men.

"Do you understand these charges against you, Mr. Oglethorpe?"

"Yes, sir," the big man said. "Public defender please, sir."

The judge looked over at the left table.

"Have at it, Mr. Marsh."

The lawyer spoke briefly with Oglethorpe while O'Shea stood alongside, looking back to me. He picked up on someone behind me and for the first time he let a look of hatred slip momentarily into his eyes. I did not turn. I knew the target of that look.

The public defender returned to his table and made a monotone and professionally required request of bail for Oglethorpe. The prosecutor stood, shrugged his shoulders and the judge ordered the suspect remanded to jail without bond until a future court date without discussion.

O'Shea and his cuffmate sat for sixty seconds until the clerk called: "O'Shea, Colin."

"The charge, Mr. O'Shea, is aggravated a.s.sault," the judge said, looking down at the paperwork.

I watched Billy as he stood and b.u.t.toned his suit coat. Professional. Back straight. Chin up. Only I would notice the twitch in his Adam's apple, the flaw that I knew he was fighting, the voice that both he and I knew would fail him.

"William Manchester r-representing M-Mr. O'Shea," Billy said.

The judge again looked up over his gla.s.ses at Billy, taking him in.

"Yes, well. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Manchester. Welcome to magistrate's court," the judge said. "No need to be nervous, son.

Billy did not move his eyes from the judge's face. The twitch in his neck went quiet.

"With all due r-respect, Your Honor," he said, "I am not nervous."

They both paused; something was being said between their eyes. Then Billy continued.

"Your Honor, we are requesting that M-Mr. O'Shea be released on his own recognizance at th-this time.

"Mr. O'Shea is employed, Your Honor, as a s-security officer for the Navarro Group, sir. A steady job he has held for nearly three years. He is n-not a flight risk."

Billy was fighting the stutter, commendably, I thought. But my ear was as a friend.

"Mr. Cornheiser?" the judge said, looking to the prosecutor.

"Your Honor, uh, the suspect's victim, Mr. Robert Hix, sir, was brutally beaten. He is still hospitalized with several broken ribs and as yet undetermined internal injuries. He has identified Mr. O'Shea in a photo array as his attacker. The victim's blood, Your Honor, was found on the suspect's boots, which were confiscated at the defendant's apartment during the execution of a search warrant signed by Judge Lewis, sir."

Both lawyers were playing the game, dropping names in an attempt to influence. Navarro was a respected former sheriff who ran a large security firm. Judge Lewis was probably a golfing partner of the sitting judge.

"The state asks that the suspect be held in remand, Your Honor," the prosecutor said, stealing a glance toward the back of the room.

"Evidence of a capital crime involving Mr. O'Shea is continuing to be collected by detectives, Your Honor, and the state is convinced that he may be an extreme danger to the public."

Billy jumped on the prosecutor's move.

"Your honor, I see n-no reference to another, m-more serious charge in this arrest doc.u.ment. Mr. O'Shea in fact has n-never been arrested. In Florida nor in any other j-jurisdiction," he said. "In addition, the st-state knows that the mere possibility of an additional charge has n-no bearing on this proceeding and has no legal justification in even being raised."

The judge nodded, as if saying "I knew that," and looked over to the prosecutor, who was stalling by shuffling through paper.

"Furthermore, sir," Billy continued, "I have in court this m- morning a witness to the a.s.sault charge now in question, a licensed private investigator, Your Honor, whose presence at the time of the alleged c-crime is doc.u.mented by police reports and who has signed an affidavit stating that both he and Mr. O'Shea were the ones attacked by the alleged victim and his brother and thus forced to defend themselves."

The prosecutor followed the direction of Billy's pointed hand and when he looked at me I could see the flicker of an unexpected twitch in his eyes. This was obviously supposed to have been a slam- dunk lockdown of O'Shea with little objection by the overworked and uninvolved public defender.

"Mr. Cornheiser?" the judge said, maybe even enjoying the elevated banter in his otherwise dull morning.

"I, uh, again, Your Honor," the prosecutor stumbled. "This was, sir, a brutal attack and the hospitalized victim, sir..."

"You're repeating yourself, Mr. Cornheiser. Bail in the amount of ten thousand cash or bond," the judge said, interrupting. He had been around long enough to know that when an attorney only had one leg to stand on, his only resort was to hop up and down on it.

"Thank you, Your Honor," Billy said, gathering his things.

"Thank you, Mr. Manchester," the judge responded. "And I apologize, sir, for my earlier a.s.sumption, counselor."

Billy bowed his head gracefully and walked across to where O'Shea was now sitting.

"We sh-shall have you out by noon," he said, and I heard O'Shea thank him. As Billy turned to go the big man cuffed to O'Shea stopped him with his voice.

"You got a card, Mr. Attorney?" he said, holding out a hand the size of a dinner plate.

Billy looked down into the man's face.

"I don't do this kind of work," he said dismissively and walked on.

Richards was waiting outside. She'd left after the judge announced bail. Her companion was gone. Her arms were crossed, lips pressed together. She was looking at the floor as we walked up and Billy excused himself before we reached her.

"I'm going to p-post O'Shea's bail," he said, heading for the lines. I went to face Richards alone.

"So, Max," she said when I got within hearing distance. Her eyes were the color of steel.

"I really didn't expect the two of you to double-team me in there. You must have done an exceptional sales job to convince Billy to stand up in front of a judge in person."

She and Billy had been friendly when we were dating. She shared his love of sailing. She respected his genius and had never asked me once about his stutter. She was p.i.s.sed. Still, I knew that my explanation was weak. How do you tell someone you think they're wrong based on a gut feeling, a half-a.s.sed dealer theory and maybe a misplaced loyalty to a fellow cop?

"I hope you two can guarantee that he's not going to put another woman at risk while he's out roaming free," she said.

I looked away from her eyes, then back.

"Look, Sherry. I respect what you're doing," I said. "I just think you're wrong on this one."

"No s.h.i.+t."

I let her anger sit a few silent moments and maybe my own, too.

"Sherry," I tried again. "You've shot and killed two men in the last couple of years, men who were abusing women. You were fully justified in both."

"And saved your a.s.s in one, Freeman," she said, her arms still crossed.

"And saved my a.s.s," I agreed. "You're also a solid investigator and I know you haven't forgotten the rule to keep an open mind and consider all possibilities."

She looked down and I could see she was holding her tongue, taking my words like an unwanted and condescending lecture. I took my chance and pressed on.

"Can you honestly say this mission you're on hasn't gotten in the way of your eye for other suspects?"

I'd meant to appeal to her professionalism and now I was questioning it.

"Freeman, I've been working this for months. I've dealt out the other possibilities. Christ, I even posed as a bartender to run a living, breathing lineup past myself every night. Your friend is the one that sticks out. He fits the profile, and yeah, it's the profile I put together, but he's right there. If he hadn't made me as undercover, I might have gotten him to make a move or give up a piece of evidence. That didn't happen, but I saw him in action."

"OK," I said. "How about someone you never saw in action? Someone who might fit your profile, but who would have bailed at the first sign or recognition of a cop?"

She finally looked me in the eyes.

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about, Max?"

"Suppose you've got over-the-counter drug dealing going on in a bar? The supplier is smart, he recruits the girls working as bartenders."

I saw the head tilt start, the draw of exasperated breath.

"Just hear me out. OK?" I said. She relented and chewed on a corner of her lip.

"Suppose the supplier is smart enough to move these girls around, to different cities or states, or just sends them packing when he thinks they might compromise his action?"

I reached into my pocket and took out the photo that O'Shea had taken and offered it to her.

"Ever seen this guy before?"

She looked, brow scrunching, studying longer than necessary.

"I've seen him before," she finally said. "But I've never seen him here. This is Kim's, right?"

She was a good investigator, strong in the details. She probably recognized the jukebox just as I had.

"You have a name?" I said.

"No, I'm not that familiar."