forward and tells the jury that he was smoking crack in a parked car in the middle of Little Angola at ten o’clock at night, then Granddaddy will be humiliated.”
“Does the kid know we’re talking?”
“Sure. I couldn’t say a word otherwise. He wants to help, to tell the truth, because he knows what’s at stake for your client. He actually has a brain and a conscience and a real soft spot on racial matters. Most of his friends are black, including the driver who’d passed out. He’s in a rock band that’s mostly black. I caught ’em one night in a club. Pretty bad stuff but they were all hitting the pipe.”
“If he was stoned, how does he know what he really saw?”
“Obvious question, right? He says he was high as a kite, but when you witness something that dramatic it makes an impression. And he wasn’t as bad off as his buddy. I believe the kid. He’s got the facts right, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And he has no way of knowing Cardell’s version because Cardell has said nothing except it was self-defense, right?”
“Correct. When did your client tell you this?”
“Last week. He’s really struggled with it and, being an addict, blames it for his current slide into la-la land. He wants to help but the consequences are just too steep. Plus, he’s afraid of the cops.”
“Smart boy.”
Another sip and the cup was empty. Branch said, “That’s all I have, Sebastian. I’m sworn to secrecy. Is there a way to get the kid’s testimony before the jury while protecting his identity?”
“Maybe. If I can promise that, will he come forward?”
“I think so, but keep in mind we’re talking about a person who’s not exactly stable.”
“Got it.”
11.
A week before the trial, Sebastian arrived at his office early one morning and was shocked to find a spray of bullet holes across the front. Windows were blown out; a door was shattered. He called the police, who reluctantly showed up and took notes. When the stores opened, he bought two pistols and applied for the proper permits. Back in his office, he called a client who knew a security consultant. For the first time in his budding career, Sebastian Rudd had a bodyguard, a part-timer named Hiram.
The things they don’t teach you in law school.
12.
As he had done half a dozen times already, Bradley called and said they needed to talk. By now this meant a clandestine meeting in a secluded place, usually somewhere on the fringes of Little Angola. Today it was a car wash, one owned by Bradley, whose real name was Murray Waller, and, as Sebastian had eventually learned, Mr. Waller had made a lot of money in the murky world of loan-sharking. He instructed Sebastian to park his BMW in line with all the other dirty cars and the wash-and-polish job would be on the house. Sebastian did so. He and Hiram entered the car wash and were told that the boss was waiting upstairs. Hiram stayed by the vending machines as Sebastian climbed the stairs.
The hooker was just a kid, a young girl in a woman’s body, with long brown legs that were on full display. Without the layers of makeup and a cheap wig, she was actually a pretty girl with lost, sad eyes. With the door locked, she told her story again for the benefit of the lawyer. Bradley had heard it several times. In fact, Bradley had first heard it as a rumor not long after Buck Lester was killed.
That night, the other cop, Keith Knoxel, was in for a $100 quickie. The rate was $125 for the other customers but her pimp liked to take care of the cops. Knoxel had stopped by several times, said she was his favorite. Her street name was China. She was now eighteen years old, but she’d been seventeen on the night of the killing.
Not long after Knoxel left her, she heard gunshots but had no idea where they came from. Gunfire was not uncommon in Little Angola. An hour or so later word hit the streets that a cop had gone down. She wondered if it was Knoxel. Didn’t matter to her.
Bradley opened a drawer and produced a photo of Knoxel, one she’d seen before. “That’s him,” she said. “Remember him well. Don’t get many white guys.”
Bradley looked proudly at Sebastian and said, “So, Counselor, in summary, the State’s star eyewitness, while on duty, was actually having sex with a child under the age of eighteen while his partner was getting himself shot. And, as you know, Officer Knoxel is a married man with three small children.”
Sebastian said, “Got it, but he’ll just claim it’s a lie, that he’s never met China.”
To which she replied, “He was regular. Other people know him.”
As Sebastian was leaving, he whispered to Bradley, “Make plans to get her out of town.”
13.
The Honorable Owen Schofield read slowly and silently, flipping one letter-sized sheet of paper every five minutes, it seemed. The deep wrinkles in his forehead, along with the occasional pinching of the bridge of his nose, revealed a growing concern as the words accumulated. Without comment he finished the affidavit of John Doe, set it aside, and picked up the one from Jane Doe. No relation.
On one side of the narrow table Sebastian sat alone and doodled on a legal pad. He’d written both affidavits. There was no need to read them again.
Across the table, Max Mancini sat uncharacteristically alone. As he read the affidavits, he put himself through an entire repertoire of histrionics as his face grew redder. Veins bulged in his neck. He shook his head in disbelief. He shot murderous looks at Sebastian. He bit his tongue and clenched his jaw to keep from blurting out something and interrupting His Honor. He tapped his fingers nervously as he turned the pages. He exhaled loudly in complete disbelief.
“Would you knock it off?” the judge said, glaring at him.
“Sorry.”
The judge returned to his reading. When he finished, he looked at Sebastian and asked, “As for Jane, when did you learn this?”
“Yesterday,” Sebastian replied.
“It’s clearly inadmissible, Your Honor,” Max finally blurted. “The deadline for disclosing witnesses was a month ago.”
Schofield looked at Max as if he were a complete idiot. He paused, then said, “Last time I checked I’m wearing the black robe. If I need anything from you in the way of commentary or opinions, I’ll ask. Until then, try to restrain yourself.”
Max did not respond. Sebastian said, “John Doe appeared on the scene last week. Jane, yesterday.”
“And Jane is willing to reveal her identity at trial, but John is not. Correct?”
“As of today, Your Honor, that is the case.”
“They’re both lying,” Max said.
Schofield looked at him and said, “Well, it looks as though Mr. Knoxel may be having his own problems with the truth. That’s why we have juries. To hear evidence and evaluate the credibility of those testifying.”
“So you’re going to allow them to testify?” Max asked.
“Yes. To exclude them would be reversible error in the event of a conviction. Fairness dictates allowing them to take the witness stand. Gentlemen, let’s tee it up.”
14.
Knoxel brought a lawyer to the meeting, a union veteran named Dahl, a tough labor guy the cops ran to when they were in trouble. Dahl had once been a cop and had learned the ways of the streets from the gutters up. He truly believed that no cop should ever be punished. The average citizen wanted to be safe but had no idea what that required of the men in blue. Any day could be their last. The criminals had them outnumbered. The pressures were enormous, and if they cracked occasionally it should be overlooked or swept under the rug.
On the phone Mancini said it was bad. As Dahl and Knoxel read the sworn statement from Jane Doe, Mancini watched them carefully. He fancied himself a shrewd observer of people. He had to be. Success in the courtroom often turned on which side presented the most effective witnesses. Smooth liars, and they were rare, often convinced jurors. Honest witnesses often came across as unsteady because of the pressure.
Watching Knoxel read the affidavit, Max Mancini had no doubt Jane was telling th
e truth. When Knoxel finished, he huffed and tossed it on the table. “What a crock of shit,” he said.
“Unbelievable,” said Dahl.
“Were you with the girl?” Mancini asked.
“What? Hell no.”
“You’re lying, Keith. Look at you. Your eyes. You’re a deer in headlights.”
Knoxel flinched as his jaw dropped open. He had just been called a liar by the chief prosecutor. They were on the same side, weren’t they?
Because he had to say something, Dahl offered a weak “You don’t believe this stuff, Max, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Mancini said, glaring at Knoxel. “It’s what the jury believes.”
Knoxel’s heart was pounding and his forehead was moist. He looked away and thought of his wife and three children. The marriage wasn’t that stable at the moment anyway; they were barely holding it together for the kids. This testimony from China, in a crowded courtroom with the press licking up every word, would be the end. He had fantasized about his wife sitting proudly in the front row while he carried the ball for the entire force. He would be the man of the hour, and perhaps she would be proud of him.
He shook his head as Mancini bore holes in him. He would simply maintain his innocence, claim she was lying, and convince the jurors. Hell, he was a white cop. She was a black hooker. Surely credibility would swing his way. He managed to say, without a trace of conviction, “Come on, Max, she’s lying. This is just some more fiction created by Rudd.”
Max replied, “I don’t trust Rudd for a moment. But how do you respond to paragraph number ten, where she says there’s at least one other girl who can identify you as a customer? And, of course, the pimp.”
“I’ll bet the pimp has a record a mile long,” Dahl offered gamely.
“He doesn’t,” Max snapped without taking his eyes off Knoxel. “The cops leave him alone for some reason.”
“It’s a crock, Max, okay. All fiction. I’ve never met this girl and I don’t sleep with hookers.” Knoxel folded his arms over his chest and pouted like a four-year-old. How dare they question his integrity. Worse than the divorce would be the humiliation in front of his brethren. They were counting on him, the star eyewitness, to nail Tee Ray, to deliver a guilty verdict followed by the death penalty. For eleven months Keith Knoxel had been their hero, the comrade who would avenge the killing of one of their own. Now, though, he was being accused of having a little paid sex in a run-down flophouse with a minor while his partner was gunned down a block away.
He would be ostracized, cut out, ignored, fired, or worse. Divorced and out of work. “I don’t believe this,” he mumbled.
15.
Knoxel took a day off for personal leave but did not tell his wife. After dark he went to a bar and started drinking. Alone in a dark corner, he weighed his options, the most attractive of which, at that awful moment, was putting his gun to his head. He could do it. It was not uncommon in his line of work. He knew three guys in the past five years who’d done it. All the same: no pills, no ropes, no jumping off bridges. There was only one way for a cop to handle things—take the service revolver, put a bullet in the temple.
Or, he could neutralize his little China doll. He was crazy about the girl and obsessed with her. He knew she’d been seventeen and didn’t care. That was part of the package, part of the thrill. It wasn’t as though he’d been robbing her of her innocence. Why would she squeal on him and ruin his life?
The third option was the worst. Do nothing and go to trial. Tell his story with as much sincerity as possible. Brace for the shit storm when she took the stand. Then deny, deny, deny. What if the jury believed her and not him? What if the cop killer walked?
He left the bar and drove through Little Angola. Though he was a cop with a badge and a gun, he was still a white guy in jeans, and strolling through the neighborhoods was not a good idea. The Flea Market was somewhat safe if he were buying drugs, and there was a section of Crump Street where the white guys picked up hookers while the pimps kept things safe. Other than that, though, white folks stayed out of Little Angola after dark.
Knoxel parked beside a church and finished a can of beer. He used a burner to call Maynard, her pimp, but there was no answer. He left the church and weaved nonchalantly through the streets but saw nothing. He stopped at a convenience store with iron bars across the windows and bought another beer. When he finished it, he parked on the street, took out his pistol, clicked off the safety, stuck it in the right rear pocket of his jeans, and ducked into an alley behind the flophouse.
He couldn’t be seen, couldn’t leave behind witnesses. He would neutralize China, then Maynard, and if he could score clean kills and disappear into the darkness all would be well. His marriage, career, reputation—all intact.
Dahl said they couldn’t use the affidavit in court. If Jane Doe failed to show, the affidavit was inadmissible. Something to do with Mancini’s right to cross-examine the witness.
Knoxel heard voices and hid behind a wooden stairway. The gun was out of his pocket, in his hand, and all he had to do was yell “Police!” and everyone within fifty yards would scatter. He felt safe, as always, but he could not run the risk of being seen. He peeked into a ground-floor window of the flophouse and saw no one. China usually worked in a room on the second floor. Silently, he opened the door and eased inside. From this point on, he had no choice but to shoot anyone who saw him.
“Four Killed in Botched Robbery of Brothel.” These days, such a headline out of Little Angola might not even make the front page.
The dim light was suddenly gone; the room was black. Knoxel saw nothing but lifted the gun anyway. As he tried to focus, a claw hammer landed at the base of his skull.
16.
The trial of Thomas Ray Cardell was delayed for a month as both sides inventoried their missing witnesses. Judge Schofield ran out of patience and set a date. He said, off the record, that it would be in the best interests of all involved if they got the trial completed before anyone else disappeared.
Jacoby was still hiding in L.A. There was no sign of Jane Doe. And, apparently, she wouldn’t be needed anyway because there was no sign of Keith Knoxel either. The bartender said Knoxel had left the bar around 9:00 p.m., after six beers. A convenience store video captured him buying a sixteen-ounce can of Schlitz at 9:55. He didn’t appear to be drunk but the clerk said he was red-eyed and shaky. His car was found where he left it, with three more empty cans on the passenger seat.
The police threw everything they had at the disappearance but found nothing. China was in Detroit hiding with relatives. Maynard had taken a break and was down in Memphis visiting his mother. Solid alibis everywhere. The flophouse was combed for days and yielded nothing.
The Flea Market was shut down after dark, seriously disrupting the flow of narcotics. In a show of force, the police basically occupied the streets of Little Angola, arresting dozens for every minor offense in the book. Not surprisingly, tensions rose and there were skirmishes.
17.
Against this backdrop, two hundred prospective jurors appeared as summoned to the Old Courthouse on a rainy Monday morning. Disregarding the weather, a boisterous crowd of protesters, almost all black, marched and made noise on the sidewalks around the building. Their banners demanded justice, freedom for Tee Ray, an end to the police state, and so on.
Because of his seniority, the Honorable Owen Schofield held court on the second floor of the Old Courthouse, in the grandest room of all. It had rows of cushioned seating for the spectators and soaring portraits of dead judges, all serious white men. It had thick marble columns behind His Honor’s bench and an elegant balcony with a hundred padded chairs. And on this day it also had an entire squad of uniformed bailiffs directing traffic. There was some jostling over seating. The reporters, typically, got in the way and demanded access. Two were shown the door. Schofield did not allow cameras in his courtroom, and he would have banned all manner of press if he’d been able. It took the bailiffs
two hours to seat the pool of jurors, inspect their paperwork, and keep the reporters in their corner.