“Absolutely right, Ms. Derringer,” said the judge.
Dalton glanced over at Beth with something close to admiration in her eyes and then down at me. As I grinned at her as best I could, she puffed out one cheek, aping my swollen jaw. Sweet.
As the argument continued, I turned to take in the rest of the courtroom crowd. A few reporters, a few bored lawyers looking for some entertainment, and then those with a more direct connection to the case. There was an angry claque sitting together on the prosecution’s side of the courtroom, leaning on one another, offering support. In the middle, stone-faced, sat an older couple, both looking like they were trying hard not to burst a vein. It is a common sight in a murder case, the victim’s family and friends putting on a show of support for the dear departed. The older couple were Leesa Dubé’s parents, guardians now of Leesa and François Dubé’s four-year-old daughter, who was not in the courtroom. I smiled at them, they studiously avoided looking back.
Detective Gleason was sitting up front, taking his medicine with a mournful, startled expression. Things would not be going well for the detective; two Internal Affairs officers had been in the courtroom during his testimony, taking notes. But to the detective’s credit, he didn’t hem and haw up there on the stand as Beth questioned him about Seamus Dent. He swore his oath to tell the truth and then followed it like a path to redemption, a rarer event in the criminal courts than you would imagine. I also couldn’t help noticing that his southern drawl was replaced with a flat Philadelphia accent, as if the Elvis had been knocked out of him by the troubles I had brought down upon his head. Which was a shame, I thought, because if ever he needed a little Elvis in his life it would be over the next few months.
Behind our table Whitney Robinson nodded at me, something wary in his eyes. Beth had also wanted to argue ineffective assistance, and Whit would have gone along, testifying to all his mistakes in the first trial if we had asked him. But I convinced her against it, partly because it would dull our argument that the failures were the government’s fault and partly because I didn’t want to tarnish Whit’s legacy. He deserved better, I figured.
And then in the back, arms crossed, luscious lips pursed, sat Velma Takahashi in a smashing turquoise suit. I was surprised to see her, actually, but there she was, making sure she was getting value for her cash retainer, no doubt. She was looking pretty good, was Velma, she was money, all right, and we would have to have another chat soon. Maybe as soon as the judge ruled.
“As I stated before,” said the judge, scratching now his scalp as if to scratch up an answer, “I am concerned, very concerned. I remain horrified at the depravity of this crime and am aware of the importance of finality of judgment. At the same time, I am duty bound to follow the dictates of the Constitution.”
“Can I say something, Judge?” said François Dubé, standing as he spoke. It was the first time he had said anything at the proceeding, and to hear his reedy French voice in the courtroom was jarring.
This was not good, this could only hurt his cause. I grabbed at Beth and shook my head. Beth leaned over and said something into his ear. He gently pushed her away.
“Judge,” he said, “can I please say something?”
“You are entitled to your say, Mr. Dubé, but it looks like your counsel is trying to prevent you from speaking, and I recommend you listen to your counsel.”
“No one today has said anything about whether I did or didn’t do what I am accused of.”
“Convicted of,” said Dalton.
“I want you to know, Judge,” said François before he turned to face the angry claque on the other side of the courtroom, “and I want Leesa’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen, to know that I did not kill Leesa. I loved Leesa. We were having our problems, yes, but I loved her, and I always will.”
The old woman in the middle, her face set, her jaw clenching as if she were cracking chestnuts, said in a low voice, “Sit down. God, do us all the favor and just sit down and shut your mouth.”
“Quiet now, everyone,” said the judge. “Your protestations of innocence have no effect on the matter currently before me, Mr. Dubé. You made the same protestations at your trial, and they were not believed by the jury.”
“But I didn’t do this,” said François Dubé. “I’m an innocent man. And ma mère, papa,” he said, facing again the Cullens who were swearing at him with their eyes. His use of the familiar paternal and maternal forms of address brought a gasp from the courtroom. “I want to see my daughter. Please let me see my Amber. Please.”
At that moment, Mrs. Cullen stood, swallowed a sob, and quickly slid past the other people in her bench before rushing out of the courtroom. One of the younger women in the claque stood, glared at François, and then followed her out. Mr. Cullen continued staring with a hatred that could have smashed boulders.
François turned back to the judge. “That’s all I have to say.”
“I think that was quite enough,” said the judge, with a bite of anger in his voice. “Now, sit down, and not another word. The Cullens have endured a great tragedy. There is nothing you can do to assuage their pain, Mr. Dubé, but I won’t let you make it any worse.”
“Your Honor,” said Beth, “Mr. Dubé was only-”
“I know what he was trying to do, Ms. Derringer. But it is your responsibility to control your client. He has made this decision ever more difficult, but I find I have little choice. Mr. Dubé, I’m granting you your new trial.”
There was a gasp, a series of exclamations of incredulity and anger from the crowd. François Dubé stood again and hugged Beth. Mia Dalton shot up and said, “But, Judge-”
Judge Armstrong slammed his hammer twice, the bailiff yelled out, “Quiet.” The noise in the courtroom ceased.
“We’d like the opportunity to brief the issues raised in the hearing,” said Dalton.
“No, I don’t need your briefs.” The judge put his hand on a stack of paper two feet high sitting beside him on the bench. “You’ve all written enough briefs on this matter to kill a forest. I’m as disappointed as you, Ms. Dalton, but I read every case you both cited, and I don’t see that I have a choice. Don’t look to me, look to Detective Gleason. Are you prepared to go forward and prosecute this case again without Mr. Dent’s testimony?”
“Absolutely, Your Honor,” said Dalton.
“Who’s trying it for the people?”
“I am, Judge,” said Dalton.
“Need much time, Ms. Dalton?”
“No, sir.”
“How about you, Ms. Derringer?”
“The sooner the better, Judge.”
“Good. Put on your seat belts, people, because this case isn’t going to sit. I’ll hear you on bail, Ms. Derringer.”
As Beth stood and began to speak, trying to get François Dubé out of jail pending his trial, I looked back at the courtroom, saw the resigned weariness on Detective Gleason’s face, the sad compassion on Whit’s – compassion for whom, for me? I saw the anger and bereavement flood through Mr. Cullen’s eyes. And I spied the slender turquoise high heel, the narrow back, and the glistening blond hair of Velma Takahashi as she exited the courtroom door.
Like a mongrel chasing a purebred bitch in heat, I followed.
20
I caught up to her at the elevator. She smelled rich, like a lilac bush. On a citrus farm. In spring. With a servant serving cocktails and a light breeze coming off the sea. Yeah, like that.
“Did you enjoy the show, Mrs. Takahashi?” I said.
“No, I’ve never been to Tallahassee, Mr. Carl, why?”
“Who said anything about Tallahassee?”
“I’m not sure I understand a word you are saying. Are you inviting me to Tallahassee? That’s quite forward of you.”