Marta scrambled to her feet and sprinted back upstairs.
38
Judge Rudolph stood behind his desk in his chambers and frowned at the handwritten motion for a mistrial, which had been hand-delivered to his chambers. His law clerk sat across the desk, red-faced. Joey had been stupid enough to accept service of the motion papers. Strike three. Judge Rudolph wouldn't take him to the high court, if he ever got there, now. "You should have refused it!" the judge snapped, throwing the papers onto his desk in anger.
"I'm sorry, Your Honor."
"You should have told her to file it during business hours."
"I know, Your Honor."
"It doesn't have a clerk's time stamp. There's nothing official about it. You could have told her you didn't have permission to take it."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"You could have asked for her ID, for God's sake. How did you even know who she was? Why do you let strangers into my chambers like that?"
"She wasn't a stranger. It was Judy Carrier. I know her from court, Your Honor."
"Don't backtalk me! I have my personal things in here! This is my chambers, not yours!"
"Yes, Your Honor. I know." Joey sat on the chair opposite the judge's desk. His head hung over the legal pad and photocopied cases in his lap.
"The woman shows up to serve papers and you hold out your hand?"
"Carrier said she filed it, Judge."
"At one o'clock in the morning?" The judge was shouting now. "How could she file it, you idiot?"
"She said it was an emergency."
"It's her emergency, not my emergency. You know how many papers we get here that some lawyer calls emergency papers? How many, Joey? A million? Everything's an emergency to a lawyer!"
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Who runs this case anyway, the lawyers or me? It's not an emergency unless I say it's an emergency! Until then it's just more paper. Another lawyer with another pleading. Paper. Garbage. Trash. How many times do I have to tell you?" Judge Rudolph snatched off his tortoiseshell glasses and rubbed his eyes irritably. "My God. I hate this."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Will you shut up? Will you just shut up?"
Joey nodded. He thought about saying "yes," but decided against it. It was a confusing question.
"Did you research the legal issue at least?"
"Yes. There's no case directly on point, but I found a good law review article and researched analogous cases on the Manson trial, and—"
"Don't write me a book, Joey. This Carrier broad filed a motion for a mistrial. I want to deny it. Will I get reversed?"
"Not if the defendant opposes the motion, which he does in his letter."
Judge Rudolph stared at Joey in disbelief. "What did you say? The defendant wrote a letter, opposing?"
"Yes, sir."
"Steere himself?"
"Yes, sir."
"Christ! Why didn't you say so, you moron?"
"You were yelling—"
"Give me that letter! Christ! What's the matter with you?"
The judge snatched the paper from Joey's outstretched hand and slapped his reading glasses back on. The letter was handwritten and the judge read its contents aloud, his voice full of wonder. " 'My lawyer filed a motion for mistrial in this matter without my knowledge or authorization. I oppose this motion for a mistrial… hereby ask the Court to consider it withdrawn… I expressly do not wish a mistrial… I wish to proceed as my own counsel… Signed, Elliot Steere.' " The judge pulled his chair out and eased into it in amazement. What luck! It was almost too good to be true. "How did we get this?"
"One of the sheriffs brought it up from the lockup."
"So it's really from Steere."
"Yes, Your Honor."
Judge Rudolph shook his head, his eyes glued to the letter. He'd never had a case like this one. Had never read a case like this one. It had a life of its own.
Joey cleared his throat. "I found cases saying that a defendant has the right to proceed pro se in a criminal case, even if he fires his lawyer in the middle."
"Of course he does." Judge Rudolph skimmed the letter over and over, incredulous as a lottery winner. "It's the defendant's right to counsel. It's a personal right. He can exercise it or waive it."
"Yes. True. I knew that. I found cases saying the rights in a criminal trial are personal to the defendant, analogous to those cases where the defendant wants the state to execute and the courts won't let the lawyers intervene."
"That's not on point."
"Well, in the Manson case—"
"Shut up, Joey."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"You're embarrassing yourself." Judge Rudolph looked up from the letter. "Has this letter been served on the D.A.?"
"I don't know. Ms. Carrier told me she served the motion on the D.A., but I don't know about the letter from Steere."
Judge Rudolph paused. He wasn't in the clear yet. "Get me the D.A. Think you can handle that?"
39
Judy had only one lead to follow and it brought her back to the Twenty-fifth Street Bridge. She had grabbed a lone cab at the courthouse and the ride took only a half hour through plowed streets. There was no traffic because nobody but Judy was crazy enough to brave the blizzard.
Grays Ferry was deserted and Judy felt uneasy as soon as the cab turned onto Twenty-fifth Street. The scene chilled her. Mary had been shot here only hours ago, yet no sawhorses or yellow tape marked the spot. Bennie had told her at the hospital that the cops were shorthanded, but what would become of whatever evidence was at the crime scene? Judy found herself staring at the spot where Mary had been shot. Fresh snow buried Mary's blood, concealing what had happened. Even Judy's skis were lost in the snow or long gone.
"Miss? The fare?" said the cabdriver.
"Sorry." Judy fumbled in her zipper pocket for a bill and handed it to him. "Keep it, okay?" She stepped out into the cold and walked up the street to the house.
Judy climbed the familiar, snowy stoop next to the brown living room curtains and knocked hard with her good hand. She didn't expect an instant answer, it was the middle of the night. Judy knocked until a light went on inside the house and kept knocking until she heard voices near the front door. Then she started shouting. There would be time for apologies later. Now she had to get in and get answers.
* * *
Judy sat across from the mother in her living room, telling her the whole story. The room was cramped and its furnishings old, but clean and simple. A worn couch, an old TV, and a radio-cassette player on a table with some cassette tapes beside it. Children's books and X-Men comics were stacked on metal tray tables that served as end tables. The thin-paneled walls were covered with children's photographs, all boys. Their front teeth vanished in one picture and reappeared in the next, playing photographic peeka-boo. The focus of the living room was a large portrait that hung over the couch, a posed photograph of the mother and her three sons, with the small Dennell in her lap.
The mother was tired, awakened from sleep, but listened without comment, her neat head tilted at a dubious angle. Her features were large and not entirely pretty, but her round eyes showed intelligence. She had on a thin white robe and her short hair was cut natural. The only time she touched it was when Judy explained how Mary had been shot. "Why aren't you goin' to the police about this?" the woman asked warily. "Why you comin' to me?"
"I will, but all I have now is suspicion. They can't do anything about it tonight anyway. Besides, if your son knows something, wouldn't you rather have me talk to him than the police?"