Basque shifted his attention to Ralph. Offered him a wide grin. “Special Agent Hawkins. I enjoyed your testimony last month. Very persuasive, I thought. And how is Brineesha? That’s her name, isn’t it? Pretty little thing. Taking good care of her, I hope?”
Ralph’s face darkened. He stepped forward.
“Not like this,” I urged him quietly, but I’m sure Basque and the officers heard me. “Not here.” I motioned to the two men escorting Basque. “Take him away.”
One of them tugged at Basque’s arm, but he stood firm. After thirteen years of pumping iron all day, it was going to take both of them to move him. To make things worse, Ralph still blocked the doorway.
I could feel the air tightening around us.
“C’mon,” I said to Ralph, but he didn’t move. Neither did Basque or the officers.
Basque eyed me again. A smooth, charming smile. “All these years I was so hoping you’d visit me in prison, Patrick. But there are so many cases to solve, I suppose? I read about a number of them in the journals. You’ve been a busy man.” He wet his lips. “Missed seeing you, though.”
Ralph cracked his neck and said, “Yeah, it can get pretty lonely in there. I’m sure you found plenty of-”
“Sometimes lonely, my burly friend, but never alone.” He met Ralph’s gaze. “Not with the good Lord by my side.”
Oh, I’d almost forgotten. Seven months ago in prison, Richard Basque had found Jesus, just like so many convicts facing a parole hearing or a retrial seem to do. The prospect of freedom must be a rather strong incentive for getting right with God.
Ralph’s eyes became iron. I put my hand on his shoulder to pull him back, but if Ralph wanted to do something to Basque I couldn’t imagine how I’d be able to stop him. The officers escorting Basque tensed as well. Everything was moving in the wrong direction. Basque let his dark liquid eyes drink in Ralph’s growing rage.
“Last I heard,” Ralph said. He had squeezed his hands into fists. “The Lord’s by the side of the sheep, not the wolves. Someone like you is gonna burn in-”
“No one is beyond redemption, Agent Hawkins.”
I grabbed Ralph’s arm. “Come on. I need to get to the courtroom.”
Finally, Ralph stepped aside, and the officers quickly directed Basque past us to the hallway. As they did, he called over his shoulder to me, “Patrick, when this is over I hope we can meet again under less awkward circumstances, perhaps break bread together. Partake of the body and the blood.”
His words the body and the blood echoed down the hall as the door swung shut and Ralph filled the room with words I doubted Basque would find in his recently dusted-off Bible.
I glanced at my watch. Time had been evaporating. I needed to hurry.
We finished our business in the restroom, jogged up the stairs, and arrived at the courtroom just as a granite-faced female officer was getting ready to close the doors.
10
12:25 p.m.
Everyone in the room was settling into their seats.
I’d never been in this courtroom before and couldn’t help but think that, with its paneled walls, faux marble columns, and straight wooden chairs, it was reminiscent of the days when the building had been erected nearly a hundred years earlier.
In the subdued light everything looked imposing-the judge’s expansive bench, the witness stand raised nearly two meters above the courtroom floor, seating for over two hundred people in the gallery. The scent of dust and old books filled the air.
At the defense’s table on the other side of the room, a slim, intense woman in her early forties sat conferring with Basque. She had tight lips and stick-like fingers and was wearing the same charcoal gray pantsuit she’d chosen for an interview on Fox News last week. I recognized her right away: Ms. Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman, Richard Basque’s lead lawyer. Her legal team sat beside her.
Thirteen years ago Basque had been tried and convicted in Dela-field County, Wisconsin. Since then, he’d always maintained his innocence and eventually convinced a law professor at Michigan State University to look into his case. For three years Professor Renee Lebreau had her grad students review the trial proceedings and transcripts, and eventually they uncovered discrepancies in the DNA evidence and in the testimony of one of the eyewitnesses who claimed to have seen Basque leaving the scene of one of the murders. Ms. Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman demanded Basque’s sentence be commuted, but after a careful judicial review, the Seventh District Court ruled in favor of a retrial instead.
And so, here we were.
A sharply dressed Hispanic man in his late thirties hastened across the room and slid into the chair beside me, interrupting my thoughts. “Good to see you, Pat.”
“Emilio.” I knew Assistant State’s Attorney Emilio Vandez from a brief meeting we’d had last month in preparation for the trial.
He pulled a stack of file folders from his briefcase and set them in front of us. He took a long time straightening them. “It looks like we’re in good shape for today.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Emilio set two pencils beside the stack and then carefully positioned them parallel to each other. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with this AC though. I should have brought a sweater.” Then he looked around the room as if he were searching for a clue as to why it was so cold.
I’d heard Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman was good, really good, and I began to wonder if Emilio Vandez was a match for her.
Then the bailiff called for all to rise, the judge entered from his chambers, and the trial of Richard Devin Basque resumed.
Twenty minutes ago, standing hidden and invisible in the crowd of protestors, Giovanni had watched Patrick Bowers enter the courthouse. Now, he returned to his rental car parked a block away from the police barricade.
He’d flown in and rented the car under a false name and worn a disguise while waving his “Death Does Not Equal Justice” sign.
No one knew he was here.
He drove to a nearby alley, called Denver’s dispatch department, and left an anonymous tip reporting the location of Sebastian Taylor and Brigitte Marcello’s bodies. Then he tossed the prepaid cell phone into a dumpster.
And so.
Everything was in place.
Through his contacts, he knew that Sebastian Taylor had tried to bribe members of the jury in order to get Basque set free. He still didn’t know why Taylor had wanted Basque acquitted, and the governor had stayed remarkably tight-lipped throughout the night about his motives, even as things progressed toward more and more discomfort. But that didn’t matter. None of it did. The jury wouldn’t even be giving a verdict.
No, Giovanni had taken steps of his own.
He turned on the police scanner he’d brought with him to monitor the afternoon’s events.
And waited for the story to unfold.
11
The trial, which had been scheduled to start late last fall, had been bogged down in a legal quagmire for months-postponed five times by judicial reviews and a slew of recesses and interruptions.
However, that was good news for me because it meant I wouldn’t have to sit through an endless round of opening statements, arguments, and counterarguments. We could cut right to the chase. And after the preliminary trial rituals and an hour of questioning from Emilio, Ms. Eldridge-Gorman strode to the middle of the courtroom and paused for a moment beside the table containing the bags, photos, sketches, and other physical evidence to begin her cross-examination.
She slowly turned to face the jury. “Before we begin, I would like to remind the jury that we’ve heard from three of the country’s leading DNA analysts, and each of them has corroborated my client’s innocence. Mr. Basque is a victim of the system who has spent the last thirteen years in-”