Key Witness (12 page)

He worked his way out of the program, exiting everything. The screen went blank, except for the blinking C:prompt. He disconnected the telephone cord from the receiver, arranged the wiring back the way it had been, rescrewed the mouthpiece cup on, and hung the phone back up on the wall. Then he exited the program and turned off the computer.

Blake stared slack-jawed at the blank screen, as if the entire episode had been a dream.

“You’re sure …?”

“I’m sure.”

She looked down at him. “How can I make this up to you?” she asked, beginning to regain her composure. “I owe you so much, Dwayne.”

“There is one small thing you could do for me,” he said.

“Anything.” She started crying again.

“They’ve got me sleeping in the general population. It’s shit up there. No way to get your thoughts together. I’d like to bunk down in the infirmary, where I’m going to be working. It would make my life a whole lot more pleasant.” He hesitated. “And it would be easier for us to … you know, spend time together.”

She thought for a moment. “I might be able to do that. Since you’re already working there.”

“That’s great, Doris. I’d really appreciate it.” He touched her face again, a feather-light touch.

She was all over him, devouring him, her mouth on his, her hand down his pants.

He returned the embrace with equal ardor.

Doris Blake was large, over six feet tall, and weighed well over two hundred pounds. There was no beauty in her face, and her body was lumpy, a woman lumberjack. It would have been easier for her if she had been a lesbian, but she was aggressively heterosexual. She had never been married; she could count the dates in her lifetime on the fingers of one hand. Until she’d met Dwayne she had been a virgin.

She was horny, lonely, desperately sad. She would fuck anyone who would fuck her, even a prisoner, even though the penalty for getting caught would be losing her job and maybe going to jail herself. She didn’t care.

The first time Dwayne had laid eyes on her, up in Durban, he’d known everything there was to know about her. He’d played her like a Stradivarius—not that he’d had to work hard at it. They had become lovers less than two weeks after they met.

They had fucked wherever they could, anytime they had a free moment together.

No one ever suspected. No one ever looked at her like a woman, except him.

He used her to get all kinds of goodies. She knew that. She didn’t care.

She almost hadn’t left Durban because of him. But she’d had to, eventually; sooner or later they would have been caught. And she needed a life, something more than being a prison guard.

Now she was with him again.

There was no foreplay. Her jumpsuit came down around her knees, his pants dropped. Bending her over, both hands gripping her huge, marbled, pasty white thighs, he entered doggie-style, the way he best knew how.

He thrust hard, two fingers simultaneously massaging her clitoris. She bit down on her wrist to stop from screaming.

He had known this was going to happen. He had jacked off this morning, twice. Otherwise he would have come as soon as he entered her, and he wanted this to last. It had been four years.

She was a beast; maybe not the ugliest woman he’d ever seen, but close; but she was a woman, she had a pussy that was hot and wet and tight enough. A vagina, not a butthole.

She was a beast: but when he closed his eyes, she was a woman.

T
HE CORRIDOR OUTSIDE THE
courtroom was a beehive of activity: accused, their families, cops, lawyers, reporters, assorted hangers-on. With Josephine DiStefano sitting reassuringly nearby, Wyatt huddled on a bench with his first client, a middle-aged Latino who was accused of stealing a dozen wallets from the gym where he worked as a janitor. The wallets had all belonged to women, and the man, whose name was Fernando—clearly not a woman’s name—had tried to use one of the credit cards from the wallets to buy a new thirty-two-inch Sony television from Sears. He’d been nabbed before he could get out of the store, and a search of his apartment by the police had turned up the other wallets and most of their contents. “It was a mistake, man,” Fernando was telling Wyatt in a low, slurred voice. “I thought it was my own card I was using.”

The morning’s still young and he’s already drunk, Wyatt thought. Or high. There was a strong stench coming off his client, but Wyatt wasn’t sure if it was his breath or general unwashed BO.

Before he could think of a plausible way to rebut that statement, Josephine broke in. “You don’t own any credit cards,” she said curtly. “You don’t have a bank account and you’re three months behind on your rent. Your landlord’s already given you thirty days.”

“So?” His voice had the whiny air of the wounded accused.

“So cut the bullshit.”

Wyatt, seated between them, turned from one to the other. I’ve got a few things to learn, he thought. I’m glad she’s with me.

“Who is representing the accused?” the judge asked from the bench.

They were in Judge Arcaro’s courtroom. Arcaro was a wizened old man with an acerbic temper, one of the few remaining of the Italian-Irish-Jewish tribe of male judges appointed decades ago, when the conservative Democratic machine had a deathgrip on the city. Almost all the newer judges were minorities or women.

Wyatt stood at the defense table. “The Public Defender’s office, Your Honor.”

From his perch on the bench Arcaro peered down at him over his bifocals. He was a small man who had a thick pad on his chair and still had to stretch to look over his desk.

“I haven’t seen you before,” Arcaro squinted. Even though he wore glasses he was nearsighted. “Are you licensed to practice law in this state?” He cackled at his bad joke; his bailiff and the court stenographer chuckled dutifully, by rote.

“I haven’t had the privilege of being in your court, Your Honor,” Wyatt smiled pleasantly. “And yes, I do have my license.”

Arcaro’s bailiff walked to the bench and whispered into the judge’s ear. Arcaro leaned over, listening.

He looked up. “You’re Wyatt Matthews?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

A murmur went up in the courtroom, particularly among the other lawyers who hadn’t been paying attention; they all had their own problems to deal with.

Arcaro gaveled for quiet, leaned back in his high chair. He looked down at the docket sheet in front of him. “Is there more to this defendant than I think there is?”

“I don’t know what you think he is, Your Honor. He’s being defended by the office of the Public Defender, who I’m working for.”

The judge leaned forward. “I’ll be damned.” He shook his head. “What is a man of your status and reputation doing working for the PD, if I may ask?”

“My firm has an ongoing commitment to do pro bono work through the Public Defender’s office,” Wyatt answered smoothly, “and we decided it was time someone other than a new associate ate at the public trough. Since I’ve been wanting to try my hand at criminal-defense law, I volunteered.”

“Well, you sure picked the right place to do it,” the judge said, laughing nasally. “It’s refreshing to see an attorney of your stature getting his hands dirty, although I suspect it’s a vanity move and you’ll be back where you belong sooner than you expected. But in any case, good luck, son.”

You’re wrong, you old fart. You’re going to see so much of me you’ll get sick of my face.

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

The second case Wyatt had been given was possession with intent to sell. He asked for and received a seventy-two-hour continuance so he could go over the case with his client and review the charges.

“You’re not doing too bad,” Josephine backhand-complimented him as they sat in the hallway, waiting for the third case to come up. It was still before lunch.

“Thanks.” Needling and put-down seemed to be the way everyone dealt with each other around here. “Did you expect I wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t know what to expect.”

“I’m not here on an ego trip.”

She studied his face for a minute. “Most lawyers spend their whole lives trying to get to where you are,” she told him. “And almost none of them make it. How come you’re doing this?”

“You can get tired of anything. Even champagne and lobster would get old if you ate them every day.”

“If you say so. But I’d be happy to try.”

“You’ll get your chance someday.”

She shook her head. “That’s not where I’m going. I can’t afford to think that way.”

“What kind of mentality is that?” He was already liking her; this defeatist attitude upset him.

“A realistic one. Look, I might get it together and become a lawyer someday, but the odds are against it. I’m already the first woman in my family to go to college, let alone graduate. But if I ever do become a lawyer I’ll be a good one,” she added defiantly. “I’ve seen enough lame attorneys to know I could do better.”

“You’ve certainly impressed me.”

“Thanks. Glad to be of help.” She stuck her head into the courtroom, came back out. “You’re up next.”

“Your Honor,” Wyatt addressed the court, “I’ve been informed that my client”—he glanced at the arrest sheet—“Marvin White, is in the infirmary at the county jail, recovering from wounds he sustained during his alleged crime.”

“Have you had a chance to meet with him yet?”

“No, Your Honor. I got the case this morning and I’ve been in court all that time. I’m planning to interview him at the jail as soon as I’m freed up here.”

“You do that,” the judge told him. He flipped through his calendar. “Report to this court by Thursday morning as to his condition and when he’ll be able to appear.” He banged his gavel down, hard. “Next case.”

B
ECAUSE MARVIN WAS STILL
laid up, his ass swaddled in bandages, Wyatt couldn’t meet with him in a regular attorney-client room, so the jail authorities agreed for them to meet in the infirmary, after lunch. Wyatt went alone—Josephine had to go back to the office, where she had a mountain of work for her other lawyers.

While he was waiting to be cleared and sent down, Wyatt glanced at a summary report on Marvin’s juvenile record. He’d read the entire file later, when he had a few free hours.

It was depressing reading.

Dropped out of school in tenth grade, having been kept back twice. IQ 95, within the normal range, but with severe learning disabilities, particularly dyslexia—for all intents and purposes functionally illiterate. Black. Father unknown. Grew up in the projects. First arrested when in third grade—shoplifting. A few years later committed arson (set fire to his classroom with the teacher inside—young Marvin had locked her in. She’d had to jump from a second-story window, and broke both ankles—that was the end of her teaching days, and brought with it an additional charge of battery).

At seventeen Marvin White had seven arrests, three convictions, done time in the county work camp, juvenile hall, the state reform school.

“Follow me.”

Wyatt looked up from his seat in the waiting room. A guard was beckoning him. He went inside the bars.

The main area of the infirmary was busy with inmates getting treated for various ailments, but Marvin was the only bed patient. A significant number were openly homosexual, Wyatt noticed—some of them aggressively so. If he hadn’t known they were all men (female prisoners had their own facility, two floors up), he would have sworn some of them were women. Their problems were almost exclusively drug and AIDS related—some were openly dying; you could see the life draining out of them right before your eyes.

Wyatt felt a sense of uneasiness around all these inmates. Despite all his experience, this was a side of the law and of life he’d rarely been exposed to.

He sat on the bed next to Marvin’s. The curtains had been drawn to give the appearance of privacy; but if anyone had wanted to listen in, they could.

“My name’s Wyatt Matthews,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m going to be your lawyer.”

“My mother hire you?” the boy asked suspiciously, looking up at Wyatt through veiled eyes. The kid was eighteen, legally a man—in the eyes of the law a man who would be tried as an adult and sent to prison if convicted. To Wyatt’s eye, however, this was a boy, only a little older than his daughter.

“No. The city appointed me. Is there a particular lawyer your mother would want to hire for you? Have you talked with her about this?”

“Fuck, no.” Marvin turned his eyes away from Wyatt and stared up at the ceiling. “What you want to talk to me about?” His eyes darted to Wyatt for a second, then resumed their blank upward stare.

“The crime you’re accused of would be a good start, for openers.” He felt a surge of annoyance—you got your ass in a sling, kid, and I’m trying to help you, so don’t come on so salty with me. “This is a serious accusation, Marvin. You could go to jail for several years if you’re convicted. I’m going to try to keep you out of prison, if I can. But if you’re not willing to help me, then I’m not going to be much good for you.”

The kid looked away, as if conducting an inner debate. Then he turned and faced Wyatt, propping himself on his elbows, grimacing as he shifted his weight.

“What you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the basics. What’s your name?”

“Marvin. White.”

“Any middle name?”

“No.”

“You’re eighteen? You just had your birthday?”

“Yeah.”

“And you live at home?”

Marvin fidgeted.

“You
don’t
live at home? Are you living somewhere else? With a friend, a girlfriend? On the streets? Where?”

“Here and there.” The answer was low, almost a whisper.

Wyatt had a hunch. “Your mother doesn’t know about your being arrested yet, does she? You haven’t talked to her since this happened, have you?”

“She knows. The police told her. When I was up at the hospital.”

“So she saw you in the hospital? Before they brought you here?”

Marvin turned to him again. “They
called
her. She didn’t come. She ain’t gonna come.”

“Why won’t she come to see you?”

“ ’Cause she don’t truck with no lawbreakers,” Marvin stated defiantly.