Prime Witness

Chapter Nine

For a man who is inherently lazy, Roland Overroy exhibits an unusual vitality in the pursuit of political opportunity. Since Mario’s death he has left no stone unturned in his efforts to cultivate people of influence in this county. He has in no uncertain way thrown his own hat in the ring of contenders for Feretti’s old job.

While I have done all within my power to keep Roland out of the Putah Creek cases, I now discover that he has been busy, lobbying, backdooring the sheriff on matters concerning these prosecutions. Overroy has convinced Emil that an encounter between law enforcement and the survivors of the Putah Creek victims would be a politic thing at this time.

“This is a major mistake.” I am talking to Johnson in the confines of his office. We are alone.

“It’ll be a disaster,” I tell him, this proposed meeting with the Putah Creek survivors, a gathering of angry and dazed parents, families who are likely at this stage to blame anyone handy for their grief.

Overroy has demonstrated more cunning in this than I had credited to him. Rather than an overt play for Johnson’s support before the board of supervisors, he has maneuvered himself into a position to advise the sheriff on the political fallout of these killings. His bid for support will no doubt follow.

“They want a meeting,” says Emil. “Whataya want me to do? I can’t say no.”

The “they” in Johnson’s plaintive capitulation is the county’s victim-witness program, a bureaucracy of its own making that has spawned a perpetual money machine for a horde of loosely wrapped psychic healers and self-described counselors. These people take referrals of crime victims and send the bill to the state for payment under the crime compensation act.

“Roland met with Maggie Wilson yesterday,” Emil tells me. “It’s all arranged. The meeting is this afternoon,” he says.

Wilson is the victim-witness coordinator in this county, the crime victim’s answer to Don Corleone in drag. To defense attorneys trying to stave off a long term for their clients, she is known as “Attila the Hen,” a woman who missed her calling on the committee of vigilance. Alas, for Maggie Wilson, justice is blind reprisal.

I roll my eyes. “Tell them I scotched it,” I say. “You can blame it on me. Tell them we will meet with them privately at the appropriate time, when we have specific details to reveal. Right now there is nothing to tell.”

This slows him for only a second as he considers his options.

“Roland thinks it’s a good idea,” he says.

“Roland would,” I tell him. Overroy has no concept of the dictates of a fair trial. It has not dawned on him that a public gathering of the victims will turn out the press like buffalo at a watering hole. He will poison the potential pool of jurors for a thousand miles.

Since the last set of killings, life in Davenport resembles nothing so much as festivities under the big top. One enterprising soul armed with the university’s student mailing list is now marketing a stun gun packing 60,000 volts, packaged as a collapsible umbrella; no doubt his version of “Singing in the Rain.”

Emil is sprawled in his overstuffed swivel chair, his cowboy-booted feet propped in the center of the desk, on top of a pile of police reports and booking sheets that have been sent up the chain for his review.

“Listen to me, Paul.” His voice is edging toward some southern homily. “It’s no big deal. We can hold their hands, pat ’em on the ass, tell ’em we’re workin’ around the clock to find the killer. It’s the truth,” he tells me. “Hell, all these folks want is some assurance, a little public recognition that they’re in pain.”

I’m getting worried. Emil is beginning to talk like victim-witness with heavy jowls and a southern accent, the sensitive redneck.

“The judges won’t like it,” I tell him. “It’ll be a circus. Prejudicial pretrial publicity,” I say. Usually the judges don’t get involved until later, but in a notorious case, they may make an exception. Such a meeting would be a spawning ground for new and additional arguments on appeal. I get a vision of Ingel’s steely eyes, anticipate the phone call that will no doubt come when he hears of this.

He looks at me, an arched eyebrow. This has his attention. The wrath in the black robes. He thinks for a moment, weighs the anger of four superior court judges against the organized lynch mob that can be victim-witness and its followers.

“Well, you work it out with them. You talk to the court and they’ll understand,” he says. “You’ve got their respect,” he tells me.

Now I’m getting my own haunches stroked by Emil, sunshine and southern bullshit.

“Listen, Emil.” I inject a little calm in my tone, my levelest attempt at sound reason. “I’ve dealt with these people, victim-witness before,” I tell him. “And they will not be satisfied. Give them a public forum and they will pillory both of us.”

“You worry too much,” he says. “It’s just a little private get-together. Trust me,” he says. “It’ll be OK.”

From its opening gavel Emil’s meeting with victim-witness has the decorum of a mud-wrestling match.

As I expected, Maggie Wilson sandbagged him, stacking the crowd with community activists and campus organizers, anybody looking for a cause, and an audience-share on the five o’clock news.

Claude and I stay in the back, not far from Roland Overroy, whom I saw lurking in the shadows behind a pillar.

Maggie Wilson has arrogated a seat up close, in the front row, a pulpit for some cheerleading-a good place for roasting a southern hot dog. When Emil invited her to join him on the rostrum she smiled, then politely declined.

Then the press showed up. Wilson encouraged the guys with the boom-mikes to stick them in Emil’s face. Reporters peppered him with questions about Iganovich and his whereabouts. The audience got personal about the investigation, demanding details on the method of death and other particulars at the crime scenes. This cut too close to the bone, questions Emil could not in good conscience answer. The crowd became abusive. After several minutes of this, Emil’s southern pride is in full retreat. He has called a recess, time out to patch wounds in his corner.

“Sonofabitch,” he says as he joins us in the back of the room. Emil is puffing hard. He has loops of perspiration the size of a draft-horse harness under each arm.

“Fuckin’ A,” he says. “They’re kicking my ass.”

I could say I told him so, but in his current mood he would probably deck me.

“Any ideas?” he says.

The crowd is busy getting coffee, taking a leak. For the moment Emil seems relieved that at least they are not doing this on him.

Claude makes a suggestion.

“We could get the families of the victims out of here, into a private room, strip the gathering of its legitimacy,” he says. “Announce that they are now meeting privately with other officials.”

This would leave Emil to deal with the hangers-on, the wannabe grievers and those looking for a social cause. They will get twenty minutes of campaign oratory with periodic admonitions not to backtalk or question Johnny Law.

Emil dispatches Claude and two of his deputies to buttonhole the families for a private gathering away from the press and public, his own form of latter-day segregation. Emil heads back to the rostrum and I turn to grab a drink from the fountain in the hall outside. People are still milling in as I push through the door. It’s when I run into him, a swiping action banging shoulders. We stop in mid stride and he looks at me with deadly dark eyes, something from the Spanish Inquisition.

“Mr. Madriani,” he says, dusky and brooding. My name rolls off his tongue, the affectation of some early California Don. Armando Acosta’s hair is slicked back, his suit an impeccable dark pinstripe, little kerchief in the pocket matching his maroon silk tie. I could retire on the metal in his cuff links, to say nothing of the three-thousand-dollar gold watch on his wrist.

For an instant I am tongue-tied. It is awkward.

“Judge.” It’s all that will come out of my mouth. I nod, forced deference.

The Coconut has a woman by the arm, dark complexion like his own, a fierce resemblance. I suspect this is his sister, the mother of the dead victim Sharon Collins. There are no introductions. It is not that friendly. Instead he whispers in the woman’s ear, and a second later she walks off by herself toward the seats in the auditorium.

“I want to talk to you,” he says. This is no request. He wags a finger in my face, backs out, through the stream of bodies jostling in the doorway. He finds a quiet area outside, in front of the building, on the steps. Once there he turns on me quickly, mincing no words.

“I don’t know how you got here,” he says. He means my appointment as prosecutor. “I had hoped for somebody,” he searches for the right word, “more competent,” he finally says. “Judge Ingel talked to you?”

I nod.

“Then you know why I’m here,” he says.

“I do. And you have my sympathies,” I say.

He looks at me, something halfway between meanness and a surly smirk.

“I don’t want your fucking sympathies,” he tells me. He suddenly loses the clipped tones of affected English. “You can shower all of that on the suckers inside,” he says. “What I want is a look at the file, everything the cops have, in the Collins case,” he says. He looks at me stone-faced. He knows I cannot give him this, confidential files on a pending murder investigation.

“Everything is being done that can be,” I tell him.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” I say.

“I can give you some help,” he tells me.

“In what way?”

“I have access to people in Capital County who have made offers of assistance.” He’s talking about special treatment for a member of the bench. He tells me some cops, old friends, are willing to dog leads for him in their spare time. They will no doubt be given special treatment the next time they come looking for a search warrant or take the stand in his court. Such is the common currency in the halls of justice.

He tells me Davenport is a cow county. “You know as well as I that they have limited resources. I have no intention of sitting back and watching as they close the books on my niece,” he says.

“No one’s closing the books.”

“Then you won’t mind if I look at the files.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?” He’s picking lint off the shoulder of my coat now, his message that I do nothing right, not to his level of expectations, even to the point of my dress.

“Your honor.” I back away a full step. The lint on my shoulder belongs to me.

“I’m not looking for an argument or a difficult time. You know as well as I that the files in a pending case are not public,” I say. “They are not available to anyone but the investigators working the case.”

Cold beady eyes, like some Aztec high priest about to do sacrifice on an altar of stone. In this moment he is, I am sure, measuring the myriad ways a judge can screw over a hapless lawyer. I suspect he has made promises to his sister that now, because of my intransigence, he cannot keep.

“What I would have expected,” he says, “from someone like you.” Then his forefinger is in my face, manicured and long, and shaking with anger. “Don’t fuck up,” he says. His expression cold and dead.

Then I hear the click of hard heels as he turns and leaves me standing alone on the steps.

Against my own better judgment I have drawn the private duty with family members, along with Claude in a smaller conference room off the main auditorium. I can hear table-pounding and loud voices outside, in the other room. Emil is having his own come-to-Jesus meeting with the press.

We are seated around a large table now, conference style, Julie Park’s parents, her father Kim Park, a physician from Southern California at one end of the table. The Sniders are next to him, then Mr. and Mrs. Collins and Acosta. Next to him is Rodney Slate’s mother. I am told that his father is hospitalized with a serious heart condition, no doubt worsened by the loss of his only son.

Acosta is silent in this meeting, his brooding eyes on me every second. He has always been one for the appearance of propriety. It is one thing to bend the rules, to slip a peek at official files, another to come here dripping saliva and demanding blood with the unwashed masses. That would be unseemly. He would rather backdoor me with Ingel. So here, he will sit, bide his time and listen to the others, ever the proper jurist, the soul of restraint.

There’s a young kid in his teens seated next to Mrs. Snider, a strong family resemblance. My guess is that this is a younger brother of the victim, Jonathan Snider. At the other end of the table is a man in a blue serge suit passing out business cards. He flips one down the table in my direction.

GEORGE CAYHILL

ASSISTANT DEAN FOR STUDENT AFFAIRS

He has insinuated himself into this meeting, representing the interests of the university.

A woman next to Cayhill, in the dark glasses, removes these to reveal high, prominent cheek bones, and wide-set hazel eyes, a bit reddened I think by recent tears. She is tall and slender, taller than I, with feminine and fetching moves. She has thick brunette hair, generous waves which cascade around her shoulders as she shakes it free. Her mouth matches the breadth of her other facial features, with generous pouting lips. It is the face, I think, of classic design, not the simpering beauty of a covergirl, but more unique. Her gaze is intense, like maybe there is something more than good looks behind these eyes. She wears little makeup. There is something wholesome in her looks, like the snapshot of a dressed-up farm girl in the 1940s. She reminds me of images I have seen recently on the silver screen, of Geena Davis in vintage flashbacks.

Without warning she fires a quick glance in my direction and catches me staring. She smiles, dimples forming in the recesses of her cheeks. She reaches across the table, long delicate fingers.

“I should introduce myself. Jeanette Scofield.” She says this matter of fact, like what you see is what you get, no pretensions here.

She is the widow of Abbott Scofield. He no doubt got the better bargain in this marriage. The woman sitting across the table from me could easily pass, in age, for his daughter.

She looks to the man beside her. “My brother, Jess,” she says. I get all five fingers and a squeeze like an iron vise from the fellow sitting next to her. “Jess Amara,” he tells me. I notice that Claude is eyeing the widow Scofield palpably. He exchanges nods with the man, like maybe the two already know each other.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances.” Claude has no notes and is reaching a bit for a good opening in awkward circumstances. I can tell he is a little pissed at Emil for putting him in this position.

“At the present time there are more than a hundred law enforcement officers working around the clock to catch this killer. The full resources of the state, through the office of the attorney general, have been committed to this case and we are at present pursuing active leads.”

A dozen eyes are boring in on Dusalt, looking for something, more than a ration of statistics. Kim Park, Julie Park’s father, is getting antsy at the end of the table. But the interruption is a deep baritone from another quarter.

“Lieutenant.” It is the man just introduced to me as Jess Amara.

“I think maybe we can cut through some of this,” he says. “It’s been in all the papers. This man, your suspect. What is his name?” he says, searching for the proper pronunciation.

“Iganovich,” says Claude.

“Yes. Iganovich,” says Amara. “What can you tell us about him?”

Claude is looking at Amara, a picture of exasperation, as if somehow he’s been outflanked.

“I should introduce you,” he says. “For those of you who haven’t met him, Sergeant Amara is a member of the Davenport City Police Department.” The reason for Claude’s cool reception of Amara is clear. He knows, through scuttlebutt in his department, that Amara will have more information on the Russian, as well as other aspects of the case, than has appeared in the local newspapers or on the tube.

All eyes around the table fix on Amara. Suddenly this group of grieving orphans has found a common resource, someone on the inside who like themselves has suffered a personal loss in this thing.

“Are you close to an arrest?” says Amara.

“We have leads,” says Claude. “We’ve issued an all-points bulletin.”

“Then you think he’s left the area?”

The others are watching and listening, leaving the inquiries to someone who knows what to ask.

“We have reason to believe that he has.”

“Then you know where he’s gone?”

“We have leads.” Claude is back to safe ground.

Based on the Air Canada information, police now believe that Iganovich has fled north. The cops cannot confirm that he boarded a flight, as he no doubt used an alias to buy his ticket. There is an open border between the two countries not requiring passports. In his apartment the cops have found two credit cards issued in his name. Iganovich knows that to use these is to leave a trail like irradiated bread crumbs. Authorities have frozen his small bank account to prevent any further ATM transfers. They believe this was the source of purchase for the airline ticket. When you’re on the lam, cash is king. Broke, they believe he will be forced to the surface soon, driven to commit some foolish act for money.

“But you’re focusing on a general area?” says Amara. He’s back to geography.

“We have an idea,” says Claude. It’s clear he’s not going to give anything else away. If Amara knows more he will have to say so.

“Do you have any idea where they are looking?” This latter comes from Park, but it’s not directed to Claude, instead to Amara.

The officer shrugs his shoulders, like this is not his party.

Park has a look of bewilderment about him, like a favorite dog when its master moves a ball too quickly from one hand to the other. It is a dazed expression I have seen before, in the eyes of loved ones seeking answers in the days and hours immediately after a brutal murder.

“This man,” says Park. “This Ivan Iganovich.”

“Andre,” says Claude. “We believe his name is Andre Iganovich.”

Park absorbs this without much interest. “According to the newspapers he was a security guard at the university? Is that true?” he says.

Claude makes a face of concession.

Park cannot seem to comprehend how the suspect in his daughter’s murder could hold such a position of trust.

“Dr. Park. The university didn’t hire this man.” It is Cayhill from the far end of the table. “We hired a licensed private security firm under a contract to provide some basic security for a number of buildings owned by the university.”

None of this seems to make much of a dent on Dr. Park or his wife. The woman, it seems, is in another world, a cocoon of grief. She seems not yet to have come to grips with the notion that twenty years of tender love now lies on a coroner’s cold steel slab two blocks from here.

“The important point,” says Cayhill, “is that the suspect, Mr. Iganovich, was not a university employee. He was an employee of the security firm.” Cayhill smiles likes some Fuller Brush salesman.

“No,” says Park. “The important point is that my daughter is dead.”

“Oh, of course,” says Cayhill. “I didn’t mean. . well, you know what I mean.”

Cayhill is busy riding the wooden rocking horse of civil liability, putting forth the theories of defense as laid out by the university’s lawyers, trying to stem any early thought of a civil suit. This is the farthest thing from Park’s mind at the moment.

He looks at his wife with a wrinkled expression, like who could care about such details at a time like this. From the look on their faces they still hold out hope that something said here perhaps will relieve a little of the pain of this loss. It is the perpetual quest of survivors in violent crime, the search for some explanation to a random death, the pursuit of an element of reason that at least in their minds gives some justification to a senseless act. The Parks have not yet reached the horn of cynicism. That will take hold as days and weeks turn to months, as the justice process moves through its slow grind.

Suddenly there is a loud clamor and noise from the other room, Emil’s little meeting with the press. It’s one of the sheriff’s deputies coming through the door behind us. He closes it, again locking out the din from the other room, leans over and passes a message slip to Claude, who reads it.

“Excuse me,” he says. “Mr. Madriani will handle the briefing for the moment. I will be right back.”

Suddenly eyes are on me.

“I have a question,” says Amara. “Do we know how the suspect came into the country?”

This draws a blank expression from me. “I don’t,” I say.

“In order to get into the country an immigrant usually requires a sponsor,” he says, “a relative, friend, maybe an employer.”

“I’m sure that investigators are looking into that.” Actually I am not, but I make a mental note to talk to Claude about it in a private moment.

The gathering starts to digress, private conversations cropping up around the table as the survivors begin to communicate their common pain.

Park is talking to Amara, quietly about the immigration item, sponsors and the like. He is taking notes on a piece of paper he’s taken from his pocket. As I watch him I wonder what the purpose of this missive can be. I had been warned by the shrinks that survivors of crime often react in predictable patterns. When the suspended disbelief of death finally dissolves it will first turn to rage, and then obsession.

Claude has come back. He settles into his chair and leans into my ear, the hissing of words. “Go home,” he says, “and pack. Enough for several days. We have a flight, ten, tomorrow morning.”

I look at him. He says nothing more, but from the expression on his face the message is clear. Somewhere on this planet Andre Iganovich has come to ground.