Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

The Charge Not Filed by Bruce Graham

Lori Prewitt tapped the bar on the telephone. “Lori here.”

“County Attorney?”

Lori sighed. She knew she sounded tired, at six forty-five at night, eleven hours and two fast food meals after arriving at her office. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“This is Sergeant Bill McNamara, Worcester Police. Do you have business with a John Ricetti, of our town?”

“He’s a witness in one of my cases.”

“He was, but he won’t be. He was found dead about an hour ago here.”

“Say it ain’t so.”

“Yeah, it is. A knife in the chest, at the bottom of a flight of stairs. The fall didn’t hurt him, the stabbing did him in. We found your letter in his pocket. We haven’t confirmed his identity by his prints, but all of his ID fits.”

“Probably is, then.” Lori sagged. The case against Robert Archer had been pending for seven months: bludgeoning two men with a piece of iron in a disagreement over a drug transaction, two counts of aggravated, drug related assault, with a goodly amount of circumstantial evidence, but only one eyewitness, Ricetti, identifying Archer as the attacker. Without Ricetti, the case suddenly became weak.

“That’s all I have.”

“He’s my star witness to put a violent drug dealer away for a lot of years.” Lori’s mind was working. “Could you hold up on releasing this to the media?”

“No. Policy is it goes out as soon as it comes in. It’ll be posted by ten tonight.”

“Can you hold back his name, notifying next of kin, confirming identity, anything like that? I have an idea to salvage something out of this.”

“Okay,” said McNamara. “How about three days?”

“Thursday, at ten P.M.? I’ll call you before that. You’re four to midnight?”

“Correct. If I don’t hear from you, it’ll be out Thursday night.” He rattled off his telephone number.

“Thanks for calling. Goodbye.” She tapped the bar before the dial tone spat back. A fine kettle of fish. Even money that Archer iced Ricetti. If Archer didn’t kill him and hears of the murder, her case was nearly hopeless, but she’d have to try it — and kill three days in court. And Archer would be boss of the street more than ever.

She was feeling the pangs of doubt that would be normal in any county attorney only two years out of law school. Her anxiety was aggravated by knowledge that the county governing board had appointed her only because no one else was available on short notice to replace the almost fifteen-year veteran in the post, who had resigned suddenly for health reasons.

And she was further troubled by her dilemma, which she needed to decide within a few weeks — whether to become a candidate for a four-year term in the office, or to abandon the position and jump into private practice, a career path she’d deliberately avoided by accepting the position of assistant county attorney in the first place. The choices didn’t look hopeful either way: If she chose to seek election, she’d need to raise the five thousand dollars required for a campaign; if she opted for private practice, she doubted that any office in the area would have her, and she would need a bundle of money to open her own office. She was unfamiliar with the fine points of pursuing elected office, and was well aware that she had no strong backing on the all-male county governing board, two of whom she knew were actively feeling out other lawyers to run against her.

Lori did know that letting a sleazy punk get the better of her on two of the charges would not enhance her chances of winning the confidence of the voters. The case had been sound before and had the makings of good publicity, but now it was all but lost.

She stared at the certificates on the wall alongside her desk: college graduation; law school graduation; bar admissions in two states; appointment as county attorney, term to expire at the end of the year. She felt something welling up within her: the determination not to let Don Lewerke and his no-good client best her and the public she worked for.

A plan was gelling in her mind. It wasn’t the sort of scheme that would be found in the books, but it was the best she could come up with. She found her file of eavesdropping warrant requests and filled in the blanks with as much material from the file — augmented by her conversation with McNamara — as she could. She signed the form and dialed Judge Corwin’s number.

His voice was, as ever, solemn, steady, and unruffled. “Hello.”

“Judge, Lori Prewitt. May I come over with an eavesdropping warrant request?”

“Sure, if you can make it before my favorite TV program at nine.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Twenty-six minutes later Lori was watching His Honor give the papers his customary cursory study, with the usual distant gaze that seemed to Lori to mean that he was almost lost with such warrants. Twenty-one minutes after that she was explaining to the sheriff’s chief deputy what she wanted in the setting of the bugs in Archer’s apartment in the seedy Riverfront section of town. And in another nineteen minutes she was home with her cat.

Lori’s third telephone call at a little before eight the following morning confirmed that the bugs had been securely set in Archer’s digs while he was at his job overnight.

Her next call was to Archer’s lawyer, Don Lewerke, the hotshot who was rapidly acquiring a reputation for being the least cooperative and most arrogant lawyer in four counties. Three years out of Yale, where he was near the top of his class, he had joined the practice of the Graves brothers, who were in their seventies. When they left their practice, feet first, five months apart, Lewerke ran with dozens of files, milking the firm’s connections for a bunch more. He was much that Lori was not, haughty and overconfident. A bachelor and a workaholic, Lewerke would be at his office before heading out to court.

“Lewerke here.”

“Don, Lori Prewitt.”

“Okay, oppressor of the poor and humble, what are you dealing?”

“Are you ready for the Archer case? It’s third on the list, and the other two may sugar off.”

“Settling everything, are you?”

“Your guy’s last chance. I’ll ask for the maximum terms.”

“My guy isn’t inclined to plead.”

“He’s looking at ten years on each count, and I’ll ask for consecutive terms. I’ll take pleas to serious assault, two counts, four years on each, consecutive.”

Lewerke laughed.

“Run it by him.”

“Not before trial. He doesn’t respond to my letters.”

That was a help. Lori licked her lips, thinking. She said goodbye and dropped the receiver. She worked with other case files, and shortly before nine called Lewerke again.

“I’ll send out a warrant for his arrest. That’ll make sure he’s here for the trial,” she told him.

“You can’t do that.”

She pretended to read from a mythical paper: “Defendant’s attorney states defendant does not respond to attempts to contact. Attorney is not able to communicate county attorney’s offer of compromise to defendant. On information and belief—”

“Okay, okay, give me today, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Lori was settling down to her salad at the Golden Corral a little before six that evening when Lewerke strode along the aisle.

“I found him,” said Lewerke. “He says to stick it.”

Lori began moving greens into her mouth. “Sit down.”

“Can’t. I’m going back to the office.”

“Why is he so blind. Twenty years is tougher than eight. Doesn’t he know about the eyewitness?”

“He just won’t do it. He thinks he can beat it, and his money’s good.”

Lori put down her fork and stared at Lewerke. “I’m tired. You have me in a moment of weakness. How about one count, five years? Last chance for him to get out cheap. The victims were drug dealers, they’re in no position to complain about easy justice.”

“He won’t go for it.”

“You’ll run it by him?”

“Sure. If you’ll go for disorderly conduct.”

She frowned, giving him her best pretending-to-be-angry scowl. “Last offer. If I have to go through the headaches of dealing with my cast of X-rated witnesses and setting up the case, I’ll withdraw all offers and there’ll be nothing less than the charges on file. I won’t even ask for a jury instruction on lesser-included offenses.” She threw her fork into her half-full salad dish and looked past Lewerke at the waitress approaching with her rib-eye. “My main course is coming, and I don’t want your crummy client interfering with my appetite.”

“Okay, okay,” said Lewerke, a hand extended, palm open. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Make it by noon the next day. I have a busy day out of the office tomorrow.” She would make it be true by being everywhere but in the office; Lori didn’t want to make herself into a liar, should one of the judges grill her on her chicanery and trickery on the Robert Archer case.

Late the next afternoon Lori was in the conference room of the sheriff’s office, a store-bought sub sandwich, soda, and bag of chips before her, looking at a pile of tapes and a tape player. Munching away, Lori listened through the first few tapes at high speed of miscellaneous irrelevant sounds, muffled and difficult to understand because the bugs were centered on picking up Archer’s end of the telephone conversations. Lori ate her evening meal amid conversations that probably had to do with drug transactions, similar telephone conversations, long patches of silence, and words of affection between Archer and a woman he called Flopsy, mingled with sounds of squeaking bed springs, grunts, and groans.

Later tapes included an argument between Archer and Flopsy over a joint, more telephone calls, and muffled attempts at conversation over meals and otherwise. Then came a telephone call that Lori backed up the tape on, and listened to at regular speed.

Archer: Yeah?

Pause.

Archer: I forgot. It’s on for the nineteenth, huh?

Pause.

Flopsy in background: I’ll work on the joint.

Archer: Yeah, go ahead, it’s my lawyer. I ain’t worried, they can’t prove a thing.

Pause.

Archer: He won’t put me there.

Pause.

Archer: Tell her to go — I don’t care what she says, he won’t put me there.

Pause.

Archer: Because he’s dead. I heard it on the news, he’s dead, dead. Knifed in Worcester two, three nights ago.

Pause.

Archer: Sure, you don’t have to tell her why, just say I ain’t going to plead, and without Ricetti she ain’t got a case.

Pause.

Archer: Yeah, I’ll be there. Two days before, at one in the afternoon, your office. And no, I won’t plead.

Pause. Flopsy muttering something muffled that sounded like “a quickie before I pick up the kids at school.”

Archer: I’ll have your money then, sure.

Lori made notes, then ran fast through most of the rest of the tapes, slowing one down to listen intently to a muffled and disjointed conversation between Archer and someone who arrived at a little before midnight. Archer called him Gonzo.

Archer: Your money, Gonzo, [inaudible] thousand.

Gonzo: It wasn’t [inaudible] took a while, he [inaudible] a lot of grass, to soften him up.

Archer: [inaudible] stuff as a bonus. Keep out of sight for a couple of weeks.

Scuffling around the door.

Gonzo: Be in Boston till the [inaudible]. If you need anything, you know [inaudible].

Archer: So long.

Lori made more notes, and on the next tape picked up Archer’s second call from Lewerke.

Archer: Yeah.

Pause.

Archer: Why bother me? No, I won’t plead. Now don’t call me again. Yeah, I’m sure he’s dead, they had it in the Worcester paper.

Pause.

Archer: A friend called me, he knew about me and Ricetti.

Pause.

Archer: No, I don’t know what day’s paper.

Pause.

Archer: Eddie something, or maybe Andy something, I don’t remember his last name. What’s the problem?

Lewerke wasn’t stupid, that’s for sure. He didn’t have to wait for Lori to tell him why she believed that Archer was behind Ricetti’s death. Lori arranged with the chief deputy for the security of the tapes and more listening in a couple of days. She returned to her office and called McNamara in Worcester. “Is there any way that Ricetti’s identity got out?” she asked him.

“None. It’s still right here in my desk, ready to go.”

“Do you have a local called Gonzo?”

“Yes. Gonzo Patreska. A bad one, hits for the drug trade to enforce payment.”

“Freelance?”

“Some, but mostly on staff.”

Lori pondered things. Then she said, “We have a tape that he’s with our boy up here, and seems to be paid, but it’s not really clear. And the warrant might not hold up. But that’s the way it is. You can focus on him.”

“I’ll let it out about Ricetti.”

“I’ll send out an affidavit when you put out the information on his identity. Change it as you like, then send it back right away, it’ll help me with my guy.”

Lori reached up and stretched. The pieces were in place. Now it was up to her to maneuver them. But first, a good night’s rest.

Lori called Lewerke at ten A.M. the next day.

“I have some bad news for you, Don. I’m thinking of dropping the assault charges, and filing a murder charge.”

“Did one of the men die?” He was keeping his cool.

“No. The witness, Ricetti, was killed the other night.”

“Accidents happen.”

Lori paused for several seconds.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“It was murder. We have your boy paying off the killer.”

“How so?”

“Gonzo Patreska, in Worcester. He was up here two nights ago.”

“Have him how?”

“You’ll find out at the arraignment.”

“Is that it?”

“Your guy will find out what else when he sees the trial information.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Lori sighed. She didn’t want to move too fast. “I wanted to dispose of this, but Archer was sure he had it beaten. When he turned down my offer, he probably told you that Ricetti wouldn’t testify against him. If he told you that, he knew that Ricetti was dead, but it hadn’t been put out by the Worcester police. In fact, it wasn’t released by them until last night. Maybe Archer didn’t tell you that Ricetti was dead, but that’s why he turned down the deal.”

The silence at the other end of the line was very informative. Finally he said, “You’re stretching, Lori.”

“Ask him, if you’re so sure. Then you’ll be called as a witness to confirm what Archer knew—”

“Attorney-client privilege.”

Lori licked her lips and steadied her harpoon. “He wasn’t alone when he told you that Ricetti wouldn’t testify and maybe that Ricetti was dead. That does away with the privilege. When you testify, and the cops bring in this Gonzo person, it’ll make a fine, tight case.”

“You’re building a house of cards.”

“All of the earlier offers are withdrawn. I’ll take guilty pleas on the two charges, seven years on each, consecutive, no parole.”

“Lori, be reasonable.”

“You have until tomorrow at noon, otherwise I file the information for murder one, and ask for no bail. With his record, and considering the facts, he’ll be in solitary, not even phone calls, until trial, which will be in about a year.”

The line was silent for several seconds. Then Lewerke asked, “Why will you let the homicide charge go, if you think it’s so strong?”

“You know what will happen. He’ll be under the gun, literally, by Gonzo and his cronies, whether he beats the rap or not. Tomorrow, noon, Don. Goodbye.”

Judge Robertson looked out over his half-moon glasses. He stated his intention to accept the plea bargain, went through the colloquy, recited into the record his conclusions that there was a factual basis for the two guilty pleas and that the defendant was aware of rights that he was freely and voluntarily giving up, and went through the immediate sentencing steps.

Lori stared at the shuffling Archer, leg irons and waistband shackles securely in place. She was satisfied that fourteen years of maximum security would at least protect the public from Archer’s depredations during the felon’s turbulent thirties and into his middle age, when she could hope that he and the demi-monde that spawned him might be out of sync.

“We’re finished,” Lori said to her clerk, who hefted most of the files left over from the afternoon’s business and returned to the office.

Judge Robertson rose and signaled to Lori that she should join him in his cramped chambers.

Lori walked past the courthouse personnel, who were milling around preparing to leave, and into the judge’s chambers. She rested on one leg for several moments, then on the other, while the judge hung up his robe.

He stopped and stood, flat-footed, legs spread, hands on hips. “A neat piece of work, Miss Prewitt.”

Lori ignored his old-fashioned form of address. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

“What magic did you work to cause Lewerke to cave in so thoroughly?”

“We had the goods on him.”

Judge Robertson shook his head and moved to stand in front of his desk chair. “No. But if that’s your story, that’s okay. I saw the eavesdropping warrant in the file.”

Lori felt a thrill in her chest. She wouldn’t have wanted that. But she realized that the clerk of court would have placed the warrant in the only court file open on Archer. She decided to say nothing.

“Your principal witness was dead, you blew a lot of smoke on a tired old judge to get him to issue a warrant of doubtful validity, and submitted a return on the warrant that was the essence of vagueness. The rest of the file, with the only eyewitness dead, isn’t enough to get past a motion to dismiss after the state’s evidence, and yet Lewerke comes in and rolls over for a long sentence. I might almost hear a habeas corpus proceeding coming this way, on the basis of inadequate lawyer representation.”

Lori still said nothing.

“Not to worry,” the judge said. He sank into his chair and formed a prayer clasp with his hands on the empty desk blotter. “Our little conversation about the defendant being satisfied with Lewerke’s representation of him has taken care of that. You recall that I insisted that Archer read the file, and almost twisted his arm into admitting that he knew he was pleading guilty to charges with a flimsy case, and yet that he was satisfied with Lewerke, and didn’t want to fight it. Neither one of them cracked. It’s all on the record, just in case that habeas corpus lands on this desk.”

Lori swallowed hard.

The judge leaned back and cupped his hands behind his head. He smiled, a friendly smile. “I was a prosecutor for twelve years before I took to defending, and then moved on to this job. What you did was the neatest job of railroading I’ve ever seen. And it couldn’t have happened to a better defendant, or defense attorney. I’d rather not know the details, unless it moves beyond today and here.”

“Your Honor, I... I... I—”

The judge held out his hands, palms open, fingers extended. He stood up. “I’m leaving. Justice takes many forms. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one with so many forms as this one. I’ll see you next court service day.” With an effortless motion, he was out the door in a moment.

Lori waited for several seconds before she followed the judge out of the office and down the stairs. She went into the office of the county clerk and went to a stack of blank certificates to file as a candidate for office.

“You’re going to go for it, huh?” asked the clerk.

“I just decided.”