Cold truth

Chapter 11

Courtrooms have personalities, Mason thought as he made his way to the counsel table in front of Associate Circuit Court Judge Joe Pistone's bench. Pistone's courtroom reminded him of a hundred-year-old saloon, where the floor had absorbed lifetimes of blood, booze, and spit, sagging from perpetual fatigue, resigned to the next spilled fluid. Judge Pistone was well matched to his courtroom, having sentenced himself to a life term in associate circuit court, first as a lawyer, then as a judge. Mason bet he was gray-haired and shoulder-hunched at birth, holding his mother in contempt the first time she burped him.

Mason felt as worn as the floorboards in the saloon. His body creaked like it had been trampled on. His eye looked like a doorstop. He ignored Sherri Thomas and her cameraman, who had set up shop in the hallway outside the courtroom. He smiled with unfelt good nature at the jabs from other lawyers who asked if he'd gotten the license number of the truck that hit him, or if the other guy looked worse than Mason.

He was hopeful that Jordan's arraignment would be brief and routine. He would waive formal reading of the charge, enter a plea of not guilty, and ask for bail. The prosecutor would demand bail in six figures, at which point he knew hope would go out the window like Gina Davenport if Arthur Hackett made good on his threat of the night before.

Mason had called Hackett after his jailhouse meeting with Jordan. He had to talk with Hackett about Jordan's rape story, and tell Hackett that he couldn't let him pay his fees any longer. Mason also wanted to see if Hackett would choose between his children again, defending his son, condemning his daughter.

Their meeting had been brief, more of a monologue delivered by Mason to a stone-faced audience of one. Hackett had absorbed Mason's report without comment, save one question.

"Do you believe her?" he asked Mason.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. She believes it. I've got to investigate it. That means your son is a possible suspect. I can't take any more of your money."

"You don't have to," Hackett said. "You're fired."

Mason had been too tired to remind Hackett that Jordan was his client, not him. An uneasy night's sleep hadn't soothed the kinks out of Mason's body or mind as he waited for the deputies to bring in his client and introduce her to Judge Pistone.

Rachel Firestone stood in the far corner of the courtroom. She had passed on covering Jordan's case, as he thought she would. Her impish smile framed by her molten red hair boosted his spirits from across the room.

Abby Lieberman joined her, giving Mason a slight, waist-high wave that he grabbed like a lifeline, before she huddled with Rachel like co-conspirators.

Mason was trying to figure out what they were up to when someone bumped into the back of his chair, apologized, and slid into the seat next to his.

"Sorry, Lou," said Brandon Potter.

Potter was a grizzled criminal defense lawyer who ruled the courtroom in his youth, drank his way through mid-life, and was plea-bargaining his way to retirement.

"Goddamn Pistone," Potter muttered. "I can't wait for that bastard to die. I swear his favorite words are 'bail denied.' "

Before Mason could commiserate with Potter, a trio of sheriff's deputies ushered a platoon of prisoners into the courtroom, shackles rasping against their ankles, slapping against the chairs in the jury box where they were seated, Jordan on the end of the front row, back ramrod-straight, jaw clamped. Rage made for good posture, Mason thought as he watched her.

Jordan searched the courtroom, finding her parents in the second-to-the-last row on the opposite side from Rachel and Abby. Centurion Johnson and Terry Nix were seated behind Arthur and Carol Hackett. Jordan nodded in their direction, Mason wondering which of them Jordan was glad to see.

Judge Pistone processed the first three cases, keeping his head down, as he always did, not looking at the lawyers or the defendants as he set bail and scheduled trials.

"State v. Hackett," the judge announced. "State your appearances."

"The State appears by Alan Walker, assistant prosecuting attorney."

Mason hadn't dealt with Walker previously, but knew he was a good lawyer since Patrick Ortiz had hired him. Since being elected prosecuting attorney, Ortiz had upgraded his staff with career prosecutors. Unlike his predecessor, who was more politician than prosecutor, Ortiz was all prosecutor, all the time. He required the same from the lawyers who worked for him. Mason wouldn't get any breaks.

Mason rose to announce his appearance, surprised that Brandon Potter rose alongside him. He was more surprised when Potter joined him in telling Judge Pistone they were representing Jordan Hackett, their duet bringing the judge's head up.

"You gentlemen rehearse that before you came down here?" he asked, frowning with disappointment when no one in the audience laughed. Judge Pistone could kill a punch line just by letting the words collect in his mouth.

"Your Honor-" Mason began.

"He is no longer representing Miss Hackett," Potter said, interrupting Mason. "The family retained me last night after Mr. Mason quit the case. I wasn't able to reach Mr. Mason to inform him of the change in counsel."

"Gee, Brandon," Mason said. "You were sitting right next to me while we were waiting for this case to be called. You couldn't have been any closer to me if you were doing a lap dance."

The spectators laughed and Judge Pistone gaveled them into silence, reminding Mason that he had broken one of the cardinal rules of the courtroom-never be funnier than the judge.

"Okay, Counselors," Judge Pistone said. "Who's it going to be?"

Mason beat Potter out of the blocks. "Your Honor, the defendant's father has been paying my fees on behalf of his daughter. Yesterday, I told him that I couldn't accept any further payments from him, but I didn't quit the case. Jordan Hackett is my client, not her father. My client is indigent and I ask the Court to appoint me as her counsel."

"If I may, Your Honor," Potter began.

"You may not, Mr. Potter," Judge Pistone replied. "Miss Hackett, which of these two lawyers do you want to defend you?"

Jordan looked at her parents. Carol Hackett hid behind dark glasses, concealing her response. Arthur Hackett burned his unspoken demand with a steel-eyed glare. Behind them, Centurion Johnson opened his beaming smile for business, holding up one hand, the thumb and forefinger in the shape of an L.

"I want Mr. Mason," she said. "But I don't have any money and I don't have a job."

"Very well, Miss Hackett," Judge Pistone said, banging his gavel like an auctioneer. "Mr. Mason it is, for fifty dollars an hour, courtesy of the taxpayers."

Brandon Potter shrugged off the defeat, mentally dividing his fee by the cost of a fifth of gin, and left the courtroom. Mason waited for Potter to exit, punctuating his victory.

"We'll waive reading of the charges, Your Honor, and enter a plea of not guilty. We request a reasonable bail. The defendant is a lifelong resident, not a flight risk or a danger to others. She surrendered voluntarily. She needs psychological counseling she can't get in jail."

Judge Pistone asked, "What's your position, Mr. Walker."

"The defendant confessed to killing Gina Davenport. She is charged with first-degree murder with aggravating circumstances. If convicted, she'll be sentenced to life without parole or death by lethal injection. She shouldn't get bail at all. If she does, the State insists on a million dollars."

"Mr. Walker," Judge Pistone said. "I'm the only one who insists on anything in this courtroom. Everybody else asks. Bail is set at three hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Mason, can your client post bail?"

Mason looked first at Jordan, then her father. Arthur Hackett rose from his pew, took his wife by the arm, and left the courtroom. "I don't know," he said.

"Excuse me, Your Honor," Rachel Firestone said. "May I have a word with Mr. Mason?"

"Don't tell me the Kansas City Star is going into the bail bond business, Ms. Firestone."

"No, sir. We're sticking to newspapers," Rachel said as she approached the rail that divided the lawyers from the spectators, leaned over, and whispered to Mason.

"The bail is taken care of. Get Jordan out of here," Rachel said.

"Mind telling me who her fairy godmother is?" Mason asked.

"More like mother than fairy godmother," she answered, hiking her thumb at Abby and handing Abby's business card to Mason.

Mason took a deep breath. "I wouldn't put my money on that quite yet."

"It's not your money, Counselor."

Abby stared at Jordan, biting her lip and holding her elbows in her palms. Nothing complicates a family reunion like murder, Mason thought. "We can post the bond," he told the judge.

"Very well. Given the defendant's history of psychological problems, I'll require that she be supervised as a condition of her bail. Who will be responsible for her?" Judge Pistone asked.

"I'll take her," Centurion Johnson said, rising slowly so everyone had time to turn around. "She was living at Sanctuary when she asked me if she should turn herself in. I told her that the courts and police would do the right thing and I was right. You let me take her back to Sanctuary, Judge, and I'll make sure she stays put until you're ready for her to come back. And believe me, Judge, I know how to find the courthouse."

Judge Pistone rapped his gavel again, silencing the crowd, who were thrilled with the show they'd seen.

"The Court is very familiar with both you and Sanctuary, Mr. Johnson. Any objections, Mr. Mason?"

Mason looked at Jordan, whose grin was all the answer he needed. "None. I do want to make one thing clear on the record, however. Jordan Hackett is innocent. She recants her confession."

"Save it for the preliminary hearing, Mr. Mason, which I'm setting for two weeks from today." Judge Pistone said, his head down. "Next case."

Mason caught up to Abby and Rachel on the sidewalk outside the courthouse. Centurion Johnson was holding a press conference inside, keeping the reporters from chasing Mason.

"Nice closing, Lou," Rachel said. "Jordan Hackett is innocent. She recants her confession. Very good. I'd lead with it if I was writing the story."

Mason said, "Thanks. Tell your editor anyway. Make sure he spells recants correctly." He took Abby by the arm, "We need to talk," he said, leading her away.

"Hey," Rachel yelled.

"Alone," Mason said over his shoulder.

They stopped at the corner of 12th and Oak. A city bus wheezed to a stop and a dozen people climbed out, stepping around and between them, leaving them to decipher each other's body language. Mason's hands on his hips said he was serious. Abby's cocked head, chin in her hand, one finger over her lips, said she was amused that he was so serious. Their eyes never left one another, signaling more than either would say on the street.

"Abby, that was a very generous and dumb thing to do."

"Because she might not be my daughter?"

"Because she's a head case charged with murder living with a con man who was a dope dealer in his last job."

"You said she was innocent. Who's the con man now?"

"That's different. A trial starts before the jury ever sits down in the box. You're asking for trouble. What if she's not your daughter? What if she is your daughter and she's a murderer?"

"Then she needs me."

"She doesn't even know you. You show up out of the blue and say let's catch up after twenty-one years, what do you think is going to happen? Jordan is filled with more anger at her parents and the world than you can imagine. You think she's going to throw a welcome-home party for you? Wrong. You'll be her next lightning rod. As far as Jordan's concerned, you're the woman who abandoned her and left her to be raised by wolves.

She'll be so pissed at you, she'll jump bail just to screw you out of the three hundred grand."

Abby's face began to tremble, her finger sliding off her lips as her mouth crumbled. "I did abandon my daughter. Every day since they took her away from me, I told myself that it was the right thing to do, but it was a lie. Giving my daughter up was a horrible thing to do. If Jordan's my daughter, I won't abandon her again."

Mason ran his fingers through his hair, tilted his head skyward, more to relieve the tension in his neck than to find a sign from above, though he wouldn't have turned down the sign.

"We'll get a DNA test. It only takes about ten days to get the results. Then you'll know."

Abby shook her head. "No. Not yet. You're right about the timing. Just tell Jordan that a friend posted the bond."

"It may not be that simple," Mason said. "You told the cops about your call to Gina Davenport. The phone number was for Jordan's cell phone. If the cops don't know that yet, they'll figure it out eventually. Someone was trying to connect you, Gina, and Jordan. I don't know who and I don't know why. But I do know one thing. The courtroom is the wrong place for Jordan to find out that you are her mother."