Killer Ambition

47

The following morning I was up early and pushing through my closet. I had to find a suit that would look good enough for the arraignment but not make me sweat through it on my way to the courthouse. I pulled out a few possibilities and turned on the television to catch what they were saying about the case. News of Ian Powers’s arrest had gone nationwide, and from the looks of things, the tsunami had hit. A spray-tanned, hair-gelled anchor announced with unrestrained zeal:

A shocking development in the murder case of Hayley Antonovich and Brian Maher! Two suspects were taken into custody last night and the identity of one of them has rocked the film industry! Ian Powers, manager for superstar director Russell Antonovich and co-owner of RussPow Studios, was arrested last night, along with studio production assistant Jack Averly, and charged with the murders of Hayley Antonovich and Brian Maher. Their arraignments will take place this morning. We’ll have live coverage inside the courtroom, so stay tuned…

I flipped between channels. All of them made the same breathless announcement and all promised “live coverage of this dramatic moment.” A pretty funny thing to promise considering the fact that there wasn’t much to cover. An arraignment was a limited affair: I would read the charges, Powers and Averly would plead not guilty, and then we’d set a date for the preliminary hearing. At most, it should take about five minutes. But it was a chance to watch all the players in action, and that alone guaranteed they’d get viewers.

I’m a big believer in the public’s right to know, so if anyone wants to sit in and watch a trial, I’m all for it. What I’m not in favor of is spin. And spin is all you get when the media jumps in. Lawyers who are third-rate on their best day and have never tried a lawsuit get “face time” to pontificate endlessly-and worse, misleadingly-about every facet of the case. As a result, the public’s right to know becomes the talking heads’ right to misinform. And then there are the stealth commentators: the lawyers and experts who are working for the defense but don’t admit it. They get on camera and present themselves as neutral observers, when all along they’re just stumping for their side of the lawsuit.

Knowing those publicity junkies would soon pollute the airwaves with garbage about my case put me in a foul mood. I turned off the television and dawdled over coffee while I read the paper. The Times carried the story on the front page, above the fold-proof that the case had gone big-time. So far, it was just an unbiased recitation of the charges. The paper’s favorite expert, a law professor of limited brainpower but limitless desire for exposure, merely observed that the charges carried a sentence of life without the possibility of parole. Pretty much straight-down-the-middle reportage. I knew it wouldn’t last. The moment the trial got under way, rumor and innuendo would fill in for the facts whenever they were juicy enough. Any source would do, corroborated or not.

When I first stepped outside, I was surprised to find that it was a little cooler than I’d expected, and I thought about heading back to change. But by the time I got to the courthouse, the temperature had begun to rise. If I’d left any later, I would’ve been a mess. I looked through the glass doors into the lobby and saw a few cameras but not a big crowd. Feeling cheered, I hopped onto an elevator and rode up to my floor, thinking it might not be so bad after all.

When I got to my office, I called Declan.

“Want to do the arraignment with me? May as well get your name on the record.”

He happily accepted.

Then I called Bailey. She accepted too, but not quite as happily. “I guess I should.”

When Declan and I stepped off the elevator, I saw that I’d been lulled into a false sense of security. The few cameras I’d seen in the lobby were the latecomers. The bulk of the attendees for today’s proceedings had already shown up, and they were clogging the hallway from one end of the courthouse to the other. I pulled Declan aside before we ran the gauntlet.

“Don’t answer any questions. Keep your head down and follow me.”

I took the lead and kept my eyes focused on the door to the courtroom. At first we got left alone. Only the reporters who regularly covered the courts knew who we were. But halfway to the courtroom, one of them spotted me. “Hey, Rachel! What’ve you got on Powers? Who’s the real killer?”

The rest of them picked up on the cue and started shouting questions. I shook my head, said, “No comment,” over and over, and wove my way through the crowd. I’d just pushed open the door when a semi-familiar voice with a British accent called to me from the anteroom.

“Rachel Knight! We meet in person at last. Andrew Chatham.” He put out his hand, and I reflexively took it.

Shorter than I was by about three inches, Andrew was very slim and dapper in a blazer, white button-down shirt, and dark slacks. Kind of Fred Astaire-ish.

“Hello, Andrew. I have no comment.”

“Well, that’s an improvement on our recent phone call.”

I looked at him, puzzled.

“When you hung up on me.” He smiled without a hint of malice. I don’t know why, but something about him made me smile back. “So I shall take this exchange as my victory for the day and not, as you Yanks put it, push my luck. Good day. Have a nice arraignment.”

Amused, I replied, “Thank you, Andrew.”

Only one camera was in the courtroom, so I surmised it would provide the “pool feed,” meaning everyone would use the footage it got. I moved to the prosecution side of counsel table with Declan close behind me. This courtroom was devoted exclusively to arraignments. Instead of the usual setup with separate counsel tables at either side of the courtroom, it had one big U-shaped table that gave room for the defense and prosecution to sit on opposite sides and other interested parties-bail bondsmen, cops, or probation officers-to sit in the middle. It was also the only courtroom that had a glass-enclosed section on the defense side. That was where the prisoners sat. Mornings were always crowded in this courtroom, but today was the worst I’d ever seen, with the press and the public in full attendance, eager to get their first up-close look at everyone. The audience section-twice the size of a normal courtroom-was filled to capacity, a very rare event.

I immediately spotted Don Wagmeister on the other side of counsel table. It wasn’t hard to do, since he stood six feet four and was built like a solid rectangle-a rectangle that was usually adorned with brightly colored theme ties, like sharks, the scales of justice, and the guy on the Monopoly “Get Out of Jail Free” card. I’d heard he had hair plugs, but I’d never noticed it myself. Then again, he slicked his hair back with so much goo, who could tell? I was about to go over and hand him the first batch of discovery-all the crime and evidence reports that’d been generated so far-when the judge took the bench.

The bailiff told everyone to rise. Declan and I were already standing, so we stayed that way. Judge Patrick Daley, a bird-thin, nervous man in bifocals, moved up the steps to the bench swiftly, his black robe flowing around his legs. His eyes landed briefly on the camera, then flicked away as he called the court to order. He spoke so rapidly, the sentence came out as one long word. “Everyone-be-seated-court-calls-the-case-of-People-versus-Powers-and-Averly.” The judge paused just long enough to take a breath. “Lawyers-please-state-your-names-for-the-record…People?”

Some judges are definitely not in love with the limelight, and Judge Daley seemed to be one of them, so he chose to get rid of us first-a very wise move. I hated it when judges put a high-profile appearance last on the calendar. It meant everyone had to suffer through a courtroom crowded with reporters that much longer. Declan and I gave our names, then the defense-with Wagmeister drawing out the opportunity for free advertising by announcing his name in a booming voice.

“Donald Wagmeister for Ian Powers, Your Honor.”

The next voice, low and husky but firm, took me by surprise. “Terry Fisk for Jack Averly.”

Terry Fisk? Unlike Wagmeister, Terry was easy to miss-at first. Barely five feet tall, with a pug nose and a square jaw that jutted out when she argued-which was often, and with vigor-she was one of the toughest in the business. Smart as they come and always prepared, she was a brawler of a lawyer who took her gloves off when she walked into court and never put them back on. If you were looking for a gentlemanly trial, you’d never get it with Terry. I’d counted myself lucky not to run into her before. Now, obviously, my luck had run out. It couldn’t have happened in a worse case.

“People, please arraign the defendants.”

I read the charges, then asked, “Mr. Powers, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

Powers cleared his throat to declare in a voice he tried to pack with outrage, “Not guilty!”

“Mr. Averly, how do you plead?”

Jack Averly’s head had been down. Terry nudged him with her elbow and whispered to him. He glanced up briefly, then dipped his head and stuttered, “Not-uh-not guilty.”

Terry shot him a sidelong dark look. Notorious for demanding total control of her clients, she coached them to within an inch of their lives and expected them to repay her efforts by doing exactly as they were told. I knew that Averly would catch hell from her for that pathetic performance the moment they got back into lockup.

The judge accepted the pleas and I moved toward the defense side of counsel table as I spoke. “Your Honor, I’d like the record to reflect that I’m handing each defense counsel a copy of the discovery that we have to date.” I described the reports that were included in the packet.

“It will,” the judge said. “Counsel, please acknowledge receipt.”

“Acknowledged on behalf of Mr. Powers,” Wagmeister said as he took the packet from me.

Fisk took her packet without looking at it, or me. “I won’t acknowledge that’s what the prosecution gave me because I haven’t had time to look at it. All I’m prepared to say is that she handed me some papers.”

I walked back to my side of counsel table. “That’s fine, Your Honor.” I kept my voice calm but thought to myself, “Here we go.” Turning over the initial discovery was a routine thing-it was never a reason for even a minor skirmish. Even for Fisk this was an unusually testy start. “I’ve number-stamped all the pages and I’d like to lodge a copy of what I gave to counsel with the court at this time. Let the record reflect they’re numbered one through fifty-seven.”

I always made an extra copy of discovery to lodge with the court just in case of situations like this, though it’d been a long time since I’d needed to. Giving the court a copy of what I’d given the defense offered some proof that I hadn’t deprived them of anything. I handed the packet to the bailiff, who passed it up to the judge. He looked through the pages quickly. “The record will reflect I’ve received the pages and noted that they are numbered as you indicated. Now let’s pick a date for the preliminary hearing.”

“I’d like to go past the statutory ten days,” Wagmeister said, consulting his calendar and picking a date a few weeks out.

“That’s acceptable with the People,” I said.

“Ms. Fisk, is that acceptable to you?” the judge asked.

“No. We’re not waiving time. Mr. Averly wants his preliminary hearing within the statutory ten days.”

The judge, consulting the calendar on the wall, named a date barely over a week away. “People?”

“That’ll be fine, Your Honor,” I said. It wasn’t really so fine. Now I’d have to prepare two separate hearings. But since I intended to put on a bare bones preliminary hearing with just the physical evidence, it’d be a lot less painful than if I’d had to wrangle civilian witnesses.

“The case is assigned to Judge Daglian for preliminary hearing.” The judge banged his gavel and called the next case, the relief in his voice palpable.

Bailey shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Already.”

One measly arraignment and the ride was already getting bumpy.