The Last Witness

Chapter Four

Associate Circuit Court Judge Joe Pistone's courtroom was on the eighth floor of the Jackson County Courthouse, a neoclassical monument to the durability of public-works projects built during the Depression. It was on the East Side of downtown across the street from City Hall, another monument cast from the same mold. Police Headquarters, an uninspired squared fortress, was one block east on Locust. The three buildings, all hewn from Missouri limestone, formed Kansas City 's triangle of legislative, judicial, and executive order. The courthouse was eight stories and Police Headquarters was six. City Hall loomed over both of them at thirty stories. The branches of government may have been equal on paper, but the daily grind of governing required considerably more people and space than public safety or justice.

Mason passed through the metal detector in the courthouse rotunda, hurrying up to wait for the elevators. The job of operating the courthouse elevators had been one of the last county patronage jobs to succumb to modern technology. Since the courthouse opened in the 1930s, loyalists at the bottom of the political food chain had been rewarded with the stupefying opportunity to sit for hours at a time on a small stool and bounce the elevators from floor to floor. Over the years, they had perfected a herky-jerky stop-and-go technique that left most passengers gasping when the doors opened at their floor. When the ancient elevators and their equally ancient operators were replaced, the county installed new elevators that ran smoothly, but slowly enough to drive even the most exercise-averse to use the stairs.

Associate Circuit Court was the home of rough justice. Rules of evidence and procedure were loosely applied to hasten the endless passage of collection, landlord-tenant, and traffic cases through the system. Associate Circuit Court judges carried the honorific title of their Circuit Court brethren, though many lawyers treated them behind their backs like minor leaguers. The one exception was the criminal defense attorney whose client stood before the judge seeking bail in an amount the defendant could make. At those moments, the lawyers meant it when they called the judge "Your Honor."

Reporters from the local TV and radio stations had gathered outside the courtroom, creating a media gauntlet for Mason to pass through. Mason ignored the questions they tossed in his path, smiling politely without answering until Rachel Firestone stepped in front of him. Mason recalled her tenacious pursuit of him in the aftermath of the bloody demise of his last law firm, Sullivan & Christenson.

"Listen, Lou," she had told him. "This story is going to be written whether you like it or not. You are the story. Talk to me."

"Not interested," Mason had told her. "Too many people are dead. Let them be."

Rachel had written the story, quoting his refusal. She'd sent him a copy with a note saying she hoped he liked it and asking him to call her. Mason had thrown the note and the article away.

Rachel had short-cropped dark red hair, alabaster skin, and dancing emerald eyes. Her trim, athletic build matched the nervous energy she radiated like a solar flare. Newspaper reporters didn't have to dress for success like their TV counterparts. Rachel put them to shame anyway with a pair of moleskin khakis, lumberjack shirt, bomber jacket, and hiking boots.

"Welcome back to the meat grinder," Rachel said. "Care to talk?"

"No," Mason told her.

"Wrong answer, Lou. I'll give you another chance later," she said before pushing her way into the courtroom and a seat directly behind the prosecutor's table.

Joe Pistone's entire legal career had been spent in Associate Circuit Court, the first twenty-five years as a lawyer and the last fifteen as a judge. He had white hair, a thin face, and shoulders that were hunched like a man who'd spent his life ducking trouble. He rarely looked at the lawyers or the litigants, keeping his head down and the cases moving.

Judge Pistone's courtroom was small enough to be crowded if more than a handful of people were present for a case. When there was a docket call for first appearances in criminal cases, the courtroom shrank as the jury box was filled with defendants dressed in orange jailhouse jumpsuits, their hands and feet shackled. There were two counsel tables, one for the prosecutor and one for the defense. The pews behind the rail that separated the lawyers and judge from the public usually were filled with family members of defendants and victims who divided themselves like the bride's side and the groom's side. Inexperienced lawyers who didn't arrive in time to sit up front wedged themselves into any empty space they could find, while the veterans hung around the judge's bench as if they were at a local bar. Toss in the media pack and the courtroom became standing-room-only.

Mason made certain he was early enough to claim a seat at the defense table so that he could talk with Patrick Ortiz before Blues's case was called. Ortiz arrived at eight forty-five, carrying a stack of files and trailed by two assistants. The other defense lawyers flocked to him like schoolchildren asking for early dismissal. Mason waited while Ortiz listened to their pitches, nodding at some while disappointing others. When the frenzy had subsided, Mason stepped over to the prosecutor's table, buttoning the top two buttons of his three-button gray suit jacket and straightening his black-and-blue-striped tie.

"Morning, Patrick," Mason said, extending his hand.

"Lou, good to see you," Ortiz answered, shaking Mason's hand without conviction.

Mason was six feet tall, with a hard flat body kept in shape on the rugby field and a rowing machine he kept in his dining room. Ortiz was a head shorter than Mason, and had the irregular rounded shape of someone whose diet was limited to those foods that end in the letter O. Mason sat on the edge of the prosecutor's table, a friendly adversary chatting up the opposition.

"I'm here on Wilson Bluestone."

"So I've been told. These are for you," he said, handing Mason a copy of the police reports. "Normally, you wouldn't get these until the preliminary hearing, but Harry Ryman says he promised to give them to you today. Don't ask for any more favors. This is my case now, not Ryman's."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mason answered as he skimmed through the pages.

Ortiz enjoyed taking full advantage of the rules on disclosure of the state's case, and he didn't like the fact that Harry had given up his right to withhold the investigative reports from Mason until the preliminary hearing, which probably wouldn't be scheduled for two weeks. Ortiz rarely granted a favor to the opposition without cashing it in for a bigger favor down the road.

"Sign this," Ortiz said, and slid a single sheet of paper toward Mason.

Mason picked it up. It was a consent form authorizing the State of Missouri to obtain blood, hair, and skin samples from Wilson Bluestone, Jr. Mason signed it and handed it back to Ortiz.

"You want to talk about a plea, come see me this afternoon," Ortiz told him.

"My client's only plea is innocent. I don't expect you to agree to release him without bail. How much are you looking for?"

"No bail. That's what I'm looking for, Lou," Ortiz answered.

Before Mason could respond, three deputy sheriffs led Blues into the jury box. After a night in jail, clad in Day-Glo orange with his hands and feet manacled, even to Mason he looked like a flight risk and a danger to the public.

Mason made eye contact with Blues, who was seated in the middle of the back row. Mason shook his head, telling Blues all he needed to know about the prosecutor's position on bail. Judge Pistone made his entrance as the bailiff called the courtroom to order.

"Good morning, Counsel," the judge began. "We'll take the video arraignments first."

Arraignments for the accused who did not yet have a lawyer were often conducted by video broadcast from the jail. A projector mounted on the wall directly above the table for defense counsel beamed a six-foot-by-ten-foot image on the opposite wall. The picture was grainy and washed out. The audio was a beat behind the image, and the transmission speed was somewhere between real time and slow motion. The proceedings had the look and feel of justice administered in the middle of a bad dream.

Each defendant appeared on screen, an oversize head shot that magnified every tremor and twitch. The last defendant was a young boy Mason guessed was barely twenty. His blinking eyes tried to retreat from the camera as he nervously patted his thin blond hair. His lips quivered and he tugged at his chin as the judge read the charge and the maximum sentence for the offense.

"You are charged with forcible rape, a Class A felony for which the maximum penalty is life in prison."

The boy whipped his head up at the camera, his mouth gaping at the judge's words.

"Do you have an attorney?" the judge asked. The boy shook his head mutely, robbed of speech. "The public defender will come see you."

Unseen hands pulled the boy offscreen and the picture disappeared. Mason had the feeling the boy was as lost as the image that had been on the wall.

"The next case is State of Missouri v. Bluestone," Judge Pistone announced. "State your appearances, Counsel."

Patrick Ortiz stood and announced, "The people of the State of Missouri appear by Patrick Ortiz, deputy chief prosecuting attorney."

Mason followed. "The defendant appears in person and by his counsel, Lou Mason. We're ready to proceed, Your Honor."

"Very well, Counsel," the judge said without looking up. "Will the defendant please rise."

Blues stood from his seat in the jury box. Mason could hear the faint etching sounds of the courtroom artists who were there for the TV stations whose cameras were not allowed in the courtroom.

Judge Pistone continued. "The defendant is charged with the crime of murder in the first degree in the death of Jack Cullan. Does the defendant understand the charges or wish to have them read?"

"We'll waive the reading of the charges, Judge. We'd like to discuss bail," Mason said.

"What's the state's position, Mr. Ortiz?" the judge asked.

"The People oppose bail in this case. The defendant is a former police officer who was forced to resign because of a shooting death that violated departmental rules on the use of deadly force. He has an extensive history of violent conduct. Though we acknowledge his ties to the community, he's both a flight risk and a danger to the public."

"Mr. Mason?" the judge asked.

"Your Honor, my client is entitled to bail. He owns a business that will be shut down if he's not there to run it. Everything he owns is tied up in that business and he's not about to run out on that. Mr. Ortiz is correct that the defendant is a former police officer. He's wrong about the defendant's history. He's never been charged with or convicted of any crime. The state's evidence in this case is as thin as yesterday's soup. While the victim was a high-profile member of the community, the court should reject any pressure to deny my client bail."

As soon as the judge looked up for the first time that morning, Mason knew he'd hit the wrong nerve. "Mr. Mason, if you have any basis for suggesting that someone is attempting to improperly influence this court or that I would be susceptible to such attempts, now is the time to share that with me."

Mason felt the color rise in his neck. He refused to look at Ortiz, who, he was certain, was smiling wide enough to suck down a bag of Doritos. He couldn't look at Blues. "I didn't mean any reflection on the court, Your Honor. All I meant that was that the state is pushing a lot harder on my client than they would in any other case with this kind of evidence. Whatever the reason for that, it's not sufficient to deny bail for Mr. Bluestone."

"You can take that up with the Circuit judge who gets assigned to this case. Bail denied. We're in recess." The judge banged his gavel once and left the courtroom.

Mason saw Rachel Firestone shake her head as he walked past. He was beginning to believe that Blues was right. Even though he had roused Joe Pistone's slumbering judicial dignity, the decision on bail had already been made. Mason's gaffe had given the judge all the cover he needed.

Once outside the courtroom, Mason weaved through the media throng, making his way into the hallway that connected to the judge's chambers. It was also the route by which Blues would be taken back to the county jail. He caught up to the sheriff's deputies and Blues just as they were getting onto the elevator.

"Mind if I get a word with my client?" Mason asked one of the deputies.

"Make it fast. This ain't a parade," the deputy said.

Mason pulled Blues by the arm as far from the deputies as he could without getting them too excited.

"Listen, I'm sorry about what happened in there, but I don't think it would have made any difference," Mason told him.

"It's cool, man," Blues said. "Like I told you, they're going to try to squeeze me."

"We'll get another chance in front of the Circuit Court judge. The prosecuting attorney can either ask for a preliminary hearing so that the Circuit judge can bind you over for trial, or take the case to the grand jury for an indictment I'm betting on the grand jury. That way Ortiz doesn't have to tip his hand. The grand jury meets every other Friday. The next session is a week from tomorrow. Once you're indicted, we can ask the Circuit Court judge to set bail."

"I've got a better idea," Blues said. "Don't ask for bail. If we don't fight for it, they can't hold it over me. Spend your time finding out who killed Cullan, not writing motions the judge is going to turn down anyway."

Mason studied Blues for a moment. "You won't have any friends inside."

Blues gave Mason a broad grin. "You'd be surprised how easy I make friends. There's just two things you need to worry about besides winning my case."

"What are they?"

"First thing is you got to find somebody to run the club. Try Mickey Shanahan. He's the PR guy whose office is next to yours. Mickey's always behind on his rent. Tell him he can work it off."

"Okay. What's the second thing?" Mason asked.

"You're on your own. Don't get dead. They'll throw away the key to my cell."