Truth Be Told

51

“All rise, court will be in recess.” A bespectacled court clerk, one tattooed angel wing peeking out from under the short sleeve of her starched navy blue uniform, stood in front of the shiny new woodwork of Suffolk Superior Courtroom 6. Jane entered the nearly empty room, seeing the black folds of Judge Rockland’s silk robe disappear behind an opening tucked into the wall behind the bench. The door leveled into the woodwork as it closed. “Court will resume at ten fifteen.”

A potload of taxpayer dollars had gone to revamp the moldy insulation and the moth-eaten carpeting in the old courthouse. Jane had investigated the whole debacle when she worked at Channel 11. Now some courthouse workers complained the place smelled “too new,” pointing to the chemicals in the synthetic wall-to-wall that Jane discovered were provided by some state senator’s half-brother’s wholesale house. It was Massachusetts, after all, home of Whitey Bulger and James Michael Curley and the Boston Strangler. What was a little more graft and manipulation at the public trough? Pols wouldn’t know how to handle anything if it were by the book. In this state, political insiders hardly knew what “the book” was.

Would Elliot Sandoval be ordered back to jail? Jane spotted Peter Hardesty, alone, intently turning pages in a manila folder, a red accordion file open beside it. The Commonwealth’s table, where the assistant district attorneys would make their case, was still empty.

Jane slid into the polished wooden bench in the spectator area, knowing the first row behind the defendant’s side was always reserved for the press. A harried-looking stringer from the Daily, pencil stuck through the spiral of a battered reporter’s notebook, had wedged himself into a corner seat. He swung his running shoes back on the floor, standing for a moment as the judge left the room. He was on Facebook, Jane saw.

No other reporters. And no TV cameras set up in the empty jury box. Local TV stations could take turns being pool for sessions like this, a day in court that could turn into nothing, so they sometimes hedged their news bets with a shared pool cam, knowing the video would most often be erased at day’s end. On a slow day they’d show up on the off chance some crazed spectator would lunge at the defendant, or be led out by burly court officers, shrieking bleep-worthy expletives about unfairness and justice. Apparently today’s docket didn’t interest TV. According to Marcotte, the Sandoval arraignment would only be a news brief, unless something unexpectedly blockbuster happened.

Jane flipped through her notes from this morning’s phone calls to Liz’s customers. The Iantosca call had gone to voice mail, and Jane couldn’t quite figure out how to say what she needed in a message. But the Gantry and the Detwyler calls were productive, telling her they’d be happy to talk about their experiences at the bank. She’d arranged to meet each couple after lunch so she could cover the arraignment, call in the results to the city desk, then get the bank customers’ info.

A chair scraped. Jane looked up, following the sound.

Peter Hardesty had turned, scanning the audience, and eventually locked eyes with Jane.

She tilted her head, acknowledging, and he did the same. Suit and tie, khaki and stripes, looking very lawyerly with his stack of yellow pads and a line of sharpened pencils in front of him. The chair next to him was still empty. She pointed at the chair, raised an eyebrow, questioning. Where’s Elliot?

Peter pointed to the closed door along one wall.

Ah. Still in holding.

She made a gesture like-I got your call. You okay?

He shrugged, then waggled a palm, more or less. He pointed to his watch, grimaced, pantomiming being sorry.

Jane waved him off. No worries.

The prosecution side, the mirror image of Peter’s wooden table and two chairs, reserved for the DA, was still empty. Strange. Jane’d never been to an arraignment where the prosecution wasn’t the first to arrive, files at the ready and gunning for the defendant. This whole thing was off, somehow.

Someone must have given the signal.

A door hidden in the wood paneling opened, and Elliot Sandoval appeared. A sound, someone arriving though the public door, made the defendant turn to the audience. Jane saw MaryLou Sandoval enter, eyes red, and hugely pregnant. She inched her way into a back row. Probably too awkward to get closer.

At the same time, a door opened on the other side of the courtroom. A parade of briefcases: Assistant DA Cardell Grainger, sixty-something, dapper in pinstripes and a red tie, glasses balanced on his forehead. A chignoned brunette, Jane didn’t recognize her, the requisite white shirt, pencil skirt, and extravagantly sleek patent heels.

Behind her, Jake, looking at the floor as he walked. Then that young uniformed cop Jane had seen at the Kenilworth Street house. The two police officers sat in the front row as the lawyers, in tandem, clicked open their blocky leather evidence cases on the table and unpacked them, pulling out yellow pads and brandishing pencils.

Jane willed Jake to look at her, turn around, notice her. He did. She looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen him. When she sneaked a look back, ashamed at her high school tactics, he was leaning forward, talking with the DA. Jane closed her eyes, regretting. This was silly. They had to talk.

“Commonwealth case 0014-657, Commonwealth versus Sandoval,” the court clerk intoned. “All rise for Judge Mavis Rockland.”

With a murmur, everyone stood in a clatter and rustle of adjusting papers and laptops, then sat as the judge waved them down. This would be fascinating. And instructive. The assistant DA would give probable cause for why Sandoval should be held-that was standard procedure-and as a result, Jane would hear the key parts of their evidence.

Peter would argue for bail, of course. But murder defendants never got bail. Not bail they could pay, at least.

Jane flipped open her notebook. Sandoval would not get to go home today, she predicted. And who knew, he might be guilty. Either way, if all went as she expected, she was about to hear exactly why the state thought Elliot Sandoval was a murderer.

“And how do you plead, sir?”

Peter had warned his client that today was about lowered expectations. Get through it, he’d instructed. Stand, look straight at the judge, say “not guilty,” sit down.

“Not guilty.” Sandoval’s voice, sand and gravel, was the only sound in the courtroom.

Until Peter heard someone gasp, poor MaryLou, probably, as Sandoval faced the judge, the back of his neck reddening, both fists clenched, luckily hidden behind their defense table. Peter had coached him: “Be calm, be low-key, don’t react no matter what the state says or how the DA tries to goad you.” Today’s focus was bail. Unlikely as that was.

“Good,” Peter whispered, touching the arm of his client’s bedraggled suit coat as they took their seats again. “You’re doing great.”

“I have both your recommendations here,” the judge said. “Mr. Hardesty is asking for no bail and a release on Mr., ah”-she checked her file-“Sandoval’s own recognizance. I’ll hear brief arguments now, if there’s anything you’d like to add.”

Judge Rockland wasn’t looking at him, a bad sign. Peter’d never argued before her. Newly seated, and no one in the defense bar had a read on how she’d rule. She’d been an assistant DA herself, out in western Mass. Peter believed those ex-DA types never thought anyone who’d been arrested was truly innocent. Must-have-done-something syndrome.

“Nothing to add, your honor.” Cardell Grainger stood, fingertips touching the table, his Harvard-crimson tie hitting the blocky leather evidence case in front of him. “You have our brief, as you said.”

“Defense?” the judge said.

Peter swallowed, surprised. He’d been steeled to hear a damning litany of the case against his client, two-by-fours, DNA, fingerprints, real estate connections, and an unpaid mortgage. God knew what else the state had up its investigative sleeve. But the DA’s office was leaving it at the paperwork? Did they think it was such a slam dunk they didn’t even need to argue? Did they have this judge in their pocket, so brazenly and obviously that they didn’t even continue a charade?

Peter stood, disappointed in the crappy system and the all-powerful cabal of judges and prosecutors who professed to show off their law-and-order creds when they were actually preventing justice.

He’d stand for justice. And fairness. And mercy. Someone had to.

“Peter Hardesty for Mr. Sandoval, your honor,” Peter began. “Mr. Sandoval has no prior record, not even a traffic ticket. He’s spent all his adult life as a contractor, and married to his wife, MaryLou, who is with him today.”

Peter paused, watching MaryLou stand as he’d instructed, allowing the judge to see how pregnant she was. A guilty person could have a pregnant wife, of course, but it never hurt to pull out all the stops. “Mr. Sandoval, as you might imagine, is not a flight risk.”

Peter laid out his prepared argument, knowing in the pit of his stomach it was a loser. The state needed to nail someone for the Shandra Newbury murder. What the hell. Might as well go for it. Plan B.

“And finally, your honor, last night Boston police discovered another body in an empty foreclosed house, similar to where Shandra Newbury was found. As you are well aware, my client was in police custody at that time. One might argue, your honor, that whoever killed Shandra Newbury-and you heard my client plead not guilty to that charge-also killed last night’s victim.”

Peter felt Elliot shift in the chair beside him, heard a low muttering from the spectator section. He looked at the prosecution team, but they were all busy with their paperwork, probably so certain of the outcome they barely listened.

“In closing, Your Honor, we would ask that my client, Elliot Sandoval, be released on his own recognizance. He is financially unable to provide bail. By law, bail amounts are not designed to prevent the defendant from release, but only to ensure their return. He is eager to show his good intentions, and offers to reassure the court by wearing a GPS device.”

Peter cleared his throat, stalling, making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Not that it would matter. He was sorry, but Elliot Sandoval was about to go back into custody. His first child would be born with a father in jail. Peter had done his best. That was all he could do.

“Thank you, your honor.” Peter sat, trying to look confident, gave Elliot a pat on the back. Poor guy actually looked hopeful, which made Peter feel even worse.

The judge closed her files, adjusted the frothy white ruffle at her throat. She smoothed her already smooth hair away from a forehead, shifted in her chair.

“Motion granted, Mr. Hardesty,” she said. “Own recognizance, with a twice-daily check with parole. That is all.”

“Your honor!” The DA leaped to his feet, followed by his assistant. “We would strongly-”

“That is all, Mr. Grainger.” The judge stood, signaling the clerk. “You made your bed. Mr. Hardesty, your client is free to go.”