Guilt By Degrees - страница 7
him, and the murderer was about to walk out of that courtroom and away from this victim for no good reason-just like everyone else had walked away while he bled out on the sidewalk.
I couldn’t just sit there and let it happen. For Cletus, and for all the others who wound up on the periphery of an overpopulated, uncaring world, I had to do something. I quickly moved up the aisle and walked over to Brandon.
“What the hell?” I whispered heatedly. “Where’s your cop? Did you subpoena him?”
Brandon glared at me wordlessly for a moment. “Of course I subpoenaed his ass,” he shot back.
“Then tell the court you’re going to refile so they don’t let this guy out,” I said as I watched the bailiff take the defendant back into the holding tank.
By law, the prosecution can refile a case that gets dismissed at the preliminary hearing, and we usually do if it’s been dismissed just because a witness didn’t show up. But the sheriffs don’t have bed space to waste. If Brandon didn’t tell them he intended to refile, the defendant would be released.
“You’re never going to find this defendant again,” I said heatedly. “He’ll be in the wind the minute they open the gate.”
Averill threw the last report into his file. “Tell me, since when does a Special Trials hotshot give a shit about some homeless guy?”
“Tell me, since when did it matter whether a victim drove a Mercedes or a shopping cart?” I fired back.
“Maybe since the ‘victim,’” he said, making air quotes-which I hate almost as much as I detest snotty prosecutors-“had just grabbed a lady and was probably going to rob her.”
“Based on?”
“Based on the fact that he was found holding a box cutter, and surprisingly we didn’t find any packing tape nearby.”
“But surprisingly he’s the only one who’s dead, and if someone killed him in self-defense, then how come they’re not around to say so?”
“You’re so fired up about this dog, why don’t you refile?” he said with a smirk. “Be nice to see one of you Special Trials hotshots get down in the muck with the rest of us.”
If he hadn’t been such a huge jerk, I might’ve taken a moment to think about whether there was any hope for this case. But as it was, he’d pissed me off so royally on so many levels that I didn’t pause for a second. I grabbed the file out of his hand and turned to the judge.
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” I said, loud enough to break through the courtroom chatter. “I’d like to notify the court that the People will be refiling the case of”-I paused to look at the file-“People versus Ronald Yamaguchi.”
Judge Foster raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea the Special Trials deputies were in the business of trolling for cases. Must be my lucky day,” he said dryly. “Deputy Stevenson,” he said, addressing the bailiff, “tell your folks not to rush. It appears Mr. Yamaguchi will be staying with us a little longer.”
The bailiff nodded and picked up the phone on his desk.
“And I have the next case, Your Honor,” I said, setting down the murder book-the binder cops put together that holds all the reports on a murder case-on counsel table with a heavy thump.
“You ready?” the judge asked.
“I am,” I replied.
“But I’m not, Your Honor. Sam Zucker for the defendant.” He was a really young, slick-haired type in a chocolate-brown pin-striped suit that said wowee-look-at-me-I’m-a-lawyer. “I’m standing in for Newt Hamilton, who’s got the flu. We’ll be asking for two weeks-or more if the People want.”
Since Newt Hamilton had been privately retained, I had the feeling the onset of his “flu” might be related to the defendant’s lack of cash. I knew the judge wouldn’t force a stand-in to go forward on a murder case, so I didn’t bother to object. We quickly picked a new date, and as the judge called the next case, I saw a detective come barreling in, his eyes on fire and his jaw working sideways. He headed straight for the clerk’s desk.
“Detective Stoner, investigating officer on the Yamaguchi case.” He pulled out his badge and handed Manny his card. “I just heard the case got dismissed,” he said, his voice tight with barely restrained fury.