Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (32 page)

After a short break, court reconvened and the question on everyone’s mind was: Would Kent put his client on the stand? The jurors would expect Gonzales to defend himself. But Kent also knew putting his client on the stand was risky. I was itching to grill him about the beatings, the rapes, dressing his daughter in her stepmother’s clothing, taking his underage daughter into nightclubs, introducing her as his girlfriend.

Kent had turned the spotlight off Gonzales and shone it on Carmen. It was a classic defense strategy—put the victim on trial. He’d questioned her credibility. He’d suggested to jurors that Yolanda Torres had tried to blackmail his client. Kent had planted the seed that Carmen was promiscuous, hoping it would bear fruit in the jury deliberation room. Finally, he’d suggested that Carmen had beaten herself with her father’s belt because she was secretly a cutter.

“The defense rests,” Kent announced. Putting Gonzales on the stand was apparently not worth the risk.

Judge Williams asked Gonzales if he knew he had a constitutional right to testify. “Yes, Your Honor,” Gonzales declared. It was the first time the jurors had heard him speak. In a very articulate and clear voice he stated, “I will not testify,” and he added in an arrogant tone, “I’m innocent.”

After dispensing with a few procedural matters, Judge Williams asked if I intended to call any rebuttal witnesses.

“The state wishes to recall Carmen Gonzales.”

All eyes turned to the back of the gallery when she entered for a second round. She was reminded that she was under oath and sat down. I’d prepared her during the short court break for what was about to happen. I’d also had her change her outfit. She was now wearing a blouse and skirt.

“Ms. Gonzales,” I said, “please stand, remove your blouse, and show the jury your back.”

“What?” Kent exclaimed. “I object.”

“Wait just a minute,” Judge Williams said. “Don’t you do anything yet.”

Looking angry, he called Kent and me to the bench.

“Ms. Fox, what makes you think I’m going to let you show this girl’s scars to the jury after I’ve already ruled that you can’t show them photographs of her back?”

“Your Honor,” I said sweetly, “you allowed Amanda Jones to show the cuts on her arms. The defense wants jurors to believe my client is a cutter just like Amanda Jones. You allowed that evidence even though there was no proven connection. If you allowed Ms. Jones to show her cuts, then common sense, let alone legitimate legal rebuttal, demands that I be allowed to have Ms. Gonzales show the jurors the scars on her back for comparison.”

“You can’t have her topless in court,” Kent said.

“She’s not going to be topless,” I replied. “She’s wearing a bathing suit top under her blouse. No one will see anything you can’t see at the beach.”

“Your Honor, she’s turning your court into a circus sideshow.”

“What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

I had Judge Williams trapped and he knew it. His face turned scarlet. With an exasperated look, the novice jurist said, “Proceed.”

Returning to the podium, I said, “Ms. Gonzales, the defense has hypothesized that you used your father’s belt to whip yourself because of a mental illness that makes it pleasurable for you to cut and harm yourself. Did you whip yourself?”

“No. My father whipped me.”

“Please show us your back.”

Carmen stood and removed her blouse. As she turned, a wave of revulsion swept across the jurors’ faces. Carmen continued rotating so spectators could see the myriad scars on her back. Finally, she finished a full circle and Judge Williams got a good look.

I watched Kent. At that moment, I think he knew he’d lost the case. The only person who wasn’t horrified by what we all saw was Carlos Gonzales, the man who’d beaten her. He showed not a shred of remorse.

I had no more questions for Carmen and Kent didn’t, either. There were no surprises in either of our closing arguments. In fact, I felt that Kent’s argument was rather flat. An hour later, the jurors returned with a verdict. On the twenty-two counts of rape in the first degree, sodomy, assault, and incest: Gonzales was found guilty. Guilty of every charge.

Feeling triumphant, I looked over at the defense table. Much to my surprise, neither Kent nor his client appeared upset. In fact, Carlos Gonzales was whispering to a smiling Kent. Gonzales was not acting like a defendant who’d just been found guilty of crimes that would send him to prison for a minimum of twenty-five years.

Something wasn’t right. I could feel it. But I didn’t have a clue what it could be.

37

“I’m taking you out to little italy for a big Italian dinner,” O’Brien announced as we exited the courtroom. “We can take Carmen and her kid brother, too. Hell, let’s invite your mom to go with us.”

“You paying?” I asked.

“I know a place run by an ex-cop in lower Manhattan. Hell, he won’t charge any of us. That’s the best part of the deal.”

It sounded like a fun evening, but I wasn’t sure I was up for it emotionally. Preparing for the trial had kept me so busy that I’d not had time to fixate on my breakup with Bob. But now that I had convicted Gonzales, I realized that I really didn’t have anyone special in my life to share it with, except for my mother and colleagues. I’d not heard from Bob, and even if I had, I would not have responded. Still, I felt as if there were a hole in my heart.

“C’mon,” O’Brien said. “Stop being so uptight!”

At that moment, Mom came up to us, and before I could say anything, O’Brien invited her to join us.

“It does sound like fun,” Mom said. “And Dani could use a night out. Of course we’ll go.”

“Great. I not only get to celebrate with Ms. Fox, I get to buy her foxy mother dinner, too.” I suddenly realized that O’Brien was actually flirting with my mom. “I can sure see where your daughter gets her looks.”

I smiled. It felt good.

Mom said, “I’m calling a car service to drive us into Manhattan.”

O’Brien said, “Great, I’ll pick up Carmen and her brother. We’ll all meet at the restaurant around eight o’clock.”

I had never said I would go but neither O’Brien nor my mom was going to let me off the hook.

By the time I got home, fed Wilbur, showered, fixed my hair, and changed, the car service was out front with my mom sitting in the rear seat.

I opened a back door and slid in next to her. We hit gridlock as soon as we entered Manhattan. The driver turned down a side street and then another trying to avoid the traffic. Eventually, he stopped at a red light and I realized that we were approaching 26 Federal Plaza, where the FBI field office was located. From our vantage point, I could see the skyscraper’s main entrance, and as I watched, I saw two men walk outside the building. They stopped to talk, then shook hands and went in different directions. One of them was walking directly toward our car, which had tinted windows. As I watched him stroll by only inches away, I realized why he looked familiar.

It was Neal Kent, the defense attorney I’d just defeated in court. As the car moved through the intersection, it caught up with the other man who had come from FBI headquarters. He was FBI Special Agent Jack Longhorn.

“Dani, you’re way too thin. You need to eat a good meal tonight instead of always snacking on those darn Junior Mints,” Mom said.

But I wasn’t paying attention. I was wondering why Carlos Gonzales’s defense attorney and Agent Longhorn had been chatting like long-lost friends outside the FBI field office.

“Dani,” my mom said loudly. “We’re at the restaurant. Now let’s go inside and have a good time. I know you are thinking about Bob, but you’ve got to move on with your life.”

I hadn’t been thinking of Bob. I suddenly felt the same feeling in my gut that I had felt earlier in the courtroom when I had noticed that neither Kent nor Gonzales seemed upset by the verdict. There was something going on.

38

The first thing I did when I got to work the next morning was find FBI Special Agent Longhorn’s business card. I dialed his private line at the New York Field Office and his secretary put me right through.

“I’ve been meaning to give you a ring-a-ding,” Longhorn said, sounding pleased to hear from me. “Congratulations on convicting Carlos Gonzales.”

“Thank you,” I replied, sounding equally cheery. “Actually, he’s why I’m calling. I’m curious about the status of your federal drug and racketeering charges against him.”

“They’re progressing, but you know, young lady, a watched pot never boils.”

I thought, We’re in New York. Let’s drop the folksy sayings. “Agent Longhorn, I’d like to read your investigative files about him if you don’t mind.”

Longhorn didn’t instantly answer, and when he did, his voice sounded less jovial. “Why are you still interested in Carlos Gonzales?”

“He might have committed other crimes in our county,” I said without elaborating.

“Is that so? Sorry, Ms. Fox, but I can’t simply let you rummage through our INTEL files. After all, they contain confidential information about our informants. However, I can send you our original indictment.”

Longhorn wasn’t offering me anything special. Indictments were public record as soon as they were unsealed.

“That’s great,” I said, feigning enthusiasm.

“I’ll get that indictment out to you as fast as a jack rabbit being chased by a coyote.”

Really, enough already.

“One more thing,” I said. “Have you had many dealings with Neal Kent? The Manhattan attorney who represented Carlos Gonzales?”

“Is Kent any good?” Longhorn asked, avoiding my question. And then, before I could reply, he said, “I guess that boy’s not too good of a lawyer since you whupped his derrière. Sorry, young lady, but I got to go, someone’s hollering at me, but I’ll send you our indictment. Thanks for calling.”