Untitled (17 page)

  "He told me something," said Danny. "He said you wouldn't find a slug in the body—just pieces of it."

  "What?" said Marshall. He took a few steps. It must be some kind of a leak, he thought to himself.

  "Is it true?" asked Danny.

  "Look, I can't—" Marshall saw the seriousness in Danny's eyes. He guessed that talking to Moses had affected him too. He couldn't lie to him. Danny would know. "Yes, the bullets fragmented in a way that no one can explain, but only in Douglas's body."

"Then he's got something," said Danny.

  "I don't know," said Marshall. "But I got a man facing lethal injection, and the attorney general across the hall talking to the president. I guess I should find out."

  Marshall walked Danny back downstairs and out of the building. They were silent in the elevator, but he knew they were both thinking about Moses. Like a specter from the past, he was suddenly back in their lives, and he knew that no good would come of it.

M
arshall was driving toward the office the next day. The morning was beautiful, pale blue skies and radiant sun. The snowfall that they'd been expecting hadn't come. It was a cold day, but a dry one. He'd take that in Michigan anytime.

  Marshall was already putting together the case, formulating an outline for how to proceed. He needed a basic foundation before he could be specifically effective. He knew that he'd attack with the film of the death first, to imbed that in the jury's mind, then he'd go straight for something personal about Mbutu himself, tying him to the atrocity they'd just seen.

  In the back of his mind, though, he worried about seeing his brother later in the day, and he kept hearing the too-jovial voice of CIA Agent Van Ness. He didn't know how he would feel seeing Moses again. He just hoped that he could do it and maintain a professional demeanor. There was so much bad blood that he couldn't guarantee he wouldn't try to strangle him.

  Mbutu was refusing to allow a blood and hair sample to be taken. The fact that Mbutu had no lawyer would stop a judge from ordering him to do it. Any such order without benefit of counsel would surely be reversible error. Marshall knew the order would be granted, but it would have to come after a lawyer was appointed. Only in a case like this would a counsel be appointed this late. Mbutu was seeing many local and national lawyers. Marshall had heard that it was literally a waiting room of them at the lockup. Although there was not a lot of money in the case, it had a value that could not be counted. Fame, notoriety, and media access were the real treasures of defending Mbutu. In the age of Court TV, book deals, and movie rights, the case was a potential gold mine.

  No judge had been assigned yet. Apparently, there was a lot of wrangling behind the scenes to get the case. The rotation had sent the case to Judge Gerren Dutton, the newest judge on the bench. He was too green for a case of this magnitude, so a reassignment was in order. In the interim, his old friend Judge Langworthy had the case.

  Marshall walked into his office to find Stephen Bradbury sitting in his chair smoking a long cigar.

  "There's no smoking in this building. You're fired," Marshall said.

  "You're almost right," said Bradbury, shoving a cigar into Marshall's hand. "I'm going to be nominated."

  "For what?" asked Marshall, then his eyes widened. "Good God, for the Supreme Court?"

  "Yes." Bradbury smiled. "The rumor was true. I got a call from both our senators last night, then the president. The president is going to announce it as soon as he feels the time is right. He'll float my name around and test the waters, you know the drill. But not too long. The Court wants to get moving."

  Marshall hugged his old friend. This was every lawyer's dream, and now it had come true for Bradbury.

  "It couldn't happen to a better man," said Marshall. "I don't really know what to say."

  "Don't say anything, just enjoy that ten-dollar cigar and bring your pretty wife to my party after the announcement."

  "I will," said Marshall. The mention of his wife sent troubling thoughts of Chemin through his head.

  "Look, I gotta go. Word is getting around, and I'll have to do some damage control with my peers."

  "Yes, and congratulations again."

  Bradbury walked out of the office; no, he literally
floated
out, Marshall thought. It was surreal. He was going to be the friend of a Supreme Court justice. It didn't seem possible that someone like him was now so close to greatness.

  His phone rang. He wondered if it could be Chemin. She didn't call him at work anymore, but he'd sneaked out of the house like a thief, and maybe she was pissed off. He picked up the receiver.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Marshall," said a woman's voice.

  "Who is this?"

  "Oh, it's me, Jessica."

  "Jessica, why are you calling me in my office? You can come in if you want."

  "I work for the FBI side now," she said. "It's Agent Sommers calling."

  Marshall remembered that Jessica had made some sort of transfer to the FBI side of the task force.

  "Right," said Marshall. "I'll take it."

  "Hold on," said Jessica. Then she said, "See you later."

  A moment, then Sommers picked up the line. "Hello, Marshall," she said.

  "What's up?"

  "The fuckin' CIA," said Sommers. She laughed a little.

  "I know. I met them too. Listen, don't let them get to you. Just do your job."

  "I am. I'm calling to tell you that I think I have two eyewitnesses for you on the Douglas case."

  "How can you say something like that so casually?" Marshall said. "That's great news."

  "Well, they're shaky, but I think they may have seen something useful."

  "I'll be right over," said Marshall. "Hold the ID until I get there."

Marshall stood in the dark room as the witness watched Mbutu and several other men walk in. The witnesses were a sixtyish black man named John Johnson and his wife Marie. She held her husband's arm like a high school sweetheart.

  The lineup had six men in it. All of them were Mbutu's age and height. Two of them even had dreadlocks. Marshall was not taking any chances that the defense would call the lineup unfair.

  Ryder and the rest of the team stood in the back, trying not to look like the crowd they were.

  Clarence Daniels, a public defender, stood behind Marshall, watching for signs of abuse. He'd been assigned as interim counsel in the case by Langworthy. Mbutu still had no attorney, and that was beginning to bother everyone.

  Mr. Johnson had attended the commencement at Wayne State University to watch his grandson become a lawyer. He and his wife had gone out to the bathroom when the commotion began. In the confusion, Mr. Johnson had seen a man come out of the door leading to the upper part of the building.

  Mr. Johnson had already looked at pictures of Anthony Collier. He acknowledged Collier was not the man he'd seen.

  "Take your time, Mr. Johnson," said Sommers.

  Johnson looked the men over for about a minute, shaking his head. Then, finally: "No, I don't see him," he said.

  "Are you sure?" asked Marshall. "Look again."

  "Don't have to," said Mr. Johnson. "The man I saw was shorter, and had a really big nose. He was black, but we don't all look alike."

  "Mr. Johnson," said Ryder. "Maybe you need more time."

  "The man is sure," said Daniels. He made notes on a small pad. "Don't harass him."

  Sommers released the lineup participants. They filed out of the room. Mbutu stared at the two-way mirror as if he could see through it. He smiled a little.

  "Shit," said Sommers.

  "That's the word for it," said Daniels in that smug, condescending way that only a defense lawyer can.

  Daniels said good-bye and started to leave to see Mbutu. Presumably to tell him the good news that he could not be placed at the scene of the crime by these people. Then suddenly, he stopped and turned to Marshall.

  "Put some agents on these two," said Daniels, referring to the Johnsons.

  "What for?" asked Sommers.

  "Because if they were government witnesses you would."

Sommers looked at Marshall.

  "Do it, Chris," said Marshall. Daniels was just a makeshift counsel, but he was smart. Any good lawyer would protect a witness who was useful to his client. Daniels smiled a little, pleased with himself.

  "We don't need a cop in our home," said Johnson.

  "I'd feel better," said Marie.

  "The agents won't be in your house, Mr. Johnson," said Sommers. "They'll maintain surveillance from outside."

  "Well, if you send them, make sure they're white," said Marie Johnson.

  "Why does that matter?" asked Daniels.

  "To let people in the neighborhood know," said Marshall. "Any white man watching a house in her neighborhood has to be a cop."

  "Right," said Marie.

  "Oh, you fuss too much," said Mr. Johnson. They walked out arguing.

  "They remind me of my own folks," said Sommers. "So, one for their side, huh?" Sommers patted Marshall on the back and walked out.

  "Well, that was a setback," said Marshall to his team.

  "But we still have the gun," said Ryder.

  "And we'll get a DNA test as soon as he gets counsel," said Roberta.

  "You guys trying to cheer me up?" asked Marshall.

  "We're trying to cheer ourselves up," said Walter. "That sweet old man will be a great witness."

  They all filed out of the little room. Marshall walked along, oblivious to the chatter of this team. He stared at his watch, noting that he was only an hour away from a reunion with his brother.

M
arshall walked through the long corridor at Wayne County Prison as if he were going to an execution. Danny walked at his side, humming a tune, oblivious to the dolor in the air. It had been a long time since Marshall had visited the state's county jail. After he became a fed, he no longer had a reason to go to state institutions. But that's where his brother was. He'd forgotten the feeling, the hopelessness, the
heaviness
, of the place. He remembered being locked up in the federal holding pen. That was a holiday compared to county.

  Marshall walked into the meeting room and saw Moses sitting in a chair smoking a cigarette. He seemed calm, almost happy. Then Marshall grew angry. All the pain and grief his brother had inflicted on him and the family came back to him. He saw his father smiling and filled with life, then cold and dead in a casket. Suddenly, he wanted to grab Moses, beat the information out of him, then go have a drink to celebrate.

  "Smug muthafucka, ain't he?" said Danny.

  "Always was," said Marshall. "You wait here."

  Danny took a seat by the door, and Marshall walked over to his brother. Even though they were fraternal twins, you could see many similarities in them. The curve of the jaw and the shape of the nose were the same. It was their eyes that really set them apart. Marshall's were wide and alert. The kind that looked into you with interest and intensity.

Moses' eyes seemed to sit higher, and held two flat brown spheres. They might have been regarded as handsome, but they were narrow, fierce-looking ports that cradled danger and insincerity. He could make them anything he wanted, from the hurt look of a child, to the malevolence of a killer.

  Marshall looked at his brother with regret and anger. Moses' eyes held nothing.

  Moses stood and held out his arm, as if to hug his brother. The shackles on his arms sang a sad song as he did.

  "You can cut that shit right now," said Marshall, stopping in front of his brother.

  Now Moses' eyes sprang to life. It was the hurt look of a sibling. "Damn, family ain't what it used to be, huh?" said Moses. He sat down. Marshall sat across from him. "Long time. Long, long time."

  "I understand you have information on my case." Marshall tried to sound as businesslike as he could.

  Moses just ignored him. "I was telling the guard how we used to steal apples from our neighbor's yard. How I would climb and you would catch and bag. You'd call that accessory during the crime or something, right?" Now his eyes were playful, the long-lost brother.

  This was classic Moses, Marshall thought. He was on the make already, trying to put him at ease, with familiar connections to fond memories. Hey, we're related, and we both used to be criminals, was what Moses had really just said. For the first time, Marshall thought that maybe he really did have something useful. Moses never tried to con you unless it was serious.

  "The one thing I used to like about you was that you didn't talk a lot of shit," said Marshall. "I can see that's changed."