Injustice (28 page)

“Has anybody asked Henry Tatlock to account for his whereabouts at those times?” Isler asks.

“Negative,” Philbin says. “His attorney, Monica Brill, won't let us anywhere near him.”

Except for Gregory Nations, everybody in the room thinks it is time to charge Henry with Kyle's murder. Gregory resists because he's trying to hold on to the Daryl Devaney conviction. But Gregory is outvoted.

“You feel okay, Nick?” Rachel Sabin asks me as we all get ready to leave.

“Of course,” I say. “Why wouldn't I?”

I get out of the conference room and out of the building, and I walk the mile back to my office, liking the shock of cold air. I don't bother zipping my jacket.

“Messages for you,” Janis says as I pass her desk on the way into my office. I grab the notes she proffers.

“No interruptions,” I tell her. I close and lock my door. I think about the cartoon figure Lizzy clipped for me from the funny pages of the newspaper nearly six months ago, on Barnaby's birthday.
LIFE IS SWEET
, it said.

But life isn't sweet. Life sucks.

I lie down on my office couch and pull my jacket over my head.

Someone knocks on the door.

“Nick, it's Upton. You okay, buddy?”

“No,” I say. “Go away.”

It's late. I'm “home” at Friendly City, trying to sleep. I give up. I go down to my car and drive to my real home. I park in front of the house where Tina and Barnaby are sleeping. I pull the sleeping bag over myself—I keep it in the car for this reason—and eventually doze off.

Dawn. I sit up and rub my eyes. I take a minute to clear the cobwebs, then drive back to Friendly City for a shower and coffee.

G
regory Nations holds a press conference in the lobby of the state courthouse. He announces that former assistant U.S. attorney Henry Tatlock has been charged with the murder, kidnapping, and sexual assault of Kyle Runion eight years ago. The evidence to be presented by the state, Nations says, is Mr. Tatlock's DNA, recovered from the exhumed remains of young Kyle.

Reporters start yelling questions: “What about Daryl Devaney? Isn't he doing life without parole for that murder?”

“Good question,” Gregory says. “The issue of a new trial for Mr. Devaney is currently on appeal to the state supreme court.”

As usual, Gregory isn't wearing his suit jacket but has it hitched over his shoulder. Though this press conference has been scheduled for hours, he gives the impression of being unexpectedly caught by the cameras on his way from one important obligation to the next.

“But if you are charging someone else with the crime . . .”

“Daryl Devaney's status is in the hands of the supreme court and the state attorney general's office,” Gregory says. “It is no longer my case, so it would be improper for me to comment.”

“Do you think Henry Tatlock is guilty?”

“If we didn't think he was guilty, we wouldn't have charged him.”

“So Daryl Devaney must be innocent.”

“Sorry, it's not proper for me to comment.”

“Any evidence besides DNA?”

“That will be revealed at trial.”

“Will you seek the death penalty?”

Gregory ponders a moment before answering. He waits for quiet, then says, “Several other children have disappeared under circumstances similar to Kyle Runion's. If Mr. Tatlock were to help us bring
closure and peace to the families of those boys, we would be open to discussing a sentence of life without parole.”

“Is it true he killed his girlfriend?”

“Mr. Tatlock has been held in the murder of Lydia Trevor, to whom he was engaged. Being a former law enforcement official, Mr. Tatlock was adept at covering his tracks. In all frankness, the investigation of that murder is stalled. So at this point, I'm announcing that charges against Henry Tatlock for Ms. Trevor's murder have been dropped. But I stress that jeopardy has not attached, so Mr. Tatlock can still be tried for that crime when more evidence comes to light. And I firmly believe that more evidence
will
come to light.”

It is a masterful performance. Gregory manages to look confident, authoritative, and victorious in admitting that, while Daryl has spent eight years in prison for Kyle's murder, they're now charging somebody else for it without letting Daryl go free. He made the state supreme court and the attorney general's office sound like bureaucratic fumblers preventing Daryl's release, and he managed to make the dead-ended investigation into Lydia's murder sound like a nonissue.

He's smooth. And now that we're on the same side—both of us wanting to remove Henry Tatlock from society—Nations looks to me more like a dedicated public servant and less like the overzealous, politically ambitious, unenlightened automaton I considered him just a week ago.

The case is big news. It has everything. It involves a former federal prosecutor; it involves the most despicable and revolting kind of crimes; it involves digging up—literally and figuratively—a conviction that was settled years ago; there is evidence that the incident being charged is just one in a series; there is a sympathetic and wrongfully convicted man serving the defendant's time; there is a murdered fiancée. And for the unenlightened and prejudiced among the public and press, there is a disfigured defendant.

The sensationalist paper in town wastes no time in putting a
photo of Henry on the front page, alongside a picture of Freddy Krueger. Of course, this ignites a firestorm of outrage that forces everybody to choose up sides before a trial date has even been determined. People seem to want Henry convicted based on nothing but his disfigurement. One hatred-spewing windbag on talk radio comments that “the good Lord saw fit to brand Henry Tatlock with the mark of Cain so we would recognize him for what he is.”

These two nicknames, “The Freddy Krueger Killer” and “The Mark of Cain Killer,” catch fire among Neanderthalic reactionaries inhabiting the booger-eating fringes of talk radio, sensationalist print, and the wack-a-do free-for-all of the blogosphere.

Not to be outdone by the wing-nut end of the law-and-order crowd, the hypercorrect, bunny-hugging, criminal-coddling, blinded-by-the-light do-nothings have decided that Henry Tatlock was chosen to take the fall for Kyle's killing for no other reason than his scars. Never mind the DNA results; Henry is pure victim. They believe his prosecution reflects society's obsession (driven by Hollywood and Madison Avenue) with physical beauty. Beauty equates to goodness and morality; absence of beauty equates to evil. We have plucked Henry from innocent obscurity because he is the perfect embodiment of everything our superficial society despises. End of story.

The court holds a pretrial conference to talk about evidentiary issues. Gregory Nations looks more lawyerly than usual. He has been to the barber. The jacket hitched over his shoulder has been pressed. And if I'm not mistaken, he has applied some Grecian Formula around the temples. He is an athletic-looking guy, handsome, I guess, though I would think any intelligent woman could look right through his transparent exoskeleton to see, plain as day, the frighteningly uncomplicated levers and pulleys of his workings.

Gregory is sitting at counsel's table in the front of the courtroom. Monica Brill isn't here yet, so I walk up and sit beside Gregory. I want to tell him not to be fooled by Henry's apparent disinterest
in everything going on around him: It's just shyness, and it's how his face works, I want to say. He's wicked smart, and he notices everything.

While I'm sitting there with Gregory, Monica comes in. I nod to her cordially, but she scowls and looks away. It's odd. I was unaware of any unpleasantness between us.

Henry is brought in wearing an orange jumpsuit.

The judge comes in. I go sit in the gallery. The two lawyers and the judge pick a trial date. It's a month away. “Other matters?” the judge asks.

Monica stands and hands some papers to Gregory and the judge. “I have several evidentiary matters, Your Honor. I'm moving to exclude any mention of my client's juvenile record, which, as you know, was expunged almost twenty years ago. I'm also asking to prevent any reference to the investigation of, or even the existence of, crimes against other children in other states.”

The judge scans the papers. “That's fine,” he says. “Mr. Nations, you'll respond to these motions, and we'll set the matters aside. When and if they become an issue in trial, we'll boot the jury from the room and have ourselves a little evidentiary hearing. Until then, Mr. Nations, these details will be off-limits as far as the jury is concerned. Understood?”

“Understood, Judge.”

“Other evidentiary issues, Ms. Brill?”

I expect that Monica will move to prevent any mention of Lydia's murder. But she doesn't. “No, Judge,” she says.

Gregory and the judge are as surprised as I am. It is the first thing any of us would do in her position. If the jury hears that Henry's fiancée was murdered recently and that the killer is at large, they'll make the connection regardless of whether anything is said about Henry being a suspect. I know that Gregory hopes to make frequent and pointed mention of Lydia if he can get away with it. And if Monica Brill is somehow able to muddy the DNA evidence, the whole verdict could hinge on whether the jury connects Henry to Lydia's murder, even though that isn't the case being tried. Of
course, if Lydia's murder is mentioned, the judge will tell the jurors, emphatically and repeatedly, not to assume from it anything about Henry. But jurors are only human.

Maybe Monica has a reason for not raising the issue now. She'll have a chance later. She's cagey. It's hard to believe she hasn't thought about Lydia, but I'm squirming with glee at the possibility that, while accusing Henry of Kyle's murder, Gregory might be able to subtly convey the certainty that Henry followed up his crimes against Kyle with a quick execution-style offing of his fiancée.

Along with my frienemy Kendall Vance, Monica occupies the tip-top stratum of criminal defense lawyers in this town. I don't know whether Henry tried to hire Kendall, but I do know he wouldn't have taken the case. He won't defend anyone charged with crimes against children. Monica has no such qualms.

She is tall and slender, made taller by heels. Her fake nails would give her a better than even chance if she ever got locked in a cage with an angry ocelot. And while I generally dislike perfume, Monica wears something subtle that I never notice until, after being near her a minute or so, I find myself thinking of seashores and rose gardens. Perhaps that fragrance, whatever it is, has a subconscious effect, because while there's nothing about Monica that I particularly like, I kind of like her on the whole
.
She has spunk and wit.

She's the most irritating kind of defense lawyer, though: She's unnecessarily confrontational, gloats over victories, and weaves every defeat into a vendetta. I think her style of advocacy carries over into her personal relationships, because she's never been married. I assume (with no evidence to back this up) that she is lonely and that her law practice substitutes for family. I see her around town sometimes with different men, though I doubt any of them stay for long.