She understood, though she wouldn’t admit it. “I’m afraid you’re making this decision based on facts not in evidence.”
“Maybe so. But I have wide discretion in these matters, and until I hear the proof I’m not inclined to release him.”
“That’ll look good on appeal,” she snapped, and Harry didn’t like it.
“Let the record reflect a continuance was offered to the child until his mother could be present, and the continuance was declined by the child.”
To which Reggie quickly responded, “And also let the record reflect the child declined the continuance because the child does not wish to remain in the Juvenile Detention Center any longer than he has to.”
“So noted, Ms. Love. Please continue.”
“The child moves this court to dismiss the petition filed against him on the grounds that the allegations are without merit and the petition has been filed in an effort to explore things the child
might
know. The petitioners, Fink and Foltrigg, are using this hearing as a fishing expedition for their desperate criminal investigation. Their petition is a hopeless mishmash of maybes and what-ifs, and filed under oath without the slightest hint of the real truth. They’re desperate, Your Honor, and they’re here shooting in the dark hoping they hit something. The petition should be dismissed, and we should all go home.”
Harry glared down at Fink, and said, “I’m inclined to agree with her, Mr. Fink. What about it?”
Fink had settled into his chair and watched with comfort as Reggie’s first two objections had been shot down by his honor. His breathing had almost returned to normal and his face had gone from crimson to pink, when suddenly the judge was agreeing with her and staring at him.
Fink bolted to the edge of his chair, almost stood but caught himself, and started stuttering. “Well, uh, Your Honor, we, uh, can prove our allegations if given the chance. We, uh, believe what we’ve said in the petition—”
“I certainly hope so,” Harry sneered.
“Yes sir, and we know that this child is impeding an investigation. Yes sir, we are confident we can prove what we’ve alleged.”
“And if you can’t?”
“Well, I, uh, we, feel sure that—”
“You realize, Mr. Fink, that if I hear the proof in this case and find you’re playing games, I can hold you in contempt. And, knowing Ms. Love the way I do, I’m sure there will be retribution from the child.”
“We intend to file suit first thing in the morning, Your Honor,” Reggie added helpfully. “Against both Mr. Fink and Roy Foltrigg. They’re abusing this court and the juvenile laws of the state of Tennessee. My staff is working on the lawsuit right now.”
Her staff was sitting outside in the hallway eating a Snickers bar and sipping a diet cola. But the threat sounded ominous in the courtroom.
Fink glanced at George Ord, his co-counsel, who was sitting next to him making a list of things to do that afternoon, and nothing on the list had anything to do
with Mark Sway or Roy Foltrigg. Ord supervised twenty-eight lawyers working thousands of cases, and he just didn’t care about Barry Muldanno and the body of Boyd Boyette. It wasn’t in his jurisdiction. Ord was a busy man, too busy to waste valuable time playing gofer for Roy Foltrigg.
But Fink was no featherweight. He’d seen his share of nasty trials and hostile judges and skeptical juries. He was rallying quite nicely. “Your Honor, the petition is much like an indictment. Its truth cannot be ascertained without a hearing, and if we can get on with it we can prove our allegations.”
Harry turned to Reggie. “I’ll take this motion to dismiss under advisement, and I’ll hear the petitioners’ proof. If it falls short, then I’ll grant the motion and we’ll go from there.”
Reggie shrugged as if she expected this.
“Anything else, Ms. Love?”
“Not at this time.”
“Call your first witness, Mr. Fink,” Harry said. “And make it brief. Get right to the point. If you waste time, I’ll jump in with both feet and speed things along.”
“Yes sir. Sergeant Milo Hardy of the Memphis police is our first witness.”
Mark had not moved during these preliminary skirmishes. He wasn’t sure if Reggie had won them all, or lost them all, and for some reason he didn’t care. There was something unfair about a system in which a little kid was brought into a courtroom and surrounded by lawyers arguing and sniping at each other under the scornful eye of a judge, the referee, and somehow in the midst of this barrage of laws and code sections and
motions and legal talk the kid was supposed to know what was happening to him. It was hopelessly unfair.
And so he just sat and stared at the floor near the court reporter. His eyes were still wet and he couldn’t make them stay dry.
The courtroom was silent as Sergeant Hardy was fetched. His honor relaxed in his chair and removed his reading glasses. “I want this on the record,” he said. He glared at Fink again. “This is a private and confidential matter. This hearing is closed for a reason. I defy anyone to repeat any word uttered in this room today, or to discuss any aspect of this proceeding. Now, Mr. Fink, I realize you must report to the U.S. attorney in New Orleans, and I realize Mr. Foltrigg is a petitioner and has a right to know what happens here. And when you talk to him, please explain that I am very upset by his absence. He signed the petition, and he should be here. You may explain these proceedings to him, and only to him. No one else. And you are to tell him to keep his big mouth shut, do you understand, Mr. Fink?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Will you explain to Mr. Foltrigg that if I get wind of any breach in the confidentiality of these proceedings that I will issue a contempt order and attempt to have him jailed?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
He was suddenly staring at McThune and K. O. Lewis. They were seated immediately behind Fink and Ord.
“Mr. McThune and Mr. Lewis, you may now leave the courtroom,” Harry said abruptly. They grabbed the armrests as their feet hit the floor. Fink turned and stared at them, then looked at the judge.
“Uh, Your Honor, would it be possible for these gentlemen to remain in the—”
“I told them to leave, Mr. Fink,” Harry said loudly. “If they’re gonna be witnesses, we’ll call them later. If they’re not witnesses, they have no business here and they can wait in the hall with the rest of the herd. Now, move along, gentlemen.”
McThune was practically jogging for the door without the slightest hint of wounded pride, but K. O. Lewis was pissed. He buttoned his jacket and stared at his honor, but only for a second. No one had ever won a staring contest with Harry Roosevelt, and K. O. Lewis was not about to try. He strutted for the door, which was already open as McThune dashed through it.
Seconds later, Sergeant Hardy entered and sat in the witness chair. He was in full uniform. He shifted his wide ass in the padded seat, and waited. Fink was frozen, afraid to begin without being told to do so.
Judge Roosevelt rolled his chair to the end of the bench and peered down at Hardy. Something had caught his attention, and Hardy sat like a fat toad on a stool until he realized his honor was just inches away.
“Why are you wearing the gun?” Harry asked.
Hardy looked up, startled, then jerked his head to his right hip as if the gun were a complete surprise to him also. He stared at it as if the damned thing had somehow stuck itself to his body.
“Well, I—”
“Are you on duty or off, Sergeant Hardy?”
“Well, off.”
“Then why are you wearing a uniform, and why in the world are you wearing a gun in my courtroom?”
Mark smiled for the first time in hours.
The bailiff had caught on and was rapidly approaching the witness stand as Hardy jerked at his belt and removed the holster. The bailiff carried it away as if it were a murder weapon.
“Have you ever testified in court?” Harry asked.
Hardy smiled like a child and said, “Yes sir, many times.”
“You have?”
“Yes sir. Many times.”
“And how many times have you testified while wearing your gun?”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
Harry relaxed, looked at Fink, and waved at Hardy as if it were now permissible to get on with it. Fink had spent many hours in courtrooms during the past twenty years, and took great pride in his trial skills. His record was impressive. He was glib and smooth, quick on his feet.
But he was slow on his ass, and this sitting while interrogating a witness was such a radical way of finding truth. He almost stood again, caught himself again, and grabbed his legal pad. His frustration was apparent.
“Would you state your name for the record?” he asked in a short, rapid burst.
“Sergeant Milo Hardy, Memphis Police Department.”
“And what is your address?”
Harry held up a hand to cut off Hardy. “Mr. Fink, why do you need to know where this man lives?”
Fink stared in disbelief. “I guess, Your Honor, it’s just a routine question.”
“Do you know how much I hate routine questions, Mr. Fink?”
“I’m beginning to understand.”
“Routine questions lead us nowhere, Mr. Fink. Routine questions waste hours and hours of valuable time. I do not want to hear another routine question. Please.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I’ll try.”
“I know it’s hard.”
Fink looked at Hardy and tried desperately to think of a brilliantly original question. “Last Monday, Sergeant, were you dispatched to the scene of a shooting?”
Harry held up his hand again, and Fink slumped in his seat. “Mr. Fink, I don’t know how you folks do things in New Orleans, but here in Memphis we make our witnesses swear to tell the truth before they start testifying. It’s called ‘Placing them under oath.’ Does that sound familiar?”
Fink rubbed his temples and said, “Yes sir. Could the witness please be sworn?”
The elderly woman at the desk suddenly came to life. She sprang to her feet and yelled at Hardy, who was less than fifteen feet away. “Raise your right hand!”
Hardy did this, and was sworn to tell the truth. She returned to her seat, and to her nap.
“Now, Mr. Fink, you may proceed,” Harry said with a nasty little smile, very pleased that he’d caught Fink with his pants down. He relaxed in his massive seat, and listened intently to the rapid question and answer routine that followed.
Hardy spoke in a chatty voice, eager to help, full of little details. He described the scene of the suicide, the position of the body, the condition of the car. There were photographs, if his honor would like to see them. His honor declined. They were completely irrelevant.
Hardy produced a typed transcript of the 911 call made by Mark, and offered to play the recording if his honor would like to hear it. No, his honor said.
Then Hardy explained with great joy the capture of young Mark in the woods near the scene, and of their ensuing conversations in his car, at the Sway trailer, en route to the hospital, and over dinner in the cafeteria. He described his gut feeling that young Mark was not telling the complete truth. The kid’s story was flimsy, and through skillful interrogation with just the right touch of subtlety, he, Hardy, was able to poke all sorts of holes in it.
The lies were pathetic. The kid said he and his brother stumbled upon the car and the dead body; that they did not hear any gunshots; that they were just a couple of kids playing in the woods, minding their own business, and somehow they found this body. Of course, none of Mark’s story was true, and Hardy was quick to catch on.
With great detail, Hardy described the condition of Mark’s face, the swollen eye and puffy lip, the blood around the mouth. Kid said he’d been in a fight at school. Another sad little lie.
After thirty minutes, Harry grew restless and Fink took the hint. Reggie had no cross-examination, and when Hardy stepped down and left the room there was no doubt that Mark Sway was a liar who’d tried to deceive the cops. Things would get worse.
When his honor had asked Reggie if she had any questions for Sergeant Hardy, she simply said, “I’ve had no time to prepare for this witness.”
McThune was called as the next witness. He gave his oath to tell the truth and sat in the witness chair. Reggie slowly reached into her briefcase and withdrew
a cassette tape. She held it casually in her hand, and when McThune glanced at her she tapped it softly on her legal pad. He closed his eyes.
She carefully placed the tape on the pad, and began tracing its edges with her pen.
Fink was quick, to the point, and by now fairly adept at avoiding even vaguely routine questions. It was a new experience for him, this efficient use of words, and the more he did it the more he liked it.
McThune was as dry as cornmeal. He explained the fingerprints they found all over the car, and on the gun and the bottle, and on the rear bumper. He speculated about the kids and the garden hose, and showed Harry the Virginia Slims cigarette butts found under the tree. He also showed Harry the suicide note left behind by Clifford, and again gave his thoughts about the additional words added by a different pen. He showed Harry the Bic pen found in the car, and said there was no doubt Mr. Clifford had used this pen to scrawl these words. He talked about the speck of blood found on Clifford’s hand. It wasn’t Clifford’s blood, but was of the same type as Mark Sway’s, who just happened to have a busted lip and a couple of wounds from the affair.
“You think Mr. Clifford struck the child at some point during all this?” Harry asked.
“I think so, Your Honor.”
McThune’s thoughts and opinions and speculations were objectionable, but Reggie kept quiet. She’d been through many of these hearings with Harry, and she knew he would hear it all and decide what to believe. Objecting would do no good.
Harry asked how the FBI obtained a fingerprint from the child to match those found in the car. McThune
took a deep breath, and told about the Sprite can at the hospital, but was quick to point out that they were not investigating the child as a suspect when this happened, just as a witness, and so therefore they felt it was okay to lift the print. Harry didn’t like this at all, but said nothing. McThune emphasized that if the child had been an actual suspect, they would never have dreamed of stealing a print. Never.