Authors: William Bernhardt
The man in the trench coat blew a stream of smoke toward the guard. “You’ve already been paid.”
“Paid for arranging the meeting. I ain’t had nothin’ for keepin’ quiet.”
“Don’t get greedy, my friend.”
“Hey, a guy like me’s got to look out for himself. They don’t pay us peanuts here and—
awrk!
—”
The guard emitted a short gurgling noise as the man in the trench coat grabbed him by the throat. “Don’t play games with me, you pissant. If anyone found out about this meeting, you’d be in as much trouble as me. Probably more. I could talk my way out of it. A dumb shit like you would just sit there and take the punches. You’d be fired—you might even face criminal charges. Then you could spend some quality time with these inmates you’ve been so kind to over the years. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
A look of undisguised terror crossed the guard’s face. It was more than just the realization that the man could do everything he threatened. It was the realization that he would.
The man in the trench coat took another drag from his cigarette. “I haven’t even mentioned what I personally would do to you if you talked. So keep your mouth shut, okay?”
“Yes, sir. I will. I promise.” The guard backed away the instant he was released. “Hell, I was just playin’ with you. You know, shootin’ the bull. I wouldn’t tell anyone. You know I wouldn’t.”
The man didn’t look at him.
“Swear to God. I really really—”
The man tapped his cigarette ashes onto the floor. “Leave.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The guard stumbled backward through the cell door. “You two will have complete privacy. Absolutely.” He locked the door and faded down the dark corridor.
The man’s lip curled around his cigarette. “Schmuck.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” Moroconi said. “You ain’t been livin’ with him.”
“You have my sympathies.”
“You can keep your sympathies. Just gimme what I want. Have you got it on you?”
“No. But I can get it. Have you got the money?”
Moroconi smiled thinly. “No. But I can get it.”
“I see. We have a stalemate then. Who’s going to make the first move?”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere soon.”
“Good point. How are you going to get the money?”
“I’m not. I’m gonna tell you where it is. When our deal is done.”
The other man leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid I detect a distinct lack of trust.”
“Detect away, Sherlock. When you spring me and get me what I want, you’ll get paid.”
“You’re demanding an inordinate amount of goodwill on my part.”
“Wouldn’t you? If you sell me short, I’m headed up the river. You’re my last chance.”
“Have you no faith in the judicial system? Or your attorney?”
“He’s an ex-cop. No favors from him. Once an asshole, always an asshole. I tried to set him straight this mornin’. He acted like he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with a lowlife like me. Self-righteous pig. What do you know about him?”
“At the moment, not much. But that will change soon.”
“When you learn somethin’, let me know. I wouldn’t mind having the chance to stick that pig where it hurts.”
“If the opportunity presents itself, I’ll be happy to oblige.” The man blew cigarette smoke through his teeth. “I guess you’ve heard what happened to his predecessor.”
Moroconi’s face became noticeably less animated. “No. What?”
“Fish food. Washed up on the shore of Lake Palestine. They’re not sure how long he’s been there.”
“What happened to him?”
“The word isn’t out yet officially, but …” He paused dramatically. “It involves fire.”
“No shit! Then—”
The man nodded.
“Look, I can’t screw around anymore. As long as I’m stuck in here, I’m a sitting duck.”
“That fact has occurred to me.”
“You son of a bitch.” Moroconi’s face and neck muscles tensed. “All right, goddamn you. I’ll go first. I’ll tell you where you can get the money. Half of it, anyway. After I’m out, and you’ve delivered the goods, I’ll see that you get the other half.”
“That’s acceptable. Under the circumstances.” He inhaled deeply. “Six to the right, two to the north, three to the left. Commit that to memory.”
Moroconi made sure he had it, then asked, “How are you gonna get me what I want?”
“Not to worry.”
“I don’t think you should come here like this again. It’s too risky.”
“Agreed. Next time I’ll visit during the day.”
“Are you crazy? I’ll be in the courtroom all day long. They’ve got five sergeants breathing down my neck from start to finish.”
“I’ll arrange something. Tonight I wanted us to have the opportunity to talk face-to-face. Privately. That shouldn’t be necessary again. I’ll get you what you want.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll take care of it.”
“Listen to me, chump. I’m tellin’ you, they won’t let you near me!”
“Of course they will.” He ground his cigarette out on the table. “I can do anything I want, Al. I’m with the FBI.”
“C
’MON, CHARLIE, YOU GOTTA
help me out here.”
“Sorry, Travis. Courtrooms give me the shivers.”
“It’ll only be for a little while.”
“Ten seconds would be ten seconds too long. Get someone else.”
Travis was inside the courthouse coffee shop pleading with Charlie Slovic, the proprietor. “There’s no one else here who fits, Charlie. You’re a perfect match.”
“Besides, who would watch the shop while I’m gone?”
“I’ll take care of that,” Travis assured him. “I promise. You won’t get into any trouble. Think of it as your civic obligation. Kind of like jury duty.”
“I’ve never done jury duty.”
“Well then. You owe us.”
“Sheesh.” Charlie turned down the coffee burners. “I really don’t want to do this, Travis.”
“But you will. That’s what makes you a great American. Am I right?”
Charlie sighed. “Yeah. Right.”
Opening statements passed without any major surprises. On behalf of the prosecution, Cavanaugh gave new meaning to the word
melodramatic.
Travis thought she overdid it—this situation was already so supercharged with emotion that it reeked of overkill. But the jury didn’t appear to mind. Their attention was riveted to her, except for occasional diversions, when Cavanaugh would describe a particularly horrific act and the jury would glance at Moroconi with disgust.
Travis’s opening statement was much shorter and hinged upon a single point. He didn’t contest the fact that Mary Ann McKenzie had been raped—the medical evidence established that beyond any question. He didn’t try to dissuade the jury from sympathizing with her; as he assured them, he felt for her, too. The only question was whether Al Moroconi was a member of the gang that assaulted her. In order to convict, Travis told them, they would have to find that Mary Ann’s identification of Moroconi was trustworthy. Beyond a reasonable doubt.
Hagedorn instructed the prosecution to call its first witness. To Travis’s surprise, Cavanaugh led with Mary Ann McKenzie. He had expected her to testify, but not right off the bat. The usual prosecution strategy was to build up to the victim—establish the crime through medical and forensic testimony, then bring on the victim for a devastating wrap-up. But for some reason, Cavanaugh had decided to lead with her ace.
Mary Ann McKenzie took the stand. She was sworn in, her voice choking on the phrase
I do.
Not a good sign, Travis thought. If she can’t get through the oath without a choke, cross-examination might prove impossible.
She looked terrible. Her face was partially wrapped in bandages and still covered with large blue-black bruises. Travis knew she was undergoing reconstructive plastic surgery to restore some semblance of her former face. He also knew it wouldn’t work; this was permanent damage, far beyond the curative powers of the surgeon’s scalpel. Her neck and right arm were in a body cast—probably due to injuries sustained as she was dragged behind the car. She appeared weak, pale, and emaciated.
Cavanaugh began the direct examination. Travis noted that she was using her nice-nice voice; some questions were barely louder than a whisper. After passing through the preliminaries, Cavanaugh brought Mary Ann to the night of the incident.
“Would you please tell the jury what you were doing that night?”
Mary Ann’s lips parted, and her voice emerged in a hoarse whisper. “I went to O’Reilly’s. It’s on Mockingbird. Near campus.”
“Is this a place you frequented?” Cavanaugh asked.
“I’d never been there before in my life.”
“Why were you there that evening?”
“I was looking for Dierdre, my roommate. A sorority sister told me she might be there. She was supposed to loan me her psych notes so I could study for an exam we had the next day.”
“Did you find Dierdre?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“I searched all through the bar. She wasn’t there, so I left. As I crossed the parking lot these men jumped out of nowhere and grabbed me.”
“How many were there?”
“Six. Three black men, three white. I think. Everything happened so quickly.”
Cavanaugh advanced toward the witness stand. “Can you tell us what happened next?”
“They threw me down on the asphalt and … hit me. In the face. Several times.” She pointed to a still-vivid abrasion just beneath her left eye. “That’s when I got this. They hit me so hard—I was afraid I’d lose my eye. Then they took my keys out of my purse, threw me in the trunk of my car, and closed the lid.” She turned toward the jury, eyes wide. “It was so …
terrifying.
I was trapped in the trunk—I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear. I didn’t know what they were going to do to me. I was so scared.”
Cavanaugh stood beside Mary Ann, careful not to block the jurors’ view, and addressed her in a quiet voice. “When did you see them next?”
“After they stopped the car. They opened the trunk and pulled me out by my hair. We were somewhere near White Rock Lake—I’m not sure exactly where.” Her hands began to tremble. “Two of them pinned me down to the ground. It was wet and muddy. I tried to get away, but there were so many of them—and they held me so tight. I was helpless.”
“What happened next?”
Mary Ann looked down at her lap. “One of them ripped off my slacks and … and—” She turned away and covered her face with her hands.
“Did he rape you?” Cavanaugh asked.
Technically, Travis knew Cavanaugh was leading the witness. He also knew that if he objected, the jury would crucify him.
Mary Ann nodded her head. Tears began to appear in the corners of her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Cavanaugh said. “You have to answer verbally for the benefit of the court reporter.”
After several false starts, Mary Ann managed to say, “Y-Yes. Yes. They all did.”
“How many of them?”
She shook her head. Tears were streaming down her face. “All six of them. Some of them more than once. The third one”—she clenched her eyes shut—“he peed on me.”
“The man urinated on your body?”
She nodded. “In my mouth. On my breasts. All over me. Then he flipped me over on my stomach, pressed my face into the mud, and said—that thing.”
“I’m sorry, Mary Ann, but you need to tell the jury what he said.”
Mary Ann looked as if she would rather die, but she eventually answered the question. “He said, ‘I bet she likes it doggie-style, stupid cunt.’ And then he—he—oh
God
!” Her voice dissolved into uncontrolled sobbing. “I begged them to stop! It hurt so much! I begged them! But they just kept on and on. I was crying, pleading. And they laughed at me!”
Travis checked the jury. Her outburst had electrified them. If they had any questions about her veracity before—which Travis seriously doubted—the questions had evaporated.
Cavanaugh paused to allow Mary Ann to collect herself. “Did you recognize any of the men?”
Mary Ann raised a trembling hand and pointed at Moroconi. “He was there.”
“Was he the one who urinated on you?”
“No. He came after that. Fourth.” Her eyes seemed to be turning inward, as if she were experiencing the whole nightmare over again. “He was so mean. He hurt me. On purpose. He pounded on my breasts. He tore me. Inside. I was bleeding and crying, and he didn’t care. The doctors say I’ll never be able to—to—” Again her words were drowned in tears.
“Have children?” Cavanaugh completed.
Mary Ann nodded. “Y-Yes.”
“And you subsequently were forced to undergo an emergency double mastectomy. Correct?”
Mary Ann covered her chest. “Yes.”
“Do you recall anything else Mr. Moroconi did or said?”
“Yes. He was the one who suggested they tie me to the back of my car and drag me.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“He said, ‘Just to teach the dumb bitch a lesson.’ ”
“Subsequent testimony will show you were dragged for over a mile,” Cavanaugh said quietly. Counsel was testifying, but Travis wasn’t about to protest. “What happened after that?”
“They tossed me back in the trunk, drove around for several hours, then threw me out on the side of a dirt road. Like I was … just a piece of garbage.” Her voice was beyond tears; it took on an empty, despairing tone. “I hurt so bad. I felt so … ruined. I just wanted to die. That was the only thing I kept thinking. I just wanted to die.”
W
HEN MARY ANN FINISHED,
the courtroom was deadly silent. Several of the jurors were crying.
Travis knew he would have to break this spell. He would have to play the villain and ask Mary Ann the tough questions. He also knew that even if the jurors ultimately agreed with him, they would hate him. Who wouldn’t?
“Psst.”
It was Moroconi, hissing into Travis’s ear.
“Yeah?”
“Ask how often she gets laid.”
“
What
?”
“Ask her about her sex life. I bet she’s had a good fuck or two in her time.”
“Brilliant suggestion,” Travis said. “You’re a real sweetheart.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Big-Shot Attorney. I’ve seen this routine played before. The jury might be a little pissed off at first, but once they hear about all the other times she’s had sex, all the different positions she’s tried, and all the different guys she’s screwed, they’ll change their minds. They’ll wonder if she wasn’t looking for some action in that bar that night, if she didn’t maybe ask for what she got.”