But this one – this one was going to be different. Today the defendant was going to be brought over from the jailhouse across the street and paraded into the county courthouse by the Department of Corrections at a special time for a special hearing in a special courtroom just for him. It would be witnessed by his defense attorney, the prosecutor, the now not-so-ornery judge, and the entire press corps that had camped out overnight on the courthouse steps and were lucky enough to find a seat in the courtroom. A nice, intimate affair that would be viewed by millions in simultaneous live broadcasts across the country and parts of the world. Then replayed again for the five-, six-, and eleven-o’clock news broadcasts.
C.J. suspected that it would take longer than two minutes.
The First Appearance judge was the Honorable Irving J. Katz, a press hound dog. Cranky and old, he had been a judge in Miami long before they had even built a courthouse to put him in. Much to Judge Katz’s dismay, the chief judge no longer let him handle trial work, but instead had made him King of the First Appearance, normally an uneventful, tedious job. A case like this one, though, was enough to make Judge Katz salivate. C.J. could expect him to use the first five minutes of the hearing up just in the silent, furious stare of contempt that he would land on Bantling. And the cameras. Then he would ask his bailiff to present him with the arrest form, and he would proceed to slowly read the charges, making sure to enunciate clearly in a voice dripping with disdain. He would pretend to read the arrest form that laid out the facts of Bantling’s arrest the night before, which, of course, he had already done in chambers at least ten times, and a feigned look of shock and disgust would creep across his wrinkly, ancient brow. He would demand to know how Bantling pleaded to the charges, even though that really wasn’t necessary until the arraignment three weeks later. Then he would wrap up the performance with a stern, dramatic speech that C.J. suspected would sound something like ‘I pray that these heinous charges, these barbaric, vile acts were not committed by the likes of you, William Rupert Bantling. May God have mercy on your soul if they were, as you will surely burn in hell!’ Or something close to that. A real headline grabber for the morning edition of the
Miami Herald:
JUDGE TELLS CUPID TO BURN IN HELL!
Of course he would find probable cause. Chances were that C.J. would not need to speak at all. But still, she had made sure she was prepared on the facts in case she
was faced with an argument from Bantling’s attorney.
Judge Rodriguez was the search warrant judge on duty last night, and in his bathrobe at 5:00
A.M
. he had signed off on the warrants to search Bantling’s house and cars. At this very moment, at least four police agencies were ripping apart every square inch of Bantling’s life, literally. But, as of her last report at 8:30, so far they had found no ‘smoking gun’; no stash of stolen human hearts in a hidden room with an ‘I did this to them and they each deserved it!’ note taped to a mirror adorned with photographs of the dead victims.
This was definitely troubling. Troubling because Bantling had invoked both his right to remain silent and his right to counsel last night and then had completely clammed up. C.J. was going to need more evidence than just Anna Prado’s dead body to link him with the other nine dead girls.
Troubling because it was entirely possible that this William Bantling was nothing but a copycat killer and the real Cupid was home reading the paper this morning, laughing his head off at all of them over a cup of hot coffee and a croissant.
18
C.J. leafed through the police reports and the pink arrest form one final time and checked her watch. It was past 9:30. She jotted down a few last-minute notes, grabbed her West’s Florida Criminal Procedure paperback, packed up her briefcase again, and headed over to the courthouse. She took the back stairs and the side entrance to avoid the media circus that she knew would be waiting for her, both outside her office building and across the street on the courthouse steps. Then she sneaked in through the underground courthouse garage, waving halfheartedly at the bored security guard as she entered the elevator.
The elevator doors opened on to the fourth floor, and C.J. could tell this whole affair was going to be even bigger than she had originally thought. As she suspected, a mob of cameramen and their chipper reporters waited anxiously in the hallway outside of Courtroom 4-1. Lighting was being set, microphones checked, and lipstick freshened up in hasty anticipation.
C.J. walked straight ahead, focused on the huge mahogany doors ahead of her, her head cast slightly down, the swag of her blunt dark blond bob covering her face. Oblivious to the rush of madness around her.
Frantic whispers erupted from the inexperienced reporters who had not yet done their homework: ‘Is that her?’ ‘Is that the prosecutor?’ ‘Is that Townsend?’ Those more prepared confidently nudged their way past,
before the others had a chance to even flip their microphones on.
‘Ms Townsend, what evidence has been found at William Bantling’s home?’
‘No comment.’
‘Was Mr Bantling on the list of suspects that your office had looked at before?’
‘No comment.’
‘Will you be filing charges in the other nine murders?’
‘No comment’
‘Will your office be seeking the death penalty?’
For that one, she shot the perky doe-eyed reporter a look. Stupid
question.
The doors closed with a heavy thud behind her.
She walked to the front of the walnut-paneled courtroom and took her seat to the right at the prosecution table. Judge Katz had, of course, picked the most majestic courtroom in the courthouse for his hearing. The ceilings soared twenty feet high, with His Honor’s mahogany wooden throne towering at least a lofty five feet above the gallery, and three feet above the witness box. Metal domed chandeliers that screamed the year 1972 hung suspended in a diagonal pattern all over the room.
The courtroom was already packed with spectators, most of whom were reporters, and cameras were set up at every conceivable angle on tripods. All around the courtroom were uniformed Miami-Dade officers, and four green-and-white-clad corrections officers guarded the entrance. Another four guarded a back entrance to the small hallway where prisoners were to be escorted in from the bridge over from the jailhouse. Yet another four held positions by the entrance to the other hallway
that led to the judge’s chambers. In the front row of spectators, C.J. spotted several prosecutors from the office. She nodded in their direction.
She opened her briefcase and glanced over to her left. Ten feet across from her at the defense table sat prominent defense attorney Lourdes Rubio. Seated next to her, wearing a black tailored suit, gray silk tie, and silver handcuffs sat her client, William Rupert Bantling.
The suit looked like Armani and the tie Versace. Bantling wore his salty blond hair slicked back, and on his tan face sat expensive-looking Italian eyeglasses, behind which, C.J. noted, he sported a nice shiner. Probably compliments of the Miami Beach P.D. Although C.J. could only make out his profile from where she sat, she could tell that he was a handsome man. High cheekbones, good chin.
Great A well-dressed, good-looking serial killer. The love notes from the lonely and demented should start to arrive at the Dade County Jail by tomorrow afternoon.
C.J. noticed that his handcuffs rested on a Rolex watch and in his left ear he had a large diamond stud. That explained why he sat next to Lourdes Rubio. She was good, and she didn’t come cheap. The handcuffs were affixed to a metal chain that connected to ankle shackles. Obviously, the boys over at the jail had really decked him out in the finest in restraint wear just for the cameras – she was surprised they hadn’t fitted him with a mask similar to the one Hannibal Lecter wore in
The Silence of the Lambs.
Bantling turned his face then and leaned toward Lourdes, smiling. C.J. noticed perfect teeth. Without the black eye, he was definitely handsome. He certainly didn’t look like a serial killer, but then again, neither did Ted Bundy. And pedophiles were almost always nice grandpas who served as presidents of their local Kiwanis
Clubs, and the worst wife beaters sometimes were CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. Things were never what they seemed. That was probably how Bantling conned those girls out of those nightclubs. They were expecting a greasy, creepy, three-eyed monster with a knife and bad body odor who they could immediately tell was Cupid. A bad guy all the way. Not Suave Bola, dressed in Armani, full of charm, with perfect teeth, a Rolex, and a new Jag.
‘All rise!’ The bailiff opened the back courtroom door, and in walked a determined-looking Judge Katz. The first thing he did was scowl in the general direction of William Bantling.
He climbed up the stairs to the bench and sat down. Then he pulled out his glasses and put them on his head to where they just rested on the tip of his nose. The scowl continued.
‘Court is now in session!’ barked the bailiff. ‘The Honorable Irving J. Katz presiding! Be seated and be quiet!’
Judge Katz silently surveyed his kingdom with a look of contempt. For several minutes, nervous silence filled the air, and only the occasional rustle of papers or a muffled cough could be heard. This went on for a while. Finally, Judge Katz cleared his throat and said, ‘We are here on the matter of
The State of Florida
v.
William Rupert Bantling,
case number F2000-17429. Counselors, please identify yourselves for the record.’ Very formal. C.J. and Lourdes both stood.
‘C.J. Townsend for the state.’
‘Lourdes Rubio for the defendant.’
The judge continued. ‘The charge is murder in the first degree. You have been brought here, Mr Bantling, for your First Appearance Hearing, as is required by
Florida law, to determine if there is probable cause contained in the arrest form to support the charge against you. If probable cause is found, you will be remanded without bond to the Dade County Jail to stand trial. That all having been said, Madame Clerk, please pass me the arrest form in this cause so that I may read it.’
He was crisp, he was clear, and he enunciated throughout the whole speech. Judge Katz would look great on the news. Normally, he would have handled at least ten defendants in the same amount of time on any other day. The courtroom buzzed in hushed whispers as the judge pretended to read through the arrest form. Cameras whirred and sketch artists sketched.
‘Quiet all!’ snapped the bailiff, and the room fell silent.
After almost five minutes of intense frowning, Judge Katz looked up from the three-page arrest form. In a voice dripping with disdain, he declared loudly, ‘I have read the arrest form. And I find that probable cause does indeed exist in this case to hold the defendant, William Rupert Bantling, for trial on the charge of first-degree murder in the death of Ms Anna Prado. There will be no bond in this matter. The defendant is to be remanded to the custody of the Department of Corrections.’ He paused for effect and leaned forward toward Bantling’s general direction. ‘Mr Bantling, this court can only hope –’
Lourdes Rubio stood up. ‘Your Honor, if I might address the court. I hate to interrupt, but I am afraid the court is about to conclude this matter on its own before the defendant has had a chance to be heard.
‘Judge, my client is a prominent member of the community. He has no prior criminal history. He has lived in Miami for six years and has laid long-term roots here,
including a job and a home. He is willing to surrender his passport to the court until this matter is resolved, and to submit to an ankle bracelet with electronic monitoring and house arrest, so that he may assist counsel in the preparation of his defense. We therefore respectfully request that the court take these factors into consideration and that bond be set in this matter.’
C.J. rose to respond, but quickly saw there was no need. Judge Katz’s bald head turned red, and he glared at Lourdes Rubio. She had thrown off his otherwise-perfect performance. ‘Your client is a suspect in a string of violent, horrific murders. He was driving his car around Miami with the dead, mutilated body of a woman in his trunk. He’s not a tourist who has enjoyed too much of the South Beach nightlife, Ms Rubio. I am not worried about him
fleeing
I am worried about him
killing.
He clearly is a danger to society. There will be no bond; he can assist you from his jail cell.’
Judge Katz’s eyes ran up and down Lourdes Rubio, as if he had just realized that she was a woman. In a low voice he added, ‘You might very well thank me for
that
one day, Counselor.’ Then he leaned forward and again set up his closer. ‘Now, Mr Bantling, I can only hope for your sake that you are not guilty of the horrible crime with which you have been charged. Because if you are –’
Bantling suddenly stood, pulling away from the table, causing his chair to fall back with a loud thud against the wood railing. He yelled angrily at Judge Katz, ‘This is ridiculous! Your Honor, I have done nothing! Nothing! I never even saw that woman! This is bullshit!’
C.J. looked over at Bantling, and her head began to spin. He was turned toward Lourdes Rubio, pulling on
her elbow with his handcuffed hands and yelling, ‘Do something! Do something! I am not guilty of this! I’m not going to jail!’ Her mouth went dry. She watched, unable to move, as three corrections officers rushed to the table to sit Bantling back down. She saw the judge pound the bench with his gavel, and watched as the reporters stood up, cameras rolling, watching the scene play out on live television. But she heard nothing, just Bantling’s voice yelling over and over, ‘Do something! You have to do something about this!’
C.J. looked down to where his hand grasped Lourdes’s jacket and saw the jagged S scar on his left arm, just above his Rolex and his wrist. She knew that voice. She knew in one horrible instant in that courtroom who William Rupert Bantling really was. Her body began to tremble all over as she watched him being dragged from the defense table toward the bridge door, still screaming at Lourdes Rubio to do something. She stared at the image, long after it was gone, not hearing Judge Katz at all as he bellowed her name from the bench.