Both lawyers were playing the game, dropping names in an attempt to influence. Navarro was a respected former sheriff who ran a large security firm. Judge Lewis was probably a golfing partner of the sitting judge.
"The state asks that the suspect be held in remand, Your Honor," the prosecutor said, stealing a glance toward the back of the room.
"Evidence of a capital crime involving Mr. O'Shea is continuing to be collected by detectives, Your Honor, and the state is convinced that he may be an extreme danger to the public."
Billy jumped on the prosecutor's move.
"Your honor, I see n-no reference to another, m-more serious charge in this arrest document. Mr. O'Shea in fact has n-never been arrested. In Florida nor in any other j-jurisdiction," he said. "In addition, the st-state knows that the mere possibility of an additional charge has n-no bearing on this proceeding and has no legal justification in even being raised."
The judge nodded, as if saying "I knew that," and looked over to the prosecutor, who was stalling by shuffling through paper.
"Furthermore, sir," Billy continued, "I have in court this m- morning a witness to the assault charge now in question, a licensed private investigator, Your Honor, whose presence at the time of the alleged c-crime is documented by police reports and who has signed an affidavit stating that both he and Mr. O'Shea were the ones attacked by the alleged victim and his brother and thus forced to defend themselves."
The prosecutor followed the direction of Billy's pointed hand and when he looked at me I could see the flicker of an unexpected twitch in his eyes. This was obviously supposed to have been a slam- dunk lockdown of O'Shea with little objection by the overworked and uninvolved public defender.
"Mr. Cornheiser?" the judge said, maybe even enjoying the elevated banter in his otherwise dull morning.
"I, uh, again, Your Honor," the prosecutor stumbled. "This was, sir, a brutal attack and the hospitalized victim, sir…"
"You're repeating yourself, Mr. Cornheiser. Bail in the amount of ten thousand cash or bond," the judge said, interrupting. He had been around long enough to know that when an attorney only had one leg to stand on, his only resort was to hop up and down on it.
"Thank you, Your Honor," Billy said, gathering his things.
"Thank you, Mr. Manchester," the judge responded. "And I apologize, sir, for my earlier assumption, counselor."
Billy bowed his head gracefully and walked across to where O'Shea was now sitting.
"We sh-shall have you out by noon," he said, and I heard O'Shea thank him. As Billy turned to go the big man cuffed to O'Shea stopped him with his voice.
"You got a card, Mr. Attorney?" he said, holding out a hand the size of a dinner plate.
Billy looked down into the man's face.
"I don't do this kind of work," he said dismissively and walked on. Richards was waiting outside. She'd left after the judge announced bail. Her companion was gone. Her arms were crossed, lips pressed together. She was looking at the floor as we walked up and Billy excused himself before we reached her.
"I'm going to p-post O'Shea's bail," he said, heading for the lines. I went to face Richards alone.
"So, Max," she said when I got within hearing distance. Her eyes were the color of steel.
"I really didn't expect the two of you to double-team me in there. You must have done an exceptional sales job to convince Billy to stand up in front of a judge in person."
She and Billy had been friendly when we were dating. She shared his love of sailing. She respected his genius and had never asked me once about his stutter. She was pissed. Still, I knew that my explanation was weak. How do you tell someone you think they're wrong based on a gut feeling, a half-assed dealer theory and maybe a misplaced loyalty to a fellow cop?
"I hope you two can guarantee that he's not going to put another woman at risk while he's out roaming free," she said.
I looked away from her eyes, then back.
"Look, Sherry. I respect what you're doing," I said. "I just think you're wrong on this one."
"No shit."
I let her anger sit a few silent moments and maybe my own, too.
"Sherry," I tried again. "You've shot and killed two men in the last couple of years, men who were abusing women. You were fully justified in both."
"And saved your ass in one, Freeman," she said, her arms still crossed.
"And saved my ass," I agreed. "You're also a solid investigator and I know you haven't forgotten the rule to keep an open mind and consider all possibilities."
She looked down and I could see she was holding her tongue, taking my words like an unwanted and condescending lecture. I took my chance and pressed on.
"Can you honestly say this mission you're on hasn't gotten in the way of your eye for other suspects?"
I'd meant to appeal to her professionalism and now I was questioning it.
"Freeman, I've been working this for months. I've dealt out the other possibilities. Christ, I even posed as a bartender to run a living, breathing lineup past myself every night. Your friend is the one that sticks out. He fits the profile, and yeah, it's the profile I put together, but he's right there. If he hadn't made me as undercover, I might have gotten him to make a move or give up a piece of evidence. That didn't happen, but I saw him in action."
"OK," I said. "How about someone you never saw in action? Someone who might fit your profile, but who would have bailed at the first sign or recognition of a cop?"
She finally looked me in the eyes.
"What the hell are you talking about, Max?"
"Suppose you've got over-the-counter drug dealing going on in a bar? The supplier is smart, he recruits the girls working as bartenders."
I saw the head tilt start, the draw of exasperated breath.
"Just hear me out. OK?" I said. She relented and chewed on a corner of her lip.
"Suppose the supplier is smart enough to move these girls around, to different cities or states, or just sends them packing when he thinks they might compromise his action?"
I reached into my pocket and took out the photo that O'Shea had taken and offered it to her.
"Ever seen this guy before?"
She looked, brow scrunching, studying longer than necessary.
"I've seen him before," she finally said. "But I've never seen him here. This is Kim's, right?"
She was a good investigator, strong in the details. She probably recognized the jukebox just as I had.
"You have a name?" I said.
"No, I'm not that familiar."
"He snuck out of Kim's the other night as soon as you walked in."
The corner of her mouth turned up.
"Lot of people wouldn't want to be seen sitting at a bar by a detective."
"Yeah, I know," I said and waited.
"Why else did you single him out, Max?"
"He seemed to have some kind of connection to the new bartender, the one who was watching us that day when we were interviewing Laurie."
"Connection?"
"Yeah. When he bolted, she kept looking from us to the spot he left, very nervous."
She was still looking at the photo, her eyes narrowed. There was something else there, I was sure of it. And she was trying to decide whether she was going to share it with me.
"He's a cop. Works patrol. Maybe even in that sector," she said, looking up into my face.
"No shit," I said, mostly to myself.
"Easy, Freeman," she started. "Lots of cops wouldn't want to be caught at a bar by a superior officer, even if they're off hours. Who knows, maybe he doesn't want word getting back to the wife?"
"Can you get a name and run a history, get a look at his record?" I said, my head working the possibilities.
"Jesus, Freeman. You're ballsy," she said. "Trying to blow my case on the main suspect, and asking me to help you line up another officer for the fall guy? A defense attorney would have a field day with that. 'I understand, Detective Richards, you were also investigating another possible suspect? Doesn't that mean you aren't sure who may have done this?'" she said, making her voice deep and smarmy.