"Just the girlfriend?" the judge asked.
"Yes."
"How much did she know?"
"She may have known a few things in a passive way, Your Honor, but she was not part of the planning. These were very professional people. Experienced, tough people. Bocca was well known to us. She was a young girl at the time, not a principal."
I'm actually insulted, Christina thought, but she said nothing.
"Sort of a hanger-on-er, a girlfriend, something like that?" the judge summarized.
"Bocca had a lot of"-the detective hesitated-"bimbos, you could call them, I guess."
"One of those appellations that are demeaning by their accuracy," noted the judge. "And though your terminology is vulgar, it is useful for its clarity. I believe I understand."
I never got less than an A-minus in any of my courses at Columbia, Christina thought angrily, but then she remembered that Peck knew this, had even taunted her with it during the interrogation. Girl like you gets perfect grades, how'd you end up with Bocca? He was smart, this Peck, looking at the judge with a face full of contrition.
"So what was the error?" asked the judge.
"The problem was that the people actually doing the job got away-we could never make them that one time," Peck recalled. "All we had was a truck full of stolen air conditioners. After Miss Welles was arrested, they broke up or disappeared. We knew Bocca was guilty, but he moved out to Long Island and, criminally, went inactive. Just worked on a fishing boat. But I saw the lost subject on a stakeout a month ago and realized that I had ID'd the wrong woman." Peck stopped for a breath. "I had to be honest with myself. I had to really ask myself if I was sure. So I came to Mr. Glass, who was not crazy to hear it, of course."
The judge nodded to Mrs. Bertoli. "Go ahead, then."
Mrs. Bertoli stood. "Due to new information coming to the attention of the New York City District Attorney's Office, and pursuant to Section 440.10 of the New York State Criminal Code, I request an order from the court vacating the conviction of Christina Welles and her sentence."
The judge turned to Glass. "Any objection?"
"None, Your Honor."
The judge sighed. "Miss Welles, apparently the State of New York, and in particular the New York City District Attorney's Office, owes you an apology, as well as four years of your life. We can provide you the former but not the latter. Of course, the criminal justice system tries to do its best, but from time to time, very occasionally, there is a gross miscarriage of justice. This, I acknowledge, has happened to you. I am now"-he pulled out a pen-"signing this order vacating your conviction and sentence." He looked up from the paper. "Okay
… you are free to go, Miss Welles." He nodded to the patrons, one of whom stepped forward and opened her handcuffs. Then she handed Christina the sealed envelope containing her identification and money.
Glass collected his papers and walked out, without so much as looking at Christina.
"Can I talk?" said Christina, checking that her money was still in the envelope.
"By all means," said the judge, waving his hand.
"I'm free?"
"Yes. Right here, right now."
She looked around. "That's it? That's the whole thing?"
"Yes." The judge picked up his telephone.
Christina turned to Mrs. Bertoli. "I can just walk out?"
"Apparently."
"How often does this happen?"
"Never."
"But they have the power to do it?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Bertoli.
"Nobody ever hears about that."
"The D.A.'s Office doesn't tell people a lot of things."
"Did you know this was going to happen?"
"Not a clue."
"They sent you a piece of paper?"
"I highly doubt it," she said. "It's a very embarrassing matter. They kept this quick and quiet."
Christina noticed Peck standing at the back of the room, rocking on his heels. He could be the one to worry about, she thought, but I'm not sure. "What if I think there are people following me?"
The lawyer looked around. "Who?"
"I don't know." Christina leaned close. "Well, I-" Better not to say it. "I'm just worried about people following me."
Mrs. Bertoli nodded.
"Would you walk out with me?" Christina asked.
The lawyer looked at her watch. "I have a hearing in another courtroom."
"You won't walk me out of the building?"
The lawyer's eyes were dead, unconcerned. "Miss Welles, you're free to come and go as you please. I'm not going to charge you for this morning's work."
Now the detective was gone. But someone else could be watching, any of the men and women outside the courtroom up and down the hall. She could, she supposed, tie her hair up or get a pair of sunglasses or put on a different sweater, but that was not going to work. Not really. Plus she had her ridiculous and humiliating garbage bag as an identifying characteristic. She sat down in the back of the courtroom, hunched over in self-protection. I'm going to think this out, she told herself, not move until I know what I'm doing. She assumed she would be followed right on out of the courthouse. Maybe she was crazy, but she had to believe something was going on. The detective had lied blatantly. Suppose someone working for Tony Verducci was watching, suppose he wanted to talk to her?
She stood up and walked out of the courtroom, down the hall. Keep your feet moving, don't look around, don't look back. You're not free yet. She passed sullen black boys accompanied by their mothers, overweight and exhausted by it all; young blades who smoked too much and had seen the inside of three or four methadone clinics; shuffling court officers with stomachs so prodigious as to apparently require a concealed superstructure of support; private defense attorneys whose eyes were lost in folds of flesh, although their watches were very good indeed; policemen trying to remember testimony they swore they had memorized; families of the victims, moving in clusters of righteous solidarity, their faces suspicious of anyone who might deprive them of a chance to see justice done, and the more harshly, the better. Don't look at me, don't see me, she thought, hurrying with her head down.
She entered an elevator, standing uncomfortably among three police officers and two attorneys, none of whom said anything. Another man stepped on, eyed her once. I don't like his haircut, she thought, he could be following me. The door opened at the seventh floor and she followed the attorneys out. The floor contained the District Attorney's offices. She lingered indecisively. The man with the bad haircut stepped out of the elevator and waited. Don't look at him, she told herself. She got back on the elevator and took it up to the thirteenth floor. The man had not followed her, but that didn't mean anything. The court building constituted an immense maze. She took the elevator down to the first floor. If Tony Verducci wanted something with her, he'd have to wait until she was outside the court building. She retreated to a bathroom, hoping to hide a moment.
A fleshy woman in a tight white dress and pumps stood at the mirror, fixing her hair. She gave Christina a once-over, looked back at the mirror.
Just then another woman poked her head in the bathroom. "Mona, Bobby's in the car!"
"Did Jeanette get out yet?" answered the woman at the mirror.
"Yeah, she did. That's why Bobby says hurry up." The woman disappeared.
Hookers. Bail. Pimp. Christina watched the woman touch up her makeup. "Least your guy showed up," she said, standing at the other sink.
"They're all assholes."
"Yeah, but you got a ride."
The woman turned around, frowned. "They picked you up with that bag?"
"I had a bunch of stuff with me."