“If this is true, Dante Halleyville, who faces capital punishment and whose trial begins in forty-eight hours, has put his life in the hands of someone who is not even a lawyer.”
Chapter 86. Tom
AT 9:00 P.M. the following night, the somber-faced clerk for Suffolk County Supreme Court judge Richard Rothstein waves me, Kate, and District Attorney Dominic Ioli into his well-appointed chambers, where we take our seats at a long mahogany table.
Ioli, a loquacious career pol with a full head of gray hair, makes a couple stabs at idle chatter, but when he sees we’re in no mood, he abandons the effort and thumbs through his Times. I know this much about Dominic Ioli-he’s a whole lot smarter than he looks, and he rarely loses.
When Judge Rothstein strides in, wearing khakis and a button-down white shirt, his penetrating black eyes and long sharp nose tell me I’m exactly the kind of dumb Irish jock he’s got no time or use for.
Bypassing pleasantries, he turns to Ioli and asks, “What’s your office’s position on this, Dominic?”
“We haven’t had time to fully assess the charges,” he says, “but I don’t think it matters. Whatever decision this court makes should be beyond reproach. If defense stays on, we leave the door wide open for appeal. Assigning new counsel will require a delay, but it’s better to spend that time now than to have to come back and do this all over again.”
“Sounds reasonable,” says Rothstein, and turns his eyes on me. “Dunleavy?”
I’m prepared to argue forcefully, but I have no intention of getting down on my knees for anyone. “Your Honor, the grades and evaluations are what they are,” I say in an offhanded tone. “But I’m sure in your career you’ve come across at least a couple of excellent attorneys who weren’t brilliant law students. For all I know, the district attorney is one of them.”
Encouraged by the hint of a smile in Rothstein’s eyes, I barge ahead.
“So the only charge that matters is that I had someone take the Law Boards for me, and that’s absolutely false. Here’s a copy of X-rays of my left wrist, taken the night before I took the boards, and here’s a record of my visit to Saint Vincent ’s emergency room April 5, 1997.
“I was playing a pickup game at the Cage in the Village that night and took a hard fall. I could have gotten a medical extension, but I’d spent months preparing and, frankly, at that point, wasn’t sure I wanted to be a lawyer. I decided to take them right-handed and let the scores decide for me.”
“You telling me you passed the bar writing with your wrong hand, Dunleavy?”
“I don’t have a wrong hand. I’m ambidextrous.”
“The multiple choice maybe, but the essay?”
“It’s the truth,” I say, looking straight into his eyes. “Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll see,” says Rothstein, and slides a legal pad across the table. Then he reaches behind him and blindly grabs a book off the shelf.
“You’re in luck, Dunleavy-Joyce’s Ulysses. I’ll dictate the first line, you jot it down right-handed as fast as you can. Ready?”
“It’s been seven years since I’ve had to do this.”
“What do you care? You don’t have a wrong hand. Ready?”
“Yup.”
“‘Stately, plump Buck Mulligan,’” reads Rothstein with pleasure, “‘came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.’”
I scribble furiously and slide the pad back.
“Now I know why you went to your right so well, Dunleavy,” says Rothstein, the smile in his eyes moving down to his thin lips. “Your handwriting’s better than mine. By the way, I made a couple phone calls this afternoon, and it turns out this rumor came out of the offices of Ronnie Montgomery. I’ll see you in court tomorrow morning.”
“But, Your Honor,” says Ioli.
“I’ll see you too, Dominic.”
Chapter 87. Kate
DRAINED BY THE test in Rothstein’s chambers, Tom slowly drives my car through Riverhead toward the Sunrise Highway. Neither of us says a word.
The full moon lights up the road, and some of that light spills onto the front seat where Tom’s right hand lies on the armrest between us.
To be honest, I’ve always loved Tom’s strong hands, with their thick, raised veins running from his battered knuckles to his wrists. In two decades of basketball, every finger has been dislocated so many times that not one of them is straight. They’ve become a kind of relief map of his life revealing everything he’s been through.
Without really thinking about it, I lay my hand on his.
Tom’s hand jumps, and he looks at me, stunned. Then, just as quickly, he turns away. Why’d I do it? I’m not really sure. It could have been for the balls and charm he showed winning over Rothstein and pulling victory out of his hat one more time, or maybe it’s everything the two of us have been through in the last year. Or, I’ve just wanted to do it for months.
But I don’t regret it-and to let Tom know it was no accident but an intentional piece of insanity, I wrap my fingers around his.
For the next half hour, the car is filled with a very different kind of quiet. “I’ll pick you up at seven thirty” is the only thing Tom says the whole way, but by the time he pulls up in front of Mack’s house, I feel as if we’ve been talking for hours.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” I say, and hop out of the car. “You did good, Tom. I’m proud of you.”
And that makes Tom smile in a way that I haven’t seen since we were both kids.
Part Four. Cold Play
Chapter 88. Kate
AT 8:15 A.M. the sprawling parking lot in front of the Arthur M. Cromarty Court Complex is overrun with media. TV news trucks occupy the half-dozen rows closest to the courthouse; thick black cable stretches over the cement in every possible direction.
Network and cable reporters, comfortably rumpled from the waist down and impeccably dressed and groomed above it, their faces caked with makeup, stand inside circles of white-hot light and file their first remotes.
Tom and I weave our way through the chaos and park. Then we walk briskly toward the entrance of the complex, hurrying to get safely inside before getting grabbed by the journalistic mob.
Our timing is good, because at that moment every TV camera in the lot is aimed at an elegant black man standing dramatically on the courthouse steps. As we hustle past, I see that it’s none other than T. Smitty Wilson. I guess he’s finally come to pay his respects.
Inside, three hundred or more spectators pack forty rows, and they are split straight down the middle of the courtroom. Dante’s supporters, who have arrived from as far away as California, fill the left half of the room. On the right are those who have traveled a much shorter distance to support the families of the victims. I’ve known most of them my entire life.
Surrounding the divided crowd are at least fifty cops, and in this instance, it doesn’t seem unwarranted. Officers from the Sheriff’s Department stand shoulder to shoulder along the front and back walls, behind the jury box, and on both sides of the judge’s podium.
Except for the journalists in the front two rows, there are few exceptions to the racial seating pattern. One is Macklin, the octogenarian exception to most rules. He sits defiantly between Marie and Clarence, and woe to the man who tries to move him. Hanging just as tough one row back are Jeff and Sean.
Tom, rifling through a stack of file cards, barely looks up when the twelve jurors and two alternates solemnly take their positions.