One look at Scott, I see she’s one of those God-fearing, righteous women you always watch on the TV news after some tragedy happens. You know the type I mean, who somehow keep their shit together no matter what unspeakable thing has just happened.
She’s no spring chicken but her back is straight as a plank. And the slow way she walks up to be sworn in, you’d think she’s here to receive a special award from George Bush.
“What’s your relationship to the defendant, Ms. Scott?” asks Costello.
“I’m proud to say the young man is my grandson,” says Scott, hurling her big voice into the room.
“How long has Dante lived with you?”
“Five years. Ever since Dante’s mother began serving her sentence upstate. Dante’s father had already passed by then.”
“So you’ve raised Dante since then?”
“That’s right, and until these false charges, he’s never gotten into a bit of trouble. Not once.”
The question that always comes into my head when I see a woman like Marie is why, if her shit’s so damn tight, did her kids all turn out so bad? Even if she did a great job with Dante, how come her daughter’s in jail? That holier-than-thou attitude must drive them the other way.
“Where did he live in your place?” asks Costello.
“It’s just the two of us. So he had his own bedroom.”
“Could you describe it for us, Marie?”
“Nothing fancy. He had a bed that was way too small for him, but a good-sized desk and bookshelves on the walls. We couldn’t afford a computer, but he used one at school.”
“What was on those bookshelves?” asks Costello.
“On one wall were the things any high-schooler would have-books, CDs. The other shelf held his basketball stuff. He called it his Dream Wall because that space was dedicated to his dream of playing in the NBA. Of course, he never calls it that, he calls it ‘the League.’”
This is all highly fascinating, but where we going, Grandma?
“What did that wall consist of, Marie?”
“There were five shelves. On the outside went his trophies from the all-star games and the summer camps and being named Suffolk County High School Player of the Year two years in a row.”
“And how about on the inside?”
“That was where he kept his basketball caps. He had all thirty, one for every team in the League. Because that’s the moment he’s living for, when they call out Dante Halleyville in that auditorium in New York City and he walks to the stage and puts one of those caps on.”
“Did he ever wear those hats outside of the house, Marie?” asks Costello.
“Never!” says Scott so loudly that the whole courtroom feels the fury in it, and I don’t need to look at Officer Lindgren to know he’s sweating bullets now.
“He never wore those hats, period! Those hats weren’t for wearing. They were for dreaming. He ordered them by mail, took them out of their box, and placed them on the shelf, but he never put them on. He was superstitious. He didn’t want to put one on until they called him up on that stage and he knew which team he was playing for.”
I hate to admit it, but Lindgren was right. That bitch Costello has gotten too close.
“How long after the murders did the Suffolk County Homicide unit come to your home?”
“The next afternoon.”
“What did they do?”
“Searched Dante’s room, photographed it, dusted for prints. Then they taped it off. I still can’t go into my grandson’s room. To this day.”
“Were they the first police to come to your house, Marie?”
“No. That morning an officer from the East Hampton Police Department came over by himself. He said he was looking for Dante and asked if he could take a look in his room.”
About now I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Did you let him in, Marie?”
“Yes, ma’am. I knew Dante wasn’t involved in these crimes, so I didn’t see the harm. In fact, I thought it would help the police see that he was innocent.”
“Did you go in Dante’s room with the officer?”
“No, I let him in there alone. That’s the way he wanted it.”
Now the crowd is rumbling so much that Rothstein holds up one black-robed arm. Not that it does much good.
“How long was the officer in there?”
“Not long,” says Marie. “Not more than a couple minutes.”
“But long enough to take Dante’s Miami Heat cap off the shelf?” says Costello.
Now three things happen at once-the crowd explodes; the DA shouts, “Objection!”; and Scott drills out, “Yes, ma’am!” with everything she’s got, which is plenty.
“Strike the last question and answer from the record,” Rothstein tells the stenographer, then turns to the smart-ass bitch. “Ms. Costello, consider yourself warned.”
“Marie, do you remember which police officer came to your house that morning?”
“Yes, I do. Of course I remember who it was.”
“What was his name?”
“Hugo Lindgren.”
“Hugo Lindgren,” says Costello as if she’s stunned herself. “The same officer who just happened to get the anonymous tip about the gun at the Princess Diner and the call from Nikki Robinson also spent several minutes unattended in Dante’s room? Is that your sworn testimony, Ms. Scott?”
“Yes,” says Scott. “It most certainly is. Hugo Lindgren.”
By now the crowd, at least on my side, is ready to burn the courtroom down, no matter what Rothstein says about civic responsibility.
But it’s Costello, not Rothstein, who gets them to shut up. Because this is where she blows everybody’s mind, including mine.
“Marie Scott will be our only witness, Your Honor,” says Costello, twisting her gaze between the judge and the jury. “Ms. Scott said it all. The defense rests its case.”
Costello’s announcement stuns both sides of the courtroom into silence, and as the lookyloos start to file out deflated and confused, it reminds me of a pay-per-view title fight that gets stopped way too early. But you know what else? That bitch is smart.
Maybe she just stole the fight.
Chapter 99. Tom
THE NEXT MORNING, when the crowd trudges back into the courtroom, you can read the tension on every face. It fills the room. After a very hot week and air-conditioning that’s little more than a sound effect, this unventilated box reeks of dried sweat and body odor. As I walk to my seat alongside Kate, perspiration trickles down my back.
Deciding not to put Dante on the stand is a calculated risk, but putting a terrified teenager at the mercy of the prosecution seemed even riskier. Nevertheless, it places that much more pressure on my summation. I’m scribbling last-second notes when the bailiff crows, “All rise!”
Much too quickly, Judge Rothstein strides into the room, climbs onto his bench, and turns to me.
“Mr. Dunleavy,” he says, and I face the jury one last time.
“Ladies and gentlemen, when I stood before you at the start of this trial, my one request was that you accept nothing you hear until you’ve filtered it through your own judgment. I know you’ve done that because I sat and watched you do it, and because I can see the effect of that effort in your eyes. So, thank you.
“This morning we’re going to examine the prosecution’s case one final time and consider their so-called evidence piece by piece.”
Already, my face is dripping with sweat, and when I mop my brow and take a gulp of water, the only sound in the room is the drone of that useless AC.
“When I went to work for Dante, I thought this was a tragic case of an innocent teenager finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now I realize bad luck had nothing to do with Dante Halleyville and Michael Walker being at Smitty Wilson’s estate the night Eric Feifer, Robert Walco, and Patrick Roche were murdered.
“Dante and Michael were deliberately lured to the scene so they could be framed for the murders. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.