The judge continued, “I’ll be damned if I make an entire calendar cool its heels while you figure out where your witnesses are!”
Brandon touched the knot of his tie like a condemned man fingering his noose. “Perhaps the defense will waive the right to a continuous preliminary hearing so the court can take up the next case while I locate my witness?”
“Oh, indeed?” the judge replied acidly. “Let’s find out, shall we?” He turned to the defense. “Counsel, do you waive your right to a continuous preliminary hearing?”
“No, Your Honor,” said the attorney. “The defense does not waive.”
“Shocking,” the judge said. “Any other bright ideas, Mr. Prosecutor? Or, better yet, any other witnesses? Some incriminating evidence for a change?”
“I don’t have any other witnesses, Judge,” Brandon said, trying to regain his cool with a nonchalant shrug.
“People rest?”
“I suppose so.”
“I have a motion, Your Honor,” Schoenfeld said, beginning to rise.
“Don’t bother, Counsel,” the judge said, signaling him to sit down.
The judge banged his gavel and barked, “Dismissed.”
4
The spectators gave a collective gasp, then erupted in a buzz that built and rolled through the courtroom. The dismissal of a homicide wasn’t a typical day for even the most seasoned courtroom veterans.
The defendant, a wiry, lean, young Asian male with black shoulder-length hair, sat quietly at first, absorbing the shock. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to hit him like a thunderclap. He thumped his fist on the table, the clanking of his waist-to-handcuff chains underscoring the gesture, and turned to his lawyer. “I told you! I told you it wasn’t me!”
Judge Foster gave another loud rap of his gavel, stopping the defendant in mid-fist pump. “This is a court of law, not a sports bar!” he thundered. “Get your client under control immediately, or I’ll do it for you!”
Walter grabbed Yamaguchi by the arm and whispered through gritted teeth. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it worked. The defendant folded his hands on the table and sat quietly.
Legally speaking, the dismissal was well justified. But it rankled. Maybe this defendant really wasn’t the guy. And maybe I would’ve let it go at that if it hadn’t been for the “I could give a shit” look on Brandon’s face. Because maybe it was him, and the murderer was about to walk out of that courtroom and away from this victim for no good reason-just like everyone else had walked away while he bled out on the sidewalk.
I couldn’t just sit there and let it happen. For Cletus, and for all the others who wound up on the periphery of an overpopulated, uncaring world, I had to do something. I quickly moved up the aisle and walked over to Brandon.
“What the hell?” I whispered heatedly. “Where’s your cop? Did you subpoena him?”
Brandon glared at me wordlessly for a moment. “Of course I subpoenaed his ass,” he shot back.
“Then tell the court you’re going to refile so they don’t let this guy out,” I said as I watched the bailiff take the defendant back into the holding tank.
By law, the prosecution can refile a case that gets dismissed at the preliminary hearing, and we usually do if it’s been dismissed just because a witness didn’t show up. But the sheriffs don’t have bed space to waste. If Brandon didn’t tell them he intended to refile, the defendant would be released.
“You’re never going to find this defendant again,” I said heatedly. “He’ll be in the wind the minute they open the gate.”
Averill threw the last report into his file. “Tell me, since when does a Special Trials hotshot give a shit about some homeless guy?”
“Tell me, since when did it matter whether a victim drove a Mercedes or a shopping cart?” I fired back.
“Maybe since the ‘victim,’” he said, making air quotes-which I hate almost as much as I detest snotty prosecutors-“had just grabbed a lady and was probably going to rob her.”
“Based on?”
“Based on the fact that he was found holding a box cutter, and surprisingly we didn’t find any packing tape nearby.”
“But surprisingly he’s the only one who’s dead, and if someone killed him in self-defense, then how come they’re not around to say so?”
“You’re so fired up about this dog, why don’t you refile?” he said with a smirk. “Be nice to see one of you Special Trials hotshots get down in the muck with the rest of us.”
If he hadn’t been such a huge jerk, I might’ve taken a moment to think about whether there was any hope for this case. But as it was, he’d pissed me off so royally on so many levels that I didn’t pause for a second. I grabbed the file out of his hand and turned to the judge.
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” I said, loud enough to break through the courtroom chatter. “I’d like to notify the court that the People will be refiling the case of”-I paused to look at the file-“People versus Ronald Yamaguchi.”
Judge Foster raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea the Special Trials deputies were in the business of trolling for cases. Must be my lucky day,” he said dryly. “Deputy Stevenson,” he said, addressing the bailiff, “tell your folks not to rush. It appears Mr. Yamaguchi will be staying with us a little longer.”
The bailiff nodded and picked up the phone on his desk.
“And I have the next case, Your Honor,” I said, setting down the murder book-the binder cops put together that holds all the reports on a murder case-on counsel table with a heavy thump.
“You ready?” the judge asked.
“I am,” I replied.
“But I’m not, Your Honor. Sam Zucker for the defendant.” He was a really young, slick-haired type in a chocolate-brown pin-striped suit that said wowee-look-at-me-I’m-a-lawyer. “I’m standing in for Newt Hamilton, who’s got the flu. We’ll be asking for two weeks-or more if the People want.”
Since Newt Hamilton had been privately retained, I had the feeling the onset of his “flu” might be related to the defendant’s lack of cash. I knew the judge wouldn’t force a stand-in to go forward on a murder case, so I didn’t bother to object. We quickly picked a new date, and as the judge called the next case, I saw a detective come barreling in, his eyes on fire and his jaw working sideways. He headed straight for the clerk’s desk.
“Detective Stoner, investigating officer on the Yamaguchi case.” He pulled out his badge and handed Manny his card. “I just heard the case got dismissed,” he said, his voice tight with barely restrained fury.
Manny, who’d had enough fury for one day, quickly pointed to me. “Yeah, but she’s refiling.”
Thanks, Manny. The detective turned to look at me, steam blowing out of his ears. I motioned for him to meet me out in the hallway and braced myself for the nuclear blast. He nodded curtly, turned on his heel, and headed for the door in rapid, angry strides. Although I was closer to the exit, he moved so fast he got there ten steps ahead of me.
I found the detective out in the hallway and walked over to introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Rachel Knight. Guess I’ll be handling the case-,” I began.
The detective turned toward me, but before he could respond, his attention was drawn to a point over my left shoulder. His eyes narrowed and his chest filled. “Excuse me,” he said roughly, and marched past me.
I turned to see where he was headed, and there was Brandon, sauntering out of the snack bar, carrying-what else?-a cinnamon-covered latte.
Detective Stoner flew at him like a heat-seeking missile. “Why the hell didn’t you give me a subpoena for the uniform?”
Brandon had enough sense to blanch, but not enough to back down. He took exactly one second to find his voice. “I did. I sent it over. You just never picked it up. You blew it, Stoner, so don’t try to blame me for your fuckup.”