I felt sorry for Violet, but so far I wasn′t convinced by what the lawyer was saying about Mad Dog being Jana′s shooter.
″The eyewitness only saw Antoine during the hijacking, from what I′ve heard,″ I said, thinking of Shaina.
″But she didn′t see Antoine shoot Mrs. Miller,″ Goldberg said. ″She couldn′t have. The shooting happened a couple of minutes later. And Mad Dog was the shooter. He and a couple of his friends were parked around the corner in another vehicle. And he had the gun. He always has a gun.″
″That′s a good story. But where′s the evidence to support what you′re saying?″
Goldberg handed me a folder. ″An independent forensics lab has concluded that the angle of the bullets that killed Jana Miller couldn′t have been fired from inside the car where Antoine was,″ he said. ″They came from outside the car.″
″From the outside of the car?″
″Yes. But you won′t hear about any of this from the prosecution′s side-they′ll be testilying all the way through this case,″ he said, using a defense attorney′s portmanteau for police officers′ alleged habit of lying on the stand.
I couldn′t believe the prosecution would let anyone lie on the witness stand, but I was stunned by the report I had in my hand. If it was correct, it was clear evidence that the bullets that killed Jana came from outside her vehicle. How, then, could the police accuse Antoine of killing her?
″Shaina did say she never saw a gun in Antoine′s hand,″ I said. ″And she lost sight of the car before she heard the shots.″
″Exactly. And those shots were fired by Mad Dog. He was lying in wait for the car.″
I flipped through the rest of the report. It would take some time to go through all the technical details, but the summary indicated that what the lawyer was saying was true-Antoine couldn′t have fired the shots that killed Jana.
When I looked up from reading, Violet and the lawyer were quietly conferring. I took in our surroundings. The Hurley home was pleasant and well kept, but it seemed highly unlikely that she would be able to afford the services of an attorney such as Miles Goldberg, whose rates started at more than four hundred dollars an hour.
″How′d you happen to take on Antoine′s case, Mr. Goldberg?″ I asked the lawyer.
Goldberg shot me an evaluating look. ″Are you asking whether it′s pro bono?″
Violet straightened up in her chair. ″The Hurley family doesn′t take charity from anyone, Miss Gallagher,″ she said. ″I′m using Antoine′s college savings to pay for his defense. We′ll go into debt-we′ll go broke if we have to-but my boy will have the best defense money can buy.″
″I′m sorry if I seemed to imply anything else,″ I said, chagrined. So much for my theory that Gavin was paying for Antoine′s defense.
By the time we left Violet Hurley′s apartment, the atmosphere in the projects′ central court had a festive feel to it-everyone had heard that the TV news was doing a story about Antoine. Word was beginning to spread that it might be sympathetic to his case.
I planned to do everything possible to make the story fair to both sides. Based on my interview with Antoine′s mother and the attorney, there was an entirely new question to be considered.
Luke had been so positive that Antoine had been the one who pulled the trigger on the gun that killed Jana. Could he have been wrong?
Was Antoine innocent?
Chapter 30
Tanning-a Good Idea. Not!
The jury is in on getting bronzed the natural way. Sun exposure ages your skin and can lead to skin cancer.
If you must have that beach-baby tan, consider visiting a salon for a spray-on tan.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
My story about Antoine aired on the late news Sunday night. Early Monday morning, I walked into a firestorm of criticism. A string of irate messages was waiting for me when I arrived at the newsroom at eight a.m. The worst of them was from Luke Petronella of Durham Homicide.
″What the hell got into you last night, running that tabloid trash about Antoine Hurley?″ the detective′s message began. ″Don′t you know that every gangbanger in the world claims that he was ′coerced′ into going along with the crime? Shit. It was your friend he killed, Kate. Are you out of your mind?″
As I cringed back in my desk chair, Luke continued his rampage. ″So listen up-from now on, I′m not giving you shit about my investigation, ″ he said. ″You want a comment about a story, you call Public Relations. And you can go fuck yourself while you′re at it. You were way out of line to let some shiny-suit lawyer raise questions in public about my case. Fucking lawyers. You′re shit on my shoe, Gallagher. Total shit!″
I′d never been raked over the coals like that by someone I respected like Luke. And there was much more like that to come. The nicer callers implied that I was shilling for Antoine′s defense. The nastiest one said my mother should have aborted me in the womb. Most of the callers simply implied that I′d earned my journalism degree from an online school for hacks.
Good grief. They hated me. Maybe Evelyn had had a point when she said I was clinically depressed. I′d never felt so low, so barely alive. It felt as if my body′s vital signs were registering in the zombie zone.
I was hunched over the phone in my cubicle, sipping coffee and scribbling notes about each call, when Beatty appeared at the opening to my cubicle.
″Hey-you need to listen to something on the police scanner,″ he said, nodding toward the assignment desk.
I slunk along in my boss′s wake, mentally girding for the worst.
A bunch of news reporters were leaning around the assignment desk, monitoring the police scanner. The assembled crowd included Dutch Kramer, the sportscaster.
″Hey, Kate,″ Dutch said, tossing me a loopy looking grin. ″You′re the hot topic this morning on the squawk box.″
″Oh, yeah, Dutch? How′s that?″
″They′re saying you should get a big hairy one up the ass for that story you did last night about Antoine Hurley.″
″Thanks for sharing that.″
I rested my knuckles on the desktop and listened as disembodied cops′ voices squawked over the scanner.
″That hit piece she did last night was a complete piece of crap,″ one cop said. ″They oughta fire that Gallagher woman′s fat ass.″
″The whole thing′s bullshit, man,″ another responded. ″Whose side is that reporter on, anyway? The f′n shooter′s?″
The cops in the squad cars had to be aware that we monitored their exchanges over our scanner, as did every other media outlet in town. They undoubtedly meant to be overheard. I was being skewered in a most public, graphic way. It was more than a bit disconcerting, especially since the case involved my friend′s murder.
Just great. I hadn′t wanted to do that story in the first place, and now I was being blamed.
I stood by my story-it was a solid piece-but still, the anonymous criticism by the cops raised the hair on the back of my neck: Whose side is that reporter on, anyway? The f′n shooter′s?
My colleagues were chattering and bouncing oddly energized looks off me. There′s nothing that gets the adrenaline going for journalists like provoking the wrath of police officialdom. But you better not get caught making a mistake in your reporting. That would be a job killer.
″Hey, I love being tarred and feathered in public, ″ I said, trying to make light of the situation.