The recent case had convinced her that there was a need for her services as well. A district attorney like her husband-who insisted that his prosecutors play by the rules and who believed that it was the duty of his office to seek justice, not win at all costs-wasn’t the problem. Not that the New York DAO was infallible, but that sort of institutionalized ethics went a long ways toward preventing malicious or unwarranted prosecution.
Her husband was what the twins called “old-school,” an anomaly. As a first-year law student at Yale she took to heart a maxim of America’s justice system: it was better for ten guilty men to go free than for one innocent man to be wrongfully convicted. Yet there were self-aggrandizing prosecutors, like Chin in Westchester, as well as overzealous cops, politicized judges, and lazy defense attorneys, who didn’t do their jobs, which meant that, regrettably, innocent people went to prison, and some were even sentenced to death.
And that’s where her inspiration came in. It was no accident that many of those for whom justice was truly blind were poor or disenfranchised and could not afford “dream teams” of lawyers, private investigators, and bevies of expert witnesses. Indigent defendants accused of homicide in New York had two private attorneys appointed to represent them; such attorneys belonged to a pool of “qualified” trial lawyers who applied to be in the group. However, they were paid at a much lower rate than their standard fees, and the only way to make money was to take on as many cases as a judge would assign them and then bill as many hours as the courts would allow. All the while, they were also working on more lucrative cases in their private practices. As a result, the time and energy devoted to the case of an indigent person accused of murder could be less than adequate.
As Marlene had explained to her husband when broaching the subject the previous week after their meeting with Stupenagel, she thought that maybe she’d take on a few cases a year where she believed there was a legitimate question about an injustice being done. She’d work pro bono-a Latin term meaning “for the good,” or more accurately “free of charge”-something she could easily afford as she’d made millions from the sale of the security firm, and the dog farm was quite profitable as well.
Although he’d teased her about whether he’d be comfortable “sleeping with the enemy,” Butch had not objected to her idea. She knew he wouldn’t. For one thing, he learned long ago that she was not easily dissuaded when she put her mind to something. But more importantly, he accepted that the job of the defense was to zealously and competently represent its client, and if the state couldn’t prove its case, then even a guilty defendant should be set free. So if Marlene put his colleagues in the other boroughs through the wringer, then so be it; they’d better be ready for a fight.
She didn’t have to wait for one either. That afternoon, Alejandro Garcia had called on her cell phone and asked if she could recommend a good attorney for a friend who was being unjustly accused of three murders. The irony was that when Marlene first met the then-budding rap artist, Garcia had been framed for a multiple homicide he didn’t commit.
When she pressed him for more information about the case, Garcia told her that his friend Felix was the young man she’d been reading about in the newspapers, the one the media was calling the Columbia U Slasher, with barely an attempt to preface the word “murderer” with “alleged.” He’d been arrested for the rape and murder of three women, two in Manhattan and one in the Bronx.
“Your husband’s office just indicted him,” said the former gang leader, who, although friendly with Butch, still had that street distrust of “the Man.” “But I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles, he didn’t do it.”
Marlene had frowned. Although she’d read about the arrest in the newspapers, she didn’t recall Butch talking about the case after the Monday meeting he had with his bureau chiefs and assistant district attorneys who presented their cases. He didn’t tell her about every case and had been preoccupied with some of the post-Jabbar trial fallout regarding jurisdictional issues with the feds. But the Columbia U Slasher case was fairly high-profile and he usually would have remarked on a case like that by now. Maybe it’s just such a slam-dunk case that it’s not worth talking about, she thought.
“If I remember right, the news reports were quoting anonymous cops saying he confessed,” Marlene told Garcia.
“Shit, Felix will confess to anything,” he replied. “It’s sort of weird, and probably because his old man beats the shit out of him for nothing, but he’d tell you he flew one of the jets into the World Trade Center on Nine-Eleven if he thought it would make you happy-or at least get you off his back. He’s been like that since I’ve known him.”
“Doesn’t he have an attorney?” Marlene asked.
Garcia had snorted with disgust. “No, Felix waived his rights,” he said. “I’m sure they had him convinced it was the right thing to do from the jump. So now he’s indicted for murder and won’t get an attorney appointed until his arraignment. Even then, who knows if he’ll get a good one and not some guy who talks him into taking a deal for somethin’ he didn’t do. He needs a good lawyer who’ll fight. But his family doesn’t have money, so I’m going to pay for it. That’s why I’m calling you. See if you know somebody who’ll fight for this kid.”
Marlene knew that the New York DAO’s assistant district attorneys, especially in the homicide bureau, were some of the best-trained and most skilled trial lawyers in the country. They were usually pretty damn sure that they were going to make their case at trial or they didn’t go to the grand jury for an indictment. Still, Garcia was a friend and asking for a favor, so she suggested that they meet first and then, if warranted, think of which defense lawyer to bring on board for the Manhattan case.
Garcia seemed relieved when she agreed, particularly after he also suggested that he bring Felix’s mother, Amelia, to the meeting. “She knows him better than anyone. I think if you talk to her, you’ll understand how he couldn’t have done this.”
Leaving Gilgamesh moping on the sidewalk, Marlene entered the bookstore, inhaling the musty aroma of old books and the smell of fresh coffee from the cafe at the rear of the building. Long and narrow, with its two floors of walls covered with row upon row of used books, as well as an eclectic collection of record albums, the bookstore subsisted on these donated items it then sold. All profits went to the Housing Works organization, which provided shelter, health care, and other services to homeless New Yorkers living with the AIDS virus.
During the day and even into the early evening, the bookstore was usually packed with browsers, readers, friends just having coffee, and sightseers, as the iconic shop, to the disgust of the locals, had become something of a tourist attraction. On weekday nights the environs were much quieter, as they were now, with just a few people scattered about, reading in one of the old leather chairs, working on their computer at a table with a latte, or gazing along the walls of books searching for an overlooked gem.
Marlene had offered to meet Garcia and Amelia Acevedo farther north, but he’d suggested somewhere closer to where Marlene lived in SoHo. “We don’t want to put you out,” he said. “And to be honest, Mrs. Acevedo doesn’t want to meet where someone she knows might see her and tell her husband. She has to take off from work for this, and he’d beat the hell out of her if he knew. The bastard sleeps all day, then drinks all night, gambles her money, and whores around while she’s at work.”
Marlene made her way back to where a bored barista made her a decaf Americano. She then took a seat in a nook and picked up a copy of Atlas Shrugged that someone had left on the coffee table. She flipped open the book and noted one of the lines: The evil of the world is made possible by nothing but the sanction you give it.
Just then the bell above the door rang and a small, dark-haired woman entered, followed by a young Hispanic man. The woman wore the sort of drab ubiquitous uniform found on the army of men and women who cleaned the offices of the high and mighty of Manhattan during the night and then disappeared back to their homes before daybreak. She looked frightened and out of place.