She looked them in the eye and said, "I ain't saving you shit."
With that, they "did handcuff her, pat her down, admin istrated her Miranda rights, exited the premises, and trans ported her to the precinct for fingerprinting, processing and mug shooting."
God bless.
Whatever time and trouble it had cost them, that after noon the detectives did indeed apply for and obtain a search warrant for Samara's town house, aimed at finding "a weapon or other instrument, as well as other physical evidence relating directly or indirectly to the murder of Barrington Tannenbaum."
Apparently Tom Burke had taken over the writing.
The warrant was executed the same evening. The return listed more than two dozen items that had been seized. It was hard at that point for Jaywalker to appreciate the sig nificance of most of them, but at least three were pretty easy to understand.
6. One silver-handled, steel-bladed steak knife, 9 inches long overall, with a sharply pointed tip and a blade 5 inches long by three-quarters of an inch wide by one-sixteenth of an inch thick, on which there appears to be a dried, dark-red stain.
9. One blue towel, with an irregular dark-red stain measuring approximately 1" x 3".
17. One ladies' blouse, size S, with a dark-red splat ter pattern on the front, approximately 3" in diame ter.
If the nature of the items was troubling to Jaywalker, the location where they'd been discovered was just as damning. All three had been found rolled up together and wedged behind the toilet tank of a top-floor guest bathroom.
Those items, along with a number of others removed from the crime scene, were currently being tested for the presence of DNA. Fingerprint comparisons were awaited. In addition, a full autopsy had been conducted on Barry's body, and a report was expected in a few weeks, as well as serology and toxicology findings. Hair and fiber analyses were being done, too.
Yet as bad as things looked for Samara at the moment, Jaywalker had every confidence that given a little time, they would look a lot worse.
He turned off the light and lay on his back in the dark ness. Samara Tannenbaum's face appeared at the foot of his bed, her eyes darker even than the room, her lower lip pouting.
"I didn't do it," she said.
Right.
7
Monday was Samara's "One-eighty-eighty" day, a refer ence to the section of the Criminal Procedure Law that entitles a defendant to be released unless the prosecution has obtained an indictment or is ready to go forward with a preliminary hearing. A lot of defendants do get released: complaining witnesses disappear, cops screw up and assis tant D.A. s occasionally get overextended, and have to pick and choose which cases to treat as priorities and which to let slide. Some defendants are lucky enough to slip into the cracks that are inevitable in a system that processes many thousands of cases a year.
Barry Tannenbaum having disappeared in the most lit eral sense imaginable, the complaining witness in Samara's case was now The People of the State of New York, and they weren't going anywhere. As far as Jaywalker knew, no cops had screwed up, so long as spelling and grammar didn't count. Tom Burke was certainly treating the case as his top priority, if not his career-maker. Given all that, the chances of Samara's case slipping into some crack, neces sitating her release from jail, were absolutely zero.
Jaywalker explained all this to her before they went before the judge, during a five-minute conversation in the "feeder pen" adjoining the courtroom. The term, no doubt, had come from the fact that the small lockup "feeds" de fendants into the courtroom, one by one. But every time he heard it, Jaywalker couldn't help but picture bait fish being served up to frenzied sharks, or small rodents to ravenous wolves.
"After the court appearance," he told Samara, "we'll sit down in the counsel visit room and talk as much as we need. Okay?"
She nodded, looking appropriately worried.
He described what would happen when they appeared before the judge: in a word, nothing. Once an indictment was announced, the only remaining bit of business would be the setting of an adjourned date.
"Can you make a bail application?" Samara asked.
Apparently she'd been getting some jailhouse advice, a commodity never in short supply on Rikers Island. Inmates devour every word of it, never pausing to notice that the dispensers of the advice have one thing in common: every last one of them is still sitting in jail.
"I can," he told her, "but it'll only be denied. You're going to have to wait until we get to Supreme Court."
"They say that can take years."
"Different Supreme Court," said Jaywalker, not helped all that much by a system in which some Einsteins had gotten together and decided to call the lowest felony court in the city supreme. But Jaywalker spared Samara the ex planation. What he did tell her was that asking for bail was not only pointless, but might actually hurt their chances later on. Bail was almost never granted in murder cases, and on the rare occasion when it was, it was usually set pro hibitively high. In this case, that wouldn't take much. With her bank account frozen and no other assets to her name, even were a modest bail to be set, Samara had nothing to post it with. So while there might come a time when it made sense to ask for bail, it certainly wasn't now.
Finally, Jaywalker warned Samara that the press would be in the courtroom. The American public, denied a throne by the founding fathers, makes do with celeb rity and wealth in lieu of royalty. How else to explain such curious heroes as Bill Gates, Jack Welch or Paris Hilton? Barry Tannenbaum had been rich. If not quite Bill Gates rich, certainly Donald Trump rich. He'd mar ried a reformed hooker (some commentators, inclined to reserve judgment, preferred the term "former hooker"), forty-two years his junior. Now she'd stabbed him to death.
The press would definitely be in the courtroom.
"Your appearance, please, counselor," said the bridgeman, once the case had been called.
As always, Jaywalker was tempted to say, "Five-eleven, a hundred and seventy pounds, graying hair…" Instead, he controlled himself, stating his name and office address for the court reporter to take down.
True to form, Tom Burke announced that he'd obtained an indictment against Samara. The judge set a date for ar raignment in Supreme Court.
And that was it.
Anyone expecting to find the twelfth-floor counsel visit area to be the functional equivalent of a private hospital room would have been seriously disappointed. But Jaywalker had been there a thousand times before and knew better. The area was laid out more like a ward or, if you wanted to be ex tremely charitable about it, a semiprivate room.
After being ushered through the middle one of three steel-barred outer doors, he entered the lawyers'area, a row of bolted-down chairs that extended to the far wall on either side. Each chair had a small writing surface in front of it, with wooden partitions rising on either side. Above the writing surfaces was a metal-screened window. If one squinted sufficiently, he could see that on the other side of the screen was another writing surface, and behind it another bolted-down chair, facing his own.
The inmates were led in through the other doors, one side for men and one for women. That way, segregation was maintained for the three groups-lawyers, male prisoners and female prisoners. Someone had apparently decided that it was safe to permit lawyers of both sexes to mingle.
The arrangement was an imperfect one, because unless you talked in a whisper with your client or resorted to sign language, you ran the risk of being overheard by lawyers on either side of you, and inmates on either side of your client. Still, it was better than talking over some staticky telephone hookup, or through a hole in reinforced glass, so Jaywalker wasn't about to complain.