DB01 - Presumption of Innocence Page 7

  Yamata’s eyes bulged wide and she looked down at Brunelle, who was still seated at counsel table. Brunelle let out an irritated exhale and stood up. “May I be heard on this, Your Honor?”

  “Of course, Mr. Brunelle,” the judge replied. “But first, tell me this: Is that girl going to testify or not?”

  “Not,” he answered.

  “We repeat our motion for sanctions, Your Honor,” Welles piped in.

  “Be quiet, Mr. Welles,” said Judge Quinn calmly. Then, turning back to Brunelle, “Why did you tell me that she would testify against Mr. Karpati?”

  “Because I honestly thought that she would,” Brunelle answered. “In fact we had a plea hearing set yesterday and everyone, including her lawyer, expected her to accept the State’s offer. However, at the last moment, she refused to plead guilty.”

  Judge Quinn nodded. “Do you know why she changed her mind.”

  Brunelle surrendered a sardonic smile. “Not yet, Your Honor.” He glanced at Karpati. “But we’re looking into it.”

  Welles jumped out of his chair. “This is outrageous, Your Honor! First, Mr. Brunelle intentionally lied to the court. Now, he casts aspersions against my client and myself! I have never—”

  “You can stop now, Mr. Welles,” Judge Quinn interrupted. “He told me he had a good faith belief the girl would testify. I don’t think Mr. Brunelle was lying. He ended up being mistaken, but that happens a lot in this line of work.”

  She turned back to Brunelle. “So should we just strike this hearing then, since you won’t be able to show clear evidence of the crime to justify a no bail hold?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Yamata answered. “The hearing should go forward.”

  Judge Quinn looked back at Brunelle’s junior partner. “And why is that, Miss…?”

  “Yamata,” she said with only a hint of irritation at having to say it again so soon. “And the reason why is that Mr. Welles’ legal argument to the court was mistaken at best, misleading at worse, and in any event incorrect.”

  Welles turned red in the face. Brunelle—and Judge Quinn— suppressed a smile. Yamata kept her poker face, staring straight at the judge.

  “I have filed a brief explaining all that, Your Honor,” Yamata continued. “We did not receive any response brief from Mr. Welles.”

  Brunelle looked over and saw Karpati’s eyebrows knit together as his mouth curled into a scowl. He could see why Holly might be afraid of him. He smacked Welles’ arm and the defense attorney leaned down for Karpati to whisper something in his ear. The two exchanged heated whispers for a few moments. Then Welles stood up straight again. “My client has instructed me to file a response brief. I did not think it necessary given the misdeeds of the prosecution.”

  “Our brief was served on them in a timely fashion,” Yamata protested. “We’re ready to argue this today.”

  Judge Quinn raised her hand. “Counsel, counsel. Let’s all step back from the precipice.”

  She turned to Welles. “How much time do you need, counsel?”

  “One week, Your Honor. No more.”

  “Ms Yamata, will the State be ready to argue the motion in one week?”

  “We’re ready to argue it now.”

  Judge Quinn smiled, but Brunelle could see her patience was wearing thin. “So we’ll be ready in a week as well, Your Honor,” he interjected.

  Judge Quinn smiled. “All right then. Here is what we’re going to do. We will reschedule the bail hearing for one week from today. We will also schedule a pre-trial conference to discuss any other matters that might need to be discussed.”

  “May I suggest a continuance motion as well, Your Honor?” Brunelle spoke up. “I can speak with counsel in the meantime about possible dates for trial. I’m thinking probably the spring, Mr. Welles?”

  Welles didn’t look back at Brunelle. “We will object to any continuance. We demand a speedy trial.”

  The speedy trial rule in Washington required the trial to start within ninety days of the arraignment, unless the defendant was in custody, in which case it had to start within sixty days. They’d already lost seven days on the bail issue. Murder cases were always continued out past the sixty-day deadline upon agreement of the parties. Hell, joy riding cases were routinely continued out past the sixty-day rule.

  Judge Quinn raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to be ready to start a capital murder case in fifty-three days, Mr. Welles?”

  “I will Your Honor.”

  Brunelle was getting tired of Welles’ bravado.

  “At least I will be more prepared than the State,” Welles went on. “I see defense attorneys routinely agree to continuances so that the State can get it’s DNA results back from the lab, or something equally damaging to the accused. I will not agree to give the State more time to manufacture evidence against my wholly innocent client.”

  Brunelle had to smile. The man had a point. He never did understand why defense attorneys would give him more time. Well, he did understand. They weren’t ready either. But it was more than that. They weren’t assholes like Welles.

  “Fine, Your Honor,” Brunelle addressed the court. “The State can be ready within the speedy trial expiration. But I would ask that the court make a finding that the defense has answered ready for trial. I don’t think they should be allowed to challenge us to be ready, and then when we are ready, they ask for a continuance and claim to need more time to prepare.”

  Quinn looked back at Welles. “The man has a point. You want a speedy trial, I’ll give you a speedy trial. But I’m not going to let you out of it, if turns out you guessed wrong and they really can get ready that fast.”

  Welles smiled, but Brunelle could see the worry hidden in the corners of his mouth. “We’ll be ready, Your Honor. And my client will be acquitted.”

  Judge Quinn wisely didn’t comment. Instead, she announced the schedule. “Trial will be scheduled for six weeks from today. We will have a status conference two weeks before trial. In one week from today we will have a preliminary pre-trial conference. In addition we will have a bail hearing. In the meantime, I am changing Mr. Karpati’s conditions of release to a no bail hold.”

  “What?” Welles shouted. “We haven’t had the bail hearing!”

  “You’re correct, Mr. Welles,” the judge responded, “because you weren’t ready. But I’ve read Ms. Yamata’s brief and I think she’s probably right. I’m not going to give your client a chance to post bail while we wait for a full hearing. No bail hold. Court is adjourned.”

  Judge Quinn stood up and retreated to her chambers.

  Brunelle was going to say something smarmy to Welles, but Karpati was already grabbing at Welles’ shirt sleeve.

  Yamata stepped next to Brunelle and purred, “Told ya my briefs were exquisite.”

  Chapter 15

  The recital was at seven. Brunelle was supposed to be there at six forty-five. It was maybe twenty minutes from his office. But he didn’t really feel like working past six that night. In fact, he didn’t feel like working past five.

  So he decided to take the long way to the high school. Actually, the totally opposite way, then double back. If he was going to try to convict Karpati without Holly, he was going to need to find someone else. There may not have been anyone else with the two of them that night, but people talk. And anything you say can and will be used against you. People think that just applies to things you say to the cops. Brunelle knew better. He hoped Karpati didn’t.

  He parked his car right in front of ‘Darkness.’

  It was early still, for a nightclub anyway, but he thought they might be open already. And he kind of wanted to miss most of the clientele. If anybody was going to know what Arpad Karpati was really about, it was going to be the staff. Maybe the regulars, but Brunelle wasn’t sure was ready to meet the regulars quite yet. He buttoned his suit coat, smoothed back his just-starting-to-gray hair, and pulled open the faux castle door.

  He had been kind of looking forward to the record-scra
tching, piano-stopping, everybody-looking-at-the-door reaction his suited entry into the underground nightclub would evoke. He was disappointed.

  There were three other guys in suits drinking beers in the corner, and the bartender, a young woman covered in black clothes, silver jewelry, and colorful tattoos, looked up and said, not at all ominously, “Hi.”

  “Uh, hi,” Brunelle answered. He walked over to the bar. “Can I get a beer?”

  He wasn’t going to do more than sip at it while he talked to the bartender. Not right before driving across town. He didn’t think there would—or should—be a lot of tolerance for a prosecutor drinking and driving.

  The bartender slid him a bottle of the latest local microbrew and was about to turn away.

  “Thanks, uh, what did you say your name was?”

  The woman stopped and stared at him. An ‘are-you-fucking-kidding-me’ kind of stare.

  “Seriously, mister,” she said. “You’re old enough to be my dad. Which means I’m young enough to be your daughter. And that’s just fucking gross.”

  Brunelle forced a smile. “Um, right. Sorry. That wasn’t where I was headed with that. Not interested.”

  The bartender cocked her head, then put her hands on her hips and stood up straight, showing off her large breasts and curvy frame. “Oh, yeah? Why not?”

  Brunelle’s smile actually became a bit more genuine. He enjoyed an unscripted question and answer exchange. It’s what he did for a living. “First, as you mentioned, fucking gross. Second, I have other interests right now.”

  The bartender smiled at the first reason, then nodded at the second. “Mm-hmm. And what kind of interests?” She leaned onto the bar. “Nothing illegal, I hope? You totally look like a cop, so I know you’re not.”

  Brunelle chuckled. “Yes, something illegal. And no, I’m not a cop.” He savored the dramatic pause. “I’m a prosecutor.”

  Bartender stood up. “A prosecutor?”

  “Homicide prosecutor,” Brunelle added.

  Bartender crossed her arms. “Homicide? Like murder? Sorry, mister, no murders here lately.”

  Brunelle took a sip of his beer. “I know. The murder was in Madison Park.”

  Bartender laughed. “Not too many people from Madison Park come here.”

  “No, the murder was in Madison Park,” Brunelle explained. “But the murderer came here.”

  The bartender shifted her weight. She had abandoned her statuesque pose, but still cut an attractive figure behind the bar. Brunelle admired the long black hair flowing behind her shoulders as she processed the information she was getting from him.

  “Lot a people come here,” she said finally. “What’s your name, prosecutor man?’

  “Dave Brunelle. What was yours again?”

  She ignored his question. “Well, Mr. Brunelle, like I said. Lots of people come here. So I’m sure I can’t help you.”

  “Arpad Karpati.” Brunelle figured if this guy was as much of a psychopath as he seemed, he would have made an impression on her, and everybody else.

  The barmaid didn’t respond immediately, but Brunelle examined her body language. She crossed her arms again and shifted all her weight onto her back leg. She dropped her chin just a bit. “Don’t know him.”

  She was lying. That was obvious. The question Brunelle need to figure out was why. The two most likely candidates were protecting him and afraid of him. Preserving the sanctity of bartender-barfly confidentiality was a close third. What’s said in Darkness stays in Darkness. He’d start with that one.

  “I suppose you two were friends, so I won’t ask you to tell me anything he said. I just wanted to see what this place looked like.”

  “We weren’t friends,” the bartender was too quick to respond.

  That didn’t actually eliminate the third option. In fact it kind of strengthened it. It weakened the first one, though. She probably wasn’t trying to protect him. But she might still be afraid of him, and she might still want Darkness to stay the kind of place people can come to without worrying that the hot bartender is going to tell everything to the cops. Or worse, the prosecutor.

  Time to explore those options, with a single statement. Not even a question.

  “He’s in jail and he can’t bail out.”

  The barmaid didn’t say anything at first. She pursed her lips and stared down her small nose at Brunelle.

  “You gonna get him?” she asked finally.

  Brunelle shrugged. “Depends. He lawyered up, so I have to prove it through other witnesses. That’s why I’m here.”

  One of her eyebrows rose. “You want me to be a witness against a murderer you’re not sure you can convict?”

  Brunelle smiled. Actually, he wanted her to direct him to other witnesses. But she’d just given away that she had information. Why else would she think she might be a witness?

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he joked.

  “Sounds pretty bad to me. I’m not a snitch.”

  “Bad for business, huh?”

  “Bad for my fucking health,” she shot back. “Fuck business. I don’t want to get killed.”

  And Brunelle had his answer.

  Now he could give the appropriate assurances. No use insisting the business would be okay if what she was really worried about was a bullet in her skull.

  “He’s charged with aggravated murder in the first degree.” Brunelle knew it sounded impressive, but it was the translation into normal-speak that mattered. “It’s a death penalty case. The only way he gets out again is on a bodyboard.”

  “Unless he gets acquitted,” Bartender countered.

  Brunelle grimaced. That was the rub. “Exactly. So I need to make sure that doesn’t happen. That’s why I’m here.”

  The brunette looked down at him, her eyes narrowed, but the indecision was still discernible in them.

  “Help me make sure he doesn’t get out again,” Brunelle implored. “Help me hold him accountable.”

  The bartender stared at Brunelle for what seemed the longest time. Then she smiled and leaned down on the bar opposite him. Brunelle managed not to look directly at her breasts hanging above the bar top, but only because he was so completely distracted by her running her fingers through the hair above his ear.

  “Sorry, Mr. Prosecutor,” she breathed. Sweet beer breath, so close he could practically taste her tongue. “I’m no snitch. And I’m not stupid either.”

  Brunelle’s heart dropped as she pulled away, and not just because she had rebuffed his best attempt. “Oh well,” he managed to shrug. “I expected as much.”

  He pulled his wallet from his pocket and extracted some bills. “Thanks anyway.” He set the money under the beer. “And for the record, I never thought you were stupid.”

  He stood up and turned toward the door.

  “Hey, Mr. Prosecutor?”

  Brunelle turned around.

  “Faust,” she said.

  Brunelle cocked his head. “Pardon?”

  “Faust,” she repeated. “My name is Faust.”

  Brunelle smiled. “Of course it is.”

  Chapter 16

  “You smell like beer.” Kat wrinkled her nose at Brunelle as he stepped into the high school lobby. “You need a drink to sit through Swan Lake?”

  “Probably,” laughed Brunelle. “But no, I just had to stop by a bar to talk to a woman about a case.”

  Kat raised an eyebrow. “A bar? A woman? I don’t need to hear about that,” she laughed. “But don’t try to tell me it was about a case.”

  Brunelle shook his head. “No, really. The Montgomery murder. Our murderer hung out at the bar. Just seeing if he said anything to anybody.”

  “Ahh,” Kat replied. “And you had to drink a beer to ask that question?”

  “I bought a beer,” Brunelle defended, “because I wanted to talk to the bartender.”

  “The cute woman?”

  “Right,” Brunelle answered. Then he realized, “I never said she was cute.”


  Kat smiled. “You just did.”

  She looped her arm through his. “Come on, lover boy, the overture is about to start.”

  Glad for the change in subject, Brunelle accepted her arm. “Well, let’s go then. I don’t want to miss any dancing.”

  Kat stopped short, pulling Brunelle to a stop as well. “You don’t know anything about ballet, do you?”

  Brunelle grinned. “Nope. But I’m here anyway.”

  Kat smiled. “Oh, good answer, Mr. Brunelle.”

  She kissed him on the cheek, then handed their tickets to the usher and they went inside to find their seats.

  ***

  “Four acts?” Brunelle ran his hands through his hair three hours later as they waited for Kat’s daughter to come out from backstage. “I thought you were only allowed to have two acts.”

  Kat laughed. “Allowed? Oh, Mr. Brunelle, you are a prosecutor.”

  Brunelle grinned. “It might not have been so bad if I’d had any idea what was going on. Aren’t there supposed to be supertitles or something?”

  “That’s opera, culture boy,” Kat shook her head. “In ballet, the dancing tells the story.”

  “Well, I think I need a translator,” Brunelle joked.

  “Allow me!” It was Lizzy, running up on tip toe, stage make-up still on and hair still pulled back into a lacquered bun. “I totally know the whole story.”

  Brunelle looked to Kat.

  “Whatta ya say, David?” she asked. “Want to hear the story of Swan Lake?”

  Brunelle hesitated. He actually was curious after watching the entire story, like a television show in another language. Kat and her daughter sensed the hesitation.

  “Over ice cream, of course,” Lizzy added. “We always go out for ice cream after a show.”

  Brunelle smiled. “Well, I can hardly say no to ice cream, can I?”

  They walked out to the parking lot and as they all settled into Kat’s car, Lizzy tapped Brunelle’s shoulder from the back passenger seat.

  “So, are you mom’s new boyfriend?”

  Before Brunelle could overcome his shock, Kat started laughing. “We’ll see how this ice cream and ballet thing goes, first.”