Moment of Truth Page 11

  “Two minutes, Newlin!” the sheriff said.

  Jack stopped thinking about Mary. She was his lawyer and she’d better be a lousy one. Her questions threatened to expose Paige and jeopardize his plan. And what she’d learned about Trevor, if it was true, made him crazy, but he couldn’t turn back now. He had to stay the course; keep up the charade. He was good at it, from a lifetime of practice, he was coming to realize.

  “Okay, Newlin,” the sheriff called out. “You’re up.”

  The sharp crak of the TV gavel burst from the monitor, and Jack couldn’t deny the tension in his gut. He had to know the truth and he’d have to find it out from behind bars.

  But right now, it was time for the justice show.

  15

  Located in the basement of the Criminal Justice Center, the courtroom for arraignment hearings looked like the set of a television show for good reason. It was, essentially. The courtroom was the size and shape of a stage, half as large as a standard courtroom. It was arranged conventionally; from left to right sat a defense table, judge’s dais, and prosecutor’s table, but a large black camera affixed to the dais dominated the courtroom. Next to the camera sat a TV screen divided into four boxes: judge, courtroom scene, D.A., and P.D. A bulletproof divider protected those behind the bar of the court from the public, who sat in modern seats like a studio audience. The Newlin case was breaking news, packing the gallery with media and spectators wedged tight in their winter coats.

  Mary sat with Judy in the gallery, waiting for the Newlin case to be called, and she kept comparing the real courtroom to its TV version. The TV reduced the gleaming brass seal of the Commonwealth to a copper penny and shrank the judge to an ant with glasses. Jack wasn’t anywhere on the screen. “This is wrong,” she said. Blotches big as paintballs appeared on her neck. “Today a decision gets made about whether my client gets bail or not, and he’s in one place and I’m in another. How are we supposed to consult?”

  “Lots of states do arraignments by closed circuit now, because it saves money,” Judy said. “You can use the phone to talk to him, remember? If you press the red button, the gallery can’t hear you.”

  “But the sheriff guarding him can hear everything he says, and the courtroom and judge would hear everything I say. Wake me up when we get to the right-to-counsel part.”

  “You think it’s unconstitutional?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?” Mary checked the monitor as the boxes vanished and Jack’s face appeared, oddly larger than life above the logo PANASONIC. The close-up magnified the strain that dulled the blue of his eyes and tugged their corners down. She gathered she had him worrying with her suspicions about Paige, but that was as it should be. Maybe because he was on TV, or maybe because of the Kevin Costner thing, but she sensed that he was an actor playing a role and his story was more fiction than truth. In any event, her job now was to free him on bail, against the odds. She rose to go.

  “Good luck, girl,” Judy said.

  Mary mouthed her thanks, ignored the itching beginning at her neck, and walked to the door in the bulletproof divider, which a court officer unlocked. It was quiet on the other side, an expectant hush that intimidated her, but she nodded to the public defender, who stood to the side as she took his desk. Across the studio courtroom, Dwight Davis neatly took the D.A.’s desk. He looked more used to it than Mary, and she noticed the two sketch artists drawing him. She understood completely. He was a real lawyer and remarkably unspotted.

  At the dais, the bail commissioner pushed up his Atom Ant glasses and pulled his cardigan around him. Bail commissioners weren’t judges and some weren’t even lawyers, and they rarely saw a private attorney at an arraignment, much less a D.A. the caliber of Davis. Mary had the impression that the bail commissioner was enjoying every ray of the unaccustomed limelight. “Mr. Davis, will you be handling this matter for the Commonwealth?” the commissioner asked, his tone positively momentous.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Davis said deferentially. Even Mary knew that most lawyers called him commissioner.

  “Good morning, Your Honor.” Mary introduced herself, following suit, and the commissioner nodded.

  “Excellent. Mr. Newlin, can you hear us?” The commissioner addressed a camera mounted at the back of the courtroom, above a monitor that showed another image of Jack.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Jack answered, his voice mechanical through the microphones.

  “Mr. Newlin, this is your arraignment,” the commissioner said needlessly. “You are arraigned on a general charge of murder in the death of Honor Newlin.”

  Mary saw Jack wince, the tiny gesture plain on the large TV screen.

  “Murder, that is, homicide, is the most serious crime one human being can commit against another. Your preliminary hearing is scheduled for January thirteenth in the Criminal Justice Center. You will be brought down at nine o’clock and taken in turn. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. I see you have a private attorney present, so I will not appoint a public defender. Now we come to the question of bail in this matter.” The commissioner turned to the D.A. On the screen his miniature face turned, too. “Mr. Davis, I expect you have something to say on the bail issue.”

  “We do, Your Honor.” Davis stood straight as a pencil. “As you know, murder is, as a general rule, not a bailable offense in Philadelphia County. The Commonwealth feels very strongly that the commissioner should follow custom and practice in this matter, for in this case, bail is not in order.”

  Mary bristled. “Your Honor, bail should be granted. There is precedent for bail in murder cases, as you know. The law is simply that bail isn’t automatic, as it is for other offenses. Bail is routinely granted where the defendant is an upstanding member of the community.” She had been up all night studying the law. “That is the case with Mr. Newlin. He is a partner at the Tribe firm, a member of the Red Cross Board, and of several charitable trusts. It goes without saying he has no criminal convictions. He is a superb candidate for bail.”

  “You make a nice point, Ms. DiNunzio.” The commissioner mulled it over, rubbing his chin like a mini-series jurist. “It is true, the defendant is well known in the community. Mr. Davis, what say you?”

  “Your Honor, in my view, the defendant’s prominence cuts both ways. First, he should not be treated better than other defendants merely because of his social status. Secondly, as a wealthy partner in a major law firm, the defendant possesses financial resources far beyond the average person and has a substantial family fortune. All of this argues that he poses a significant risk of flight. This individual can use his resources to flee not only the jurisdiction, but the country.”

  Mary shook her head. “Your Honor, Mr. Newlin poses no flight risk. He has a number of ties to the community and in fact has immediate family here. His daughter, Paige, lives and works in Philadelphia.”

  Jack flinched at the sound of her name, Mary saw it; his forehead creased in a frisson of fear. He didn’t want Paige brought into it, and it conflicted Mary. She had to make the right argument, whether he wanted it or not. She caught the ghost of her own reflection in the glass of the TV, and she looked almost as stressed as Jack.

  Davis stifled a laugh. “Your Honor, I find it difficult to understand how defense counsel can argue Mr. Newlin’s devotion to his daughter. He is, after all, charged with the murder of her mother.”

  The bail commissioner looked into the camera lens, as if for a close-up. “Mr. Newlin, I’ve heard your attorney’s arguments, but I must rule against you. There will be no bail in this matter and you are remanded to county jail until your next court date.” The bail commissioner closed one pleadings folder and opened another. “That concludes your arraignment, Mr. Newlin. Please sign the subpoena in front of you and the sheriff will escort you back to your cell.”

  Jack vanished as abruptly as if someone had grabbed the remote and changed the channel, and Mary watched with dismay as the screen returned to its four boxes. Sh
e knew, more than she could rightly justify, that he was innocent. All she had to do was prove it.

  But her client was her worst enemy, and the first round had gone to him.

  16

  On the way back to the office, Mary took a detour through the young and hip floor at Bonner’s Department Store, which was downtown near the Criminal Justice Center. The floor was actually named Young & Hip, which told Mary instantly that she wasn’t allowed to be there. Growing up, she had only been Guilty & Sinful, and as a lawyer had segued right into Guilty & Billable.

  She wandered through racks of shirts that looked too small to cover even a single breast and skirts you wouldn’t have to roll to shorten. Now what fun was that? And how would you achieve that bumpy effect at the hem? She considered asking where the real clothes were, as opposed to the joke clothes, but she was on a mission. She searched for a salesperson.

  “Can you help me?” Mary asked, locating a skinny young woman with about three hundred plastic clips in her hair. Each clip was shaped like a baby butterfly that had landed, quite by magic, on its own clump of hair. Mary addressed the woman without reference to her hair, pretending that a headful of insects was not only normal, but desirable. “I need some information about a photo shoot that took place here Sunday. It was for the store. For a newspaper layout, I think.”

  “Wait.” The saleswoman put a green fingernail to her cheek, and, again, Mary acted as if emerald were a naturally occurring shade in nongangrenous tissue. One couldn’t question the Young & Hip. “You have to ask the manager. She’s over there.” She pointed, and Mary followed her green fingernail like a traffic light that said Go!

  The manager turned out to be the youngest and hippest of all, which Mary should have anticipated; short, canary-colored hair that looked greasy on purpose, no discernible shame about her black roots, and a tongue pierce that created a speech impediment. The manager was otherwise tall and slender, with contacts-blue eyes and a name tag that read TORI!

  “Excuse me, were you at the photo shoot at the store this weekend?” Mary asked.

  “Sure.” Tori! leaned on a chrome rack of Capri pants, NEW FOR SPRING despite the fact it was midwinter. “I’m at all the shoots. They have ’em at the store ’cause it’s cheap. Swingin’ in the racks, you know.”

  Mary nodded. “There was a model at the shoot named Paige Newlin. A redhead. Do you remember her?”

  “Oh-my-God, her mom was just murdered, right?” Tori! squealed like they used to for Elvis, and Mary looked nervously around. The department was mercifully empty, Philly evidently not being Young & Hip enough. You had to go to New York for that. Mary leaned closer to Tori!

  “I’d prefer you keep this confidential. I’m a lawyer working on the case, and I need to know if you saw Paige Newlin at the shoot.”

  “But that is so weird, that her mom got killed and all. I saw her name in the paper. Newlin. That is sooo random.”

  “Yes. Now, did you see a redhead? Long ponytail?”

  “A redhead?” Tori! swirled her tongue around her barbell, which Mary gathered was helping her think. “Uh, no. There were a lot of girls. I didn’t think they were so hot.”

  “Did you happen to meet any of their managers?”

  “No, none of the managers come to the shoots.”

  Mary considered it. Paige had said her mother was there. “What about mothers who are managers? Like Paige’s mother, Mrs. Newlin.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I was kinda busy, you know, getting the stock we needed.”

  Mary sighed. “So you didn’t see Paige and her mother?”

  “Nope. Can’t help you out there.” Tori! clicked again, then started waving. “Maybe Fontana can, though. She’s our tailor. Fontana!” she called out, and Mary turned to see whom the manager was hailing. Coming at them with ladylike steps was a very short woman, Mary’s mother’s height. She wore a navy blue suit, a white shirt with a floppy bow tie, and brown shoes with sensible heels. Her glasses looked old and her smile sweet, and Mary knew instantly that they were both Little & Italian.

  She fought the impulse to run into her arms.

  “I no like to tell bad things,” Fontana said, hurrying along on her little legs. The “things” came out like “dings,” but Mary could translate easily. If you grew up in South Philly, you could communicate instantly with any tailor, barber, or mobster.

  “I don’t want you to tell bad things,” Mary said, hurrying beside her, matching stride for stride. Fontana Giangiulio had to be pushing seventy but Mary could barely keep up. “I just want you to tell me what you saw.”

  “I have to do de weddin’ dress now. Dey need me dere.”

  “I’ll walk you. I don’t want to interrupt your job. Just tell me, please, what you heard. It’s very, very important.”

  “I no like to say.” Fontana shook her head in a jittery way as she chugged forward. “Ees no nice. Ees, what dey say, tales outta school.”

  “No, it’s not. If it’s the truth, it’s not a tale, and you can save someone’s life.”

  “Oh, Deo,” Fontana said, scurrying along. “I no say.”

  “You saw the Newlins on Sunday, the mother and the daughter, Paige. You fixed Paige’s dress.”

  “De seam, I said. No de dress. De dress, she was fine. De seam was no right.” Fontana didn’t stop to frown. “I put de clip in de back seam, to hold for de picture. Not for permanent, you know, for … come se dice, Maria?” She waved a tiny hand.

  “For temporary,” Mary supplied. “For the picture, got it. So you worked with Paige.”

  “I feex her seam. De customers, dey think we no hear, we no see. But we hear. We see.”

  “I know, that’s true.” Mary could imagine little Fontana buzzing around the models, kneeling as she chalked the hem at their feet. The tailors would be ignored because servants were invisible, especially to the likes of the Newlins. “What did you see?”

  “Oh, Madonna mia!” Fontana waved her hand again as they barreled to the escalator and climbed on. Mary took advantage of the chance to breathe, now that Fontana had to stand still for a minute. “Dey fight, dees two!”

  Mary tried to hide her excitement. “A big fight or a little fight?”

  “A beeg fight! Dey fight and dey fight! But only in de dressin’ room, you see. Not where nobody can see.”

  “What did they fight about?”

  “De mother, she call de daughter alla names. She call her a puttana!”

  “A puttana?” Mary was shocked. It meant a prostitute. A whore.

  “Sí! Sí! Fontana no can believe!” She shook her head for half a floor, gliding downward with her chin high, upset at the very thought. “Den de daughter, she start to cry, and de mother, she laugh.”

  “Laugh?”

  “Sí! Sí! She laugh and she walk allaway out!”

  “She left?”

  “Sí! Sí!” Fontana hopped off the escalator when it reached the second floor and took off past the makeup counter. The bright chrome of Clinique reflected on her glasses, but Mary could see her aged eyes go watery behind them. “But de girl, she start cryin’, so sad. De makeup, ees alla mess. De seam, Fontana do again, with de clip. De girl cryin’ on her knees, so Fontana help de girl up. She so pretty, like angel.” Fontana motored past black and glossy Chanel, but Mary saw it as a dark blur. “And Fontana, she hold de girl, hug de girl, until she no cry no more and she get up and she feex her makeup and Fontana feex de seam and she pretend like no ding happen.”

  Mary tried to visualize it. “Then what?”

  “An’ den she go out and dey taka her picture. Howa you like dat?”

  “That’s terrible,” Mary said, meaning it. She knew there had been something very wrong between mother and daughter. She wondered how long it had gone on, emotional abuse like that. A long time, for Paige’s powers of recovery to be so fast, her emotional scars hidden by makeup and a professional smile. Had Jack known about it? Had it been hidden in dressing rooms and behind closed doors, or
was Mary making excuses for him? What had her father said, that night over coffee? If your mother was doing bad things to you, it would be my fault. “Did anybody else see?”

  “Sí! Sí! One person know what I say ees true.” Fontana stopped in her tracks and held up a finger.

  “Who?” Mary asked, breathless.

  “Jesus Christ, he know,” she said, with a faith that Mary couldn’t begin to understand.

  For her part, she could never fathom where Jesus Christ was when a mother called her daughter a whore.

  17

  Jack paced in his holding cell, waiting to use the pay phone outside. The guard said he’d get to it before they left for county jail, but that was an hour ago. He’d made a stink, claiming he had to call his lawyer, but it was a lie. Mary was the last person he’d phone right now. He had to call Trevor and get him down to the prison. Find out where that kid was the night Honor was killed. He’d shake the truth out of him.

  “Guard! I need to make that call now!” Jack turned on his heel when he reached the bars of the cell, then turned back. The cells were a lineup of vertical cages, their white-painted bars chipped and peeling. Grime covered a concrete floor that sloped down to a small drain, and there was no toilet. They allegedly took the prisoners out for that, though the stench of urine filled the cell like a zoo.

  “Fire! There’s a fire!” Jack shouted, but even then there was no answer. An old man in the next cell laughed softly; he had been laughing to himself since they put him in there. Jack paced back and forth, driving himself crazy with what-ifs. What if Trevor had killed Honor? What if he and Paige had done it together? What if Paige had lied to him completely?