David Ellis - The Hidden Man

“And you knew, when you listed that subcontractor on your bid application-you knew that the sub was not a minority-owned company.”

“Yeah, I did. It was wrong.”

“And you signed an affidavit swearing to the truth of that statement.”

“Right.”

“So you lied under oath.”

“I admitted to that. I was young and stupid.”

“Were you young and stupid in 1990, too? Isn’t that when you were convicted of obstruction of justice when you lied to an IRS inspector about payroll taxes?”

“Well, I don’t know about young-but I was stupid.”

“You knew that it was a crime to lie to a federal agent, didn’t you?”

“I s’pose I did.”

Mapp nodded. I was getting uneasy. He had something up his sleeve here.

“Before you were to find yourself in another legal-predicament, let’s say-I’d just want to make sure you were clearly testifying to the truth here today.”

“Objection,” I said. “Argumentative.”

“Let’s move on,” the judge said.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Mapp did a slight bow. “Mr. Butcher, you’re sure it was Downey’s Pub you were at that night?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure you were drinking alcohol?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re sure it was September 21, 2006?”

“Yeah. Why?” Butcher asked, a bit meekly. Suddenly, his brown tweed sport coat and buttoned collar seemed a little warm, a little uncomfortable, as Butcher rolled his neck and kept his eyes on the prosecutor.

“Why?” Mapp paused. “Because, Mr. Butcher, I’m just trying to figure out how Downey’s Pub could have served alcohol on September 21, 2006, when Downey’s Pub didn’t have a liquor license on that date. When it wasn’t even open on that date.”

OBJECTION.”I got to my feet on shaky legs. Lester Mapp handed me a certified copy of an order handed down by the state’s liquor control commission, which suspended the liquor license of Downey’s Pub effective September 1, 2006, for the period of thirty days.

“Selling alcohol to a minor was the offense,” said Mapp. “A third violation, warranting a one-month suspension. A one-month suspension that ran through the first week of October.”

“Objection,” I repeated. “This wasn’t disclosed to the defense. This wasn’t provided to me and it wasn’t in the prosecution’s written motion.” What I was saying had merit, but it was like complaining that a life preserver hadn’t been properly inflated to federal regulations. I was right, but I was still going to drown.

“I just got it today,” said Mapp. “We’re two weeks out from trial. This is just a hearing.”

The judge shot the prosecutor a look. She didn’t appreciate the grand-standing. She read from the document that Mapp handed her.

Unfair surprise , I wanted to say, but there was no cure for my ill. Mapp was right. I had almost two weeks before trial. And the document said what it said. Tommy Butcher couldn’t have been at Downey’s Pub on the evening of September 21, 2006, the night Griffin Perlini was murdered.

“Counsel,” the judge said, waving the document at me. “I don’t know-you’re right, of course, that Mr. Mapp improperly sprang this on you. But that doesn’t change what I’m reading here. Mr. Butcher.” She turned to him. “Mr. Butcher, this is a serious development for you.”

Butcher had already figured that out. He was white as a sheet. “Your Honor, best of my memory-I mean, maybe he was open anyway?”

“The front door of the establishment was locked on order of the Liquor Control Commission,” Mapp said with confidence. He was clearly enjoying himself. “The state locks the front door with a padlock. They don’t leave a key for the owner. The owner can go in the back door, but he’s not allowed to open the place to the public-”

“I understand, Counsel. You’ve more than made your point.”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. One-half of my two-pronged attack was coming apart before my eyes.

“Mr. Butcher,” the judge said. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you have the right to have a lawyer present if you wish.”

Butcher didn’t answer. His mouth parted, like he was a curious child.

“Would you like to consult with an attorney, Mr. Butcher?”

“No-no, Judge.”

“All right, then. Do you have any personal stake in the outcome of this case?”

“Me? No.”

“Do you have any relationship with the defendant, Mr. Cutler?”

“No.”

“Or Mr. Kolarich, the attorney?”

“No, Judge.” Butcher still looked like the guy who hadn’t figured out the joke was on him. Maybe that’s because the joke was on me. And Sammy.

“Fuck,” Sammy mumbled.

“Judge, this can’t be right,” Butcher said. “Maybe-maybe-”

“All right, now.” The judge resumed her position, facing the entire courtroom. “The Court will state for the record that it is inclined to believe that Mr. Butcher has made an inadvertent mistake and not an intentional lie. It would not be my decision ultimately, but I think the record should reflect my viewpoint.” She looked at the prosecutor. “In light of Mr. Mapp’s surprise evidence here, I think it would be imprudent for me to bar Mr. Butcher’s testimony today. Maybe, Mr. Kolarich, you can find some way to resuscitate it. I will hear this motion to bar the testimony again, if necessary, the day of trial. But Mr. Kolarich, do not try my patience here. It seems abundantly clear to me that Mr. Butcher’s testimony is mistaken, at best, and I absolutely will not allow his testimony unless you can give me an extraordinarily satisfactory explanation for why I should. Am I making myself clear?”

I managed to say, “Yes, Your Honor.” In the space of five minutes, Tommy Butcher had been officially scratched off my witness list.

“And Mr. Mapp, this will not be the first time you spring evidence on the defense at a hearing before me. It will be the last time. Am I making that clear?”

“Of course, Your Honor.”

The judge rose and left the bunch. I looked at Tommy Butcher, who was mumbling to himself, his eyes frantically darting about.

The deputy came over to escort Sammy back to detention.

“We still have Archie Novotny,” I told him.

He looked at me with fear in his eyes. “I sure hope so, Koke,” he said.

The deputy took Sammy away. I looked back at Tommy Butcher, his face ashen, sitting motionless in the witness stand.

“Voluntary and twelve.” Lester Mapp, enjoying the upper hand, approached me. “And after today, you thank your lucky stars I haven’t pulled that offer.”

“You’d mentioned voluntary and ten.” I did my best to sound confident, after having my lunch handed to me in court.

“I said think about ten years, and you didn’t get back to me, and now you’ve lost the best thing you had going for you. You’re lucky twelve is still on the table.”

I found myself nodding as Lester Mapp left the courtroom. For the first time, I seriously considered a plea bargain. I was down to one witness, one alternative suspect-Archie Novotny, who would make for a decent suspect but who would deny any involvement. It was all I had.

Twelve years, out in six with good behavior. One year already served awaiting trial, leaving Sammy with five years more. Lester Mapp, albeit in his condescending way, had spoken the truth back in his office when we discussed a plea: This was a gift. Griffin Perlini had become a temporary media celebrity with the discovery of the dead girls, and the county attorney’s office wasn’t all that thrilled about prosecuting the man who avenged his sister’s murder.