Steve Martini - The Arraignment

The rest of that day and the day after seem largely a haze of nightmarish images, of dark dreams that I can escape by awakening only to discover that I am not dreaming.

Fortunately, the cops do not get around to me until three days after the fact. At first, I thought maybe my name might have been on Nick’s calendar. When they didn’t show up that first day, I knew it wasn’t.

A double murder involving a prominent lawyer in front of a federal courthouse is front-page news. The local channels and the papers are hitting it hard, the cops fanning the flames, feeding them information, none of it favorable to Nick. As a criminal defense lawyer, Nick was infamous, the kind of advocate who took no prisoners in a courtroom. It has already been leaked that there was an envelope with four thousand dollars in cash in Nick’s coat pocket when they undressed the body at the morgue. That there was a name scrawled on the envelope is all that authorities are saying. It is enough for readers to draw unsavory conclusions.

The police are saying nothing about motive, though reporters have ferreted out that Metz was under indictment. They have referred to Metz only as a prominent businessman. The key clue for the press is Nick. They have dwelled on the fact that he specialized in major narcotic cases both in the U.S. Attorney’s Office and in private practice, and from this they have pieced sketchy conclusions, offering just enough for readers to speculate.

As for the authorities, they are saying nothing. Under the circumstances, Nick’s passing is not likely to result in the dedication of any lofty limestone memorials by civic groups.

Cameras and a steady gaggle of reporters have been staked out in front of the security gates leading to Dana’s house down in the Cays. I have seen the images on the nightly news-the widow in dark glasses being chauffeured through the phalanx by friends, one in particular, a tall gentleman, slicked-down dark hair with a little gray at the temples, and wearing a sport coat and slacks that look as if they were flown in for the occasion from Saville Row.

Dana is fortunate to live in a gated community where they are not trampling her front lawn and poking through her windows on ladders with their cameras. Security has kept the media herd huddled out near the Silver Strand and away from her house.

This morning Harry is in the office early, ready to run interference when the cops finally show up. We have been expecting them. I have told Harry about Nick’s electronic handheld device. As with most things electronic it is a mystery to Harry, though he thinks I should turn it over to the cops and let them figure it out. I want to know more about it, and whatever information is inside, before I do that.

I hear the voices in the outer office-some lieutenant of detectives and his partner. I miss their names. They want to see Mr. Madriani.

Harry stalls to give me time to prepare myself. In a voice loud enough to raise Nick, he asks what it’s about. The police are no doubt tracking backward over the hours before Nick’s death, piecing together the people he met, whom he talked to. They have either caught up with Marge, the waitress at the grease spot under the Capri Hotel, who gave them my description, or Dana. She would have known that Nick and I had a meeting that morning. If my guess is correct, and Nick was doing a head job on his wife with Metz, she would have given the cops my name. Nick would have laid it on thick, telling her how he tried to get me to take the case and how I refused.

No doubt it has occurred to her that had I taken Metz on, it might be me who was lying on the slab at the morgue instead of her husband. There has been little else in my own thoughts since the event. Guilt, alleviated by the thought of my daughter Sarah as an orphan.

Seconds later there is a knock on my door. Harry’s head pops through, followed by his body, as he slides through the crack and closes it behind him.

“Two of them,” he says and hands me a business card, official police stationery with the city’s seal and the name Lt. Richard Ortiz, Homicide Division.

“May as well show them in.”

“You don’t have to talk to them,” he says.

“It’s either now or later. Besides, what’s to hide? They probably know more than I do, at least let’s hope so.”

Harry gives me the look of a lawyer whose client has just refused to take good advice. Sullenly, he opens the door wide. “You can come in,” he says.

A moment later, two men step into my office. One of them is tall, slender, dark hair cropped close, a face with a lot of crags and eyes set so deep that I would need a diving bell with lights to tell their color. There is a certain hungry look about him, human descendent of the vulture family. I would guess he is in his mid-thirties. From his looks, any mirth has been long since squeezed from him by his occupation.

The other guy is built like an Ohio State linebacker-short blond hair, neck like a bull, and biceps that are stretching the arms on his sport coat. He is younger.

“Mr. Madriani, I’m Lieutenant Ortiz.” The tall vulture is in charge. “My partner, Sergeant Norm Padgett.”

Before I can say a word, a rush of panic sets in, adrenaline high. My eyes pass over Nick’s Palm device on the far corner of my desk where I’d dropped it this morning after finding it in my coat pocket. It’s too late now.

“Have a seat,” I say. If I reach over and grab it, they may wonder why. If Dana told them Nick had one and they didn’t find it in a search of his office, they would be looking for it.

“Would you guys like coffee?” I ask.

They both decline.

“What can I do for you?”

Harry rests part of his weight on the credenza against the far wall of my office and settles in. The sergeant turns to look at him.

“I’m sorry. You’ve met my partner, Harry Hinds.”

“We met,” says Ortiz. “This is a confidential investigation,” he says.

“I understand,” says Harry. “We’ll keep it between the four of us.”

“I think my partner would prefer to stay,” I tell him.

“We could do this downtown,” says Ortiz.

“In which case I’ll get my coat,” says Harry.

Ortiz looks at him from the two dark sunken holes in his skull.

“Last time I looked, my state bar card was still good,” says Harry.

“Is there a reason you would need a lawyer?” Ortiz asks me.

“You tell me.”

“You’re not under any suspicion, as far as we know,” he says.

“That’s good to hear. I’ll make a note,” says Harry.

The cop doesn’t smile, but he says, “Fine.” First skirmish to our side.

“We just have a few questions,” he says. “I suspect you know why we’re here?”

“Why don’t you tell us?”

Every once in a while my eyes drift toward the handheld device on the desk. I’d like to reach for it casually and just sweep it into one of the drawers of my desk. But I don’t dare.

“I’m sure you’re aware of the shooting outside the federal courthouse earlier this week. A double homicide.”

He waits to see what I will say. Maybe some lame thing like I’ve read about it in the paper. I don’t say anything.

“From what we understand you knew both of the victims, a Mr. Nicholas Rush and a Mr. Gerald Metz.”

“Is that a question?”

“Sure.”

“I knew Mr. Rush. I was acquainted with Mr. Metz, having met him once.”

“Good. Thank you.” A pat on the head from Ortiz. “And I take it you were aware of the shooting?”

“I am.”

“How did you find out about it?”

I look at him. We duel with eyes.

“I’d like an answer.”

“I heard the shots.”

“You were there?” he says.

“I was across the street, about a half a block away walking the other direction when it happened. By the time I turned to look, it was over.”