Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

Between phone calls, he reviewed his financial situation. The data were neatly organized on his computer.

He had ten thousand dollars in his law firm bank account and another seventy-five thousand in accounts receivable. With luck, he'd collect most of that over the next sixty days. He tallied up his unbilled time on the cases he was referring out, deducting those amounts from the retainers he'd been paid. The net was another twenty-seven thousand dollars. If everyone who owed him money paid up, he'd have enough to pay Claire back plus enough left over for lunch money.

He'd managed to save a few dollars since he'd opened his own practice though he'd taken a beating in the stock market. His portfolio was so thin it was invisible when he turned it sideways.

The house was his only other asset. He'd borrowed against it to even out the irregular cash flow of a one-man law practice, eating into the equity. He wasn't certain what the house would appraise at now but had the gnawing certainty that any remaining equity would be sucked out as soon as Dixon Smith ran through his initial hundred thousand dollar retainer. Without an income to repay the loan, he'd likely have to sell. His neighbors would probably help him pack.

He'd had this conversation with many clients, the financial impact of being charged with a crime often as devastating as the charge itself. At least a convicted spouse didn't have to worry about where his next meal was coming from even if it was only served with a spoon. The family that lost their breadwinner often paid a debt to society they didn't owe.

Telling himself the new financial facts of his life was another out-of-body experience for him. Each day another piece of his life broke off and washed away. He couldn't stop the erosion, knowing that he could bottom out on death row praying for a phone call from the governor. Patrick Ortiz and Dixon Smith would fight over his legal carcass, leaving him picked clean when it was time for the next case. It was nothing personal, they would say. It was just business.

"But I'm innocent," Mason muttered, turning off his computer, wishing it mattered.

He called Dixon Smith, getting his voice mail, leaving a message asking for an update on his case. Hanging up, he cringed with the recognition that he was quickly becoming the worst kind of client-the pain in the ass that calls every day expecting a miracle.

His practice shut down, Mason resorted to throwing darts at the board hanging on the wall across the room. He tried different techniques-the high lob, the underhand, the side arm toss. After five minutes and no hits close to the inner ring, he gave up, leaving the darts scattered across the wall.

He opened the cabinet covering his dry erase board and wiped it clean, needing to take a fresh look at his case. Dixon Smith didn't want his help. Good for Smith. Mason wouldn't help Smith. He'd help himself. Start at the beginning, build the case, find the thread that would tie it together. Put it in a nice package and deliver it to Smith. If Smith didn't like it, Mason could find another lawyer. Although by that time, he'd probably qualify as one of Nancy Troy's public defender clients.

He listed the key players on the board-Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes, their son Nick; Ryan Kowalczyk and his mother, Mary. Whitney King and his mother, Victoria. And Father Steve. He added the names of the jurors from the King and Kowalczyk trial, drawing circles around the names of Janet Hook and Andrea Bracco, the two still unaccounted for.

With a red marker, he added Sandra Connelly's name to the board, feeling again the jolt from the stun gun, recoiling from the gunshots that struck Sandra, sensing the killer's hand on his, squeezing the trigger. His memory let loose the scrap of the killer's familiarity that had eluded him that night, teasing him ever since. The killer smelled but not like someone who'd missed a bath. Like someone who'd smoked enough to be stained with tobacco. It was the same smell that permeated Father Steve, as if his confessional was in the church's smoking section.

Mason stepped back from the board. The priest had been with King when King shot Nick. The priest was the last person to have seen Mary, giving Mason a line that Mary had gone to see her estranged husband. Father Steve had told Mason that his job included soliciting contributions to the church from King. Maybe, Mason thought, he was more bag man than fund-raiser, hiding behind his clerical collar. Still, Mason couldn't imagine a reason for Father Steve to kill Sandra. Then again, he couldn't shake the memory of that moment and his certainty that the killer was dipped in smoke. The priest was still the center of the wheel, everyone else a spoke.

The phone rang, Mason answering it, half-listening as he stared at the board.

"Lou, it's Dixon," his lawyer said.

"Yeah," Mason answered. "What's up?"

"You called me, man," Smith answered.

"Right. I did. I just wanted to know if you had anything new. I'm sorry. I'm not going to be one of those clients that make you wish you'd doubled the retainer. I know you'll call me when you have something to tell me."

"Hey, don't apologize," Smith said. "If it was my life, I'd be calling you every fifteen minutes. I was going to call you anyway. It's been a busy day."

Mason sat at his desk, turning his back to the board. "I'm listening."

"Ortiz has subpoenaed Blues, Whitney King, and Father Steve to testify before the grand jury. And you. I told him I'd accept service of your subpoena. He wants you Friday afternoon at three o'clock."

"Who else is going to testify?"

"The cops and the coroner," Smith answered.

"When do you want to get together to talk about my testimony?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Lou. You say anything in there except your name and the Fifth Amendment, you might as well check in to the penitentiary now and save the taxpayers their money. I'll meet you there."

"You're right. I've been practicing my lines. Is that it?"

"No. I talked to Whitney King. He said he didn't know anything about a meeting with you and Sandra."

"That's no surprise. What about the phone records?"

"If the phone companies didn't have lawyers, I'd have gotten the records today. Should still have them by Friday."

"It is what it is," Mason said.

"There's something else," Smith said. "It's the kind of thing Ortiz will leak to the press so get ready."

Mason's gut chilled. "What?"

"The coroner says the first bullet didn't kill Sandra. When she put her hands up, it deflected the bullet. The first shot did a lot of facial damage but exited through her cheek."

"The second shot?" Mason asked.

Smith said, "Fatal. Blew a hole in her heart." He paused, letting the news sink in. "Don't worry, Lou. It's all expert witness jive. There's a pathologist in New York who testifies in all the high-profile cases on the East Coast. I'll call him tomorrow. He requires twenty-five grand up front before he'll even look at a case, but I think we're going to need him."

"Sure. Whatever you say," Mason said, dropping the receiver in his lap, not hearing Smith say good-bye. He swiveled his chair back toward the board. All he could see was Sandra's name written in red.

The minimum qualifications for the grand jurors who would decide whether to charge Mason with murder were that they had either registered to vote or had licensed a car. Those were the lists from which the grand jury was chosen to serve for a six-month term.

Mason knew that selecting a jury was one of the most critical parts of a trial. It was his chance to question potential jurors about anything that could reveal their bias against his client. Billed as a way to select a fair jury, it was, in reality, a way to de-select jurors who were likely to favor the other side.