Richard Montanari - The Devil_s Garden

“I don’t know. She’s scared maybe. Those boys – the ones responsible for killing her father – maybe she’s scared of them.”

Michael was incredulous. “Nothing is going to happen to her, Mrs Trent. I could have the police there in two minutes. You have to tell me where she went. She’ll be safe.”

“I don’t think you heard me. I don’t know where she went.”

“What about her friends? Can you call one of her friends?”

Deena Trent laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Her friends? You’ve met her. You think she has any friends? This is the fourth time she’s up and gone, you know.”

“Mrs Trent I’m sure she’s -”

“And to tell you the truth, this is a lot more than I bargained for when I signed on for this. I thought I was just taking in a teenage girl who needed a home. I don’t need this. She’s not my kin. And, between you and me, the money isn’t all that good.”

What a delightful woman, Michael thought. He made a mental note to look into her qualifications as a state-subsidized foster home. “Look,” he began, his head spinning with the afternoon’s ramifications from this, “if you hear from her -”

But the line was already dead. Michael stared at the phone for a long time. He tried to remember what his life was like just a few hours earlier, just that morning before the phone rang and it was Max Priest on the other end, Max Priest calling to tell him that Viktor Harkov had been murdered.

Now his one and only witness was missing.

Do you promise? Falynn had asked.

Yes, he had replied.

He had to plow ahead. He would find her, change her mind. He could not let the court know the state no longer had a witness. He was afraid that without Falynn, there was too much of a chance that Ghegan would walk. No one on the jury had to know.

Not yet.

As Michael walked to the prosecutor’s table, he tried to keep the news off his face.

“Mr Roman,” Judge Gregg said. “Nice to see you. Problems?”

Michael walked around the table. He set down his briefcase. “No your honor. I’m sorry I’m late.”

Michael had never been late to Judge Gregg’s courtroom. He had never been late to any courtroom.

“Is the state ready to begin, Mr Roman?”

The state is not ready, Michael wanted to say. The state is worried. Not about the case, your honor, but about the fact that Michael Roman, Esquire, defender of the rights of the citizens of this fair state, champion of the downtrodden, speaker for the voiceless victim, has broken the law. Now a man is dead and the proverbial chickens are coming home to roost. What’s worse is that the state itself may soon be coming after the upstanding Mr Roman, pillar of the aforementioned community. Add to that the fact that the lead witness in the current matter before the court has just taken a powder. Oh, yeah. We’re in fighting shape. Never better.

“We are, your honor.”

Judge Gregg nodded to his bailiff, who opened the door leading to the jury room. One by one, the twelve jurors filed through the door, followed by the four alternates.

Michael glanced first at John Feretti, who was resplendent in a bespoke navy-blue three-piece suit. The two men nodded at each other. Michael then glanced at Patrick Ghegan, the defendant. Ghegan wore a long-sleeve white shirt. Michael noticed that the creases from where the shirt had been folded were still in the arms. Ghegan was cleanshaven, combed, angelic, with his hands folded on the table. He did not look at Michael.

Once the jury was seated, Judge Gregg began to speak.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”

Gregg then proceeded to give the jury their instructions, reminding them of their basic function, duties and expected conduct, and about how they were not permitted to read or view any accounts or discussions of the case reported by the newspapers or other media, including radio and television. When Gregg was satisfied he had communicated the instructions, he turned to Michael.

“Okay,” Gregg said. “Mr Roman, on behalf of the people.”

“Thank you, your honor.” Michael rose from his table, crossed the courtroom, stood in front of the jury. “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen.”

All twelve jurors and four alternates mumbled some version of an answer.

“Welcome back,” Michael added. He took a moment, running his gaze across the men and women before him. This was one of the most important moments in a trial, especially a homicide trial. Michael often viewed it as the first image in a film. It set the tone and tenor for everything that followed. A weak opening could usually not be overcome. “This trial is about two men. Patrick Sean Ghegan, and Colin Francis Harris. More specifically, about what Patrick Ghegan did to Colin Harris on April 24, 2007.”

Michael continued, walking the jury through the events of the crime, slowly building to the moment when Patrick Ghegan pointed his handgun – a large-caliber Colt – at Colin Harris’s head, and pulled the trigger.

As he began his summation, he walked over to the easel sitting to the left of the witness stand. On the easel was a large blow-up of a photograph of Colin and Falynn Harris, a picture taken just a few months before the murder.

As Michael turned the large photograph on the easel, he felt a slight shift in the atmosphere in the room behind him. It wasn’t anything specific, not at that moment, just a transfer of energy.

“Fuck you!” a voice yelled.

Michael spun around. The entire courtroom was looking at the back of the room. There, a red-faced young man – a man Michael knew to be Patrick Ghegan’s younger brother Liam – was being restrained by a court officer.

“Rot in hell you fucking cocksuckers!” Liam screamed. “All of you!”

As jurors and gallery members scattered, two more officers rushed forward and took Liam Ghegan to the floor. In seconds they had him cuffed. At the door he turned and yelled. “And that bitch? That little bitch? She’s fucking dead.”

That little bitch, Michael thought. He was talking about Falynn Harris. He looked around the courtroom, especially at the jury. They were, to a last person, shaken. Granted, they were all New Yorkers, and used to incidents of all kinds. But in this post-9/11 world, especially in a municipal building, nerves were constantly on edge. Michael wondered if he could get them back.

In the movies, this would be where the judge pounded his gavel, calling for order in the court. This was not the movies, and Martin Gregg was not a cinematic judge.

“Is everyone all right?” Gregg asked.

Slowly, everyone in the courtroom shook it out, returned to their seats, offered nervous conversation with their neighbors. A minute or two later, it was as if nothing had happened. But it had.

“In light of this little unscheduled Broadway matinee performance,” Judge Gregg continued. “We will recess for one hour to consider our reviews.”

Good, Michael thought. A break was what he needed. Maybe he could get them back after all. Maybe he could find Falynn.

Michael got back into his office just before three o’clock. The court usually recessed for the day at around 4:30, and Michael still had hopes of completing his opening statement. Still, if Liam Ghegan had wanted to disrupt the trial, and especially the jury’s train of thought, he had certainly accomplished that mission. Bringing the jury back into the rhythm of the state’s case was not going to be easy.

Michael began to make new notes on his statement when a shadow crossed his doorway. It was Tommy.

“You hear what happened?” Michael asked.

“I heard,” Tommy said. “Maybe in two or three more generations the Ghegans will finally be able to walk on their hind legs.”