John Lescroart - Damage

The story of Ro Curtlee’s arrest had not just been front-page news in the Courier yesterday in the Sunday edition of the paper, but it had also made headlines in the Chronicle and been the lead feature on every television network news program throughout the day. One of these broadcasts had been the last thing Durbin had seen before going to bed last night, alone-Janice called out after they’d all gotten back from Sunday night dinner at the Novios to an emergency session with one of her patients. Durbin had a good guess which one it was, although not his exact identity.

So he’d watched the news and heard sound bites from the haggard, unkempt district attorney Wes Farrell, the outraged mayor Leland Crawford opining that perhaps it was time for a special commission to address the “culture of violence and disregard of due process” within the police department, and-of course-Cliff and Theresa Curtlee bemoaning the injustice of it all and calling for the arrest of Lieutenant Glitsky rather than of their poor boy.

Both Curtlee parents were in the front row in the courtroom, and seeing them so close, Durbin’s bile rose again. “Those smug fuckers,” he whispered to Novio. “I wonder if they actually believe Ro didn’t do any of this or if they just don’t care. I mean, how do you go on supporting your son if you know he’s a killer, a literal killer?”

Novio, enjoying the buzz in the room, straining for a glimpse of them, said, “Maybe the person he killed, she’s so far down the evolutionary or economic scale you don’t think she counts as a human being. Either that, or he had a good reason. Good enough, anyway.”

Durbin shook his head. “Good enough. Right.”

Now, several of the players had begun to appear in the courtroom through the back doorway that led to some holding cells and the judges’ chambers. Two bailiffs led the way, followed by an elderly woman who took the court reporter’s seat in front of the judge’s bench and another younger woman, the court clerk, who sat at a table next to the court reporter.

When he saw the next people come through the door-a man and a woman, both in full police uniform-Durbin leaned over to Novio. “That’s Glitsky, the guy with the hawk nose and the scar. And Vi Lapeer, the new police chief.”

Next came Farrell, his eyes still bloodshot but wearing a well-fitted and expensive-looking dark suit with a white shirt and red power tie.

Just behind him was another woman whom Durbin recognized. “What’s she doing here?” he asked Chuck.

“Who?”

“The one with the legs. Amanda Jenkins.”

“How do you know her?”

“She was the prosecutor in Ro’s trial. I didn’t know she was involved in this.”

“I’m starting to think everybody but the dogcatcher’s involved in this.”

By now, Glitsky and Lapeer had passed through the low railing that separated the gallery area from the courtroom’s bull pen. They took seats in the reserved section of the first row next to a pair of young uniformed police officers-one white and one black-while Farrell and Jenkins got themselves settled at the prosecutor’s table, just in front of them. Even from his relatively distant seat, Durbin fancied he could almost feel the chill between the two prosecutors.

At the defense table, a well-dressed, elderly white-maned man sat. At some perhaps prearranged signal from one of the bailiffs, the man got up and, turning, said something to the Curtlees where they sat in the front row. Finally, nodding, he walked through the courtroom to the back door by the judge’s podium, and on out.

“Showtime,” Novio said.

Durbin swallowed against a rising nervousness. “Getting close.”

Behind them, an energy shift rumbled through the gallery and Durbin turned in time to see the mayor himself, Leland Crawford, come through the back door chatting in a serious vein with Sheila Marrenas. He went up and, after getting the attention of everyone in the courtroom, sat in an empty, obviously previously reserved, seat next to Cliff Curtlee. At this move, Amanda Jenkins whispered something to Farrell and the district attorney, apparently startled, half turned in his chair to see for himself. The message couldn’t have been clearer.

With absolutely no fanfare, the Curtlees’ lawyer reentered through the back door with his client.

The last time Durbin had seen Ro Curtlee, on the day of the original verdict against him nearly ten years before, he’d been a clean-shaven, good-looking young man with short-cropped hair, wearing a three-piece business suit and tie. Now, shackled hand and foot in his orange prisoner’s jumpsuit, jail slippers, and with a large cast on his slinged left arm, Ro was the picture of middle-aged dejection and defeat. His uncombed over-the-ears hair and general unshaven, disheveled appearance added to the impression, as did a still-swollen mouth, a bandage over the bridge of his nose, and a black eye. As he shuffled through the courtroom with his lawyer on his way to the defense table, the gallery first and briefly went silent, and then broke into a low roar of indignant reaction.

Novio, smiling next to his brother-in-law, leaned over and, his hand covering his mouth, whispered, “Good move. Going for the sympathy vote.”

Durbin started to pick up some antipolice slurs-Nazis, thugs, bastards-from the other side of the gallery, but before they got out of hand, Ro got himself seated next to his lawyer at the defense table, and the bailiff came into the courtroom by the judge’s podium and bellowed, “All rise. Department Eleven of the Superior Court of the State of California is now in session, Judge Erin Donahoe presiding.”

At first glance, Donahoe’s diminutive size seemed of a piece with a low-key, even shy personality. When she was thoughtful or amused, her features were not unattractive-a bobbed little nose, light blue eyes, fashionable rimless eyeglasses, and shoulder-length light hair shining enough for a shampoo commercial. When challenged or confronted by turbulent forces, however, the look changed quickly and dramatically-the eyes squinted down, the laugh lines around them vanishing into exaggerated crow’s feet, the small mouth pursed into a disapproving button, a flush tending to rise into her cheeks. Now, as she ascended the podium, it was clear that something had already compromised her composure. She wore an air of defensiveness around her as obvious as her formless black robes.

As the gallery sat with her, she cast a dark eye on Ro Curtlee-Durbin couldn’t tell if it was in reaction to his injuries and general appearance or because she knew he was a rapist and killer. But the look didn’t soften as she brought her gaze to the prosecution table, and then up to the gallery, which hung quietly-now even more quietly-in anticipation.

“Let me state for the record,” she began in a low voice that barely carried to the bar rail, much less the back of the courtroom, “that I’ve got eighty-five lines and thirteen preliminary hearings to get through today, and I mean to get through them all.” Cases in superior court are called “lines”-each defendant taking up one line on the computer printout prepared for the calendar courtroom. “At the request of Mr. Farrell, I’m going to call Line Twelve first. I expect to get this circus out of my courtroom so I can get down to business. Would counsel announce their appearances, please?”

After they’d done so, Donahoe announced that she wanted to make it clear that this was an arraignment and bail hearing, not a preliminary hearing. “We’re not spending all morning on this. Mr. Farrell, understood?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Denardi?”

“Clear, Your Honor.”

“All right. Would the clerk call the line, please?”