Jonathon King - A Killing Night

Although they had endured the earlier exchanges without reaction, the rest of the arrested men all leaned forward or back to catch a look at Oglethorpe like rubberneckers at a car wreck along the road. O'Shea maintained his stoic composure, though I could see the muscle rippling in his jaw at the effort.

The judge had removed his reading glasses and looked out, no doubt, at the two men.

"Do you understand these charges against you, Mr. Oglethorpe?"

"Yes, sir," the big man said. "Public defender please, sir."

The judge looked over at the left table.

"Have at it, Mr. Marsh."

The lawyer spoke briefly with Oglethorpe while O'Shea stood alongside, looking back to me. He picked up on someone behind me and for the first time he let a look of hatred slip momentarily into his eyes. I did not turn. I knew the target of that look.

The public defender returned to his table and made a monotone and professionally required request of bail for Oglethorpe. The prosecutor stood, shrugged his shoulders and the judge ordered the suspect remanded to jail without bond until a future court date without discussion.

O'Shea and his cuffmate sat for sixty seconds until the clerk called: "O'Shea, Colin."

"The charge, Mr. O'Shea, is aggravated assault," the judge said, looking down at the paperwork.

I watched Billy as he stood and buttoned his suit coat. Professional. Back straight. Chin up. Only I would notice the twitch in his Adam's apple, the flaw that I knew he was fighting, the voice that both he and I knew would fail him.

"William Manchester r-representing M-Mr. O'Shea," Billy said.

The judge again looked up over his glasses at Billy, taking him in.

"Yes, well. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Manchester. Welcome to magistrate's court," the judge said. "No need to be nervous, son.

Billy did not move his eyes from the judge's face. The twitch in his neck went quiet.

"With all due r-respect, Your Honor," he said, "I am not nervous."

They both paused; something was being said between their eyes. Then Billy continued.

"Your Honor, we are requesting that M-Mr. O'Shea be released on his own recognizance at th-this time.

"Mr. O'Shea is employed, Your Honor, as a s-security officer for the Navarro Group, sir. A steady job he has held for nearly three years. He is n-not a flight risk."

Billy was fighting the stutter, commendably, I thought. But my ear was as a friend.

"Mr. Cornheiser?" the judge said, looking to the prosecutor.

"Your Honor, uh, the suspect's victim, Mr. Robert Hix, sir, was brutally beaten. He is still hospitalized with several broken ribs and as yet undetermined internal injuries. He has identified Mr. O'Shea in a photo array as his attacker. The victim's blood, Your Honor, was found on the suspect's boots, which were confiscated at the defendant's apartment during the execution of a search warrant signed by Judge Lewis, sir."

Both lawyers were playing the game, dropping names in an attempt to influence. Navarro was a respected former sheriff who ran a large security firm. Judge Lewis was probably a golfing partner of the sitting judge.

"The state asks that the suspect be held in remand, Your Honor," the prosecutor said, stealing a glance toward the back of the room.

"Evidence of a capital crime involving Mr. O'Shea is continuing to be collected by detectives, Your Honor, and the state is convinced that he may be an extreme danger to the public."

Billy jumped on the prosecutor's move.

"Your honor, I see n-no reference to another, m-more serious charge in this arrest document. Mr. O'Shea in fact has n-never been arrested. In Florida nor in any other j-jurisdiction," he said. "In addition, the st-state knows that the mere possibility of an additional charge has n-no bearing on this proceeding and has no legal justification in even being raised."

The judge nodded, as if saying "I knew that," and looked over to the prosecutor, who was stalling by shuffling through paper.

"Furthermore, sir," Billy continued, "I have in court this m- morning a witness to the assault charge now in question, a licensed private investigator, Your Honor, whose presence at the time of the alleged c-crime is documented by police reports and who has signed an affidavit stating that both he and Mr. O'Shea were the ones attacked by the alleged victim and his brother and thus forced to defend themselves."

The prosecutor followed the direction of Billy's pointed hand and when he looked at me I could see the flicker of an unexpected twitch in his eyes. This was obviously supposed to have been a slam- dunk lockdown of O'Shea with little objection by the overworked and uninvolved public defender.

"Mr. Cornheiser?" the judge said, maybe even enjoying the elevated banter in his otherwise dull morning.

"I, uh, again, Your Honor," the prosecutor stumbled. "This was, sir, a brutal attack and the hospitalized victim, sir…"

"You're repeating yourself, Mr. Cornheiser. Bail in the amount of ten thousand cash or bond," the judge said, interrupting. He had been around long enough to know that when an attorney only had one leg to stand on, his only resort was to hop up and down on it.

"Thank you, Your Honor," Billy said, gathering his things.

"Thank you, Mr. Manchester," the judge responded. "And I apologize, sir, for my earlier assumption, counselor."

Billy bowed his head gracefully and walked across to where O'Shea was now sitting.

"We sh-shall have you out by noon," he said, and I heard O'Shea thank him. As Billy turned to go the big man cuffed to O'Shea stopped him with his voice.

"You got a card, Mr. Attorney?" he said, holding out a hand the size of a dinner plate.

Billy looked down into the man's face.

"I don't do this kind of work," he said dismissively and walked on. Richards was waiting outside. She'd left after the judge announced bail. Her companion was gone. Her arms were crossed, lips pressed together. She was looking at the floor as we walked up and Billy excused himself before we reached her.

"I'm going to p-post O'Shea's bail," he said, heading for the lines. I went to face Richards alone.

"So, Max," she said when I got within hearing distance. Her eyes were the color of steel.

"I really didn't expect the two of you to double-team me in there. You must have done an exceptional sales job to convince Billy to stand up in front of a judge in person."

She and Billy had been friendly when we were dating. She shared his love of sailing. She respected his genius and had never asked me once about his stutter. She was pissed. Still, I knew that my explanation was weak. How do you tell someone you think they're wrong based on a gut feeling, a half-assed dealer theory and maybe a misplaced loyalty to a fellow cop?

"I hope you two can guarantee that he's not going to put another woman at risk while he's out roaming free," she said.

I looked away from her eyes, then back.

"Look, Sherry. I respect what you're doing," I said. "I just think you're wrong on this one."

"No shit."

I let her anger sit a few silent moments and maybe my own, too.

"Sherry," I tried again. "You've shot and killed two men in the last couple of years, men who were abusing women. You were fully justified in both."

"And saved your ass in one, Freeman," she said, her arms still crossed.

"And saved my ass," I agreed. "You're also a solid investigator and I know you haven't forgotten the rule to keep an open mind and consider all possibilities."

She looked down and I could see she was holding her tongue, taking my words like an unwanted and condescending lecture. I took my chance and pressed on.

"Can you honestly say this mission you're on hasn't gotten in the way of your eye for other suspects?"

I'd meant to appeal to her professionalism and now I was questioning it.