James Patterson - Beach Road

“This man here, with the bullet hole between his eyes, is Eric Feifer. He was twenty-three years of age, and before the defendant executed him on August thirtieth, Mr. Feifer was a professional-level surfer.

“This young man is Robert Walco, also twenty-three. While other kids were going to college and business school, he put in ten-hour days with a shovel. The result of his sweat and labor was a successful landscaping business he owned with his dad, Richard Walco.

“And this is Patrick Roche, twenty-five, a painter who paid the bills by moonlighting as a bartender, and whose good nature earned him the affection of just about everyone who knew him.

“Finally, this is Michael Walker, and no matter what else you might say about him, he was seventeen years old, a high school senior.

“ Don’t look away. The victims couldn’t. The killer and his accomplice wouldn’t let them. In fact, the killer took sadistic pleasure in making sure that each of these four victims saw exactly what was happening to them as they were shot at such close range that the barrel of the gun singed the skin of their foreheads.

“And the killer got exactly what he wanted because you can still read the shock and the fear and the pain in their eyes.

“In ten years, I’ve prosecuted eleven murder cases, but I’ve never seen crime scene photographs like these. I’ve never seen head-on executions like these. And I’ve never seen eyes like these either. Ladies and gentlemen, don’t assume this is run-of-the-mill horror. This is very different. This is what evil looks like up close.”

Then Melvin Howard turns away from the jury and stares directly at Dante.

ON THIS STIFLING early June morning, with the temperature on its way to the midnineties, the state initiates its pursuit of justice by calling drug-dealer Artis LaFontaine’s former girlfriend, Mammy Richardson, to the stand. Mammy was at the basketball court when Feif and Dante came to blows. She saw it all.

A large, pretty woman in her early thirties, Mammy cut a striking figure at Wilson ’s estate last summer, and as strong rays slant in through the courtroom’s only window, she steps into the booth in a cream-colored pantsuit that she fills to bursting.

“Directing your attention to last August thirtieth, Ms. Richardson, do you recall where you were that afternoon?”

“Watching a basketball game at Smitty Wilson’s estate,” says Richardson, clearly enjoying her cameo, a trill of excitement in her voice.

“Could you tell us who was playing in this game?”

“Young fellas from Bridgehampton taking on an older squad from Montauk.”

“Was it a friendly game?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Way both squads were going at it, you’d think it was game seven of the NBA finals.”

“Ms. Richardson, do you have any idea why a weekend pickup game would be so intense?”

“Objection!” snapped Kate. “The witness isn’t a mind reader.”

“Sustained.”

“Ms. Richardson, were the players on the Bridgehampton squad all African American?”

“Yeah,” says Richardson.

“And the Montauk team?”

“White.”

“Which team won the game, Ms. Richardson?”

“The white fellas.”

“And then what happened, Ms. Richardson?”

“That’s when the trouble happened. Some of the Montauk guys started showboating. One of the Bridgehampton fellas didn’t appreciate it. He shoved somebody. They shoved back. Before anyone could calm things down, one of the victims and the defendant were throwing down.”

“Throwing down?” asks Howard, feigning ignorance.

Richardson flashes him a look. “You know, scrapping.”

“How far away were you sitting from the court, Ms. Richardson?”

“Closer than I am to the jury right now.”

“About how big was Eric Feifer?”

“Six feet, and skinny. One hundred seventy pounds, tops.”

“You’ve got a pretty good eye, Ms. Richardson. According to the coroner’s report, Eric Feifer was five eleven and weighed one hundred sixty-three pounds. And the defendant?”

“Anyone can see, he’s got some size on him.”

“Six foot nine inches and two hundred fifty-five pounds to be exact. How did Eric Feifer do in the fight?”

“That skinny white boy could fight. He put a whupping on Dante.”

“What happened next?”

“Michael Walker, one of Dante’s teammates, ran to his car and came back with a gun. Which he put upside Eric Feifer’s head.”

“How far away did he hold the gun from Eric Feifer’s head?”

“He pressed it right up against it. Just like those pictures showed.”

“Objection,” shouts Kate like a fan screaming at the refs about a bad call. “Your Honor, the witness has clearly been coached and has no right or authority to equate what she saw to the pictures taken of the crime scene. This is grounds for a mistrial.”

“The jury will disregard Ms. Richardson’s last remark, and the stenographer will expunge it from the record.”

Howard moves on. “Then what happened, Ms. Richardson?”

“ Walker put the gun down.”

“Did Michael Walker say anything?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” says Kate, increasingly exasperated. “This is nothing but hearsay.”

“Overruled,” says Rothstein.

“What did Michael Walker say, Ms. Richardson?”

“‘This shit ain’t over, white boy. Not by a long shot.’”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” says Howard, and Kate is already up out of her chair.

I LEAN IN close to Dante, figuring he needs some reassurance. “This isn’t going to be as much fun as Mammy thought,” I say.

“Ms. Richardson, what do you do for a living?” Kate begins.

“I’m unemployed at the moment.”

“How about last summer? What were you doing then?”

“I was unemployed then too.”

“So you’ve been unemployed for a bit more than a moment, Ms. Richardson. How long exactly?”

“Three and a half years.”

“You seem bright and personable, not handicapped in any way. Is there a reason you haven’t been able to find a job?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“Sustained.”

“Did you come to Mr. Wilson’s estate alone that afternoon?”

“I came with Artis LaFontaine.”

“What was your relationship with Mr. LaFontaine?”

“Girlfriend.”

“Were you aware at the time that Mr. LaFontaine had spent a dozen years in jail for two separate drug convictions?”

“I knew he’d been incarcerated, but I didn’t know for what.”

“Really? Did you know that according to police your former boyfriend was and remains a major drug dealer?”

“I never asked him what he did for a living.”

“You weren’t curious how a man with no apparent job could drive a four-hundred-thousand-dollar Ferrari?”

“Not really,” says Richardson, the trill in her voice long gone.

“Are you in a relationship right now, Ms. Richardson?”

“Not really.”

“You aren’t involved with Roscoe Hughes?”

“We date some.”

“Are you aware that he has also served time for a drug conviction?”

“I don’t ask about the specifics.”

“But I do, Ms. Richardson, so could you tell me, do you date drug dealers exclusively or just most of the time?”

“Objection,” shouts Howard.

“Sustained,” says Rothstein.

Mammy Richardson has been skillfully discredited as a witness, but she can defend herself a little too.

“Why?” she asks, squaring her shoulders at Kate and putting her hands on her ample hips. “You want me to fix you up?”