Fool Me Twice Read online

  “You’re right,” Socolow said, softly, “someone like you.”

  ***

  I made coffee for my guests while they waited for the assistant medical examiner, who either was lost or had other customers.

  Take a number, there were three other homicide scenes ahead of ours, according to the younger detective.

  While we waited, the female crime scene cops were smoking cigarettes, talking to each other about overtime and the supervisor who calls them babes. The detectives were scribbling in their little notebooks and whispering. Abe Socolow’s face was set into its usual frown with an occasional glare thrown in for variety. “I suppose you know Hornback wanted to cut a deal before sentencing,” he said.

  “I figured.”

  “He was supposed to come in tomorrow with his lawyer. He had something to trade about your client, something that could make a bigger case, maybe involve the feds.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What do you know about it, Jake?”

  “Nothing,” I answered, which for once was entirely accurate. “I heard Hornback and Baroso exchange words in the courtroom at the end of the trial, and that’s all I know. Blinky has another deal going out west, but I don’t know the details, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. Besides, he assured me it’s legitimate.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I’ve been trying to get him into something straight for years.”

  “I know that, Jake. You see the glimmer of good that’s in all these jerkoffs. It’s your flaw, your weakness. Can’t you get it through your head that you can’t make a citizen out of a wise guy? You can’t change a lifetime of habits. Jeez, you’d think your days as a public defender would have taught you some

  cynicism.’’

  “They did. They made me cynical about cops, judges, prosecutors, defense lawyers, and defendants. They made me distrust the system and everyone in it. But I’m a cynic with hope.”

  “Me, too,” he said, after a moment. “My hope is bigger prisons, longer sentences, fewer paroles.”

  I was willing to spar a couple more rounds with Abe, but my attention was distracted. Someone was pounding at the front door. It groaned, shuddered, and opened with a thud. The cops looked up excitedly, as if their suspect would walk into the room and surrender.

  “Deus miseratur!” Charlie Riggs proclaimed. “Now where’s the corpus delicti?”

  Chapter 7

  The Bates Motel

  The State of Florida versus Sylvester Houston Conklin,” the bailiff announced. “Adjudicatory hearing.”

  “C’mon,” Kip said, nudging me. “That’s us.”

  I gave him a look.

  “My mom loves Sly Stallone,” he explained. “I was born in Houston, and best she knows, my dad’s name was Conklin.”

  The bailiff called out the case again, louder this time, and we hustled from the small gallery toward the bench. Earlier that morning, I had told Kip, or Sylvester Houston, to put on his Sunday best, which he interpreted to mean his Reebok high tops without socks, jeans with holes in the knees, and a T-shirt that celebrated “The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh.” I wore a seersucker suit in a half-successful effort to look like a Southern gentleman.

  We were in the courtroom of the Honorable T. Bone Coleridge, longtime Dade County Juvenile Court judge and Bull Gator in the University of Florida Alumni Society. He was, as far as I knew, the only judge in the state to wear orange and blue robes. His chambers were festooned with autographed footballs, photos of His Honor with various coaches and athletes, and memorabilia ranging from shoulder pads and helmets to the jockstrap Steve Spurrier wore the day he clinched the Heisman Trophy.

  The Juvenile Courthouse, a concrete block affair with open walkways surrounding a cheerless concrete courtyard, sits on northwest Twenty-seventh Avenue in what police maps used to call the Central Negro District. It is a neighborhood of pawnshops and used car lots, lumberyards, and hubcap bazaars. About a block away is a gun shop with a pass-through window, like a hoagie stand in South Philadelphia. I had parked in a public lot surrounded by a razor-wire-topped fence. I took Kip by the hand, which felt small and moist, and led him through the maze of administrative buildings into the courthouse.

  “Afternoon, numbah fifty-eight,” the judge greeted me, in homage to my short but unspectacular career on the football field. “Don’t see you much in kiddie court.”

  “Good afternoon, Your Honor,” I acknowledged, bowing my head slightly. Like most lawyers, I would curtsy or kiss the hem of a judge’s robe to help win a case.

  “Say, Jake, what do you think of my dog-ass Gators this fall?”

  “I think they’ll play eleven games, twelve if they go to a bowl.”

  “Ah believe those boys will go all the way,” the judge opined, as he did each summer. “Sugar Bowl and a numbah one ranking.” It galled him that the University of Miami had won four national championships while his alma mater had failed to notch even one. “Now, let’s see what roguery brings you here today.”

  The judge hunched over the bench and riffled through a court file. He had a bulbous nose lined with purple veins, a large bald head that reflected the overhead lighting, and he carried close to three hundred pounds on a five-eight frame. He liked to let people think he played football in college, but according to an ancient yearbook some lawyer friends passed around, the closest he got to the end zone was as a cheerleader. The judge, still peering into the file, made a tsk-tsk-tsking sound. Part of the role, as played by T. Bone, was to scare kids straight. “Malicious mischief!” he thundered, lifting his large head and glaring at Kip. “Trespassing and willful destruction of property. Serious charges, one and all. Son, how do you plead?”

  I was ready to say “not guilty,” but my half-pint client was too quick for me.

  “Hey, Judge,” he called out, “when you go through the metal detector downstairs, what goes off first, the lead in your ass or the shit in your brains?”

  The judge turned red.

  I was speechless.

  Kip smiled a sinister grin I hadn’t seen before. It didn’t even look like him. Which made me think it wasn’t him at all. I was tossing around that idea, but the judge’s booming voice interrupted my train of thought.

  “Young man, you’re in direct contempt of court! Ah’m looking at your face, and it’s got Youth Hall written all over it. Jake, you got yourself a real in-cor-rigible here.”

  “Your Honor,” I responded, “that wasn’t him talking.”

  “What are you saying, that Ah cain’t believe my ears?”

  “No, just that he didn’t have control over what he said.”

  “Why not? Is he on ecstasy or crack? Is he one of those dopeheads who puke on my Dodge in the parking lot?”

  “Your Honor, I believe what the boy said was from a movie.” I turned to Kip, my eyes pleading. “Isn’t that it, Sylvester?”

  “Bruce Willis in Die Hard 2,” Kip declared, proudly. “It just sort of popped into my head.”

  “That’s part of our defense, Your Honor,” I volunteered, making it up as I went along.

  “Jake, that dog won’t hunt. You know me, Ah’m just a simple country lawyer who’s now a simple country judge ...”

  Four million people from Miami to Palm Beach, and we still have judges chewing straw and handing out that aw-shucks routine.

  “...and while I may not read everything in the law books,” he continued, gesturing to a shelf of pristine copies of the Southern Reporter, “Ah believe there are only three possible pleas—guilty, not guilty, and nolo con-ten-dere ...”

  He made the last plea sound like the title of a Tony Bennett song.

  “...unless you’re claiming the boy’s incompetent. You’all looking for a competency hearing, Jake?”

  “Respectfully, Your Honor,” I said, employing a term lawyers use to mean just the opposite, “we plead not guilty and seek an immediate adjudicatory hearing, and while the facts of the incident may not be in dispute, there are certai
n mitigating factors, including the defendant’s age, lack of prior record, and psychological considerations we’ll be asking the court to consider.”

  Judge T. Bone Coleridge exhaled a guttural snort. “Ten-minute recess. Then strap on your helmets ‘cause we’re gonna try this case.”

  I adhered to the first rule of courtroom recesses: I took a pee, because you don’t know when you’ll have a chance for the next one. Then I used a pay phone to call Doc Riggs and find out if the autopsy report on Kyle Hornback was finished.

  “Obviously, this was neither a natural death nor an accident,” he lectured. “I believe we can rule out suicide, though that’s often an issue in hangings. So, we’re dealing with homicide.”

  “No kidding, Charlie. C’mon, I’m in court. Cut to the chase.” I am not usually testy with Charlie or Granny, but my nerves were on edge. I was worried about Sylvester aka Kip; I was worried about Blinky; and I was worried about me.

  Charlie harrumphed and continued: “Well then, you might be interested to know what the toxicology report showed. I happened to be there when the chemist—”

  “Charlie, please!”

  “All right, all right. Vincit qui patitur. He who is patient prevails. Hornback’s blood was loaded with barbiturates. Probably pentobarbital, pretty fast-acting, and he was unconscious when throttled by person or persons unknown. If he’d been conscious, there would have been a struggle, and pressure on the neck would have been intermittent. There’d probably be some petechial hemorrhaging, burst blood vessels and the like. With slow, steady pressure, there’s less evidence of trauma, and that’s the case here. Just a trace of blood in the larynx, some engorged blood vessels in the brain, that’s about it. Cause of death was asphyxia. Your tie, and quite a handsome one at that, was the ligature, used much like a garrote. There was a contusion in the middle of his chest. Hornback was probably face-up on the floor when the tie was slipped around his neck. The assailant likely placed a knee on his chest for leverage, then tightened the tie, squeezing off the air supply, and finally tying the knot.”

  “That it?”

  “Just about. Before the M.E. sliced him open, they tried to pull latents off the body. As usual, they couldn’t do it. But one of the technicians wanted me to help with a methyl methacrylate test.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course. We used Super Glue, which converts to fumes quite easily, tented the body, and came up with some nice latents on the neck and chin. Checking them out now.”

  “Great. I hope there are some besides mine.”

  “Yes, well next time, don’t fool around with murder scenes.”

  Next time? “Okay, Charlie, thanks.”

  “Thank you, Jake. You know, I’m never as alive as when I’m poking around in a dead body. Strangulation is quite tricky. Not like the old days of execution by hanging when they’d just tie the knot under the left side of the jaw to throw the head back and snap the odontoid process of the second cervical vertebra. No, that was too easy. As Pierrepoint, the former hangman of London once testified—”

  “Charlie, hold that thought. I’ve got a case to try.”

  ***

  An earnest young woman wearing a blue suit and white silk blouse introduced herself as the assistant state attorney. Her mouth was fixed in a grim expression, and the notes on her yellow pad were printed in precise block lettering. I don’t know why, but prosecutors tend to be more organized and less humorous than defense lawyers. And the women prosecutors tend to be very good. Just look at Marcia Clark or Josefina Baroso.

  The state began with the theater manager, whose testimony was matter-of-fact. There was a disturbance outside the theater. A lanky blond-haired boy was cursing at the ticket seller. The boy left and came back half an hour later, at which time he began spray-painting the outside of the theater, first with a drawing of Arnold Schwarzenegger, then the phrase, “Hasta la vista, baby.” When the manager dashed out of the theater, the boy threw the spray can through a coming attractions display window, breaking the glass. Yes, that boy is present in the courtroom. That’s him over there in the Pittsburgh Pirates T-shirt.

  That made Kip snicker. “Dork doesn’t even know a baseball team from a movie.”

  I barely cross-examined, except to emphasize that no one was injured.

  Next came a policeman who said he found Kip at the scene with blue paint on his hands and an explanation for what he had done. The boy was angry at the cancellation of the film he wanted to see. Again, my cross was concise. I had the officer admit that Kip offered no resistance and told the truth about the incident. That’s called putting the best face on a confession. The state rested, and the judge looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “The defense calls Doctor Harvey Kornblum,” I announced with a gravity far in excess of my witness’s credentials. The bailiff hustled out of the courtroom and into the waiting area. While he was gone, I sneaked a peek at Kip. He was studying a poster on the wall that showed two youngsters, one in a cap and gown, the other behind bars. “School and Job or Jail and Death” read the caption. Subtlety was in short supply in the juvenile justice system.

  The bailiff returned with my witness in tow. Dr. Harvey Kornblum might not be the best psychiatrist in town, but he was the cheapest. I choose my expert witnesses based on two qualifications, low fees and a healthy crop of gray hair. The reasons are obvious. Most of my clients can’t afford to pay their lawyer and expensive experts, too, so it’s easy to see where I’ll cut corners. Both judges and jurors like gray-haired doctors, even if they’re pompous windbags. Besides meeting my criteria, Harvey Kornblum was also the only shrink who would see Kip on half-an-hour notice this morning and be ready to testify right after lunch.

  Dr. Kornblum sat down, unbuttoned his suit coat and let his paunch hang out. He patted his silvery hair and raised his hand to take the oath. I ran through his qualifications as a pediatric psychiatrist, letting him dawdle a bit too long over his internship, his multiple residencies, his fellowships here and there, his long-since outdated papers on bed-wetting and masturbation, and finally, we got down to business.

  “Dr. Kornblum, have you had an opportunity to examine the defendant, Sylvester Houston Conklin?”

  The witness looked confused until I pointed toward the defense table.

  “Ah yes. Kip. I have examined him at some length.”

  Technically, that was true, the length being twenty-five minutes. “Can you tell the court what your examination revealed?”

  Dr. Kornblum opened a thick file that must have contained his autobiography because it couldn’t have been the notes of his meeting this morning. He hadn’t taken any. The doctor put on a pair of rimless eyeglasses, stared at his file, removed the glasses, and began speaking in deep, magisterial tones. “Kip, er, Sylvester, is a handsome and well-nourished, though thin, lad of eleven years. He has no physical abnormalities and is above average in intelligence, far above average, I must say. Psychologically, I would term him emotionally isolated. He does not know his father. He has, de facto, been abandoned by his mother, and is being raised by a woman he calls Granny, though she is not his grandmother.”

  Dr. Kornblum paused to look at the judge and let the weight of his testimony sink in. Then he continued. “The child spends much time alone, watching television, especially movies. He is not a happy child. Indeed, his reality is one of pain, isolation, and abandonment. For this reason, he seeks escape. His reality becomes the fantasy of movies.”

  “How important are these movies to the boy?” I asked.

  “Very important, indeed. This child doesn’t just watch movies. He becomes a character. The movie is real.”

  “And is there a difference between seeing these movies on television and in a theater?”

  “Quite so. For him, seeing a movie on the big screen enhances that reality. In the theater, he can lose himself, can be enveloped in the sheer size of the picture, the depth of the stereophonic sound.”

  Now we were rolling. “And what happ
ens, Doctor, if someone takes away that opportunity?”

  “Clearly, they have stolen his reality. His reaction is far out of proportion to the harm done, at least it would seem that way to those of us for whom movies have not taken on such importance. You see, the boy has his depression under control, in a steel box if you will. He escapes this depression in the movies. Take that away, the depression becomes anger and rage, and the consequence, as we have seen, is an antisocial act in protest of cancellation of his favorite film.”

  “Would you expect him to repeat this conduct?”

  “Most likely not. The conduct was aberrational. It resulted from the highly unusual combination of his high expectations at seeing Casablanca in the theater and the unannounced cancellation of the film after he took a bus to Miami.”

  “Do you see that incarceration would serve any purpose here?”

  “No. What the boy needs is a strong male figure, someone he can trust, someone he can look up to. He doesn’t need jailers.”

  “Thank you,” I said, nodding to Dr. Kornblum for a job well done.

  The state had no questions, and my witness stepped down and took a seat in the front row of the gallery. I could have called Kip to testify, but after his earlier outburst, I didn’t think I could trust him. Besides, Kornblum had done the job. I wouldn’t have to pay him for his services, but I would defend him gratis on his pending DUI charge.

  I told the judge the defense rested, and that set T. Bone to mashing his knuckles into his forehead. “Counselor, Ah just don’t follow all that psychological mumbo jumbo. You’re saying the movies made him do it.”

  “Not exactly, Your Honor. The deprivation of the movie unleashed his anger at earlier abandonments.”