Hollow Man (2 page)

“Hey, it's Dominic, the musical British prosecutor,” he said. “You look frowny, what's wrong?”

“You know, the usual. Shitty news arrives early in the morning just so it can screw up your whole day.”

“That's why we have a morning show,” he grinned. “Care to unload on a friend?”

“When I find one, I will.” My smile was supposed to be friendly, to show I was joking, but I expect it looked as insincere as it felt. “Also, I'm a musician, not musical. And I'm English, not British. How would you like me to call you Canadian?”

“Just fine. I'm from Ottawa.”

“I feel like I should know that. Eh?”

“Hilarious. But I've been in Texas ten years, so don't sweat it.”
He interrupted a stroke of his comb to look over at the growing crowd.

“Why are you chaps here?” I asked.

“Covering the Wilbert trial,” he said. “Closing arguments today. Should be good.”

“Yeah, any time a kid gets stabbed it's awesome.”

The Wilbert trial. The man looked like a librarian but had stabbed his ex-girlfriend thirty-six times with a knife he took from her kitchen. When her five-year-old ran screaming to his momma's side, Wilbert stabbed him four times. Momma died at the scene, but the boy lived, which, if nothing else, seemed like poor planning. Leaving a witness, and all.

“You know what I mean.” He poked me in the chest with his comb. “And don't act all high and mighty—we both make money from other people's tragedies.”

“Except I do something positive about them, whereas you guys turn them into gossip.”

“I'll remember that next time you ask for some airtime.”

“
Touché
.” I looked toward the courthouse but the main entrance was out of view. The building was U-shaped, the left wing being the jail, the right wing housing the admin buildings, and the entrance at the end of a walkway that ran between them. The protestors filled the walkway that led to the main doors. “So, not here to report on the protest?”

“We'll cover it,” he said. “Your office rarely seeks the death penalty, so this lot doesn't usually come out.”

“Well, have fun. I have a boss waiting for me.”

Before I could move off, a chorus of shouts exploded from the courthouse entrance. We couldn't see what was happening, but the shouting got louder and several deputies dropped their cigarettes and started running toward the noise. The reporters finished patting their noses in double-time, and the cameramen hoisted their equipment onto their shoulders and headed into battle.

By the time I got there a line of brown-shirted sheriff's deputies had blocked the passageway to the front doors. Behind them, eight more deputies knelt on the wriggling bodies of four men. The TV cameras were trained on the melee but it wasn't the subdued protestors that had their attention.

The glass front of the courthouse, including its two enormous doors, dripped red, the crimson liquid pooling on the sidewalk and creeping out toward the crowd. On the ground, a dozen Mason jars lay cracked or broken, glinting on the white concrete like busted teeth lying amid unfurling tongues of red.

I walked up to the line of officers, aiming for one I recognized from the courtroom. I covertly checked the tag on his chest.

“Hey, Bateman, what the hell's going on?”

“Protestors,” he said.

“No shit. I hope that's paint.”

“Nope, it's blood.”

“Delightful. Cow or pig?”

“I wish.” He looked over his shoulder at the mess. “Theirs.”

“The protestors'?”

“Yep.” Bateman nodded. “One of the assholes said they've been storing it up since the beginning of the trial, about twenty of them. Taking a pint here and there, sticking it in the fridge. They showed up with jars of it, just started flinging the stuff all over the front.”

“Jesus. That's disgusting.”

“It's a friggin' health hazard, is what it is. We got the ones who did the actual throwing, though.” He grinned and thumbed toward the four in custody. “The stupid fuckers were too weak to run.”

More bad planning. “Anti–death penalty nuts?”

“Right.” He mimicked them while pulling a pouty face. “If the state can spill blood in our name, we can spill our own.”

I could smell it now, a metallic odor that clung to the air and started to coat the inside of my nostrils. It was 9:15 a.m. on the first day of July, and every day of June had been over ninety degrees. I
could almost hear the flies swarming toward us, rising up from the dumpsters and roadkill, passing word to each other about the delicacy that soaked the courthouse like gravy, human blood ready to simmer and bake in the heat, a once-in-a-lifetime treat not to be missed.

“Who's cleaning that mess up?” I asked.

“They're sending a hazmat team. Who knows how many of those fuckers have HIV or hep-C or some shit.”

“So the courthouse is shut down?” My voice rose with hope.

“Closed to the public. They're letting the lawyers in through the judge's entrance. No day off for you.”

“Great. Any chance some others will come back and splatter the judge's entrance before I get there?”

Bateman laughed, the cracking sound in his throat telling me he was due for his morning cigarette. “They're guarding it pretty good, so I'm guessing you're out of luck.”

I moved away, pushing through the crowd. As I reached its outer edge, I noticed several people looking back and forth from the scene to the bus stop across the street. Two women stood there, apparently disinterested in the chaos and confusion, which told me they were probably involved. One of them was Hispanic, and she'd squeezed herself into jeans and a T-shirt several sizes too small, giving her a bulge of fat that surrounded her waist like a ship's life preserver.

The other girl turned to face me, and my throat closed up. She was strikingly pale, with wide-spaced eyes that returned my gaze without blinking. She wore no makeup that I could see, but her brown hair tumbled onto her shoulders with perfect Lauren Bacall elegance. Best of all, she wore a tight, lime-green dress that shimmered as it hugged her figure, catching the light and my eye like a hypnotist's crystal. China-white legs curved out from the hem of her dress, down to delicate ankles and a pair of red heels that were brighter, and even more startling, than the pools of blood she'd just left behind.

With everything that had happened that morning, she was something glorious to hold on to, a beautiful flash of lightning in a doom-laden sky, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. I stood and stared until a bus came between us, breaking the spell and taking her away in a roar of hot diesel fumes. I couldn't see her through the tinted windows of the bus, but I stared at each one just in case, and I hoped like a teenager that she was peering back at me.

When the bus had gone, I stood in the quiet street for a full minute, wondering what had just happened. Not love at first sight, I wasn't capable of that, but nonetheless a childlike rush of excitement that I waited to analyze, that I let myself enjoy before dissecting it into rationalities that made sense to me, labeling it with worlds like
curiosity
,
surprise
,
interest
, and the more carnal and justifiable
lust
.

Puzzled and oddly chastened, I made my way to the judge's entrance, punching numbers and swiping my way through three security doors. As they thumped shut behind me, they pushed the girl in green from my mind and I made mental adjustments to begin the routine of the day.

My job at the DA's office wasn't always the most exhilarating, but the pay was decent and at least kept my head and budget above water, though barely. Today I was going to cross swords with a recalcitrant witness, the kind of thug I took great pleasure in putting behind bars. Normally this idiot would be the one holding the gun, but for this case he'd been one of the victims. He was recalcitrant in that he didn't want to testify in the upcoming trial, and I needed him to.

That was the one part of my job I did relish, the part that fed the performer in me and made my day-to-day acting a benefit, not a burden: the theater of a jury trial. It began with the drama of opening statements, when the story of the crime was first revealed to the jurors, twelve men and women twitchy with anticipation, eager to soak up my words. Then came the witness examinations, the orchestrated reinforcement of my opening statements, when the jurors would nod along and think to themselves,
Yes, the prosecutor said it happened that way, we should believe him
.

Occasionally there would be cross-examination, when a half-witted defendant would take the stand and try to lie his way out of a
conviction, and those moments, not just for me but for any prosecutor, could be sublime. The gentle questions that would begin to unravel his story, without him even knowing, then the flourish of a question, asked with eyes on the jury, not the dirtbag defendant, and a slow turn to watch him squirm in his seat as he realized the game was over. A game for me, of course, not so much for him.

And finally, the closing arguments. Most lawyers claim that jurors are decided on a verdict by the time we stand to close. But I never believed that, and anyway I had more than persuasion in mind when I argued my case. I was handing those who agreed with me the tools, weapons even, to challenge any jurors who wanted to acquit. In Austin at least, criminal juries were more than willing to set free an obviously-guilty man on some meaningless, mindless argument made by a desperate defense attorney. So I shot those down the first chance I got, and always reminded the jury that a victim, as well as a defendant, awaited their verdict.
Remember the victim
, echoing in my softest, most heartfelt voice, the moment when, if I could cry, tears would prick at my eyes and spread to the weakest, most feeling of the jurors. It was a badge of honor to make a juror cry, and I did it whenever I could.

Ah, yes, each trial was a play in three acts, with the requisite tears and histrionics, and just occasionally a courtroom fistfight. Usually an unhappy defendant punching out his lawyer, and no one much minded that.

The sight of Michael Cherry standing outside my office captured and clarified my drifting mind, the look on his face hauling me into the present and telling me all was not well.

I called the man “Cherry,” everyone here did, and I suspected his mother had done the same. Each of the seven courts had four prosecutors assigned, and he was the most experienced attorney in ours, which made him our chief and my immediate boss. He was a longtime prosecutor who dressed like a 1950s model, tailored in his tweeds and double-breasted worsted suits. He was about four inches
taller than the next tallest prosecutor, which was me at six feet, and he had the stooping, stalking gait of a giant heron. Everyone liked the guy, me included. He was unfailingly polite to all of us, and when you talked to him, his hooded eyes would settle patiently on your face, absorbing everything, following your logic with gentle nods, his tongue flicking his lips when he spotted a flaw in your thinking. With me, he knew there was something a little off but he couldn't quite figure out what, and so, as some sort of coping mechanism, he liked to practice his sarcasm.

“Good of you to show up,” he said.

“You're welcome. How's Vicky this morning?”

He'd been talking to our secretary, Vicky, when I came in. We all did it, despite the fact that she was a one-armed and entirely legless mannequin taped to a swivel chair. Our previous secretary, Adrianna, quit in a huff about something, and because we work for a governmental agency we got tired of waiting for a replacement to be hired. Truthfully, Vicky's attitude was something of an improvement on the chair's previous occupant, as was her productivity level. Some joker had covered her mouth in bright-red lipstick and then drawn a thick red line from her nostril, bleeding it artistically down her chin and into her blouse. She was, after all, originally purchased as a prop for our trials, the poor girl having been raped, robbed, and murdered more often than the gypsies under Stalin. Hence her missing limbs and her name, which was short for Victim.

“She's fine, I think. No complaints from her, anyway.”

“Good. Where's our hero?”

Maurice Darrell Griffiths, aka “Stuttering Mo,” was an eyewitness to a murder. Not one of the cool ones you see on TV, no, this was one of the classics we get in this business, a killing that warranted news coverage until someone figured out that drugs and gangs were involved. At that point it all seemed rather seedy, and pretty quickly no one gave a shit anymore. Except the family and friends of the dead guy, of course.

So it was with this case. Mo and a few other worthless members of his crowd were drinking and smoking PCP on a quiet street in East Austin when a rival moron drove up and shot one of them. I'd brought Mo in to interview him here because when I went to his house he slammed the door in my face. I figured that was for show and he might actually want to help, as long as the prying eyes of his neighbors weren't watching.

“He's not here. Let's talk in your office,” Cherry said.

“That doesn't sound good. Someone bump him off overnight?”

I followed him into my office and sat behind my desk. Cherry sat opposite me in one of the chairs usually reserved for files.

“Some bad news, I'm afraid. I've had to reassign the case.”

Something told me that wasn't the extent of the bad news. “Why?”

“Because someone reassigned you.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” Cherry held up a warning finger. “Now remember, you've been in this court more than three years, which is very unusual. Hardly anyone gets to stay in the same spot that long.”

“Where am I going?”

“Juvenile.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes, I thought you'd say that.”

“Did you stick up for me? Try to get me out of it?” I was annoyed, not just because of the transfer but because he didn't seem bothered enough.

“Sure. But what can I do?”

“Jesus, Cherry, I just won a friggin' cold case. One of the hardest cases we've had here for years.” And by “hard” I meant a twenty-five-year-old murder case with no forensic evidence or eyewitnesses, just strands of circumstantial evidence that I connected tightly enough to get a conviction. Some in the office weren't convinced the guy was even guilty, the case was that weak. I didn't much care either way, but as I said to them,
How good am I if I can convict an innocent
man with shitty evidence?
Of course, they laughed and walked off as if I was joking.

“Yes, you did.” The way he said it switched on a light in my head.

“Shit, does that trial have something to do with my reassignment?”

Cherry held up a placating hand. “Not that I know of. It's true that you've been in the news and on the TV more in the last month than our dear leader has in a year, and I'm sure he doesn't like that, but I'm also pretty sure he doesn't do revenge reassignments.”

“Bullshit.” I felt my hackles rising.

“Look, you think you're immune from the way this place works? You think your floppy hair and pretty accent mean you can stay wherever you like for as long as you like?”

“No, Cherry, I think I'm one of the better trial lawyers in this office, and I think that it makes no fucking sense to take me away from prosecuting murder, rape, and robbery so I can give probation to wannabe gangbangers who smoke weed and steal sneakers from Wal-Mart.”

“Hey, corporations are people, too. Apparently.”

“Shut up, Cherry, it's not funny. I'm better than that, I don't want to be doing that.”

“My, we do have a high opinion of ourselves.”

“And I deserve to, don't you think?”

“As I keep explaining, my opinion doesn't matter.”

I knew he was right, and I liked him enough not to cuss him out anyway. “When does this move happen?” It being Thursday, I had a pretty good idea of the answer.

“Monday. Maureen Barcinski is the chief down there. I told her you'd stop by this afternoon to say hello, meet some people, and then move over by Monday.”

“Can't wait.”

“Hey, you'll be sharing an office with Brian McNulty. He's a musician like you, so take your guitar.”

“OK, stop right there. First of all, Brian illegally downloads music off the Internet and burns CDs for people. That makes him a thief, not a musician. Second, I'm
sharing
an office?”

“Yes, everyone does except the chief. They don't have much room down there.” Cherry shifted in his seat, like he wanted out of there. “One more thing, too. You're not going to like it.”

“That surprises me. So far it's been nothing but good news.”

“Yeah, well. Part of your docket will be handling drug cases, where the kids are sent to in-patient treatment here from other counties. Sort of an inter-county liaison.”

“Sounds awesome.”

“Thing is, that's a state position.” He sucked in his cheeks, clearly uncomfortable. “Paid for with a state grant, rather than a regular county position like you have now.”

I sat up. “Oh, no. No. Don't tell me—”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

“A fucking pay cut?”

“A little less of the green stuff, yes.”

A vision of the girl in green popped into my head, but right then I wanted to be annoyed and didn't appreciate the comfort, or distraction, she offered. With the stress of this conversation, of her, I barely noticed the hum that set into my hands, the twitch that on weekends made me grab my guitar just to feel the strings against my fingertips. I'd written a song about that feeling, comparing it to the shivering skin of a “cutter” or to the cold gasp of a drug user's desperate veins. I needed the sweet relief of my guitar, but instead Cherry was still talking.

“You'll keep your current benefit package,” he said, “including healthcare and retirement. Vacations and sick time will remain as is, too.”

“Cherry, look. I know every prosecutor has to do their bit, and these moves happen.” I leaned forward over the desk. I wanted him to know that the joking was over, that this mattered to me. “But I
just moved into a new apartment, with a roommate no less, but I have more than forty grand in school loans. I have credit-card debt and a car lease I can't get out of.”

He held up placating hands. “It not that much of a pay cut. Couple hundred a month.”

I clenched my fists and worked hard not to punch the desk, the wall, him. “I'm on the edge as it is. I don't have leeway to give up a couple hundred a month.”

“You have your music gigs. Don't they pay?”

“No, Cherry, they don't. The going rate is a couple of free beers and a waitress passing around the tip jar.”

Austin, the Live Music Capital of the world, was chock-full of musicians like me, part-timers who could play well enough but who competed for time at the smaller joints and had no hope playing at the big ones, except as an opening act. Which took luck and a crapload more exposure than a part-time soloist like me could manage. Meanwhile, the pubs and small clubs gave us stage time for tips while they cleaned up with the sale of booze. Win-win for the bars and customers, not so much for the free help, the hopeful, the dreamers like me.

“Ah, I didn't realize,” Cherry said. “I'm sorry about the money thing—all of it really—but there's nothing I can do at this point.”

I sat back and loosened my tie, wondering whether it was for moments like this we weren't allowed guns in the building. It crossed my mind to tell him about the phone call this morning, make him feel like a weasel for doing this to me on the day I heard my parents were dead, but I knew it wouldn't make any difference. He and I were cogs in the machine, and the machine had been preprogrammed to spit me out into juvie and didn't have the capacity to care.

“How long is this for?” I asked.

“They're trying to keep these rotations to a year, give or take a few months. A year is the goal, though.” He scratched the back of his
head and squinted. “I'm not being facetious, but technically this is a promotion. As far as your résumé goes, that is. You'll be second in command over there, under Maureen but senior to the three other juvenile prosecutors.”

“A promotion.” I needed deep breaths to stop myself from throttling the messenger. “I'll be handling shoplifting, weed-smoking, car-breaking little punks instead of real criminals. I'll get a pay cut and will share an office with a dork. How the fuck do I apply for a demotion?”