The Victim (23 page)

Anton picked her up. “I’m gonna take Charley for a quick walk around the block.”

Gina looked out through the family room window, taking note of the thunderheads rolling in off the Everglades. “Just be back soon. Looks like rain. And bundle her up. Put her in that cute North Face my mom bought her. Oh, and a hat.”

Anton carried Charley into the nursery and grabbed her coat and knit cap out of the closet. He laid her down on the changing table, trying to manipulate her stubborn little arms into the sleeves while she made feverish attempts to roll. He pulled the cap over her head and over the tops of her ears and got the umbrella stroller out of the hall closet.

The air outside was crisp and chilly. His breath turned to steam. The sky was dull pewter gray. He strapped Charley into the stroller and pushed her along the sidewalk. Some of the neighbors were out and about—most he knew by face but not by name. There was the man three houses down obsessed with his ’57 Bel Air and the Chinese guy across the street who seemed to spend all of his free time trimming his bougainvillea. He walked past a mom unloading groceries from her Infiniti SUV as her two boys tossed a Nerf football on the lawn.

He nodded and muttered quiet “hellos” to them all, sharing that unspoken bond between neighbors. Something that implied similar tastes and values. The same socioeconomic class.

Short, polite, but to the point.

None suspecting he was a killer.

To his neighbors, he was the nice young man with the pretty wife and the adorable baby. So successful for his age—why, that house listed for $450,000! And two luxury cars in the driveway?

The morning on the Beeline had been a secret he had shared with two other people, both of whom he believed had died on impact. He lit the fire believing that it could destroy not only the physical evidence, but any memory of the event itself, as if it never happened.

But Kelsie McEvoy had a sister? Not that Anton knew anything about the girl’s family other than the tidbits he had seen on the news in the weeks following the incident. The war in Iraq began just days after the crash, relegating what may have become a national story during a slower week to something temporary and local. He remembered an interview conducted on the steps of a mobile home in Yuma. Kelsie’s mother was in her forties but could have passed for sixty. She had stringy graying hair and a freckled sunburn. He didn’t recall there being a father.

A blackish mass of clouds flashed white and Anton turned the stroller around. The first droplets of the storm felt like cold mist. By the time he reached the front door, it was pounding the pavement.

CHAPTER 25

The corrections officer brought Bryan in and sat him in the jury box. He looked like shit. His cheeks were empty, punctuated by deep divots, highlighting his weight loss. His eyes were set back in hollow sockets. Coarse patches of dark hair grew in uneven clusters along his jawline and down his neck. His skin was at least two shades whiter than it was when they had first met, a stark contradiction to his bright orange jumper.

Anton shook his head disapprovingly. “Thought I told you to look presentable,” he said, taking the empty seat next to Bryan. “You look like the shoe bomber.”

He rested his briefcase on his lap and opened it, retrieving a legal pad with cross-examination notes. He kept his stare on his pad, finding it difficult to look Bryan in the eye.

Bryan scratched his beard, bringing both of his cuffed hands up to his chin to do so. “Where the fuck you been for the past week? I musta called you a dozen times.”

A dozen was a conservative guess. The missed call tally was closer to twenty-five.

Anton shook his legal pad. “I’ve been prepping for this hearing.”

Bryan motioned for Anton to lean in. “Thought this was an exercise in futility,” he whispered. His breath stunk of jailhouse bologna. “Daniella ain’t coming in, right?”

Anton swallowed hard, adjusted his tie. “Nah, she’s definitely coming.”

The door to the hallway swung open and Sylvia walked in, her high-heels clacking on the linoleum tile. She wore a navy pantsuit and a string of pearls around her neck, a Redweld under her arm.

Sylvia glanced at Bryan in the jury box, getting her first look at the defendant. Her lips furrowed in disgust as she put a face to the name of the man who had brutalized her victim.

“
Good afternoon,” Anton said, approaching Sylvia at the prosecution table. She emptied the contents of her Redweld out onto the table—A-Form, offense incident report, narrative supplement, written statements from the Templeton’s security staff, Daniella’s written statement, a few 8x11 color photographs of Daniella’s neck, and a CD with the police case number and date printed on the envelope. The 911 recording. “Any of this you planning on putting into evidence?”

Sylvia assembled her documents, clapped pages into place, and spread them in an organizational method that suited her. She didn’t look up.

“
Just the photos and the 911 tape,” Sylvia said.

Anton stood by, hands in his pockets, awaiting some eye contact. She shuffled around him as if he were an obstacle in her path.

He leaned in. “Fifty thousand-dollar bond, house arrest with a GPS monitor,” he said quietly. “C’mon, Sylvia. This case is beneath you. You’ve made your point. I made you look bad in front of the PBA. You’d think that given your years of experience, you’d have a thicker skin.”

She turned around abruptly, her swinging purse almost smacking Anton on the arm. “And in all my years of experience I’ve never heard such a gut-wrenching 911 tape!” She looked over Anton’s shoulder, grinning smugly at his client seated in the jury box. “And
he’s
a monster. I’m not about to agree to let him out so he can go straight over to Daniella Avery’s apartment and kill her. Speaking of which,” she leafed through her Redweld and handed Anton a thin document, four or five stapled pages. It was a felony information—the formal charging document. “Here. Since we’re already here might as well arraign him today.”

His posture sunk. “So you are filing,” he muttered, more of a comment than a question.

“
Yup. And amended that charge of agg-batt. But that wasn’t a surprise, now was it?”

Anton scanned the first page of the charging instrument, noting the three felony charges. “I can’t believe this. You’re insane.”

They turned as the door latch clicked and Diego, Judge Morales’s bailiff, walked into the courtroom in his crisp white button-down and dark slacks. He was young and clean cut, probably had designs on becoming a cop.

“
All rise; the Circuit Court for the Eleventh Judicial Circuit is now in session. The Honorable Sonia Morales presiding. Please turn off all cell phones.”

“
Prepare to be thoroughly embarrassed,” Sylvia said before assuming her spot at the podium.

Judge Morales took her seat and smiled brightly at her clerks and both attorneys.

Cuban-American, she had dark eyes and hair as black as her robe.

“
Good afternoon everybody. Ms. Kaplan.” Sylvia returned the smile acknowledging the decade of friendship between them. “Mr. Mackey.” Her lips were strained, a little too forced.

“
Good afternoon, Your Honor,” Anton replied, hoping that enough time had passed since their last encounter when she launched a client of his after a probation violation hearing and nearly held Anton in contempt for muttering “bitch” under his breath.

Sonia Morales ran a tight courtroom and had a reputation for ruling in favor of the State and imposing harsh sentences after trial. Maximum Morales, they called her. Due to the racial proclivities of the justice system, her ax most often fell upon the necks of young African-Americans. In the crude words of the local defense bar, Sonia Morales had fucked more black men than Kim Kardashian.

“
Okay,” she said, turning in her leather swivel chair and adjusting her reading glasses. She skimmed the file that the clerk had placed on the bench. “We’re here for an Arthur Hearing in the matter of
State versus Bryan Avery
.” She looked at the defendant in the jury box and nodded politely. “Let the record reflect the presence of the defendant, who is in custody, as well as the presence of both the assistant state attorney and counsel for Mr. Avery. Would both parties please announce their presence for the record.”

“
Sylvia Kaplan on behalf of the State.”

“
Anton Mackey on behalf of Mr. Avery.”

“
Thank you.” Judge Morales nodded with contentment. She had been reversed enough times on her overtly pro-state rulings that she had learned how to guard her record. “Now, is there any resolution that has been reached between the parties regarding bond in this matter?”

“
Absolutely not, Your Honor,” Sylvia said, quick to get the first word. “In fact, the State is prepared to file an information. If that pleases the court, we can arraign the defendant now.”

Judge Morales flipped through the pages of her calendar, noting that the formal arraignment was scheduled for the following week. “That’s fine. Madam Clerk, we can arraign Mr. Avery now.”

Sylvia removed the information from her Redweld and read it into the record. “In case F14-277, the State files a felony information charging the defendant, Bryan Avery, with one count of burglary with an assault or battery, one count of attempted first-degree murder, and one count of resisting an officer with violence.”

Anton turned to his client. He could see only the top of his shaggy head, his chin on his chest. As if he’d lost already.

“
We’ll enter a plea of not guilty, demand discovery, request reasonable time for the filing of motions, and set the matter for trial,” Anton said into the microphone, reciting the operative language on mental autopilot.

“
Very well.” Judge Morales swiveled her chair toward the jury box. “Mr. Avery, the State has just charged you with three felony offenses. Two of those offenses are punishable by life in prison, which means that as a matter of law, you are not entitled to a bond. The purpose of today’s hearing is to decide whether or not this court is going to grant you a bond. As I’m sure your attorney has explained to you, this is a proceeding that takes place without a jury and the State must prove the evidence by a standard greater than what they are required to prove a trial. Do you understand everything that I have just explained to you, sir?”

“
Yes, ma’am.”

“
Good. State, you may proceed. Please call your first witness.”

“
State calls Daniella Avery.”

Judge Morales sent Diego out to fetch her in the hallway. He escorted her in. It was the first time Anton had seen her since the evening at her apartment. Either she had tempered her fashion sense or Sylvia had talked to her about the merits of looking the part. She walked with her hands clasped in front, her head slightly downcast. She wore no makeup and pulled her hair back in a simple ponytail. She wore a gray knife-pleat skirt that came down to mid-calf and a cream-colored knit sweater.

Bryan watched her nervously approach the bench. He hadn’t seen his wife in almost three weeks. Anton assumed a seat at the defense table.

Daniella raised her hand as the clerk swore her in.

“
Do you swear or affirm to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“
Yes, I do.” She spoke so softly the court reporter had to motion for her to speak up.

Judge Morales smiled compassionately. “Thank you, Ms. Avery. Please take a seat here.”

Daniella sat in the witness seat. The bailiff came over and adjusted the microphone for her.

“
Good afternoon, Daniella,” Sylvia began. Her voice was slow and soothing, spoken in a deliberately low tone. She sounded more like a preschool teacher than a prosecutor. “Can you introduce yourself to the court?”

Anton seethed with rage as he watched her purposefully lean into the microphone, a reluctant, awkward smile across her face. All a part of the act. He bit his folded tongue and clenched his fist, almost snapping the pen in his hand.

“
Um, Daniella Avery.” She brushed a few wisps of hair out of her face.

“
Ma’am, you gotta speak up,” the court reporter barked, rapping on her stenotype machine.