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“I’ve got some very exciting news,” says Reverend Shields, stepping forward and clasping my hands in both of his. “After some serious cajoling and arm twisting, Mr. Montgomery has generously volunteered to take over Dante Halleyville’s defense.”
“The trial starts in a few days,” says Kate, her voice calm, her eyes red hot.
Ro
“Have you spoken to Dante?” I finally say.
“I wanted to come here first,” says Montgomery, “as a professional courtesy.”
Montgomery takes in our modest office, conveying with a shrug what it suggests about our inappropriateness for this huge case and about our chances in the upcoming trial.
“I know you mean well, and I’m sure you’ve worked terribly hard. And both of you are welcome to stay on to help with the transition. But you’re way out of your depth here, and Dante Halleyville deserves more.”
When Montgomery serves up another condescending smile, I’m kind of sorry I put down that baseball bat.
Chapter 84. Tom
THE NEXT MORNING as Kate’s Jetta pulls into the lot behind the Riverhead Correctional Facility, Ro
But Kate and I adhere to our routine. We park in our spot, exchange pleasant greetings with Mike and Billy at the front desk, and stash our watches and keys in locker number 1924.
For presumably the last time, Sheila, the only female guard at the maximum-security jail, who has somehow worked here twenty-three years, escorts us through the sliding steel gates into the purgatory of the attorney rooms. Dante, having just met with Montgomery, is already there.
He looks at his feet and says, “We’ve got to talk.”
Kate and I sink into our seats at the small metal table. I bite my tongue and wait for the ax. I haven’t felt this awful in a long time.
“I just had a visit from Ro
“He stopped by our office last night,” says Kate.
“Then I guess you already know he’s offered to take the case. He said he hasn’t lost a trial in fifteen years.”
“Might be true,” says Kate.
“He said that this is the most important decision I’ll ever make. That I need to take some time with it.”
“What’d you say?”
“Time’s up, Mr. Montgomery. I already lost ten months in here. I know what I got to do.”
“Which is what?” I ask.
“You got to understand this ain’t personal. Lorenzo Lewis’s clothes were smeared with his wife’s blood. When the cops arrived he locked himself in his bathroom, took thirty sleeping pills, and called his mama. Montgomery still got him off.”
“That was a unique case,” says Kate, “but we won’t take it personally.”
“You sure?”
“For Christ’s sake, Dante, what did you tell him?”
“I told him, no thanks, bro’. I like the lawyers I got.
“You think I’m crazy?” says Dante, pointing a long finger at Kate and smiling as though she’s just been Punk’d. “I hire Montgomery, and everyone, including the jury, is going to assume I’m as guilty as Lorenzo Lewis. Plus, I figure Montgomery used up his luck for three lifetimes on that other case. Kate, you crying on me, girl?”
Chapter 85. Kate
DANTE’S GRANDMOM MARIE bows her head and reaches for my hand, which I gratefully give her.
“Thank you, Lord, for the abundance we are about to receive,” she says. “Thank you for the strength to endure this terrible, terrible ordeal and most of all for delivering such dedicated attorneys as Tom and Kate. Bless this meal, oh Lord, and please find it in your heart to keep an eye out for my grandson Dante. My i
Saturday evening, two days before the trial, and every friend Tom and I have left sits around Macklin’s dining room table. With only Mack and Marie; Tom’s brother, Jeff, and nephew Sean; Clarence and his wife, Vernell, there’s plenty of leg and elbow room.
“To this time next year,” says Mack, raising a glass and trying as always to lighten the mood. “When Dante sits next to us, stuffs his face, and tells barely believable tales of Shaq and Kobe, Amare and LeBron.”
The guest list for the meal is short, but the table groans under a rarely seen combination of Caribbean and Irish standards. After almost a year in near isolation, the company means more than the food to me. But the food is wonderful too. We’re in the process of eating way too much of it when the ringing of Tom’s cell pierces the room. “I better answer it,” he says.
He pulls it from his pocket and raises one hand in apology as the blood drains from his face.
“We’ve got to turn on Fox News,” he tells everybody.
Half of us are already in the living room with our desserts, and the rest shuffle over and twist a chair to face Mack’s antique Zenith. Sean finds cha
“I’m live in Queens,” says a perky blonde, “directly across from St. John’s Law School, alma mater of Tom Dunleavy, cocounsel in the capital murder trial of Dante Halleyville. According to documents just obtained by Fox, Dunleavy, a star basketball player at St. John’s, was accepted into the law school despite grades a full point below the admission minimum.”
“Quite a scoop,” says Macklin, snorting.
“Despite graduating in the bottom fifth of his class,” continues the reporter, “Dunleavy was hired by the Brooklyn Public Defender’s Office, where he received mediocre evaluations.
“The most troubling allegation, however, is that in 1997, Dunleavy had someone take the Law Boards for him.
“According to copies of the test obtained by Fox and examined by independent handwriting experts, Dunleavy’s exams, on which he scored surprisingly well for a student with his grades, were taken by someone who is right-handed. Dunleavy, a two-time All-American, is left-handed.
“If this is true, Dante Halleyville, who faces capital punishment and whose trial begins in forty-eight hours, has put his life in the hands of someone who is not even a lawyer.”
Chapter 86. Tom
AT 9:00 P.M. the following night, the somber-faced clerk for Suffolk County Supreme Court judge Richard Rothstein waves me, Kate, and District Attorney Dominic Ioli into his well-appointed chambers, where we take our seats at a long mahogany table.
Ioli, a loquacious career pol with a full head of gray hair, makes a couple stabs at idle chatter, but when he sees we’re in no mood, he abandons the effort and thumbs through his Times. I know this much about Dominic Ioli-he’s a whole lot smarter than he looks, and he rarely loses.
When Judge Rothstein strides in, wearing khakis and a button-down white shirt, his penetrating black eyes and long sharp nose tell me I’m exactly the kind of dumb Irish jock he’s got no time or use for.
Bypassing pleasantries, he turns to Ioli and asks, “What’s your office’s position on this, Dominic?”
“We haven’t had time to fully assess the charges,” he says, “but I don’t think it matters. Whatever decision this court makes should be beyond reproach. If defense stays on, we leave the door wide open for appeal. Assigning new counsel will require a delay, but it’s better to spend that time now than to have to come back and do this all over again.”
“Sounds reasonable,” says Rothstein, and turns his eyes on me. “Dunleavy?”
I’m prepared to argue forcefully, but I have no intention of getting down on my knees for anyone. “Your Honor, the grades and evaluations are what they are,” I say in an offhanded tone. “But I’m sure in your career you’ve come across at least a couple of excellent attorneys who weren’t brilliant law students. For all I know, the district attorney is one of them.”