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“Besides, as the city with the second-highest crime rate in Maryland after Baltimore, don’t you think we could use the win right now?”
“Totally. Still ... something doesn’t feel right about this one. Hernandez wasn’t retarded, just kind of slow. And he only spoke Spanish. The court assigned a translator to help Baxter get his story. Even then, she didn’t get much, from what she told me. He wouldn’t deal, but he wouldn’t fight either. So she ended up relying on that psych defense.”
“Well, that’s Baxter’s problem, isn’t it?”
“Sure. So why do I keep wondering what he wasn’t telling her?”
“Again, not your problem. Defendant has the right to remain silent, doesn’t he?”
“That’s not supposed to refer to what you tell your own attorney.”
Finnegan gawked at Marinelli. “Quit worrying about it, you dumb guinea. You did your job and the public defender did hers. You won. End of story.” He grinned. “Now, sit back, smile and wait for your next plum assignment from Big Dick.”
Marinelli nodded. Big Dick Dawson, Culver City State’s Attorney. He’d be happy. There’d be good headlines in the Culver City Chronicle’s morning edition—the kind of headlines that couldn’t hurt a State’s Attorney coming up for re-election in six months. Marinelli sat back and smiled. But he couldn’t seem to stop worrying.
*****
Three months later, Marinelli was at his desk, reviewing a new case file, when the phone rang.
In mid-greeting, the familiar voice boomed from the receiver. “Dan, it’s Dick Dawson. My office. Now.”
Big Dick. He could certainly live up to his nickname sometimes. Marinelli noticed that Dick Dawson never failed to use both names when identifying himself on the phone. As if there were ten other guys named Dick running around the State’s Attorneys’ Office who he might get mistaken for.
Marinelli stepped into the corner office furnished in dark walnut, plush beige carpeting and navy drapes. Big Dick was at his desk, scribbling something on a pad and scowling. He had a full head of short, mostly-dark hair that, as usual, appeared to be combed within an inch of its life, right down to his short graying sideburns. Without looking up, he waved Marinelli toward him and said, “Sit.”
Suppressing the urge to tell the old man not to order him about like a dog, Marinelli sat and waited.
Dawson put down his pen, folded his hands on the desk and gave Marinelli a grim, steady look over his tortoise-rimmed reading glasses. “That priest-killer, Hernandez? He’s asking for a new trial.”
“Now? A little late in the game, isn’t it?”
“Some crap about new evidence, plus the usual ineffective assistance of counsel stuff. You know how it goes.”
“Usually, nowhere, especially post-sentencing, unless it’s pretty compelling. Are we talking DNA evidence?”
“I don’t know, but Baxter’s got a bee in her bonnet on this one.” Dawson sounded unusually annoyed. “I need you to nip this shit in the bud. Understand?”
“Fine. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t do it sooner. I mean, from what I gathered, the client wasn’t easy to work with. I guess Baxter must have stumbled onto something after the fact.” Marinelli wondered vaguely how the overworked, underpaid public defender had managed to do that. “Plus the language barrier could provide grounds for her ineffective assistance argument.”
“She had a translator! What more could she ask for?” Dawson snapped. “This unhappy childhood shit is no excuse for committing murder. We needed to set an example and we did. Let’s not wreck it by letting Baxter pull some eleventh-hour bullshit.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Marinelli said. “Judge Gardena won’t grant a new trial.”
“That’s another thing.” Dawson picked up the pen and tapped it on his legal pad. “Baxter’s making noises about asking Gardena to recuse himself.”
Marinelli issued a harsh laugh. “Good luck! On what grounds?”
“Some kind of bias argument, I’d guess. Gardena’s been hearing some of those priest molestation cases. He also denied all her evidentiary motions and used your jury instructions practically verbatim.”
“Those aren’t grounds for bias, and she knows it. As long as he wasn’t assigned to Hernandez’s molestation case, I can’t see any conflict. If anything, it should make him more sympathetic to the defendant. As for his rulings, he’s a law-and-order judge, no different than half the bench in this town.”
“Just be prepared.” Dawson tapped out a Morse Code rhythm on his pad. “We’ll be getting some pressure on this one.”
The Archdiocese, Marinelli thought. Naturally, they’d want to make sure the verdict in this case stood. He wondered how many child molesters they were trying to protect from the Hernandezes of the world. The sour thought put his teeth on edge.
*****
Marinelli saw Leslie Baxter roaming the hall between court dockets later that day, a stack of files on one arm. He pulled her aside.
