Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [49]
“Good morning,” said the judge, and Jack did not take that as a good omen. It was three P.M.
“Good morning,” said the lawyers, no one pointing out his error. It was an unwritten rule in Judge Flint’s courtroom: Suck up or shut up.
Bail hearings were not usually closed to the public, but this hearing was unusual for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that in Florida there was no guaranteed right to bail in a first degree murder case. The accused could be released only after an Arthur hearing, named for one of the Florida Supreme Court’s most famous decisions of the early 1980s—which, for the record, had absolutely nothing to do with Dudley Moore, Christopher Cross, or getting caught between the moon and New York City. In theory, the burden was on the prosecution to establish that the proof against the accused was evident and the presumption of guilt was great. In State v. Jamal Wakefield—a case tinged with national security concerns—Jack was practical enough to realize that the defense would have to put on evidence to establish a right to pretrial release.
The prosecutor spoke first. “Judge, we have a defendant who was picked up in Somalia after the commission of the murder and is a clear flight risk. This is a frivolous motion and a colossal waste of this court’s time. For purposes of this hearing, the state of Florida relies on the evidence that it’s already presented to the grand jury.”
“Thank you,” the judge said, and his appreciation seemed sincere, as if he were still under the impression that it was morning and that he had an important lunch date. “Mr. Swyteck, the ball is in your court.”
Jack rose. “Your Honor, in due time we’ll explain how Mr. Wakefield ended up in Somalia. But first, the defense will show that the case against Mr. Wakefield is a weak one, and that he should therefore be released on bond pending trial.”
The judge groaned as he rocked back in his tall leather chair. “Let me be up front about this, Counselor. I am not going to allow you to try this case twice. Your client has a right to a speedy trial, where you can present your evidence soon enough.”
“We may need just one witness to call the prosecution’s case in question,” said Jack.
The judge seemed pleased by that announcement. “I’m going to hold you to that, Mr. Swyteck. Proceed.”
“The defense calls Vincent Paulo.”
Jack’s voice carried across the empty seats in the public galley and almost echoed off the rear wall, a bit too loud for a courtroom with no observers. The double doors in the back of the courtroom swung open, and Sergeant Paulo entered. He wore a business suit and tie, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. In his right hand was a white walking cane. His wife was standing at his left, a strong and beautiful woman, which made it seem all the more tragic that Vince could no longer see her. Vince tucked away the cane and laid his hand in the crook of her right arm. Together they came down the aisle, though it seemed to Jack that Vince could have done it without assistance. In a moment of uncontrollable defense-lawyer cynicism, Jack wondered if the prosecutor had told Vince to bring his wife, make himself look more helpless—and make the judge hate Jack even more for attacking the cop that his client was accused of blinding.
“Do you swear to tell the truth . . .” said the bailiff, administering the familiar oath.
“I do,” said Vince. He climbed into the witness stand and settled into the chair.
Jack stepped forward and, to his surprise, felt at a decided disadvantage before he’d even started. The key to effective cross-examination—and this was cross, even though technically the defense had called Paulo to the stand—was to control the witness. In the courtroom, control was like any other