An Eye For Justice Page 3

  ‘Yeah. What time is it?

  ‘Its gone eleven. D’you know a Helena Palmer, guest here, room 202?’

  ‘Yeah. I do. She’s my client,’ I said, still trying to gather myself together. Then, more calmly, ‘look what’s this about? I mean, I spent the evening with her?’

  ‘Yeah, we know,’ Daly said, looking me over some more, his eyes narrowing as he took in my state - bleary eyes, unshaven, coming out of a drunk. Then he said, ‘about an hour and a half ago, Helena Palmer’s body was found, strangled.’

  He kept his eyes on me, steady and unmoving, watching me carefully for a reaction. I didn’t give him one, just stopping myself from swaying with a superhuman effort, just standing there looking back at him, my face blank.

  ‘Any comment? You seem calm,’ he said, still watching.

  I looked back at him and years of experience told me he had something, so I waited. Never show your hand, and there would be no point doing the histrionics bit, because Daly looked ice cold.

  I watched his eyes change subtly as he got the fact I wasn’t going to bite. He continued, ‘we’ve been looking at the Hotels CCTV while you’ve been sleeping it off. Know what it shows?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said.

  ‘You. That’s what it shows. You and only you, going in and out of her room at the time she was murdered. No one else.’

  I finally found my voice. ‘You’re kidding me, right? This is a joke? A set up.’

  ‘You think so?’ he said with a grim smile, turning his face full on me. He looked at me as if weighing me up some more, but I knew he’d already decided. He said, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Helena Palmer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court……………’

  I stopped listening; it was the Miranda warning, equivalent to the UK caution given on arrest. My mind was reeling, and a delayed reaction was setting in. ‘I didn’t kill her,’ I said, but my voice sounded weak and unconvincing, and the cops weren’t listening anymore.

  ‘……you have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you,’ Daly concluded. He nodded to the patrolman who had now joined us in the room. ‘Cuff him.’

  After they got me down to the street I sat in the back of a squad car. My mind was sluggish from the booze and I couldn’t seem to concentrate. Daly didn’t seem like he wanted to talk. I guessed he had a problem with drunks, but then he probably didn’t like killers much either. But then he leaned back over the seat and said casually, ‘you happen to own a green silk tie by Drake’s of London?’

  In my banging head the question seemed surreal. I thought about my clothing strewn across the floor of the hotel room. Maybe there was a cat burglar doing the rounds, stealing guests clothing? I felt like laughing. ‘You’re kidding, right? Yeah, I do. So what?’

  ‘It was found pulled tight around the vic’s neck,’ he said. He turned back to stare out the window, and I knew he was smiling.

  As I tried to get my head around that, it suddenly dawned on me what had been missing from the room. Before Helena and I had ordered up room service, I had put all Hannah’s case notes, statements, tapes and depositions on a side table. I rebooted in my mind images of the room from when I’d woken up, then panned around, over the clothing strewn floor, the bed, table and chairs - nothing. The stuff was gone.

  * * * *

  At the precinct house they processed me and didn’t bother using kid gloves, but by then I was in a kind of lockdown trance, so I went with the flow, head down and mouth shut, except to give them the basics. Until I could figure out what the hell had happened, that seemed like the best option. I knew US cops were trigger happy and aggressive, but it was still a culture shock to get pushed around like that. They took all my stuff, wallet and cell phone then rough-housed me through a body search, fingerprinting and mug shot.

  Then they sat me down in a bare room, kind of interrogation cell, and left me to stew. I stared at the walls, trying not to scream and tear my hair out. Twenty minutes later Daly was back. He sat and kind of sprawled in the chair across from me, and said, ‘so, you want to tell me what happened in there?’

  He watched me with a kind of lazy look, eyes half-lidded, as if he wasn’t too bothered whether I spoke to him or not. I waited.

  ‘Look, Calver,’ he finally said, ‘you’ll be arraigned shortly and the judge’ll want to talk bail. I hear you’re a lawyer back in the UK so you’ll know the score. Talk now and maybe we can work something out.’

  Never make it easy for them, and never swallow the line they’re going to help you if you talk to them, because its bullshit. My take: Daly wasn’t going to listen anyway, because he’d already decided on my guilt. And that was the worst of the worst because it meant that any inconvenient evidence that didn’t fit their hypothesis would either get binned or be massaged to fit their pet theory.

  I could see Daly’s patience was beginning to run out, but he managed to come up with a smile of sorts, like he really wanted to help. ‘Look, Calver,’ he said, leaning closer across the table as if that would give his words more sincerity. ‘Maybe it was a sex game gone bad. That would be a good start. Hell, maybe she asked you to do it. I hear some woman like that kind of shit. Talk to me, man, ‘cause I’ll tell you this: a rich white lawyer boy like you? Down in the Tombs, which is where you’ll be going, you won’t last ten seconds ’

  The thought of being remanded to a US jail scared the shit out of me. But my brain, unrealistically, just kept saying go on denying, something’ll turn up. I licked my lips, and said, ‘you seem like a regular guy, Daly, so I’m going to give you the heads up before I close up the shop and make my phone call.

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ I said, enunciating each word carefully, in case he didn’t get it. ‘I did have sex with her, consensually, in my room, so you’re gonna find a shed load of my DNA, which’ll prove nothing. But if you’re smart,’ I said, eyeing him up with a challenge, ‘there’s one question you’ll be asking yourself: if I’m such a hotshot lawyer, why the fuck would I set the crime scene up to guarantee my own murder conviction?’

  ‘You’re a lush, Calver,’ he replied, watching me, eyes unforgiving. ‘And evidence says you did it, so if you’re not going to explain what happened, we’re going to nail you down for murder one. And in case you don’t know it, counsellor, that’s life without parole.’

  We glared at each other. I said, ‘I’m done talking. I want my phone call.’

  * * * *

  In London I knew people would just be waking up. I called Emma at home, wondering, for about a millisecond, if NYPD would bitch about the international call charges, then she was picking up, voice fuzzy with sleep.

  ‘Jesus, Jonas. Couldn’t this wait till I—’

  ‘Sorry, Em. I’m in trouble,’ I said, cutting in and wondering how I was going to tell her that her cousin was dead. I looked around the bare room, then over at Daly leaning against the door, just out of earshot. He held his wrist up and tapped his watch, intent on hustling me.

  ‘Look, I don’t have time to dress this up, soften the blow, or whatever. Helena is dead, and…….and, they think I did it, but it’s not true. We had a drink and..’ My voice tailed off, and I instantly knew I’d made a mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned the drink. There was silence. I blustered. ‘Em, I need you to get me—

  ‘What the hell happened, Jonas? What did you do?’ she said, her voice accusatory, but distant and far away. She continued slowly, each word uttered as she processed it. ‘I mean, she’s my cousin. How can she be dead? My God, and still you drink, even with this.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her, for christsakes. We had a drink. She went to her room. They found her strangled, with my……With my tie round her neck. And now they’re holding me and I’ll be up before the judge soon.’

  ‘Just like Carmen,’ she whispered.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ I said, but I knew exactly what she meant. I’
d told her about my blackout and the incident with Carmen when I’d put my hands around her throat.

  ‘It’s not like that. I—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jonas. I can’t deal with this right now,’ she said.

  I heard a click as she replaced the receiver. I just looked at the phone, disbelieving.

  Daly sauntered over, smiling. He’d been watching and I guess my face said it all. He grabbed my arm roughly. Let’s go,’ he said.

  * * * *

  Then it was another blur as I drifted through the nightmare. They took me to central booking and processed me some more. As they moved me through the system I was listless, like I was sleep walking.

  After an hour or so Daly came back. Maybe I should have been alerted by the fact that he’d spruced himself up, changed his suit and was now wearing shades. As he led me out the door onto the street, my handcuffs prominently displayed in front of me, there was a small group of media, including TV, waiting for us. Then I got it: they’d set me up for the fabled perp walk. It was a pantomime performance designed for the media, highly prejudicial, and calculated to influence opinion, especially amongst future potential jurors. Look, honey, the guys in chains, must be guilty.

  I was taken by surprise, unable to do anything to hide the dumb, stupid and scared look on my face. The camera’s snapped and ran, and the comments rained down on me as I was led to the car.

  ‘Did you kill her, Jonas?’

  ‘What would you like to say to your friends back in the UK?’

  I just managed to mouth the words, ‘I’m innocent,’ before Daly bundled me into the car, but I don’t think anyone was listening.

  * * * *

  Courtney Pascal sat in the almost empty pub, at the bar, sipping a bloody Mary. It was mid morning. She felt restless. She turned on her stool to watch the grey swirling waters of the Thames flow by as she re-ran the conversation she had just had with the guys at MI5. Looked like finally a green light. She was going back in, but this time she had choices, maybe even a spell at 6, overseas.

  She smiled at the young Polish girl behind the bar, admiring the girls clean lines and sparkling eyes. She was about to say something playful to the girl when her attention was grabbed by images on the TV screen over the bar. She immediately recognized the face.

  ‘Turn it up,’ she said, nodding at the screen.

  As the girl pressed a button on the remote the Sky News reporters words filtered in…….‘the UK lawyer was arrested this morning in Manhattan in connection with the murder of Helena Palmer, who is believed to be his client. He is now on his way to court to be arraigned, and seasoned court watchers suggest he is unlikely to get bail,’ the reporter finished breathlessly. The clip accompanying the reporters words showed Jonas Calver, looking deathly pale, being led handcuffed out to a car, surrounded by NYPD and media.

  For a long time Pascal sat looking out at the Thames, then she picked up her smart phone, got up and made for the door. The Polish girl watched her go with a pang of regret. The strange looking customer hadn’t said much, but she sure as hell left an impression, but when the girl thought about it, she couldn’t exactly work out why.

  * * * *

  As a couple of burly police officers hustled me through the surging cathedral like halls of the New York State Criminal Court I gazed around trying to get my bearings and figure out what the hell I was doing there. The place was overflowing with people; a constant flow of lawyers, court officials, family members, witnesses and victims, all yapping at each other at the same time.

  My guys left me sitting on a bench at the side of the court, still handcuffed and watched by a deputy. As I waited for my case to be called on I settled down to watch. At first blush it looked like organized chaos, but there was a familiar rhythm to it. The docket number was called, the defendant with his attorney shuffled up in front of the presiding judge, a verbal exchange took place and two minutes later the next case came on, with generally the defendant not having uttered a single word. In a way, it was just like being back home.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up into the face of an earnest young woman with a dark bouffant of wavy hair and thick black glasses.

  ‘Joanna Rodriguez, Public Defender,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘We met earlier, with the forms, but maybe you weren’t paying too much attention,’ she said with an uncertain smile.

  I vaguely remembered her approaching me and taking some details as they’d hustled me in about twenty minutes earlier when I was still in a kind of idiot trance. Now I sized her up. She looked like a law student. Some cavalry I thought. I nodded, gesturing at my cuffed hands. She smiled perfunctorily. She sat down next to me with pen poised over her yellow legal pad. ‘We don’t have much time. You’ll get called on any minute now as there’s media here, and they like to get those ones out the way quick. Let me do all the talking. The only thing at issue here is bail, and I don’t think you’re going to get it,’ she said, drawing breath for the first time.

  I studied her closely. She looked nervous, talking too fast. ‘ How long you been doing this, Joanna?’ I asked her.

  ‘Three months,’ she said, turning to look at the back of the court as we caught the rising inflection of chatter. Someone was making an entrance. A group of men moved in led by a tall well dressed guy with a Hollywood smile; he nodded and grabbed a hand here and there as he made his way into the well of the court.

  ‘That’s assistant district attorney Owen Stahl,’ she said, with something like awe in her voice. ‘Come to bury you,’ she added, helpfully.

  Before I had a chance to respond to that the usher standing at the side of the court was intoning, ‘People against Jonas Calver.’

  I noticed a slight pall in the noise and the press corp perking up and starting to take notice. I was no celebrity, but I knew the case would be garnering media attention outside, partly because of my nationality and profession but also because of the specifics; they were saying I’d killed my own client in a posh Midtown hotel.

  Joanna pulled me up and we shuffled in front of the judge. The sign on the desk said he was the Honourable Cyrus J. Timmins. I hadn’t really taken much notice of him until now. He looked gnomic, jowly, with a cherubic smile that seemed to be permanently in place, but he moved his courtroom along at a fair lick.

  The Court officer asked Joanna if she was going to waive the reading. She nodded assent and that’s when my survival instincts started to kick in. I knew this was about whether or not there was a formal reading of the accusations against me, and that it was generally dispensed with. But as I still didn’t know what the hell was going on, I didn’t think it was a good idea to stand mute just because it was a convention in New York City, and might piss the court off if I spoke up.

  ‘Whoa there,’ I said loudly. ‘Wait a minute.’

  Joanna tried to shush me and I noticed the assistant DA regarding me with an expression that was pretty close to a smirk. The judge raised his eyes and looked at me for the first time. ‘Is there a problem here, Ms Rodriguez?’ he said, flicking his gaze onto Joanna. ‘We can’t have you both speaking at the same time.’

  I whispered to Joanna, ‘sorry,’ and she nodded, thinking I was apologizing for interrupting. I turned back to the Judge. ‘Your honour, I’m grateful to the New York City authorities for providing me with the services of the public defender, and good as Ms Rodriguez’s skills undoubtedly are, I’m afraid I have just sacked her and hereon in I will be representing myself.’

  Cyrus J briefly glanced at Joanna’s crestfallen face, then back to me, his eyes intermittently flicking down at the papers in front of him.

  ‘I understand you’re a UK attorney, Mr. Calver, but as I’m sure you’re aware, our court procedures are very different to yours and these are very serious charges. My advice is stay with Ms Rodriguez, and let her help you. She’s a very fine attorney.’

  ‘Well that’s just it your honour, what are these very serious charges? I’ve yet to find out. And incidentally, your hon
our, I did pass the New York bar last year so I think I can manage on my own.’

  ‘Mr. Stahl?’ the judge said looking over at the DA.

  ‘No problem your honour, as long as he’s clear about the risks,’ Stahl replied. Then he added, ‘and he should know that any subsequent appeals he might want to raise based on incompetent counsel aint gonna fly.’

  Judge Timmins nodded with approval then glanced at his watch. ‘Lets move this along, people. Mr. Stahl, bail? I’m sure you’ll be sketching out the allegations here sufficient for Mr. Calver so we can forego a formal reading.’

  ‘Thank you your honour. We’d like you to remand Mr. Calver to custody pending trial. He’s clearly a flight risk being resident in the UK, and he has means. More importantly, I would highlight the obvious seriousness of these allegations. Helena Palmer was essentially garroted in her hotel bedroom with a distinctive green silk tie belonging to Mr. Calver. He admits earlier in the evening having what he calls consensual sex with her. However, early forensic indications are that Ms Palmer was brutally raped, anally, prior to death.’

  That got my attention.

  ‘In addition we are getting information that this defendant may have been involved in similar conduct to that alleged here today on at least one other occasion, that took place outside the US and that is being followed up as we speak.’

  What the fuck was he talking about? Then a cold chill began to seep through my guts. They’d listened in to my call to Emma from the precinct house, and she had mentioned the incident with Carmen. She hadn’t spelled it out but it wouldn’t have taken them long to run it down.

  ‘To sum up your honour, all the preliminary indications, CCTV, forensics and eye witness evidence leading up to the offence, powerfully point to this defendant as being the perpetrator. He’s a dangerous man and a flight risk and we say no bail.’

  Timmins looked over at me. ‘Mr. Calver.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t kill Helena Palmer and I sure as hell didn’t rape her. She was my client for christsakes. You know, the one who’s going to pay my bill. Why the hell would I kill her? What possible motive could I have?’ I said, and I could feel my voice about to break with emotion.