Guilt By Degrees - [6]

“You’re never going to find this defendant again,” I said heatedly. “He’ll be in the wind the minute they open the gate.”

Averill threw the last report into his file. “Tell me, since when does a Special Trials hotshot give a shit about some homeless guy?”

“Tell me, since when did it matter whether a victim drove a Mercedes or a shopping cart?” I fired back.

“Maybe since the ‘victim,’” he said, making air quotes-which I hate almost as much as I detest snotty prosecutors-“had just grabbed a lady and was probably going to rob her.”

“Based on?”

“Based on the fact that he was found holding a box cutter, and surprisingly we didn’t find any packing tape nearby.”

“But surprisingly he’s the only one who’s dead, and if someone killed him in self-defense, then how come they’re not around to say so?”

“You’re so fired up about this dog, why don’t you refile?” he said with a smirk. “Be nice to see one of you Special Trials hotshots get down in the muck with the rest of us.”

If he hadn’t been such a huge jerk, I might’ve taken a moment to think about whether there was any hope for this case. But as it was, he’d pissed me off so royally on so many levels that I didn’t pause for a second. I grabbed the file out of his hand and turned to the judge.

“Excuse me, Your Honor,” I said, loud enough to break through the courtroom chatter. “I’d like to notify the court that the People will be refiling the case of”-I paused to look at the file-“People versus Ronald Yamaguchi.”

Judge Foster raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea the Special Trials deputies were in the business of trolling for cases. Must be my lucky day,” he said dryly. “Deputy Stevenson,” he said, addressing the bailiff, “tell your folks not to rush. It appears Mr. Yamaguchi will be staying with us a little longer.”

The bailiff nodded and picked up the phone on his desk.

“And I have the next case, Your Honor,” I said, setting down the murder book-the binder cops put together that holds all the reports on a murder case-on counsel table with a heavy thump.

“You ready?” the judge asked.

“I am,” I replied.

“But I’m not, Your Honor. Sam Zucker for the defendant.” He was a really young, slick-haired type in a chocolate-brown pin-striped suit that said wowee-look-at-me-I’m-a-lawyer. “I’m standing in for Newt Hamilton, who’s got the flu. We’ll be asking for two weeks-or more if the People want.”

Since Newt Hamilton had been privately retained, I had the feeling the onset of his “flu” might be related to the defendant’s lack of cash. I knew the judge wouldn’t force a stand-in to go forward on a murder case, so I didn’t bother to object. We quickly picked a new date, and as the judge called the next case, I saw a detective come barreling in, his eyes on fire and his jaw working sideways. He headed straight for the clerk’s desk.

“Detective Stoner, investigating officer on the Yamaguchi case.” He pulled out his badge and handed Manny his card. “I just heard the case got dismissed,” he said, his voice tight with barely restrained fury.

Manny, who’d had enough fury for one day, quickly pointed to me. “Yeah, but she’s refiling.”

Thanks, Manny. The detective turned to look at me, steam blowing out of his ears. I motioned for him to meet me out in the hallway and braced myself for the nuclear blast. He nodded curtly, turned on his heel, and headed for the door in rapid, angry strides. Although I was closer to the exit, he moved so fast he got there ten steps ahead of me.

I found the detective out in the hallway and walked over to introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Rachel Knight. Guess I’ll be handling the case-,” I began.

The detective turned toward me, but before he could respond, his attention was drawn to a point over my left shoulder. His eyes narrowed and his chest filled. “Excuse me,” he said roughly, and marched past me.

I turned to see where he was headed, and there was Brandon, sauntering out of the snack bar, carrying-what else?-a cinnamon-covered latte.

Detective Stoner flew at him like a heat-seeking missile. “Why the hell didn’t you give me a subpoena for the uniform?”

Brandon had enough sense to blanch, but not enough to back down. He took exactly one second to find his voice. “I did. I sent it over. You just never picked it up. You blew it, Stoner, so don’t try to blame me for your fuckup.”

“You never sent anything over, you dumb punk! And I can prove it! The subpoena records show nothing was ever issued for the uniform!”

“Yeah? And who controls those records?” Brandon said in a grating voice that’d probably set people’s teeth grinding since he was in kindergarten. “Oh, that’s right, you guys.”

Everyone has a breaking point. Brandon had just found Stoner’s.

The detective pulled back his right fist with a vengeance that would’ve knocked Brandon into his next life if he hadn’t flinched just in time. The potentially lethal blow glanced off Brandon’s left shoulder. Even so, the force was enough to send him and his latte flying. Stoner’s momentum carried him forward, knocking them both to the floor. The detective seized the opportunity to land a solid punch to the kidney.