Without a Doubt - [42]
Our whole team worked like maniacs preparing for the prelims. I had no time to worry about how big the case was getting; it was all I could do to gather and organize all the material. After all, we had a week to do a job that normally we’d have had three months to complete. The day before the prelims were set to start was especially hectic. Shapiro filed his motion to suppress the evidence seized at Rockingham before Phil tried to get a warrant. We’d expected this, but just not so soon. So we got a judge to postpone testimony on the motion until we had some time to prepare. Then we went back upstairs to work.
We stayed until after nine on the eve of the prelims. I was sure that most of the press would have retreated to their respective hotel bars by then. Instead, as Suzanne, Bill, and I walked out the back of the CCB, we saw that the parking lot was more crowded than a tailgate party on homecoming weekend. For the past week, it had been jammed with vans, satellite dishes, and lunch wagons. ABC, NBC, CBS had all erected scaffolds that resembled medieval assault engines. The correspondents themselves, however, displayed the more modern enthusiasm of fans vamping behind the bleachers before the big game.
Suzanne wasn’t surprised: for the past few days her office had been handling hundreds of calls every hour, from every corner of the world. Just about all the callers, of course, wanted interviews.
Out of nowhere, a reporter with a video cameraman behind him shoved a mike in our faces.
“How do you feel tonight? Are you ready for court tomorrow? he asked.
Bill tossed off an innocuous one-liner as we hustled out of range.
I’d begun to realize that no matter what happened in court, the sheer amplitude of media coverage would distort these proceedings like never before. It made me feel out of control, angry and helpless.
I tried not to dwell on those things the next morning as I scrambled to get Matt ready for school and organize my thoughts at the same time. Just do what you always do, I told myself. I would repeat that many times to myself in the next year.
I arrived on time that morning. I believe I was even early. Bill and I had witnesses stashed all over the eighteenth floor and we ducked in and out of offices, touching base with them, reassuring them. Our last stop was the room used for press conferences. When Bill opened the door, I found myself face-to-face with a roomful of strangers. They were tense, their faces expectant. The victims’ families.
Usually, I meet with the next of kin almost immediately after I get a case. I go out to their homes or they come in to the office to meet me. Wherever they feel more comfortable. It’s important to make that connection right from the start. The unusual circumstances of this case had caused me to proceed more cautiously. For most of the first week after the murders, the case was not officially mine. It was a bad idea, I thought, to make contact and set about establishing rapport with these deeply hurt people when there was a chance that I might not be assigned to the case for keeps. The District Attorney’s office should convey to a victim’s family the feeling of strength and certainty. And that could not happen if they were being passed around from deputy to deputy.
The cops had interviewed them, of course. Gil had spoken to them to convey his sympathy. They had been commended to the care of our “victims’ coordinator,” whose job it is to accompany them to court and answer their questions. I had had brief phone conversations with the Browns and the Goldmans several days earlier, but only to introduce myself. I was hoping they would forgive the awkwardness of meeting under these circumstances.
On one side of the room were the Browns, awesomely handsome and erect. Lou and Juditha, flanked by Denise, Dominique, and Tanya. The suspect was their son-in-law, their brother-in-law. Exactly what stance they were taking toward him was still unclear to me. I found them very hard to read.
On the other side of the room stood the Goldmans. Ron’s father, Fred; his stepmother, Patti; and, of course, Kim, a reed-thin girl whose pretty features were red and swollen from crying. Looking at her made me recall the pang I’d felt upon seeing her brother’s face for the first time, in the coroner’s photos.
“What’s going to happen now?” asked Patti Goldman. She was a petite woman with large, lovely green eyes. Fred stood with his arm draped around her protectively.
“We’ll have some motions to begin with, nothing major,” I said. “The defense has filed a motion to suppress evidence, but that will be heard later during the hearing.”
“Suppress the evidence!” Denise Brown snapped. “What do you mean?”
I could understand why this idea offended her. She would later express her concerns to reporters in even stronger terms. “If he’s innocent,” she would ask, “why does he want to suppress evidence?”
