again. “I’d almost convinced myself I shot Palmer in self-defense. Right after it happened I wanted to believe he charged me after I wrestled the gun away. I imagined him bearing down on me and me turning my head and firing. But that’s not true. He hit his head against the lamppost and was dazed. I could’ve just walked away.”
Porzolkiewski pursed his lips.
“Then I told myself the gun went off by accident. That my hand was shaking so much I squeezed the trigger. I even acted it out in my cell, imagining myself in front of a jury.”
“But the difference is that you never lied to anybody about what happened.”
Porzolkiewski straightened up.
“Yes, I did. I lied to myself, and not telling the truth was a way of lying to Palmer’s wife. She had a right to know. Every time I think of her tied up… and Palmer. If I hadn’t gone to see Palmer, they never would’ve killed him.”
“Don’t even think it. There’s no way you could’ve known what was really going on. In any case, not everything in the world is your responsibility.”
Porzolkiewski drew back and said, “Seems like a strange comment coming from you. What exactly did you owe me in this thing? Nothing. You owed me nothing.”
“I owed you the truth,” Gage said, “the same thing you owed me.”
Porzolkiewski laid his palm on his chest in an act of contrition. “I understand that now.”
He reached to his left for an oversized envelope, then pulled out a stack of papers and slid them toward Gage. On top was a letter from FourStar Media in Hollywood.
“Five hundred thousand dollars,” Porzolkiewski said. “That’s what they want to pay me for my story.” He pointed at the papers. “There’s a contract underneath. All it needs is my signature.”
Gage slid them back. “Why not? You’re a hero to every parent who lost a child because of corporate greed. Your picture is everywhere on the Internet, and on every television station and in every newspaper in the world.”
Porzolkiewski shook his head and slid the papers back into the envelope.
“I think I’ll pass. This wasn’t about me.”
He propped his elbows on the table, then smiled and arched his eyebrows.
“I’ve been wondering about the condom. Did you happen to ask Brandon Meyer who his girlfriend was?”
“He claims there was no girlfriend. He said he found it on another judge’s bathroom floor a couple of hours before he ran into you. Brandon had to pick it up, otherwise the judge would know he’d seen it.”
“Because the other judge was the one with the girlfriend?”
“That’s his story.”
“Sounds a little lame to me. Did you believe him?”
“Is it important anymore?”
“I guess not.” Porzolkiewski paused, then exhaled like a man standing hands-on-hips gazing down toward a valley trailhead after climbing to a mountaintop. He peered at Gage. “I never thought to ask how you got involved in all this in the first place.”
“A call from Charlie.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t have a chance to say anything.”
“You know what he wanted?”
Gage thought back to Charlie’s last day, his last words, his desperate, pleading voice. For the first time Gage understood the burden he’d carried since those final moments.
“More than anything,” Gage said. “I think he wanted me to finish out his life.”
“The way he would’ve done it himself?”
Gage shrugged. “We’ll never know, but this is how it had to be.”
I understand there’s a disposition in this matter,” Judge Louisa Havstad said, peering down at John Porzolkiewski, dressed in an orange jail jumpsuit and standing next to the deputy district attorney. The judge fixed her eyes on the prosecutor.
“Ms. Kennedy, do the People have any objection to Mr. Porzolkiewski representing himself?”
Kennedy shook her head. “No, Your Honor. I met with him yesterday and then again a few minutes ago, and I’m satisfied he’s making a knowing waiver of his right to counsel.”
Judge Havstad then surveyed the courtroom, the reporters packed into the front rows and the broadcast and cable video cameras in the jury box bearing down on Porzolkiewski. Her pale skin and tense stare, combined with the sense of expectation in the courtroom, gave the impression of someone fearing a dam was about to break.
“My concern is that the defendant’s behavior in the early stages of his previous case was somewhat bizarre. I don’t want to see this proceeding turn into a spectacle.”
“I don’t believe that will happen,” Kennedy said.
Havstad turned her gaze toward the defendant.
“For the record, Mr. Porzolkiewski, is it your intention to proceed without counsel?”
Porzolkiewski nodded.
“You have to answer aloud so the stenographer can take it down.”
Porzolkiewski reddened. “Yes, Your Honor. I want to represent myself.”
“Have you read the Faretta case?”
“Yes, I have. The district attorney gave me a copy.”
“So you understand that if you act as your own lawyer, you can’t turn around later and appeal your conviction by claiming incompetence of counsel?”
Tension-cracking laughter broke out and rattled among the spectators. Havstad slammed down her gavel, and then aimed it at the bailiff.
“If anyone makes another sound during the remainder of this proceeding I want them hauled out of here and brought back tomorrow in handcuffs. Understood?”
Havstad looked again at Porzolkiewski.
“Did you hear my question, Mr. Porzolkiewski?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And the answer?”
“Yes. I understood Faretta.”
“And is it your intention to plead guilty to count one of the indictment, assault with a deadly weapon?”
A murmur rolled through the courtroom. Havstad raised her gavel and glared at the audience.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Before you do that I need to advise you of certain of your rights and of the consequences of such a plea…”
G age sat by the window in Spike’s office watching television reporters opining about Brandon Meyer’s appearance before the federal grand jury investigating corporate tax fraud and campaign money laundering through Pegasus. He switched the TV off when Spike opened the door.
Spike hung his sports jacket on the corner coatrack, then dropped into his chair.
“Tough guy that Porzolkiewski,” Spike said. “He didn’t weasel. Didn’t make any excuses. Just got up and told the story.”
“You’re okay with assault with a deadly weapon as the disposition, instead of attempted murder?”
“I believed him,” Spike said. “He wanted to hurt Charlie, make him suffer, not kill him.”
“What do you think Havstad is going to do?”
“Hard to say. It’s two, three, or four years on the assault plus a consecutive three, four, or ten for using the handgun.”
Gage rose and looked down through the window. News crews were gathered in semidarkness on the front steps, cameras were pointed at the bronze exit doors.
“I don’t think she would’ve released him without bail,” Gage said, “if she intended to max him out.”
“Will he show up for sentencing next month?” Spike asked.
“He’ll show.”
Spike smiled. “You want to put some cash on it?”
Gage glanced over his shoulder. He didn’t smile back. “Don’t talk to me about money.”
