“Look, I want to be a team player.” Detective Penance leans back, rubs his eyes. “I know you have a lot of pressure on you. I know there’s something off here, but I just can’t wrap my mind around it. On the one hand, too much evidence points to this crooked company in two murders of two different employees in the same night, and they’re really good at getting rid of evidence. On the other hand, evidence supports motive and opportunity for Micah to kill his husband, apart from any company angle … Not to mention a confession, albeit a weak one, and DNA evidence.”
“Exactly. DNA evidence.”
“But that’s where I stop and think, should we ask for a postponement? Or at least consider a plea deal?”
“That’s not your job.”
“You asked.”
Astrid sits up from her chair. She lets out a sigh that feels like it’s been screaming to be released. “I did. I did ask. Not because I wanted to know, but maybe because I wanted to hear it out loud.”
Detective Penance leans back in his chair, mirroring Astrid.
“These are lives we are talking about,” he says. “Like I said, I know you’re under a lot of pressure on this. But we gotta remember, a human being is dead. Drugs or not, conspirator or not, gay or not, not that I have a problem with that.”
Anyone who says they don’t have a problem with that clearly does, Astrid thinks.
“Plus, I am not letting go of these wiped emails and missing hard drives. I just need more time to find better resources,” he continues. “And from what I’ve heard, Lennox was a decent man. He just got caught up in the wrong place with the wrong people. Did these people include Micah? I think that’s the real question here. If we believe it, then let’s go for it. If we don’t, then we have an ethical responsibility to hold off until we know for sure. Both of us.”
Detective Penance plops the photo of Jenna he had been waving around throughout his monologue onto the table, like a drop-the-mic exclamation to end his point. And THAT is doing my job, he thinks, somewhat relieved to get his concerns off his chest.
Astrid pushes herself up out of the chair and begins pacing around her condo. Normally she would look at cases from many different angles before landing on a truth, a passion behind her representation of the People. But regardless if she wanted to believe it, this woman, this predecessor, this Elaine Holcomb, has control of her decisions. Astrid wants to prove herself. She wants to advance her career.
But is it just that? she wonders.
Something else is nagging her. An overwhelming feeling that Micah somehow orchestrated his husband’s death. Call it intuition, call it experience. She begins to talk out loud, outlining her own “on-the-one-hand” dissertation.
“True, there’s evidence to suggest this company could’ve orchestrated the murder, and Micah was the innocent victim in all of this. But isn’t it also true that there’s more evidence to the contrary? We have a timeline with massive gaps, we have blood all over the alleged perp, we have a taped confession, we have Micah’s beyond-squeaky-clean hard drive, witnesses that corroborate a psychopathic switch that turns Micah from a Christian-raised schoolboy into a raging luna—” She stops mid run-on. “Wait a second, that’s it. That’s our argument.”
“Hard to believe, but I’m actually following you,” he says.
“Then get out. I’ve got work to do.”
He continues to sit, smiling at Astrid’s sarcasm, while gathering his documents and pictures. “You should start by subpoenaing Micah’s therapy notes. He’s got tons of receipts from this Jewish lady in the Flatiron District.”
“It’s cute that you think I haven’t already done that. Now go on. Git!” Astrid says with a shuffling gesture.
“Okay, okay.” He stands up to leave. “I heard you, I heard you.”
C h a p t e r 3 4
“Oyez. Oyez. Oyez. All rise.”
Shawn and Micah stand along with the rest of the court. Micah looks at Shawn, who winks as if to say, We got this.
“New York County Supreme Court is now in session,” the court clerk continues. “The honorable Judge Christopher K. Wilson presiding. All persons having business before the Honorable Court are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the court is now sitting. God save the great state of New York and this Honorable Court.”
A quiet hush covers the room, followed by squeaks and shuffles as lawyers, jurors, and audience members sit down in their seats. The wooden spectator pews are filled with various local and national media and interested onlookers, each wanting a glimpse of the first “Pub War Murder Trial,” as the New York Post has dubbed it. Contrary to the second Pub War case involving the other Élan employee murdered on the same night, this case has a suspect, a confession, an arrest, and its trial is now underway.
The courtroom, with twenty-foot ceilings and original eight-foot mahogany wainscoting, is a throwback to an older age of tradition, respect, and admiration for the justice system. A hodgepodge of renovated additions over the years includes the same speckled vinyl flooring as the Tombs next door, thin black microphones that look like they were ripped from the hands of Bob Barker himself, and large flatscreen television monitors next to the jury box on the left and in front of the defense on the right.
Shawn is sitting next to Micah, who is dressed in a dark-grey wool suit and a blue tie, both of which were gifted by Shawn the night before. Shawn is paying close attention to the jury, and at the same time watching Astrid get her notes together.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” says Judge Wilson, high atop everyone else on his large, looming wooden bench that has been covered in layer after layer of stain and shellac over the years. “Quite the weather we’re having, huh? Had to keep my boots on cuz m’feet are cold.”
The packed courtroom
