again, Chuck suggested that I look around when I was ready to see if
anything was missing. As I started to leave the kitchen, the patrol
officer said, 'Just make sure you don't touch anything, ma'am.'
I didn't turn around, but I heard Chuck say, 'You got a death wish or
something, Williams? Use your fucking head.'
The only valuables I own are some jewelry I inherited from my mother,
and I'd be surprised if anyone ever found those. If every old house
has some irregularity that invites fantastic stories, mine is an old
wall safe that someone had built into the baseboard of my bedroom. The
day I was entrusted with my mother's jewelry, I locked it inside that
safe and moved my solid maple headboard directly in front of it.
The bed was right where I'd left it. In fact, nothing seemed to be
missing, making me wonder why someone had bothered.
We were throwing around theories in the kitchen, with me desperately
searching for one that didn't involve any further mortal danger. First
I floated the typical teenage thrill burg. Wannabes get a high off
being in another person's house, going through their stuff, and
trashing the place. But they probably wouldn't have slugged me in the
noggin.
My next front-runner was a small-time junkie thief who broke in and
then went nuts and trashed the place when he realized I didn't own the
kinds of things that smalltime junkie thieves steal, like CDs, DVDs,
and other small items that are easily resalable to those who live in
the modern world.
That theory just might have stuck, at least for the night, if I hadn't
decided I needed a beer.
I opened the fridge to find my twelve-inch chopping knife prominently
displayed on the top shelf. It secured a note that said, Next time we
slice up you and your dog. It's that easy.
So much for a theory that didn't scare the shit out of me.
Seven.
Like any other crime victim, I could do nothing about the intrusion
into my home and assault upon my person except wake up in a messy house
with a pounding headache.
PPB had assured me that they'd do what they could to find prints, but I
knew there wouldn't be any. And I assured PPB that I'd go over my
files to identify anyone who might want to scare me, but I felt in my
gut that it had something to do with Derringer. Unfortunately,
Derringer currently enjoyed the greatest protections a defendant can
enjoy. Lopez had served me and the police department with written
notice that he was invoking his rights to counsel and to silence, which
meant that, while his trial was pending, the police couldn't question
him about anything, even suspected new crimes.
The truth is that prosecutors are rarely threatened. Some speculate
that it's because they are feared, but the real reason prosecutors are
generally safe from the scum they prosecute
U1
is that they're replaceable. You take out your prosecutor and nothing
changes. The same witnesses bring the same evidence to the same
jurors, only with a different mouthpiece coordinating the show.
Unfortunately, an occasional defendant is too stupid to see that
reality, and I suspected Derringer was one of them. Now I had to go
into trial with yet another reason to feel sick whenever I looked at
him.
The first day of trial was mercifully quick. Judge Lesh had reviewed
all the written motions in advance and was ready to rule on them
without holding an evidentiary hearing. Even though the appearance
took only a few hours, I still found Derringer's presence
disconcerting. I'd almost hoped he'd throw me a look to confirm my
suspicion that he was behind the ransacking. His seeming indifference
only served to foster the combination of rage and fear that I'd been
nursing since the previous night. I tried to use it to fuel my
concentration on the pending motions.
I was nervous about Lopez's motion to exclude the false alibi Derrick
Derringer had volunteered for his brother the last time around. It was
my position that this was relevant in determining whether Derrick was
telling the truth now.
Lisa argued that the evidence was too prejudicial to provide to the
jury. Or, as she put it, 'Your honor, Ms. Kincaid knows full well
that, under the Rules of Evidence, my client's prior conviction is
inadmissible. By framing this evidence as impeachment of Derrick
Derringer, she's trying to find a way to get my client's prior
conviction through the back door.'
Lesh went off the record. 'Ms. Lopez, you're doing a good job for
your client, but if I were you I would avoid using the term 'back door'
when referring to his prior conviction, which I see is for attempted
sodomy.'
David Lesh was one of those people who could say the most inappropriate
things and yet somehow never offend anyone. A legendary story holds
