No Way Out

‘That’s a personal matter. They’ll just have to work it out for themselves.’

‘You make it sound so easy. Imagine what it must be like for Eugenia Vance: one minute she’s doing her job, next minute she gets handed an injunction telling her she’s not allowed to have any contact with the victim.’

‘I’m sorry. I may have sounded a bit callous. But the judge didn’t exactly have a choice. He had to do it to avoid a conflict of interest.’

Martine’s face turned suddenly serious. ‘Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

Alex had an uneasy feeling when he heard the words…and the tone. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I also have a conflict of interest. I can’t cover the case and carry on going out with you.’

Friday, 12 June 2009 – 21.15 (#ulink_6b95448e-6e2d-5877-ab62-da1eccfa9451)

It was quite late when Andi arrived home. She had spent the day going over the case file with Alex and then stayed on for a few hours after he left. It had been exhausting. They were racking their brains trying to figure out how they could refute the DNA evidence. All the other evidence could be challenged and the seeds of reasonable doubt sown.

But the DNA was a problem, a real problem. It couldn’t just be swept under the rug. In the past, they might have been able to attack the science itself or throw up smoke screens to confuse the jury. But post-O.J. Simpson that was no longer an option. Defense ploys are like magicians’ tricks – they can never be repeated in the same form. The most Alex and Andi could do was point out that the particular form of the DNA technology used in this case was less discriminating than other methods.

But all of this was still way down the line. First they had to resolve the issue of trial venue. That was the big question that was going to come up at the pre-trial in two weeks’ time. And that was what Andi had to focus on now.

Gene was lying on the bed in her underwear in the dimly lit room, watching the wall-mounted TV when Andi entered. Andi took off her street clothes in the walk-in closet by the door and then shuffled back into the bedroom barefoot and in her underwear, expecting Gene’s usual warm welcome. But Gene didn’t even turn to look at her. Andi was hurt and confused; Gene was never cold like this, even if she was in a bad mood.

‘Where have you been?’ asked Gene, her eyes glued to the TV.

Andi sensed that Gene had had a bad day as she climbed onto the bed behind her lover, gently massaging Gene’s raised shoulder.

‘At the office. I had a lot of paperwork to clear up. I’ve just started on a major case.’

‘I know. Some flunky from the court came round to the center to serve an injunction on me.’

Andi stopped massaging, but left her hands in place. She knew now what this was about. ‘Are you angry?’

Gene turned round, brushing off Andi’s hands in the process. There were tears of anger in Gene’s eyes. This surprised Andi. It was very rare for Gene to cry.

‘What do you think? I quit my job in New York and crossed the continent with you ‘cause you couldn’t make it over there and now you stab me in the back by getting me thrown off the case, so I can’t even help the victim. And why? To defend a rapist!’

Andi understood Gene’s anger, and she could hardly blame her for it. In a way she knew that Gene was right. The anger that Gene was feeling towards Andi was every bit as intense as the anger that Andi had felt towards Alex. But the fact was, she had signed on for the defense and all she could do was fall back on that last standby of litigants and lovers: anger of her own.

‘It’s my job,’ she snapped, rolling off the bed. ‘And it’s alleged rapist!’

With these words, Andi stormed out of the room.

Tears now streaming down her own cheeks, Andi went downstairs to the living room. She crossed over to the alcove that housed a desk and bookshelves, which they had set aside as a study and office. On the desk was a laptop PC, a docking station and a large monitor. Andi switched on the computer to download her mail. There were five messages. Four were from old friends wishing her luck in her new job. But it was the fifth message that startled her. It read:

That rapist scumbag Elias Claymore is unworthy of your assistance and deserves everything he gets. Make sure that you are not around when justice is finally delivered or you will only have yourself to blame.

Lannosea

An alarm bell went off inside her head. Who had sent the message? And where from? She scrolled up to the ‘From’ field, and saw that it had come from a webmail address. It could have been sent from a public library or an Internet café. There would be no way to trace it to a person.

A range of emotions swept over her like a quick succession of waves: confusion followed by fear followed by anger. But if the first was a ripple and the second a surfer’s tube ride, the third was a tsunami.

Who the fuck was Lannosea?

Monday, 15 June 2009 – 10.25 (#ulink_7ac6d49d-455b-59b2-a150-f2ca28e245f9)

‘What’s she doing here?’

Elias Claymore’s reaction appeared to border on paranoia when Alex first brought Andi into the room at the Ventura pre-trial detention facility that had been allocated for their conference.

‘Allow me to introduce my co-counsel on this case,’ said Alex. ‘Andi Phoenix.’

Claymore’s eyes darted away to Alex for a moment before returning to Andi, the suspicion lingering in his eyes.

‘You didn’t say anything about co-counsel. Nothing personal, Ms Phoenix.’

‘Oh, please, call me Andi,’ she said, in a reassuring tone calculated to put him at ease.

She held out her hand warmly. Claymore hesitated before reaching out to shake it. Then he sat down, not taking his eyes off Andi. Andi followed suit, leaving Alex last to take his seat round the table.

‘The first thing we need to talk about,’ Alex began, ‘is a change of venue.’

‘Why?’

‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said Andi.

She looked at Alex. He nodded.

‘According to the latest stats, Ventura County has just under 700,000 Caucasians and 17,000 African-Americans. That makes the State 2.1 per cent black and 87.5 per cent white.’

‘That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m probably more unpopular with my own people at the moment.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Andi. ‘We’re talking about ultraconservative whites.’

Claymore tried to sound jovial. ‘Well, hey…I’m a conservative!’

‘I know, Mr Claymore, and that might have worked if it was a minor charge. But this is rape and a lot of your natural supporters have already turned against you.’

‘You’ve done an opinion poll?’ He grinned, desperately, trying to make light of the situation.

Andi maintained her neutral face. ‘We’re keeping an ear to the ground and those are the vibes we’re getting.’

Claymore looked over at Alex, who nodded imperceptibly, content to let Andi earn her keep.

‘In any case,’ Andi continued, ‘we know from the stats that Ventura juries tend to be convicting juries.’

‘What about Hispanics?’ asked Claymore.

‘Hispanics can be either race and they’re included in the black and white stats. But we have a separate figure of 287,000 Hispanic and Latino citizens. Of those, 272,000 are classified as white Hispanic. There are also some 50,000 Asian citizens who are likely to be hostile to working class blacks, but might admire you and a further 17,000 of mixed race who may be a bit more friendly. But those two groups combined are less than 10 per cent of the population.’