The Tenth Case

“No,” said Jaywalker. “Actually, she’s not.”

Samara was permitted to sit at the defense table, facing the judge. Sobel had no doubt seen photographs of her; everyone had. But the photographs unfailingly depicted a stunningly beautiful woman, a diminutive version of the trophy wife in every respect except for her hair, which was dark and straight, instead of the expected bimbo blond.

The woman Judge Sobel was staring at now looked like an advanced-stage AIDS patient who’d survived a train wreck. In addition to the wasted look she’d developed over the month of her incarceration, she sported a gash across her forehead and a black left eye, noticeable not so much because of its discoloration, which blended almost seamlessly into the dark hollow beneath it, but because the eye itself was swollen nearly shut and tearing visibly. Tufts of her hair appeared to have been pulled out, and she reached for the side of her head repeatedly, a gesture that only served to draw attention to the large white bandage that covered her hand.

“Is this in honor of Halloween?” Tom Burke asked, perhaps in the hope that a bit of levity might break the silence that had enveloped the courtroom.

Jaywalker turned in Burke’s direction, fixing him with a hard stare but saying nothing, choosing instead to let the remark twist in the air.

Judge Sobel finally found his voice. “Come up,” he motioned the lawyers, “and tell me what’s going on.”

At the bench, with the court reporter taking down every word but the spectators unable to hear, Jaywalker spoke softly. “Not surprisingly,” he explained, “my client immediately became a target on Rikers Island. She’s white, she’s rich, she’s small and she’s pretty. Was pretty, at least. Anyway, she tried to be a trooper, putting up with the harassment as long as she could. The breaking point came when she was sexually assaulted. That’s when she finally reached out for help. The problem was, she didn’t know whom to reach out to. Instead of calling me or asking to see a captain, she phoned the corrections commission.”

“Those clowns?” said Burke.

It was true. The commissioners belonged to an oversight group, separate and apart from the corrections department, and were loathed as meddlers by everyone in the prison hierarchy.

“How was she supposed to know?” asked Jaywalker. “Anyway, they began investigating. I’ve got one of the commissioners here in court, if you want verification. They interviewed officers, lieutenants, even a captain or two. Or at least tried to. Needless to say, that only made things worse. Now my client gets attacked by inmates on an hourly basis, and the C.O.s not only look the other way, they write her up for instigating. She’s been put in an impossible position.”

“She’s put herself in it,” said Burke.

Sobel ignored the remark. “Okay,” he said, “the first thing she needs is medical attention.”

“With all due respect,” said Jaywalker, sensing his opening, “the first thing she needs is to get out of there.”

“Maybe my office could get her transferred to Bedford Hills,” said Burke. “Or a federal prison.”

“There’s a problem with that,” said Sobel. “As soon as I do it with one, I set a precedent. Next thing you know, we’ll have busloads of inmates showing up with self-inflicted wounds, looking to get transferred out.”

Jaywalker bit down on the inside of his cheek, willing any thoughts of self-inflicted wounds to evaporate from the judge’s mind. “Is there any chance you’d consider some kind of bail?” he asked. “I’m afraid that if she doesn’t get out, we’re going to have another death on our hands.”

“Did you say bail?” yelped Burke. For someone who should have seen where this was going, he seemed incredulous. “This is a murder case.”

Sobel held up his hand, but Jaywalker decided it wasn’t meant for him. “Look,” he said, “she’s not going anywhere. Take her passport, strap an ankle bracelet on her, lock her up in her house.”