Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,21
Judge Lawrence Benes comes into the courtroom, and Tucker and I go back to our respective corners. Judge Benes is unlikely to be the trial judge; his role is strictly to handle the arraignment.
Daniel is brought in, and the arraignment begins uneventfully. He is held over for trial in the murder of Linda Padilla; at this point Tucker is not including the other murders. My request for bail is denied, and the setting of a trial date is postponed until a judge is assigned. Daniel’s not guilty plea is spoken firmly and with conviction, which is important only because the press should report it as such.
I make a demand for immediate discovery, since there really is nothing we can effectively do until we know what they have.
Tucker stands; he can get up and down hundreds of times without wrinkling his pants. I get up once and it looks like I hung my suit in a blender.
“Your Honor,” Tucker intones, “the prosecution, in representing the people of this state, is keenly aware of our responsibilities. This case is being watched all across this great country of ours, and we will do nothing to jeopardize this defendant’s rights under our Constitution. The materials to be turned over to the defense are being compiled even as we speak.”
I take a moment to control my nausea and then respond. “Your Honor, if you could ask Mr. Zachry to provide transcripts of these speeches in advance, then we could stipulate to such revelations as the greatness of our country. And I should point out that it is the defense position that our country is great from the mountains to the prairies to the oceans white with foam.”
Laughter erupts from the gallery, and I see a momentary flash of pain on Tucker’s face. He does not like to be embarrassed, so I make a mental note to embarrass him as much as possible. If he reacts emotionally, then he might make a mistake in front of this “great country of ours.”
The hearing ends, Daniel is taken back to his cell, and for the first time I notice Vince sitting near the back of the courtroom. I walk toward him, and he waits as the gallery empties out.
“Tucker doesn’t look too worried,” he says.
“He’s not.”
“I am,” he says.
I can’t think of anything positive to say, so I don’t.
• • • • •
THERE IS A MESSAGE on my phone machine when I get home. It’s from Sam Willis, reminding me about a commitment I had made for tomorrow night. Like most advance commitments I make, I somehow vaguely thought it would never arrive and had thus wiped it from my mind. Now it’s here, and I can’t think of a way out of it.
This particular event is a charity wine tasting. I don’t know exactly what that is, but there’s almost no chance I’m going to like it. I should have asked Laurie to join us; she would have been pleased to. Laurie’s social consciousness is such that she would willingly sign up for a charity root canal.
My plan for the daytime Saturday hours is to watch college football and indulge in some noncharity beer tasting. This is the beginning of the season, so there are mostly mismatches between teams at the top and the bottom, rather than competitive conference games. It therefore represents another day to give thanks to the inventor of the aforementioned point spread.
I watch sixteen games over nine hours. Now, this may sound like an extraordinary accomplishment, but I am a humble man, and I always share credit when it is warranted. So I want to go on record as saying that if the Academy of Televised Sports Degenerates in America presents me with its award, the coveted ATSDA, even before I thank the academy I will thank my devoted partner, the remote control.
Without it, I’d be just another commercial-watching loser, unable to control my own fate. But with the remote secure in the palm of my hand, or more often resting on my chest, I am all-powerful. I don’t think I’ve missed an important play since the Carter administration. The remote control, to paraphrase Tom Cruise to Renee Zellweger in Jerry Maguire, “completes me.”
As I get dressed to attend the charity wine tasting, I turn on the news to see if the world exploded while I was watching the games. I discover that while I have effectively shut out thoughts of the Cummings case during football, I’m the only one who’s done so.