Dante's Dilemma Read online

  Shit, I thought. There wasn’t time to duck into a corner—was there even one? It didn’t matter. Hallie had already spotted me.

  “Speak of the devil, there’s Mark now.”

  She and her companions reached me in a few seconds.

  “Hallie?” I said, feigning a blind man’s confusion to explain the silly look on my face.

  “Stop pretending you don’t know it’s me.” She took my arm and gave it a subtle turn so I would know exactly which way to face the others, a maneuver learned from growing up with a blind brother. Even through my overcoat, her touch sent a jolt down my spine. “This is Mark Angelotti, the expert I was just telling you about. Don’t pay any attention to his act. He doesn’t miss a thing.”

  She introduced me to two other lawyers, Sara Andrews, a senior partner at her firm, and Carter Fawcett, an associate. I held out my hand and we all shook.

  “Pleased,” Carter said.

  “Don’t say that until you get to know him better,” Hallie said.

  She didn’t seem to feel anything like my own embarrassment, so I fell in with the jolly mood. “Three lawyers all at once. I’ll have to watch out for my wallet.” I made a show of patting my breast pocket.

  “That one’s so old it has cobwebs on it,” Hallie said. “You’ve gotten rusty in my absence.”

  “You too, unless I miss my mark.”

  She laughed and turned back to her colleagues. “Did I mention he’s also good with puns? Why don’t you guys start back and I’ll catch up with you at the office.” The law firm of Wentworth, Feinstein, and Shaw, where Hallie headed the criminal practice, was only a few blocks away. “We still have hours to go until the press conference and I need a few minutes alone with Mark. Carter, don’t forget about that new set of pleadings.”

  “You’re looking good,” she said as soon as they’d departed.

  “As are you,” I replied, imagining her as Josh had described: a curvy Latin beauty with dark hair and laughing, mocha-colored eyes. I didn’t have much else to go on, having kissed her only a few times before working up the courage to tell her about Jack.

  “Though I might advise dressing more appropriately for the weather. Your ears are as red as beets,” Hallie said.

  “I forgot to wear a hat this morning.” I lied. “So what’s up? Sounds like you have a new case.”

  “I do. But it’s all hush-hush for the moment. We’re making the big announcement this afternoon. It’s a pro bono matter, very high-profile. I really had to work the levers to get my partners to agree, but they’re pleased with the exposure it will bring to the firm. The only negative is that Tony Di Marco will be heading up the prosecution. We were just upstairs, meeting with him about scheduling. Same shady little prick as always. I’d love to see you wipe the smirk off his face again.”

  Di Marco was the assistant who had conducted my first, all-too-painful cross-examination. “As I recall, he cleaned my clock pretty good, too.”

  “You held your own. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We’re taking over from another defense team and I’m not comfortable with the expert they’ve been using. We videotaped her for practice and it was like watching a kindergartener trying to explain calculus. We could really use your help.”

  I winced inwardly. So that’s all she wanted from me.

  “Do you think you could squeeze in some time tomorrow? I could fill you in over lunch. The change of counsel will be public then, and you can tell me what you think. About helping us, that is.”

  I looked down at my shoes. “I don’t know, Hallie. I’m going to be tied up on a new matter myself for a while.” More than one if you counted my upcoming custody battle. “And I’m not sure we should be working together. I’m mean, I assumed when you didn’t return my calls—”

  She touched my sleeve in an intimate gesture. “I know. But I needed time to get used to what you told me. It’s . . . well, let’s just say it wasn’t easy for me, finding out about your son. And you not telling me about it for so long. I didn’t call because I wasn’t sure. To be honest, I’m still not. But maybe when this new case is behind us, we could have coffee sometime . . .” She trailed off unpromisingly.

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s wise. Not the part about coffee, but us being on the same case together. It will just complicate things.”

  I waited to see whether she’d protest, wishing like hell I could read her expression.

  She hesitated before patting my sleeve again. “I guess you’re right. I’ll call you when this new case is finished then?”

  “OK.” I turned to go.

  “And, Mark?”

  “Yes?”

  “Happy Holidays.”

  I rode the elevator to the third floor and checked in at the front desk. The receptionist on duty was better than average—I figured state employees were required to take some kind of sensitivity training—and displayed little discomfort in asking for my ID and showing me where to sign the visitor’s log. Michelle Rogers, the ASA sent to fetch me, was less composed, introducing herself in an overly loud voice and hanging back awkwardly thereafter.

  I put on my Yes I’m Carrying This Big White Cane expression, and asked if there was a place I could hang my coat.

  “Sure,” Michelle said. “There’s a closet right over there.”

  She sounded young and fearful of making a mistake, so I went easy on her. “You’ll have to show me where ‘there’ is. Don’t worry, it’s not hard.”

  I gave her a quick introduction to “sighted guide” by asking her to tap the front of my left hand with the back of her right, which enabled me to locate her elbow without much trouble. I reached up and grasped it from behind. “Just walk at a normal pace and I’ll follow. You don’t need to pull me along and I’ll trust you to stop us before we pitch down a flight of stairs.”

  Michelle giggled, and we made it to the closet without mishap. While I was disentangling from my backpack and overcoat, I tried to engage her in small talk. “Have you worked here long?”

  “Since September. I only passed the bar this past summer.”

  “Like it?”

  “I guess.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a ringing endorsement.”

  She gave the audible equivalent of a shrug. “It’s hard to find work as a new lawyer these days. I couldn’t get a job with one of the big firms, so I’m here. I guess I should count myself lucky to be earning a paycheck.”

  “The experience can’t be that bad. From what I understand, associates at big firms aren’t exactly trying many cases.”

  “It isn’t that. I know I’m learning a lot, but some of the supervisors here . . .” She stopped herself, as if she’d just spoken out of school. “I really shouldn’t be talking about it.”

  I was curious to know more but decided against putting her on the spot. We resumed our walking routine while I continued to ply her with polite questions. Michelle was from a small town in Indiana, and proud of her Hoosier upbringing. She’d attended Ball State and John Marshall Law School, and recently married her high-school sweetheart, who was getting his business degree at Kellogg. She wasn’t sure about raising a family in Chicago, and hoped to return to her home state someday. By the time we’d traveled a series of hallways crowded with filing cabinets, she’d grown perceptibly more relaxed.

  “We’re here,” she announced as we stopped before a threshold. “I mean, at the conference room where you’ll be meeting with the boss. We’re still early, so I can show you the lay of the land before the others arrive.”

  Some five minutes later, I was seated comfortably at a seat near the door with my Bluetooth keyboard and phone in front of me and my cane stored unobtrusively on the floor when a bustle outside the door suggested Linda O’Malley had arrived. I rose as she swept through the entrance with what sounded like an army of lieutenants.

  I’d never been in the presence of a politician before, but it was like being swept up in a tsunami.

  “Doctor Ange
lotti! So glad you could make it!” O’Malley said, taking my outstretched hand between her two plump ones and shaking it forcefully, like she was hanging wash out to dry. “Thank you for coming. I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience so early in the day. Can you believe this awful weather? I hope you took a cab. Just give Michelle the receipt and we’ll cover the tab. Michelle, make sure you submit a requisition form for his travel expenses. We can’t have the good doctor freezing his patootie off while he’s laboring on our behalf. I’m Linda O’Malley, by the way.”

  “So I surmised from the available evidence.”

  She laughed, a sound like a bellows heaving, and released my hand. “I’m going to like this guy,” she said to the others now filling the seats around the table. “Somebody get me a Coke Zero. And see if there are any of those sweet rolls left. Oops, I forgot. Make it decaf tea, no sugar, and carrots or some other healthy shit. Doctor’s orders,” she said in an aside to me. “If he had his way, I’d be eating like a hamster. Don’t be shy. Sit down, sit down.”

  I did as I was told while she settled in laboriously at the head of the table, a few feet to my left.

  “Don’t mind my language. It’s been a long morning and the diet’s already making me crazy. I should have gotten a lap-band like Chris Christie while I still could. But what can you do? You look like a healthy specimen. What’s your secret?”

  “We can probably agree it wasn’t carrots.”

  “Hah! That’s a good one. They told me you had a sense of humor. I like that in an expert, shows he doesn’t take himself too seriously. Juries don’t like being lectured to by someone in love with their résumé. Yours is very impressive, by the way. But I’m forgetting my manners. You’ll want to meet everyone.”

  She went around the table, introducing half a dozen assistants whose names I couldn’t possibly keep straight or jot down quickly enough with my keyboard. It didn’t matter, because O’Malley continued to do all the talking.

  “You must have a lot of questions for us,” she said immediately after. Her tone had changed from the jollity of moments ago, and was now all business.

  “A place to start is what I’m supposed to testify about.”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder. The defense claims Lazarus was suffering from Battered Woman Syndrome when she murdered her spouse. I understood from Doctor Stephens—a shame about the hit-and-run, by the way—that the syndrome isn’t considered valid by your ilk.”

  She was right. Despite its considerable traction in the media, Battered Woman Syndrome, or BWS, was considered scientifically suspect by most reputable practitioners. First proposed in the 1970s, its signs and symptoms were based on the observations of a single clinician, Dr. Lenore Walker, and it had never been shown to meet the rigorous criteria for a recognized psychiatric disorder. Worse, because it relied primarily on the self-report of an obviously interested party, BWS was all too easy to fake.

  “That’s true,” I said. “There’s no professional consensus on a BWS diagnosis or even any empirical evidence that the syndrome actually exists. That’s not to say battered women can’t be traumatized—and sometimes severely so—just that there are better ways of looking at the problem. PTSD is one of them, along with other, more generalized anxiety disorders.”

  “And you’re an expert on the subject?”

  “I did a year-long fellowship on PTSD after my residency, and I’ve since treated a lot of veterans suffering from combat stress. It’s maybe twenty percent of my clinical practice at the moment.”

  “Good. Practical experience is good. Current practical experience is even better.”

  “OK. But perhaps you could explain to this layman how PTSD—or BWS as the defense claims—would excuse Lazarus’s actions. I know the theory’s often raised as a defense to criminal charges, but on what legal basis?”

  O’Malley appeared to think before replying. “It quickly gets complicated, but the short answer is that PTSD is relevant to two defense theories. One, that Lazarus acted in self-defense because she reasonably believed killing her husband was necessary to prevent imminent harm to herself or someone else. Two, that she acted with diminished capacity.”

  “An insanity defense?”

  “Yes. It’s a stretch, unless you tell us that her condition rendered her incapable of appreciating the criminality of her conduct. The first theory is more plausible, if the defense can get past the imminence standard. Lazarus wasn’t living with her husband at the time, so what made her believe she was in danger when she went to his home to kill him? That’s not your issue—it’s up to the jury to decide what Lazarus subjectively believed—but the defense will try to push you in the direction of saying fear of imminent death would be a natural consequence of her illness. You’ll have your work cut out for you on cross-examination. Lazarus’s lead lawyer is a sharp little cookie—an alum of this office, as a matter of fact—and she’ll have you swearing on a stack of Bibles that Lazarus is innocent if you’re not careful.”

  I was so caught up in thinking about the intellectual challenges of the case that I failed to register the subtle shift in her presentation—from studied neutrality to prosecutorial one-sidedness—or even to ask the name of the defense lawyer in question.

  “Will I have access to Ms. Lazarus?” I asked.

  “As much as her lawyers will allow.”

  “And to all of the material Dr. Stephens collected?” If Brad Stephens had done his homework, a virtual certainty in my book, he would also have sought corroborating evidence from numerous sources in addition to Lazarus—her family, colleagues, and friends, along with police reports and other pertinent data—before forming an opinion. I’d never be able to replicate all his spadework in time, so I’d have to rely heavily on the fruits of his investigation.

  “Michelle here was assisting him. She’ll make sure all of the case files are sent to you.”

  “And his final report?”

  “It’s here, still in an unopened envelope.” O’Malley pushed it across the table to me.

  “And as of today you really don’t know how he came out?” I asked, taking up the envelope and running my fingers over it. The flap was sealed tight with several layers of plastic tape.

  O’Malley said, “One thing you’ll learn about me, Doctor, is that I don’t pull any punches. I’ve said it publicly and I’ll say it again: I view my job as seeking justice, not getting convictions. Yes, I’d like to know where this prosecution is headed, but we’ll wait to hear from you. Obviously, only after you’ve had a chance to review everything and are comfortable offering your own opinion. In the meantime, I’ve instructed everyone concerned to give you all the information you need.”

  It was hard not to be affected by her apparent sincerity. “I’ll do my best to get up to speed quickly. How do we stay in touch, you and I?”

  Just then, I heard the door to the room open and someone slip in.

  “That’s another reason I asked you to come here today,” O’Malley said. “I’m afraid it won’t be me. The newspapers haven’t gotten ahold of it yet, but it seems I’m five months pregnant after years of failed attempts. My doctor is worried about gestational diabetes and preeclampsia, so he’s ordered me off my feet for the next several months. It couldn’t come at a worse time, but you can imagine the political heat I’d be taking if I ignored his advice and miscarried. Not to mention the fact that my husband and I would really like to have this baby. Instead, you’ll be working with one of my most trusted deputies. If I’m not mistaken, you two already know each other.”

  The anonymous newcomer had come up to stand behind my chair.

  I swiveled in my seat and tilted my head up quizzically.

  “Hello, Dottore,” Tony Di Marco said. “Come stai?”

  SEVEN

  Assistant State’s Attorney Tony Di Marco fell into the rapidly expanding class of people I had never laid eyes on, though Hallie had given me a snapshot during our first case. Back then, she’d called him a “charming pirate.” Later, whe
n she wanted to tease me, she said that except for the coloring—Di Marco’s hair and eyes were as black as an oil spill—we could be cousins. I hoped the similarities ended there. If I respected Di Marco at all, it was only because he was good at what he did and never pretended to be anything but a rank opportunist. Defense lawyers hated him, and not just because he won over juries like most people win over their mothers. Though no one had ever been able to prove it, Di Marco was said to be as good at making exculpatory evidence “disappear” as Harry Houdini.

  After O’Malley and her other lieutenants departed, I was left alone in the conference room with Di Marco and Michelle Rogers, who I now understood would be the only two assistants trying the case. I was only mildly surprised. If I knew Di Marco, his main objective would be grabbing as many headlines for himself as he could.

  “Pretty lean staffing,” I observed. “Are you sure your ego can handle it?”

  Di Marco answered in his usual insolent drawl. “I could do it without any help if I had to. With the confession and everything else we have on Lazarus, trial shouldn’t last more than a week. But my last three panels have been eighty percent women, so I need Michelle here to show our sympathy for the ladies.”

  I was sure Michelle appreciated being treated like a token.

  “Unless they happen to be ladies who strike back at their abusers,” I said.

  Michelle, still sitting beside me, suppressed a snicker.

  Di Marco laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re on Lazarus’s side.”