Chapter 33
“ALL RISE,” THE bailiff cried at two that afternoon. “The Honorable Sharon Greer presiding.”
Judge Greer, a handsome woman in her late forties, strode up onto the bench inside the Bauchet Street Superior Courthouse east of L.A.’s Chinatown. She sat, donned reading glasses, and asked her clerk, “How many more?”
“Ten, Your Honor,” the clerk replied.
“Let’s move …” The judge stopped her order in midstream, spotting the district attorney as he entered. “Mr. Blaze,” she said, cocking her head. “A surprise to find you in my courtroom. I didn’t think you did arraignments anymore.”
“It’s an honor, Your Honor,” Billy Blaze replied, running a hand down the front of his suit jacket as if to make sure it was buttoned correctly, swiveling his head, taking in the surprisingly empty courtroom and me.
I’d feared a media horde for Tommy’s arraignment. Billy Blaze acted like he longed for a media horde. But I imagined that almost every journalist in L.A. was working some angle of the No Prisoners shootings by now.
In any case, the district attorney nodded stiffly at me, went through the swinging gates, set his briefcase on the state’s table. A harried, mousy woman clutching a stack of manila files hurried after him and I groaned. Alice Dunphy was defending Tommy? Dunphy was a public defender, and not the most organized person in the world.
Then again, maybe she’d just been asked to rep him for arraignment. I prayed that was the case. If Dunphy planned to defend Tommy through the criminal phase, he might as well call ahead to San Quentin to reserve a cell.
I noticed something else. Neither Tommy’s wife, Annie, nor his nine-year-old son, Ned, was in the room. I had no time to consider what their absence meant because a door behind the bailiff opened. A sheriff’s deputy led my brother in. He’d surrendered himself earlier in the day and now wore an orange jumpsuit, wrist and ankle shackles.
True to form, Tommy appeared not to care, as if he were wearing his latest suit from Hermès and had come to the room for a high-level meeting among equals. He spotted me, winked, then turned, sat, and began whispering to his attorney.
The wink. I kept seeing it. Was this it? Was he going to implicate me in a killing that I absolutely had not committed? Clay Harris might have killed my ex-girlfriend, but I still suspected that Tommy was behind it somehow. And that would explain why he had gotten rid of Clay—to tie up any loose ends. Now he was trying to pin Clay’s murder on me. Was my brother going to destroy me for spite?
“The State of California versus Thomas Morgan, Jr.,” the clerk announced.
Alice Dunphy nudged Tommy. My brother stood, looking at ease, in control, unshaken by the gravity of the proceedings.
“Charge?” the judge asked.
“Murder in the first degree,” Billy Blaze said, paused for dramatic effect. “Your Honor, the state plans to seek special circumstances in this case.”
Special circumstances. Blaze was seeking the death penalty for my brother. The charge and the potential penalty shook me. They seemed to mildly amuse Tommy, however, because he looked back over his shoulder at me and winked again, as if to say, “Care to join me in the gas chamber, brother?”
“Ms. Dunphy?” the judge said.
Before the public defender could speak, Tommy put his hand on her forearm. “I’d like to speak on my own behalf, Your Honor.”
“Only a fool acts as his own attorney, Mr. Morgan.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tommy said, turning on the Irish charm. “I’ve been called a fool and worse many times before.”
Judge Greer sighed. “Your choice, Mr. Morgan. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” the judge replied, then looked at the district attorney. “Bail, Mr. Blaze?”
“The state seeks remand,” Billy Blaze said. “Mr. Morgan is a flight risk.”
“I’ll surrender my passport,” Tommy offered. “And, Judge, just so you know, we, I, am going to mount a vigorous defense. I know who the real killer is. I have compelling evidence, over-whelming evidence that the real killer is …”
His voice faded. The next moment was as long as any I have ever experienced, as long as the moment after a Taliban rocket hit the rotor of my helicopter in Afghanistan, my life once again hanging in the balance.