Chapter 24
THE NEXT MORNING, my iPhone was clogged with alerts and e-mail from friends and clients letting me know that Private was in the headlines again. Rick’s past was being dragged through the muck, and Private was dirtied by association.
It made me sick. All of it. And I was particularly worried for Rick. The man had saved my life. And there was no way I could help him with this.
Justine and I arrived at the Criminal Courthouse before nine, sidestepped all but the most aggressive of the reporters who were clumped around the entrance to the building. One of the swamp suckers ran up to Justine, said, “Dr. Smith, what’s your opinion of Rick Del Rio’s personality? Borderline or full-blown psychopath?”
I shoved the reporter out of our way, almost knocking him to the ground, saying, “Excuse me,” and as he howled for the police, we entered the judicial building.
We found two seats together in courtroom 7B, three rows behind the defense table. Across the aisle and about four seats down, my brother lounged in a chair, one sockless, snakeskin-loafer-shod foot crossed over his thigh. He lifted his hand in an exaggerated, brassy wave. Why the hell was Tommy loitering in this courtroom? Was he here to aggravate me? To gather information? If so, what information, and why?
Del Rio must have sensed the tension arcing across the aisle, because he turned for an instant, saw Justine and me. He smiled sadly. I gave him a thumbs-up, hoping it would give him a lift. He nudged Caine, who also turned, nodded, then turned back to face the bench.
Within the next few minutes, the room filled and court convened. The bailiff asked everyone to rise, and Judge Johnson entered from the door behind the bench and took her seat. The clicking of little-dog toenails on the floor meant that her Chihuahua was under the bench.
There was a sudden, muted flurry of conversation between the prosecutor and Eric Caine. I couldn’t hear them, but both attorneys turned and looked at me. Why?
Lewis said, “Your Honor, we need a word.”
The judge asked the lawyers to approach, and Lewis quickly got to the point. He pointed at me.
“Jack Morgan is a witness for the defense,” Lewis said loudly. “He should be barred from the courtroom until he testifies.”
I heard some of what Caine said in response: that I was a character witness, that my testimony was not material to the charges. And after some back-and-forth, the judge went along with Caine.
This was good. I needed to be here for Rick.
The jury filed in. ADA Lewis introduced his first witness.
“The People call Ms. Geralyn Brodeski,” he said.
I didn’t know the name, and I wondered who Dexter Lewis had put at the top of his witness lineup.
A woman in her early fifties came through the double doors. She had short, streaked hair, wore a calf-length skirt and a ruffled print blouse. If I had to characterize her by her looks, I would say that she was a mild person, maybe a good citizen.
She headed for the witness stand, said “Hello, Your Honor,” to the judge, then swore on the Bible to tell the truth.