The first thing I did when I got back to the office after visiting Marcie Hanson was to tell Vaughn to call the clerk’s office and request an emergency hearing. We received a call back in two hours informing us that William Henry had been assigned to the case.
Before he was elevated to the bench, William Henry served two decades in the public defender’s office. He is a believer that a criminal defendant’s right to a fair trial is the keystone of liberty. Judge Henry does not abide prosecutorial hijinks in any form. In his view, any effort by the government to distract attention from its high burden, or to give itself a leg up, is intolerable. His Honor, no doubt, takes an especially dim view of pretrial leaks by the district attorney.
I look back at the prosecution table and find Devlin Walker glaring at me, seething. He gets it now. I’m going to blame the DA’s office for leaking the story about the second geisha house in New York to Patti Cassidy. What Devlin doesn’t know yet is that the courtroom is filled with witnesses prepared to testify that the story was complete nonsense, a fact that will make Judge Henry doubly angry. Devlin slowly shakes his head no, silently telling me not to do this.
Don’t you dare. Or I’ll make you pay.
The door to the robing room opens. In a whoosh, Judge Henry is on the bench. His face is red, his lips pursed. He looks around the courtroom, takes everyone in. His gaze hangs for a long minute on Patti Cassidy, then he turns to Devlin Walker. The normal procedure would be for the judge to ask me to state my position first, then give the prosecutor his turn to reply. But Judge Henry skips right to the fun part. “Well?” he says to Devlin. Just one word.
Devlin is taken aback, but only for a moment. He leans forward, raises my brief above his head, and declares, “Rubbish.” Then he sits.
But Bill Henry will not be assuaged. “Not so fast, Mr. Walker. What do you mean, rubbish? Are you telling me your office did not leak this story to the press to poison the potential jury pool? Are you telling me someone else leaked it? Who would do that, Mr. Walker? Who besides the prosecution has anything to gain by this type of leak?”
Before Devlin has a chance to answer, I leap to my feet. “Your Honor, the leak is only half the story. The other half is whether there’s any truth to it. Present in this courtroom are the three young women whose reputations have been smeared by the story in the Inquirer. Also here, and prepared to testify, is Mr. Hsan Chan, who will, if he takes the stand, tell the court that he is a member of the Chinese Consulate General’s office in New York, that he knows the three young women, that they are in this country on student visas, that all three are studying music at a prestigious school in New York City, and that they are able to do so thanks to a grant from Hanson World Industries. A grant arranged through a program designed by Mrs. Hanson, who is also in the courtroom and ready to testify. One more thing that all these young women will attest to is that they’ve never even met David Hanson, let alone engaged with him in any sort of a sordid relationship.
“Which reminds me . . .” I withdraw a civil complaint from my brief case and walk it to Patti Cassidy. “Mr. Hanson and each of the three young women are suing the Inquirer, and Ms. Cassidy personally, for defamation.” Patti gasps as I hand her the complaint. The spectators, most of whom are Patti’s fellow newsmen, fall quiet as a crypt, undoubtedly thinking, There but for the grace of God go I.
Now it’s Devlin’s turn to leap to his feet. “My office had no involvement in this!”
His outburst triggers loud murmuring throughout the courtroom; Judge Henry slams his gavel to reestablish order. He closes his eyes, rests the head of the gavel against his temple, pauses to gather himself, make sure he gets this right. Opening his eyes, the judge says matter-of-factly, “There will be no witness testimony. There is no need. I’m going to grant the defendant’s request for a gag order. Neither side, from this point on, is to say or leak anything publicly about this case. And it works both ways. If something detrimental to the defense finds its way into the wind, I’ll know it came from the prosecution. If something detrimental to the prosecution gets out, I’ll know it came from the defense. In either case, one of you will find yourself in contempt of court. Am I understood?”
I nod and say, “Thank you, Your Honor.” Devlin’s nod is almost imperceptible. He thanks no one.
And the hearing is over.
I leave the courtroom to find Marcie Hanson holding her own mini press conference in the hallway. Marcie chastises the Inquirer for unjustly crucifying her husband by twisting a wonderful program designed to help young musicians into a “sordid and, quite frankly, racist” attack that blemished not only her husband’s reputation but that of three utterly innocent young women. “I’m looking forward to the newspaper’s quick and unqualified apology for this travesty,” she continues. Marcie also has some choice words for the “coward” who tipped off Patti Cassidy to the New York house. “You’re curled up in your hole, safe in the cloak of anonymity. You may think that what you did was clever, but all you accomplished—all that you almost accomplished—was to further the efforts of those who want to deny my husband his right to the fair trial at which he can clear his name. He will rebuild the life that has been so unjustly shattered by the false charges brought against him by the DA’s office.”
I smile and shake my head. One broadcast-worthy sound bite after another. All delivered with flawless grammar and the indignant tone of a woman defending the man she believes in. I am, at this point, quite frankly awed by how well—and how quickly—Marcie and David pulled this all together.
“Not bad, eh?” It’s David, now standing beside me. “It’s certainly taken the wind out of Patti Cassidy’s sails,” he adds, nodding toward the stricken reporter standing at the back of the pack, the blood drained from her face and lips.
I take David’s arm and guide him down the hall a bit, away from the crowd.
“When we were out at your house yesterday, Marcie let Susan in on the enmity between you and Edwin. Susan asked if Edwin might even have been the person who tipped off Patti Cassidy, and Marcie said she wouldn’t put it past him.”
David looks away, watches Marcie address the reporters for a moment, then returns his gaze to me.
“Edwin.” He spits out his half brother’s name. “He couldn’t have found out about the brownstone any more than he could have discovered the house on Addison Street, which is a whole lot closer.”
I take a minute, let David’s words sink in. My eyes widen. “Edwin didn’t leak the New York house to the Inquirer. You did. You and Marcie. The two of you orchestrated this whole thing. To poison the well, set up Devlin, make it look to the potential jury pool like Walker’s not playing by the rules, like he’s out to get you any way he can, whether you did something wrong or not.”