Turning around to follow the magistrate’s gaze, I am shocked when I see Devlin Walker, the first assistant district attorney. Only in the rarest cases would a senior DA show up at a preliminary arraignment. That the first assistant himself would appear is unheard of.
Walker is wearing a double-breasted black suit with a silver-and-black striped tie over a blazing-white, crisply starched shirt with French cuffs held shut by gleaming onyx cuff links. Devlin walks directly over to me and extends his hand. I can see he’s measuring the level of my surprise—one small factor to add to the calculus that will become our contest in this case.
Devlin Walker is an imposing presence. A former star basketball player for Central High, he stands six four and weighs an easy 215, not an ounce of which is fat. Devlin has a large head, square jaw, and wide-set eyes. His forty-four years have just begun to salt his hair, which he keeps short and perfectly combed. Devlin composes his face as a study in seriousness—an acknowledgment of the enormous responsibility the people have placed on him, and his pledge that he will not let them down. The same sense of responsibility carries over to Devlin’s role as a pillar of the African American community. City employees are required to live within city limits, so, unlike many prominent black officials who reside in Chestnut Hill or some other upscale section of the city, Devlin keeps his home on the Penn campus in West Philadelphia, just a mile from the row houses in which he was raised. Within his neighborhood, Devlin is an icon. He’s a deacon in the Rock of Ages Baptist Church, a Big Brother, and a Boy Scout leader. It is accepted wisdom in the DA’s office that Devlin will succeed his boss as district attorney.
Devlin and I have a history. He was, to put it simply, my major rival at the DA’s office. Devlin graduated law school two years before I did and was one of my mentors for a time. I found he was someone I could go to for both practical advice and help on issues of law. Then something happened that cooled him toward me. Devlin began taking note that, like him, I was working seven days a week and always on the hunt for bigger cases to handle. “You’re on his radar,” a colleague warned me. “Watch out.” During the next several years, Devlin won a number of important cases and, in the flush of his victories, became more magnanimous, more indulgent toward me again. Then when I began trying and winning major jury cases, Devlin went back on the offensive. Criticism of how I’d prepped certain witnesses or tried a case would float into the ear of a senior ADA, who’d then happen by my office and question me about it. Or Devlin would suddenly steal away a junior ADA who was working to help me prepare for trial. “Sorry, man,” Devlin would say. “Got an emergency. Have to pull rank.” Then came my string of high-profile drug-trafficking victories. Devlin declared all-out war against me. I won’t pretend it was a one-sided battle by then. I was incensed at what I felt to be an unprovoked attack, so I began to impede Devlin and to enlist other ADAs to help me. By the time I decided to end my career as a prosecutor, a dozen of the more ambitious attorneys had aligned themselves with me against Devlin, and vice versa. Either Devlin or I, most believed, would eventually become district attorney. So bets were placed on whose coattails to hang on to.
It shouldn’t have surprised me, then, that when I announced my decision to leave for private practice, my supporters directed a great deal of anger toward me. A few did everything they could to persuade me to change my mind, fearing that Devlin would direct all the good cases to his guys and the junk cases to them.
My colleagues’ worries proved to be unfounded. Devlin Walker didn’t punish the attorneys who had aligned themselves with me; he didn’t have to. He’d won the war. So, Devlin, ever the strategist, did what America did to the Germans and Japanese after World War II: he co-opted his former enemies, made them into his allies. The result was that my former friends continued to hate me for leaving, but they ended up loving Devlin Walker.
So, I wonder, why is he here today?
Devlin hands me the complaint as he looks up at the magistrate and declares, “This is a very serious matter, Your Honor. A promising young woman is dead. A young woman who had information vital to an ongoing grand-jury investigation. Information that may now be lost forever. And now she’s the victim of a premeditated murder.”
Magistrate Smick rolls her eyes. “Why the speech, Mr. Walker? There’s no jury here. No press. Oh, wait. Is that Ms. Cassidy I see?” I glance back and see Patti Cassidy, a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer. “Now, how did you know to be here?”
I hear Judge Smick’s words through a fog. Devlin’s reference to premeditation has jarred me. I begin to review the complaint, knowing what I’ll find. Despite what the young ADA told me, the DA’s office is charging David Hanson with first-degree murder.
Scanning the complaint, I see something that grabs my attention. The DA is alleging that, before he fled the scene, David had tried to clean the house of evidence. The complaint says the dishwasher was running, the vacuum was sitting in the middle of the floor. Cleaning supplies and rags were sitting on various tables.
I lift my eyes from the complaint to the small flat-screen television sitting by the judge’s bench, just in front of the defense table. The image is of David sitting in a cluttered cinder-block room in the Ninth District station house. He is looking right at the camera, but his eyes are glazed. I’m not sure how much he sees or comprehends.
The magistrate asks Devlin what the Commonwealth’s position is regarding bail.
Walker answers immediately. “The people vehemently oppose bail. Bail is almost never accorded in murder cases. And we need to send a message to the community that no exceptions will be made just because a defendant is rich and connected.”
Magistrate Smick looks at me over her readers. “Is that your position, Mr. McFarland? That I should allow your client to be released just because he’s got a lot of money?”
“Of course not, Your Honor. Mr. Hanson should be released on bail because it’s called for by the guidelines. First, the primary purpose of bail is to secure a defendant’s appearance at trial, and there is no chance that Mr. Hanson will fail to appear. He has close ties to the community; indeed, he is a community leader. And he is highly motivated to appear for trial in order to prove his innocence and restore his good reputation. The second purpose of bail is to ensure the safety of the community. There’s no reason to believe that whoever killed Ms. Yamura has a larger plan to harm additional people. Certainly, there’s no basis to believe that Mr. Hanson would perpetrate some sort of crime spree. Finally, there are facts that cast doubt on Mr. Hanson’s guilt.”
“For example?”