CHAPTER 9

It’s standing room only in Judge Sonya Maxa’s courtroom for an arraignment that may last all of ten minutes, about which anyone with an inkling of sense or knowledge about the American judicial system already knows the outcome. As I routinely tell my clients: “There are rarely any surprises at arraignment.”

As I move through the courtroom, I instinctively loosen my tie. The windows are open but there are few trade winds blowing in during the middle of July. I turn to the nearest court officer, a dark young man with three chins and no neck. “No A/C?” I say.

I get a shrug and a barely discernable shake of the head. “Broken,” I think he says.

I set my briefcase down on the defense table and glance over at my adversaries on the other side of the aisle. It’s a big day for them. The press is hungry, the public’s out in droves. At least two nations are watching events unfold from either side of the Pacific. The prosecution today—“the good guys,” as cable commentator Marcy Faith might say—are all sympathetic smiles and handshakes, an aggrieved crowd of cops and deputy prosecutors leaning over the rail to console the victims’ families.

Front and center in the gallery is the female civilian whom Chief Edward Attea hugged following yesterday’s press conference. Jake and I watched her on the news last night at Sand Bar during burgers and beers and a brief arraignment strategy session. Her name is Lauren Simms, Trevor’s sister, and she’s irate and out for blood. And she is “dead certain” my client Erin Simms, who now “shamefully shares the family surname,” is the party responsible for Trevor’s death. Not to mention the demise of eight other innocents.

Lauren Simms takes her seat directly behind the prosecutor’s table. Still standing at the table is Donovan Watanabe, decked out as always, today in a meticulous gray Pierre Cardin suit. Dapper Don, as he is known in legal circles, is one of the best in the business, not only here in the islands, I’d wager, but in all fifty states. On top of that, he’s respectful and open-minded. In fact, if I hadn’t purposefully doused Dapper Don with a cup of lukewarm Kona coffee during our first trial together, I’d be honored to call him my friend.

Dapper Don notices me staring and bows his head solemnly in my direction. I return the gesture with a wink, then open my briefcase and remove a half-dozen pages of notes I scribbled down last night at Sand Bar. I’m assuming this is Dapper Don’s case, if not the head prosecutor’s himself. Strangely, as good as he is, I’m looking forward to facing Donovan Watanabe again. Our first rematch since the Gianforte case.

Judge Sonya Maxa enters the courtroom from chambers. Silent, we all rise on cue and I’m reminded of church and the mind-numbing Sunday mornings of my youth. Maxa is a stern-looking woman to most observers, though it may be the long flowing black robe, the bifocal glasses, or the reddish brown hair chopped obscenely short and combed neat like an eight-year-old Catholic schoolboy’s. But I’ve been before Maxa on previous matters, and she is one of the fairest jurists I have yet to come across.

“Have a seat,” she says.

From the corner of my eye I catch the prisoner being led this way in shackles down the aisle.

Here comes the bride.

An image of Nikki Kapua flashes through my mind but I quickly push it away.

Once Erin Simms is safely at my side, I stand again, gently sweep aside her hair, and whisper in her ear. “This is just a formality. I’ll enter your plea and we’ll argue for bail, though as I’ve told your parents, bail will, in all likelihood, be denied. If not, it’ll be set so high, Bill Gates himself would probably have trouble making it.”

She starts to cry, and I ache a little inside. So I look away, back toward the prosecutor’s table. When I do, my eyes cross, my mouth contorts. I’m utterly perplexed and I can’t help but show it. Standing alone across the aisle now is a man about my age, approximately my weight and height. A good-looking guy with blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and a suit picked out for the cameras.

I swing toward the court officer standing behind Erin. “Hey, Perry,” I say.

Perry’s so big he could break me in half, but he’s one of the gentlest human beings I’ve ever known. “New guy,” he whispers to me. “Just came over from L.A. Got a hard-on for the media and says he plans on being the next head prosecutor soon as Frank DiSimone retires.”

I frown. “No enemies in the office yet? No opposition?”

Perry shrugs. “You know how it is in the islands, Kevin—too much respect, too little personal ambition. Guy like him figures he can fly across the pond and steamroll his way to the top. Hell of a lot easier to do that here than L.A.”

The clerk calls the case. “State versus Erin Simms, Docket Number…”

We briefly sit again while the judge gets her file in order. It’s a few moments before I catch my foot tapping against the floor. Then the clerk asks for our appearances.

L.A. rises. “May it please the Court, Your Honor, Luke Maddox for the State of Hawaii…”

I scribble the words Luke Maddox on my yellow legal pad and decide that I hate the name already.

My turn. “For the defendant, Kevin Corvelli…”

I waive a formal reading of the charges, sparing Erin and her family a few extra minutes of grief. Then Judge Maxa turns immediately to the issue of bail. It’s a lost cause, I know. And we’ll get another shot at it within two weeks, once Erin has been formally indicted on the charges. Though I don’t expect circumstances to change between now and then, I tell her now in her ear that there is at least a chance at getting bail reduced if exculpatory evidence surfaces before the next arraignment. Chances are, though, that she will remain incarcerated through trial, and I don’t want to get her hopes up too high.

“Maybe though?” she says.

“Let’s see what happens over the next two weeks,” I tell her. “We’ll try.”

Meanwhile the prosecuting attorney Luke Maddox is being heard on the issue of bail. He reveals little more than what the public read in this morning’s copy of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. That the defendant Erin Simms committed the offense in question over an affair had by her new husband just weeks before the wedding. Yada yada yada. He’s holding back a lot, I can tell, but that’s because he doesn’t need a lot. Not for this. Erin is not going anywhere unless her parents can somehow cough up a few million in bail, and as we all already know, that’s not going to happen.

As I watch Maddox go through the facts of the case, I decide that Maddox is probably just going to bat for DiSimone or Watanabe during this initial arraignment. This is little more than an exhibition game. No need to tire out your starters.

“… and the defendant’s Zippo lighter was discovered at the scene…” Maddox is saying. She had access, a key. She had more than motive. There is no question, Maddox submits, that the defendant Erin Simms is responsible for this heinous crime.

“As such,” Maddox concludes, “the State requests that bail be set in an amount no less than six hundred thousand dollars…”

What? My head snaps up, my eyes bulge from their sockets like a cartoon coyote’s.

“… with the conditions, of course, that the defendant immediately surrender her United States passport, be confined to a home here in Honolulu County, and submit to wearing a monitored ankle bracelet for the duration of this case. Thank you, Your Honor.”

Her Honor appears no less stunned than I am. My client is already displaying a confused smile on her otherwise despondent face.

Judge Maxa turns to me. “Mr. Corvelli?” she says.

I stand, staring down at my file, trying to comprehend what just happened. I glance back into the gallery, at the front row behind the prosecution’s table, at the deceased’s sister, Lauren Simms, and I think I understand.

“Mr. Corvelli?” the judge says again.

I shrug. “I apologize, Your Honor. Six hundred thousand dollars, it just sounds like an odd number to me.”

The judge lifts her brows as though she agrees, but of course she is not putting anything like that on the record. Instead, she says, “Are you complaining, Counselor? Because I believe that number, as odd as it might sound, is exceedingly fair, if not generous to your client, considering the serious charges pending against her.”

I open my file and stare down at the retainer agreement printed up just yesterday by Hoshi, and signed by both of Erin’s parents. I know exactly what this bastard is up to, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

So I make my prepared argument for an even lower bail. It’s weak, I know, and I don’t hit too hard with it for fear of losing credibility with the judge, with the media, with any prospective jurors who might be reading my words in the Star-Advertiser tomorrow morning.

I take my seat as the judge renders her unsurprising decision: “Six hundred thousand dollars with the requested conditions.”

Suddenly I have one hell of a decision to make.

“Your Honor.” Luke Maddox stands again as I’m about to pack up my stuff and quite possibly head to the mens’ room to vomit. “There is one other issue I’d like to raise and be heard on.”

Even Judge Maxa seems uninterested. “What is it, Mr. Maddox?”

“It concerns Mr. Corvelli’s representation of Ms. Simms in this matter. We’d like to put the Court and the defendant on notice that the State will be filing a motion forthwith to have Mr. Corvelli’s law firm relieved as counsel for the accused in this case, Your Honor.”

Maxa frowns. “On what grounds?”

Maddox looks over at me. “On the grounds that the State intends to call Mr. Corvelli as a material witness for the prosecution.”

Behind us the gallery buzzes and Maxa instantly calls for silence.

“Mr. Corvelli was present at the scene of the crime,” Maddox continues, “and we have certain proof that Mr. Corvelli has specific firsthand knowledge through his own personal observations in this case.”

Swallowing hard, I stare back at Maddox with a look of contempt, laced, I admit, with no small degree of awe.

Fortunately, Judge Maxa simply sets a date for his papers, another for my response, and yet another for oral argument and decision. Then she slaps her gavel, adjourning these proceedings.

I rise, already steeling myself for the questions, for the cameras, reminding myself to stick to my mantra and not to begin grandstanding, not to go off on some self-serving tangent.

Head down, I turn and move like a bullet back up the aisle.

So much for “There are rarely any surprises at arraignment.”