In Federalist Paper Number 1 Alexander Hamilton wrote, “I affect not reserves which I do not feel. I will not amuse you with an appearance of deliberation, when I have decided.”
Well, Alexander Hamilton wasn’t a trial lawyer. At nine-twenty-two on that same February morning, sitting beside Q Kazmaryck at the defense table in Courtroom Six-thirteen of the Milwaukee County Courthouse, Walt Kuchinski was affecting reserves that he didn’t feel: scratching his head, poring over the computer print-out of the jury list with a worried frown, and otherwise suggesting an appearance of deliberation even though he had in fact decided, ten minutes ago, that the stiff in the suit had to go.
At last he squared the jury list in front of him. He bent his head toward Kazmaryck for a moment’s final consultation. He nodded again, as did Kazmaryck. Then, as if with great reluctance, he drew a line through the stiff’s name and next to it scribbled Δ#3, formally identifying the stiff as the defendant’s third peremptory strike from the pool of potential jurors.
As Boone Fletcher in the spectator section watched the clerk take the jury list from Kuchinski and show it to the fresh-faced assistant district attorney, his first thought was that the ADA was a damn child. A baby. Fletcher had condoms that were older than that kid. His second thought was that he hadn’t made a lot of progress recently on the Angstrom/sex-or-swim et cetera story, and he wasn’t likely to make much more if Q got his silly butt hauled off to the House of Corrections for six months when this trial was over, which at the moment looked rather likely.
The clerk called out the names of the twelve jurors who’d survived the cut. The judge dismissed the rest of the panel and told the ADA to begin his opening statement. Fletcher guessed that he ought to pay attention, so he sighed and tried to focus on the courtroom.
***
At nine thirty-six A.M., Hoeckstra worked the last of six nine millimeter cartridges into the Luger’s clip. She’d found the unfamiliar task surprisingly difficult the first couple of times she’d tried it, but after burning two boxes of bullets at an indoor shooting range she felt well practiced now, and slid the ammunition deftly into place. Then she inserted the clip into the Luger’s stock and pushed it home until a solid CLICK announced that it was in position, ready to feed the chamber.
Naturally, she put the safety on. That’s the kind of thing engineers do.
***
At ten o’clock sharp, Rep frowned as he retrieved Melissa’s voice-mail. He frowned first of all because the Contac he’d taken that morning hadn’t done a thing for his stuffy nose, and secondly because every word in the voice-mail except “dearest” bothered him.
Nevertheless, five minutes later he was dialing Kuchinski’s cell-phone number. Kuchinski was in court and would have his cell-phone turned off, but Rep figured he would check messages during the morning recess.
“This is Rep. I suddenly need to get to Saint Josephat’s over the noon hour. I checked Mapquest but it looks like they’re taking me there by the same route the Third Crusade used to get to the Holy Land. So if you can get me a south side travel tip sometime in the next hour, I’d appreciate it.”
***
At ten-fifteen A.M., patrolman Thad Obendoerfer of the Milwaukee Police Department took the stand in Courtroom Six-thirteen. He testified that around five-thirty in the morning on a date late last December, in the vicinity of four-eleven South Chicago Street, he had seen a man crouched in front of the main door of the erotic bookstore at that address. The man turned out to be the defendant, Quintus Ultimusque Kazmaryck, who had traces of iron filings on his fingertips. Quantities of iron filings had also been introduced into the lock of the porn shop’s door, and beyond suggesting that this was a remarkable coincidence, the defendant had had no explanation for any of these facts. Further investigation revealed that the owners of four other shops in the neighborhood discovered that iron filings had disabled their locks.
Kuchinski had no questions.
The ADA then called the manager of the smut shop, who looked like the manager of a smut shop. He testified that when he tried to open the front door of his establishment on the morning in question he had found the lock jammed by iron filings. When he’d locked up the night before, the lock was working fine.
Kuchinski had no questions. The prosecution rested. Kuchinski said that he’d like to make a motion.
“I thought you might,” the judge sighed.
After the clerk ushered the jury out, Kuchinski moved to dismiss the charges against Kazmaryk with prejudice because the prosecution had failed to prove venue. He noted that there are lots of South Chicago Streets outside Milwaukee County. Hence, proving that Kazmaryk had done something suspicious on that street didn’t necessarily mean he’d done anything at all in the City and County of Milwaukee.
The young ADA opined sarcastically that Milwaukee police officers weren’t in the habit of conducting early morning street patrols in other cities. Kuchinski sprang to his feet, a package of Xeroxed cases in his left hand.
“Skip it,” the judge said. “Motion granted. You don’t prove venue in a criminal case by asking the jury to assume that the police were doing their job properly. You prove it by asking the cop, ‘Is that the four-eleven South Chicago Street in the City and County of Milwaukee?’ No guesswork. Case dismissed.”
If Q was expecting congratulations for successfully navigating the shoals and reefs of the American criminal justice system, he was disappointed. After disgustedly gathering up his papers, Kuchinski stalked toward the courtroom exit and glared over his shoulder at Kazmaryck.
“What would your father do if he were alive today and knew you pulled a stunt like that?” he asked once they were in the corridor.
“He would kick my ass,” Kazmaryck conceded gamely.
“And a waste of damn good shoe leather that would be.”
“I hope you’re not charging me for this rebuke,” Kazmaryck said.
“I’m not only charging you, I view this as a value-billing situation.”
Kuchinski dropped his trial bag on the floor and whipped out his cell-phone. Kazmaryck looked hopefully in the direction of Fletcher, who was approaching.
“Seriously, Q, how could you do anything so goddamn stupid? If they hadn’t put some kid fresh out of Marquette on this thing you’d be eating baloney sandwiches for lunch from now until Labor Day.”
“Give me a break, scribbler. Times are hard. Campaign finance money doesn’t go as far as it used to. The election boards have accountants now. I’m a locksmith. I was just trying to generate a little demand to keep my skills from getting rusty. Don’t think of it as burglary; think of it as business development.”
Kazmaryck would have continued in this vein for several more paragraphs, but Fletcher suddenly shushed him. He braced himself against the marble wall and, oblivious to the pimp six feet to his left and the wife-beater a yard to his right, stared across the corridor in a kind of trance while his mind raced. Kazmaryck was certain that no sensory data could have penetrated the metaphysical fog surrounding Fletcher at that moment, but he was wrong. Fletcher did hear Kuchinski talking into his cell-phone.
“St. Josephat’s, huh? Well, here’s what you do. Don’t take the freeway. Just get onto Sixth Street and turn south. There’s a brand new bridge over the Menomonee River Valley, and Mapquest probably hasn’t gotten the memo yet. That’ll take you practically to the front door. You’ll wanna give yourself twenty minutes to be safe, so leave about twelve-thirty.”
“Are you all right, scribbler?” Kazmaryck asked anxiously. “You’re not flashing back to some of the drugs you did when you were a scribbling major at Madison, are you?”
Fletcher ignored him. He took out his own cell-phone, punched in a number without looking at it and raised it to his face.
“This is Fletcher.…Boone Fletcher, the famous reporter. I’m one of your goddamn employees. I’ll need a photographer to meet me at St. Josephat’s.”