Page 29 of Witness 8

Kate and Harry nodded.

And the load they carried felt a little heavier.

Kate understood that being a lawyer meant owing a sacred duty to your client. That you represent them to the very best of your ability. But that’s only the oath you take as a new lawyer. If you care about your clients, you carry around their pain inside. Until you can let it go. Representing an innocent person accused of murder adds to the load. Kate had already found herself unable to sleep some nights, thinking about this case, thinking about what might happen if John was convicted. That was the nightmare that kept her awake, that made her get up early and into the office – the weight of that responsibility was sometimes too much to bear. But Kate took it on. She cared. Couldn’t help it.

‘The press conference is starting,’ said Al Parish, breaking the silence.

They all sat back in their chairs, raised their head to look at the screen.

District Attorney Robert Castro stood outside the Manhattan Criminal Court building, wearing a white suit, blue shirt and red tie. His hair slicked back. He was flanked by assistant DAs in dark suits. Castro stood tall, the low afternoon sun in his eyes. The camera angle picked up the battle line of reporters in front of them, their mics held aloft like swords.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ began Castro.

While he spoke, he patted his jacket.

Both sides.

Like he was looking for something.

Then he unbuttoned the jacket, checked his inside pockets.

Both sides.

He looked over the heads of the journalists, then took a second to get his shit together. Composed himself. He knew it had been a rocky start and the silence that filled the space between him and the microphones was beginning to become awkward.

He coughed, put on that fake professional smile that all politicians wear, as if they all bought it from the same store.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began again, ‘thank you for coming. I’ve come straight from the grand jury room and can confirm that we have an indictment against John Jackson for the murder of Margaret Blakemore. This is a first-degree murder case and we intend to speed this case to trial at all—’

Castro’s head shot up. Something was happening right in front of him. He narrowed his eyes. The press conference had come to a complete stop. The shot of the courthouse took in some background. Kate could see people moving quickly past Castro, moving toward whatever was going on behind the reporters.

‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Parish.

Sweat broke out on Castro’s top lip. His nose wrinkled, his brow furrowed and his fake smile had died – replaced by a scowl of pure anger. Even his pallor changed – a bright red seeping up from the collar of his shirt.

Harry shook his head, said, ‘There’s only one man alive that can piss people off that badly.’

10

Eddie

We met outside the now permanently closed Corte Café, on the corner of Lafayette and Duane. While the junior associates were lousy lawyers, they could at least follow basic instructions. They had come in their Sunday-morning-hungover-trip-to-the-convenience-store clothes. Baggy, ripped jeans. Sweatshirts either way too big or way too small. Faded gray T-shirts and stained sneakers. Baseball caps and beanie hats. The kind of outfit you might wear if you were painting the apartment and you didn’t mind it getting ruined.

The point was none of them looked like Harvard grads who all happened to work in the same firm.

They had all followed the brief.

Except one.

Harrison Washington III, because I would have a hard time forgetting that name, had come in oversized Dolce & Gabbana jeans, bright white Gucci sneakers and an Alexander McQueen shirt.

I watched him cross the street from Foley Square.

He could sense my disapproval. And it didn’t look like he cared too much. He stood in front of me, a defiant look on his face. His outfit must’ve cost more than ten grand. The denim alone, with what looked like little diamond sequins, must’ve been seven or eight thousand dollars.

‘I’m afraid I don’t own anyrippedjeans,’ he said, with a smirk.

I knelt down in front of him, grabbed a handful of his jeans and ran my switchblade through ten inches of denim, opening his pants from his shin to this thigh.