The Guilty Page 8

  “Yeah, they call me Brando, ’cause my name’s Marlon. On the outside, I’m just Brando.”

  “Brando’s a bit…uh, old-fashioned, isn’t it? For a street-name, I mean.”

  “Nah. We like doin’ things old school, is all.”

  “Fine. Whatever. If you don’t mind we’ll stick to real names in court. I wouldn’t feel too optimistic if our main alibi witness was sworn in as Shoot to Kill. We’ll page them both today and see if we can’t meet them tomorrow.”

  “Ooh, you’re working on Sunday. Don’t let my mother find out,” Small said with a sarcastic grin.

  “Well, I’m sure she’d understand that we’ve got very little time to waste, especially considering what’s at stake for you.”

  “Yeah. She does love me, though, don’t she?”

  Bratt looked at Small, who was sporting a self-satisfied smirk around the toothpick, and thought to himself, a face that only a mother could love. But then, such was the fate of all parents.

  “OK, there’s something else I wanted to ask you about. The Crown’s going to file into evidence a video of your police interrogation. Somehow, in getting the file from Sévigny, it’s been misplaced, and I won’t get to see another copy for a couple of days.”

  “So, what’s the problem? It’s not like I confessed or anything.”

  “That’s exactly what has me worried. Prosecutors don’t usually put anything into evidence unless they think it’s going to help them. Since you didn’t admit your guilt to the cops I can’t help but wonder just exactly what there is on it that can hurt you.”

  “Like I said, I didn’t admit anything. I just told them I was in the park. That fat detective kept asking me over an’ over why I shot those guys, an’ I just kept on denying it. There’s nothing else on the tape, so don’t worry about it.”

  “Like I said, the prosecutor knows what he’s doing. So, we’ll wait and see before deciding what we should worry about.”

  “Suit yourself. You’re the lawyer.”

  “I’d also like you to tell me about Marcus Paris. He used to be a good buddy of yours.”

  Small jumped up, suddenly enraged, and slammed the glass partition with the palm of his right hand.

  “That bitch! He’s lucky I’m locked up in here or I really would be guilty of murder.”

  Kouri jumped back in surprise at this unexpected display of anger, but Bratt managed to keep a poker face.

  “So, I gather you’re not buddies any more,” he noted dryly.

  “Damn right! He’s selling me out just to save his own ass. You know that. Once the cops got that fool Dorrell to pick out my picture, Marcus just went along with ’em. He’d say his mother shot ’em if it got him out of jail early.”

  “I don’t blame you for being angry, Marlon, but we have to take his testimony seriously. You’ve got to understand that someone who’s been friends with you since he was a little kid is going to be carefully listened to by the jury. Especially since he’s admitting he was in on the shooting.”

  “Well, that’s why my mother’s paying you, isn’t it? So that the damn jury doesn’t listen to him.”

  “Listen, I’m a pretty good lawyer, but I don’t have time to investigate Paris’s whole life. It would be very helpful if you could tell me a bit about him, and especially what issues there may be between you two.”

  “Issues!” Small’s mouth opened into a big grin, revealing a large gap between his crooked lower teeth. “The only issues we got is that his kid sister, Karen, is my baby-mother, an’ he hasn’t learned to accept that.”

  “His kid sister? How old would that make Karen now?”

  “Just turned sixteen. Saundra, that’s my baby, is gonna be a year old on Valentine’s Day. An’ Marcus just couldn’t get around the fact that I made his little sister my woman. If you wanna know why he’s so ready to fuck me over, you got a reason right there. That enough of an issue for you?”

  Bratt had to admit that this was a pretty fair reason for Paris to hold a grudge against Small, although it meant telling the jury that his client had gotten a fifeen year-old pregnant. But if it was presented the right way, along with the fact that Paris was saving himself at least fifteen years in a penitentiary, the jury could be made to see that the accomplice had all the necessary motivation to lie under oath.

  As he sat and looked at Small, though, Bratt couldn’t muster up an ounce of sympathy for his new client. He had to admit that between Small’s sarcasm and his badass attitude, he simply didn’t like the young man. Maybe his not liking him was coloring Bratt’s thinking, but he also doubted that Paris was lying about Small’s involvement in the murders.

  He shook his head. He knew that this kind of thinking would lead him nowhere. It wasn’t his job to like, or to judge, Marlon Small. Objectively speaking, he knew there was ample room for a doubt about his guilt, and his job was to lead the jury to that doubt. They wouldn’t be able to convict Small if they only got as far as deciding that he probably killed those men. People weren’t sent to jail just on probabilities.

  He did his best to wrap up the discussion with Small as fast as possible, explaining what had to be done over the next few days and promising a return visit to update his client later in the week. Small seemed to have lost most of his interest in the conversation after venting his feelings about Marcus Paris, and hardly paid attention to what Bratt was saying, so getting out of there and back on the road was easily done.

  Once in the car and heading for the highway, Bratt turned to ask Kouri his impression.

  “Well, it was really something,” Kouri opined. “It’s amazing how the cards seem to be stacked against this poor guy, but it just goes to show you how far the cops are willing to go to get a conviction.”

  Bratt kept his eyes fixed on the road in order to avoid staring at Kouri, who seemed to be talking about a very different client. There was little doubt in Bratt’s mind that he wasn’t going to be fighting for some pathetic, unjustly accused soul. He had developed some fairly reliable instincts over the years, and they told him that the cops didn’t have to go far out of their way to gather evidence of Marlon Small’s guilt.

  The Buffet Dolce Vita was in a quiet, middle-class and mostly Italian neighborhood in the eastern suburb of St. Leonard. Bratt looked up at the long white columns fronting the building and the marble lions standing at attention alongside the entrance. He thought this was one of the few neighborhoods on the Island of Montreal where this building wouldn’t stand out like a sore thumb.

  He drove his Jaguar up the long circular driveway and stopped, waiting his turn while a tuxedoed valet took the keys of a 1983 Cadillac Eldorado that was as shiny as the day it had rolled off the lot. The car’s driver, a short, hugely fat man in a long suede coat with a fur collar, slipped the valet some cash for extra care, then escorted an equally fat woman, with blue hair curled high over her head, through the large glass doors of the building.

  Bratt turned his eyes away from the woman to look at Nancy in the passenger seat next to him. She would definitely look better than most of the women they would see that evening, and this gave him a sense of security and triumph.

  He was glad that for this evening they had agreed to be just a normal couple and put their respective professions aside. Bratt had admitted to previously defending the groom, although he didn’t tell Nancy the charges, but tonight this was supposed to make no difference. There would be no cops and robber talk at the table.

  As beautiful as she looked right now, Bratt could hardly believe that she was a police detective. Surely nobody else at the reception would either. Under her lambskin winter coat she wore a straight, black, sleeveless gown that showed off her well-formed arms and neck and most of her back. The slit reaching halfway up her thigh reminded him that she had legs worth showing off too.

  Bratt thought that he looked quite good when he had finished dressing earlier that evening. When Nancy greeted him at the door of her apartment he knew that he had more than met his match.
At that moment his heart had begun beating like a teenager going to his graduation dance, and, instead of coming up with anything clever to say, all he could do was stand there with a dumb grin on his face. The look in Nancy’s eyes told him that if there was ever any self-doubt in her mind, it had just disappeared. She knew he was a beaten man.

  The valet approached the Jaguar and held the door open for her. He looked impressed both with Bratt’s car as well as his date. Nancy slipped her hand through Bratt’s arm as they headed for the entrance. She looked up at his satisfied face and asked him, “Which one of us are you showing off?”

  He laughed with unabashed glee.

  Inside the building they found themselves in a large foyer, filled with sofas and leafy potted plants. Several guests were in line at one of two cloakrooms at the rear of the room and they joined them.

  Once rid of their winter outerwear they headed for the large, circular staircase leading up to the main hall. Chandeliers glistened over their heads and the lights reflected brightly in ceiling-high mirrors lining the staircase. Bratt had ample opportunity to admire the handsome couple they made as they walked up the stairs, mentally comparing himself and Nancy to the other guests.

  At the door to the main hall there was a large rectangular table with name cards spread across it in alphabetical order. Guests were slowly filing in, many of them sipping from punch glasses as they waited their turn. A tall, heavy-set man with a face like a boxer stood taking people’s names and methodically finding them their cards. Nancy looked at him for several seconds, trying to remember where she had seen him before, then followed Bratt inside the hall. Once through the door they found themselves in the hands of one of several young ushers who were efficiently weaving their way in and out of the lavishly-decorated tables, leading the wedding guests to their appointed seats.

  They had arrived at the reception after the cocktails, and most guests were already seated, awaiting the arrival of the wedding party. Their table was in the middle echelon, not as far back as company employees or neighbors, but not quite up with the cousins and childhood friends. The hall itself was impressively large, easily holding over four hundred guests, with room to spare.

  Nancy looked around, wide-eyed, at the well-dressed crowd. Low-cut gowns and heavy make-up were the order of the day for most of the women, some of whom were well into their golden years. Girls in their early teens wore the latest designer dresses, with hairstyles that had taken them all morning to get done and probably cost a small fortune. The older men were all in black tuxedos, the younger men in Armani and Boss suits.

  Nancy leaned over to Bratt and whispered, “Somebody here must have hit a Brinks truck.”

  “Now, now. Don’t go making any slanderous remarks. Besides, we’re both supposed to be off-duty tonight.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t help noticing that everybody in this place is dressed very expensively. Some of the weddings I’ve been to there were more jeans than tuxedos.”

  “Not with this family. Weddings are a big thing for them. I’m sure a lot of people blew their budgets just trying to outdo each other.”

  “Now I regret not having gone to the church too. They must have had a beautiful ceremony.”

  Bratt looked at her with a bit of surprise. “I didn’t think you’d go for that kind of thing: the bride in white, choirs singing and all that.”

  She smiled back at him. “That goes to show how little you know me, Mr. Bratt. I’m just an old-fashioned romantic at heart.”

  As she spoke there was a sudden rush of movement near the entrance to the hall, and several photographers and a cameraman appeared, trying to make themselves some space in the crowd. The wedding party had arrived.

  On the stage, the band stopped playing and the master of ceremonies took the microphone. He began talking effusively in Italian, and Bratt, not understanding a word that was being said, thought that he had never heard Italian spoken any other way. The crowd seemed to be enjoying whatever he said, and laughed and clapped frequently.

  Nancy smiled too, clearly enjoying the extravagance of the whole production. Bratt looked at her and imagined her as a young teen, full of enthusiasm and curiosity.

  I guess she hasn’t been a detective that long, he thought, wistfully. The cynicism still hasn’t set in.

  The band began playing again, although not too loudly. Bratt didn’t recognize the tune, but it was full of dramatic flourishes offset by low drumrolls. While the music played the front doors opened wide and, two by two, the members of the wedding party entered as their names were announced.

  The young ring-bearer and the flower-girl, each maybe five or six years old, were first, and they looked around the room nervously as they walked in front of the large, applauding crowd. They looked like they were ready to bolt for their families, but they managed to keep up their courage and climbed up to their places at the head table.

  A half-dozen ushers then escorted in the same number of bridesmaids wearing long lavender gowns, several of them looking like they were rehearsing for the day they would be the center of attention. Everyone waved enthusiastically as they made their way to the front, then split off to sit at two tables set aside for the young singles. The best man and maid of honor followed them, arm in arm, and joined the two younger children on the long dais.

  Nancy was happily clapping along in rhythm to the music. She poked Bratt in the side and encouraged him to do the same. Reluctantly, he joined in, feeling a bit embarrassed but not wanting her to think he had no sense of fun.

  The two sets of parents were announced next and Bratt wasn’t sure which ones were his former client’s. The men were both fairly tall, with thin, graying hair. The women had slightly heavier builds, hidden under sparkling dresses that seemed to have magically sprouted flowers. They strode proudly to the head table and stood behind chairs that were placed on either side of two thrones, covered with flower garlands and waiting to receive the newlyweds.

  Finally, there was a long drumroll, then the M.C. shouted out his introduction of the bride and groom. The clapping and cheering got even louder as the young couple entered, and Nancy grabbed his arm to tell him how beautiful she thought the bride looked.

  He turned to hear what she was saying and saw her suddenly freeze up, her eyes locked on someone or something across the hall. Bratt looked at her curiously, wondering what had caught her attention in such a dramatic fashion. He was shocked to see that all the blood had drained from her face, taking her smile with it. He tried to follow her gaze through the milling crowd, but couldn’t see whom she was staring at.

  “Do you know who that man is?” she asked him, pointing at a short, neatly-dressed man who had discreetly slipped into the hall and was heading for a seat just to the right of the head table. “That’s Nick Tortoni. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

  Bratt said nothing. He had been aware the well-known crime figure might be present, but had hoped Nancy wouldn’t have recognized him so easily.

  Looking confused, she asked him, “Did you know he’d be here?”

  Bratt picked up a bread roll and tried to look casual as he buttered it. As much as possible he wanted to show her that the man’s presence was not something to get worked up over.

  “Well, of course he’s here. He’s the groom’s great uncle.”

  Nancy stared at Bratt, an expression of disbelief on her face. “You told me the groom’s name was Joe Capelli.”

  “Mm-hm,” Bratt managed with a mouthful of bread. “But his mom is a Tortoni. Angelina Tortoni, Nick’s niece. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  The expression of disbelief on her face quickly turned to anger.

  “What do you mean, not a big deal? You know who he is-”

  “Look, Joe’s got nothing to do with the old man’s business. They’re not even particularly close. But he’s family, so he had to be invited, that’s all.”

  “And you just had to invite me,” she stabbed a finger at him, accusingly. “I’m a cop and no matter how mu
ch you try to act like it doesn’t matter, you still brought me to a wedding in Nick Tortoni’s family. You must have known I’d never come if I had known; that’s why you never mentioned the family connection.”

  “Come on, Nancy. You’re not supposed to be a cop tonight, remember? We’re just at my old friend’s wedding. I wasn’t exactly planning on introducing you to the old man.”

  “Christ, I hope not,” she almost yelled, indifferent to the stares this attracted from the other couples sitting at their table. “If you brought me anywhere close to him I’d spit in his face. That man ordered the shooting of two cops last year, so you must be nuts to think that I might want to meet him.”

  Bratt’s lawyer’s instincts took over and, before he’d had a chance to think about it, he found himself arguing in the old man’s defense.

  “You guys never could pin that on him, so why won’t you forget about it?”

  As soon as he had spoken the words he realized that he couldn’t have chosen a worse thing to say. Nancy made that clear when she grabbed his forearm tightly and spoke through clenched teeth, tears of anger beginning to well up in her eyes.

  “Are you really such a thoughtless jerk? Just because we can’t prove something in court doesn’t mean he didn’t do it, and you know it. It’s not bad enough that he’s a crime boss, but he’s a cop killer to boot, and you’re stupid enough to think that not being able to pin it on him makes the least bit of difference to me?”

  For several seconds he sat there in stunned silence. He realized that her reaction should have been totally predictable. What surprised him most was how he had managed to convince himself it might be otherwise.

  Earlier that day, when Nancy had agreed to attend the wedding of his former client, he had decided to not mention the Tortoni connection. He thought that once they were here, happy to finally be together, she wouldn’t care who else attended the reception. He thought that she might even find some sort of humorous irony in attending a Tortoni wedding. He had clearly thought wrong.