The Last witness

Mason made certain he was early enough to claim a seat at the defense table so that he could talk with Patrick Ortiz before Blues's case was called. Ortiz arrived at eight forty-five, carrying a stack of files and trailed by two assistants. The other defense lawyers flocked to him like schoolchildren asking for early dismissal. Mason waited while Ortiz listened to their pitches, nodding at some while disappointing others. When the frenzy had subsided, Mason stepped over to the prosecutor's table, buttoning the top two buttons of his three-button gray suit jacket and straightening his black-and-blue-striped tie.

"Morning, Patrick," Mason said, extending his hand.

"Lou, good to see you," Ortiz answered, shaking Mason's hand without conviction.

Mason was six feet tall, with a hard flat body kept in shape on the rugby field and a rowing machine he kept in his dining room. Ortiz was a head shorter than Mason, and had the irregular rounded shape of someone whose diet was limited to those foods that end in the letter O. Mason sat on the edge of the prosecutor's table, a friendly adversary chatting up the opposition.

"I'm here on Wilson Bluestone."

"So I've been told. These are for you," he said, handing Mason a copy of the police reports. "Normally, you wouldn't get these until the preliminary hearing, but Harry Ryman says he promised to give them to you today. Don't ask for any more favors. This is my case now, not Ryman's."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mason answered as he skimmed through the pages.

Ortiz enjoyed taking full advantage of the rules on disclosure of the state's case, and he didn't like the fact that Harry had given up his right to withhold the investigative reports from Mason until the preliminary hearing, which probably wouldn't be scheduled for two weeks. Ortiz rarely granted a favor to the opposition without cashing it in for a bigger favor down the road.

"Sign this," Ortiz said, and slid a single sheet of paper toward Mason.

Mason picked it up. It was a consent form authorizing the State of Missouri to obtain blood, hair, and skin samples from Wilson Bluestone, Jr. Mason signed it and handed it back to Ortiz.

"You want to talk about a plea, come see me this afternoon," Ortiz told him.

"My client's only plea is innocent. I don't expect you to agree to release him without bail. How much are you looking for?"

"No bail. That's what I'm looking for, Lou," Ortiz answered.

Before Mason could respond, three deputy sheriffs led Blues into the jury box. After a night in jail, clad in Day-Glo orange with his hands and feet manacled, even to Mason he looked like a flight risk and a danger to the public.

Mason made eye contact with Blues, who was seated in the middle of the back row. Mason shook his head, telling Blues all he needed to know about the prosecutor's position on bail. Judge Pistone made his entrance as the bailiff called the courtroom to order.

"Good morning, Counsel," the judge began. "We'll take the video arraignments first."

Arraignments for the accused who did not yet have a lawyer were often conducted by video broadcast from the jail. A projector mounted on the wall directly above the table for defense counsel beamed a six-foot-by-ten-foot image on the opposite wall. The picture was grainy and washed out. The audio was a beat behind the image, and the transmission speed was somewhere between real time and slow motion. The proceedings had the look and feel of justice administered in the middle of a bad dream.

Each defendant appeared on screen, an oversize head shot that magnified every tremor and twitch. The last defendant was a young boy Mason guessed was barely twenty. His blinking eyes tried to retreat from the camera as he nervously patted his thin blond hair. His lips quivered and he tugged at his chin as the judge read the charge and the maximum sentence for the offense.

"You are charged with forcible rape, a Class A felony for which the maximum penalty is life in prison."

The boy whipped his head up at the camera, his mouth gaping at the judge's words.

"Do you have an attorney?" the judge asked. The boy shook his head mutely, robbed of speech. "The public defender will come see you."

Unseen hands pulled the boy offscreen and the picture disappeared. Mason had the feeling the boy was as lost as the image that had been on the wall.

"The next case is State of Missouri v. Bluestone," Judge Pistone announced. "State your appearances, Counsel."

Patrick Ortiz stood and announced, "The people of the State of Missouri appear by Patrick Ortiz, deputy chief prosecuting attorney."

Mason followed. "The defendant appears in person and by his counsel, Lou Mason. We're ready to proceed, Your Honor."

"Very well, Counsel," the judge said without looking up. "Will the defendant please rise."

Blues stood from his seat in the jury box. Mason could hear the faint etching sounds of the courtroom artists who were there for the TV stations whose cameras were not allowed in the courtroom.