The Poet Read online

  “What does it matter?”

  “Not a great deal. In arguing for bail it might just move the judge an inch or so our way if, you know, psychologically he knows you’ve already denied the charges and are readying for a fight.”

  “Okay, not guilty. Just get me out of here.”

  Santa Monica municipal judge Harold Nyberg called the name Harold Brisbane and Gladden went back to the slot. Krasner came back around the tables and stood by the slot so he could confer, if needed, with his client. Krasner announced himself as did deputy district attorney Tamara Feinstock. After Krasner waived a lengthy reading of the charges, he told the judge that his client pleaded not guilty. Judge Nyberg hesitated a moment. It was apparent that entering a plea so early in a case was unusual.

  “Are you sure that Mr. Brisbane wishes to enter a plea today?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. He wants to move quickly because he is absolutely one hundred percent not guilty of these allegations.”

  “I see . . .” The judge hesitated while he read something in front of him. So far, he had not even looked over in Gladden’s direction. “Well, then I take it you do not wish to waive your ten days.”

  “A moment, Your Honor,” Krasner said, then he turned to Gladden and whispered. “You have a right to a preliminary hearing on the charges within ten court days. You can waive and he’ll schedule a hearing to then set the prelim. If you don’t waive, he’ll set the prelim now. Ten days from now. If you don’t waive, it’s another sign that you’re going to fight, that you aren’t looking for a handout from the DA. It might help on the bail.”

  “Don’t waive.”

  Krasner turned back to the judge.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. We don’t waive. My client does not believe these charges will survive a preliminary hearing and, therefore, urges the court to schedule it as soon as possible so he can put this—”

  “Mr. Krasner, Ms. Feinstock may not object to your added comments, but I do. This is an arraignment court. You’re not arguing your case here.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge turned and studied a calendar hanging on the far wall, above one of the clerk’s desks. He chose the date ten court days away and ordered a preliminary hearing in Division 110. Krasner opened an appointment book and wrote it down. Gladden saw the prosecutor doing the same. She was young but unattractive. So far, she had said nothing during the three-minute hearing.

  “Okay,” the judge said. “Anything on bail?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Feinstock said, standing for the first time. “The people urge the court to depart from the bail schedule and set an amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Judge Nyberg looked up from his papers at Feinstock and then over at Gladden for the first time. It was as if he was trying to determine upon physical inspection of the defendant why he was worth such a high bail for what seemed like so lowly a set of charges.

  “Why is that, Ms. Feinstock?” he asked. “I don’t have anything before me that suggests a deviation.”

  “We believe the defendant is a flight risk, Your Honor. He refused to provide the arresting officers with a local address or even a license plate number of a car. His driver’s license was issued in Alabama and we have not verified it as a legitimate issuance. So, basically, we don’t know if Harold Brisbane is even his real name. We don’t know who he is or where he lives, if he has a job or family, and until we do, he is considered a flight risk.”

  “Your Honor,” Krasner jumped in. “Ms. Feinstock is misstating the facts. My client’s name is known to police. He provided a legitimate Alabama driver’s license of which there was no mention of a problem. Mr. Brisbane has just arrived in the area from Mobile seeking work and does not yet have a permanent address. When he does, he will be glad to provide it to authorities. In the meantime, he can be contacted if needed through my office and has agreed to check in twice daily with me or any representative of the court Your Honor chooses. As Your Honor knows, a deviation from the bail schedule should be based on a defendant’s propensity for flight. Not having a permanent address is in no way an acknowledgment of flight. To the contrary, Mr. Brisbane has entered a plea and waived any delays in this case. He clearly wishes to attack these charges and clear his name as soon as possible.”

  “Calling your office is fine, but what about the address?” the judge asked. “Where’s he going to be? You seem to have left out of your dissertation any mention of the apparent fact that this man already fled from police prior to his arrest.”

  “Your Honor, we challenge that charge. These officers were in plainclothes and at no time identified themselves as police officers. My client was carrying a rather expensive piece of camera equipment—with which, by the way, he earns his living—and feared he was about to become the victim of a robbery. That is why he ran from those people.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” the judge said. “What about an address?”

  “Mr. Brisbane has a room at the Holiday Inn on Pico Boulevard. From there he is endeavoring to find work. He is a freelance photographer and graphic arts designer and is confident of his prospects. He isn’t going anywhere. As I said before, he is going to fight these—”

  “Yes, Mr. Krasner, as you said before. What kind of bail are you looking for here?”

  “Well, sir, a quarter million dollars for a charge of throwing a trash can into the ocean is utterly incomprehensible. I think a modest bail of five to ten thousand dollars is more in line with the charges. My client has limited funds. If he uses them all to make bail, he will not have the money on which to live or pay counsel.”

  “You left out the evading and vandalism.”

  “Your Honor, as I said, he ran from them but he had no earthly idea that they were police officers. He thought—”

  “Again, Mr. Krasner, save your arguments for the proper venue.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor, but look at the charges. It is clear this is going to be a misdemeanor case, and the bail should be set accordingly.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Submitted.”

  “Ms. Feinstock.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Again, the people urge the Court to consider a departure from the bail schedule. The two main charges against Mr. Brisbane are felonies and will remain as such. Despite Mr. Krasner’s assurances, the people still are not convinced the defendant is not a flight risk or that his name is even Harold Brisbane. My detectives tell me that the defendant has dyed hair and that it was dyed at the time the photograph for this driver’s license was issued. This is consistent with an attempt to hide identity. We are hoping to borrow the Los Angeles Police Department’s fingerprint identification computer today and see if we can get a—”

  “Your Honor,” Krasner interjected. “I have to object here on the basis that—”

  “Mr. Krasner,” the judge intoned, “you had your turn.”

  “In addition,” Feinstock said, “Mr. Brisbane’s arrest came as a result of other suspicious activities which he was involved in. Namely—”

  “Objection!”

  “—the photographing of young children—some of them unclothed—without their knowledge or the knowledge or consent of their parents. The incident for which—”

  “Your Honor!”

  “—the charges before you have arisen occurred when Mr. Brisbane attempted to elude the officers investigating a complaint against him.”

  “Your Honor,” Krasner said loudly. “There are no outstanding charges against my client. All the district attorney is trying to do is prejudice this man before the court. It is highly improper and unethical. If Mr. Brisbane did these things, then where are the charges?”

  Silence filled the cavernous courtroom. Krasner’s outburst had even served to make the other attorneys whispering to their clients hold their tongues. The gaze of the judge slowly moved from Feinstock to Krasner to Gladden before he finally looked back at the prosecutor and continued.

  “Ms. Feinstock, are th
ere currently any other charges against this man being considered by your office at this time? And I mean right at this time.”

  Feinstock hesitated and then grudgingly said, “No other information has been presented for filing but the police, as I said, are continuing their investigation into the defendant’s true identity and activities.”

  The judge looked down at the papers in front of him again and began to write. Krasner opened his mouth to add something but then reconsidered. It was clear by the judge’s demeanor that he had already made the decision.

  “The bail schedule calls for bail to be set at ten thousand dollars,” Judge Nyberg said. “I am going to make a slight departure and set bail at fifty thousand dollars. Mr. Krasner, I will be glad to reconsider this at a later date if at that time your client has assuaged the district attorney’s concerns about identity and address, etcetera.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  The judge called the next case. Feinstock closed the file she had in front of her, put it on the stack to her right, and took another off the stack to her left and opened it. Krasner turned to Gladden with a slight smile on his face.

  “Sorry, I thought he might go twenty-five. The beauty of it is she’s probably happy. She asked for a quarter probably hoping for a dime or a nickel. She got the nickel.”

  “Never mind that. Just how long until I’m out of here?”

  “Sit tight. I’ll have you out in an hour.”

  11

  The edge of Lake Michigan was frozen, the ice left jagged and treacherous and beautiful after a storm. The upper floors of the Sears Tower were gone, swallowed whole by the grayish white shroud that hung over the city. I saw all of this while coming in on the Stevenson Expressway. It was late morning and I guessed it would be snowing again before day’s end. I had thought it was cold in Denver until I landed at Midway.

  It was three years since I had been back to Chicago. And despite the cold, I missed the place. I had gone to J-school at Medill in the early eighties and learned to truly love the city. After, I had hoped to stay and get on with one of the local papers but the Tribune and Sun-Times both took passes, the interview editors telling me to go out and get some experience and then come back with my clips. It was a bitter disappointment. Not the rejection as much as having to leave the city. Of course, I could’ve stayed on at the City News Bureau, where I worked during school, but that wasn’t the kind of experience those editors were looking for, and I didn’t like the idea of working for a wire service that paid you like you were a student needing clips more than money. So I went home and got the job at the Rocky. A lot of years went by. At first I went to Chicago at least twice a year to see friends and visit favorite bars but that tapered off over the years. The last time had been three years ago. My friend Larry Bernard had just landed at the Tribune after going out and getting the same experience they had told me to get. I went up to see him and I hadn’t been back since. I guess I had the clips now for a paper like the Tribune, but I had never gotten around to sending them to Chicago.

  The cab dropped me at the Hyatt across the river from the Tribune. I couldn’t check in until three, so I left my bag with the bellman and went to the pay phones. After fumbling with the phone book I called the number for CPD’s Area Three Violent Crimes and asked for Detective Lawrence Washington. When he answered, I hung up. I just wanted to locate him, make sure he was there. My experience with cops as a reporter had always been not to make appointments. If you did, all you were doing was giving them a specific place to avoid and the exact time to avoid it. Most didn’t like talking to reporters, the majority didn’t like even being seen with reporters. And the few that did you had to be cautious of. So you had to sneak up on them. It was a game.

  I checked my watch after hanging up. Almost noon. I had twenty hours left. My flight to Dulles left at eight the next morning.

  Outside the hotel I grabbed a cab and told the driver to turn up the heat and take me to Belmont and Western by way of Lincoln Park. On the way I’d take in the spot where the Smathers boy had been found. It was a year since his body had been discovered. My thought was that the spot, if I could find it, would look almost exactly as it did on that day.

  I opened my satchel, booted the computer and pulled up the Tribune clips I’d downloaded the night before in the Rocky’s library. I scrolled through the stories on the Smathers case until I found the paragraph describing the discovery of the body by a zoo docent cutting through the park on the way from his girlfriend’s apartment. The boy had been found in a snow-covered clearing where the Italian-American League’s bocce tournaments were held in the summer. The story said the clearing off Clark near Wisconsin was within sight of the red barn, which was part of the city’s farm in the zoo.

  Traffic was light and we were in the park within ten minutes. I told the driver to cut over to Clark and to pull to the side when we got to Wisconsin.

  The snow on the field was fresh and there were only a few tracks across it. It also stood about three inches high on the boards of the benches along the walkway. This area of the park seemed completely deserted. I got out of the cab and walked into the clearing, not expecting anything but in a way expecting something. I didn’t know exactly what. Maybe just a feeling. Halfway across I came upon a grouping of tracks in the snow that cut across my intended path from left to right. I crossed these and came upon another grouping heading right to left, the party having headed back the way it had come. Kids, I thought. Maybe going to the zoo. If it was open. I looked toward the red barn and that was when I noticed the flowers at the base of a towering oak twenty yards away.

  I walked toward the tree and instinctively knew what I was seeing. A one-year anniversary noted with flowers. When I got to the tree I saw that the flowers—bright red roses splashed like blood on the snow—were fake, made of wood shavings. In the cleft made by the first branching of the tree’s trunk I saw that someone had propped a small studio photo of a smiling boy, his elbows on a table and his hands propped against his cheeks. He wore a red jacket and white shirt with a very small blue bow tie. The family had been here, I guessed. I wondered why they hadn’t placed their memorial at the boy’s grave.

  I looked around. The lagoons near the barn were iced over and there were a couple of skaters. No one else. I looked over to Clark Street and saw the cab waiting. Across the street from it a brick tower rose. I saw that the sign on the awning out front said HEMINGWAY HOUSE. It was the place the zoo docent had come from before finding the small boy’s body.

  I looked back at the photo propped in the tree’s cleft and without any hesitation reached up and took it down. It was sealed in plastic like a driver’s license to protect it from the elements. On the back of it was written the boy’s name but nothing else. I slid the photo into the pocket of my long coat. I knew that someday I might need it to run with the story.

  The cab felt as welcome and warm to me as a living room with a fireplace. I began scrolling through the Tribune stories while we drove on to Area Three.

  The major facts of the case were as horrifying as those in the Theresa Lofton killing. The boy had been lured from a fenced recreation center at a Division Street elementary school. He and two others had gone out to make snowballs. When the teacher noticed they were missing from the classroom, she went out and rounded the boys up. But by then Bobby Smathers was gone. The two twelve-year-old witnesses proved unable to tell police investigators what happened. According to them, Bobby Smathers simply disappeared. They looked up from their work in the snow and didn’t see him. They suspected he was hiding and waiting to ambush them, so they didn’t go looking.

  Bobby was found a day later in the snowbank near the bocce clearing in Lincoln Park. Weeks of full-time investigation headed by Detective John Brooks, who caught the case as lead investigator, never got any closer than the explanation of the two twelve-year-olds: Bobby Smathers had simply disappeared that day at the school.

  As I reviewed the stories I looked for similarities to
Lofton. There were few. She was a white female adult and he a black male child. As far different in terms of prey as would seem possible. But both were missing for more than twenty-four hours before being found and the mutilated bodies of both victims were found in city parks. Lastly, both had been at children’s centers on their last day. The boy at his school, the woman at the day care center where she worked. I didn’t know the significance of these connections but they were all I had.

  The Area Three headquarters was an orange-brick fortress. It was a two-story sprawling building that also housed the Cook County First Municipal District Court. There was a steady stream of citizens going in and out of the smoked-glass doors. I pushed through the doors to a lobby where the floor was wet with melted snow. The front counter was made of matching brick. Somebody could drive a car through the glass doors and they still wouldn’t get to the cops behind the counter. The citizens standing in front of it were another matter.

  I looked at the stairs to my right. I knew from memory that they led to the detective bureau and was tempted to ignore procedure and head up. But I decided against it. You break even the mundane rules with the cops and they can get testy. I stepped up to one of the cops behind the counter. He eyed the computer bag slung over my shoulder.

  “You moving in with us, are you?”

  “No, this is just a computer,” I said. “Detective Lawrence Washington. I’d like to speak with him.”

  “And you are?”

  “My name’s Jack McEvoy. He doesn’t know me.”

  “You have an appointment?”

  “No. It’s about the Smathers case. You can tell him that.”

  The cop’s eyebrows climbed an inch up his forehead.

  “Tell you what, open up the bag and let’s check the computer while I make the call.”

  I did what he asked, opening up the computer the way they used to make me do at airports. I turned it on, turned it off and put it away. The cop watched with the phone to his ear while talking to someone I assumed was a secretary. I figured that mentioning Smathers would at least get me through the preliminary round.