“See, this is precisely why I’m here, Tom. This is precisely how the prosecution’s going to want you to react. You just be forthright with your explanations, admit to whatever you admitted in terms of plea bargains, and act like it’s all behind you. Don’t fight with them. The judge is going to believe you if you keep your cool.”

“Keep my cool,” he said, shaking his head. “This sounds like it’s gonna be a world of fuckin’ fun. I’m startin’ to get real glad I volunteered for this.”

The attitude, Tommy, the attitude. This was going to take some serious work. This was going to take the afternoon. I’d have to beat him up so many times that he became immune to it, that he’d be ready for it when Lester Mapp came after him.

Because, at the end of the day, Tommy Butcher’s identification of Ken Sanders was one of only two things I had going for me in the case against Sammy Cutler. That, and Archie Novotny. I couldn’t deny that Sammy was parked just down the street from Perlini’s apartment, and I couldn’t deny that the window of time that his car was parked perfectly matched the time it would take Sammy to go to Perlini’s apartment, kill him, return to the car, and drive away. I couldn’t even speak to the witnesses who identified Sammy, all of whom were refusing to return my phone calls. And Sammy’s would-be confession—where he blurted out Griffin Perlini’s name before anyone even mentioned why he was being questioned—didn’t help, either.

No, all I had was two alternative suspects. I would give the jury Kenny Sanders, identified by Tommy Butcher as the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene, and I would give them Archie Novotny, who had motive and no alibi for the night of the murder. That was it. That was all I had. And Novotny would deny everything, of course. He would be an adverse witness.

Which made Tommy Butcher’s identification of Kenny Sanders all the more crucial. These were the only witnesses who were on my side. I had to make sure that Tommy Butcher held up under an intense cross-examination by Lester Mapp.

“Let’s take it from the top,” I said.

MY CELL PHONE rang at my office near eight o’clock that evening. When I answered it, I heard Pete’s voice.

“Jason, it’s Pete. I’m doing—okay. The headline of the Watch is ‘County Budget Assailed.’ Take care of yourself, man.”

The line went dead. It was a tape recording, not Pete’s live voice. That was smart. They couldn’t risk Pete blurting something out that would tell me where he was, or anything at all that might implicate them.

The cell rang again.

“Jason,” Smith said. “Best of luck at that hearing tomorrow, with Mr. Butcher’s testimony. A critical moment, obviously. Critical for Mr. Cutler. And critical for your brother. Y’know, I think these guys are almost hoping you’ll screw up, so they can get to work on Pete.”

He hung up before I could reply. I checked the county clerk’s Web site to be sure of the time of tomorrow’s hearing, a superstition of mine.

I called Kenny Sanders one more time to check in with him.

“Never did get one,” he told me, referring to a subpoena from the prosecution.

“The prosecution didn’t subpoena you? Or call you?”

“No, sir. Only reason I know ’bout it’s ’cause of you tellin’ me.”

“Okay, well—show up anyway,” I said. I hung up with him. Then I looked back at the county Web site again.

There it was, just below the line for “Contested Motion—Prosecution,” without elaboration that it was the prosecution’s motion to bar testimony. “Hearing—10/18/08, 9:30 A.M.”

I picked up my cell phone again and dialed the number for Joel Lightner. “The name is Tommy Butcher,” I said. “I need his background and more, Joel. Starting as soon as you can.”

50

SAMMY WAS BROUGHT into the courtroom at a little after nine in the morning. The deputy removed his manacles and he took a seat next to me, wearing his prison jumpsuit. There was no jury, so no need to make him look more respectable in a suit.

Across from me, Lester Mapp was conferring with another attorney, a young woman. He carried that air of authority that accompanied his position. He wore it a little too proudly. I never felt comfortable with it, myself, the self-righteousness. The way I saw it, lots of people do lots of things they shouldn’t, and the ones hauled into court are just the ones who got caught. Unless we could be more consistent in how we enforced the law, the air of superiority didn’t fit.

I checked my watch for the fourth time when Tommy Butcher walked in. I’d told him to wear a suit, but the best he could do was a brown tweed sport coat, red tie, and slacks, which didn’t seem to fit him too comfortably. I nodded to him but didn’t approach, other than to make a calming gesture with my hands.

“All rise.”

Judge Kathleen Poker walked into court with her typical no-nonsense approach and got right down to business, looking over her glasses at the courtroom. “People versus Cutler,” she said. “Show Mr. Mapp present for the People. Show Mr. Kolarich and the defendant present as well. Mr. Mapp?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Mapp rose and buttoned his impressive suit coat.

“I’ve read your motion. Do you have anything further?”

“We’d ask to call Thomas Butcher, Your Honor.”

“Is Mr. Butcher present—okay, Mr. Butcher. Will you please come forward, sir?”

Witnesses come in all shapes and sizes, well-dressed and not, confident and meek, but you always want someone who seems comfortable, which means they’re being honest. Butcher seemed to do well enough on first glance, walking slowly to the witness stand and swearing the oath given to him by the bailiff. He rolled his neck, showing his discomfort with a buttoned-up collar and tie. That part wasn’t so good. Fidgeting was not on a lawyer’s wish list for his client.

“Permission to treat as adverse,” said Mapp. I didn’t bother to object, because Butcher was a defense witness. Mapp was asking for the right to cross-examine, to ask leading questions.

“Your Honor, for the record, I assume we can stipulate that the offense under indictment—the murder of Griffin Perlini—took place on September 21, 2006.”

“So stipulated,” I said.

“Thank you, Counsel.” Lester Mapp opened a file folder on the lectern between the prosecution and defense tables. “Mr. Butcher, good morning.”

That was about as friendly as the prosecutor was going to get.

“You gave a statement to the police in regard to this crime on September 18 of 2007,” he said. “Two-thousand-seven. Almost an entire year later.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Already, Butcher was getting his back up a bit, adjusting in his seat and setting his jaw. His eyes shot in my direction.

“On the date of this shooting—September 21, 2006—you were not aware of a shooting taking place.”

“No. Not then, no.”

“You heard about it later?”

“Right. I read about it in the paper.”

“The Watch?”

“Yeah. Some article about the case.”

“Do you recall when this was?”

“Not the exact date.”

“Well, okay—but let’s try it like this,” Mapp said. “You came to the police on September 18 of this year. How many days before that date had you read the article?”

When I asked Butcher almost that precise question yesterday, he couldn’t say. I went through the online archives of the Watch and found an article dated September 16 of this year, which was the Sunday edition. The article was a one-paragraph in the Metro Shorts about a firm trial date being set, including in the discussion that a shooting took place outside the Liberty Street Apartment Complex on the evening of September 21, 2006.

“The Sunday previous,” said Butcher. “Something about it in the Metro section.”