The Cutting Room. Jilliane Hoffman
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glanced at his watch. Shit. It was already almost 2:00. Time to head over to the courthouse. His hearing was with an uptight, well-heeled prosecutor who probably really meant 1:30 when she said it — though Manny knew there was no way the case would be heard before 3:00, since it was Slow Steyn on the bench today and the man never returned from lunch before 2:00 and his calendars were always the size of a Harry Potter novel.
As he finished the last of his coffee, Manny stuck the photos and reports into an accordion folder that was already tearing at the edges. It was time to move up to a box. Or boxes. After enough years in the trenches, you developed a feeling for which cases would be ‘quickies’ — plenty of evidence, cooperative witnesses, a damning confession — all leading to a fast-tracked plea bargain. Then there were the headaches — sloppy scene, no witnesses, circumstantial evidence, and a closed-mouthed, cocky, SOB defendant. Not to mention the years of BS appeals if you did get a conviction. The State of Florida v. Talbot Lunders unfortunately fell into the headache pile.
Crumpling up the remains of his empanada in the deli wrapper, Manny pitched it across the room and over the head of the only other detective currently in the squad bay and not out to lunch. It landed in the overflowing wastebasket next to the copier, causing an avalanche of paper down one side. Mike Dickerson, an ornery fixture as old as the building itself, shot Manny a dark look over his black spectacles. ‘Watch it, Bear,’ he grumbled, shaking the sports section of the Miami Herald in Manny’s direction. ‘You ain’t no Josh Johnson.’ Then he buried his head behind the paper and carried on gumming his sub.
‘I coulda been, Pops,’ Manny said with a heavy sigh, as he crumpled up the paper bag lunch had come in and chucked that, too, across the room. This time he hit the copier.
‘Yeah, yeah. I don’t know what you was throwing those ten minutes you spent in the minor leagues, boy, but I’ll tell you, your aim is for shit now.’
‘Took your piece off.’
Mike’s hand shot to the top of his head.
‘Don’t have a heart attack, Pops. I’m just busting balls,’ Manny said with a hearty laugh. ‘It’s still there.’
‘Bald fucking Yeti.’
‘You should go natural, Mikey. It beats the rug. The missus would love it, rubbing her hands all over your smooth, silky melon.’
Manny had shaved his head the day he joined the force and worn it that way ever since. But he did let hair grow everywhere else it naturally wanted to on his body, including his arms, hands, back and chest — thus earning him the nickname Bear. He wore a five o’clock shadow by noon and a thick, wiry, black mustache 24/7. The decision to go bald wasn’t solely motivated by vanity, though. It kept him cool, for one thing. And as a hulking, over-sized, olive-skinned, bald Cubano with a thick mustache and dark, full eyebrows that were perpetually furrowed, he looked menacing. Most defendants thought twice before trying to fuck with him. And confessions came faster for him than they did for most of the other guys. Plus, the ladies seemed to like it. Considering he’d been married three times already and hadn’t had a hair on his head when he met any of his exes, being bald certainly didn’t hold him back.
Dickerson snorted and shook the paper again. ‘Don’t you have some murder to solve, Manuelo?’
‘Heading to court right now,’ Manny replied, pulling a sports jacket on.
‘Where’d you dig up that thing?’
‘What?’
‘The coat.’
‘The prosecutor asked me to get all fancy. You don’t like?’
‘Are those patches on the sleeves?’
‘Very funny. Ain’t no patches, Pops. This is a genuine …’ Manny peered at the label on the inside of his jacket, ‘… Haggar. I bought it at the Aventura Mall.’ Manny shrugged. ‘I can’t find my good suit. It must still be in the cleaners’ from my last trial.’
‘Nice tie.’
Manny wagged the tip of his teal tie that was speckled with tiny Miami Dolphins football helmets in the old detective’s direction. ‘Thanks.’
Dickerson rolled his eyes again. ‘You in trial?’
‘I got an Arthur.’ Arthur was short for Arthur Hearing — another way of saying bond hearing.
Dickerson smiled coyly. ‘I’m willing to bet your prosecutor has a nice set of gams and the initials ‘Ms’ in front of her name.’
‘Who the hell says “gams”?’
‘You wouldn’t wear a jacket to your own momma’s funeral.’
‘Not if it was in Miami in June, I sure as fuck wouldn’t. That’s why Cubans invented guayabera shirts, Pops. Dressy when you need to be, yet still cool and comfortable. You’re right — she is a she. And she does have fine legs. Not that I noticed.’
‘I knew it,’ Dickerson replied with the same lecherous cackle.
‘Fuck you, old man. You don’t know shit.’
‘What case you going on? Is that the dumpster girl?’
‘Yup. Holly Skole’s her name.’
‘Saw the pictures on your desk.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Didn’t realize you had a suspect. Is he good?’
‘I’m not counting chickens; I always get burned when I do. You saw the pictures — the guy’s an animal. He needs to pay for what he’s done.’
‘For once, young Jedi, we agree.’
Manny laughed. ‘For once.’ Then he picked up his file and headed out the homicide squad-room doors and into the controlled chaos of the rest of the City of Miami Police Department.
‘Call me if you get lonely, Sonny Boy,’ Dickerson called after him, as he returned to his paper. ‘I’ve only got one hundred and eighty-three days left. You still got time to learn from the master …’
The old man’s voice faded away as the hallway crowd got louder. Manny had learned early on to never boast about the strength of a case or predict a conviction. No case was airtight, and especially not this one. He would have to make his case as if he was building a house destined to be hit by a hurricane — slowly, carefully, with a strong foundation.
He slipped on his Oakley’s and stepped into the scorching sunshine. It was barely June and the humidity was already 95 per cent. He could feel his armpits start to drain as he headed across the steamy asphalt parking lot.
Bienvenido a Miami.
5
By 1:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, the criminal courthouse in downtown Miami was relatively quiet. The frenzied morning calendars had finally been cleared and the defendants, victims, witnesses, family members, defense attorneys, prosecutors and cops were long gone — their cases arraigned, continued, pled-out or set-over for motions or trials on another day. The hallways that had been clogged a few hours earlier were now deserted. Most of the building’s courtrooms were empty and locked, their judges either still at lunch or in recess till the following morning. The courtrooms that were open were either in trial or hearing motions.
Assistant State Attorney Daria DeBianchi pushed open the heavy doors of 4-10 and made her way into the one courtroom in the building that was still a beehive of activity. On the other side of the railing that partitioned the lawyers from the general audience, an invisible line separated prosecutors from defense attorneys, like a boy/girl middle school dance. Correction officers manned the exits and flanked the jury box, which was also filled with bodies, except they weren’t jurors, they were defendants — all dressed in bright orange jumpsuits, chained together at the wrists and shackled at the ankles. Filling the