In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(5)
Inside, Kins was walking back from the bedroom. “You talk to the lawyer?”
“Atticus Berkshire,” she said.
“Shit.”
“It gets worse. Angela Collins is his daughter.”
“No,” Billy said.
“I think our grounder just took a bad hop,” Kins said.
CHAPTER 2
It had been a long night and a longer morning. Tracy and Kins had worked late with King County Prosecutor Rick Cerrabone to prepare the certification for determination of probable cause, setting out the known evidence showing that Angela Collins had shot her husband and should be detained in jail pending the filing of formal criminal charges.
Tracy flashed her shield to the court corrections officers and stepped around the metal detector inside the Third Avenue entrance to the King County Courthouse. She found Kins and Cerrabone huddled outside the district court. Cerrabone was the MDOP prosecutor who’d come out to the scene the night before, and he and Tracy and Kins had worked multiple homicides together.
Tracy was delayed because she’d been researching the King County Superior Court’s civil files. She handed Cerrabone a legal pleading. He put on reading glasses as Tracy gave them both the highlights. “Angela Collins filed for divorce about three months ago,” she said. “And from all appearances, it’s been nasty from the start. She alleged cruelty, emotional and physical abuse, and adultery.”
“Sounds like her civil attorney is taking lessons from her father,” Kins said.
Washington was a “no-fault divorce” state. There was no need for either side to assign blame. The idea was that making such allegations was inflammatory and usually intended to embarrass, or to try to gain the moral high ground when it came to divvying up the estate or child custody.
“Mediation failed. They were scheduled to go to trial next month,” Tracy said. “The index fills three computer screens. It looks like they’re fighting over every asset. The attorney’s fees will wipe out most of the estate.”
“Not anymore,” Kins said.
Cerrabone flipped the pleading back to the first page. “Berkshire will allege self-defense. That’s going to complicate things.” Once a defendant made a self-defense claim, the prosecutor bore the burden to prove the killing had not been in self-defense, not the other way around.
“But if it was self-defense,” Kins said, “why isn’t she talking to us and telling us what happened?”
“Probably because she grew up watching Hill Street Blues and because the first words her father taught her were ‘Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,’” Tracy said. “Or she’s covering for the kid.”
They’d discussed the possibility that Connor Collins had shot his father and that Angela Collins’s quick confession had been motivated by a desire to protect her son—something they’d have to investigate going forward.
“Battered wife syndrome still plays well in Seattle,” Cerrabone said. Early afternoon, he already had a five-o’clock shadow, which accentuated his hangdog appearance—pronounced bags beneath his eyes and cheeks that sagged, though Cerrabone wasn’t heavy. Faz had pegged Cerrabone as a “dead ringer for Joe Torre,” the one-time New York Yankees manager.
Tracy knew Cerrabone well enough to know he would want to slow down the train and give her and Kins time to gather the evidence and sort it out before formally charging either Angela Collins or Connor Collins; he was fine with whatever played out. King County prosecutors didn’t like to bring charges and ask questions later, and they really despised having to dismiss charges due to a lack of corroborating evidence.
Cerrabone folded his glasses and returned them to the breast pocket of his charcoal-gray suit. “Let’s go see what Berkshire has in store for us.”
Tracy followed Kins and Cerrabone into the cramped courtroom. Spectators and media filled the usually empty benches in the gallery. More people stood at the back of the room.
Atticus Berkshire sat in the first bench. Any trace of the sympathetic father and grandfather had vanished. Berkshire’s silver curls were swept back from his forehead, just touching the collar of his blue pin-striped suit jacket. He was busy typing on an iPad, head down. An oscillating fan on the corner of the clerk’s oak counter swung from side to side. With each sweep, papers weighted down by her nameplate fluttered like the wings of a bird. There were no counsel tables—attorneys and their clients stood at the counter during what were typically brief hearings.
At 2:30 p.m. Judge Mira Mairs entered from the right, strode between two burly corrections officers, and quickly took her seat. An American flag and the green flag of the state of Washington hung limply behind her. Ordinarily, Mairs would have been considered a good draw for the prosecution, but Mairs had forged a career prosecuting domestic violence cases against husbands and boyfriends, and Tracy feared she could be overly sympathetic to Angela Collins’s anticipated self-defense argument. Mairs instructed the clerk to call the case first, no doubt so she could get back to the normal afternoon routine.
Angela Collins entered in white prison scrubs with the words “Ultra Security Inmate” stenciled on the back, her hands cuffed to a belly chain. After a visit to the hospital to treat the bump on her head with three stitches and to x-ray her jaw and ribs—both were negative—Collins had spent the night in jail. The cut near the corner of her mouth had scabbed over and looked to be turning a dark blue.