To Sleep... Perchance to Die Page 16

  “Nevertheless,” Detective Powell persisted, “I’m obligated to tell you it may be in your best interest to call a lawyer.”

  After taking a moment to think about what Detective Powell advised, Bret said, “I could call my uncle. He’s an attorney but lives out of town. I don’t want to bother him if someone local is available to help. Maybe I can call Harvey Baronet. He was a patient of mine, and I’ve heard good things about him. He should be able to straighten out this mess.”

  The interrogation was deferred, and Bret was allowed to summon Attorney Baronet who arrived in forty-five-minutes. Before the official questioning began, Bret and his attorney had a private consultation in a room with a guard at the door.

  When he called the attorney, Bret said his arrest was a gigantic misunderstanding and general screw-up, and he required an attorney to help untangle the mess so he could be released as soon as possible. Upon hearing Bret was being charged with the first degree murder of Frankie Grimaldi, Attorney Baronet made it clear he would represent Bret until he found an experienced criminal lawyer. The attorney added, “And I mean with plenty of experience.”

  For an hour he and Bret reviewed questions likely to be asked and how they should be answered. When finished, they were led back to the interrogation room and Detective Powell, the primary interrogator. After laying the groundwork for what was to come, the detective went to the heart of the matter, “Why did you murder Ms. Grimaldi?”

  Bret looked at his attorney. With a nod, Attorney Baronet let him know he should answer the question as they had prepared. “I didn’t murder Frankie Grimaldi. If she was murdered, someone else did it and is trying to place the blame on me.”

  “Who’d want to pin the murder of Ms Grimaldi on you, and why?”

  “I have no idea. It’s unthinkable anyone would want to do such a thing to either one of us.”

  Detective Powell asked these and other questions in many ways and forms. Bret supplied the same answers. The interrogation lasted until late afternoon, when Bret, accompanied by his legal representative, was brought before a judge who ruled he be held without bail in the State Jail in Brooklyn.

  Not until he was being transported in a van to the jail did the horrible reality of his situation hit him. The authorities were accusing him of premeditated murder. It was a crime in which life without parole could be imposed. The possibility of being incarcerated for the rest of his life for something he didn’t commit petrified him. Attorney Baronet was correct when he said a good criminal lawyer was needed. The one silver lining in the horrible black cloud hanging over him was he knew the man, who many believed was the best criminal attorney around, his uncle, Hubie Santos. Bret was in dire need of his services.

  That evening, he and his cellmate, Roman Hernandez, a scary looking dude about twenty-five years old who arrived at the jail that day, watched the news of his arrest on TV. The known details of the heinous crime for which he was accused were released to the people of Connecticut by talking heads whose solemnity and sincerity he doubted. Film of him in handcuffs being escorted to the jail van was difficult to watch.

  Roman turned to him, raised his hand, and said, “Gimme a high-five, bro. You’re famous.”

  Bret returned the gesture out of fear of what might happen if he didn’t. One look at Roman told you he wasn’t to be trifled with. Roman was hard and tough looking. An assortment of facial scars reinforced the impression that he was acquainted with the area’s mean streets.

  “What are you in for,” Bret said in an effort to establish a rapport with the man he was sharing a cell with.

  “I almost cut the cojones off the maricon who lives next door to me. He made kissing noises at my bitch.” Roman smacked his lips mimicking the kissing noises. “Like he wanted to kiss her you know what. Too bad I didn’t cut them all the way off. I shoulda cut his tongue out at the same time.”

  Over the years Bret had acquired a working knowledge of Spanish, including street slang, and understood Roman had attempted to cut off the testicles of a fellow he referred to as gay but wanted to have oral sex with his girlfriend. It didn’t make sense, but what counted was it made sense to Roman. “Will they give you a long sentence?” Bret asked, curious what the sentence was for that type of crime.

  “Nah, bro, I didn’t do that much damage. I heard they stitched him up in the emergency room and let him go. Scared the shit out of him though. With prison crowding as it is, they shouldn’t give me more than six months. I can do that standing on my head.”

  Aware prisons were full of men like Roman, Bret desperately wanted to avoid being placed in one. A great concern was Mai made no attempt to visit him at the police station or the jail. They had taken his cell phone, so he couldn’t contact her. Given his plight, he couldn’t dwell on what was going on in her head. Recent events had made her a psychological wreck. Well, she’ll have to put on her big girl panties and get over her doldrums. I’m dealing with more pressing problems.

  It was his mother, Rose, who came to the rescue. Her friends had seen television news of Bret’s arrest and alerted Rose to his plight. Because of side effects of medicines she was taking, driving long distances alone was difficult. A neighbor drove her to the jail. Although she arrived after visiting hours, Bret’s mother demanded, and was granted, a short visit. They met in the room reserved for inmates meeting with their lawyers. A corrections officer monitored them.

  “Calm down, Mom,” Bret said when he saw her. His mom was close to being overcome with worry, and he was concerned the strain might be too much.

  “Don’t be bothered about me,” she assured him. “I’m strong and not about to complicate things with a medical problem.” After making herself comfortable in a chair, she said, “I want to help. What can I do?”

  “Just contact Uncle Hubie and tell him I need him. He might not know what’s happened.”

  “Of course. He’s away, but when he gets back, he’ll help you get out of this mess.”

  Bret’s first night at the jail was difficult. He was wrestling with concerns about who killed Frankie and about Mai’s behavior. Although she had been cold at home, he felt that because he was in jail, she should have attempted to contact or see him. He was annoyed that she hadn’t done either.

  Another worry was what Roman might be thinking. He had been friendly. Too friendly. Was he trying to get Bret to lower his guard? When least expected, he might pounce on his defenseless cellmate. Street smart and street hardened, Roman Hernandez would have no trouble overpowering him.

  It wasn’t a sexual assault he feared. After all, the man had a girlfriend and had been in jail a day. What scared him was the possibility of a jailhouse code of ethics of which he wasn’t aware. Such a code might demand Roman prove he was the alpha male in the cell.

  Adding to Bret’s woe was the temperature in the facility. Although it was the latter part of June, the heating system was working, and it felt ten degrees above what would be considered comfortable.

  The result was a sweaty, restless night filled with thoughts of Frankie and Mai and concerns about what Roman was contemplating. It was dawn when he fell asleep.

  A crazy series of nightmares was terminated by Roman pushing on his shoulder. “Wake up, wake up, you need to wake up,” Roman urged.

  Thinking he was being attacked, Bret sprang to a defensive sitting position and covered his face with his arms. His heart was beating a tachycardiac tune.

  Smiling, Roman said, “Take it easy, bro, we’ve got to get ready for breakfast. You don’t want to miss breakfast here. It’s the best of any jail around.”

  Thankful he was wrong in his judgment of Roman, Bret got out of bed. So much for the alpha male thing.

  That morning a corrections officer rapped on Bret’s cell door with his baton. “Manley, come with me.”

  “Why,” he asked.

  “We’re going to the visitor’s reception room There’s someone who wants to see you.”

  “Is it my wife?”

  “Can’
t say. All’s they told me was to take you there.”

  The officer walked a half-step behind Bret keeping his baton at the ready and giving an occasional shove with it. Bret retaliated with nasty stares. He wanted it to be Mai waiting for him. A voice in his head told him it wouldn’t be.

  When they reached the room, Bret’s escort opened the door and said, “You can go in. I’ll wait here. The officer inside will give you about a half-hour, no more.”

  The Visitor’s Reception Room appeared to have been copied from the set of a 1950’s prison flick. A wall with thick glass partitions divided the room. On both sides of the glass were cubicles that faced each other. Each cubicle contained a counter and a chair. Side walls provided a modicum of privacy. Circular metal grates in the glass partitions allowed visitors to speak to each other.

  It wasn’t Mai but a white-haired older man sitting in one of the cubicles on the other side. He wore a blue pin-striped suit with a power-red tie. While disappointed it wasn’t his wife, Bret figured the fellow was from his uncle’s office. The officer stationed in the room led him to the chair across from the visitor. Bret greeted him with a friendly, “Hi.”

  Without a word of acknowledgement, the stranger nodded to the corrections officer who had remained standing at Bret’s side. The officer walked to his duty station desk, picked up a large thick envelope, and brought it to Bret. Confused, Bret took it as the stranger spoke, “This service has been recorded in the jail logbook.” The man rose from his chair and left without another word.

  Bret opened the envelope and reviewed its contents. The papers fell from his hands, and his vision blurred. He was surprised. Or was he? Mai had been acting strange since before Frankie’s death. It was official, she was filing for divorce.

  As he sulked in his cell, ignoring Roman’s attempts to raise his spirits, Bret was notified of a telephone call, and was taken to the room he and his mother had used. It contained a landline. He picked up the phone and recognized the cheerful voice.

  “Bret, its Uncle Hubie. Hang in there, son, I’m going to help you.” Hubie Santos paused a moment. People in Bret’s emotional state required information to be provided in small bites. “I’ll be in personal touch after I research the charges against you and think about our defense. It may take a day.”

  Bret’s emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

  Hubie continued, “In the meantime, one of my staff will meet with you today. If you want to talk to me, call anytime. I’ve arranged for you to have twenty-four hour use of the jail’s landline. If I can’t answer my cell because I’m in court or something, I’ll get back as soon as possible.”

  As he held the phone to his ear, Bret began to sob. “Sorry for crying, but, until now, I had no hope of surviving this ordeal.”

  Hubert Santos, everyone called him Hubie, was a well-known criminal defense attorney who had defended numerous high profile clients. He argued cases in state and federal courts. It was not unusual to read a newspaper or watch a television news program with mention of him and his firm in their current legal battle. Those who had to have the best hired Hubie.

  Because of age differences and divergent and busy career paths, Bret saw his uncle on rare occasions. Hubie would visit him whenever he was trying a case in New York, but for the most part, they met at events that bring together far-flung families and distant relatives. Christmas, weddings, and funerals led the list, but no matter the occasion, Bret welcomed the opportunity to visit with his uncle.

  Hubie Santos was a raconteur extraordinaire who had the ability to tell a story and hold an audience as no other. When he entered a room, people flocked to him hoping to become privy to the latest “Hubie tale.” As a listener, you expected to be belly laughing one moment and shocked into stunned silence the next. Hubie laughed with you, patted you on the back, or put an arm about your shoulder as emphasis to his narrative. Although Bret had never observed his uncle in a courtroom, he felt these stories gave him insight into Hubie’s power to mesmerize a jury.

  On Friday afternoon, Bret and his uncle were sitting at the table in the consultation room. Bret shaved, combed his hair, and wore the clean uniform that was issued for the meeting.

  As he was setting up a recorder and booting his laptop to connect to the wired internet service provided, Hubie asked, “How’re you getting along with your cellmate? Hernandez is his name, right?”

  “Yes, that’s it. He’s a pretty good guy, actually. He says his lawyer got the prosecutor to agree to a reduced plea, and they’re going to give him the six months he was hoping for. They’re also going to let him serve his time here, and he’s ecstatic about that. When the sentence is official, they’ll move him out of our cell to one of the dormitories. I’ll be sorry to see him go. Believe it or not, in the short time we’ve bunked together, we’ve become friends. He even told me to look him up when I get out of this mess.”

  Hubie kept his gaze on Bret. “I’m going to do everything in my power to see that you keep that date.

  When his equipment was in order, Hubie began the session. “Because of the gravity of your charges, I’ll request the administration not to assign anyone to your cell. That will give you more time to concentrate on helping with the upcoming trial. I’m pretty sure they’ll agree. They don’t want to give me any reason to say your defense was unfairly hindered and to ask for a mistrial should we need one.”

  Hubie was tall and broad with close cropped salt and pepper hair and compassion in his eyes. He gave the impression of a man who could be trusted to defend your life.

  “Tell me everything that happened the day Ms. Grimaldi died. Don’t leave out any detail no matter how unimportant you might think it is. What seems unimportant now may turn out to be critical to our case.”

  Bret related the circumstances of Frankie’s death, giving as much detail as memory allowed. Hubie asked for clarification when appropriate.

  When the recitation was finished, the attorney said “That was good, Bret. You’ve told me what you believe is the truth.” He stood and went to his nephew who remained seated. Placing both hands on Bret’s shoulders, he began in a gentle manner, “I’ve never known you to lie. Even when being honest resulted in punishment. I’m thinking of the time you were a kid and threw a rock that broke a window in the new house being built next to yours. If you had denied doing it, you wouldn’t have been caught. Instead, you admitted breaking the window and took your lumps. I’ve always admired you for that.” He removed his hands from Bret’s shoulders.

  Hubie finished rough and to the point. “But, I have to tell you some person or persons went to great lengths to make you look guilty. And, they’ve done a good job.”

  He returned to his chair and cradled his chin with his hand. “Yes,” he said, “a really good job.”

  Turning to Bret, he posited, “Let’s see if I have it. It’s complicated, but hear me out. The prosecution says Frankie Grimaldi died from a combination of peanut oil and cyanide you added to the medicines typically used by an oral surgeon when giving intravenous anesthesia. They speculate the cyanide was meant to poison her and the peanut oil was used to insure death by causing an anaphylactic reaction. Of course, the cyanide alone should have been enough.”

  “No, no, no. That’s a lie,” Bret insisted, shaking his head.

  Hubie’s voice was firm, “Hold on. I said to hear me out.”

  Bret fixed upon his uncle.

  “You have to know everything if you’re going to assist with our defense. I understand it’s difficult to hear. Be tough.”

  Bret shook his head, “This whole thing is unbelievable.”

  Hubie continued, “They say you took the further precaution of putting the adrenalin syringes, crucial to treating cardiac arrest and stopping allergic reactions, in a different place from where they should have been in your emergency kit. That made them hard to find. Delaying treatment and increasing the chance of death.”

  Bret listened without comment to his uncle’s words.

  Hubi
e stood and paced the room, his eyes never leaving his young client. Pointing a finger in the air, he continued with the prosecution’s theory, “You would have gotten away with the murder had not Corrie Hunter, the office manager, accidentally walked in on your alleged drug switch in the room where such medicines are kept. She claims you were acting suspicious.”

  Hubie stopped pacing and paused as if thinking, “Ordinarily, there would have been no drug testing other than for the standard anesthetics used. The blue color of Frankie’s blood caused by the cyanide would be chalked up to lack of oxygen from what happened. Even the almond odor of the cyanide you and the assistants smelled was assumed to be from a cream or lotion Frankie used.”

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Bret couldn’t fathom why anyone wanted to do what had been done to Frankie and him.

  As if reading his mind, his uncle said, “Whoever did this terrible thing wanted to kill Frankie Grimaldi and get away with murder by implicating you.” As if he had an inspiration, “Or, maybe they wanted to get rid of you and used Ms. Grimaldi to do it. Who knows, perhaps, it was both. Can you think of anyone who would harm either of you?” He returned to his chair.

  “Only Corrie Hunter. That’s because I know she’s lying when she says she saw me switching the intravenous drugs. I don’t know why she would do such a thing. I thought we had a good working relationship.” He gathered his thoughts, “If she was acquainted with Frankie, it wasn’t very well. She never mentioned anything about her. Maybe something happened long ago, and she’s been carrying a grudge.”

  “Perhaps,” was Hubie’s noncommittal response. He leaned forward, and with a grave expression on his face said, “Remember what I said earlier about being tough.”

  Bret responded with a firm, “Yes, and I’m trying to be.”

  “What I’m about to tell you will hurt, but I believe it to be fact.”

  Shivers rattled Bret’s spine.

  “We have to go where the evidence leads. In my mind there’s no doubt your wife had a role in setting you up for a murder rap.”