Pretrial
The following Monday, I would have my first court date.
Colton and I had spent the past few days preparing intensely, while Billy Ray lingered, watching TV or fixing our meals. Colton was thorough, going through every bit of evidence carefully, and questioning me in unnerving detail, insisting that I tell him everything. The whole truth.
While I kept lying.
To me, my life story was like an iceberg, the underwater part always meant to stay hidden.
Otherwise, the entire ice block would topple, out of balance.
There were still some questions he’d not asked me yet, and I was dreading them, unable to think of reasonable answers.
Like, for example, where had I lived before moving to Las Vegas?
Or how had I earned a living? Sooner or later, those questions would come up.
On Thursday, I came out of the bedroom to find them both watching the evening news on TV.
A picture of me was splayed over the entire screen, under the heading, “Olivia Taylor charged with murder one.” The piece went on and on detailing the affair, painting it in sordid colors, insisting on twisting details and loading facts with cheap sexual innuendo.
It ended with an unequivocal statement about how Winston Donovan’s murderer was out on bail.
It broke me.
Then on Friday, Colton wanted to take me shopping for trial clothes. He steered me clear of all the brand names I was used to.
“You must project innocence and respectability, especially with a hard-liner like Antunez. He’s a churchgoing Catholic. We’ll get you conservative, neutral colors, like navy, cream, gray. You’ll wear something professional and modest, a business suit or a knee-length dress with a blazer.”
“Okay, whatever you say.” I followed him and tried on the outfits he picked off the racks, without objecting.
“Make sure they fit well. If you adjust your clothing or fidget in your seat, the jury will perceive that as a sign of nervousness or deceit.”
“Understood.”
“Oh, and your hair shouldn’t make the women on the jury jealous. Your makeup should be understated, natural, and discreet.”
I was afraid of running into media on our way to the courtroom, but there were no journalists ready to snap pictures of me. Still, I held my breath until we were safely inside.
Colton and I sat at the defense table while Billy Ray took a seat behind the bar, with the very few spectators.
I wrung my hands nervously. Beside me, he opened his briefcase and extracted a legal pad with some jotted entries on the first page.
A few minutes later, the prosecutor, the gray-haired man I’d seen at my arraignment, took a seat at the opposing table.
When the clerk called on us to stand, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Standing next to me, Colton gave my hand a little squeeze. “Take it easy, all right? This won’t take long.”
Judge Antunez had a strong, chiseled face with deep lines and a serious, unyielding demeanor, underscored by a firm set to his mouth and intense, piercing eyes. I shuddered when he looked at me.
“Be seated,” he ordered. “Pretrial motions?”
“Yes, thank you, Your Honor,” Colton said, remaining standing.
His voice resounded in the courtroom, clear and assertive.
“We move to suppress statements made by my client, Olivia Taylor, due to a blatant violation of her Miranda rights. Not only was she not informed of her rights, but there is also no signed waiver indicating she waived these rights voluntarily.”
The prosecutor sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, the officers assert that Ms. Taylor was informed of her rights—”
“Assert, yes, but where’s the proof? The Supreme Court in Miranda v. Arizona is clear: Without proper advisement and waiver, any statements made are inadmissible. Olivia Taylor’s interrogation continued despite her request for an attorney. That was a direct violation of her constitutional rights!”
Judge Antunez leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Mr. Mitchell, do you have a signed waiver?”
The prosecutor hesitated a split second. “No, Your Honor, but the officers—”
“Well, then, you know the drill,” the judge said. “No signed waiver, no admissible statements. The defense’s motion to suppress is granted.” Colton shot me a quick triumphant glance. “Any other motions?”
“Your Honor, the defense moves for access to the crime scene to conduct our own examination. It is crucial for our case to have an unbiased view of the location where the alleged crime took place.”
“Mr. Mitchell?” the judge asked, shifting his attention to the prosecutor.
“Your Honor, the crime scene has already been thoroughly examined by the police and documented. Moreover, being a hotel suite, it has since been released and is now back in service. Granting access at this point would be impractical and disruptive to the hotel, and useless from a probative perspective.”
The judge pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Mr. Blake, given these circumstances, I must deny your motion for access to the crime scene.”
“But, Your Honor, the integrity of our defense depends on having access to the original scene.”
“I understand your concern, Mr. Blake. However, the situation as it stands does not permit reaccessing the scene. You will need to rely on the evidence and documentation provided during the investigation. Motion denied.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Colton said, sounding a bit frustrated.
The judge stood. “Jury selection in one week.” A strike of the gavel ended the court session.
I stood, feeling shaky and yet relieved it was over, at least for today.
Colton gathered his things and put them in his briefcase, then slammed the lid shut. “They were in a big hurry to release the scene,” he muttered under his breath.
The prosecutor stopped by our table on his way out. He stared at me with a deathly chill in his eyes. “You win some, you lose some, right, Blake? And this time, you’re all alone.”
Colton didn’t budge. He stared at the prosecutor and grinned. “As long as I win the critical ones, I’m fine with it.” Mitchell brushed off Colton’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “Careful there, Counselor. Some might say this is assault,” Colton added, grinning widely.
Mitchell took an immediate step back. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, but then Mitchell walked away. “Have a good day, Mr. Blake.”
“What was that?” I asked, walking by Colton’s side toward the exit. “Why does he hate me so much?”
He clasped my hand as if I were a child. “It’s not about you. We crossed paths in the past. He’s just a sore loser. You have nothing to worry about.”
The comment didn’t ring true.