Weighing the Truth: A Novel

By Christine Z. Mason

In Weighing the Truth, a character-driven legal suspense novel, 32-year-old attorney Natalya Drummond struggles with significant challenges in her life—a demanding job representing criminals in their felony appeals, crushing grief over the sudden death of her husband, and the difficulties of raising a you

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillrow Editions
• Release date: Sep 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9780989795814

Christine Z. Mason

Christine Z. Mason, a novelist and former attorney, lives on the central coast of California.

Book preview

Contents

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Christine Z. Mason

BOUNDARIES

THE MYSTERY OF NAN MADOL

For Evan and Josephine

1

On the drive to San Quentin, cold, misty air blew at Natalya Drummond through the passenger-side window, which was permanently stuck halfway down. Her colleague, Rick Cropper, had insisted on driving his ancient, pollution-producing Impala. It hadn’t been easy convincing him they needed to visit their client, Jared Hegner, on death row. Rick didn’t want to do any work that wasn’t absolutely required of him, and that included prison visits.

A few miles into the two-hour trip from Sacramento, Nat said, Let’s just try to calm him down a bit, if we can, okay? Hegner was furious because he felt his appeal was moving along too slowly; he’d been sending them hostile letters, basically calling them incompetent idiots.

We don’t need to coddle the guy, Rick said. We can just tell him there’s a hell of a lot of work to do on an appeal like this.

We’ve had the case for six months, Rick. We should have visited him way before now.

You agreed we’d do some research on the case first.

I didn’t think it was going to take more than a couple of months.

Rick frowned, staring ahead at the road. That’s pretty unrealistic, don’t you think?

Nat sighed. She thought of Hegner’s latest letter saying, among other things, You better hurry things up, OR ELSE!!! They’d already written to him, explaining it would take a year or two of full-time effort just to complete the first legal brief and years beyond that to get through the court system. Hegner hadn’t wanted to hear any of that. Of course he was right, it was unconscionable, the length of time these appeals took.

After a few minutes, Nat looked over at Rick, and he peered back at her, his forehead crinkling, as if he was noticing her for the first time. She felt a sharp constriction in her chest. Rick could almost be her dead husband’s doppelgänger—something she’d always noticed—but for some reason the similarity now struck her with more force. Rick had Tim’s wide forehead, the rust-brown complexion, the unusual grayish blue eyes. Even the tall, sinewy build. Turning his attention back to the road, Rick ran his hand through his crow-black hair, the gesture so much like her husband’s. God, she missed Tim. She felt awkward and oddly unsettled now, trapped with Rick in the tense atmosphere of the car.

Half an hour later, registering Rick’s bleary-eyed look, Nat suggested they make a quick stop for coffee.

Good idea, sweetness, he said, nodding. He called every woman that when he was feeling mellow or effusive, but today his cowboy twang was flat and dull; he’d probably been up late smoking pot with his buddies again. Rick was thirty-six, only four years older than Nat, but sometimes he seemed like a seventies throwback. She had nothing against smoking pot, but she’d never let it interfere with work.

Taking the next exit, they found a drive-through Starbucks and ordered their coffees. Back on the road, Rick gulped down some of his Americano, holding the cup in one hand and steering with the other, and actually attempted to be sociable. He asked about her daughter Sofiya and confessed to wanting to have a kid himself someday. She silently questioned, though, whether he’d ever settle down.

He smiled occasionally as they talked, and this congenial version of Rick momentarily drew her in. After a lull in the conversation, Nat said quietly, Rick, we do need to work things out with Hegner. He’s not too happy with us.

Rick shook his head. Hegner’s not a real happy guy, he said loudly, frowning. He’s an abusive motherfucker. I can represent him from my office in Sacramento. I don’t know why in the hell you talked me into going to see him. He was practically shouting.

Jesus, Rick, Nat said sharply. She hadn’t meant to set him off.

He flashed an irritated look at her, and the car swerved, causing coffee to spatter his khaki pants. "Damn." He wedged the cup on the seat, between his legs.

Nat turned away, staring through the half-open window at the acres of agricultural land along the freeway. It always amazed her, how swiftly Rick’s moods could shift, especially when anything associated with work came up. She tended to avoid him when he was in one of his more volatile states—angry one minute, yelling at someone in the office, and in the next moment waltzing one of the secretaries down the hall, singing a country-western song at the top of his lungs. In this way, at least, he was nothing Tim. In the two years since he’d died in an accident, Nat had felt a chronic, agonizing need for her steady, reliable husband.

She and Rick refrained from more talk, making the atmosphere in the car that much more strained. Nearing the prison, they passed a strip of blanched stucco houses with truncated front yards, and Nat wondered how much these cottage homes with their dramatic view of San Francisco Bay would go for on the Marin County real estate market. How much was a view worth if you had to sleep that close to murderers, rapists and child molesters? Nat would never allow her daughter to come within fifty miles of a prison, let alone live practically next door to one. She pictured Sofi at the sitter’s, playing with little Danny. At least her daughter was safe in Corman, their small town where the most serious crimes were car burglaries.

❇

As Rick turned onto the serpentine road leading up to San Quentin, Nat took in the murky green of the ocean beneath the smear of steel-gray clouds. Last May, when she’d visited the prison to see a client convicted of burglary, the sky and sea had flaunted robust shades of turquoise and teal, with bevies of gulls floating in wide spirals. The entire scene had produced a kind of staged cheer, as if to convey some life-affirming message of hope beyond the prison walls. But on this chilly November day, the thought of entering the medieval fortress of San Quentin filled her with dread. It was more intimidating than the other prisons she’d visited in the past, which didn’t house as many dangerous prisoners.

Let’s get in and out of there as fast as we can, she said.

Hey, I’m with ya there, Rick said with his Okie drawl, exaggerated for effect. You’re the one who wanted to see the guy.

I just hope he doesn’t get belligerent. I don’t want a pencil shoved in my ear.

Rick glanced at her. What are you talking about?

Two months ago an inmate at San Quentin stabbed his attorney in the ear with a pencil. Punctured the guy’s eardrum. Didn’t you hear about it?

Rick shook his head.

The inmate had the guy down on the floor before the guards knew what was happening. Now the lawyer’s on disability. He lost some of his hearing. Lucky it wasn’t a punctured brain.

The guards don’t give a damn about defense attorneys.

That’s for sure, Nat said. And they’re seriously understaffed here.

Rick pulled his decrepit car into the prison parking lot and brought it to a shuddering halt in a remote corner, undoubtedly to keep it from getting any more dents. He was always going on about his classic automobile—he seemed to love the car the way some people loved their dogs.

As they walked toward the entrance, Rick whistled Blue Skies, which sounded eerie and incongruous in the frigid air blanketing the prison. Nat was trying to figure out how they could get through the visit efficiently and spend the least possible time in the company of the pugnacious rapist-murderer they were supposed to get off of death row. None of the inmates she’d represented in the past were as vicious as Hegner, even though they’d all committed serious crimes. And this was her first visit to a death row inmate—and one who was threatening them besides. Despite Hegner’s hostility, though, Nat wanted to do a good job on his case; she didn’t do things half-assed. A man’s life was at stake, after all.

She tucked her binder securely under her arm. Electronics weren’t allowed in the visiting room, so she’d have to resort to pen and paper to jot down notes. She’d worn her charcoal-gray pantsuit, hoping to appear authoritative. Rick, on the other hand—well, Rick was Rick. She glanced at him in his wrinkled white shirt rolled up at the forearms and coffee-stained pants. Not even a sweater or jacket, despite the chill in the air. He normally wore jeans to the office, as she often did, too, since they rarely made court appearances, but they couldn’t wear them here. Blue denims were forbidden inside the prison, to keep visitors from being confused with inmates in case of a riot or some other catastrophe. Why hadn’t Rick at least worn a sports coat? He was obviously rebelling against what he saw as a superfluous prison visit. At this point, Nat supposed the most she could hope for was a passable outcome for their visit, a day without incident.

Entering the processing center, she automatically shifted into the watchful state she assumed inside prisons. She and Rick showed their State Bar cards and driver’s licenses, then moved to the metal detector. Rick took off his belt and shoes, placed them along with his wallet, pen, keys, and watch into a tray on the conveyor belt and stepped soundlessly through the detector.

Nat removed her jacket, slipped out of her shoes, and deposited these items along with her coin purse, wedding band, and binder into another tray. When she stepped through the frame of the detector, an alarm shrieked, piercing her temples like a jolt of electricity. The sound still vibrating in her ears, she frowned at Rick, who merely shrugged. A stout black female guard waved her over to a glass-enclosed area. Nat had no choice but to pad over on bare feet, leaving her jacket and other belongings on the conveyor belt.

In full view of visitors in the check-in area, the guard made Nat hold her hands behind her head as she ran a detector along the inside of her pant legs, then scanned her upper body, stopping as the device emitted high-pitched beeps alongside her chest.

Underwire bra? the guard remarked scornfully, staring at Nat’s blouse, which was pulled tightly across her chest in this awkward position. One of them push-ups?

It’s an underwire, Nat said evenly, her face smoldering as she lowered her arms to her sides. In her rush to get to the office this morning, she’d forgotten that underwires weren’t allowed in maximum-security prisons.

The guard stepped back and stood with her legs braced a couple of feet apart, keeping her eyes leveled at Nat’s chest. We’ve got the detectors cranked up today. We had a tip someone was going to smuggle in a weapon. If you want to go inside, you’ll have to take off the bra. She handed Nat a large Ziploc bag. Put it in here. She pointed toward the restroom. You can take it off in there.

Nat stared at the guard’s impassive face. This woman wanted to confiscate her bra? Is this really necessary? she asked.

You’ll keep it with you, but you can’t wear it if you want to go in. You have to pass through two detectors without setting off the alarm. It’s the rule.

Wonderful, Nat mumbled. She took the bag and strode toward the restroom, passing Rick, who gazed at her with a half-grin.

Once in the stall, she had the unnerving sense she was being monitored, although she didn’t see a camera. She took off her blouse and bra, then slipped her blouse back on, buttoned it up, and tucked it into her trousers. The concrete floor felt sticky and cold under her bare feet. She took several deep breaths, reminding herself she had to act composed, unruffled. That was the way women attorneys were supposed to act, despite any stray emotion—at least from her observation of the older female lawyers she knew; they never seemed to flinch at anything that was sprung on them, however humiliating or outrageous. Nat had to admit, though, that the bra removal had thrown her for a loop.

Stepping out of the stall, she glanced at herself in the mirror and drew her shoulders back. She’d always been grateful for her height and athletic curves; her late husband had once said she was statuesque—better than big strapping girl, the way her father had described her as a five-foot-nine teenager. Her long curly brown hair was in disarray from the windy trip in Rick’s car, but she didn’t have time to worry about that now. Lowering her gaze in the mirror, she realized her nipples stood out under the thin blouse. She hunched her shoulders forward in an effort to minimize the effect.

Leaving the restroom, she returned to the screening area, slapped the baggie into a tray, and stepped through the detector. Mercifully, the alarm did not sound. The satiny pink bra lay glinting in the overhead lights, exposed and illicit in the clear plastic bag at the end of the conveyor belt. Nat stuffed the bag into her binder, slipped into her jacket and shoes, and strode over to Rick. He smiled and placed his hand on her upper back, a gesture that seemed almost comradely. Together they headed outside.

The breeze felt chilly and moist and blew Nat’s unruly hair around her face and neck, making her wish she’d tied it into a ponytail before leaving home. On her last visit to San Quentin to see the other client, she’d worn a skirt suit, and during the walk to the visiting facilities, inmates had hooted and howled from the windows of the grimy cellblocks. This time, thank God, no one was at the windows. Probably in the dining hall, having lunch.

They passed through another metal detector without any problem and proceeded to the electric gate where a middle-aged guard with slicked-back hair was talking on a cell phone. He shot them a look but continued his conversation, pacing on the far side of the chainlink fence. Rick shifted from one foot to the other, his arms crossed, glancing at Nat periodically.

Rick, she said quietly, let’s just try to establish some kind of neutral relationship with Hegner, okay? Lee actually said we should both be working somewhere else if we can’t get along with our clients. Lee Bonham was their boss at the state agency, and Nat had made the mistake of showing him the latest threatening letter from Hegner. Lee had nearly blown a fuse, insisting she and Rick go meet with their client immediately.

Lee’s leaving next week, Rick reminded her. He won’t have anything to say about it.

Whoever takes over his job is going to feel the same way Lee does. And we’d better hope it’s not someone who expects us to show up for work by nine.

Don’t worry. We can’t be fired just because our client doesn’t like the way we’re doing things. We’re state employees. And we’re unionized.

We can be pressured to leave, though. Assigned more cases, forced to work longer hours.

Rick shrugged. Not going to happen. But if you’re worried about that, maybe you should go work for the DMV.

Nat bristled at his condescension. It was incredible, really, the way he was sinking into apathy. Was it his dope habit? Women problems? Nat merely wanted him to take the case as seriously as she did, so they could get the briefs written and then focus on another, hopefully more palatable case.

When the guard finished his phone call, they held up their legal passes. He slid open the gate, giving Nat a look of disgust, as if to say why would a woman want to come to a place like this, defending some asshole? By now the guards should be used to female lawyers entering the prison for inmate consults, but it seemed that old prejudices died hard. It was like war in the prisons—the inmates against the guards—and defense attorneys were seen as allies of the prisoners, which, of course, they were.

The guard slammed the metal gate shut behind them. Nat thought she’d never get used to that loud, clanging sound and the claustrophobic feeling that always followed.

The overhead lights inside the visitors’ center cast a sallow wash over the cavernous, cafeteria-like space. Rick ambled to the nearest table, slung himself into a molded plastic chair, and surveyed the room. Nat sat down next to him to wait for their client to be brought in and taken to one of the cubicles reserved for legal visits. She considered buying a cup of coffee from the vending machine for Hegner but thought better of it. He might end up tossing it in her face if he got upset enough.

A blonde female guard sat at a desk dealing with paperwork, and a beer-bellied male guard stood nearby, scanning the visitors and inmates seated at the tables. The booths along one side wall were for non-contact visits behind reinforced glass windows. Those booths were reserved only for inmates who were housed in the Adjustment Center for misbehaving—which usually meant stabbing, strangling, or raping other prisoners—and for others who were permanently classified as Restricted. Restricted meant they were even more dangerous, or maybe just crazier, than the usual violent prisoner. Non-contact visits now seemed to Nat like the epitome of sanity, but the warden only allowed them in those special cases.

❇

Searching across the room, Nat caught sight of two guards escorting Hegner, handcuffed, toward the cubicles in the back; she’d recognized their client from a mug shot in his file.

God, what a huge head, she said, indicating Hegner with a nod.

Rick turned to look. And a body to go with it.

He’s got to be over 250 pounds.

Hegner had a powerful jaw, thick, oversized ears, and mammoth shoulders. He was older than many of the inmates—thirty-five—and stood out with his heavy build and imperious bearing. He wore the same hostile frown that graced his pallid face in the mug shot.

Hegner and the two guards reached the cubicle and stood at the door, waiting. Once Rick and Nat had made their way over, the female guard opened the door and waved them inside, before retreating to her desk at the opposite end of the visiting area.

Nat and Rick seated themselves on one side of the table, with Nat closer to the door, then the male officer brought in Hegner. Without a glance at either of them, Hegner stared through the window that looked out over the Bay. After the guard had left, closing and locking the door, Hegner reached his cuffed hands backward through a hole in the door, and the guard removed the cuffs—standard procedure for attorney visits. Nat had no idea why there was such lax security at San Quentin.

Hegner lowered himself into the chair across from Rick and Nat and clasped his hands on the table. That was the rule: hands on the tabletop at all times. He appeared even more bulked up in the shoulders than he had from a distance, his delts straining against his blue chambray shirt. Nat imagined him grabbing her by a hank of hair, pulling her out of her chair and twirling her around, jerking her back against his chest in a hostage hold, his forearm pressed against her throat. What would Rick do if something like that happened? And if she were hurt, what would happen to Sofi?

After they’d introduced themselves, Hegner stared hard at Rick. So when you gettin’ me outta here? he demanded, a trace of his Texas accent coming through. I been sittin’ on death row for four fuckin’ years, waitin’ for a lawyer, and then I had to wait another six months before you even showed up.

Takes a long time, you know that, man, Rick drawled, slipping into his streetwise mode. Meanwhile we’ve got some things to talk about.

Didn’t know you guys were comin’, Hegner said, fixing his eyes on Nat.

Repelled by his stone-cold gaze, she pushed her chair back an inch or two.

Hegner turned back to Rick. I like to know when I’m gonna have a lady visitor, so I can be prepared, if you know what I mean. He raised his eyebrows, as if expecting Rick to know what he meant. Make sure I get a shower and a shave, he added, smirking.

Yeah, well, sorry, man, Rick said, loud and jocular. Sometimes we can arrange things ahead of time, sometimes not.

Nat never told her clients ahead of time when she was going to visit them; it would only increase the chances they might plan something nefarious. It was conceivable that an inmate could smuggle a wooden shiv or other makeshift weapon into the visiting room and take someone hostage. Ever since Sofi was born, Nat had been extra vigilant; her daughter needed her alive and in one piece.

Hegner’s forehead reminded her of poached egg white, and the pupils of his bilge-green eyes were markedly dilated. Was he just hyped-up, or was it drugs? His dark, stringy hair hung down to his shoulders. Like many inmates, he’d grown several of his fingernails an inch long; they curled under, reminding Nat of yellowed snail shells. The nails were probably used as weapons or to snort drugs—maybe both. Hegner ran his eyes over her, then looked at Rick.

I bet you two never done one of these cases before, he sneered.

We’ve done our share of these appeals, Rick said.

This was actually Nat’s first death penalty case, and Rick’s second, but they’d both handled numerous non-capital felony appeals. We’ve been reading the trial transcripts and working hard on your case, she said, researching all of the issues.

Not hard enough, Hegner snarled.

Look, Rick said, we just want to get a few things straight, all right? He put on his retro, black-rimmed glasses and took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket, placing it on the table. He smoothed it out, and sat back. It was the latest angry missive from Hegner, replete with underlinings and exclamation points. Rick took his ballpoint pen out of his pocket and put it behind his ear, then crossed his arms. We don’t like the kind of letters you’ve been sending us. We’re doing everything we can on your case, and this kind of crap doesn’t do any good.

Hegner narrowed his eyes. Then why you takin’ so long, wastin’ my time? he said, raising his voice. Like I said, I want outta here. When you gonna do somethin’ about it?

Rick appeared only mildly peeved, as if weighing possible responses.

It takes time to investigate everything that may have gone wrong at your trial, Nat said.

Same ole thing—takes time, Hegner said, flicking a glance at her. I’ve got way too much time on my hands, lady, thanks to a bunch of dumb-ass lawyers.

She stared at him for a few moments, then said, Did you know Kenison’s in the main prison here? Kenison was Hegner’s co-defendant who had copped a plea early on. He’d recently been transferred to San Quentin from the prison at Pelican Bay.

Yeah, I know. Hegner snorted. He shoulda gone to trial. Nobody could put him at the scene, ’cept me.

Apparently Hegner was unaware he’d just admitted his guilt; in his letters he’d denied any involvement in the crimes.

I guess he liked the deal, twenty-five to life, Nat said.

Yeah, but the motherfucker shouldn’t have testified against me, Hegner said, his voice ratcheting up. Kenison should be sittin’ here on death row, not me. I’m goin’ to make sure that bastard pays for what he said against me. I’ve got friends in the A.B.

The Aryan Brotherhood. Nat wondered if he really did have gang affiliation, or if it was just talk.

Hegner had insisted in his letters that the only reason he was in prison was the stupidity of his public defender. He kept repeating that it was a case of mistaken identity, something he’d probably heard about in jail while awaiting trial. The prosecution’s evidence had established, though, that he was flagrantly guilty. The case had started out as a carjacking, but Hegner had gratuitously (as the D.A. had put it) raped and shot the female victim, then shot her boyfriend, leaving them both to rot in a field. Nat had seen the photographs of the victims’ maggot-infested corpses and could see why the public defender had tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the photos out of evidence, as likely to inflame the jury. It made her sick, imagining what this man who sat in front of her had actually done to those two people.

Rick was now getting into a debate with Hegner about whether there was any chance of reversing the guilty verdicts. Hey, man, there was a pile of evidence against you at trial.

This was actually something of an understatement. There was a tape of Hegner admitting certain details of the crime to a visitor at the jail before the trial, and Hegner was arrested in the victims’ car, among other things.

You sound like the fuckin’ D.A., Hegner said, his face contorting with anger. I could get you off my case if I want. I could give you a shitload of trouble. I got plenty of friends on the outside, ya know. And this general in the A.B., he’s a buddy of mine. He owes me.

Nat glared at Hegner, her jaws tightening.

Rick said nothing for a few seconds, tipping his chair back, his hands gripping the edge of the table. Then he said in a level tone, Our best shot is to get the sentence reversed and get you a life term without possibility of parole.

I ain’t goin’ for no fuckin’ life term, Hegner shouted.

Nat peered through the Plexiglas window to her right to see whether the guards had heard him and might come over to investigate. They were both at the far end of the room, oblivious. Besides, the cubicle was supposedly soundproof.

I’m aimin’ to walk, man, Hegner said, his eyes fixed on Rick. You dickheads gotta understand that. No sentencing shit. No way am I spendin’ the rest of my life in the joint. No way, man. I’d rather be executed.

Nat and Rick exchanged expressionless glances. The pro-death stance was clearly bravado; few capital prisoners would actually abandon their final appeal and choose execution when it came down to the wire.

Of course we’ll try to get the convictions overturned, too, Nat said. There are some decent issues we can raise. Anything to calm him down; in fact any legal arguments they made probably wouldn’t result in reversal of his convictions, given the pile of evidence against him. Even if they did win the appeal, Hegner would be retried and probably convicted again.

You just better do what I say—remember, this is my case, Hegner said, pointing at his chest with his claw-like thumbnail. I’m the one in charge of it. That dump-truck public defender couldn’t even keep out the jailhouse tapes at my trial. They framed me, man.

That’s not being framed, Nat said. And you knew the jail visits were being recorded.

Hegner frowned at her. Like I said, I could give you a shitload of trouble, lady.

You don’t have to threaten us to get us to do our job, she said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the edge out of her voice.

Yeah, man, it’s distracting, Rick said. We’re doing everything we can.

Sure you are, Hegner said to Rick, then leaned toward Nat. How ’bout you, Mrs. Drummond? he said in an insolent tone. You willin’ to do everything for me I want? He made a catlike show of licking his lips.

I’ll do whatever I believe is necessary in your case, she said loudly, attempting to stifle her disgust.

Hegner slouched back in his chair, cocking his head to the side. You guys got it made, sittin’ in your nice clean offices, goin’ home to your little families. He stared at Rick, then at Nat, as if to check out their reactions. Then he fixed his gaze on Nat’s wedding ring.

She drew in her chin, frowning. Rick was single and had no children, but Nat had her twenty-one-month-old daughter. Of course Hegner couldn’t possibly know any of that.

One more thing we need to talk about, Rick said, taking his pen from behind his ear. He turned Hegner’s letter over and held the pen poised over it. "We