She never got there. Five days later she was found in a toolshed behind a vacant house three miles away. The condition of her body made it impossible to determine whether she had been raped. But she was nude, her clothing and school books missing. She was ten years old.
From a nearby dumpster, the detectives had fished a pair of bloodstained trousers stamped in the waistband with the name of the linen company that supplied them to an industrial cleaning firm. Rick and Jim traced the trousers to a man named Harry Roper. The little girl had stepped off the school bus at 3:25 P . M . Roper had been ejected from a bar a block and a half away at 3:00 P . M . the same day. He had a history of sex offenses.
The evidence was all circumstantial, but taken in for a statement. Roper broke down, cried and confessed. He never meant to hurt her, he said, he simply could not control himself when he drank.
As the detectives sat in a crowded courtroom waiting for the judge to take the bench, a tall, well-tailored figure conferred conspicuously with a court reporter. His dark hair and glossy fingernails were perfectly sculptured. Not a crease marred the lines of his well-cut Armani suit, and his custom-made shoes gleamed as if the soft leather were caressed nightly by somebody hired to do the job. Norman Sloat exuded success and confidence, along with a restless air of repressed energy and aggression.
âWonder what the hell heâs doing here?â Rick said quietly. âHope itâs not our case.â
âDoesnât matter, itâs open and shut,â Jim said and yawned.
âNothing is open and shut with Sloat.â
The lawyerâs talent for publicity and for freeing his clients bordered on legerdemain. For one major murder trial, he had retained a professional astrologer to assist in jury selection. The voir dire sounded like singlesâ bar dialogue. Each potential juror was asked his or her sign, to be charted for compatibility with the defendantâs horoscope. The press loved it.
The bar association did not, vowing to nail Sloat this time for failing to adequately represent his client. The effort was quickly dropped, however, after members of the jury, all water signs, unanimously agreed, in record time, to acquit. Who could argue with success? Not the bar association.
Sloat drove a big Mercedes, wore nine-hundred-dollar Italian suits and was on a first-name basis with every news anchor and editor in town. The flamboyant defense attorney loved money, but he loved something else even more. If a case was destined for the front page, the financial status of the accused notwithstanding, Norman Sloat would be there.
The lawyer snapped a cheery little salute to the two detectives, then nodded at several reporters in the spectator section. When corrections officers herded in the prisoners and Sloat shook hands with Roper, Rick felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to tingle.
The judge called the calendar, and Sloat rose to announce his presence for Roper. He approached the bench and moved to have Roperâs confession thrown out as evidence. Pausing for theatrical effect, then smiling benignly, Sloat outlined the grounds for his motion.
His client had been advised of his Miranda rights by the detectives, âpresent here today,â he acknowledged, gesturing toward them, diamond pinky ring winking. However, Roper had been unable to comprehend those rights because he had been drinking. âMy client is addicted to alcohol, your honor. He has a low tolerance to it and a history of poor judgment when he is drinking. The detectives had already examined his prior record. Yet they picked him up at a bar, knowing the man cannot hold his alcohol, advised him of his rights and then proceeded to take his statement, knowing full well the man was incapable of making a rational decision at the time. It was incumbent upon them to wait, overnight if necessary, until such time as he was sober, alert and in
From a nearby dumpster, the detectives had fished a pair of bloodstained trousers stamped in the waistband with the name of the linen company that supplied them to an industrial cleaning firm. Rick and Jim traced the trousers to a man named Harry Roper. The little girl had stepped off the school bus at 3:25 P . M . Roper had been ejected from a bar a block and a half away at 3:00 P . M . the same day. He had a history of sex offenses.
The evidence was all circumstantial, but taken in for a statement. Roper broke down, cried and confessed. He never meant to hurt her, he said, he simply could not control himself when he drank.
As the detectives sat in a crowded courtroom waiting for the judge to take the bench, a tall, well-tailored figure conferred conspicuously with a court reporter. His dark hair and glossy fingernails were perfectly sculptured. Not a crease marred the lines of his well-cut Armani suit, and his custom-made shoes gleamed as if the soft leather were caressed nightly by somebody hired to do the job. Norman Sloat exuded success and confidence, along with a restless air of repressed energy and aggression.
âWonder what the hell heâs doing here?â Rick said quietly. âHope itâs not our case.â
âDoesnât matter, itâs open and shut,â Jim said and yawned.
âNothing is open and shut with Sloat.â
The lawyerâs talent for publicity and for freeing his clients bordered on legerdemain. For one major murder trial, he had retained a professional astrologer to assist in jury selection. The voir dire sounded like singlesâ bar dialogue. Each potential juror was asked his or her sign, to be charted for compatibility with the defendantâs horoscope. The press loved it.
The bar association did not, vowing to nail Sloat this time for failing to adequately represent his client. The effort was quickly dropped, however, after members of the jury, all water signs, unanimously agreed, in record time, to acquit. Who could argue with success? Not the bar association.
Sloat drove a big Mercedes, wore nine-hundred-dollar Italian suits and was on a first-name basis with every news anchor and editor in town. The flamboyant defense attorney loved money, but he loved something else even more. If a case was destined for the front page, the financial status of the accused notwithstanding, Norman Sloat would be there.
The lawyer snapped a cheery little salute to the two detectives, then nodded at several reporters in the spectator section. When corrections officers herded in the prisoners and Sloat shook hands with Roper, Rick felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to tingle.
The judge called the calendar, and Sloat rose to announce his presence for Roper. He approached the bench and moved to have Roperâs confession thrown out as evidence. Pausing for theatrical effect, then smiling benignly, Sloat outlined the grounds for his motion.
His client had been advised of his Miranda rights by the detectives, âpresent here today,â he acknowledged, gesturing toward them, diamond pinky ring winking. However, Roper had been unable to comprehend those rights because he had been drinking. âMy client is addicted to alcohol, your honor. He has a low tolerance to it and a history of poor judgment when he is drinking. The detectives had already examined his prior record. Yet they picked him up at a bar, knowing the man cannot hold his alcohol, advised him of his rights and then proceeded to take his statement, knowing full well the man was incapable of making a rational decision at the time. It was incumbent upon them to wait, overnight if necessary, until such time as he was sober, alert and in
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