So how is it that every Baltimore detective of this epoch enters his courthouse with his head down, his badge drawn with practiced boredom for the sheriff's deputies who man the metal detector in the first-floor lobby? How can those detectives step so heavily toward the elevators, oblivious of the beauty all around them? How can they crush their cigarette b.u.t.ts into the stone with such seeming indifference, then knock on a prosecutor's office door as if it were the very gate of purgatory? How can a homicide detective bring his best work to this, his final destination, wearing a look of utter resignation?

Well, for one thing, he's probably been up all night working two fresh shootings and a cutting on the midnight shift. No doubt the same detective scheduled to testify in Bothe's court this afternoon just finished his overnight paperwork in time to listen to a dayshift's roll call. No doubt he then spent another hour downing four cups of black coffee and an Egg Mcm.u.f.fin. Now he's probably lugging paper evidence bags from the ECU to some lawyer's cubbyhole on the third floor, where he will be informed that his best witness hasn't yet shown up for court and isn't answering a sheriff deputy's phone calls. Beyond those worldly concerns, this same detective-if he knows his business-is obligated to arrive in the legal arena with a mind clouded by something other than transcendent visions of moral victory. In his heart of hearts, a veteran detective is inspired not by the glories of the courthouse, but by Rule Number Nine in the lexicon, to wit: 9A. To a jury, any doubt is reasonable. 9A. To a jury, any doubt is reasonable. 9B. The better the case, the worse the jury. 9B. The better the case, the worse the jury.

And, in addition to rules 9A and 9B: 9C. A good man is hard to find, but twelve of them, gathered together in one place, is a miracle. 9C. A good man is hard to find, but twelve of them, gathered together in one place, is a miracle.

A detective who ventures into the corridors of justice with anything less than a firm and familiar skepticism for the American legal process is a man leaning into the punches. It's one thing, after all, to see some of your best work torn to shreds by twelve of Baltimore's finest citizens, but it's another thing entirely to watch it happen from a state of naive incredulity. Better to check your expectations at the courthouse doors and enter its glistening corridors in full, willful antic.i.p.ation of the debacle to follow.

The rock-and it's a fine, honorable rock-upon which our legal system is built states that a defendant is innocent until found guilty by the unanimous vote of a dozen peers. Better that a hundred guilty men should walk free before one innocent man is punished. Well, by that standard, the Baltimore court system is pretty much working to code.

Consider: In this particular year in the life of Baltimore's criminal justice system, the names of 200 perpetrators will be brought to the state's attorney's office in connection with 170 solved homicides.

Of those 200 suspects: Five cases will still be pending trial two years later. (In two of those instances, suspects were charged in warrants but never apprehended by detectives.) Five will die before trial or in the course of arrest. (Three of these are suicides, one the victim of a fire she set to kill someone else, one the victim in a police shootout.) Six will not be tried when prosecutors determine the killings to be justifiable by self-defense or a result of accidental causes.

Two defendants will be declared not criminally responsible and sent to a state mental hospital.

Three defendants age sixteen and younger will have their homicide charges remanded to juvenile court.

Sixteen will have their charges dismissed prior to indictment due to lack of evidence. (On occasion, an aggressive homicide detective with insufficient evidence to prove a case will play a long shot and nonetheless charge his best suspect in the hope that the incarceration will provide sufficient leverage to provoke a confession in subsequent interrogations.) Twenty-four defendants will have their charges nol prossed or stetted by prosecutors after indictment. (A nol prosse represents the unequivocal dismissal of a grand jury indictment; a stet places the case on an inactive docket, though the prosecution can be revived within a year if additional evidence is forthcoming. In time, most stet cases become dismissals.) Three defendants will have their charges dismissed or stetted when it becomes clear that they are, in fact, innocent of the crimes for which they have been accused. (The innocent-until-proven-guilty standard does indeed have some real meaning in Maryland's largest city, where it's not uncommon for the wrong man to be charged or even indicted for a violent crime. It happened, for example, in the shooting of Gene Ca.s.sidy, and it happened again in three separate murders handled by detectives on Stanton's shift. In those cases, the wrong man was charged as a result of faulty witness identifications-one from the dying victim, the other two from bystanders-and the defendants were subsequently cleared through additional investigation. Charging the wrong man on mediocre evidence is not difficult, and getting a grand jury to indict him is only a little harder. But after that, the chances of putting the wrong man into prison become minimal. It is, after all, hard enough for prosecutors in Baltimore to convict the guilty; the only scenario by which an innocent man could be successfully prosecuted on weak evidence would be one in which a defense attorney failed to evaluate the case and force-fed a plea to a client.) Guilty or innocent, living or dead, deranged or competent-the winnowing process removes 64 of the original 200 defendants, or nearly 30 percent, before a single case is ever brought to court. And of the 136 men and women remaining: Eighty-one will accept plea agreements prior to trial. (Eleven of those defendants will plead to premeditated, first-degree murder, 35 to second-degree murder, 32 to manslaughter, and 3 to lesser charges.) Fifty-five homicide defendants will risk trial before a judge or jury. (Of that number, 25 defendants will be acquitted in jury trials. Twenty of the remaining 30 defendants will be found guilty of first-degree murder, 6 of second-degree murder, and 4 of manslaughter.) Add 30 trial convictions to 81 pleas and the c.u.mulative deterrent to murder in Baltimore is evident: 111 citizens have been convicted for committing an act of homicide.

By the reckoning of this particular year, the chance of actually being convicted of a crime after being identified by authorities is about 60 percent. And if you factor in those unsolved homicides in which there are no arrests, the chance of being caught and convicted for taking a life in Baltimore is just over 40 percent.

All of which is not to say that this unlucky minority then suffers punishment commensurate with their crime. Of the 111 defendants convicted in this year's homicides, 22 men and women-20 percent of the total-will be sentenced to less than five years' incarceration. Another 16 defendants-14 percent of the total-will receive sentences of less than ten years in prison. Given that Maryland's parole guidelines generally call for prisoners to serve about a third of their sentences, it can be said that three years after they committed their crimes, fewer than 30 percent of the Baltimore homicide unit's Cla.s.s of 1988 is still behind prison walls.

Prosecutors and detectives understand the statistics. They know that even with the best cases-those that a state's attorney is willing to bring before a jury-the chance of success is only three in five. As a result, those prosecutions that are marginal, those in which there is any indication of justifiable self-defense, those in which the witnesses are unreliable or the physical evidence is ambiguous-all these cases soon fall by the side of the road, becoming dismissals or weak pleas.

But not every case that goes to plea is necessarily weak. In Baltimore, plea bargains can be had on reasonably strong cases-cases that no defendant and his attorney would dare risk taking to trial in the suburbs of Anne Arundel or Howard or Baltimore County. Yet in the city, prosecutors know that such cases, when brought to trial, are likely to result in acquittals.

The difference is, quite simply, Rule Number Nine.

The operant logic of a Baltimore city jury is as fantastical a process as any other of our universe's mysteries. This one is innocent because he seemed so polite and well spoken on the stand, that one because there were no fingerprints on the weapon to corroborate the testimony of four witnesses. And this one over here is telling the truth when he says he was beaten into a confession; we know that, of course, because why else would anyone willingly confess to a crime if he wasn't beaten?

In one particularly notable decision, a Baltimore jury found a defendant innocent of murder charges but guilty of a.s.sault with intent to murder. They believed the testimony of the eyewitness, who saw the defendant stab the victim in the back on a well-lit street, then run away to save himself. But they also believed the medical examiner, who explained that of all the stab wounds, a thrust to the chest had ultimately killed the victim. The jurors reasoned that they couldn't be absolutely sure that the defendant stabbed the victim more than once. Presumably, some other enraged a.s.sailant could have wandered by afterward, picked up the knife and finished the job.

Juries do not like to argue. They do not like to think. They do not like to sit for hours at a time, wading through evidence and testimony and lawyers' arguments. And in a homicide detective's view, a criminal jury resists its obligation to judge another human being. It's an ugly, painful business, after all, this process of labeling people murderers and criminals. Juries want to go home, to escape, to sleep it off. Our legal system prohibits a guilty verdict when there is reasonable doubt about a defendant's culpability, but in truth, juries want to doubt, and in the stress of the jury room, all doubts become reasonable justification for acquittal.

Reasonable doubt is the weak link in every prosecutor's chain and, with a complex case, the doubts multiply. Consequently, most of the battle-scarred veterans in the state's attorney's office prefer a straightforward, one- or two-witness homicide: It's an easier argument to present and an easier argument for a jury to accept. They believe your witnesses or they don't, but either way, you haven't asked them to think very hard or to pay attention for very long. But the more developed case file-the one that a detective built over weeks and months, the one that presents a mountain of not-so-glaringly-obvious evidence, the one that requires the prosecutor to subtly piece the case together like a puzzle-it's that kind of case on which a criminal jury can wreak real havoc.

Because in Baltimore, at least, the average juror doesn't want to spend time contemplating the inconsistencies in a defendant's statement, or the complex web of testimony that systematically destroys an alibi, or the discrepancies between a medical examiner's testimony and a defendant's self-defense claim. It's too complicated, too abstract. The average juror wants three upstanding citizens to say that they were eyeball witnesses to the crime and another two who can a.s.sure them of the killer's motivation. Throw in a recovered murder weapon, a few print hits and a positive DNA match and then, by G.o.d, you've got a jury ready to mete out some punishment.

To a detective, however, it's the circ.u.mstantial prosecutions that often represent the best police work, and for that reason Rule 9B has profound meaning. In theory, the dunkers take care of themselves in court. But the best cases-the kind a cop takes pride in-always do seem to get the worst juries.

As with every other part of the criminal justice machine, racial issues permeate the jury system in Baltimore. Given that the vast majority of urban violence is black-on-black crime, and given that the pool of possible jurors is 60 to 70 percent black, Baltimore prosecutors take almost every case into court with the knowledge that the crime will be seen through the lens of the black community's historical suspicion of a white-controlled police department and court system. The testimony of a black officer or detective is therefore considered necessary in many cases, a counterweight to the young defendant who, following his attorney's advice, is wearing his Sunday best and carrying the family Bible to and from court. That the victims are also black matters less; after all, they're not around to set such a good example in front of the jurors.

The effect of race on the judicial system is freely acknowledged by prosecutors and defense attorneys-black and white alike-although the issue is rarely raised directly in court. The better lawyers, whatever their color, refuse to manipulate jurors through racial distinctions; the others can do so with even the most indirect suggestions. Race is instead a tacit presence that accompanies almost every panel of twelve into a Baltimore jury room. Once, in a rare display, a black defense attorney actually pointed to her own forearm while giving closing arguments to an all-black panel: "Brothers and sisters," she said, as two white detectives went out of their minds in the back row of the gallery, "I think we all know what this case is about."

Still, it would be wrong to suggest that Baltimore's juries have become more lenient simply because they have become more black. Suspicion of the legal system within the black community is a real phenomenon, but veteran prosecutors can tell you that some of the best panels they've ever had have been all-black, whereas some of the worst and most indifferent have had a white majority. More than color, what has crippled the jury system in Baltimore is a factor that crosses all racial boundaries: television.

Pick any twelve people from Baltimore-from the black sections of Ashburton and Cherry Hill, from all-white Highlandtown or Hamilton-and chances are, you will come up with a few intelligent, discerning citizens. Some may have finished high school, one or two may have been to college. Most will be working folk, only a few will be skilled professionals. Baltimore is a blue-collar town, a stretch of the East Coast rust belt that never recovered when American steel and shipping began their downward spirals. Its population is underemployed, and it remains one of America's most undereducated cities. Taxpayer flight has continued for more than two decades, and the vast majority of Baltimore's white and black middle and upper cla.s.ses now reside outside the city proper. They are, in essence, the stuff from which county juries are made.

As a result, most city folk go into a jury room with no greater sophistication about crime and punishment than can be gleaned from a 19-inch television screen. More than anything else, it's the cathode-ray tube-not the prosecutor, not the defense attorney, certainly not the evidence-that gives a Baltimore juror his mind-set. Television ensures that criminal juries are empaneled with ridiculous expectations. Jurors want to see the murder-see it played out in front of their eyes on videotape in slow motion or, at the very least, see the guilty party fall to his knees at the witness stand, begging for mercy. Never mind that fingerprints are recovered in less than 10 percent of criminal cases, the average juror wants fingerprints on the gun, fingerprints on the knife, fingerprints on every door handle, window and house key. Never mind that the trace lab rarely makes a case, a juror nonetheless wants to see hairs and fibers and shoe prints and every other shard of science gleaned from Hawaii Five-O Hawaii Five-O reruns. When a case does come complete with an excess of witnesses and physical evidence, then jurors demand a motive, a reason, a meaning to a murder that has otherwise been proven. And on those rare occasions when jurors are satisfied that the right man has actually been locked up for the right murder, they want to be a.s.sured that the defendant is truly a bad person and that they themselves are not bad people for doing this terrible thing to him. reruns. When a case does come complete with an excess of witnesses and physical evidence, then jurors demand a motive, a reason, a meaning to a murder that has otherwise been proven. And on those rare occasions when jurors are satisfied that the right man has actually been locked up for the right murder, they want to be a.s.sured that the defendant is truly a bad person and that they themselves are not bad people for doing this terrible thing to him.

To provide, in real life, the utter certainty about crime and culpability that pervades television is impossible. Nor is it easy to rid a juror of such expectations, although veteran prosecutors never lack for trying. In Baltimore, state's attorneys routinely call fingerprint experts to the stand in those cases in which no fingerprint evidence exists: If you would, please explain to the jury how often fingerprints are recovered at crime scenes and how often they are not recovered. Explain how it is that many people, depending on their biochemistry at the time of the incident, do not leave detectable fingerprints. Explain how fingerprints can be obliterated and smudged. Explain how atmospheric conditions affect fingerprints. Explain just how rare it is to pull a fingerprint off a knife hilt or gun b.u.t.t.

Similarly, the detectives themselves come to the stand to fight a losing battle with the last six episodes of L.A. Law L.A. Law and other network fare in which the lawyers-better-looking lawyers than we have in court today, mind you-always parade before the jury with guns and knives bagged and tagged and labeled Exhibit 1A. and other network fare in which the lawyers-better-looking lawyers than we have in court today, mind you-always parade before the jury with guns and knives bagged and tagged and labeled Exhibit 1A.

A good defense attorney can blow ten minutes of smoke by glaring at a detective who tries to explain that weapons have a nasty habit of leaving the crime scene before the police arrive.

You mean you never recovered the murder weapon? This jury is supposed to convict my client without a murder weapon? What do you mean, it could be anywhere? Are you trying to tell us that after committing an act of murder, the defendant might have actually run away? And taken the gun with him? And then hidden it? Or thrown it from the Curtis Bay bridge?

On Columbo Columbo, the gun is always in the liquor cabinet behind the vermouth. But you didn't check behind the defendant's vermouth, did you, detective? No, you don't have the murder weapon. Your honor, I move that we unshackle this poor innocent waif and send him back to his loving family.

In the minds of Baltimore's prosecutors and detectives, at least, television has utterly shattered the notion of a thinking jury, strangled it with plot lines in which all ambiguity is obliterated and all questions answered. As a result, those charged with punishing the act of murder in Baltimore no longer believe in all that Norman Rockwell business about twelve angry men in shirtsleeves, arguing in sticky heat over the essential evidence. In the real world, it's more like a dozen brain-deads telling each other that the defendant seems like a nice, quiet young man, then laughing at the prosecutor's choice of tie. Defense attorneys are quick to call such thinking sour grapes, but in truth, the faithlessness that veteran prosecutors and detectives feel for the jury system goes deeper than that. The argument isn't that the government should win every murder trial; the system isn't built that way. But does anyone really believe that 45 percent of the homicide defendants brought to a court trial-the last stretch of the legal system's long, thinning bottleneck-are in fact innocent?

As a consequence, city juries have become a deterrent of sorts to prosecutors, who are willing to accept weaker pleas or tolerate dismissals rather than waste the city's time and money on cases involving defendants who are clearly guilty, but who have been charged on evidence that is anything less than overwhelming. Naturally, a competent defense attorney or public defender understands that in most cases, a jury trial is the last thing a city prosecutor wants, and he uses this leverage when he bargains for his client.

For the detectives, the decision to plea or dismiss a case is the flashpoint in their ongoing love-hate relationship with the state's attorney's office. True, thinks a detective, these people are on our side. True, they're working to put bad guys in prison at half the salary they might get at an outside firm. True, they're looking for the same justice we are. But brotherly feelings are out the window when a young a.s.sistant state's attorney, two years out of the University of Baltimore School of Law, gives up on a drug murder that took three weeks to develop. When that happens, the chip goes right back on the shoulder: I busted my a.s.s to get reluctant witnesses into the grand jury, and what for? Just so this goof with pinstripes and a power tie could dump it on the stet docket? h.e.l.l, he didn't even have b.a.l.l.s enough to pick up a phone and call me, much less ask how the d.a.m.n file might be salvaged.

Some of the cases are weak and should be dumped, no doubt about that. Some of them arrived at the courthouse as viable prosecutions, only to self-destruct once the witnesses started backing up. Any homicide detective knows that most basic truth: s.h.i.t happens. But he also believes that too many borderline cases, and even a few that are healthy, manage to slip through the cracks, particularly with less experienced attorneys.

A good detective will excuse some of it as understandable and inevitable. As is true elsewhere, the Baltimore state's attorney's office is chronically understaffed and underfunded; its trial division is manned by a core of competent veterans and a slew of recent arrivals-younger lawyers who have worked their way up to felony violence after a few years in the district courts. Some will be good trial lawyers, some could go either way, and a few are genuinely dangerous in a courtroom. A detective hopes for a competent prosecutor, but he understands that the system runs by triage. The homicides are parceled out with an eye toward keeping the major cases-those involving true victims or those in which the defendant is suspected or charged with multiple crimes-in the hands of veteran attorneys. The hope is that in the most critical cases, the prosecutor will not be outcla.s.sed or intimidated by the coterie of experienced defense attorneys who by private retainer or court appointment always gravitate to city homicide cases.

Every detective also understands the need to take pleas on at least two-thirds or more of the viable murder prosecutions. Although most everyone outside the legal system regards "plea bargain" as a dirty word, those who make their living at the courthouse recognize it as a structural necessity. Without plea agreements, the system would lurch to a halt, with cases waiting for courtrooms the way commuter flights wait for runways in Atlanta. Even with the current ratio of pleas to trials, the delay between a murder indictment and the court trial averages between six and nine months.

But in a detective's mind, there is a vast difference between a good plea and a bad one. Second-degree and thirty is always a respectable plea, except for truly evil acts such as, say, child abuse cases or robbery murders. If the case is borderline, second-degree and twenty isn't too shabby, although it's not exactly the iron fist of justice when you consider that the parole board puts most of them back on the street after about seven to ten. In a true manslaughter case-a domestic murder that was the act of fear or impulse, though it could in no way be called an accident-anything from two to ten is reasonable. But what's hardest for a detective to swallow is a prosecutor allowing a particularly bad murder to go as second-degree, or calling a murder a manslaughter, or a manslaughter an accidental. Even in those instances, most detectives won't speak their piece unless they're asked, and the prosecutors don't usually ask. In the homicide unit, the time-worn philosophy is that it's on the prosecutor; you did your job, f.u.c.k him if he won't do his. Occasionally, however, a detective will cross the emotional boundary.

Worden, for instance, has been known to say something to a young prosecutor who's giving up on a file too quickly, or seems afraid to take a decent case into court. Landsman will sometimes do the same, and Edgerton, if you give him a chance, will tell a prosecutor how to try the case and then write out the closing argument. A lot of men in homicide carry around a case or two that still burns them. Garvey, for one, still isn't saying much to the ASA who turned the Myeisha Jenkins murder into a second-degree plea-Myeisha, who was all of nine when her mother let her boyfriend beat the child to death and dump her on the shoulder of the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. Garvey told the lawyer he was a piece of s.h.i.t for taking that plea, told it to him in such a way that the man didn't even try to argue.

If he cares enough about a case, a detective can lobby or even argue for a particular strategy. But in the end, decisions about the legal approach to a case are not his to make. From crime scene to conviction, the courthouse is the only part of the process in which the detective becomes a pa.s.sive partic.i.p.ant, a player wholly dependent on the decisions of others. A detective is there to testify and otherwise serve the lawyers in any way he can. The lawyers, meanwhile, regard that service with varying amounts of appreciation. Some prosecutors consult the investigators on evidence and presentation, asking the opinions of veteran detectives who have been through the process more often than the attorneys. Others view the detectives as little more than props and gofers, responsible for showing up on time with the right evidence and the right witnesses.

Homicide detectives are further distanced from their cases because, as witnesses, they are sequestered and therefore prohibited from attending court and listening to other witnesses. Detectives in Baltimore spend 90 percent of their court time sitting on hard wooden benches in corridors, or running bags of evidence between the courtroom and the prosecutor's office, or chasing down a witness who's supposed to testify in the afternoon session but hasn't shown up, or maybe bulls.h.i.tting with the secretaries upstairs in the Violent Crimes Unit. Court time for a detective is a strange limbo, a period of nonexistence that is only briefly interrupted when he is called to testify.

The stand is the last point in the process in which a detective's expertise counts for something. In most cases, the testimony of civilian witnesses-primed and prepared by the prosecutor before trial-will produce the most critical evidence. But in every case, the testimony of the detective, concerning the crime scene, the discovery of witnesses, the statements made by the defendant, lays the groundwork for the prosecution's case. Among prosecutors, there is a theory that says a detective's performance on the stand can rarely win a case, but it can be enough to wreck a prosecution.

Before taking the oath, a detective who knows his business makes a point of reading through the case file. After all, it's been six months and a lot of bodies between the arrest and trial. In 1987, a city detective-no longer in the homicide unit-responded to a prosecutor's question with an elaborate description of the crime scene and subsequent investigation. After a minute or two, he saw that the prosecutor was making strange faces. Even the defendant looked a little curious.

"Um, wait one second," said the detective, coming to grips with the disaster. "Your honor, I think I'm remembering the wrong murder ..."

That spells mistrial with a capital M.

Many detectives prefer to take the file onto the stand, but with some judges that can be dangerous. A typical case file contains notes and reports on potential suspects and blind alleys that were eventually discarded, and a few judges will allow a defense attorney, on cross-examination, to take hold of the file and go fishing. Given an alternate suspect from a police file and a tolerant judge, a defense attorney can run for miles in front of a jury.

One detective, Mark Tomlin, makes a point of copying his trial notes onto the back of the defendant's computerized arrest sheet. Once, when Tomlin was testifying, a defense attorney asked to see his notes and began to suggest that they be admitted into evidence. He then turned the sheet over, looked at his client's priors, and returned it without another word.

Veteran detectives also go into court knowing the strengths and weaknesses of their cases; they can antic.i.p.ate a defense attorney's line of questioning and answer accordingly. This doesn't mean responding with answers that are grandly deceptive, but tailoring answers so that they do the least damage. If, for example, the defense counsel knows that your witness picked his client from a lineup but failed to do so in a photo array the previous day, he's almost certainly going to ask about that. Antic.i.p.ating, a good detective will, in the course of his answer, manage to work in the fact that the array used a picture of the suspect that was six years old, that the suspect's hair was different, that he had no mustache and whatever else can be said before the lawyer stops him from talking. Defense attorneys have now endured untold generations of slick, manipulative police witnesses; one consequence is the just-answer-yes-or-no style of cross-examination, which requires a detective to wait for the prosecutor's redirect to fully shape his answers.

On the other hand, if a detective is on the stand and not sure just where a defense attorney is going, his answers will become cautious and a little less specific, though not inaccurate in any detectable sense. A professional witness doesn't needlessly back himself into corners with blanket declarations and a.s.surances, because a good attorney will then manage to produce an exception.

"Detective, you say that after Mr. Robinson was arrested for this crime, the robberies in the area of North and Longwood ceased."

"Yes, sir."

"Detective, may I call your attention to a police report dated ..."

Experienced detectives take one other rule to the stand with them: They don't lie. The good ones don't, anyway, not about anything that could ever be directly contradicted in open court. Perjury can destroy a career, steal a pension, and maybe, if the lie is big enough and stupid enough, lead to some jail time. For a detective to falsify evidentiary material, to wrongly attribute statements to suspects and witnesses, carries a risk far greater than the reward. How much does it matter-really matter-to the detective if any one suspect charged with any one murder goes to prison? He does fourteen of these guys a year, a couple hundred in a career. For what reason is he going to start believing that the world ends when he doesn't win a case? If it's a police shooting, or if it's someone the cop knows, then some corners might be cut, but not for something that happened in the 1900 block of Etting Street on a Sat.u.r.day night last summer.

The one notable exception to the marked honesty of a good police witness, the only point in the legal process where law officers can be expected to lie routinely or, at the very least, exaggerate, is probable cause.

For narcotics or vice detectives in particular it's become a ridiculous game, this business of establishing the correct legal prerequisites for a search or arrest. Not surprisingly, it isn't enough to say that the suspect was a squirrel who'd been out on that corner about ten minutes too long. No, the law of the land requires that the arresting officer had the opportunity to observe the defendant operating in a suspicious manner on a corner known for drug trafficking and that upon closer inspection, the officer noticed a gla.s.sine envelope sticking out of a sweatshirt pocket as well as a bulge in the front waistband indicative of a weapon.

Yeah. Right.

Probable cause on a street search is and always will be a cosmic joke, a systemic deceit. In some parts of Baltimore, PC means looking at a pa.s.sing radio car for two seconds longer than an innocent man would. The courts can't acknowledge it, but in the real world you watch a guy until you're sure he's dirty, then you jack him up, find the dope or the gun and then create a legal justification for the arrest.

In homicide, where the name of the game is search-and-seizure, with affidavits written in advance for specific addresses, the PC generally has to be straight up. After all, you need the judge's signature on the warrant just to get you inside. A detective with a talent for the written word may be able to get some weak or exaggerated PC past a duty judge, but at least he's required to put something in the affidavit.

For the homicide detective, the only real moment of equivocation on the stand occurs not over the issue of probable cause, but when a defense attorney asks whether his defendant's statements were coerced, or whether his client asked for a lawyer before making those statements. In his heart of hearts, a good detective knows that every statement is, to some degree, the result of coercion if not outright fraud. But, holding to a strict legal definition, he can answer in the negative and call his testimony something other than perjury. After all, the defendant got his rights, he signed his Form 69. He had his chance.

"But did he want a lawyer?"

Well, a detective could ask, how do you define want? Probably half of all suspects get into an interrogation room and say they want a lawyer, or they might need a lawyer, or maybe they should talk to a lawyer. If they stick to it, if they really want that lawyer and they don't want to talk, then the interrogation is over. But any detective worth his salt tries-for a time, at least-to convince them otherwise, content in the knowledge that there isn't a Supreme Court justice standing outside the interrogation room door.

"Did my client ask for a lawyer?"

"No, he did not."

On the stand, the last rule for a homicide detective is that nothing is personal-nothing between the detective and the defendant, nothing between the detective and the lawyers. On the stand, demeanor counts. A cop who loses his cool long enough to display contempt or malice for the defendant or his counsel provides the jury with the image of a malevolent system, of a crusade rather than a prosecution. The defense attorney calls you a liar, you impa.s.sively deny that. He declares your investigation to be incompetent, you deny that, too. His client eyef.u.c.ks you from the trial table, you ignore it.

For a veteran detective, there is nothing hard in any of that. After all, if it's the ordinary homicide case, the indifference is probably genuine. But even when the case matters, a veteran doesn't do anything to make the defendant believe that he cares, or that the outcome of this case has any relevance in any world that rates. In its way, it's an att.i.tude that offers the defendant even less than anger or contempt. In court, a detective's message to the defendant is clear and unmistakable: Win or lose, you're still a piece of s.h.i.t living on the margins. If the jury comes back guilty, you're down for some years; if the jury doesn't do the job, you still don't count. Six months from now, you'll be back in city jail on another charge, says the att.i.tude. Either that or someone on my shift will be out there one night chalking your a.s.s off.

Strangely, the defendants rarely take it personally. They come into the courtroom from the heat of the bas.e.m.e.nt lockup; shackled and cuffed, they look around and catch the eye of the detective. More often than not, they nod or acknowledge the loyal opposition in some small way. In the course of a long trial, a few actually reach out and shake the detective's hand or mutter a senseless thank-you for no reason that can be discerned, as if the detective was doing them some kind of favor by showing up.

But on rare occasion, when a defendant is talking s.h.i.t-performing in the courtroom, signifying, pa.s.sing wolf tickets to the judge and prosecutor-a detective will step through the psychological barrier. Only then will the defendant be acknowledged in any real way; only then does a detective let anyone suspect that he may actually care about the legal outcome.

Earlier in the year, Dave Brown happened to be in a courtroom for the jury's verdict on two of his defendants-west-siders, age twenty-two and fourteen, charged with murdering an elderly minister in a street robbery near University Hospital the previous spring. Brown remained silent as the jury forewoman read out first-degree verdicts, but the older defendant suddenly lost his chill.

"You happy now, b.i.t.c.h?" he shouted, turning to glare at the detective.

The gallery fell into silence.

"Yes," said Brown quietly. "I'm pleased."

Inside a courtroom, it's as much as a detective allows himself.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 19.

At his cluttered desk on the fourth floor of Courthouse West, Lawrence C. Doan rearranges a stack of legal pads and runs one finger along the bottom of his dark bangs and then back over the top, carefully rea.s.suring himself that all is in place. No cowlicks today. No antigravitational shift in the tie's Windsor. No lint on the lapels. No problem whatsoever, save for the fact that today he's going to try to prosecute a murder in the city of Baltimore, which is a little like trying to drive a Winnebago through the eye of a needle.

And now, when Doan wishes only to be left alone to review notes and prepare his opening, a homicide detective bounds through the door to yank his prosecutor's chain over matters large and small-a deliberate act of sadism, born of the same impulse that causes small children to pull the wings off flies.

"Are we ready?" asks Garvey.

"Are we ready," says Doan. "You come in here ten minutes before court and ask me that?"

"Just don't f.u.c.k up my case, Larry."

"How can I?" asks Doan. "It came to me pref.u.c.ked."

Garvey ignores him. "The photos come in with me, right?" he asks, wondering about evidentiary order.

"No," says Doan, trying to think bigger thoughts, "I'll get those in with Wilson. Where's Wilson? Did you call the crime lab?"

"And the bullets?" asks Garvey, ignoring him. "Do you need the bullets today?"

"Which bullets? Where's Wilson, does he-"

"The bullets from the trunk of the car."

"Um, no. Not today. You can take those back to evidence control," says Doan, preoccupied. "Does Wilson know he's on this afternoon?"

"I think so."

"You think so?" says Doan. "You think so? What about Kopera?"

"What about him?"

Doan begins to change colors.

"You're not going to get to Kopera this afternoon, right?" asks Garvey.

Doan buries his head in his hands, contemplating the known realities. The federal budget deficit is out of control, the ozone layer is being depleted, twenty p.i.s.sant countries have nuclear weapons and I, Lawrence Doan, am trapped in a small room with Rich Garvey, ten minutes away from opening arguments.

"No, I don't need Kopera," says Doan, regaining his calm. "I'll need Wilson probably."

"You want me to call him?" asks Garvey, now playful.

"Yes," says Doan. "Yes. Please. Call him."

"Well, Larry, if it'll help you relax ..."

Doan shoots Garvey a look.

"Don't you look at me that way, motherf.u.c.ker," says the detective, pushing back the suit jacket to reach his waist holster and grab the b.u.t.t of his gun. "I'll shoot you full of holes right here and now and everyone in this courthouse will rule it justifiable."

The prosecutor responds with his middle finger, and the detective lifts the gun a few inches from the holster, then laughs.

"F. Lee Doan," says Garvey, smiling. "You better not lose this case, motherf.u.c.ker."

"Well, if you'd do your f.u.c.king job and get me some witnesses ..."