Chapter One
The man who’d killed my sister was on his way.
In the courtroom, wearing the steel-gray skirt suit I hadn’t expected to ever need again, I sat silently beside my dad on the front-row wooden pew. The judge wasn’t on the bench yet; lawyers were conferring in low voices. Hangers clattered behind us as some new arrival hung up his winter coat. For everyone else, it was just another Monday morning in February in a small-town Pennsylvania magistrate’s court.
My dad took a long, slow breath, like he always did when he was trying to stay calm.
The bail hearing was supposed to start at ten. It was now almost quarter past. We’d been notified of the arrest barely an hour after it happened, early yesterday afternoon. According to my father, most families weren’t notified that quickly—it usually took twenty-four hours or so. The decade-plus he’d spent as a criminal defense lawyer gave him that sort of background knowledge, though it hadn’t prepared him to be the parent of a victim himself.
The woman who called to notify us of the arrest had told us the suspect’s name, Andy Davis, but it meant nothing to us. She hadn’t specified the charges against him. She was just a secretary; she didn’t know.
My mom had stayed home today. She never liked seeing my dad—they’d divorced when I was in high school—but I knew she wouldn’t have come in any case. Court proceedings were a ritual where everyone involved was supposed to maintain their composure. I’d gotten used to that back when I was a lawyer, but Mom wasn’t wired that way. Like Sophia, she never grew that hard, civilized shell.
We’d been waiting more than a year for them to identify a suspect. Maybe now we could start living again.
The door by the bench opened, and the bailiff called out, “All rise. The Honorable George McKenzie, presiding.”
We stood, waited for His Honor to take his place on the bench, and then sat back down. That custom of standing and sitting in unison had always made courtrooms remind me of church.
Judge McKenzie was tall and thin, late fifties maybe, his dull brown hair streaked with gray. He nodded to his clerk to call the case.
“Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus Andrew Lee Davis,” she said. “Counsel, please state your names for the record.”
The man in the suit at the prosecutor’s table stood. “John Novak for the Commonwealth. And with me at counsel table is Officer Petrakis of the Laurel Falls Police Department, who swore out the arrest warrant. Good morning, Your Honor.”
“Good morning.” The judge turned to the defense table, where a woman was sitting by herself. Perfect outfit, perfect hair. She looked like the kind of lawyer who pays her stylist $400 to open the salon at 6 a.m. just for her.
“Susan Gallini, Your Honor, for Mr. Davis.”
“I take it your client is appearing via video, Ms. Gallini?”
“Yes, that was the plan, although if Your Honor prefers otherwise, we can certainly have him brought in.”
My dad tensed up. I wondered if he wanted to confront the guy. Maybe he would anyway; the holding cells were in the same building as the magistrates’ courtrooms, one flight down.
Before answering, Judge McKenzie looked out at the spectators behind us. For an instant, his eyes narrowed; he’d seen something, or someone, he didn’t like. “I think, given the nature of this case,” he said, “and the likely media attention, it’s best if Mr. Davis stays downstairs.”
“Of course, Your Honor.”
The clerk tapped at a control panel on her desk, and the video screen lit up. My dad made a faint choking sound. I glanced over to make sure he was okay. A man his age could have a heart attack at a time like this. A man of any age could, when he’d lost his favorite daughter, the apple of his eye.
Nothing medical was wrong. He was staring, expressionless, in the direction of the screen.
I followed his gaze and was surprised: The man on-screen seemed familiar. Late twenties, shaggy blond hair. He was fidgeting, nervous. For a second, he looked straight into the camera. I knew he couldn’t see us—the camera feeding his display was pointed at the judge’s bench, not at the spectators—so I took a good, long look. I got nothing from his blank blue eyes. I flicked through my mental record of Sophia’s past boyfriends, then her housemates in college, then her high school friends. Nothing matched.
“All right,” Judge McKenzie said. “We’re here on a preliminary arraignment under Rule 540. This arraignment is on a felony complaint that’s been filed by the Laurel Falls Police Department, and I’m going to be reading that complaint to you, Mr. Davis. Toward the end we’ll also address bail, per Rule 520. I’ll hear from the Commonwealth first. That is to say, the prosecutor. Is that clear, Mr. Davis?”
“Yes, sir.”
His voice was familiar too. Somewhere in my brain there was a slim file on him, but I couldn’t find it. He looked too young to be the parent of a kid at Sophia’s martial arts school—my school, now; I’d kept it going, in her memory.
“Your Honor,” Ms. Gallini said, “the defense acknowledges receipt of a copy of the complaint, and I’ve discussed it with my client. If it’s easier, we’re happy to waive the reading of it.”
“That’s fine. So, just to make this of record, I take it you’ve had time to review this case?”
“I have, Your Honor.”
“Okay. If your client could please state his address. Mr. Davis, go ahead and spell the street name, and the town name if you have to, so the court reporter can get it right.”
Davis gave an address in Pittsburgh, the city that young people from Laurel Falls moved to as soon as they could. I wondered if he’d fled there after killing Sophia.
I gave myself the obligatory reminder that the police sometimes arrested the wrong guy. But I knew the chances of that weren’t high; I wasn’t the daughter of a former criminal defense attorney for nothing. Part of the reason he’d switched to personal injury law was because, as he put it, “I want to fight the bad guys, not defend them.”
“Okay.” McKenzie picked up the criminal complaint, scanned the first page, and said, “Now, although you’re waiving the reading of the complaint, I’m going to indicate for the record that Mr. Davis is facing two charges. First, he is charged with involuntary manslaughter under 18 Pennsylvania Consolidated Statutes section 2504—”
Apart from the words “first-degree misdemeanor,” I didn’t hear the rest. If the criminal complaint started with manslaughter, that probably meant there wasn’t a murder charge—not even third-degree murder. I had the sense that prosecutors started with the most serious charge and moved down from there. My dad would know for sure, but I couldn’t talk to him during court proceedings. I clenched my jaw and kept staring straight ahead.
“Mr. Davis,” McKenzie said, “are you prepared to enter a plea on that charge?”
“I am, sir. Your Honor.” His voice was so familiar it almost hurt. I was a hair away from recognizing him, but I couldn’t close that gap.
“And how do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
As he spoke, Davis pushed his bangs back, revealing dark roots, and in that instant it clicked. I’d seen him make that exact gesture two years ago, in Pittsburgh, during a hearing in the annex behind the county courthouse. Back then his hair had been short and brown, and he went by Drew, not Andy or Andrew.
He’d broken his girlfriend’s arm, and I helped her get a protection from abuse order against him. After the court proceeding, out in the hallway, he gave me a creepy smile and said I’d better watch out.
So he hadn’t been part of Sophia’s life. He was part of mine.
Every story I’d told myself about her death vanished, but nothing rational came to replace them. All I’d done to this guy was put a restraining order on his record. On what planet could that push him to kill someone? And even if it had, the logical target would’ve been his girlfriend or me.
It was the only explanation, though. How could a man with a grudge against me randomly drive to my tiny hometown, out of all the tiny towns in western Pennsylvania, and accidentally fire his gun and happen to hit my sister as she was leaving work? Coincidence didn’t stretch that far.
And if I was the connection between Sophia and the dead-eyed man on the courtroom screen, then the prosecutor, Novak, was wrong. This hadn’t been involuntary manslaughter. It was murder.
“And then there’s a count,” McKenzie continued, “for reckless discharge of a firearm under Section 2701.1, because, allegedly, you recklessly fired your weapon into the windshield of Sophia Greco’s vehicle, according to the criminal complaint that’s been filed with this court.”
That image—the small, white-edged hole punched in her windshield—hijacked my brain. It had been doing that at random moments ever since the picture appeared on the local news the day after she was killed. To see a bullet hole in your sister’s car was a lot, and I wasn’t very good at compartmentalizing. I just had to wait for the sensation to fade.
Standing at the prosecutor’s table, Novak said, “Your Honor, I’d like the record to reflect that there were actually two bullet holes in the victim’s vehicle.”
The papers in McKenzie’s hand rattled as he turned the page. “Oh, yes. The one in the driver’s side door?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Davis’s face, on the screen, stayed blank. He looked almost bored.
“Now, Mr. Davis,” McKenzie said, “these allegations in no way imply that you are necessarily guilty of these charges. This is an American courtroom, and as we all ought to know, you’re presumed not guilty until proven otherwise. But those are the charges against you. And, for the record, that second one, for the firearm, is a third-degree felony.”
A misdemeanor and a third-degree felony. That was it. I’d only done a tiny bit of criminal work when I was practicing law, but it didn’t take much expertise to know Davis was going to get out on bail.
I texted my dad: When do we get to comment? He’d explained that crime victims or their surviving family members had the right to be heard at certain proceedings, but I hadn’t asked for details.
Judge McKenzie was still talking. “And the last thing I’ll explain to you, Mr. Davis,” he said, “is that, as I assume Ms. Gallini has advised you, we won’t be getting into any of the evidence here today. I’ll hear evidence later, at your preliminary hearing. That normally takes place three to ten days after arrest.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Ms. Gallini said. “On that note, may I be heard on scheduling?”
“Of course.”
McKenzie’s clerk brought his calendar up to the bench so he and the lawyers could discuss when to hold the preliminary hearing.
My phone vibrated. My dad had answered: When bail is set.
I glanced up at the bench—under this court’s rules, our phones were supposed to be off—but they were still busy with the calendar.
What’s highest bail on these charges?
Beside me, he shrugged. It had been a long time since he’d worked in criminal defense. He started typing on his phone just as McKenzie said, “Okay. Before we move on to bail, I’m going to ask Mr. Davis to enter a plea on that second charge.”
“Not guilty,” Davis said. “Obviously.”
“In regard to bail, Your Honor,” Ms. Gallini said, “we do actually have a bail bondsman outside right now. He’s from Patriot Bail Bonds, which I know has posted bail here before.”
“I see. Yes, the folks from Patriot are here pretty regularly.”
My phone vibrated. I looked down. My dad’s text said If he can afford Gallini, he can afford bail.
I took that in, staring at the oak rail that separated the spectators’ pews from the main part of the courtroom. I did not know how I was going to explain to my mom that today, one day after they arrested him, the man who killed my little sister got back out on the street.
“Mr. Novak?” the judge said. “What’s the Commonwealth seeking here?”
“Your Honor, we would ask that bail be set at $100,000. But before addressing the basis for that, I’d first like to say that we have two of the victim’s family members in the front pew there, and the Commonwealth extends condolences for what they’ve been through.” He rattled that off automatically. It sounded like something he said a lot.
Judge McKenzie looked over at us and said, “Yes. It’s a truly terrible thing.” He, unlike Novak, seemed sincere.
“So, Your Honor,” Novak said, “although I won’t deny that there are more heinous crimes and more serious charges that can be brought in this Commonwealth, the crimes Mr. Davis has been arrested for nevertheless resulted in the death of a twenty-eight-year-old woman, Ms. Sophia Greco, a beloved young woman who owned her own small business teaching martial arts to the children of Laurel Falls. Ms. Greco’s death has truly hit home, both for her family, the many community members whose children she taught, and also the local legal community, which her father and sister are part of.”
He gestured to us.
“And although we’ve all seen far more extensive rap sheets than Mr. Davis’s,” he continued, “we can’t ignore the fact that he was charged last year with an act of domestic violence, for which he was sentenced to community service. Further, he’s not gainfully employed at this time, and his parents have means, both of which pertain to flight risk. So, under the circumstances, the Commonwealth is proposing a very reasonable bail package. First, the $100,000 I just mentioned. Second, surrender all firearms, if any. And third, turn over any passports, and don’t make any new application for travel documents. That would be our proposal.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
The restraining order I’d gotten against Davis two years earlier had also required him to surrender any guns he owned. I couldn’t remember exactly how long that restraining order was supposed to last, but it probably would have been one or two years.
That hadn’t protected my sister.
Ms. Gallini got up and argued that Davis wasn’t a flight risk because he’d lived in western Pennsylvania all his life. He had no passport to surrender, and according to her, he didn’t currently own any guns. She introduced his parents, who were in the front pew on the defense side, and spoke of their contributions to the community.
“Your Honor,” she said, “they’ve asked me to extend their sympathies to Ms. Greco’s family. We all grieve her loss. Any decent person would. At the same time, their son is presumed innocent, and the bail amount Mr. Novak has indicated would impose some hardship on them. And I would add that, as terrible as this tragedy is, $100,000 is well above average as a bail amount on one misdemeanor charge and a third-degree felony, even where there has been loss of life. I’m concerned that by requesting that amount, the Commonwealth is perhaps sending the message that this victim’s life matters more because—well, because her family is part of the legal community.”
“Your Honor, that is completely inappropriate.” Novak was offended. “There is ample authority for setting bail at an amount that is significant relative to the net worth of the accused or his family. And it’s my understanding that Mr. Davis’s parents own a five-bedroom home in Fox Chapel, which, for the record, is an affluent suburb of Pittsburgh.”
“Uh-huh. Ms. Gallini, you said you’ve got Patriot Bail Bonds waiting outside. Have they preapproved Mr. Davis and his parents for any particular amount?”
She hesitated, but there was no way out of that question. “They have, Your Honor.”
“And what is the amount?”
Another pause. “Your Honor, they’ve been approved for up to a quarter of a million dollars.”
“Okay, then I will set bail at—”
I stood up. “Your Honor, may the victim’s family speak?”
The judge looked at me, slightly annoyed. “Yes, of course you’ll have that opportunity. But there’s an order to things here.”
My dad hadn’t reacted—he was still looking straight ahead—but I could feel his disapproval. Interrupting a judge on the bench was not done. But I didn’t see how else I could have any chance of keeping Davis in jail.
McKenzie explained, “First, I set the bail conditions. And here, I’m imposing the $100,000 amount and the conditions that the Commonwealth requested. The next step is where I invite you to comment on that. Which you may now do.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said. “So, my concern is that, even if these bail conditions are appropriate for the charges that are being brought, the fact that those charges are not very severe makes me think that Mr. Novak isn’t aware of the backstory here. Mr. Davis isn’t a stranger to our family. I’ve been on the opposite side of him in court: I helped his girlfriend at the time get a protection from abuse order against him. And right after that proceeding, Mr. Davis threatened me. So I don’t see how him then going on to kill my sister could be a random accident.”
Noise rose behind me, startled voices. I’d forgotten how many people were here.
Judge McKenzie looked at me, a hint of shock on his face. He turned to the prosecution. “Mr. Novak?” he asked. “Didn’t your office notify the victim’s family of the arrestee’s identity?”
“Of course, Your Honor. I personally charged a member of my staff with calling both of the family members who are present today, and they didn’t mention anything about this. I had a debrief with my staff member afterward. If the family had said anything of this nature to us at all, I would’ve looked into it immediately.”
“But we didn’t recognize his name, Your Honor,” I said. “He didn’t go by Andrew at the time—”
“When was this PFA hearing you’re talking about?” McKenzie asked.
“About two years ago. In Pittsburgh.”
“And what name are you alleging he went by?”
“My client referred to him as Drew.”
He gave me a second to continue. When I didn’t, he asked, “And was there a last name?”
I searched my memory. “Your Honor, it could’ve been Davis, but in all honesty, I don’t remember. It would’ve been on the papers, but a PFA hearing is very informal, very quick—”
I could tell I was losing him. As far as he was concerned, whoever I was remembering might not have even been the same guy. I rushed to explain. “I’m not sure how the procedures work here in Moreland County,” I said, “but in Pittsburgh, you’d go down to the courthouse, get assigned to a case, meet your client, and the whole thing’s over in a few hours. You focus on the people in front of you, not the full legal names on the court papers.”
“Okay, Ms. Greco. Thank you.” He sighed. I could tell he was pretty sure I was wasting his time. In a perfunctory tone, he said, “Okay, just to close the loop: Mr. Novak, are you aware of anything in the defendant’s record that corresponds to what this family member is describing?”
“No, Your Honor. To clarify, though, with PFAs being civil as opposed to criminal, they don’t come up on the routine checks we do on arrestees.”
Ms. Gallini jumped in with, “Your Honor, if I may—and again, I extend my condolences to the victim’s family, who we all understand are grieving—I want to ensure that this hearing stays on track. We’re here to determine what bail conditions should be imposed on my client for the two charges that he’s here on today. There’s absolutely no legal basis for imposing bail conditions on my client based upon the uncharged actions of someone whose last name Ms. Greco doesn’t even remember.”
“Mr. Novak?” the judge asked.
“The Commonwealth would have to agree.”
“Okay. Now, I want to make sure we hear from the victim’s father: Mr. Greco, do you have anything to add on this issue that your daughter raised?”
“I do not, Your Honor.”
“Were you aware of these allegations?”
“I was not.”
McKenzie shot me a tired glance. I got the sense he was filing me in the “overwrought female” category. “Okay,” he said. “Any other comment on bail conditions, Mr. Greco?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then the bail conditions are imposed as requested. Court is now adjourned.”
* * *
My dad didn’t say a word as we went to the elevator, crossed the courthouse lobby, and went out the revolving doors. In the parking lot, we still didn’t talk. I jumped a few patches of ice, glad I was wearing my trail shoes. He pulled out his keys and beeped open the locks on the red coupe I thought of as his midlife crisis Mercedes. I slid into the passenger seat.
“About that PFA hearing guy,” he said once the doors were closed. “You have any records on that case?”
“No. They were on my computer at my old firm.”
“And was that your only interaction with him, or…?”
“The PFA hearing? Yeah.”
He started the engine, and the radio blared on. He turned it off. “So it was just the one day, two years ago? And it wasn’t even a big enough deal for you to remember his name?”
I didn’t answer. I knew it sounded ridiculous.
He looked at me. “Let’s say it was him at that hearing,” he said, in a tone I knew from watching him practice his cross-examinations. “So what? That was, what, a year before Sophia died? Where’s the motive? What’s that got to do with her?”
“Look, I don’t know.” I took a breath to calm down. I knew not to take his tone personally; it was just a lawyer thing. And we were both upset about Sophia. “All I can tell you,” I said, “is that I recognized him today. And I don’t see how it could be a coincidence.”
He sighed and drove in silence to the parking lot gate. After paying and turning onto the main street, he said, “Well, that’s an accomplishment, I guess. Pissing off the judge and publicly humiliating the prosecutor all in one go. Even I never managed that.”
He took a right turn and added, “I tell you what, if you ever decide to go back into the practice of law, you might want to pick a different town to work in.”
If you’re ready to continue the case, you’ll find Presumption of Guilt here.