A Case of Redemption (33 page)

“Did you do it a few times a week?”

“One time a week, usually. Unless she asks me to do it another time.”

“The regular change of sheets, did you do that on a specific day? For example, did you usually change the sheets on a Monday, or a Tuesday, or a Wednesday?”

She shook her head, and I assumed she would say that she did not know, but instead, the words “Usually Tuesday” came out.

We now had the timeline. On Tuesday, Roxanne's sheets were changed, and she slept in her bed
that evening. The following morning she left for South Carolina. Four days later, on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Roxanne returned to her bed, and sometime during that evening she was murdered. If Matt Brooks—or someone else, for that matter—had been in that bed and left his pubic hair behind, he would have done so on either the Tuesday before Thanksgiving or the night Roxanne was murdered.

The autopsy report had not found any semen inside Roxanne, but that didn't mean she hadn't had sex the night she was killed. A condom wouldn't prevent the wearer from leaving some pubic hairs, however.

We knew from the subpoena to the Old Westerbrook's spa that Roxanne hadn't made an appointment there to have a Brazilian, but that didn't mean very much because there were plenty of other places in the area that might have done it, or, as L.D. had suggested, Roxanne could have brought someone in to do it in private. For a while I held out hope that Roxanne's waxer would show up on
TMZ
or
Inside Edition
, revealing when she stripped Roxanne of her pubic hair, but she never did. Like Nina said about Roxanne's neighbor's housekeeper, some people don't want to be involved in a murder case.

The truth was that it really didn't matter when she'd waxed. She still could have had it done in New York on Wednesday, before she went to Stocks, or even sometime Sunday after she returned, and the prosecution could therefore still claim that it was her hairs in the bed.

In other words, the pubic hair was a dead end. We couldn't prove that those weren't her hairs, but the prosecution couldn't prove that they were hers either, certainly not beyond all doubt.

The rest of Thursday was consumed with the mind-numbing science that is a big part of the government's proof, but barely anyone can understand. Carpet fiber analysis, the art of retrieving blood spatter, chain of custody. Very little, if any of it, was disputed by us, and the jury didn't seem to care at all. In fact, the only time I saw any emotion from them the entire afternoon was when Judge Pielmeier announced that we were done for the day.

On Friday, Kaplan closed the loop on the baseball bat. First came a young police officer who testified that he was first on the scene and
did not see the baseball bat hanging over Roxanne's bedroom mantel. He was followed by an older cop, who explained the lengths the NYPD went to in their search for the murder weapon. Nearby garbage cans, sewers, the subway tracks.

After him, Kaplan called a representative of Major League Baseball, who told the jury that Roxanne received a baseball bat for singing the national anthem at the first game of the World Series. He even slipped in that Roxanne told him she was going to put the bat in her bedroom, a half second before I made my objection.

When he stepped down, Judge Pielmeier asked Kaplan to call her next witness, at which time, in a clear, confident voice, Kaplan said, “Your Honor, at this time, the people of the state of New York rest their case in chief.”

The prosecution had proven everything it needed—the old troika of means, motive, and opportunity. And by dragging out her case until Friday, Kaplan also got the collateral benefit of denying the defense the opportunity to put on any witnesses until Monday. That was more than enough time for the jury's position to harden. Perhaps irrevocably.

“Very well,” Judge Pielmeier said. She turned to the jury. “I'm now going to dismiss you all for the weekend. I will see you back here on Monday morning, and until then, remember to follow the rules I've established: Don't talk to
anyone
about the case. Stay away from the media. Keep an open mind.”

After the prosecution rests, the defense always makes a motion for a directed verdict, because failure to do so precludes certain arguments from being raised on appeal. As a result, no matter how convincing the prosecution's case, the defense lawyer stands up and tells the judge that the prosecution has not met its burden of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt—no thinking jury could ever vote to convict on the evidence presented.

So after the jury left, I made the best show of it that I could.

“Your Honor, the prosecution has failed to establish any of the
elements that could give rise to a reasonable jury voting to convict. All they have established is that Roxanne was murdered. They have not provided this jury with any evidence linking the defendant to the crime—”

“Mr. Sorensen,” Judge Pielmeier interrupted, “let me save you some time so we can all get a jump on the weekend.” The gallery provided her with the sought-after laugh. “I know you need to make this motion to preserve your record. You've made it. Now I'm going to deny it.”

She struck her gavel.

“Court is adjourned until Monday morning at nine thirty.”

•   •   •

That evening, over a pepperoni pizza, Nina and I discussed what our case would look like. There was actually very little mystery involved. The only evidence we had was the guest registry at the Old Westerbrook and Carolyn Anton's testimony that she saw Roxanne coming out of cottage eighteen. With that, we could put Matt Brooks in South Carolina over Thanksgiving weekend and Roxanne in his room.

The question on the table, however, was whether that was enough for an acquittal. My vote was no.

“I think we have to put Matt Brooks on the stand,” I said.

She grimaced. We'd served a trial subpoena on Brooks the previous week, and at that time agreed to disagree about whether we'd actually use it. Now, however, we had to make a decision.

“It's going to be Roxanne's mother all over again,” Nina said. “Brooks isn't going to admit to the affair.”

“He'll have to admit to being in Stocks over Thanksgiving.”

“The registry already proves that. Brooks will say it was business.”

“What's he going to say when we ask him why he refused to give us a pubic hair sample?”

“Judge Pielmeier never lets that in. And even if she does, he says that he didn't refuse, it was a decision of the court.”

She was right about that, but it didn't mean I thought she was right about whether we should call Brooks to the stand.

“There's a reason Brooks didn't testify for the prosecution,” I said.

“So that's why we're calling Brooks to the stand? Because Kaplan didn't?”

“No,” I said, although I stopped to think if that wasn't part of the reason. “I've been saying this from the beginning: I just don't think we can win a reasonable doubt acquittal. Our guy has the only motive the jury's heard and then there's that goddamn song. And what are we saying in response? That there
might
be another lover? There
might
? I bet you that the jurors aren't even convinced of that after Harry Davis testified, and that was our best piece of evidence. Now they think that Roxanne just had a lousy housekeeper.”

Nina must have known that this discussion wasn't going anywhere because she didn't respond. At least not verbally. The mournful shaking of her head told me everything, however—she thought we'd be making a huge mistake if we went after Matt Brooks as our SODDI guy.

O
n Saturday morning, I got up early, and much to my own surprise, I decided to go for a run. My running sneakers hadn't been called into service in more than a year, and although I worried that I might not have even packed them when I moved, they were hiding in the back of the closet.

When I stepped outside, two thoughts hit me simultaneously. The first was that it was freezing, and I laughed to myself about all the spring days I stayed inside drinking rather than exercise. The second was that I had no idea which direction to go. In my previous life my running had been in Central Park. I was lost downtown, off Manhattan's grid, with no clear path to follow.

I walked west to the Hudson River Park and began running north. I set a goal to make it to Chelsea Piers. I couldn't remember its precise cross street but thought it was below Twentieth Street, which meant I had a modest goal of about a mile up and another mile back.

Even out of shape, two miles seemed doable. At the very least, I thought I could make half that distance, which meant just making it to Chelsea Piers and walking back.

From the first stride, I could feel my extra weight. Even though I had begun to slim down over the past few weeks, my shirt still clung to my belly, rather than hang loosely over it, as I recalled it doing when I ran in my pre-accident life.

I tried to let my mind wander, but for the first few minutes I couldn't think about anything other than that my knees hurt every time my feet hit the asphalt. When I passed the large serpentine
sculpture that told me I was at Watts Street, which was less than five blocks from where I started, I began bargaining with myself.
Just five more blocks, and then you can stop.

To focus on something other than my labored breathing, I began to fantasize about Nina. In my mind's eye, she stood before me, slowly unbuttoning her blouse, and then we were kissing, and then making love. I could hear Nina's moans in my head, drowning out my own panting as I struggled forward.

The Holland Tunnel signage appeared before me, indicating I'd gone half a mile. Suddenly I felt strong enough to continue, at least through SoHo.

At Morton Street, I caught a glimpse of the glass condominiums built by the architect Richard Meier, which Sarah, ever the modernist, loved. I imagined her looking down at me, wondering what she would think of my relationship with Nina.

Sarah was not the jealous type, and she would have wanted me to go on with my life, to be happy, but I was reasonably certain that she'd be surprised at how overwhelmed I'd become by Nina. I suspected Sarah thought of me as like her in that regard, able to look rationally at love and not to be taken in by the sweeping passion of it all.

No one was more surprised than I was that I turned out not to be that way at all. I'd fallen harder and faster for Nina than I had ever thought possible. There were times when I had to actually count back how long we'd known each other—a little more than a month—and remind myself that no one truly falls in love that fast. And then, of course, I played my own devil's advocate, noting that it wasn't a typical month of dating but nonstop, 24/7 being together, under pressure. That speeds up the timeline, doesn't it?

But the bottom line to it all was that it didn't matter how long I'd known Nina, or how long normal people take before they think they're in love. I knew how I felt. And though it embarrassed me to admit it, I felt a passion for Nina that I couldn't remember ever
experiencing with Sarah, and it imbued me with a sense of being alive that I'd been without even before the accident. While my descent began on the day Sarah and Alexa were killed, the truth of the matter is that I wasn't really alive before that, either. More like in some type of zombified state, just going through the motions of a life.

And now, with Nina, my life had meaning. It was just as she had predicted that first day we visited L.D. at Rikers. By agreeing to try and save L.D., I'd actually saved myself.

Before I realized it, I was approaching Chelsea Piers, which began on 17th Street and stretched for about five blocks. I made one last bargain with myself—to go to the taxi stand at the northernmost point of the complex. I picked up my pace until I was actually sprinting the last hundred yards or so.

After a short breather, I began to walk back, intent on enjoying each step of the return to an equal degree that it was painful on the way there. The sweat on my face was evaporating quickly, creating a light mist, and the chilled air now felt refreshing rather than painful.

The thought continued to swirl in my brain.
I saved myself.
I had. And while that caused my chest to swell, I realized that I had to deliver that same salvation for L.D. I just had to. And that meant I had to prove that Matt Brooks killed Roxanne.

•   •   •

When I came into the apartment, I immediately removed the fleece sweatshirt I'd been wearing to run. The T-shirt underneath was soaked in perspiration and sticking to my body.

Nina was still in bed, but my entrance stirred her awake.

“Where have you been?” she said sleepily.

“I went for a run.”

“Really?”

I laughed. “Yes. Only don't ask how far or how fast.”

“Doesn't matter. I'm proud of you. And you look damn sexy dripping in sweat. Come here.”

She reached out her hands, beckoning me back into the bed.

“Let me shower first.”

“And waste all that sweet sweat? Not on your life.”

•   •   •

We fell asleep afterward but were awakened by the phone. My caller ID revealed it was none other than Benjamin Ethan.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a Saturday-morning call, Benjamin?”

“Daniel, I would like to meet with you today. Are you available this afternoon?”

“You may not have heard, Benjamin, but I'm actually in the middle of a trial,” I said with the deadest of deadpans. “In fact, I'm scheduled to question this very squirrelly character named Matt Brooks, and I'm spending today preparing.”

Ethan said, “I was hoping you'd give me the opportunity to talk you out of calling him, which would save us the trouble of bothering Judge Pielmeier with a motion to quash.”

“You do what you have to do, Benjamin, but I don't see Judge Pielmeier quashing a trial subpoena. Last time, you had the better argument because, as you so ably told the judge, the criminal code doesn't permit a defendant to take that kind of discovery. But she's not going to deny my guy his Sixth Amendment right to call your guy. No way that happens.”