False Witness (19 page)

She stopped speaking and unexpectedly, Mr. Wise said, “She said his face is the face of a stranger; of a man I do not know and he frightens me.”

Mrs. Wise nodded and reached for her husband’s hand. “Yes. That was what she told me. And she said that in the morning, when she spoke to David about it, he said she must have dreamed it, that it had never happened. That she was being foolish.”

“Did he ever strike her, that you know about?” I asked, almost knowing the answer.

“Yes,” the mother told me. “Yes. During the night; during one of those strange times when she woke up and found him there. It was like a stranger, she said. Punched her; punched her. And she didn’t go to work in the morning, she was black and blue and sore and he told her again, no, that she dreamed it, that she walked in her sleep and did it to herself.”

“You said she planned to leave him. Tell us about that.”

Mrs. Wise nodded and slowly, twisting her narrow gold wedding ring, reaching back for the memory, she began telling us.

“Shortly before Melissa ... died. A week maybe before, I’m not sure. David came late from the hospital; hours later than he had said and she was worried. Usually he would call and say he was detained, something had come up. But this night, he did not call and she was worried and she called to find out if he was there. Maybe there had been an accident. Her brother had had an accident and we didn’t know for hours. Not for hours.” She turned her face away from us and was silent for a moment. Her husband reached and held her hand, pressed it. Mrs. Wise looked up and her face was painfully sad with remembering awful things.

“But that is another matter, and that turned out well. But Melissa called the hospital and they told her, no, David was not detained, maybe did he have a meeting and she said yes, probably that was it, a meeting of some kind and he forgot to tell her. And then, David came home, hours, hours late and she had waited up for him. And she told me he had that ... that look, that middle-of-the-night look on his face. The look of the stranger. And she asked him where he’d been, what had happened, and she said he didn’t answer, he just ignored her, he went and took a shower and got into bed. And the next morning, she tried to talk to him and he became very angry. And started saying things like ‘What’s happening to you, Melissa? Something’s going on with you that is very strange.’ That kind of thing. And so she made up her mind to leave him. And it was maybe two or three days later, after she told me this, that Melissa ... that she was killed.”

“We know about the medication Melissa had been taking,” Mr. Wise told us in a very soft and gentle voice. “She learned about that kind of help when she went into nursing and she was careful about medication. She would never have let herself get that depressed without taking the medication. And she never was what David described. Hilarious. What a terrible word. And he used it so easily.”

“David lies very easily. It is part of his nature. He is like a beast who kills and then moves on and continues with his life.”

They knew no one else who might verify what they had learned about David Cohen; only their daughter, and she was dead.

“His family?” I asked and both parents sighed; shook their heads.

“They would tell you nothing. They are very ... superior people? They think they are; that David married a ‘baker’s daughter.’ You can see how people like that, in the business world and both of them successful, they saw Melissa as the ‘baker’s daughter.’ We know, they let us know in the way people have. Ach, people. So foolish; so foolish.”

It was at that point that Martin Wise surprised us; even his wife seemed surprised by the sudden energy with which he leaped from the couch and went to the pictures on the fireplace mantel.

“You see these people,” he said in a hoarse and shaking voice, “these are parents and brothers and sisters and cousins; these are children and grandparents, all these people were family.”

He grabbed one group photograph: the faded sepia, the faces barely discernible. This was indeed a family: grandparents and parents and children, dressed in a different time, their faces innocent of their approaching fate.

“Murdered.
Every single one of the people you see in this photograph, murdered.
And no one paid. No one.
Still, they are walking around, the murderers of my family, of my wife’s family.”

Mrs. Wise’s face was frozen, her chin raised, her teeth clenched, her body rigid and straight.

Mr. Wise took the picture of their daughter, Melissa, from her hands and looked at it, then turned to face me and Bobby Jones.

“And then, this one. This girl. This beautiful girl who was born here, who we raised with love and with care in this safe place. Who could imagine such a thing? Who could have thought such a thing?” He put the photograph back on the mantel carefully, then he leaned close to us.

“David Cohen murdered our daughter. We don’t know why you are asking us questions about him, but we want you to know this. He is a murderer.” He took a long breath and then exhaled in a terrible sobbing voice and said, in a chant, “Get him. Please. Get him. Get him. Get him.”

D
R. DAVID COHEN, SEATED
across the desk from me, indeed resembled that mythical prize catch of my mother’s generation’s dreams: a nice Jewish boy all grown up into a reliable, steady, good-income doctor. In the clever, cool, vaguely remote expression of his thin, high-foreheaded face, one could still see glimpses of the class smart boy: the pain-in-the-ass kid who was ready to answer the question before the hapless teacher had a chance to finish posing it. There was nothing really memorable about his face. In fact, he brought back my mother’s early admonition: you marry a man not too handsome, this way you don’t have to worry about other girls who should try to take him away. Thank you, Mother.

He had the barely discernible smugness of the highly skilled professional who wasn’t very interested in anything outside his specialty. A certain coldness: an innate aura of cleanliness that went beyond the scrubbed sterility of a surgeon.

His only remarkable physical distinction was his long, elegantly beautiful hands. I can’t recall ever seeing either a pianist or a surgeon with short, stubby or unpleasant fingers. I wondered if the condition of one’s hands was a precipitating factor in making a specialty decision. I wondered what would happen to a brilliant young doctor who wanted to be a surgeon but who had dwarfishly small, scrungey, un-beautiful hands. I wanted to ask Dr. Cohen about that, but I was sure he would consider it frivolous and he was clearly not a frivolous man.

Bobby Jones had set up the appointment by telephone and it was just by good luck that Dr. Cohen had a free half-hour or so that he could spare. He appreciated the fact that Lucy Capella, who was joining us for the meeting, was available to give him a lift to our office and would also provide him with a ride back to the hospital at the conclusion of what, I had assured him, would be a brief meeting.

He sat and studied me expectantly, having glanced around the room with a disinterested air. The only thing that caught his attention was the tape recorder that was on my desk.

“Dr. Cohen, I want to inform you that as of this moment”—I had clicked the machine on—“this conversation is being recorded as part of an ongoing investigation into the assault on Ms. Sanderalee Dawson. I want to inform you, and advise you, that you have a right to have an attorney present with you at all times. That you do not have to answer my questions. That you may discontinue this meeting at any time.”

For which I thank you, members of the Supreme Court. And wish you a similar situation and wish I could see you operate from that moment on.

Dr. Cohen’s expression barely changed but there was an intensity, a narrowing of his eyes, a movement of his head. He leaned forward and sounded not exactly wary but just a bit puzzled.

“Is that a customary statement? It seems just a bit strange to me under the circumstances of my being here. Ms. Capella told me you wanted an update on the condition of Sanderalee Dawson. Have I need of an attorney to bring you people up to date?”

He seemed to direct his questions more to Bobby Jones, the only male present. I corrected that tendency once and for all.

“Dr. Cohen, you are here at my request as the Bureau Chief of the Squad responsible for the investigation into the assault on Sanderalee Dawson.”

He focused on me now: a total, emotionless waiting.

Looking at him, what I was about to say seemed ludicrous. I concentrated on what we had heard on the tape from Sanderalee’s tortured voice. Hit it, no explanations, for God’s sake, no qualifying excuses, which is what I had been about to do: Hey, doctor, you’re going to think this is really crazy, but you know what this lady said about you? Forget it, Lynne.

“Dr. Cohen, for the past two days you have not visited or tended Ms. Dawson. This has been at the explicit request of the patient.”

“Yes. I was told that.”

“What you have not been told is that Ms. Dawson has been conscious and lucid for several days now. And she has been telling us—the members of my staff and myself—as best she can recall, the events of the night of her attack.” Deep breath; match his careful attention; find his light gray eyes behind his sparkling glasses. Remember what his dead wife’s parents said about him: he is a murderer.

He inclined his head politely if impatiently.

“Yes? And?”

“Dr. Cohen, Ms. Dawson has identified you as her assailant.”

The statement hung in the silence. There was no reaction from anyone. The four of us just sat, waiting for something to happen; for someone to react. I had an insane, scary moment when I thought I was going to laugh. For God’s sake: laugh.

“Dr. Cohen?”

He asked me, “Am I supposed to say something about that? What would you like me to say about that?”

Say: Yes, I did it. I am a murderous lunatic and I hacked and I raped and I beat and I then put her all together again.

“It was a serious detailed accusation, doctor. I have here a typed version of what Ms. Dawson stated on tape. In order to bring you fully up to date, so that you’ll know exactly what we’re talking about, I’m going to give you the typed statement. Would you like some time to read it?”

He reached for the stack of papers and flipped through them quickly. No expression; nothing. Clinical; noncommittal.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Dr. Cohen?” Bobby Jones hovered over the hotpot. Dr. Cohen shook his head. He was immersed in the typed report.

I had said all the official things into the tape recorder: time of day; Dr. Cohen is now reading statement of Sanderalee Dawson; interrogation will resume when he is finished.

I watched him intently. A tall man, nearly six feet, sitting tall in the chair before me, adjusting the papers slightly to avoid a shadow; scanning, reading very quickly. A speed-reader; going back, double-checking. He fingered a small gold pencil or pen, whatever, and seemed about to make a note or two on the copy given him, but instead he touched the gold instrument to his lips momentarily. Finally, he leaned forward and placed the report on my desk, removed his glasses, gently rubbed his eyelids with his long and probably soothingly cool fingertips. He studied his glasses, breathed on them, wiped them with a clean white handkerchief, then looked at me and shrugged.

“So? Where does that leave me? What is my status here, in this office, as of this moment?”

“You have no official status. At this point. An accusation has been made against you. We are trying to clarify that accusation and to evaluate it. With your help and cooperation if possible.”

I had turned the tape recorder on. Dr. Cohen stared at it for a moment, then looked back at me. No expression. I glanced at Lucy and then at Bobby Jones. Was that significant? No expression. What did that tell us? Anything?

“Dr. Cohen.” Bobby Jones waited until the doctor turned in his chair, watched Bobby come to the desk and sit next to him. “What is your immediate reaction to what you’ve just read?”

A slight shrug. “This woman has been in and out of coma. She hadn’t been speaking rationally as far as I knew. I haven’t heard her make one complete statement. This”—he nodded to the report—“seems to me astonishingly complete and consistent, given the woman’s medical condition. I would like to hear the tape itself. I’m curious as to the actual sound and continuity of her voice as she relates this ... sequence of events.”

“As to the accusation itself, Dr. Cohen?”

“I am in no way responsible for what Ms. Dawson said or asserted. I would point out, of course, that I was among the first people that this woman saw as she hovered in and out of consciousness. I would suggest you speak to Dr. Chan. I believe Martha Chan has been handling the psychiatric end of this?”

“Dr. Cohen, in this situation I am obliged to ask you certain questions.”

He turned back to me and regarded me as a teacher would regard a not particularly clever student who had just asked him if the correct procedure was being followed. “Yes, I can understand that.”

“And you are here voluntarily, and have been advised of your status as of the moment, and of your rights?”

“Yes, I understand. Ask me what questions you feel necessary.”

No, he did not know Sanderalee Dawson personally.

Yes, he had seen her on television.

No, he did not, at any time, in any way, harm, injure, attack, defile or attempt to murder Sanderalee Dawson.

No, he was not politically active. Every four years, he voted for the President.

No, he had never been a political activist.

“Are you active in any religious organizations, Dr. Cohen?”

“No. I’m a Yom Kippur Jew. Once a year obligation to ancestors; parents; the Holocaust. Conscience. Superstition. You know.”

I nodded. I knew. Bobby Jones looked puzzled. Lucy Capella looked serious and intent.

“Are you a Zionist in your beliefs?”

“I believe in the state of Israel and the right of Jews to their own country. Does that make me a Zionist?”

“I meant actively, in any way. Do you belong to, or donate to, any Zionist organizations?”