VC04 - Jury Double (12 page)

“We charged and arraigned him. Charges were later dropped.”

“Why?”

“There are two aspects to the crime.” Cardozo held up two fingers. “Opportunity, which Mickey Williams clearly had. And motive, which it developed he did not.”

“When did you determine that Mickey Williams had no motive?”

“Soon after our arrival at the precinct.”

“But you questioned him over several days?”

“Yes.” Cardozo glanced again at the prosecutor. “As a material witness.”

ELEVEN

1:10
P.M.

I
N THE JURY ROOM,
a stocky, dark-haired man whistled for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury—and alternates—as your foreperson, I have a suggestion.” A crooked front tooth made him look oddly innocent, almost likable. “Why don’t we all take seats, and go around the table and officially introduce ourselves? My name’s Ben Esposito. In real life I’m assistant director of the Department of Fraud for the U.S. Post Office.”

“Don’t tell me they commit fraud in the U.S. Post Office,” a heavyset black man said. He was dressed like a partner in a law firm.

“Not with me on the job they don’t.” Ben smiled. “And what’s your name, friend?”

“I’m P. C. Cabot. My real name’s Paul, but people call me P.C. because those are my initials, and I’m an MTA motorman on the A line. PCC happens to be the initials of one of the best streetcars ever designed. Naturally, they stopped building them.”

“Don’t drink on the job, fella,” Ben said. “I ride the A line to work.”

The next juror moving clockwise was a small, dapper Chinese. “I’m Seymour Shen. I run a small chain of organic food stores.”

And then Donna. “Hi, guys. My name is Donna Scomoda. I do voice-overs for TV commercials.”

Next came a bald white juror. “Abe da Silva … I’m employed by the Center for Strategic and International Studies—which is better known by its acronym SIS—where I’m senior adviser.”

“What the hell does SIS do?” asked a slender, aquiline-featured black woman four seats down.

“I often wonder myself,” Abe said.

“Seriously. These million-dollar think tanks are sort of an unelected government.”

“Introductions first,” Ben said. “Coffee klatch later.”

Next came the woman who had given Anne the betting sheet. “My name is Lara Duggan. I’m director of new faces for the Mystique Model Management Agency.”

“Channel seven did an exposé on one of those agencies,” Abe said.

“Yeah, that was us. Our fifteen minutes.”

“My name’s Shoshana Beaupre.” A tall, serious-faced African-American juror smiled gravely. “I teach at a private school in Manhattan—St. Andrew’s.”

“What do you teach?” Abe said.

“Everything—with an emphasis on math.”

Next came a willowy black juror with a profile off a Roman coin. “I’m Gloria Weston—I’m a full-time spokesperson and community activist for the East New York Coalition.”

“What the hell do they do?” Ben asked.

“To put it in three little words, we right wrongs.”

“Oh, yeah? And who pays?”

“A mix of private and city funds. Why, you want to see our balance sheet?”

“And be an accessory after the fact?” Ben grinned to show he was just joking. Gloria did not smile.

“My name is Ramon Culpeper.” The young man was crisp as a male model in his madras jacket. “I run a franchise of mystic and spiritual shops. The Healing Crystal. We specialize in ayurvedic medicine and toiletries; crystals; books; meditation classes.”

“Did you bring any samples?” Donna Scomoda said.

Ramon winked. “See me afterward.”

“You’re very big in minority neighborhoods,” Gloria said.

“Hispanic neighborhoods,” Ramon said.

Anne’s turn. “I’m Kyra Talbot. I’m photography editor for
Savoir
magazine.”

“My name is Paco Velez—I’m retired.” A beat of silence passed. And another. He was a tall man with a widow’s peak and dark glasses, and he obviously intended to say no more.

An overweight juror spoke up. “Hi, folks. I’m Thelma del Rio. Till last year I was a hospital dietitian; I now work for American Cyanamid, in new products. I just want to say that being here with all of you today is one of the proudest moments of my life—the realization of a ten-year dream, and a seven-year lawsuit. I’ll bet I’m the only person in this room who had to sue to get onto this jury.”

The jurors laughed.

Thelma explained: “New York State said I didn’t have to serve on a jury because I’m two hundred fifty pounds overweight. As far as I’m concerned, that was the same as saying to hell with building access ramps for the disabled. So on the advice of my therapist I did what any red-blooded obsessive-compulsive American would do—I initiated class action.”

“On the advice of your physical therapist?” Paco Velez asked.

“I’m not talking about my psychotherapist, honey. She’s suing
me
.”

More laughter.

The bailiff rapped on the door and announced that the jurors would be having their lunches at Eugene’s Patio, a restaurant two blocks from the courthouse specializing in burgers and Italian-American cuisine.

“The People call Harkness Lamont.”

A man who must have been six-foot-four strode into the courtroom. Behind him, on a cleaning woman’s squealing trolley, a guard pushed a three-foot TV.

The witness took the oath. Tess diAngeli asked him to describe his work.

“I’m an assistant D.A. with the Manhattan District Attorney’s office.” He spoke with a nasal Bostonian accent.

“Two years ago, on September twentieth, in connection with the murders of John and Amalia Briar, did you interrogate Mickey Williams?”

“I interrogated Mickey Williams on that date, in that connection, yes.”

“Would you view the following videotape and tell the court if this is an accurate record of your interview with him?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Elihu pushed himself to his feet. “As my colleague well knows, the defense intends to call Mickey Williams as a witness. Ms. diAngeli never informed us that she intended to use this tape as part of her case.”

For an instant diAngeli stood openmouthed. “The defense was given the entire tape three months ago.”

“That is not the issue, Your Honor.” Elihu shook his head angrily. “We object to the showing of this tape unless Mr. Williams is available for cross-examination. And he isn’t.”

Judge Bernheim seemed perplexed. “But, Mr. Elihu, didn’t you just say you’re going to call Mr. Williams as a defense witness?”

“We’ve subpoenaed him, Your Honor, but he hasn’t answered the subpoena.”

“Will counsel please approach the bench?”

Judge Bernheim and the lawyers had a whispered sidebar conference. In her seat next to Anne, Thelma del Rio craned forward in her chair and followed the dispute with absorbed attention.

Judge Bernheim’s hands finally made an abrupt slicing motion. “I’ll allow the tape to be shown.”

The bailiff lowered the window shades. The prosecutor’s assistant worked the controls on a VCR.

Dotson Elihu dropped into his seat, glowering. Corey Lyle touched the lawyer’s hand and whispered something.

A picture came up on the TV screen: a man sat at a table in what could have been a motel room, staring at the camera. He had California-boy hair, glossy and bowl-cut. He needed a shave, and something in his manner suggested he had been sitting there for a week. He wrenched a cigarette loose from a crumpled pack of Marlboros, fumbled it to his lips, struck a kitchen match.

The assistant flicked a remote at the screen and the image froze at the instant when flame touched cigarette. Nicotine had left deep yellow patches on the man’s fingers.

“Mr. Lamont,” Tess diAngeli said, “can you identify the man on that TV screen?”

“That’s Mickey Williams.”

The man broke into movement, dropping the match into an ashtray piled high with butts. In his white but-toned-to-the-neck golf shirt, he looked like an athlete who had lost a little of his shape but none of his muscle.

“Were you acquainted with John and Amalia Briar?” an off-camera voice asked.

The figure on the screen froze again.

“Mr. Lamont,” Tess diAngeli said, “is that your voice?”

The witness nodded. “That is my voice. Yes, ma’am.”

“We were all members of Corey Lyle’s group.” On the TV, Mickey Williams spoke with a sweet, boyish lilt. “I used to pray with John Briar. When we weren’t praying together, we were playing together.”

“Did you know his wife, Amalia?” On the tape, Lamont’s voice had a higher, more adenoidal quality than it did on the stand. It could almost have been a different man speaking.

“I met her two or three times.”

“Do you recall the last time you saw them?”

“Yes.” The eyes darted to the right. “I went to their apartment Friday before Labor Day.”

“Were they alive at this time?”

“They were alive when I arrived.”

“What did you do to John Briar?”

“I suffocated him with a pillow.”

A rustle, like wind in a forest, swept the courtroom. Spectators craned to get better sight lines on the TV.

“When did you do this?” the voice asked.

“Early Saturday morning.”

“And what did you do to Amalia Briar?”

“I suffocated her with a pillow.”

“When did you suffocate Amalia Briar?”

“I suffocated her fifty-three hours after I suffocated John Briar.”

“Did you perform these acts of your own free will?”

“I can’t answer that. I have no idea what free will is. I can’t say as I’ve experienced free will in the last thirty years.”

“Were you ordered to perform these acts by some other person?”

Mickey Williams raised his eyes to the camera: cow-brown eyes, glowing but dead. “Corey Lyle ordered me to kill the Briars.”

Dotson Elihu’s fist hit the table. “Objection!”

“Stop the tape,” Judge Bernheim said wearily.

On the TV screen, Mickey Williams froze in the act of lighting another Marlboro.

“Your Honor,” Dotson Elihu shouted, “it’s intolerable that such testimony should be sneaked in by the back door!” He wheeled, red-faced, and screamed at diAngeli. “Dr. Corey Lyle has the same right as any American—the right to confront his accusers! They shall not hide from cross-examination behind an electronic wall of tape!” And back to the judge. “Your Honor, I demand that you declare a mistrial!”

“Mr. Elihu, Mr. Elihu …” Judge Bernheim’s hands made calming, easy-there, boy motions. She beckoned both attorneys to the bench.

On Madison Avenue, behind iron gates, students thronged the courtyard of the private school, shouting, pushing, leaping, squeezing every ounce of freedom they could out of afternoon recess.

Sergeant Britta Bailey watched and shuddered. Children were such animals. It chilled her to see how they formed cliques, how they ganged up on the weakest and ugliest. Their weapons were subtle: the jostle, the push, the turned back. Nothing that a teacher would notice. Instinctive little acts of disdain sure to embitter the victim.

Britta Bailey knew. She’d gone through it herself—almost fifteen years ago, but when she heard school kids shouting it seemed like the day before yesterday.

Her eyes kept coming back to one child in particular—an eleven-year-old boy with a deep summer tan that strikingly set off his blond hair and brown eyes. He was bouncing a ball off the wall, quick and sure of himself. There was something almost insolent about his grace and coordination, his indifference to his schoolmates.

Sergeant Bailey approached the boy. “Hi … what’s your name?”

The boy caught the ball and turned. “Toby Talbot, ma’am.”

“Toby, my name’s Britta Bailey. I need a favor. There’s a blue Pontiac parked on Madison Avenue. There’s a man in the front seat. I’m going to walk away. I want you to turn around and just happen to look in that direction. See if you can get a good look at him without letting him know you’re looking. I’ll be waiting over there, inside that door, and you come tell me if you’ve ever seen him before, okay? You got the drill?”

“Yes, ma’am—I’ve got it.”

Officer Bailey crossed the cobblestoned court and pushed through the glass-paned door. Her footsteps echoed up to nineteenth-century moldings. She watched through the window.

The boy was bouncing his rubber ball off the ivied wall again. But now that he knew he was being watched, his movements were tight and self-conscious. He fumbled a catch and the ball got away from him. He headed it off at the iron fence.

His gaze came up and he looked out through the spear-pointed pickets. On the avenue, traffic lumbered past—taxis and buses and upscale delivery trucks.

On the east side of Madison, a blue Pontiac had double-parked, motor idling. In the driver’s seat, a man sat peering through the zoom viewfinder of a camera. He had the look of an overage skinhead. Hair shaved to the skull. Thick neck and shoulders. Noodle-veined temples.

The boy looked over at the man. The boy’s expression was puzzled. But interested.

Sergeant Bailey wondered how much the kid needed spelled out for him—that the man was a pervert, that he was watching schoolkids, photographing them, that he was watching
Toby
.

The man lowered the camera. He let a beat pass, then waved. A very slow, very visible, very comic wave.

Britta Bailey’s stomach turned over.

The boy glanced bashfully away. He hurried into the lobby.

“Recognize him?” Bailey asked.

“No, ma’am.” The boy shook his head. “Ma’am, would you tell me something? Is he doing anything wrong?”

“We don’t know, Toby. But I’m going to find out right now.”

Wood tapped sharply on glass. The man turned.

A nightstick knocked on his passenger window. “Sir.”

There was a way of saying
sir
that showed absolutely no respect, and this freckle-faced policewoman had mastered it. She motioned him to roll the window down.

“Yes, Officer?” He smiled up at her.

“You’re double-parked.” She had a cold, unwavering gaze and a voice just a little too high and tight, to match.

He kept the smile. “That’s right.”