by Rex Darby
MY SELF-HATE ALL GETS channeled toward Ms. Fairweather, and by the time the preliminary hearing rolls around, I’m baying for blood.
“Is the State ready to proceed?” Judge Pollard says. She’s a young judge, late thirties or early forties, with glossy brown hair and a pretty but hard face. I’ve never had dealings with her before. She’s relatively new, having previously worked in Tennessee. She has the accent to match.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say.
“You may call your first witness, Ms. Agnew.”
“State calls Police Detective Yannick Redford.”
The burly officer is sworn in. I watch his square face and set jaw. I’ve had a couple dealings with him before and never liked him, but thankfully he doesn’t any blot on his record. I think that’s more to do with the department protecting their own, than any real reflection on his character or conduct. He’s a bully. I can sense a bully cop a mile away. My father was one. Thankfully, that means I know the right things to say and not to say.
“Please state your full name,” I say.
“Police Detective Yannick Redford with San Cristobal PD.”
“Thank you, Mr. Redford,” I say. “Can you confirm you were part of the investigation team looking into the incident on the night of July 4th, which led to Jason Blachowicz’s arrest?”
A little upward movement of the chest. Self-importance. “Yes.”
We go through establishing the facts of the case for the judge, then I ask, “Can you confirm that you were the officer who found the necktie in the vehicle of the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“This being the murder weapon?”
“Objection!” Ms. Fairweather hollers.
“I’ll rephrase,” I say quickly. “Was this the same necktie sent to the criminalist to identify fibers?”
“Yes.”
“And these fibers were the same as those found on the victim’s neck?”
“Objection!” she pipes up again. I just about manage to suppress a sigh. “Improper expert opinion.”
The rest is straightforward. I ask him what he saw at the scene, how they investigated, and what evidence they found. The evidence all stacks up.
“Ms. Fairweather, do you wish to cross-examine the witness?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Redford, did you and your team search the entire apartment upon finding the victim deceased in the apartment?”
“Yes,” he says, glaring at her with his shark eyes.
“Did you find any other neckties?”
“Yes.”
“What observations did you make about those neckties?”
“There were twelve other neckties in the apartment.”
“Why did a medical student such as Jason Blachowicz would own so many neckties, when he doesn’t need them for work or school?”
“Objection!” I say quickly. “Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained.”
“If you run DNA checks on these neckties, they will come up as belonging to Mr. Blachowicz,” Ms. Fairweather says.
“Objection!” I say again. “Lack of foundation.”
“Sustained.”
“The reason my client has numerous neckties is because he was formerly a ballroom dancer. They were part of his costume.”
“Objection. Relevance?” I say.
“The relevance will become clear, Your Honor,” Ms. Fairweather says.
“Get to the point.”
“He had not removed these neckties from the apartment as he no longer dances. Did you notice, Mr. Redford, that the ties were matching pairs?”
“Yes.”
“You said there were 12, which is an even number. Were there then six pairs of matching neckties?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Blachowicz purchased neckties to match his dancing partner’s dresses and purchased them in pairs in case he spilled something or otherwise spoiled the first tie during competition, so he would have a spare.” She knows I’m about to object, so quickly steamrolls on. “I have the receipt for the purchase of these neckties, including the necktie that was seized by police.”
The judge beckons for it, and Ms. Fairweather brings it from the table.
“The necktie you seized from my client’s vehicle was black with a red stripe, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find a matching necktie in my client’s vehicle?”
“No.”
“Did you find a matching necktie in the victim’s apartment?”
“No.”
“Did you find a matching necktie in my client’s home?”
“No.”
“Have you located this matching necktie?”
“No.”
“Then, could it be possible, Mr. Redford, that the necktie found in my client’s vehicle was not the necktie used in the crime that left fibers, but its counterpart?”
“Objection,” I say.
“Sustained, that’s a question for the criminalist, Ms. Fairweather.”
“And could it be possible, Mr. Redford, that because you assumed the necktie was the only one of its type, and overlooked the fact the matching necktie was nowhere to be found, that you were prematurely prejudiced against my client, and failed to examine other potential suspects?”
He narrows his eyes. “No.”
Ms. Fairweather crosses her arms and cocks her head to one side, clearly pissed off. “Which other suspects did you consider?”
“We didn’t need to. He was seen leaving the scene of the crime, he had—”
“No, Kelly Acaster saw a brown truck leaving the scene of the crime and did not recall a license plate. Do all brown trucks belong to Jason Blachowicz?”
“Objection!” I say hotly. “She’s badgering my witness!” It feels like she’s badgering me.
“Sustained.”
Ms. Fairweather turns and gives me a tight, fake smile. I wish I could object to facial expressions.
“Did you investigate the owners of all brown truck owners in the local area?” she asks the cop.
“No.”
“Would you then say it’s fair to say that a lot of jumping to conclusions happened in the police department, that led to my client’s arrest?”
He flounders, looking at me.
“Objection,” I say, my throat dry. “Badgering the witness.”
“Sustained.”
Ms. Fairweather smiles sweetly at the judge. “Nothing further, Your Honor.” She might as well have done a curtsey.
She’s swung a right hook, but it’s not over yet. I’m no pushover.
Chapter 7
Liliana Fairweather
We’ve been through all her boring evidence and the uninspiring Kelly Acaster. Now it’s time to flip the script. I look over at the poor bitch at the prosecution table, then call up my witness.
“Miranda Oliver.”
She’s sworn in, a little old lady with a quavery voice. The jury will fucking adore her and believe every word she says when it comes to the trial.
“Thank you for coming here today, Mrs. Oliver,” I say.
“I wanted to come and do the right thing.”
“And you are. So, Mrs. Oliver, can you please confirm where you live?”
“104 Marchand Avenue.”
“That’s the small apartment complex in which the victim’s body was found, where the victim lived, yes?”
“Yes. I live on the ground floor.”
“Your ground floor apartment is right next to the main entrance doorway for all the apartments, and you have a good view of this doorway through your window, so you can see people coming and going. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Can you please tell me what you noticed about the activity at that door on the night of July 4th, around the period of 8.00pm to 8.30pm?”
“I noticed there were two visitors into the building,” she said. “One was a pizza delivery man. I thought it was strange, because he was buzzed into the building, when usually people wo
uld go downstairs and take their pizza from the man outside.”
“Do you know about what time he arrived?”
“I couldn’t say exactly, but around 8.15pm.”
“How long would you say he was inside?”
“About... seven minutes, I would say.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling joy and glee rise up in me so strongly I want to pump a fist in the air.
“I thought that was even stranger,” she said. “Why would a pizza delivery man spend so long inside? He had pizzas in his hand, so I assume it wasn’t a personal call, but a work one.”
“Thank you. What about the defendant?” I gesture toward him at the table. “Did you see him arrive and leave?”
“I did,” she said. “He arrived shortly after the pizza man. He pulled up in his big brown truck outside, and then came inside. He wasn’t there for longer than one or two minutes before he left.”
“One or two minutes, are you sure?” I ask. “Given he’d have had to walk up to the apartment – it’s on the first floor – which must have taken thirty seconds on the way up, and thirty seconds on the way down, that means he must have either not gone in the apartment at all, or have been in there for less than one minute.”
“That’s right.”
“Not enough time to strangle anyone, right? I mean, that’s gotta take three or four minutes, at least.”
“Objection,” Agnew pipes up. “Improper expert opinion.”
“Sustained.”
“They’re right, I don’t know anything about strangling,” Mrs. Oliver says, her blue rinse bobbing as she shakes her head. “Anyhow, I don’t want to think about it.”
“Yes, it’s just horrible, isn’t it?” I say. “Anyways, is there any chance you could have underestimated the time he was there?” I manage to keep the smile off my face.
“No,” she says. “I know I’m not mistaken, because I have a camera rigged up, that shows the entrance. My late husband Alf... Alfred... was very security-conscious, and put it up when there were a couple burglaries in the neighborhood.”
I can practically hear Lincoln’s heart sink behind me. “I’d like to show the tape.”
Judge Pollard allows it, and we all see the glorious tape that’s going to get my client to walk, on the TV on wheels.
“Where’s the timestamp?” Ms. Bitch asks.
I swallow. “In the corner on the left-hand side, Judge, you will see the time and date.”
But she won’t let up. “May I approach to view the video more closely?”
Judge Pollard beckons her over. I sure hope Marisol is fixing her face properly, but I don’t want to look back to check. It won’t look good.
“I see a discrepancy between this number and that number,” she says, peering closely at the screen and pointing. “Your Honor, I’m going to be direct. I don’t think the defense have submitted this video in good faith. Before it’s taken into account, I’m asking for permission for the DA’s office experts to review the video independently.”
“Permission granted for review of evidence. We are adjourned.”
I smile sweetly at the bitch, then tell Marisol to go home. I curse and scream all the way home in the car and work myself up into a frenzy.
“You asshole, Nerius,” I say as I burst in the front door. The rage almost makes me throw my purse, before I realize it’s not one of the cheap ones I’ve been used to all my life. This is LV. “Sitting on my couch, eating my ice cream. Fucking up my cases. Why don’t you just go to hell?”
He’s curled up on the couch with ice cream and his laptop, and jerks back like I’ve slapped him. In a moment, the surprise is replaced with rage. He talks in a menacing low voice while he closes his laptop and puts it in his bag. “I knew it. I knew it. I just fucking knew it. You beg me to come back to your House of Horrors, do your dirty work for you, and—”
“All I ask is you do your work properly! Jesus, is that too much to ask?” I snatch the ice cream from him and hurl it to the floor.
His eyes pop out of his head and he jumps off the couch so wildly I flinch. “I need time to do things properly! I told you! I fucking told you that!” He stands, breathing so heavily his chest heaves up and down. He grabs his bag. “Nah, fuck this shit.”
He heads for the door. He’s going to leave. I’ve fucked it all up. That wave of desperation crashes over me. Sometimes I wonder if I should go to therapy, but I doubt any shrink could touch it. I don’t know if I want them to get rid of it. I don’t know life without it. I don’t know me without it. “No, no, don’t go, please. Please, baby, I didn’t mean it.” I grab onto him like a toddler to their mother.
“Get off of me,” he says. The coldness in his eyes is so animal. It cuts me to my core.
“Please.” I begin to cry. “Please, Nerius. Don’t do this to me again.”
“I’m not doing anything to you.”
“You’re torturing me.”
He shakes his head and screws up his nose. I read half-disgust, half-utter confusion. “You’re the one doing this to yourself.”
“Please.” It’s all I have the presence of mind to say.
“Black hole,” he says, looking into my eyes with such hatred the shame makes me want to burst right out of my own skin, run away, and never come back to Liliana Fairweather. “Narcissist, Borderline Personality Disorder, who knows what else?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, tears streaming down my cheeks. My grip on him is so tight he has to push me off to get away. He slams the door on his way out. “Nerius, please!” I wrench it open but don’t go further than the doorway. I watch him leave at a pace down the street, his long thin legs striding out, his dreadlocks bouncing at his back. He doesn’t look over his shoulder. I feel like I’m shrinking into nothing. Melting, like the Wicked Witch of the West, until I’m nothing but a puddle in this doorway. Not ever to be a curse in anyone’s life ever again.
I go back inside. The ice cream is melting and flowing out onto the floor. I step over it carefully and into the kitchen. I lean over the sink and the world turns a little in a way it shouldn’t. It’s like I’ve drunk too much, though I haven’t had a drop today.
I breathe for the longest while, trying to get the voices that follow me everywhere out of my head. “Fuck you,” I eventually say out loud, when it doesn’t work. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck YOU!” This little mantra gives me my strength back and soon I get ahold of myself.
After composing myself, fixing two tuna sandwiches one plate and grabbing two bags of chips, I go and unlock the guest bedroom door.
My brother’s sitting on the bed, his face creased into worry below his sandy hair. He looks up at me, his blue eyes wide. “What in the heck was that all about, Lil?”
“Don’t worry,” I say soothingly. “You’ve got enough to worry about, hon.” I hold out the plate to him with a smile. “One’s for me, so don’t get too greedy.”
“Thanks, I’m freaking starving.”
I sit next to him on the bed and start on my own sandwich. “You’re always starving.”
“What do you say we order a pizza tonight and watch something cool on TV, hey? A good night in with my big sister. We haven’t done that in so long.”
“Come on, Burke. We can’t act like everything’s normal. You’re making me commit a felony, here.”
“No, we have to act like everything’s normal.” He’s devoured his sandwich in three bites. “And whatever felonies may or may not being committed, I need to eat.”
I don’t even want to hear the word pizza right now. But I do like the stuff. “All right. Pizza sounds good. Later.”
“Aw, why don’t we get it now?”
“It’s 11.30am!”
“You’re such a buzzkill.”
“You can order if you want, but I’ll throw up if I eat it now.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one paying.”
I grin at him. “As usual. Look, if you’re supposed to be getting busted for all these na
rcotics, couldn’t you at least have some money to show for it?”
“What do you want on your pizza? I’m gonna have pepperoni and anchovies and pineapple and... BBQ chicken.”
“What the hell? That’s crazy. You can’t combine pork and fish and chicken.”
“Yep, I can.”
I laugh. “That reminds me. When you were little, you used to dip your chicken nuggets in strawberry yogurt.” I make a face like I’m vomiting.
“That was so freaking good!”
I raise an eyebrow. “If you say so.”
“So what are you having?”
“Meat feast.”
“Makes sense.” He changes his voice to a deep demonic tone. “For the beast within.”
Unexpectedly, that cuts. “I’m not a beast, am I? I think I am, sometimes. Other people definitely think I am.”
“Heck no!” he says quickly. “Well, unless you mean it in a good sense. You’re just... my amazing big sister.”
I give him a side hug. “And you’re my amazing little bro.” I sigh. “My amazing, very naughty little bro who needs to fix up his act and go back to school.”
“Pizza. What’s the number?”
“Burke... You’re changing the subject.” He looks so uncomfortable and worried I feel sorry for him. “Okay, let’s talk about it tomorrow. I’ve had a hard day already, and I could use a pizza and trash TV day, too. Though I’ll need an hour or so before I can stomach that meat feast. Make it a small.” I get out my cell from my pocket and hand it to him. “Number’s in there.”
He smiles at me with his mouth closed, a little grateful, innocent smile. I’ll always see him as about six years old. God, I love the bones of that boy. “Love you, baby,” comes out of my mouth without consulting with my brain.
“Love you, too,” he mumbles, scrolling through my Contacts. He says it a little self-consciously, but I know in my heart he means it just as much. “Garlic bread as well? Soda?”
Chapter 8
Lincoln Agnew
KILLER PIZZA DELIVERY MAN ON THE LOOSE?