“And what was your initial endowment for the foundation?”
“Forty million dollars.”
Glancing at the jurors to see how they reacted to that number, Arnold spoke softly. “These fine people have heard a lot about your relationship with your wife and her alleged relationships with others. But first, tell us about Clare through your eyes.”
Sighing, Constantine turned to look at the jurors as well. “She was beautiful, both inside and out. I fell in love the first time I saw her, and the day we got married was the best day of my life. Except, perhaps, the morning she gave me our son, Tommy.”
“You loved her?”
“Very much.” Another sigh for the jurors. “I still do.”
“What sort of an effect did she have on you?”
Constantine cleared his throat. They’d been over this so many times the night before that he felt like he was reading lines from a script. “To be honest, I used to get so caught up in running my company, I would forget to stop and ‘smell the roses,’ or think about what other people might be going through. She taught me that there were more important things in life than money and running companies, like a family life, and love. She was also my moral compass.”
“Tell us about that,” Arnold said. “What do you mean by ‘moral compass’ when you’re talking about your relationship with Clare?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that I was uncaring before I met her,” Constantine explained. “My mother and father saw to it that I knew right from wrong, and that we should help those less fortunate than ourselves. And I used to donate quite a large sum to charitable organizations, such as the Red Cross. But I was never really involved, you know; I just wrote checks and went about my business. I’m something of an introvert by nature anyway.” He looked off to the side and chuckled, as if recalling a funny memory. “But Clare would have none of it. She brought me out of my shell, both socially and as an ethical human being. I’m a better man today because of her.”
Constantine stopped and reached for the box of tissues on the witness stand. He methodically removed one and wiped at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I got caught up in the moment a little bit. Please continue.”
“I apologize that I have to pull up painful testimony by the prosecution witnesses,” Arnold said. “But the jurors heard two witnesses describe acts of infidelity between your wife and the prosecutor’s witness, Richie Bryers. How did you react when you learned about the affair?”
Constantine’s face and voice hardened. “At first I didn’t believe it. Then I saw the photographs and was angry.”
“When were you shown the photographs?”
“They arrived anonymously in the mail a few days before Clare drowned . . . was murdered.”
“Then what happened?”
“I got a telephone call threatening to send them to the media if I didn’t pay two million dollars.”
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“No. Just a male.”
“Did you pay?”
Constantine hung his head. “No, though now I wish I had.” He looked up with tears in his eyes. “You have to understand that a man with my assets is constantly threatened with lawsuits and blackmail. That’s why I had someone like Fitzsimmons on my payroll.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“No. There would have been an investigation, and you know how cops are; one of them would have smelled a payday and sold the story and photographs to the press.”
“What did you do?”
“I told Fitzsimmons to look into it,” Constantine said. “I never thought he was the one betraying me . . . him and Bryers.”
“So you didn’t tell Fitzsimmons to spy on your wife?”
“No. Never. I trusted her implicitly. But he knew I would do anything to protect her reputation.”
“What happened after that?”
“I got another call. Fitzsimmons was there with me. I told the caller I wasn’t going to pay. He said I’d regret it.”
“And then?”
Constantine took a deep breath and then let it out dramatically. “Three days later, she was dead. I thought it was an accident until I got the toxicology report. Then I thought suicide. I was stunned when I learned Fitzsimmons had admitted to murdering her.”
“Again, I’m sorry, but we need to get to the bottom of this for the jury,” Arnold apologized. “What about Clare? She cheated on you and put you in a situation where you could be blackmailed.”
Rubbing his face with his hand, Constantine made it appear that he was struggling with his answer. “I guess,” he said at last, “like any husband I wasn’t happy to hear that my wife was unfaithful, particularly with someone I considered a friend. But I’ve had some time to digest this and realize that I have to assume part of the blame as well. I was gone a lot, and when I was home I wasn’t all there, if you know what I mean. Also . . .” He hesitated. “This is rather embarrassing, but also there was quite an age difference between us and I may not have been as attentive to her physical needs as she might have wanted. I guess she decided to do something about it. I just have to accept that.”
“Did you ever confront her about the affair?”
Constantine shook his head. “No. I thought she’d leave me if I did. I made up my mind to be a better husband and see if we could fix this thing. I didn’t realize we didn’t have much time left.”
“What about the testimony that you abused your wife physically and emotionally?”
“I never laid a hand on her,” Constantine spat out.
“Have you considered that your wife might have been helping Bryers and Fitzsimmons with their blackmail scheme?”
Constantine shook his head violently. “No. I refuse to believe that she was capable of that sort of deceit. I gave her everything she could want.”
“Unless she wanted to leave you for her lover,” Arnold said. “Wasn’t there a prenuptial agreement that would have prevented her from getting support if she divorced you?”
“STOP IT!” Constantine demanded, partly rising from his seat. “Infidelity, yes, she was young, I was less than she needed. But blackmail . . . NEVER!” He slumped back down in his chair, satisfied that he’d played the scene well.
Arnold held up his hands. “It’s okay. I’m sorry that I had to do that, but sometimes the truth is ugly, and this jury deserves to consider all the possibilities.”
All the possibilities except that I told Fitzsimmons to kill the bitch, Constantine thought. “Of course,” he said, “please excuse my outburst. It’s all still a little bit raw.”
“We understand,” Arnold replied, looking at the jury. “Let’s move on and talk for a few minutes about your professional relationship with Mr. Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bryers. The jury heard that you contracted with Mr. Fitzsimmons to provide security for Well-Con Industries and for yourself personally. They also heard that he was dishonorably discharged from the Army for what were essentially war crimes—he was suspected, though never convicted, of killing innocent Iraqi citizens—”
“Yes, though I didn’t know that when I hired him,” Constantine interjected.
“Obviously,” Arnold agreed. “And there was testimony that he was recommended to you by some unknown government official in Washington, D.C.”
“To be quite honest, I don’t remember who recommended him. I left security details to my assistants and they sent him to me. I was told that he was a former Special Forces soldier who’d served in Iraq. It’s true I interviewed him and hired him after that; he talked a good game and seemed a stand-up guy. I have a lot of respect for our veterans. I guess I should have vetted him more carefully myself.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Arnold said, as he walked over to the witness stand and stood looking up at his client with his hands on his hips. “And what about Richie Bryers?”
“
What about him?” Constantine retorted. “He took my money and had sex with my wife. I think that pretty much defines his character.”
“What about his claim that he read a page in your journal on the day Colonel Swindells was murdered by Dean Mueller that seemed to indicate you knew about an alleged black ops raid and someone named al Taizi?”
“I never wrote anything like that in my journal,” Constantine replied.
“What about something called the MIRAGE files?”
“I know about Operation MIRAGE, but it has nothing to do—to my knowledge—with any black ops raid,” Constantine said, shaking his head.
“We’ll get into what you know about MIRAGE in a moment,” Arnold said, “but what about Bryers’s testimony regarding a notation that, and I quote, ‘Col. S and the Russian bitch’ needed to be eliminated?”
“Lies. Just like all the rest of what they said. Lies.”
“And what about the alleged telephone call Bryers and Fitzsimmons testified to?”
“Never happened.”
“Nothing about needing to keep Mueller quiet?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you know Mr. Mueller?”
“I read about him in the newspapers after he murdered Colonel Swindells, just like everyone else. But I’ve never met the man, or seen him until a few days ago in court.”
“What about the allegations that he was hired by Fitzsimmons to murder the colonel, presumably at your behest, to prevent Swindells from revealing the true nature of MIRAGE?”
“I think Mueller’s a very disturbed young man,” Constantine said. “It’s a shame that someone like Fitzsimmons would use a former soldier with mental health issues for his own devious gains.”
“But what could he hope to gain by the death of Colonel Swindells?” Arnold asked, perplexed.
This was the trickiest part of his testimony, but as Arnold had said, what they couldn’t explain away, they’d obfuscate. “I don’t really know what game Fitzsimmons was playing,” Constantine said. “The man is obviously capable of anything, including murdering an innocent woman to get at me. But everyone knows that I am friends with the president, and I have to think that somehow this was an attempt to get at the administration by attacking me.”
“And the blackmail attempt over your wife’s affair with Mr. Bryers?”
Constantine shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe Fitzsimmons picked up on that and was working a side deal to make money with Bryers. Or maybe it was just part of a plan to bring me down, embarrass me, and at the same time discredit the president’s foreign policy in Iraq and his dealing with ISIS. I just don’t know. But what I do know is that the president has a lot of enemies, including this district attorney.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Karp said, rising to address to the court. “Counsel is trying to elicit opinions from the defendant that are based on rank speculation. He and the defendant have done violence to the basic rules of evidence.”
“Sustained,” Dermondy ruled. “Be careful, Mr. Arnold, you’re on thin ice. Please proceed.”
Arnold nodded and continued. “The jury also heard testimony from the prosecution witnesses about a telephone call Bryers allegedly overheard between yourself and someone in the White House?”
“Never happened. At least not what he said. I talk to the president fairly often.”
“You didn’t call someone a bitch? Or ask who conducted a raid in Syria?”
“I don’t refer to people in the White House as bitches. Nor do I get involved in foreign policy.”
“Did you make a remark about this purported raid ‘fucking up’ MIRAGE?”
“I did not.”
“Mr. Constantine, were you ever aware of some alleged conspiracy called MIRAGE between Well-Con Industries and what could best be described as criminals from Russia, Syria, and Iran?”
“Absolutely not.”
“And no playing footsie with ISIS?”
Constantine rolled his eyes. “Who’d ever even dream up such a fantasy? No, there were no dealings between Well-Con and any of those people.”
Arnold wandered over to the evidence table and picked up one of the exhibits. “Mr. Constantine, you said you’re aware of something called MIRAGE. Can you tell us what you meant by that?”
“Yes. As you know, Well-Con Industries has operations all over the world, one of which includes oil refineries in Iraq that we operate in conjunction with Iraqi Oil. Or I should say operated until ISIS took over that part of the country. They murdered a number of our people and have forced others to work for them.”
“And what does that have to do with MIRAGE?”
“About a year ago, I was asked to speak to the president’s national security adviser, Sylvia Hamm, regarding U.S. operations against ISIS.”
“And why would Ms. Hamm want to talk to you about a national security issue?”
Constantine frowned. “I have to be a little careful here, as I was asked during that initial conversation to keep the details confidential, since they involved the U.S. military. But in general it was something of a courtesy call. ISIS was selling oil on the black market to fund its operations, and the president was considering ordering air strikes against the refineries and transportation under ISIS control. Ms. Hamm was essentially informing me that some Well-Con operations would be among the targets. She called it Operation MIRAGE.”
“And what was your reaction?”
Constantine laughed grimly. “Well, no businessman wants to hear that he’s about to have tens of millions of dollars in equipment and product destroyed,” he said, then allowed his face to grow hard. “But some of the people who worked for me were murdered by ISIS. If that’s what it took to fry those bloody bastards and put an end to their reign of terror, then I was all for it.”
“And what has been the result of Operation MIRAGE? At least those details you can share with us.”
“Essentially, Well-Con Industries’ oil refineries and transportation no longer exist in northern Iraq.”
“And this damaged you financially?”
“As I said, tens of millions of dollars, as well as thousands of jobs for our Iraqi employees. We’ve started a fund to try to help them until we can rebuild, though we’ve lost touch with many of them, who are feared dead.”
Arnold held up the exhibit. “I have here People’s Exhibit 60, a photograph purportedly taken by your wife, Clare, using her cell phone and sent to Mr. Bryers, on the day she was murdered. As the prosecution’s handwriting expert testified, it’s from a page in one of your journals. But let me backtrack a moment . . . tell the jury about your journals.”
Constantine nodded and turned to the jury. “I said that I had a happy childhood, and that’s true. But it was also often a lonely one. My father was frequently absent, and Mom had a lot on her plate. Because we were wealthy and lived on a large estate in Mount Vernon, I didn’t have a lot of playmates. But I liked to read and I guess that led to writing my journals, which I did and still do nearly every day. It was a way to pass the time. I even dreamed of being an author at one point.”
“What would you journal about?”
Constantine shrugged. “Same sort of things anybody would, I guess. When I was young it could be about a new puppy or a girl I liked. Sometimes I wrote about missing my father or a vacation we took. As I got older, and into my career, I wrote about some of my business ventures as well . . . private thoughts, sort of a chronicle of my day . . . though such things might be interspersed with something I was doing with Clare and Tommy.”
“Okay, let’s talk about People’s Exhibit 60 and walk through it sentence by sentence. First, what did you mean by ‘MIRAGE is moving forward at last’?”
“I think it’s pretty clear. The air strikes had begun.”
“What about ‘All the players have been replaced. Just movable pieces’?”
; “We had a way to contact our people on the ground and, without being specific, warn those we trusted to leave the area. ISIS replaced them with others to keep the refineries and trucks going.”
“And that’s what you meant by ‘the refineries are back at full capacity and deliveries are being made’?”
“Yes. ISIS had quite a black-market oil operation going.”
“Do you know who they were selling to?”
Constantine shrugged. “I can guess, but I have no firsthand knowledge.”
“What about ‘one problem has been eliminated but another remains. She’s the weak link and has to go’? Explain these statements, please.”
Constantine grimaced. “This is where I have to be careful, as I may have been speaking out of turn regarding international affairs that are none of my business. But my understanding was that two of my competitors, one of them a woman CEO of another oil company, were opposed to the air strikes and tried to bring heat on the White House to stop them. I was asked to reach out to both of them, which I did; one agreed to the president’s plan, the other—the woman—remained opposed.”
“What did you mean by she has to go?”
“That I intended to speak to the owner of the company, an old friend of mine, and ask him to intercede.”
“Nothing about a Russian bitch?”
Constantine smiled. “I don’t know any Russian bitches.”
“One last question, Mr. Constantine. What happened to the journal that page was taken from?”
“I don’t know,” Constantine replied. “It’s gone. Because of what happened to Clare, I didn’t notice it for some time, but when I went to look for it, it was missing from its place on my bookshelf. I suspect that Mr. Fitzsimmons didn’t want the entire story told.”
“Thank you, Mr. Constantine,” Arnold said. “No further questions.”
Judge Dermondy looked at his watch. “Very well. We are approaching noon, so I’m going to recess for our lunch break. We’ll reconvene at one fifteen this afternoon.”
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