Blind Faith

by Joe McGinniss

  “Yes.”

  “Did you contact any investigators in North Jersey, Essex or Hudson County?”

  “No.”

  “To compare rates?”

  “No.”

  “Page fifteen. ‘This was a guy that was recommended by this guy Andrew Myers, was supposed to be a very good investigator.’ Before you sent twenty-five hundred dollars sight unseen to Louisiana, sir, did you make any inquiry of, let’s say, the Shreveport Police Department to see if this guy was legitimate? Did you do that?”

  “No.”

  “Did you contact the Better Business Bureau in Shreveport to see if he was bona fide? Did you do that?”

  “No. I relied on Andrew Myers.”

  “And so you’re telling this jury that sight unseen, on June thirteenth, 1984, you sent down twenty-five hundred dollars to a man that you spoke with over the telephone, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “When you went to the Western Union office on June thirteenth, you paid cash for the money order, did you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have the receipt?”

  “No.”

  “Well, sir, you’ve been a businessman for how long?”

  “About seventeen years.”

  “And as a matter of fact, you took nine or eleven extra courses to become a Certified Life Underwriter, isn’t that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You expected, did you not, that sometime in the future you would receive a bill from this investigator. Is that a fair statement?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it didn’t dawn on you, as a businessman, as a CLU, with these extra college courses, ‘Perhaps I should keep this receipt just in case there’s some question when he gets to the bottom line on his final bill.’ That never dawned on you?”

  “The issue was twenty-five hundred dollars,” Rob said, “and that was to be it. There was never any mention of any additional fee or required money, just twenty-five hundred dollars, come up once. That was it.”

  “As of June twenty-fifth,” Kelly said, “the date of the second money order, had this investigator provided you with any written reports as to the work he had done?”

  “No.”

  “Had he provided you with any photographs as to the work he had done?”

  “No.”

  “Had he provided you with any oral reports as to the work he had done?”

  “Other than the fact that he told me—”

  “He wanted more money,” Kelly said.

  “That he hadn’t completed the investigation and wanted more money. But that was through Andy Myers, anyway.”

  “As of June twenty-fifth, had he provided you with any oral reports?”

  “No.”

  “As to the work he had done?”

  “No.”

  “And so, on June twenty-fifth, after sending him twenty-five hundred dollars, you now sent him three thousand more. Correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Where’s that receipt?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  In the front row of spectators, as Tessie McBride glared furiously at Kevin Kelly, Chris Marshall sat with his head in his hands. He envied Roby, back in school, probably sitting in class, not hearing this. On the other hand, he was glad, for Roby’s sake, that Roby was not here.

  “Did you ever tell Gene Leahy that you wired money to Louisiana to pay off a bet? Yes or no.”

  “I may have.”

  “Well, did you or didn’t you?”

  “I’m not sure. Things were very confused.”

  “Confused?”

  “My wife had just been killed. Yes, I was confused.”

  “On the tape,” Kelly said, “you mention that this guy who was ‘supposed to be a very good investigator’ came up here twice. June the eighteenth, you agree with that date?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he came up the night Maria was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nowhere on this tape do you mention that July nineteenth–twentieth visit of Ferlin L’Heureux. Do you, sir?”

  “No.”

  “And that’s because when you made this tape on September twenty-seventh, if you were to have put in that second meeting in July, it would not have been in accordance with Ferlin L’Heureux’s phony scenario that he gave Gary Hamilton, isn’t that a fair statement?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “You do agree, do you not, that the day before you checked into the Best Western and made this farewell tape, you spoke with Gary Hamilton on the telephone. Isn’t that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And not only did you talk to Gary Hamilton on the twenty-sixth of September, you spoke with him for forty-five minutes. Isn’t that correct?”

  “No, I didn’t speak to him for forty-five minutes.”

  “Well, how long did you talk to him? I wasn’t there. How long?”

  “Approximately thirty-five minutes.”

  Kelly, who had been standing directly in front of Rob, now turned and walked back toward his table, shaking his head. Just once, he looked back over his shoulder as he walked. Now, standing as far from Marshall as he could get, he shouted his next questions across the courtroom.

  “And during that telephone conversation, isn’t it a fact that Gary Hamilton read to you over the telephone Ferlin L’Heureux’s phony scenario that set forth his meeting with you on two occasions, in June and September? Isn’t that a fact?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “And so, sir, the next day you check into the Best Western and you, in effect, regurgitate everything that Hamilton gave you, so that when the police found the tape and when L’Heureux was arrested, your stories would jibe. They would apologize and you and Felice would ride off into the sunset. Making a quick stop to pick up the insurance, of course.”

  Carl Seely spoke next. “That sounds like a summation to the jury rather than a question, quite frankly.”

  “I’ll withdraw it,” Kelly said. But now he strode quickly forward across the courtroom until he was once again directly in front of Rob Marshall. He spoke quickly.

  “When you made this tape about meeting with Ferlin L’Heureux on two occasions, June and September, you lied, didn’t you? You never talked about the July twentieth meeting.”

  “Mr. Kelly,” Rob said, “I would say that that evening was probably one of the foremost traumatic moments in my life, and I can only tell you that I was—I overlooked it. It was not intentional.”

  Kelly walked back to his table. Chris Marshall stared at him in fascinated horror. Every time he turned another page on his yellow pad, Chris thought, it was as if he were reloading a weapon. And Chris didn’t like to think about weapons.

  “You hired an investigator, Gary Hamilton, to go down to Louisiana, correct?”

  “Indirectly. Mr. Seely advanced whatever expenses would be incurred.”

  “Which you realized you had to pay for eventually.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you say, ‘Wait a minute, why am I sending an investigator to Louisiana? I’m a taxpayer. There’s police officers in my town. There’s seven of them investigating this crime right now.’ Did you ever say that? Did you ever say that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, would you explain to me, sir, what were you trying to do: impress the country club by beating the police to it and solving this crime yourself?”

  And with no more scorn can a man imbue any two words in the English language than did Kevin Kelly when he uttered the words “country club.”

  “Is that what you were trying to do?” he said.

  “No,” was all that Rob Marshall could say.

  “And when you checked into that Best Western, isn’t it a fact that all you did was stir some mixture, according to you, with your finger, and put it in your mouth, and then you fell asleep? Is that what happened?”

  “I had done that to determine wh
ether or not I could swallow it. Yes, that’s what I did.”

  “And you fell asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never took any of those pills?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What, were you tired from all your dictation?”

  From there, Kelly covered Rob’s meeting with Andrew Myers, extracting from him the statement that John Riccio’s wife had introduced Myers to both Rob and Maria. He ridiculed Rob’s statement that the subsequent calls to Myers, many of which were one minute or less in duration, had largely to do with trying to sell the hardware clerk an IRA plan.

  “I never met an insurance man that couldn’t talk for forty-five minutes. And that’s before he even opens up his brochures,” Kelly said.

  “That’s a question?” Nathan Baird said. “I think I’ve been advised against making statements and I wonder if it applies to the prosecutor as well?”

  “Yes, it certainly does,” Judge Greenberg said dryly. “That was a statement and it should be disregarded.” But most members of the jury had already laughed.

  “Oh, look,” Kelly said, pointing to a chart of the Louisiana phone calls he had placed on an easel. “On June twenty-fifth here’s two calls, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. One’s for four minutes and one’s for two. Were you having a sale on IRAs that day?”

  “What I believe—if my memory serves me correctly, I had to hold and wait for Andy to come to the telephone. He was busy with a customer or something. He couldn’t get to the phone right away.”

  “How about July third? That was a real busy day. Here you have a call from your office to the hardware store at 10:04 A.M. Here’s another one, from the hardware store to you at 9:07. Did you talk business?”

  “The first call, I wasn’t in my office, so he maybe left a message for me to call back when I got in, and at 10:04 when I got to the office I called him.”

  “Well, on September third, we have three phone calls, 9 A.M., 9:02, and then one more in the evening. Things must really be hopping on September third.”

  “I object,” Seely said.

  “The comment will be stricken and disregarded. As I said before, counsel should not make comments. Only ask questions.”

  “On September fifth,” Kelly said, “the day before the last day of Maria’s life, there’s three telephone calls.”

  “Well—”

  “Were you close to making a sale on an IRA that day?”

  It went on that way all morning, exposing to ridicule every detail of Rob Marshall’s story and leaving the man himself without the slightest trace of credibility.

  But there might still have been a whiff of injured dignity, and Kelly wanted to be sure that he obliterated that as well, leaving no traces, so that when the time for deliberation came, it would not be possible for even a single juror to sympathize with Rob Marshall on any level.

  He started softly, like the most dangerous snows. “In your tape, sir, you say, ‘It didn’t matter. She wanted to start over. It didn’t matter. She loved me, she would forget everything. And when I think about that now, how incredible she was, how much she loved me, and how foolish I was to walk away from her, I miss her so. And as each day goes by, it gets worse and worse.’ You recall saying those words on this tape?”

  “Yes.”

  “This woman, Maria Marshall, had documented evidence for eight months before her murder that you were having an affair with another woman. You agree with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it didn’t matter to her, did it? She still loved you. Do you agree with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “She still kept the house clean, took care of the kids, made your meals, and slept with you. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “She wanted to start over, to forget everything. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘How incredible she was,’ to use your words. She got up every morning early, dressed and showered, to feed both kids, is that correct, before they went to school?”

  “Yes.”

  “She didn’t want a divorce, isn’t that a fact?”

  “We never talked about divorce.”

  “‘I miss her so,’—page three—‘and as each day goes by it gets worse and worse.’”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “‘I miss her so.’” Kelly repeated, his voice almost a whisper. Then he placed the transcript of Rob’s taped message on his table. He took off his glasses, folded them, and put them inside the breast pocket of his suit coat.

  “Isn’t it a fact,” he suddenly shouted, “from the day she died, for weeks and weeks and weeks to follow, all you talked about to your friends was Felice, Felice, Felice, and never once mentioned the fact that you loved your wife, you missed your wife, or you wanted to see the people responsible for her death apprehended? Isn’t that a fact?”

  “That’s not true,” Rob said, his lips scarcely moving.

  “You agree with me that Felice, within a few days after Maria’s death, was at your side? Do you agree with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, after your wife’s murder and the rumors that you mentioned in the tape, David Rosenberg kicked Felice out of the house, didn’t he, sir?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And you agree with me that there came a point in time, about September twenty-fifth, where she walked away from you and left?”

  “Yes.”

  “And isn’t it a fact the reason why she did that is because she caught you lying to her? Isn’t that a fact?”

  “I don’t know what her total motives were.”

  “Prior to that date, you both had a relationship based on honesty and trust, isn’t that a fact?”

  “Yes.”

  “You left a tape-recorded message to Felice after she left you. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you still wrote her letters, did you not, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Asking her to come back to you. Isn’t that correct?”

  “The motive was to have her come back, yes. I don’t believe I specifically asked her to, though.”

  “You left tape-recorded messages on her tape machine to get in touch with you, did you not, sir?”

  “I may have.”

  “And all of these messages and tapes that were sent to her were all done in an effort to get her back because you missed her and not Maria Marshall. Isn’t that a fact?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Didn’t you tell her on a tape, October seventeenth, that you could not accept her discarding her relationship with you? Didn’t you say that on a tape?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Didn’t you tell her that nothing was important except your love for her? Didn’t you tell her that on a tape on October seventeenth?”

  “Possibly.”

  “‘There’s a hole in my life since you left me.’ Didn’t you tell her that on that tape, sir?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You also told her on that tape that the reason you lied to her was because you were in, quote, ‘a corner.’ Didn’t you say that to her on that tape?”

  “I don’t remember saying that.”

  “Well,” Kelly said, “do you want me to play the tape?”

  Carl Seely spoke up. “We’ll stipulate to the contents of the tape,” he said. “It’s no secret.”

  “Are you lying now,” Kelly said, “because you are, quote, ‘in a corner’?”

  “No.”

  “On that same tape you also were critical of her, telling her, quote, ‘You could have been a hero, a goddamned hero, if you stuck by me.’ Didn’t you say that on that tape?”

  “If you’re stipulating that that’s what was on there. It’s been a year and a half. Possibly I said it.”

  Kelly’s voice now dropped to a near-whisper again. “Yet you would have us believe, sir, that you missed your wife and you loved her.�
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  “Terribly,” Rob said, eyes downcast.

  “Hold up your left hand!” Kelly barked.

  Rob did, instinctively, as if, left-handed, he were pledging allegiance to the flag.

  Kelly walked toward him, pointing. “Is that the wedding ring that Maria gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who told you to wear that ring to court, Seely or Hamilton?”

  “Your Honor,” said Seely, “that is—”

  “I’ll sustain the objection,” Judge Greenberg said.

  As if paralyzed, Rob was still holding his left hand in the air.

  “Is that ring,” Kelly said, softly again, “a reflection of just how much you love and miss Maria?”

  “Yes, it is,” Rob said, still with his hand in the air.

  “Then can you explain to me, sir, why her ashes are still in a brown cardboard box in a desk drawer at the funeral home?”

  The courtroom was utterly silent. Rob looked as if he’d been slapped in the face. Ever so slowly, and much too late, he lowered his left hand until the wedding ring was out of sight.

  Then Seely objected. And Judge Greenberg called counsel to the bench.

  “Judge,” Seely began, “there are a litany of cases where it’s very clear that if a prosecutor tries with inflammatory statements or tries to unduly inflame the jury, and I suggest this is what’s being done here—”

  “The relevance,” Kelly interrupted, “is that he’s told this jury several times that he misses his wife, he loves his wife so terribly, and I think that’s proper impeachment.”

  “Ashes in a box?” Seely said.

  “He loves her so much he never even bothered to take her ashes,” Kelly said.

  “He’s also been in jail for over a year,” Seely said.

  “He’s been out. He wasn’t arrested until December. And I think it’s highly relevant.”

  “Well, I can conceive that it has relevance,” Judge Greenberg said. “I mean, the man has testified as to his undying love for his wife. And under these circumstances it seems to me his treatment of the remains is something that might be logically relevant.”

  “Judge,” said Nathan Baird, “you just can’t bully this poor man and beat the hell out of his—”

  “That’s not true,” Kelly interrupted. “It’s my turn.”

  “Well,” the judge said, “in his direct the witness has testified to undying love, it’s in the record. And it might be reasonable to assume that if one had feelings about a person like that, he would want to make some arrangement to either claim ashes or have them deposited in the normal way. I see nothing wrong with this, I don’t find there’s any prejudicial impact. I’ll overrule the objection.”