by Ed Gaffney
She swallowed, inhaled deeply, twisted slowly to the left, took her best guess, and then sharply twisted back to the right.
And as if she had been breaking wall sconces with the ends of floor lamps that she was holding while her hands were tied behind her back forever, the glass light fixture smashed into a million pieces, crashing down onto the table and the floor below.
Her heart was pounding so loud that if the sound of the glass breaking hadn’t been so deafening, she was sure that the snoring man would have burst through the door to find out what the thumping was.
She was dead still, listening for the sounds of snoring.
But there was only silence.
September 2, 2004
Five days before the Babe Gardiner trial
ZACK WAS WAITING WITH TERRY AND SEAN IN the attorney/client room for their last meeting with Babe before the trial. They’d visited with Babe’s mother at the hospital, but she’d never heard of Roger Tedesco, so this would be their final shot at finding a connection between the fugitive and Babe.
Terry was pretty pissed at their client, and was now sitting at the table with a blank pad in front of him, clicking his pen and staring off into space, probably daydreaming about Detective Vera. But Sean was poring through the police reports in the case file, and was full of questions about evidence that he thought shouldn’t be allowed into the trial.
“If that detective—Morrison—tries to testify about what the convenience store clerk told him, isn’t that hearsay?”
Terry blew out an exasperated sigh and turned to face his nephew. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But don’t worry—we’re still screwed. There’s an exception to the hearsay doctrine.”
“It’s called the excited utterance or spontaneous exclamation rule,” Zack explained. “You can’t testify to something that another person said, unless what they said was said in the heat of the moment, with no time to make up a lie.”
Sean pushed his huge glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He was puzzled. “So who decides whether something was said spontaneously?”
“The judge,” Zack continued. “It’s usually allowed in if there’s enough evidence—”
“It’s usually allowed in if it’s the prosecution that wants it in,” Terry interrupted, clicking his pen furiously.
Terry was right. Over the past several years, the courts had distorted the definition of “excited utterance” pretty badly to make sure that damaging evidence got admitted against defendants.
“Technically, the court is supposed to allow the evidence in only if the person who made the statement is really upset,” Zack said. “So they look for whether the person was nervous, or frightened—you know, were they stammering, were their hands shaking—that kind of thing.”
“Gee, that’s funny,” Terry said in mock surprise. “I seem to remember something that sounded like that in Detective Morrison’s police report. Why don’t you read it to us, Sean?”
The young man flipped over a couple of pages in the file and began to read. “‘The victim was upset. He seemed nervous and scared. His hands were shaking as he described the incident to me.’”
Terry shook his head. “‘Upset,’ ‘nervous,’ ‘scared,’ ‘hands shaking.’ Amazing coincidence, isn’t it?”
Terry’s skepticism was well grounded. Morrison was slick. He knew the evidentiary rule. He’d made sure that his report left no doubt that the clerk’s statements would be admissible.
Sean still looked confused. “I’m not sure I understand….”
Just then, Babe entered the room. He sat down next to Zack. Even for Babe, he didn’t look very good. He seemed unusually pale. “We’re discussing an evidentiary rule that might come up in your trial, Babe.” Except for a slight nod, there was no response.
Zack turned to Sean. “Think of it as the ‘Oh my God!’ exception. If you can add the phrase ‘Oh my God!’ to the beginning of the statement and have it make sense, then it will probably be admissible at trial.”
Babe opened his folder and started to doodle.
“‘Fuck me!’ works, too,” Terry noted, “instead of ‘Oh my God!’” He looked from Sean to Zack, but no one responded. “I’m just saying.”
Babe had begun work on an airplane in the margin of a disciplinary report. It looked like he was sweating. Zack focused again on Sean. “For example, if someone wanted to testify that they heard another person shout, ‘That car just ran a red light!’ the statement would be admissible, because if you put ‘Oh my God!’ in front of it, it really wouldn’t change the meaning or spirit of the statement.”
“So, ‘I just shot somebody!’ would work, but ‘I’m going to the store’ wouldn’t,” Sean said.
Babe looked up from his doodling. He looked worse than when he first came in.
“Exactly,” Terry replied. “Because ‘Fuck me! I’m going to the store’ doesn’t make any sense. But ‘Fuck me! I just shot somebody!’ makes total sense.”
Babe stood up and closed his folder. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, heading for the door, “but I think I’m going to throw up.” He opened the door and called out to the guard. “Hey, Red, I’ve got to get back to the unit because I’m sick.” And with that, he left the three of them alone in the conference room.
There was a moment of silence as Terry watched the door close behind their client. Then he turned back to Sean and Zack and said, “So, I don’t know about you, but now I’m ready for the trial.”
But Zack didn’t bother to respond. He had just figured out how Babe was connected to Roger Tedesco.
SEVENTEEN
Dear Bernie,
I know how much Sharon reads to you every day, so I won’t make this too long so she can save her voice (Hi Sharon!), but I wanted to let you know that I met a detective out here that I think you’d like.
At least I think so.
His name is John Morrison, and he’s a very good cop. Just like you, he had this huge reputation when I joined the squad, which was pretty intimidating, but he seems really down-to-earth, which is another thing that reminded me of you.
But then, thanks to a stupid assignment, I had to take his statement in an investigation into an excessive force charge made by this wife-beater.
Anyway, that whole thing blew over (thank goodness!), so now things are basically back to normal. It’s still a little strange out here, but I think I’m getting used to it. Trying to, anyway.
Take care. I’ll write again soon.
Vera
P.S. I found a softball team. Finally.
Hey Sharon,
This part of the e-mail is just for you.
That cop I was telling you about before asked me out. He seems nice enough, but my instinct tells me there’s a little more to him than nice guy/good detective. After I get to know him better I’ll know whether that’s a good thing.
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’m actually seeing somebody—or at least starting to see somebody—and he seems nice. I’ll write soon to tell you how it’s going.
And I hope you and Bernie are doing well. The bedsores sound just awful. Bernie’s tough, but God!
I’m thinking of you both all the time.
Love, Vera
(E-mail sent 08/16/04 from Vera Demopolous [[email protected]]
to Sharon Washman [[email protected]], Exhibit 16,
Commonwealth v. Morrison)
September 3, 2004
Four days before the Babe Gardiner trial
ELMO DIDN’T PARTICULARLY LIKE WALLY, BUT Wally had already proven that he could get things done. And Elmo needed some important things done.
Elmo had picked up the ex-con in the parking lot at Biggie’s, and they were driving around, sharing a bottle of Jack and a case.
“Did you handle the private investigator?” Elmo asked. “I need him sniffing around this thing like a hole in the head.”
Wally finished off a can of Bud and opened another. “I don’t know what the big deal is with him, but it’s y
our money.” He took a swallow from the can. “I threw a shot into his window the other day. And there’s a new message on his answering machine. I told him to get off the case, or the next bullet would hit somebody.”
This whole thing was taking too long. If they’d just get the trial over with, things could go back to normal. But the courts were dragging their asses. The more time that passed before the trial, the bigger the chance somebody would find out something Elmo didn’t want them to find out.
“What about the mother?” Wally asked. “She’s in the hospital now. You still want to do something with her?”
Elmo pulled up to a red light, took a swig of Jack, and chased it with a swallow of beer. “Yeah, but we gotta wait until she gets home.” The light turned green and he drove on. “You checked her out before, right? She’s the one that takes walks at night.”
“She’s the one.”
Elmo nodded. “Okay. The trial’s supposed to start in a couple of days. If she’s home from the hospital before then, we gotta go after her. We might need to use my van.”
“Whatever, man.” Wally took a long pull from the bottle of whiskey. “You know where to find me.”
MARIA WAS JUST ABOUT TO PUT A FORKFUL OF scrambled eggs into her mouth, when Anthony blurted out, “I’m starting to wonder whether it’s a good idea for you to keep working for me.”
And just like that, her appetite disappeared.
They were in a diner, having breakfast. The office window was going to take a few days to repair, so they were working mostly on the road, which was probably what they would have been doing anyway, because there was so little time to find Roger Tedesco. Maria and Anthony were at it full-time, calling every Tedesco in the local phone books, and driving all over the place, running down hopeless leads.
“Um, have I been doing something wrong?” Maria asked. She couldn’t believe that Anthony was going to fire her, especially after that conversation they had a few months ago. She had been working as hard as ever. In fact, everything seemed to be going so well.
Except, of course, when they were getting shot at.
Anthony took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “No, it’s got nothing to do with you. I just don’t know if this job is safe enough. That guy on the phone was basically threatening to shoot one of us if we stayed on the case. I’m not sure that I’m going to be able to protect you. We called the cops, but I really don’t know what they can do.”
The night of the shooting, they had spent a long time talking to a female detective with a long Greek name—Demopoli, or something like that—who was really nice, but also really blunt with them.
In situations like this, they could increase police patrols in the neighborhood, but there was no way they could ensure that Anthony or Maria wouldn’t be followed, or attacked.
For some reason, that information scared Maria more than anything that had happened over the past crazy months. It didn’t matter, though. She had already made up her mind.
There was no job Maria could imagine that was as good for her and for her family as this one. Anthony was extremely flexible about her schedule. He understood that there were times when Maria needed to take her mother to the doctor or go to some school meeting for Felix. And Anthony was always respectful to Maria, treating her like an equal in almost every aspect of their work.
And the job paid almost twice as much as any other that Maria was qualified for.
She took a drink of water and then put the glass down. “This is probably crazy,” she said, “but I have to ask anyway.” Why couldn’t things just happen like they did on TV sitcoms? Why did everything have to be such a drama?
“I can’t lose this job—” she began, only to have Anthony break in.
“Maria, there are lots of other jobs out there—”
“Not like this one, Anthony. Wait,” she said, taking another sip of water and holding her hand up to prevent him from interrupting her again. “You know my situation,” she said, putting the glass down. “My mother is sick with I don’t know what, and my little brother is going to be eleven next month. I’m the only thing they have. And I know there are other jobs out there, but none like this one. Believe me. I’ve looked.”
“I bet you have,” Anthony said.
“Anyway, I decided that I want to keep working for you, even if there is some crazy person out there who wants to shoot me. Or you. But if I die, then my family…” Her voice broke, and she took another sip of water. Why did everything always have to be so hard? She took a shaky breath and let it out slowly. “If I die,” she began again, “then my family will have nothing. So I was wondering if you thought, instead of firing me, whether it would be possible for you to buy life insurance for me.”
Anthony looked surprised. He probably thought she was trying to scam him.
“I would have gotten it myself—” she began to explain, but he cut her off.
“You don’t have life insurance?” he asked, incredulous. “Maria. That’s crazy.”
She looked at him for a moment, shook her head and laughed softly, although nothing was funny. “You really have no idea, do you?”
He just sat there for a second. “I guess not,” he said. “Tell me.”
She nodded. “Even after we moved to the new apartment, when my mother was working, we had enough money coming in to pay the bills and still put away a little every month for my brother Felix’s college account. It got all the way up to seven hundred dollars.” She laughed again. “At the rate we were going, when he started school, he’d be able to afford to buy his books. And maybe lunch for about three weeks.”
“You know there’s financial aid available at most schools, right?”
“Oh yes, I know all about financial aid. But ever since Mama got sick and stopped working, we can barely afford to pay the electric bill. Forget about saving for college. And life insurance? I called yesterday, when I first thought of this, and they told me that I could get a half million dollars of insurance for about thirty dollars per month. That was more than we were saving every month when things were going well. Right now, thirty dollars a month is ridiculous.”
“But life insurance isn’t going to make this job any safer, at least right now.”
There was a part of Maria—a small part, but it was growing—that not only understood it but resented it. There was something really wrong about the fact that she needed to risk her life for her family’s welfare. But there was absolutely no way she was going to let her mother and her brother down. They were not moving back into the old neighborhood. And Felix was not going to find a life on the streets.
“I know,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “But that’s the way it is. If I have to be brave to keep my job, it’s worth it. I mean as long as if something happens to me, my family is going to be taken care of.”
Anthony looked at her for a long time before saying anything. “You have health insurance?”
“We’re covered under my mother’s plan. She’s in the teachers’ union.”
He nodded. “Okay. We’ll get you life insurance. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you keep looking for another job. I appreciate how much you’re willing to sacrifice to keep working for me, but if something happens to you, life insurance isn’t going to begin to replace what your family will have lost.”
Before Maria could answer, Anthony’s phone rang. It was Babe Gardiner’s lawyers. They had a lead on Roger Tedesco.
SO WHAT IF VERA HAD BEEN KEPT UP ALL LAST night by bad dreams again? Being out on a date at a nice restaurant with a good-looking man was just the kind of change of pace she needed.
If the good-looking man would ever get off the phone and come finish his steak.
This last version of Vera’s nightmare was the worst yet. Because it was exactly how she imagined the real catastrophe had happened.
In the dream, she had been assigned to work with Bernie for the entire day. Tha
t was ridiculous, of course, but that’s the way dreams worked. In reality, Vera was on the other side of the continent when everything went bad.
So when the call came in requesting backup in her dream, Vera was standing right there with Bernie in the station house. The dispatcher said the words “Possible Code Red,” and Bernie was out the door and into the parking lot so fast Vera almost didn’t make it into the cruiser before he drove off.
Again, like in every version of the nightmare, as they were driving toward Bernie’s terrible fate, he calmly invited Vera to join him for dinner that night with Sharon and the girls. And then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for him, he pulled up alongside the squad car already parked at the end of the driveway of the home on the outskirts of town and jumped out, drawing his weapon as he ran across the front of the property to join his fellow cops at the doorway to the house.
But he didn’t even make it halfway. The first bullet hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around, so that when the second one hit him, it got him right at the top of the neck, at the base of the skull. Bernie went down instantaneously. Blood was everywhere.
A busboy startled Vera as he poured some more water into her glass. She forced herself back to the present. She had to leave Alaska behind. She was supposed to be having a nice dinner out.
Unlike most people she knew, Vera kind of liked first dates. She genuinely enjoyed getting to know people. And as she glanced across the Italian restaurant and stole a quick look at John Morrison as he returned from the lobby outside the men’s room, well, she had to admit that it really didn’t hurt that the particular person she was getting to know happened to have such a nice smile.
Although tonight, for some reason, the smile seemed to be just a little bit forced. Maybe John was feeling awkward. It was definitely strange getting together outside of the squad.
Vera took another bite of her salad with grilled chicken. It was a boring dinner, she knew, but she had never been to this restaurant, and she liked playing it safe with new places. No need to add any extra excitement to a first date by having some silly food issue.