Bum Deal

by Paul Levine

  “Thank you, Jake. Now what else can I help you with?”

  “How’s Ann Cavendish holding up?”

  “Fine. Last I saw her, she was drinking piña coladas at the hotel pool.”

  “You ran through the questions again?”

  “She’s fine, Jake. Trust me.”

  “Billy Burnside. Did he confirm for tomorrow morning?”

  “Aw, shit, see what I’m saying. Forgot to tell you. He’s been served, so I’m not gonna worry about him showing up, but he didn’t return my call. Two calls, really.”

  “Damn! Send a uniform over to the pro shop at the club—make sure he’s not getting cold feet.”

  “My guy’s on the way. No worries, Jake.”

  But a trial is nothing but worries. A murder trial has a thousand moving parts. Any one of them breaks, the whole damn thing can fall apart. There was a time when I could keep most everything in my head. Dates, times, witness stories, the thrust and parry of tactics, an entire closing argument.

  Like Barrios, I might have lost a step getting to first base. I just prayed I didn’t fall flat on my face rounding the bases.

  -54-

  Infusion Confusion

  After court, I headed straight to the hospital, where a physician who looked too young to shave jabbed me with a needle connected to an infusion bag of fluid, which began its drip-drip-drip into a vein.

  “What’s in the bag?” I asked.

  “A new cocktail,” the young doctor said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Lithium and a secret sauce of protein antibodies.”

  “Why the secret?”

  “Infusion X-7 is experimental. Not quite approved.”

  “Then what’s new? I’ve been taking lithium and protein antibodies.”

  “Maybe I should answer in terms you can understand.”

  Doogie Howser, MD, gave me such a condescending look I was tempted to pull out the needle and take an experimental, not-quite-approved swing at him. “Okay, try me, Doc.”

  “This is a different recipe. More gin, less vermouth.”

  “Pretty good, Doogie. Thanks. I take back all the shitty thoughts I had about you.”

  That night at home, I listened to Tom Russell singing the red-dirt, Tex-Mex classic “Tonight We Ride” as my headache returned with the ferocity of stampeding stallions. The song tells the tale of US General John Pershing’s horseback soldiers chasing Pancho Villa over the border into Mexico. If the troops caught the bandido, they promised to skin him alive and make chaps out of his hide. I developed my respect for the justice system from such keen observations of law and order in the West.

  I took one of the new pills Melissa had given me, and the pain subsided. An hour later, she came by and asked how it had gone at the hospital.

  “Some junior high school kid injected me with a bag of martinis,” I said.

  “Infusion X-7. We’re very hopeful about it.”

  I’d heard that before, many times, but I kept my mouth shut. Melissa was doing the best she could. All the doctors were trying.

  “Do you still have some marijuana around?” she asked.

  “Do I? Are the Kardashians annoying? I’ve got sativa, indica, hybrids, buds, oils, honey. Care to join me?”

  She skipped the usual lecture about not needing psychoactive THC. Instead, she said, “Let’s smoke some Mendocino Thunderhump, have sex, watch SportsCenter, and go to sleep.”

  “Are you real or did I invent you?” I asked.

  -55-

  A Tale of Two Calls

  At 9:05 a.m. the next day, still buzzing with weed but thankfully no headache, I presented my first witness, Gladys Estefan, a communications officer from the Miami Beach Police Department. She played two tapes for the jury. First was Calvert’s 9-1-1 call on March 7, roughly three months before Sofia disappeared.

  “My wife’s unconscious! Low pulse, abnormally slow respiration. I’m performing CPR, but I need paramedics with oxygen!”

  “You’ve taken hundreds of 9-1-1 calls?” I asked the witness.

  “Thousands,” she said.

  “Did Dr. Calvert sound truly alarmed?”

  An objectionable question on multiple grounds, but Solomon and Lord remained silent. Why wouldn’t they? Calvert’s voice was pinched, the pitch high, the words firing quickly, and his breaths audible. He sounded like a man scared to death.

  “Yes, his voice was consistent with that of many calls from people with stricken family members.”

  We played the 9-1-1 call from June 4, the day after Sofia disappeared.

  “This is Dr. Clark Calvert. My wife. Her name is Sofia. She left yesterday morning. From my house. Our house. And I’m not sure . . . uh . . . she hasn’t called me.”

  His voice halting. Seeming distracted somehow. No sense of urgency.

  “Officer Estefan, does that sound like a man who’s alarmed that his wife has disappeared?”

  “Objection!” Victoria bounced to her feet quickly for someone in heels. “Leading, calls for speculation, improper foundation, and ridiculously self-serving.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Gridley said. “Move along, Mr. Lassiter.”

  I didn’t care. I’d already gotten what I wanted, my question emphasizing what the jurors already heard. The first call, Calvert was afraid Sofia was dying. The second time, he already knew she was dead. At least, that’s the impression I wanted to convey.

  Next came the paramedics who showed up at the Calvert home in response to the first call. By the time they arrived, Sofia had regained consciousness but was groggy. They administered oxygen and stayed an hour until they were certain she didn’t need hospitalization. Calvert freely admitted he had rendered Sofia unconscious with a vascular hold, compressing the carotid artery.

  “‘Consensual sexual asphyxia,’ he called it,” one paramedic testified. “I’ve seen autoerotic-asphyxia deaths, so I warned him to refrain from the practice.”

  “And the defendant’s response?” I asked.

  “He said, ‘I have a medical degree from Harvard and multiple fellowships. You have what, a first-aid course from a community college and you work out of a firehouse?’ He was rather arrogant.”

  “That’s sounds like an understatement.”

  “Mis-ter Lassiter!” Judge Gridley said in his scolding voice. “You know better than to comment on the testimony. Next time you do it, I’m calling unsportsmanlike conduct and fifteen yards.”

  Meaning contempt and a $1,500 fine.

  “Understood, Your Honor,” I said humbly, and returned my attention to the witness. “What else did the defendant say?”

  “Dr. Calvert seemed to blame his wife for passing out.”

  “How so?”

  “He said his practice is to stop applying pressure to the neck as soon as Ms. Calvert achieves orgasm. But that night, she was too slow and therefore he kept squeezing. His exact words were, ‘Sofia was late to the party.’”

  Not wishing to write a check to the clerk of the court, I restrained myself from saying, “What a sensitive fellow.”

  “Did Mrs. Calvert say anything while you were in their home?” I asked.

  “Objection, hearsay!” Victoria got the words out even before she stood up.

  “Spousal-abuse exception,” I fired back.

  Judge Gridley removed his spectacles, breathed on the lenses, wiped them on his robe, and put them back on. “Overruled. The March incident fits into spousal-abuse territory. The witness may answer.”

  “At first, Mrs. Calvert wasn’t really able to talk. Then, quite hoarsely, she thanked us.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She exchanged words with her husband.”

  “Go on.”

  “Dr. Calvert told us he only performed the vascular hold at his wife’s request. He said, ‘She’s a sexual masochist.’ And Mrs. Calvert, quite hoarsely, said, ‘Fuck you, Clark. You’re a sexual sadist.’”

  I shot a glance toward the defense table. Solomon and Lord wore their po
ker faces, just as I’d taught them. If a witness stabs you in the eye, don’t even blink. Never let the jury see your pain.

  Next to them, Calvert wasn’t as stoic. His features had hardened into an unpleasant look. Cold and mean. I hoped the jurors were watching. Turning to my pals, I said cheerily, “Your witness, Counselors.”

  -56-

  Proving the Lie

  Solomon and Lord didn’t want to mess with my paramedic, who detested Clark Calvert within ninety seconds of meeting him.

  “No questions, Your Honor,” Solomon said.

  I called Detective Barrios to establish Calvert’s false story about searching for Sofia on the day she disappeared. An old pro, he looked straight at the jury and told them exactly what I had said in my opening statement. Calvert claimed he’d gone to Bal Harbour Shops and checked out David Yurman, Bulgari, Balenciaga, Fendi, Gucci, Jimmy Choo, and a couple more pricey stores. He checked the restaurant Carpaccio, where she liked to lunch with friends, usually having three glasses of chardonnay and two bites of tuna tartare.

  With Sofia nowhere to be found, Calvert told Barrios he’d driven to Haulover Beach, where she liked to sunbathe topless and occasionally nude. Then back down Collins Avenue to the Fontainebleau and its plethora of bars and restaurants. Still no Sofia.

  “Did the defendant tell you what time he started on his search on June 3?” I asked.

  “Between eleven and eleven thirty a.m.,” Barrios answered.

  “And when he returned?”

  “Between nine and nine thirty p.m.”

  “Roughly ten hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do to check out that story?”

  “I reviewed recordings from the security system at the Calvert home. There’s a camera that picks up cars leaving and entering the garage.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “The Ferrari registered to Clark Calvert left the garage at eleven seventeen a.m. and returned at nine-oh-seven p.m.”

  “Consistent with what the defendant told you.”

  “At that point, yes.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “What cops do. I checked out his story.”

  That made me smile. Barrios was an old-timer. Sergeant Joe Friday on Dragnet. Just change the location. “This is the city. Miami Beach, Florida. I work here. I’m a cop.”

  “How did you check out the defendant’s story?”

  “I went to every store he told me he visited. I showed clerks his photo and asked if he’d been there, looking for his wife.”

  “Had anyone?”

  “No one, which piqued my interest because several clerks knew Mrs. Calvert from her shopping trips. A few even knew Mr. Calvert, who sometimes accompanied her.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I checked toll records on various expressways, plus SunPass and turnpike records for June 3.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “SunPass records revealed that the defendant’s Ferrari entered the turnpike and the Golden Glades interchange, heading north at eleven fifty-four a.m.”

  And where did the car exit?”

  “There was no SunPass record after the entry. On that day or any other.”

  “What did you make of that, Detective?”

  “Either the transmitter suddenly failed, or, more likely, it was discarded by an occupant of the car who realized his movements could be tracked.”

  “Objection!” Solomon bounded out of his chair and crossed the well of the courtroom in two steps. Quick feet. He’d played some baseball at the University of Miami, where he couldn’t hit a lick, but he’d been a nifty base stealer. “Move to strike the answer as pure speculation, unsupported by any evidence.”

  “Granted in part, denied in part.” Judge Gridley divided the baby in half in Solomonic fashion. King Solomon, not lawyer Solomon. “The jury shall disregard that last portion of the answer concerning what the occupant allegedly realized.”

  “Were you able to determine where the Ferrari exited the turnpike?”

  Barrios summarized the rest. Turnpike cameras photograph license plates at every exit. He ran searches for the Ferrari’s license plate, and bingo. The Ferrari took Exit 67 in Pompano Beach at 12:51 p.m. I spent a couple minutes with housekeeping details, entering the SunPass records and turnpike photos into evidence.

  “Did you come into possession of other security videos showing the whereabouts of the defendant’s car on June 3?”

  “At twelve fifty-three p.m., the Ferrari entered the parking lot of a strip club called the Titty Trap on Hammondville Road just off Exit 67 of the turnpike. The car left the parking lot at one twenty-four p.m. Fourteen minutes later, at one thirty-eight p.m., it entered a secure area of Pompano Beach Airpark and was recorded leaving five hours and one minute later, at six thirty-nine p.m. Finally, at nine-oh-seven p.m., as I mentioned earlier, the Ferrari was back in Miami Beach, entering the garage at the Calvert home.”

  As Barrios spoke, a computer graphic appeared on a monitor in front of the jury box, creating a visual image of the timeline.

  “In your interviews with the defendant, did he ever disclose anything about this?”

  “To the contrary. He told me he was on Miami Beach all day and evening, looking for his wife.”

  “Whereas he was gone . . . ?”

  “Nine hours and fifty minutes, all told.”

  At the defense table, Calvert looked away from the witness stand, scowling. It was not a charming look.

  Barrios had set the table, proving Calvert lied about his whereabouts on the day Sofia disappeared. Now my job was to serve the meal.

  -57-

  The Facts, Ma’am

  I asked Detective Barrios to describe his interviews with personnel at Pompano Beach Airpark. He told the jury that Calvert was well known there, a frequent weekend pilot, flying a borrowed Bellanca Citabria, tail number N72ZZ. The detective identified tower records from June 3, and I set about preparing the meat and potatoes of our case.

  “What do the records reveal?”

  “The aircraft was cleared for takeoff at two sixteen p.m. on June 3 with Calvert at the controls. He took off, flew to points unknown, and touched down on his return at five forty-seven p.m.”

  Again, the video monitor in front of the jury added to the timeline. Every juror had to wonder: Where did he go, and what did he do for more than three hours on the day his wife disappeared?

  “Did he file a flight plan?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Did he tell anyone at the airport where he was going?”

  “No one I talked to.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “I only know the approximate distance he could have traveled. He would have been over the ocean a minute or two after takeoff, and assuming a cruising speed of 125 miles per hour for that aircraft, he could have easily reached Grand Bahama Island or even farther. Abaco or Nassau, if he had flown east, with more than sufficient time and fuel for the return.”

  “Lots of open water?”

  “Hundreds of miles in three directions.”

  “A lot of territory to drop a body out of an aircraft.”

  “Objection, leading,” Victoria said, never getting to her feet.

  “Sustained,” Judge Gridley said.

  I nodded toward the bench, then turned back to the witness stand. My point had been made.

  “During the ten hours the defendant had told you he was searching for Sofia on Miami Beach, in truth, he’d driven to Pompano Beach, spent half an hour at a strip club, driven to the airport, taken out his friend’s single-engine plane, flown three hours and thirty-one minutes, and returned to the airport. Is that correct?”

  It was a leading question, something forbidden on direct examination, but neither Solomon nor Lord objected. I shot a look at the defense table. Calvert was whispering to Victoria as she scribbled notes, nodding. She looked up and gave me a small smile I couldn’t decipher.
r />   “That’s exactly what happened,” Barrios said.

  With a sparkle in my eyes, a smile on my face, and a song in my heart—Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”—I turned to Victoria. “Your witness, Ms. Lord.”

  Victoria Lord stood, walked into the well of the courtroom, and placed herself at a respectful distance from the witness stand. She wore a charcoal-gray pin-striped lady business suit with a tailored jacket and a skirt that stopped a bit below the knees. A white silk blouse with a bow. She was tall, pretty, and professional. And, I knew only too well, lethal on cross. But over a couple of decades, George Barrios had fended off the best, including me on occasion.

  “Good afternoon, Detective,” she said pleasantly.

  “Counselor.” Barrios nodded to her. The exchange was pretty much the equivalent of boxers touching gloves before they start swinging.

  “Detective, what time did Dr. Calvert get on the turnpike for the drive back to Miami Beach?”

  “I don’t believe he took the turnpike.”

  “Because there are no photos showing Dr. Calvert’s Ferrari on either a southbound entrance or an exit that day, correct?”

  “Dr.” Calvert. Victoria would use her client’s title to imply honor and respect. I refer to him as the “defendant” to dehumanize the man. One of the many games lawyers play.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Barrios said.

  “So how did he get home?”

  “I assume he took I-95, where there are no cameras.”

  “You assume? Just as you assumed Dr. Calvert flew east over the ocean?”

  Detective Barrios licked his lips. “I probably shouldn’t have used the word assume,” he said. “I logically concluded that if your client didn’t take the turnpike, he took the expressway to get home. Likewise, I concluded he flew over the ocean if he intended to dispose of a body.”

  “But is that logical, Detective? Haven’t you simply assumed that disposing of the body was the purpose of the flight, and then you worked backward from that conclusion to form the belief Dr. Calvert flew over open water?”

  “That’s where the facts led me, Ms. Lord. Facts are what I deal with.”