“But Heckett has the motive and was at the crime scene and had the weapon in his possession. No jury can overlook all that.”
They both looked thoughtful.
“It could be enough,” Eleanor Rozwell suggested. “We got the indictment. We can’t just walk off or postpone forever, hoping Lieutenant Blake will eventually find a way to tie him to the killer, who we haven’t established was at the crime scene, anyway.”
The DA nodded. “Sorry about this. We thought it was a good first case for you, Michele.”
“I wasn’t looking for a milk run. I’ll win the guilty verdict,” she said, perhaps too confidently. Was that arrogant?
They talked a little about the defendant’s counselor, John Milton, but she didn’t get the feeling that they thought he was overwhelming, despite his experience and record. Apparently, Warner Murphy had been seriously considering a plea deal. There were some informal, off-the-record chats. Milton, however, was sending no such signals. They would have to go to battle.
At this point in the trial, she already had done what all her associates considered an excellent opening, laying out her case and methodically establishing Heckett’s motive through the testimony of both of Strumfield’s partners, the financial documents, and the Cayman Islands bank statements. She had brought in the real estate agent who had arranged for the rental in Hong Kong, but she was holding back on Cisley Strumfield. That was her pièce de résistance, and by now, she was showman enough to know when to play the best cards in this legal drama.
Milton had done little to challenge any of it so far, and in fact, he was willing to stipulate for the record that Heckett did not deny shifting funds for some personal reasons. She corrected him for the record by stating that it wasn’t simply shifting funds. “It was embezzlement.”
Milton’s comeback was a smile, a nod, and replying, “For which he is not being tried today.” The implication was that it was all he should be tried for at maximum. “And if he were, we would be ready to show that he wasn’t underhanded about it.”
She was tempted to respond, but one look at the judge’s face told her that the exchange was enough.
She moved on to the weapon found in Heckett’s apartment, calling on forensics to testify that it was the weapon used in the Strumfield murder. She then called up Matthew Blake to describe where they had found the pistol and Heckett’s reaction to the discovery.
When Blake took the stand, she couldn’t help but take note of the way Milton’s face changed. His impish, almost joyful look dissipated and was replaced with an expression of dead seriousness. He looked angry, in fact.
“We found it under towels in the bathroom closet of the master bedroom in his home during the first fifteen minutes of our search, and when he was confronted with the news, he said he knew nothing about it and had never seen it until then. He accused us of planting evidence and then refused to say any more,” Blake testified.
“Were Mr. Heckett’s fingerprints on the gun?”
“No, but it was obviously wiped clean. There were no fingerprints on it. Not even dust,” Blake said, glancing at Heckett.
“Were you able to trace the weapon to any previous owner?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Milton said. “It has not been established that my client was the current owner or ever the owner of the pistol in question at the time of this discovery.”
“Objection sustained. You’ll have to prove more than possession to establish ownership, Ms. Armstrong,” the judge said.
“Were there any serial numbers on the pistol, Lieutenant?” she asked quickly. It was always wise to move instantly off an objection sustained against you. You didn’t want the jury thinking about it at all, if possible. Not recognizing the judge’s reprimand made it seem insignificant, anyway. She had learned of all this in law school from Professor Lasky, who was considered a jury expert and was employed often by attorneys to help choose juries. None of it had to do with right or wrong. All of it had to do with changing the odds to make winning more possible.
“There were, but they had been filed off.”
“So we can conclude that there was an illegal weapon in Mr. Heckett’s possession and that weapon was used to kill Mr. Strumfield?”
“All true, yes,” Blake said.
“When you confronted him with the pistol, what was his explanation?”
“He didn’t know how it had gotten there.”
“Under towels in his bathroom?”
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
“Was there any evidence showing that someone had broken into his apartment to leave a pistol under towels in his bathroom?” she asked, nearly smiling as she spoke.
“None.”
“Did you ask him where he was the night Mr. Strumfield was murdered?”
“We did. He claimed he had a headache and was home all night. There were no calls, no visitors, and therefore no confirmation.”
“Did Mr. Heckett claim to have had visitors in his home subsequent to the murder of Mr. Strumfield?”
“He made no such claim.”
“Did he claim to have had maid service subsequent to Mr. Strumfield’s murder?”
“According to his own record, the maid would not have been there, and he did not claim she was. He then said he would not answer any more questions without an attorney.”
“How did he react to the news of his supposedly best friend and partner being shot to death?”
“He looked . . . pensive. Like someone contemplating what a terrible sin he had committed.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Milton said, rising. “That’s reaching. Lieutenant Blake has not been trained as a forensic psychologist. I don’t think he’s qualified to make such a judgement.”
“I’m only ascertaining the opinion of a seasoned police investigator who has confronted many villains in his life, Your Honor. Whether he is right or not the jury will determine.”
“Exactly. The jury makes that determination and not your witness. Objection sustained,” the judge said.
Michele felt the pang of another reprimand but did her best not to look disappointed. Just be all business, she chanted to herself. “Did Mr. Heckett say anything to indicate that he was sad, upset?”
“Just one ‘Oh, my God,’ I believe.”
“Nothing else?” she asked, and looked at the jury to show them her shock. “Didn’t he inquire after Mrs. Strumfield? Whether or not she had been injured, too, or how she was doing? Anything?”
“Not a word. He fell into his ‘I’ll talk only through my lawyer’ mode. Immediately after that.”
“In your experience, is this the behavior of an innocent man?”
“Objection!” Milton cried.
“Withdrawn,” Michele said. “No further questions for this witness, Your Honor.” She nodded at Milton and walked to her table.
Obviously, he wasn’t going to waste time before cross-examining this witness. He practically flew out of his chair. Finally, Milton became aggressive in his cross-examination. Michele had been wondering if he wasn’t taking it all too lightly and losing before he had even begun. She couldn’t help feeling that he was lulling her into overconfidence, however.
As soon as he began, it was clear to those watching, especially the jury, that there was something different about the way Milton addressed Blake from the way he had addressed any other witness. There was a sharp, angry tone in his voice. His relaxed posture was gone. He lost that impish smile he had been carrying throughout the trial up to this point and looked more like a soldier on guard duty reacting to a threat. Anyone watching couldn’t help wondering if the two hadn’t crossed paths a few times and both come away upset, if not enraged. They would assume that Milton had done courtroom battle with this detective at least once. He homed in on Blake, ready to pick on his words or his intonation.
“Didn’t your forensics report include an examination of the remaining bullets?”
“It did.”
“And were Mr. Heckett�
��s prints on them?”
“No. They were wiped clean of prints, just as the gun was.”
“Since Ms. Armstrong has made a point of your being an experienced investigator, Lieutenant, as an experienced investigator who has carried out many warranted searches, would you consider the hiding place for this pistol, under towels in a bathroom, very sophisticated?”
“Not very.”
“Not the act of a coldhearted killer?”
“I wouldn’t come to that conclusion.”
“You just told us that whoever used this gun was careful enough to wipe it clean and to wipe all the bullets clean and not leave any new fingerprints. Why take so much care with that and then do something so amateurish with that weapon? Hide it under towels in his own bathroom?”
“Killers aren’t perfect,” Blake said. He fixed his eyes right back at Milton.
Now Milton offered his wry smile. “Neither are police detectives, Lieutenant. But that’s why the accused have a right to a defense. You weren’t on his heels, were you? He had plenty of time to get rid of the pistol, didn’t he?” he followed quickly.
“He had time, of course. He could have tossed it on the way home.”
“Why didn’t he? Despite your implication about the lack of fingerprints on the weapon and the bullets, Lester Heckett’s not a career criminal, Lieutenant. He doesn’t rob banks, mug people. He has no criminal record, correct?”
Blake glanced at Michele. This was the time to suggest that there was a hired killer, but without clear proof, he was naturally hesitant. They had talked about it before trial, and he could see that she had not changed her mind.
“He robbed his own company,” Blake said instead.
“As we’ve said, that’s yet to be determined. In any case, he replaced the funds, did he not?”
“When he was caught having stolen them.”
“I prefer ‘borrowed with permission,’ which we’ll establish later, if necessary.”
Michele’s eyebrows went up. If necessary? Why wouldn’t that be necessary for the defense? What does he have up his sleeve? she wondered.
She looked back at the audience. Aunt Eve had just arrived and had taken a seat. This was the first day she had attended. She had entered quietly, but Michele felt her presence. They smiled at each other, but then Aunt Eve looked intense, even a little upset, when she focused on Milton.
And then something odd happened. Milton paused as though he was trying to understand a thought or a feeling, paused long enough to alert the judge, who wasn’t as gentle this time.
“Mr. Milton? Are you finished with the witness? We have a trial to complete.”
Milton turned, looked back toward Aunt Eve, and said, “Hardly finished, Your Honor. Sorry.”
He stepped toward Blake, his cold smile now more like a mask made of ice.
“Was this pistol registered to Mr. Heckett?”
“I’ve already said no.”
“Was there any pistol registered to Mr. Heckett?”
“No.”
“In your vast experience as a detective, if someone attained a weapon illegally and used it, wouldn’t he be more inclined to get rid of it, rather than keep it and hide it practically in plain view?”
“Unless he had to return it,” Blake blurted.
Milton smiled. Blake had fallen into the trap. “Return it? Where? To the gun library?” Milton asked, turning to the jury.
Blake looked at Michele again and shrugged. Neither of them had believed Milton would raise the possibility of a hired gun. They believed he couldn’t be absolutely sure they had no definitive proof, but here he was doing just that. Reluctantly, Blake continued.
“No, but if he had hired someone to commit the murder, the killer could have told him to keep the weapon.”
“For what? A souvenir?”
“No, but I’ve investigated cases where the hired killer did things like that to keep the person who hired him from confessing and revealing him. In one similar case, the hired killer had the individual keep the pistol in his safety-deposit box. He accompanied him to the bank to make sure.”
“Oh, how conniving. What a waste of brilliance. He could have been a . . . police detective,” Milton said.
Someone in the audience laughed. The judge rapped her gavel. “Stick to your questions, and leave the comments for the journalists, Mr. Milton.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Sorry. So, Lieutenant Blake, following your implication, do you have any evidence to present to us today that firmly establishes that Lester Heckett hired a hit man?”
Blake looked at Michele. She had introduced the Cayman bank statement but had not yet presented the withdrawal of the seventy-five thousand dollars right before Strumfield’s murder to establish the possibility of a payment to a hit man. As she had told Blake, she didn’t want to open the door through which Milton could introduce the argument that the murderer had to be more of an expert with a pistol. She would rather deal with it when he presented his defense. By then, she would have established a great deal with the jury, and perhaps he would look desperate.
But Milton had led Blake into it, and she knew Blake wasn’t going to go along with her and try to avoid it anymore. She was disappointed, but she couldn’t fault him for his honesty. He wouldn’t compromise with the truth. She had hoped he wouldn’t have to go there, but that was exactly where Milton had taken him. How could Milton be so confident that he wasn’t giving the prosecution an opportunity?
Blake’s hesitation encouraged him. “So you cite cases where hit men made their employers hold on to the weapons as some sort of insurance. Are you then saying that Lester Heckett is incapable of having committed this act himself, Lieutenant?”
“I didn’t say that. Anyone is capable of murder.”
“Anyone? Even priests? Even the pope? Even Jesus Christ?”
Blake didn’t answer. He looked at the judge. She wasn’t demanding an answer.
Milton widened his smile. “We understand your hesitation there, Lieutenant. Isn’t it true that you were a seminary student on the way to becoming a Catholic priest?”
Michele felt her mouth fall open. She had sensed something like this about him. She had felt it, but he hadn’t volunteered the information. Why not?
Blake glanced at her and then turned back to Milton. “Yes,” he said.
“That’s quite unusual, isn’t it? A man nearly a priest quits and becomes a police detective?”
“Objection, Your Honor. This line of questioning has nothing to do with the case or the facts.”
“Oh, I think it does, Your Honor. It goes to Lieutenant Blake’s credibility. Are his observations made from facts or faith? Does he hear voices? How did he come to these conclusions that he can’t substantiate today?”
“Objection sustained,” the judge said. “However, I see nothing stated by the witness that comes solely from faith, Counselor.”
“Perhaps,” Milton said, throwing the jury an impish smile. “Let’s get to who did and who didn’t commit this murder, Lieutenant. Isn’t it fair to say that when it comes to Lester Heckett performing the actual murder, you have your doubts?” Before Blake could respond, Milton asked, “Can you enlighten us why? Oh, please, Lieutenant. Pretty please.”
Blake’s face turned a bit crimson. Anyone could see that he was subduing a rage fermenting inside him. “I haven’t said anything to indicate that I have doubts about your client’s guilt,” Blake replied. “I just gave you a possibility to explain why someone might not get rid of a weapon.”
“Oh, you must have doubts, Lieutenant. You almost became a priest. You know what it’s like to look into the human soul.”
“Your Honor,” Michele said.
“Mr. Milton, you have laid no foundation for such a comment.”
“I thought it was self-evident, Your Honor. Sorry. Okay, Lieutenant. You’re an experienced investigator,” Milton repeated, now making it sound as if being experienced was undesirable. “You just related how careful the killer was to
clean off fingerprints, even from the bullets. Can we conclude that such action is beyond the scope of your average amateur killer?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not with all the forensics on television these days,” Blake offered.
Milton laughed. “Sinners have it so much easier thanks to the media, is that it?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“So our killer, learning from CSI or something, makes a brilliant attempt at a cover-up when it comes to the pistol and the bullets but hides the weapon in an obvious place, so obvious that you found it in fifteen minutes. Correct?”
“It took about that long, yes.”
“Long? You call that long? Lester Heckett knew he was going to be what you call a person of interest because of the money issues and Mrs. Strumfield’s testimony, and yet he didn’t cover up the most important clue? You have him brilliant on one hand,” Milton said, holding up his right hand, “and pretty dumb on the other,” he added, holding up his left. With his hands in the air like someone surrendering, he asked, “I repeat. Isn’t it possible he didn’t know it was there? Possible that someone put it there without his knowing?”
Blake had anticipated that Milton would use such a possibility as a defense argument, but without any definitive tie-in to a hit man, he couldn’t dismiss it. For a moment, he looked confused. Milton was about to suggest that the actual killer could have done that to throw off the scent that would lead to him? It would go right to reasonable doubt. He glanced at Michele again. Now she looked very worried. This was starting to slip away from her.
“Lieutenant?”
“Possible, yes, but not probable when you consider the other facts.”
“Ah, that probability thing. It keeps coming up in our world, especially the world of a good detective. But probability is not certainty, is it?”
“Bigger chance that it is than not,” Blake said.
“That’s not what I asked, but it’s all right. We all know the answer,” Milton said, winking at the jury. “There is, then, the possibility that the actual killer might have planted the weapon in Mr. Heckett’s home, correct?”
Judgement Day Page 16