Grant held Beverly in his arms, wishing they could stay that way forever. He could get used to having a woman in his life full time again. Only this time he wouldn’t let her get away. He couldn’t.
He wondered if the home invasion was somehow tied into their destiny, to bridge the gap sooner than later and become one. Or was there something more ominous afloat with the burglary and the Rafael Santiago look alike?
Grant fell asleep on that thought, sprinkled in with his own issues concerning the Honorable Judge Sheldon Crawford.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Rafael Santiago’s preliminary hearing was held on a Friday afternoon. With the exception of the prosecution’s key witness, all the parties were present for what was generally a routine obligation on the part of the prosecution to present its case against the accused. Only a minimal amount of evidence was necessary to successfully establish probable cause, Beverly knew, thereby all but assuring that the case would be bound over for trial. What this stage of the journey was really about was learning the extent and nature of the evidence both sides had through discovery and what the judge would and would not allow.
Presiding over the preliminary hearing was Judge Helene Thompson. Helene was fifty years old with a cocoa complexion and fine brown hair pulled into a bun. Her diminutive frame was practically lost in her black robe.
Beverly stood her ground, along with Gail, as Ortega filed a motion to suppress DNA evidence on semen and hair samples.
“Your Honor,” entreated Ortega, “this evidence is tainted and far too unreliable to be used against my client, Rafael Santiago. DNA tests reveal that two blood types and hair samples were taken from the victim’s vagina and anus—one belonging to Judge Crawford himself. As a result, we cannot be certain to what degree my client’s semen and genital hairs proves about what truly happened that night, much less that he sexually assaulted Ms. Crawford...”
The judge looked to Beverly for her thoughts before rendering a decision.
“DNA testing is not done with smoke and mirrors, Your Honor,” Beverly said gruffly. She briefly explained DNA profiling, as though necessary, leaving the details for her expert. “Or in other words, even if there were two men who ejaculated inside the victim, their blood types remain separate and can be matched to their individual genetic codes. This is not about consensual sex between a husband and wife, Your Honor—it’s about forced sexual relations, which we fully intend to prove, along with breaking and entering and murder.”
Judge Thompson weighed this for a moment or two before lifting her head. “I’m afraid that I must side with the prosecution on this one,” she said to the defense attorney. “The State is entitled to use DNA evidence to support their case against the defendant, even if other evidence indicates that sexual activity was going on at the time of the alleged crime. Of course, Counselor, you are free to challenge its validity during the trial. Motion denied.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Beverly breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that she’d won one important round. But the battle had only just begun.
In the end, her most vital weapon against the defendant—whose smug demeanor betrayed the callousness of his nature—was the testimony of the only living victim, Maxine Crawford. She was the first witness called to the stand.
Maxine had been kept out of the courtroom until she was to testify so as not to be intimidated by Rafael Santiago or put through any unnecessary stress and strain.
After being sworn in, Maxine sat in the witness box. She was wearing a simple, but expensive, gray tweed jacket dress and a smidgen of makeup. She avoided looking at the defendant and appeared calm.
“Mrs. Crawford,” Beverly began formally, “can you tell us what happened at your house on the night of October twenty-ninth?”
Maxine sighed. “My husband and I were in bed...making love,” she said lowly, “when I heard a shot. Sheldon reacted at about the same time and I knew he’d been hit—”
“What then?”
“My husband was shot a second time.” Maxine’s voice broke. “He somehow managed to get out of bed. Then he shot Sheldon again...”
Beverly spared her further details that could be best told by the medical examiner. “Could you see the shooter?”
Maxine held her gaze, unblinking. “Yes.”
“Where was he at this time?”
“Near the foot of the bed.”
“What happened then?” Beverly asked tenderly.
Maxine hesitated, as if reliving the moment.
“It’s all right.” Beverly offered the witness a comforting look. “He can’t hurt you anymore.” Yet she knew the damage had already been done and was irrevocable.
“He forced me to have sex with him,” uttered Maxine, making a contorted face.
Beverly happened to glance towards the back of the courtroom just in time to see Grant enter. He nodded encouragingly at her and took a seat in the back. She thought briefly about the hot sex they had two nights ago and instantly felt tingling between her legs.
Re-facing the witness, Beverly took a breath and asked, “By force, do you mean at gunpoint?”
“Yes.”
Beverly braced herself for the next few tough, but necessary, questions. “Did he rape you, Maxine?”
“Yes,” she answered unwaveringly.
“Did he sodomize you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he force you to orally copulate him?”
“Yes,” Maxine’s voice dropped unsteadily. “He did.”
Beverly swallowed. “Did he talk to you at all during this assault?”
Maxine considered this. “He told me if I screamed or tried to fight him, he would kill me.”
Beverly winced. “Anything else?”
The strain of the moment was showing on Maxine’s face. “He told me to suck his cock...and to turn over—”
Beverly wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Can you tell us if your attacker had any distinguishing marks on the part of his body you saw?”
Maxine fluttered her lashes. “Yes. He had a scar on his right thigh.”
“Were there any other identifying marks you noticed?” Beverly asked.
Maxine cleared her throat. “Yes. There was a tattoo on the area below his waist—”
Beverly eyed her. “You mean where his pubic hair is?”
“Where it was,” Maxine responded tonelessly. “He had shaved it.”
This caused some stirring and murmurs in the courtroom where the press had been allowed in along with spectators.
Beverly allowed this to die down. “What kind of tattoo?”
“A lizard,” the witness stammered.
Beverly walked to the exhibit table and introduced into evidence an enlargement of the defendant’s pubic area featuring the tattoo. She showed the photo to the witness.
“Is this the lizard tattoo you saw?”
Maxine took one look then closed her eyes emotionally. “Yes...” she uttered.
Beverly had heard enough. It was time to get to the heart of the matter. Leaning toward the witness box, she asked without preface, “Is the man who did this to you and shot your husband, Judge Sheldon Crawford, in this courtroom?”
“Yes.” Maxine’s voice was barely audible, but Beverly was sure the judge heard her. “Can you point him out?”
Maxine hated to have to look at the man responsible for ruining her life, but she knew it was necessary for justice to move forward and to help her try to rid herself of the nightmares. She drew in a deep breath, made her head turn, and pointed a finger directly at Rafael Santiago.
* * *
During recess Beverly thanked Maxine for a job well done and sent her home. No further testimony would be necessary on this day.
Beverly found herself wondering what deep dark secrets lay beneath that somewhat cool veneer of Maxine Crawford. There was no doubt in her mind that Maxine had been horribly violated and witnessed her husband’s brutal murder. But was there more to this woman than met the eye? Somethi
ng that Beverly was being pressured to disregard?
Had the judge taken vital information with him to the grave with respect to his murder?
Was any of it germane to Maxine’s credibility as a witness?
Beverly had coffee with Grant in the building’s cafeteria. “Any thoughts on the proceedings Judge Nunez?”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I think it’s too bad that we have to go through this long winded trial for scum like Santiago.”
She raised a brow. “Are you suggesting we should tar and feather him without a trial?”
“Of course not.” Grant reacted defensively. “It’s just that we often spend taxpayer money going around in circles—only to reach the same conclusion at the end of the day that we could have much sooner.”
“Unfortunately we both know that’s the way the system works,” Beverly said over the rim of her cup.
“Yeah, whether we like it like it or not,” said Grant. “At least as a judge I can now exercise a little more discretion in dealing with criminals than I ever had as a prosecutor.”
Beverly gave a little chuckle. “Pity on the rest of us trial lawyers who haven’t been quite as fortunate.”
Grant smiled crookedly. “Guess I’m blowing my own horn a bit too much. Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she told him. “If you don’t blow it, who will?”
He laughed, putting a hand on her knee. “Good point.”
Beverly tasted the coffee, trying to ignore the soothing feel of his fingers pressed against her nylons. It had been three days since what was still being described as a standard home invasion. Beverly had cancelled the missing credit cards and hoped that the thief didn’t try to steal her identity as well. There had been no prints left behind or other incriminating evidence to identify the culprit. But one thing was certain, it couldn’t have been Rafael Santiago. He was locked up and still clearly the man they wanted him to be.
Her home invader was someone else who had probably moved on to other victims. At least Beverly convinced herself this was the case as she bolstered her own defenses with a new security system, reinforced windows, and deadbolt locks.
But can one ever truly feel safe, no matter what kind or how many protection devices they have?
Beverly’s thoughts turned back to Grant’s hand on her knee. As good as it felt, for some reason she found herself musing about Maxine Crawford and Sheldon Crawford in bed having sex before all hell broke loose.
Grant noticed Beverly’s expression change, prompting him to move his hand from her leg. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She gazed at him. “Actually, I was wondering what you thought about Maxine Crawford?”
Grant reacted. “What am I supposed to think?”
No fair answering a question with a question. “Well, do you find her attractive?” How could he not?
Does it really matter?
Grant shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “To tell you the truth, I’ve hardly noticed the woman to give it much thought one way or the other,” he said weakly.
Beverly considered dropping the subject. But she could not. Something told her this was a question he was deliberately attempting to dodge. Why?
Am I suddenly getting possessive?
“Well now that you’ve thought about it,” she pressed, “do you?”
Grant twisted his lips. “I suppose I’ve seen a lot worse,” he admitted. “Why are we talking about whether or not I find Maxine Crawford attractive?”
So you do find Maxine attractive, mused Beverly. As did other men, undoubtedly. Even Santiago must have found her to be attractive, though, she knew, what he did to Maxine was not about physical appeal, but raw, ugly power and brute force.
“Just wondering, that’s all.” Beverly could not believe she had just put Grant on the spot.
Grant’s eyes danced with amusement. “You’re jealous! That’s it.” He broke into laughter.
“I’m not jealous!” she insisted. Am I?
“The rosy color of your cheeks tells me otherwise.” Grant cocked a brow whimsically.
“So maybe I am, just a little,” Beverly once again surprised herself by saying. Why shouldn’t she be? Especially when she was romantically involved with one of the city’s most eligible and handsome bachelors. It was only natural to be a little insecure about the competition. Was Maxine Crawford really competition now that she was a widow and available?
“Well, don’t be.” Grant’s full smile was replaced by a look in earnest. “Believe me, Bev, Maxine Crawford may be an attractive lady, but you have absolutely nothing to worry about in the looks department—trust me. You can more than hold your own with any woman, whether it’s Maxine Crawford or someone else. I wouldn’t give you up for anyone, baby!”
Beverly suddenly felt foolish showing the insecurity of a schoolgirl having her first crush. There was no reason why she should feel threatened by Maxine or any other woman. At least not where it concerned Grant. He had proven to her that the rumors about his reckless abandon as a ladies’ man were just that—rumors.
So why should I worry?
Beverly pondered Grant’s suggestion that she stay away from digging too much into the Crawfords’ personal lives. She wondered if there was something he wasn’t telling her. Something that Maxine Crawford could shed light on. Or was her imagination in overdrive once again?
“Sorry I asked,” Beverly lamented to Grant, flashing him a smile. “Guess I’m really starting to get comfortable with us, Mr. Nunez. And I don’t want anything—or anyone—to ruin what we have.”
“Nothing and no one will,” he said firmly. “It’s not about us, but the pressures of this case getting to you. That’s quite understandable, given the drama involving a dead judge, young widow, and a career criminal whose job it is for you to make pay for his sins. The latest ones anyway. The sooner it’s over, the sooner we can focus on building what it is we’re working on—”
Beverly agreed on that last point and was eager to stay the course, wherever it led them.
“Speaking of which,” she looked at her watch. “It’s about time to get back to court—”
Beverly did so alone, as Grant bowed out gracefully, having his own court duties to tend to. But not before they kissed and made plans for dinner.
* * *
Following the recess, Officer Shawnnessy Dunbar took the stand. The twenty-eight-year-old divorcee and former correctional officer cast narrow blue eyes at Beverly collaboratively.
“After the 911 call you were dispatched to Judge Crawford’s house, is that correct?” Beverly asked gazing at the heart-shaped face before her that was bordered by short reddish-blonde hair.
“That’s correct,” Shawnnessy said, “along with my partner, Ramsey LaPorte. We didn’t know who lived there at the time.”
“And what did you and Officer LaPorte find upon your arrival?”
“Mrs. Crawford was visibly shaken and had obviously been traumatized—”
“Objection!” Ortega raised his arm, as if saluting. “Neither the officer nor her partner was qualified to know whether or not Maxine Crawford was traumatized based on appearance alone as suggested.”
“Overruled,” Judge Thompson yelled. “I think Officer Dunbar and Officer LaPorte are capable of making a judgment call on a person’s physical being under the circumstances.”
Beverly ran her tongue lightly across her lips and resumed. “What did Mrs. Crawford say to you, Officer Dunbar?”
Shawnnessy flinched. “She said that she had been sexually assaulted and her husband shot to death.”
“What did you do then?”
“After establishing that the house was secure, we went to Judge Crawford’s bedroom and found him lying face down in his own blood.” She sighed. “A chunk of his head had been blown off!”
The sheer morbidity of this struck the courtroom, filling faces with shock and anguish.
Later it was Detective Joe O’Dell to take the stand.
“Can you
tell us what type of gun Judge Crawford was shot with, Detective?” Beverly asked the witness.
“A .25 caliber automatic handgun.” O’Dell leaned back as though in a recliner.
“Were the shell casings from the bullets recovered?”
“Yes.”
“And have these been linked to the defendant?” Beverly looked at Santiago, who bared his uneven teeth at her like a rabid dog.
O’Dell nodded. “They matched shells found at the apartment where the defendant was arrested.”
Ortega was quick on the attack when his turn came to cross-examine the detective. “Do you have the murder weapon, Detective O’Dell?”
“No,” O’Dell responded curtly.
“Do you have any fingerprints placing my client at the scene of the crime?”
O’Dell paused, risking a furtive peek at Beverly. Finally he looked the defense attorney in the eye, and said brusquely, “No.”
Ortega smiled thinly. “Isn’t it true, Detective, that the shell casings the real killer left behind would have matched any .25 caliber shells and not just the ones that you found at the apartment where Rafael Santiago was staying with his mother?”
“Probably,” O’Dell conceded reluctantly. “But we both know that it’s much more than coincidental that your client just happened to have access to the same caliber bullets that killed Judge Crawford.”
“We know no such thing, Detective,” Ortega mocked him. “The fact that these fairly common shells were found at a residence where Mr. Santiago was merely a guest is hardly proof that my client is guilty of anything, other than being an ex-con who looks like half the other ex-cons out there.”
Beverly had to admit that Ortega was good at what he did, even if that fell far short of admiration. Obviously the attorney was insinuating that it was a case of mistaking one Hispanic male for another. But she doubted the judge, or any sensible person, would buy it—especially with Santiago’s unique anatomical signature.
“Santiago’s guilty as hell!” O’Dell lost his cool. “You’d better hope to hell the murder weapon never shows up. I’m betting that he didn’t bury it deep enough to stay buried forever.”
State's Evidence: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller Page 19