by Sydney Bauer
It was true, the day had been long, and while Joe’s powerful testimony had certainly laid the foundations for them to take the route they intended, David knew that the afternoon session had been nothing short of catastrophic.
Amanda Carmichael had called Boston PD’s Crime Lab Unit chief, Dan Martinelli, who spent the entire second half of the day explaining how the forensic evidence pointed solely and irrefutably towards J.T. Logan as the killer.
‘We knew Martinelli’s testimony would be tough,’ said Sara, lifting her hand to move a stray sandy-coloured hair from his brow. ‘And you made a bit of ground when you questioned him about the lack of fingerprints on the rifle.’
This was also true, David had thoroughly questioned Martinelli about the absence of any prints on the Mark V’s stock or barrel – and Martinelli confirmed that the only print he lifted was the one left by J.T. on the trigger.
Martinelli went on to speculate that the boy could have wiped the gun clean following the shooting, but upon further probing David got him to agree that this was unlikely given the blood on the barrel was not significantly smudged and, that if the boy had the presence of mind to wipe the gun clean, then it would also be unlikely that he would have forgotten to wipe the trigger as well. (David also got Martinelli to concede that no cloth or towel, which might have been used to wipe the weapon clean, had been found at the crime scene.)
Finally, David had proceeded to ‘grow’ on the theory launched by Joe Mannix in his testimony earlier that morning, eventually getting Martinelli to admit that – at least from a forensics point of view – another person could have assisted J.T. in the handling of the rifle.
They were tiny, baby steps, which paled in comparison with Amanda Carmichael’s solid, show-stopping first day of evidence. But it was a start – at the very least, it was a start.
‘What do you think he said to her?’ asked Sara, her pale eyes meeting his. David knew she was referring to Logan – and his subtle instruction to Carmichael amidst the commotion in the court. ‘I mean, by the looks of things he told her not to object to Joe’s “two people in the room” theory, but what specifically do you think he . . . ?’
But David suspected Sara had guessed exactly what Logan had proposed to Carmichael – for he had guessed it too.
‘He was telling her to let it go,’ he said. ‘Mostly likely he reasoned that if it comes down to it – if we manage to prove that J.T. had help with the shooting of his mother – that Carmichael could agree with us and say that it was . . .’
‘. . . Chelsea,’ she finished.
He nodded.
‘So you think that if we fail to prove it was Logan, Carmichael will use our theory to bury Chelsea Logan by proxy.’
‘Yes.’
‘And Logan knows it too.’
‘Yes.’
‘In fact, he could well continue to foster it.’
‘Yes.’
‘And secretly he is probably celebrating the fact that we are doing his work for him – assuring his daughter’s guilt which, in theory, is far more difficult to prove than his son’s.’
‘Yes,’ he said again, and Sara pulled him closer as they lay in silence for a while.
‘You are going to go looking for them, aren’t you?’ she said after a time. ‘The guns, I mean.’
David said nothing for a long time. Finally, he responded. ‘Yes.’
62
The following morning Sara lied. She told David she was feeling unwell, tired – and thought it best she not attend the second day of trial.
‘You’ll do great with the FBI guy,’ she had said, referring to Carmichael’s next witness – the FBI analyst who would take the court through his findings regarding Chelsea Logan’s home computer and the change of will message left on Harry Harrison’s machine.
‘If I do, it will be thanks to you,’ he had answered.
Sara hoped he was right. Yesterday she had come up with a rather ‘left of centre’ and somewhat legally risky idea as to how they might counter what they knew would be the analyst’s damning evidence regarding the upgrade of life insurance emails sourced to Chelsea’s computer. It was a long shot, based largely on what their friend, FBI Agent Susan Leigh, had alluded to regarding the personality of her laboratory colleague. While Susan would never speak badly of one of her fellow agents, she had said enough for them to garner that the analyst in question, a technician who had never seen any action in his twenty-year career, never missed an opportunity to play himself up as a ‘super sleuth crime fighter’.
‘Put it this way,’ Susan had explained, ‘the guy is not unhappy that his last name happens to be Bond. He even has a private email address where he uses the numbers 007.’
And Sara had got the idea from there. Even so, she felt as guilty as hell as David hugged her at their door and told her that she should rest. But she also knew that she had no choice, for she did not know what else to do, and enough was finally enough.
The thought of David trying to track down Jeffrey Logan’s store of what they estimated could be hundreds of deadly weapons scared the hell out of her. And she knew, deep down inside, that unless she did something to turn this case around, the man she loved – the father of her unborn child – could end up facing off against an expert marksman and psychopathic monster, and there would be nothing she could do to stop him.
And so, as she stood on Katherine de Castro’s front stoop, the wind now blowing a gale and sending her long brown hair thrashing about her face, she said a silent prayer that she would be able to talk the woman inside into risking her safety to save their case – and perhaps even their lives, in one way or another.
‘Ms de Castro,’ she said, sensing movement on the other side of the red door. ‘It’s Sara Davis – the Logan children’s counsellor,’ she added, knowing that, given there was a peephole in the thick wooden door, de Castro knew exactly who it was. ‘I am sorry to call so early, but I wanted to catch you before you went to work and . . .’
‘I’m not going to work,’ said de Castro, and Sara noted the hesitancy in her voice, the edge of anxiety, the trace of fear. ‘I am not well, Miss Davis. I have a stomach virus, and I would hate for you to catch anything, especially at this time when you are about to . . .’
‘You know you can call me Sara, Katherine,’ interrupted Sara. ‘And you need to let me in.’
After seconds of holding her breath, Sara finally exhaled as she heard Katherine de Castro release the lock from the other side of the door. Katherine pulled on the door carefully, slowly, as if fearful the powers that be would rush into her Back Bay ‘safe house’ and steal her away from the world. And when she finally revealed herself, her face thin, her hair unstyled, Sara realised that Logan had already started his ‘campaign’ of possession. This once powerful, independent woman – who just months ago Sara would have described as vibrant, sharp, fearless – had begun to slip into the shadow of the beast.
Just like Stephanie Tyler, thought Sara, before extending her hand towards the obviously anxious woman. ‘It’s all right, Katherine. You and me – we are going to put an end to all of this – once and for all.’
63
Special Agent Curtis Bond was a trim forty-something with short black hair and piercing blue eyes; his charcoal suit, shiny black shoes and dark sunglasses – now perched in his top right-hand jacket pocket – screamed FBI. Bond stated his job as Special Agent in Charge of several of the Quantico-based FBI laboratory’s examination units, including the elite Computer Analysis and Response Unit and the unit responsible for Forensic Audio, Video and Image Analysis.
But it wasn’t so much Bond’s experience that concerned David this morning, as his smug self-assuredness – an arrogance that told David this computer geek with a badge was more than just a little happy to be the centre of attention at this morning’s standing room only proceedings – that and the fact that every time Bond opened his mouth he dissected each word syllable by syllable, as if determined to stretch his ‘fifteen minutes o
f fame’ to a good two hours or more.
Amanda Carmichael began by asking Bond to outline the details of his impressive career – including his extensive experience in the high-tech FBI laboratory. And Bond paced himself as he took the hushed gallery through his myriad of accomplishments until Carmichael, obviously sensing it was time to speed things up a little, eventually cut to the chase.
‘Special Agent Bond,’ she said, ‘could you tell the court how you came to be assigned to the analysis of the audio message left on the voice mail of attorney Harry Harrison on the morning of Friday the eleventh of May?’
David stole a glance at Arthur – Carmichael was starting back to front. David had expected her to work in chronological order, starting with the life insurance emails before moving on to the ‘change of will’ voice mail left the morning of Stephanie’s death – and the anomaly unnerved him.
‘Yes, I am the laboratory’s most experienced examiner in the areas of audio evidence – including authenticity, enhancement and voice comparison, and as such, when the evidence came in marked as a priority, I immediately assigned myself to the job.’
‘More like he saw an opportunity to increase his super agent profile by giving evidence in the highest profile case of the year,’ whispered David in Arthur’s ear.
Arthur nodded.
‘And could you explain to the court the nature of the voice mail you examined?’ Carmichael continued.
‘Yes. It was a one-minute-twelve-second recording from a person purporting to be Stephanie Logan, requesting certain changes to her will.’
‘Right, well, before we continue, Special Agent Bond, I might request the court listen to said recording, tabled as item number three.’ Carmichael looked towards Kessler for her approval.
‘Go ahead,’ said Kessler, her left hand gesturing that Carmichael had her permission to continue.
The next minute or so played out like an eternity – the entire courtroom staring directly at Chelsea as the somewhat apprehensive female voice, identifying itself as Stephanie Tyler, requested the lawyer, one Harry Harrison, remove her major beneficiary – her husband, Doctor Jeffrey Logan – from her will. The message was smooth in a scripted sort of way, almost as if the caller had written notes before attempting the call. And while at first hearing the speaker could well have been identified as the voice of an older woman, the slight lifts in intonation at the end of each sentence seemed to suggest the caller was somewhat younger – which indeed she was.
‘Special Agent Bond,’ said Carmichael then, positioning herself so that she was equidistant from the jury, her witness and the defence table to her left, ‘did you and your fellow technicians go on to confirm the identity of the speaker in this case?’
‘Yes. The caller was identified as Miss Chelsea Logan.’
Carmichael swivelled slightly to meet the eyes of the transfixed jury. ‘And could you explain how you came to this conclusion, Special Agent?’
‘Yes. The laboratory was also given a second recording – of Chelsea Logan reciting a speech at a school assembly. The assembly was recorded by a staff member on a hand-held video camera and the FBI issued a warrant to gain possession of said recording. In short, we were able to use this second piece of audio to get a 100 per cent match in voice identification.’
‘And this is done by . . . ?’ Carmichael led her witness.
‘Identifying similar and dissimilar exemplars in voice characteristics,’ finished Bond. ‘Basically, specialised software that produces digitally calculated spectrograms is used to compare frequency characteristics of the graphic representation. We also used specialised forensic voice identification algorithms to identify automated voice comparisons between different voice samples.’
‘And all of these investigations led you to the conclusion that it was indeed Chelsea Logan who left that message on Mr Harrison’s voice mail?’ reiterated Carmichael, her eyes flicking towards David as if in anticipation of his objection.
‘Yes,’ said a satisfied Bond. ‘It was Miss Logan, and I have no hesitation in stating that I believe my investigations to be unequivocally correct.’
Moments later Carmichael moved on to Chelsea Logan’s computer and the highly controversial life insurance emails, beginning by asking Bond how his laboratory came to receive the laptop in question.
He explained that the computer was recovered by the FBI Boston Field Office’s emergency response team or ERT, and transported to Quantico for further testing. ‘As head of the computer analysis unit, the laptop was given to me as a priority and along with two fellow technicians we spent a good twenty-four hours pulling the hard drive apart – searching for the emails in question and the login and password origins. We also studied other emails sent by the defendant to friends and associates in an effort to find similar word patterns and grammatical habits.’
Carmichael then proceeded to ask Bond to outline the nature of the four emails in question – two from ‘a person purporting to be Stephanie Tyler’ to Mr Shane O’Rourke from APS Insurance, and two return emails from Mr O’Rourke in response.
‘The first email, sent on the thirtieth of April from the Logan family’s home email account, was written by a person identifying themselves as Stephanie Tyler and requested further information on how Ms Tyler might increase her life insurance cover. The first return email, sent by Mr O’Rourke on the first of May, consisted of an attached brochure describing the upgrade alternatives available.’
‘So Mr O’Rourke responded quickly, giving Ms Tyler all the information necessary to upgrade her portfolio.’ Carmichael was obviously determined to make this as easy for the jury as possible.
‘That is correct,’ nodded the ever-efficient Bond.
‘All right, Special Agent – please continue.’
Bond went on to give details of the next two emails – the one sent by the person once again identifying themselves as Stephanie Tyler outlining the substantial changes she wanted to make to her already large insurance policy; and the fourth, a return email from O’Rourke saying the changes would be made as soon as possible but effective from the return email date. He explained these two emails were sent on Friday fourth May and Monday seventh May respectively, a mere seven and five days before Tyler’s murder on Friday eleventh May.
At that point, Carmichael moved back to her desk to retrieve copies of all four emails, after which she requested Bond read some highlighted paragraphs from the third email – the one where ‘Stephanie Tyler’ listed her specific upgrade requests. Bond pulled his square-framed glasses from his pocket – the lenses tinted just enough to make them look like sunglasses – before explaining he was far-sighted and placing them on his nose and proceeding to read.
‘Jesus,’ said David, leaning in to Arthur. ‘Can the guy look any more Clint Eastwood?’
Arthur nodded. ‘Let’s hope we can help Dirty Harry here shoot himself in the foot.’
Despite the fact David had read and re-read the emails scores of times since they had been provided by the prosecution as part of initial discovery, the words were difficult to hear – as Carmichael had chosen the two sections which outlined ‘Stephanie’s’ request for her lump sum payout upon death to be increased from five to a massive twenty million dollars, and the paragraph requesting the addition of the ‘supplementary rider’ which would effectively give Stephanie’s beneficiaries an extra two million dollars if her life ended as the result of unforeseen misfortune.
She also told Bond to read a further section where ‘Stephanie’ identified her beneficiary as her husband, Jeffrey Logan – and David finally realised why Carmichael had gone with the audio line of questioning first. The ADA needed the jury to see just how clever Chelsea Logan was – how she set up the insurance details before cutting her father out of the picture by removing him from her mother’s will. She was painting David’s client as a teenage murdering mastermind, and there was nothing he could do about it – at least not yet.
‘Special Agent Bond,’ Carmichael continue
d, now pacing towards the jury, ‘could you please tell us what your analysis showed? Could your investigations identify the sender of the two emails – and in turn, the identity of the person purporting to be Stephanie Tyler?’
She flashed a look at David, once again expecting him to object – but David knew if he contested Carmichael’s theory of an imposter emailer by claiming Stephanie had indeed sent the requests herself, he would screw himself later, when he felt the time was right to offer another possibility – that it was Jeffrey Logan who sent the insurance alteration requests.
So he sat mute – in a now familiar sedentary position which had also obviously piqued Judge Kessler’s curiosity, given her face was now contorted in a frown of unmistakable bewilderment.
‘Yes,’ Bond responded. ‘The login and password investigations showed the emails were sent by Miss Chelsea Logan,’ he said, plain and clear. ‘And once again, there is no doubt in my mind, that my findings are unequivocally correct.’
‘Pepsi,’ said David, jumping from his seat to approach the witness, his bizarre cross-examination opener now having all in attendance on the edge of their seats.
‘Excuse me?’ said the obviously confused Bond.
‘Pepsi,’ David repeated. ‘You asked me if I liked Coke or Pepsi and I am telling you that I am a Pepsi man. It has a little extra bite or something, a slightly more bitter edge.’
Bond immediately looked to Carmichael who responded by rising from her chair.
‘Objection. Your Honour, I have no idea what Mr Cavanaugh is referring to, but I wonder if all that sitting down this morning, teamed with his lack of Pepsi might have . . .’
The entire room laughed – and David knew Carmichael had won them over. Now if only Sara’s idea could win them back.
‘I am sorry, Your Honour,’ said David, with a smile. ‘I know my statement is a little left of centre, but I promise my point will soon become clear if you just allow me a little latitude.’