In the morning Sloane would begin his case in chief.
Pendergrass walked into Sloane’s office looking perplexed. He explained that he had been reviewing the stack of documents from the state.
“There’s a gap in the Bates-stamp numbers.” Pendergrass showed Sloane the numbers stamped in the lower right corner of the documents. “The number jumps from P-six-nine-eight-seven to P-six-nine-nine-five.” Pendergrass also said he found other, smaller gaps.
“Could they have gotten out of order? There’ve been a few of us looking through them.”
“I checked. The pages aren’t here. We don’t have them.”
Sloane didn’t have the time or inclination to get into a fight with Cerrabone about it. “Determine what pages we’re missing, call up Cerrabone’s paralegal and ask her to send them over. Better also prepare a motion to compel, just in case.”
As Pendergrass left his office, Carolyn walked in carrying three piles of documents, each secured with a rubber band.
“What are those?” Sloane asked.
“The documents you subpoenaed. Do you want me to give them to Tom?”
“Yes,” he said, not believing he’d have time to go through them, then realizing he’d just tasked Pendergrass with another motion. “No.”
Carolyn spun. “I don’t care what you decide so long as I can put these down sometime tonight.”
“Leave them here. I’ll have to look at them later.”
Just after nine in the evening, Sloane slipped the rubber band from the largest pile, documents from the home-security company that installed and monitored the alarm in Barclay’s home. He’d gotten the idea to subpoena the documents the night he had accidentally set off the alarm by opening the sliding-glass door. He flipped the pages to the date that most interested him and saw what he had expected, then something he had not. He reread the information, then read it a third time. He considered his watch, hurried down the hall, and pushed open the door to the office at the end.
Jenkins and Alex looked to have been engaged in an intense conversation when Sloane interrupted.
“I’m going to need you to serve two more subpoenas, and I need the witnesses in court first thing tomorrow morning.”
TWENTY - EIGHT
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2011
KING COUNTY COURTHOUSE
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Thursday morning it was Sloane’s turn to test Judge Underwood’s patience. Cerrabone stood, red-faced, and advised that the state had a matter to take up with the court before the jury entered. Sloane had faxed a revised list of witnesses to Cerrabone’s office at seven o’clock that morning, and the list included the names of two witnesses not on any prior list. To make matters worse, Sloane advised that he intended to call the two witnesses first thing that morning.
Cerrabone did not try to hide his annoyance. Voice animated, he argued that the “surprise” witnesses prevented the state from adequately preparing for cross-examination. He called it a sandbagging.
Sloane fell on the sword, apologizing profusely, but he also had decided it was time to get even with the state for dumping thousands of documents on his doorstep on the eve of trial. He advised Underwood that he had not known he would need to call the witnesses until late the prior evening, when he came across certain documents. He added that it now appeared the state had unilaterally withheld certain documents, the sequence of numbers for which Pendergrass had listed on a short motion to compel. Sloane knew Underwood would be reluctant to issue any ruling that could be construed as preventing Barclay Reid from putting on a complete defense. This was, after all, a first-degree-murder trial. No judge liked to be reversed on appeal, especially on a case that continued to generate daily headlines. After asking Sloane the nature of the two witnesses and their testimony, he issued his ruling.
“I’m going to allow the two witnesses to testify. Mr. Cerrabone, if you determine that you need additional time to prepare to cross-examine these witnesses, you may defer and recall them.”
With that, the bailiff brought in the jury, and Sloane called his first witness.
Damon Russo looked apprehensive when Sloane greeted him in the austere hallway outside the courtroom and quickly introduced himself. He apologized for the short notice and thanked Russo for being there—not that he had a choice, once Jenkins handed him the subpoena. Sloane told Russo to just answer the questions he asked, and things would be fine.
Russo took the witness stand in black polyester pants and a white long-sleeved shirt that looked to have been purchased when he was ten pounds lighter and worn to every occasion that required something more formal than jeans and a T-shirt. The cuffs and collar were threadbare. Russo parted his prematurely gray hair in the middle and pulled it back in a ponytail that extended to his shoulders.
Sloane walked him through the preliminaries, hoping they would give Russo time to relax.
“You and I have never spoken before, have we, Damon?”
“Not until just now in the hallway.”
“And before I introduced myself in the hallway, we’d never met, had we?”
“No.”
“In fact, my investigator, Mr. Jenkins, served you with a subpoena this morning when you walked in the door to work, didn’t he?”
Jenkins sat in the back row of the courtroom, head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd.
Russo nodded and gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah. He . . . Not exactly how I intended to start the day.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Sloane said. “Where do you work?”
“I’m head of the technical and customer-support division of American Security Systems.”
“And what type of business is American Security Systems?”
“We’re the largest residential home-security company in the world,” Russo said. “We provide systems that monitor the home in case of burglaries, fires, floods, carbon monoxide poisoning . . .”
Russo sounded so proud Sloane thought the man might take out a brochure and solicit the closest juror. “And how long have you been working for American Security?”
“I’ve been with the company eight years, the last five in my current position.”
“What do you do on a daily basis as head of the technical and customer-support division?”
“I oversee our monitoring centers.”
“Does that include the monitoring center for your Seattle region?”
“It does.”
“And what does the monitoring center monitor?”
“We monitor our clients’ security systems twenty-four/seven. Anytime there is an alarm, for any reason, it triggers a dedicated cellular connection to one of our interconnected customer-monitoring systems. We also provide technical service to our customers, such as if they can’t get the alarm to reset—any number of things.”
“When you describe an alarm triggering a dedicated cellular connection to one of your interconnected monitoring systems, is that a fancy way of saying that when an alarm is triggered, your center gets a call?”
“That’s a good way to put it.”
“Does your department keep records of when the security system of a particular residence is tripped and an alarm is activated?”
“The date and time are automatically recorded by the computer and supplemented by the technician.”
“And how does the technician supplement the record?”
“The technician calls the residence to determine the nature of the alarm—whether it requires a police or emergency personnel response or if it is a false alarm.”
“How can the technician tell the difference?”
“If no one answers the telephone at the residence the technician is trained to immediately dispatch the call to the local police or emergency personnel. If the telephone is answered, then the technician asks the person to provide a password for their system. If the person provides the password, the technician does not act further. If they cannot, we dispatch the call.”
“The subpoena serve
d on you today requested that you bring certain records with you. Did you do that?”
Russo held up the file from his lap and confirmed he had brought records for the security system installed at Barclay Reid’s home on Queen Anne Hill.
“And do those records include August twenty-third of this year?”
Russo nodded. “Yes, I brought it.”
“Can you tell the jury what that record shows?”
“It shows that the alarm was tripped that day at twelve-fifty-four in the afternoon.”
“And was that call dispatched to police or to emergency personnel?”
Russo studied the record. “No, it was not.”
“Does the record indicate why not?”
“The technician noted that she called the residence and spoke to a person who provided the password for the system.”
“And what was that password?”
Russo spelled it. “L-E-E-N-I-E.”
Sloane paused for a moment. “Did the technician note the identity of the person she spoke with?”
“Yes. They’re trained to get the name of the person.”
“And what name is reflected on the record for August twenty-third at twelve-fifty-four in the afternoon?”
“The person identified themselves as the residence owner, Barclay Reid.”
Cerrabone deferred his cross-examination. He looked perplexed by the testimony. So did some of the jurors. After Russo departed, Sloane called Nina Terry, Barclay’s assistant. She was the first person to enter the courtroom and smile when she looked at Barclay. It wasn’t a big-toothed grin, just a thin-lipped statement that conveyed Terry believed Reid innocent.
“How long have you worked as Barclay’s assistant?” Sloane asked.
“We’ve been together nearly fifteen years,” she said.
“How many hours a day are you at the office?”
Perhaps in her midforties, Terry smiled and folded her shoulder-length, auburn-tinted hair behind an ear. In a cream-colored turtleneck sweater and champagne slacks, she looked like the CEO of her own company. “Well, I don’t think I need to tell you that the hours can fluctuate. Normally, I work eight to five, five days a week. But I’m usually at my desk by seven-forty-five, don’t leave until six, and sometimes work Saturday and Sunday, when we’re in trial or especially busy.”
Sloane would have paid to have Carolyn sitting in the gallery for that answer. “As Barclay’s assistant, you keep her professional calendar of appointments?”
“I keep her professional and her personal calendars,” Terry said. “It just made sense for me to keep both to avoid unnecessary conflicts or mixups.”
“Do you keep it on the computer, or do you keep an actual physical calendar?”
“I use both,” she said. “The computer allows Barclay to access her calendar remotely, and the hard copy gives me something at my fingertips when I need it.”
“And did you bring the physical copy of that calendar with you today, as I requested?”
“I did.”
“Before we get to it, let me ask you this. I would imagine, spending so many hours in Barclay’s company over the years, that you have come to experience just about every one of her moods.”
Terry responded with another poorly concealed smile. “Oh, yeah,” she said in a tone that drew chuckles from the jury. “Practicing law lends itself to mood swings. I’ve yet to work for an attorney immune to it.”
Sloane let the jury enjoy the answer. “You’ve seen her angry?”
“Yes.”
“And sad?”
“Yes.”
“Happy, depressed, contemplative?”
“All of those things,” Terry said.
“Have you ever seen her violent?”
Terry shook her head. “No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Has she ever raised her voice at you in anger?”
“She’s raised her voice, but I wouldn’t call it in anger—more like frustration at something that has happened. She’s not a robot, though given the amount of work she generates, sometimes I wonder.”
The jurors again chuckled.
“Have you ever felt threatened by Barclay?”
“Never.”
“Let’s take a look at her calendar. Were you working Wednesday, September seventh of this year?”
Terry looked at the calendar. “Yes, I was.”
“And do you recall if Barclay was in the office that day?”
“She had a meeting at eight that morning and another at one. She also had a court appearance late that afternoon. I do remember the morning meeting because I set up the conference room.”
“Do you recall what time she got to work that morning?”
“I recall that she was already at her desk when I arrived at seven-forty-five. That’s when I go in and we discuss what is on her calendar for the day and any changes.”
“So you spoke to her that morning?”
“Yes.”
“You observed her demeanor?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us how she seemed to you?”
Terry shrugged. “She seemed like she always does. She seemed fine.”
“You didn’t notice anything different about her demeanor than any other typical morning?”
“Nothing at all.”
“She didn’t look exhausted?”
“No.”
“Nervous, anxious?”
“No.”
“And did she make it through all of her appointments that day?”
“She did.”
“Anything out of the ordinary happen that day?”
“You came that day.”
“Explain that to the jury.”
Terry related how Sloane had called and asked to speak to Barclay, then appeared in the lobby and asked again, which resulted in a short meeting in the conference room.
“And after I left, did you speak to Barclay?”
“She told me that you told her that Mr. Vasiliev was dead; that someone had shot him.”
“Again, based on your fifteen years and thousands of hours working with Barclay, can you describe her demeanor when she gave you that news?”
“She seemed . . . I don’t know.” Terry looked across the courtroom at Reid. “Honestly, she seemed sort of saddened by it. After she told me, she sort of shrugged and shook her head. Then she went into her office and closed the door. ‘Depressed’ might be the best way to describe her mood.”
Sloane asked Terry to open Barclay’s calendar to August 23. “Can you tell me what was on her schedule that day?”
“That’s an easy one. That was the Bergstrom mediation with Judge Peters.”
“How is it you remember that mediation?”
“It was a significant case in the office, and we were trying to get it settled before trial. If a case doesn’t settle, then it’s Katie-bar-the-door, and that makes my life a lot more challenging. We go into trial mode.”
“Where was the mediation held?”
“In our offices. I commandeered three conference rooms to accommodate all the sides. I wasn’t the most popular person in the office that day.”
“What time did the mediation start and finish?”
“I recall that we went from nine in the morning and didn’t get the final paperwork signed until after nine o’clock that night. I know because Barclay asked me to stay and type it up.”
“Did they break for lunch?”
“They did, but I ordered in sandwiches for Barclay and our clients.”
“She didn’t leave the office?”
“Not for a minute. Not until after nine that night.”
Sloane let that piece of information sit with the jury as he flipped through his notes—the obvious question being how Barclay could have answered the security company’s telephone call to her home and provide the password if she was in the office all day.
Cerrabone kept his cross-examination brief. “During all of the hours that y
ou’ve spent with Ms. Reid, have you ever seen her hide her emotions?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“There must have been occasions when you knew Ms. Reid was angry or upset or saddened by something but didn’t want to show others, like a client or staff, and so she hid or suppressed those emotions.”
“Yes, there have been those occasions.”
“Would January fourteenth be one of those occasions?”
Terry flipped through her calendar. “I don’t know.”
“Ms. Reid was in the office that day, wasn’t she?”
Terry considered the calendar. “She had appointments.”
“Is there anything to indicate she canceled those appointments or rescheduled them?”
Terry flipped through the pages. “Not that I recall or see.”
“Nothing to indicate she left work early that day or otherwise didn’t keep her appointments.”
“No. Nothing.”
“And yet that was the day after her daughter’s funeral, wasn’t it?”
Terry looked stricken. She glanced at Barclay, then back at Cerrabone.
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said. “It was.”
Cerrabone paced before the jury. “Has Ms. Reid ever forgotten something at home and asked you to get it for her?”
Terry considered this. “I can recall one occasion.”
“How did you get in the house?”
“She gave me the key.”
“What about the code?”
“She gave me the password.”
Cerrabone looked to the bench. “I have no further questions at this time.”
When Cerrabone sat, Sloane stood for redirect. “Were you surprised to see Barclay the day after Carly’s funeral?”
“Not particularly.”
“Why not?”
“Because she told me at the reception that she would be in.”
“She told you at the reception following her daughter’s funeral that she intended to go to work the next day?” Sloane raised his voice to sound incredulous. “Did she say anything further?”
“She said she had to . . . she had to keep herself busy, keep her mind occupied, that if she didn’t, she’d go crazy.” Terry shrugged.
“And on August twenty-third, the day of the Bergstrom mediation, did Barclay send you to her home at twelve-fifty-four in the afternoon to get anything that she forgot?”
Murder One Page 33