“‘Please forward this letter to the Reverend Father Lillihan in Colorado from whom I received my first communion and who buried my poor mother and just recently my elderly father. I wish to prepare myself for the day that is sure to come when I must return to them. Write to Mr. and Mrs. Cudahy and ask them to show me some mercy.
“‘This is all and I will say goodbye. Please tend to this as soon as possible. The Cudahys are good Catholics and letters that you or Father Lillihan write to them will never be known by the public. Your Brother in Faith, Patrick Joseph Crowe.’”
Attorney Black thanked Mr. Cudahy for his sturdy and unemotional recitation of the letter to the court and turned over his witness to the defense.
Ritchie, sweating through his shirt at both the neck and under his arms, loosed his tie and rolled his sleeves. “Mr. Cudahy, how exactly did you come into possession of this letter?”
“Through Father Murphy.”
“Yes. But how? Did he slip it into your coat pocket while doling out the Eucharist or maybe folded it into your wife’s purse after he asked you to help him with the spelling?”
Black said, “Objection. Implying facts not evidence. Furthermore, the inference that Father Murphy had anything to do with the authorship of this letter is hearsay.”
“Sustained. Mr. Ritchie, the court would be delighted if you kept the commentary to yourself and asked your questions without insinuation,” Judge Sutton ruled.
Ritchie turned. “Mr. Cudahy, in what manner did Father Murphy give you the letter?”
“He handed it to me one day after a Sunday service. Oftentimes after Mass we gather for coffee and doughnuts. A community hour, we call it. That’s when he approached me. He told me he’d been in communication with Pat Crowe and that he’d received a letter from the man and he thought I should be made aware of its message.”
“I see. And when did this occur?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Four Sundays ago. The second week of January, I believe.”
“And yet this letter was written last spring, you said?”
“That’s correct. There’s no date on the correspondence, but Father Murphy told me he received it last spring.”
“And did Father Murphy tell you why he waited so long to deliver this letter to you?”
“He did not.”
Ritchie smiled and paced toward the jury box. “Was the delay in his giving you this letter maybe due to the fact that he felt some hesitation about whether or not he should break his sacred vow by divulging the secrets of one of his parishioners?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Black said. “Mr. Cudahy cannot possibly assume the motivations of another. Nor does the state condone his constant implications that Father Murphy has violated the seal of confession when the letter has already been admitted and read to the court.”
“Sustained,” Sutton replied.
“I will change course, Your Honor. Mr. Cudahy, when did you learn that Pat Crowe would stand trial and that you would be called upon as a witness in this trial?”
“I cannot remember exactly. Maybe two months ago.”
“You’re close. The start date of this trial was set almost exactly six weeks ago.”
“That sounds right.”
“And you said you received this letter about four weeks ago?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, a boon synchronism that is. Do you suppose, sir, that the appearance of this letter and Father Murphy’s giving it to you might have been inspired by this impending trial?”
Black was on his feet again. “Objection, Your Honor. If defense counsel wishes to ask questions about Father Murphy’s intent, then let him save those questions for the man himself and not Mr. Cudahy.”
“That would be something!” Ritchie said and flapped his hands wildly. “How I would love to get Father Murphy on this stand. Strangely, I see the good old priest is not currently on your list of witnesses set to appear. I wonder why.”
Judge Sutton sagged in his chair. He looked ready to tear off his robe and pitch it in the trash and wander off naked down the court aisle if that’s what it took to escape the grinding irritations of the day’s proceedings. “Objection sustained. Mr. Ritchie, you’re trying the patience of this court. If you keep this up we’ll be here until Christmas. We’re nearly at the end of things and I ask you one final time to refrain from making such implications.”
“I apologize,” Ritchie said. “Mr. Cudahy, have you ever taken part in the sacrament of confession with Father Murphy as a communicant of Saint Stephen’s parish?”
“Yes, I have. Many times.”
“And would you like to share with the court the sins you confessed to?”
“I would not.”
“And would you like Father Murphy to come here and voice those sins you told him in faith so that the whole world might come to know them?”
“Of course I would not,” Cudahy said firmly.
Ritchie smiled. “Of course not. No one would.”
“Objection. Immaterial.”
“Sustained,” Judge Sutton said and addressed the jury. “The court will strike the last two questions and Mr. Cudahy’s response to those questions from the record and the jury will purge them from their minds.”
Ritchie struck a new pose. “Mr. Cudahy, do you trust Father Murphy?”
“Yes, I do. He’s a fine priest.”
“Do you trust him to hold the secrets that you’ve confessed to him no matter how much those secrets might be of service or help to someone else?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, sir, how can you be so certain of your trust in this regard when Father Murphy has already broken that trust with another?”
Black stood again. “I object, Your Honor. As the letter states, Pat Crowe sought Father Murphy to help him deliver this message to Cudahy. That much was made explicit by the letter itself. It was the wish of the writer, Pat Crowe, in his own words, that his confession was never meant to be kept secret.”
“Sustained,” Judge Sutton said wearily.
Ritchie continued, “And yet, Mr. Cudahy, Father Murphy delayed over half a year in relaying this message to you. Why did he wait so long to pass it along?”
“I cannot say.”
“You cannot say, and yet you trust him still?”
“Objection, Your Honor. The witness has already answered the question, and he stated that he trusts Father Murphy.”
“Sustained. Mr. Ritchie, I urge you to get off this point. It’s trodden ground.”
Ritchie smacked his lips. “Mr. Cudahy, did you write this letter?”
“No, sir.”
“Did Father Murphy write this letter?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Your Honor,” Ritchie said, “I’m simply trying to ascertain the authenticity of this letter and probe the possibility that it’s a forgery. Why, any man could pen a fake letter of confession, sign the author of that letter as Pat Crowe, and send it off to any one of the clergymen at the Cudahy’s parish. The existence of this letter and how it came into Edward Cudahy’s possession is a preposterous story. No priest in Christendom would turn over to an outsider such a confidential communication as charged by the state.”
Judge Sutton pawed his forehead. “I don’t argue with your intent, Mr. Ritchie. But I ask you to please reserve your speechmaking for your closing statement, not witness testimony.”
Ritchie turned back to Cudahy. “Mr. Cudahy, you have offered a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of Pat Crowe, have you not?”
“I have.”
“And how long has that reward been in effect?”
“I put it in effect the day my son returned home safely, and it stayed in effect until Pat Crowe
finally turned himself in.”
“And how much information did you receive from people, from complete strangers far and wide, concerning the possible whereabouts of Pat Crowe in response to that reward?”
“Heaps and heaps,” Cudahy said.
“And how much of these ‘heaps and heaps’ actually led you to capturing Pat Crowe?”
“None of it.”
“None of it,” Ritchie repeated. “So it would be fair to say that all of the responses you received to your reward offering fifty thousand dollars for the capture of Pat Crowe were speculative and unhelpful?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Would you also suppose that some of the information you received in response to your reward was imagined entirely by people hoping to capture some of that reward?”
“I cannot say. I would think not. I cannot see how someone making up false information would lead to any monetary gain, especially from me.”
“But is it possible?”
“It’s possible, but doubtful.”
“And would you say that this letter of confession supposedly written by Pat Crowe could have been written in forgery by a person hoping to cash in on a portion of your reward?”
“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t paid a cent of that reward to any person.”
“Yes, but that withstanding, is it possible, sir? Is it possible that the letter is a forgery written by someone with the hope of gaining reward much like all the other unhelpful and speculative information you received over the years about Pat Crowe?”
Cudahy sat forward, finally provoked into aggression. He coughed into his hanky and pointed a finger at Ritchie with the hanky balled up in his fist. His voice rattled with a deep tenor. His entire face shook with effort. “No it would not, like I said before. I don’t know how much clearer I can say it. Your logic is flawed, sir. False information, people making things up out of thin air, as you say, would not help us find Pat Crowe and therefore would get them no closer to any kind of reward.”
Ritchie volleyed back a strong outburst of his own: “But it sure is helpful to you now, isn’t it? I mean, if this letter is indeed fake and yet still somehow manages its way into this case as evidence, then it is helpful to you. It might seal the fate of my client no matter its veracity or lack thereof and you profit from it either way. Now, isn’t that true?”
“Object—” Black began but was interrupted.
“I believe the letter to be true,” Cudahy said with a stony assuredness.
Ritchie pounced. “Yes. But I didn’t ask if you believed it to be true. You can believe all you want and swear under oath about your belief until the breath of life passes from your lips, but that belief doesn’t make it so. Hell, for centuries people believed the earth was flat and that the sun revolved around the earth and we all know now how wrong those poor idiots were. But, what I asked you, sir, is if it was possible this letter was not written by Pat Crowe. If it was possible that it was not true.”
“Objection,” Black said, knocking over his chair. “How many times will the court allow defense counsel to ask the witness the same question over and over again?”
“Sustained. Mr. Ritchie, the witness has already sworn under oath that he believes the letter to be true. There’s nothing else he can add to this matter. I advise you to move along, sir.”
“Fine,” Ritchie said. “I only have a couple more questions for you, Mr. Cudahy. When you were on the stand for the first time last week, I asked you how you knew for a certainty that Pat Crowe was one of the men who kidnapped your son and stole away with twenty-five thousand dollars of your money. Do you remember that conversation?”
“I do,” Cudahy said.
“And what was the sole reason you gave for being able to identify Pat Crowe?”
“I said I knew him by his voice.”
“That’s right. By his voice and his voice alone, you said. Do you remember that?”
“I do.”
Ritchie snatched the confession letter from the evidence table and waved it about the room. He asked, “And yet you were in possession of this confession letter last week when you gave that testimony?”
Cudahy paused.
“Mr. Cudahy?”
“Could you repeat the question?”
Ritchie flung the letter back on the table. “Were you in possession of this letter last week when you admitted the only way you were able to identify Pat Crowe was by his voice?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Well, then, I’m quite confused, sir, as I’m sure is the rest of this court. How could you have stated the only reason you could identify Pat Crowe was by his voice during a telephone call made to your house when, in fact, you had in your grasp a confession letter to the crime?”
Cudahy again didn’t respond.
Ritchie pressed harder. “Was it because, perhaps, this letter actually didn’t even exist last week? Was it because, out of the clear blue sky, this letter actually came into existence after that day in court and not before?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Black yelled. “Calls for assumption.”
“Overruled. The witness will answer.”
Cudahy stammered. “No, sir. The letter was in my possession the whole time.”
“Then why did you not mention it? Don’t you think that would have been something worth telling when you were asked about your ability to identify Pat Crowe? Why, you had the entire crime admitted to in print and signed, supposedly, by the defendant. That’s a pretty damning piece of evidence, wouldn’t you say? And yet you still swore the only way you knew him was by the sound of his voice?”
“I was nervous and under a lot of stress. My whole family has been under an undue amount of stress to have to go back and revisit the abduction of my son.”
“And I can appreciate that. But, stress and nervousness aside, were you under oath then? Were you under oath when you admitted to only being able to identify Pat Crowe by his voice when you actually could identify him by this letter?”
“I was.”
“Could you speak up, sir, so the whole court can hear you?”
“Yes, I was under oath,” Cudahy said with more volume, but not much more.
“And are you under oath now?”
Cudahy sank in his chair. “I am,” he said meekly.
Ritchie smirked. Sweat ran down his cheeks in rills. He took a dramatic pause to wipe his face with a pocket linen and to allow the gravity of Cudahy’s admission sink in for the court. Finally, he asked, “Why did you lie under oath, Mr. Cudahy? Why perjure yourself on the stand when all you had to do was reveal the existence of this letter when I asked you about the identity of Pat Crowe the first time?”
Black was on his feet again. “Objection, Your Honor! Mr. Cudahy is not on trial here. The accusation that he perjured himself on the stand is not only badgering and misquoting the witness, but slanderous nonsense. He and his split serpent’s tongue. How foul! He’s manipulated and confused this witness—”
“Overruled,” Judge Sutton said. “The court is very much interested to hear Mr. Cudahy’s response on this matter. And may I warn you, Mr. Cudahy, to consider your answers carefully, sir. Very carefully, indeed.”
Ritchie rested a hand on the witness rail. “Answer the question, please.”
It took Cudahy a moment to gather himself. He looked to Attorney Black with trepidation and then to Judge Sutton. His stomach shook with each breath. “I was advised to hold onto that information.”
“Advised by whom? Attorney Black?”
“Yes. I wanted to tell about the letter right away. But I was advised not to.”
“Why? Why hold onto the best card you had to play until now?”
“I cannot say.”
“Cannot or will not?”
Cudahy sat silent.
“Was
it because Mr. Black and his team thought that the letter was possibly a forgery and wanted to ensure that it was genuine?”
Black jumped out of his chair. “Objection. Calls for speculation. Furthermore, the authenticity of this confession letter has been tried and tried again when it’s already been accepted as evidence.”
“And it’s acceptance as evidence is exactly the issue at hand,” Ritchie said before Judge Sutton could rule on the objection. “And I also wonder at the delay by you, Mr. Black. I surely hope for your sake and the sake of this court that the state is not withholding evidence.”
“How dare you!” Black said.
“Mr. Ritchie—” Judge Sutton began, but was interrupted.
“What’s next, I wonder? Why, if this trial were to drag into next week we might be privileged to photographic evidence. If we should find ourselves still at battle in these chambers come the first of March, maybe Mr. Cudahy would be recalled to the stand for a third or fourth time armed with a daguerreotype of Pat Crowe posing for the camera with Cudahy’s son tied to a chair or him rolling around in all of that ghostly gold left out on the highway!”
The courtroom audience burst into applause and shouts of dismay.
Judge Sutton pounded his gavel. “That’s enough! That’s quite enough. I will clear this courtroom not only today but for the remainder of this trial if I hear one more shout or cackle or even a sneeze or any other interruption of any kind.”
The courtroom fell silent as if turned off by a switch.
Ritchie attempted to lighten the mood. He pulled out his handkerchief. “I feel a slight cough coming on, Your Honor. Will you pardon me?”
“That’s quite enough from you too, Mr. Ritchie,” the judge said.
Ritchie slammed the defense table. “Oh, it’s not enough yet. Not by a long measure. Your Honor, this entire charade orchestrated by the prosecution is an atrocity. Louie Black and his bunch have withheld evidence for the purpose of timing. This is a federal trial, not a theatrical performance. Why, if given the chance, Mr. Black would like to turn this courtroom into a stage, divulging points of the plot when he saw fit to stir and manipulate this jury. I’ve never heard of such a tactic in my twenty-plus years as a lawyer. It flirts with perjury and witness tampering. Why, it’s a wonder that the jury does not rise in their box in protest and render their verdict right here!”
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