The Last Precinct ks-11

by Patricia Cornwell

  Again, I can't say what the hardware store clerk claimed, I remind Berger from the stand as jurors take in every word, every gesture. I have been excluded from all witness testimony. Berger is simply asking me questions I can't answer so she can tell the jurors what she wants them to know. What is treacherous and wonderful about any grand jury proceeding is that defense counsel is not present and there is no judge_no one to object to Berger's questions. She can ask me anything, and she does, because in one of the rare instances on this planet, a prosecutor is trying to show the defendant is innocent.

  Berger asks what time I got home from Paris and went grocery shopping. She mentions my going to the hospital to visit

  Jo that night, and the phone conversation with Lucy afterward. The window narrows. It gets tighter and tighter. When did I have time to rush over to Bray's house, beat her to death, plant evidence and stage the crime? And why would I bother buying a chipping hammer almost twenty-four hours after the fact unless it was for the very purpose I have stated all along: to conduct tests? She lets these questions hover while Buford Righter sits at the prosecution table and studies notes on a legal pad. He avoids looking at me as much as he can.

  I answer Berger point by point. It gets harder and harder for me to talk. The inside of my mouth was abraded from the gag, and then the wounds became ulcerated. I haven't had mouth sores since I was a child and had forgotten how painful they are. When my ulcerated tongue hits my teeth as I speak, it sounds as if I have a speech impediment. I feel weak and strung out. My left arm throbs, in a cast again because it was re-injured when Jay wrenched my arms above my head and bound them to the bed's headboard.

  "I notice you're having some trouble talking." Berger pauses to point this out. "Dr. Scarpetta, I know this is off the subject." Nothing is off the subject for Jaime Berger. She has a reason for every breath she takes, every step she makes, every expression on her face_everything, absolutely everything. "But can we digress for a moment?" She stops pacing and raises her palms in a shrug. "I think it would be instructive if you would tell the jury what happened to you last week. I know the jury must be wondering why you're bruised and having difficulty speaking."

  She digs her hands in the pockets of her trousers and patiently encourages me to tell my story. I apologize for not being the sharpest knife in the drawer at the moment, I say, and the jurors smile. I tell them about Benny and their faces are pained. One man's eyes fill with tears as I describe the boy's drawings that led me up into the deer stand where I believe Benny spent much of his time watching the world and recording it in images on his sketchpad. I express my fears that young Benny may have met up with foul play. His gastric contents, I explain, could not be explained by what we knew about the last few hours of his life.

  "And sometimes pedophiles_child molesters_lure children with candy, food, something that will entice them. You've had cases like this, Dr. Scarpetta?" Berger questions me.

  "Yes," I reply. "Unfortunately."

  "Can you give us an example of a case in which a child was lured by food or candy?"

  "Some years ago we got in the body of an eight-year-old boy," I offer a case from personal experience. "On autopsy I determined he had asphyxiated when the perpetrator forced the boy, this eight-year-old child, to perform oral sex. I recovered gum from the child's stomach, a rather large wad of chewing gum. It turned out an adult male neighbor had given the boy four sticks of gum, Dentyne gum, and this man did, in fact, confess to the killing."

  "So you had good reason, based upon your years of experience, to be concerned when you found popcorn and hotdogs in Benny White's stomach," Berger states.

  "That is correct. I was very concerned," I answer.

  "Please continue, Dr. Scarpetta," Berger says. "What happened when you left the deer stand and followed the footpath through the woods?"

  THERE is A WOMAN JUROR. SHE is ON THE FRONT row of the jury box, second from the left, and she reminds me of my mother. She is very overweight and must be close to seventy, at least, and wears a frumpy black dress with big red flowers on it. She doesn't take her eyes off me, and I smile at her. She seems like a kind woman with a lot of sense, and I am so glad my mother isn't here, that she is in Miami. I don't think she has any idea what is happening in my life. I haven't told her. My mother's health is poor and she doesn't need to worry about me. I keep going back to the juror in the flower-printed dress as I describe what happened at The Fort James Motel.

  Berger prompts me to give background information on Jay Talley, how we met and became intimate in Paris. Woven into Berger's prompting and conclusions are the seemingly inexplicable events that transpired after Chandonne attacked me: the disappearance of the chipping hammer I had bought for research purposes; the key to my house found in Mitch Bar- bosa's pocket_an undercover FBI agent who was tortured and murdered and whom I had never even met. Berger asks if Jay was ever inside my house, and of course, he was. So he would have had access to a key and the burglar alarm code. He would have had access to evidence. Yes, I confirm.

  And it would have been in Jay Talley's best interest to frame me and confuse the issue of his brother's guilt, right? Berger stops pacing again, fixing those eyes on me. I am not sure I can answer the question. She moves on. When he attacked me in the motel room and gagged me, I scratched his arms, didn't I?

  "I know I struggled with him," I reply. "And after it was over, I had blood under my fingernails. And skin."

  "Not your skin? Did you perhaps scratch yourself during the struggle?"

  "No."

  She goes back to her table and shuffles through paperwork for another lab analysis report. Buford Righter is turned to slate, sitting rigidly, tensely. DNA done on my fingernail scrapings doesn't match my DNA. It does match the DNA of the person who ejaculated inside Susan Pless's vagina. "And that would have been Jay Talley," Berger says, nodding, pacing again. "So we have a federal law enforcement officer who had sex with a woman right before she was brutally murdered. This man's DNA also so closely resembles Jean-Baptiste Chandonne's DNA that we can conclude almost with certainty that Jay Talley is a close relative, most likely a sibling of Jean-Baptiste Chandonne." She walks a few steps, a finger on her lips. "We do know Jay Talley's real name isn't Jay Talley. He is a living lie. He beat you, Dr. Scarpetta?"

  "Yes. He struck my face."

  "He tied you to the bed and apparently intended to torture you with a heat gun?"

  "That was my impression."

  "He ordered you to undress, he bound and gagged you, and clearly was going to kill you?"

  "Yes. He made it clear he was going to kill me."

  "Why didn't he, Dr. Scarpetta?" Berger says this as if she doesn't believe me. But it is an act. She believes me. I know she does.

  I look at the juror who reminds me of my mother. I explain that I was having a terribly hard time breathing after Jay tied me up and gagged me. I was panicking and began to hyperventilate, which means, I explain, that I was taking such rapid, shallow breaths, I couldn't get sufficient oxygen. My nose was bleeding and swelling and the gag prevented me from breathing out of my mouth. I went unconscious and when I came to, Lucy was in the room. I was untied, the gag removed, and Jay Talley and Bev Kiffin were gone.

  "Now we've already heard Lucy's testimony," Berger says, pensively moving toward the jury box. "So we know from her testimony what happened after you passed out. What did she tell you when you came to, Dr. Scarpetta?" In a trial, for me to say what Lucy said would constitute hearsay. Again, Berger can get away with almost anything in this uniquely private proceeding.

  "She told me she'd worn a bulletproof vest, uh, body armor," I answer the question. "Lucy said there was some conversation in the room…"

  "Between Lucy and Bev Kiffin," Berger clarifies.

  "Yes. Lucy said she was against the wall and Bev Kiffin had the shotgun pointed at her. And she fired it and Lucy's vest absorbed the shot, and although she was badly bruised, she was all right, and she grabbed the shotgun away from Mrs. Kiff
in and ran from the room."

  "Because her primary concern at this point was you. She didn't stick around to subdue Bev Kiffin because Lucy's priority was you."

  "Yes. She told me she started kicking doors. She didn't know which room I was in, so then she ran around to the back of the motel because there are windows in back overlooking the pool. She found my room, saw me on the bed and broke

  out the window with the butt of the shotgun and came inside.

  He was gone. Apparently, he and Bev Kiffin went out the front and got on his motorcycle and fled. Lucy says she remembers hearing a motorcycle while she was trying to revive me."

  "Have you heard from Jay Talley since?" Berger pauses to meet my eyes.

  "No," I say, and for the first time this long day, anger stirs.

  "What about from Bev Kiffin? Got any idea where she is?"

  "No. No idea."

  "So they are fugitives. She leaves behind two children. And a dog_the family dog. The dog Benny White was so fond of. Perhaps even the reason he came to the motel after church. Correct me if my memory is failing me. But didn't Sonny Kiffin, the son, say something about teasing Benny? Something about Benny's calling the Kiffins' house right before church to see if Mr. Peanut had been found? That the dog had, quote, just been for a swim and if Benny came over he could see Mr. Peanut? Didn't Sonny tell Detective Marino all this after the fact, after Jay Talley and Bev Kiffin tried to kill you and your niece and then escaped?"

  "I don't know firsthand what Sonny told Pete Marino," I reply_not that Berger really wants me to answer. She just wants the jury to hear the question. My eyes mist over as I think of that old, pitiful dog and what I know for a fact happened to her.

  "The dog hadn't been for a swim_not voluntarily_right, Dr. Scarpetta? Didn't you and Lucy find Mr. Peanut as you waited at the campground for the police to come?" Berger goes on.

  "Yes." Tears well up.

  MR. PEANUT WAS BEHIND THE MOTEL, IN THE BOT-torn of the swimming pool. She had bricks tied to her back legs. The juror in the flower-printed dress begins to cry. Another woman juror gasps and puts a hand over her eyes. Looks of outrage and even hate pass from face to face, and Berger lets the moment, this painful, awful moment stay in the room. The cruel image of Mr. Peanut is an imagined courtroom display that is vivid and unbearable, and Berger won't take it away. Silence.

  "How could anybody do something like that!" the juror in the flower-printed dress exclaims as she snaps shut her pock-etbook and wipes her eyes. "What evil people!"

  "Sons of bitches is what they are."

  "Thank God. The good Lord was looking after you, He sure was." A juror shakes his head, the comment directed at me.

  Berger paces three steps. Her gaze sweeps the jury. She looks a long moment at me. "Thank you, Dr. Scarpetta," she quietly says. "There certainly are some evil, awful people out there," she gently says for the jury's benefit. "Thank you for spending this time with us when we all know you're in pain and have been through hell. That's right." She looks back at the jury. "Hell."

  Nods all around.

  "Hell is right," the juror in the flower-printed dress tells me, as if I don't know. "You've sure been through it. Can I ask a question. We can ask, can't we?"

  "Please," Berger replies.

  "I know what I think," the juror in the flower-printed dress comments to me. "But you know what? I'll tell you something. The way I grew up, if you didn't tell the truth you got your bottom spanked, and I mean hard." She juts out her chin in righteous indignation. "Never heard of people doing the things you all have talked about in here. I don't think I'll sleep a wink ever again. Now, I'm no nonsense."

  "Somehow I can tell," I reply.

  "So I'm just going to come right out with it." She stares at me, her arms hugging her big green pocketbook. "Did you do it? Did you kill that police lady?"

  "No, ma'am," I say as strongly as I have ever said anything in my life. "I did not."

  We wait for a reaction. Everyone sits very quietly, no more talking, no more questions. The jurors are done. Jaime Berger goes to her table and picks up paperwork. She straightens it and gets the edges flush by knocking them on the table. She lets things settle before she looks up. She picks out each juror with her eyes, then looks at me. "I have no further questions," she says. "Ladies and gentlemen." She goes right up to the railing, leaning into the jury as if she is peering into a great ship, and she is, really. The lady in the flower-printed dress and her colleagues are my passage out of troubled, dangerous waters.

  "I am a professional truth-seeker," Berger describes herself in words I have never heard a prosecutor use. "It is my mission_always_to find the truth and honor it. That is why I was asked to come here to Richmond_to reveal the absolute, certain truth. Now all of you have heard that justice is blind." She waits, acknowledging nods. "Well, justice is blind in that it is supposed to be supremely nonpartisan, impartial, perfectly fair to all people. But"_she scans faces_"we aren't blind to the truth, now are we? We've seen what has gone on inside this room. I can tell you understand what has gone on inside this room and are anything but blind. You would have to be blind not to see what is so apparent. This woman"_she glances back at me and points_"Dr. Kay Scarpetta deserves no more of our inquiries, our doubts, our painful probing. In good conscience, I can't allow it."

  Berger pauses. The jurors are transfixed, barely blinking as they stare at her. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your decency, your time, your desire to do what is right. You can go back to your jobs now, back to your homes and families. You are dismissed. There is no case. Case dismissed. Good day."

  The lady in the flower-printed dress smiles and sighs. The jurors start clapping. Buford Righter stares down at his hands clasped on top of the table. I get to my feet and the room spins as I open the saloon-type swinging door and leave the witness stand.

  MINUTES LATER

  I FEEL AS IT I AM EMERGING FROM A BROWNOUT AND avoid eye contact with reporters and others who wait beyond the paper-shrouded glass door that hid me from the outside world and now returns me to it.

  Berger accompanies me to the small, nearby witness room, and Marino, Lucy and Anna are instantly on their feet, waiting with dread and excitement. They sense what has happened and I simply nod an affirmation and manage to say, "Well, it's okay. Jaime was masterful." I finally call Berger by her first name as it vaguely registers that although I have been inside this witness room countless times over the past decade, waiting to explain death to jurors, I never imagined I would one day be in this courthouse to explain myself.

  Lucy grabs me, hugging me off my feet and I wince because of my injured arm and laugh at the same time. I hug Anna. I hug Marino. Berger waits in the doorway, for once not intruding. I hug her, too. She begins tucking files, legal pads into her briefcase and puts on her coat. "I'm out of here," she

  announces, all business again but I detect her elation. Goddamn, she is proud of herself and ought to be.

  "I don't know how to thank you," I tell her with a heart full of gratitude and respect. "I don't even know what to say, Jaime."

  "Amen to that," Lucy exclaims. My niece is dressed in a sharp dark suit and looks like a gorgeous lawyer or doctor or whatever the hell she wants to be. I can tell by the way her eyes fix on Berger that Lucy recognizes what an attractive, impressive woman Berger is. Lucy won't stop looking at her and congratulating her. My niece is effusive. Actually, she is flirting. She is flirting with my special prosecutor.

  "Got to head back to New York," Berger tells me. "Remember my big case up there?" she dryly reminds me of Susan Pless. "Well, there's work to be done. How soon can you come up so we can go over Susan's case?" Berger is serious, I think.

  "Go," says Marino in his rumpled navy suit, wearing a solid red tie that is too short. Sadness crosses his face. "Go to New York, Doc. Go now. You sure as hell don't want to be around here for a while. Let the hoopla die down."

  I don't reply, but he is right. I am rather speechless at the moment.
<
br />   "You like helicopters?" Lucy asks Berger.

  "Never would you get me in that thing," Anna pipes up. "There is no law in physics that accounts for one of those things being able to fly. Not one."

  "Yup, and there's no law in physics for why bumblebees can fly, either," Lucy good-naturedly replies. "Big fat things with teeny wings. Blllbbllblllblll." She imitates a bumblebee flying, both arms going like mad, just giddy.

  "Shit, you on drugs again?" Marino rolls his eyes at my niece.

  Lucy puts her arm around me and we walk out of the witness room. Berger by now has made it to the elevator, alone, her briefcase under her arm. The down arrow glows and the doors open. Rather unsavory-looking people step out, coming for their judgment day or about to watch someone else go through hell. Berger holds the doors for Marino, Lucy, Anna and me. Reporters are on the prowl, but they don't bother trying to approach me as I make it clear by shakes of my head that I have no comment and to leave me alone. The press doesn't know what just happened in the special grand jury proceeding. The world doesn't know. Journalists were not allowed inside the courtroom, even if they obviously are aware that I was scheduled to appear today. Leaks. There will be more, I am sure. It doesn't matter, but I realize Marino is wise to suggest I get out of town, at least for a while. My mood slowly descends as the elevator does. We bump to a stop on the first floor. I face reality and make a decision.

  "I'll come," I quietly tell Jaime Berger as we get out of the elevator. "Let's take the helicopter and go to New York. I'd be honored to help you in any way I can. It's my turn, Ms. Berger."

  Berger pauses in the busy, noisy lobby and shifts her fat ratty briefcase to her other arm. One of the leather straps has come off. She meets my eyes. "Jaime," she reminds me. "See you in court, Kay," she says.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-84olh7c8-w26c-opnu-iorg-5ehdk5atbuqp

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 05.08.2008