It was such a fabrication, I could hardly believe my ears. I felt like jumping up and saying so. Again he stepped from his desk as if to approach the jurors. “The Tappet organization is resoundingly successful. It has factories and production plants in over forty states and twelve countries. Every single location, margins out pretty nicely, to quote the former operational vice president of Tappet Industries, Hiroyuki Nakamura. You of the jury have heard the story of Cain and Abel. This then will be another version on this age-old theme.
“Everybody realizes that inheritances of large corporations go bust when the siblings begin a public fight for control of a family fortune after the death of its founders, or in this case, retirement, you’d be surprised at how common this is. What happens is that the lawyers, the shareholders, and the executives get the bulk of the spoils when such a fight occurs. We’ll show you that Christian knew this and also planned to be the richest man on earth by the time he became forty.”
Brad shot to his feet. “Your honor, my client had no such designs. He thinks the pursuit of money for its own sake is morally incorrect. The press have convicted my client in the papers. Maybe Mr. Burch thinks we should just dispense with this procedure?”
This evoked a smattering of laughter. “Mr. Burlington, stop being dramatic,” the judge returned in a cranky manner. “Mr. Burch, do you have any proof for this remark?”
He nodded. “But I will withdraw it, your honor, for now.”
“Good” the judge said. “Strike the remark.”
“We’ll show that Christian Tappet,” Mr. Burch said, turning back to the jury, “took his pent up rage, and with detached chilling determination, raped and murdered his sister. We’ll demonstrate that he had his sister’s blood on the jacket he wore, and also that his fingerprints were found on the murder weapon, even though an obvious attempt to wipe them away had been made. We’ll hear from friends and relatives of the Tappets. They’ll give testimony of Christian’s history with alcohol and drugs which will mount up and lead to the only possible conclusion.” He dramatically held up a piece of paper. “We’ll show you items like this poem by Sally Tappet in her own hand just before she was murdered. We can debate its finer points, but I want to read some of it to you.” He came over and passed our table a sheet. I quickly read it over,
The horns of the dark demon split our genes,
And with the sound of beating wings to our backs,
Beauty would gladly unite us with has-beens,
Long-forgotten before we burned our tracks.
No sorrow in public places,
Can wise-faces borrow, tomorrow, to gain today:
The young die of the strangest cases,
And the old sweet-tooth, often, no decay.
The answer is harder than the query,
The quarry is snared in nets;
Many a being escapes not the least leery.
Learning most, while the sun never sets.
At night, logic is betrayed by the spark:
The loins lunge like lions at sheered sheep,
‘Come where our stark dreams seek the dark.’
How many stay in and learn the wisdom of sleep?
Keep the history of religion as a private thing,
Only the elitists know that all is harrow.
Mass education is a harvest for the king,
And the fields worth learning are now left to furrow.
Consider our time or the ambivalence of comments:
‘No one commits to God in the fear that dusk is ferried,
From break of day, and drastically reduced to rare moments,
Late at night, where the believers are harried.’
The leisurely loneliness of the pickled poet, prays,
‘Refract the renowned Greek reason.’
The sunlit lake in spring, sings, as it lays,
‘Even sovereign force submits to its own season.’
Currency is as sleepless as a forever yawning century,
Which mopes about like death waiting down the hall;
Money in a church is like poppies in a penitentiary.
The flowers of ascendancy are behind the cemetery wall.
The recurring threat of a perpetual wet dream,
Has all but stained the philosopher’s pants:
Niches and locks, in their thoughts, would seem,
Images at once, silent without marks and cants.
I shift finally closer to Christian’s flesh, and all his lies.
The deed to succeed is confused with force;
I strike a match looking into his eyes,
Only to find his desires are coarse.
My nighty is crumpled with his kisses,
The bed sheets are stained with his data,
Compromising loves are the most strained of wishes,
The body is a trespasser in a swift regatta.
So much has changed. When I was a young girl
I knew what I felt. Nothing was understood.
Now there is conspiracy. Now there is a counter-world.
I do not feel any faith. Pain is my livelihood.
When I stop thinking of the cult, the usual images arise:
The cottage late Saturday, and the dishes in a heap,
Christian’s familiar touch in the dawn, the burning sighs,
And the lonely horizontal lake, swaying us both back to sleep.
Denzil read the last four stanzas aloud. I could feel as though my soul was melting into my chair. “My God,” I said to myself. More shame than I had ever felt washed over me. Again Denzil strode to his table and held up a file-folder.
“The state will verify Christian’s sperm inside of his sister’s body just as her blood lay on his suit-jacket,” he said loudly, dramatically. “The same one we found in the room. The DNA evidence against him is overwhelming.” He put down the file-folder and sighed. “We’ll call Andy Arckon forward. He’s practically family to the Tappets, the next door neighbor, Sally and Christian’s best friend, but he will confirm the long-standing rivalry between the two siblings and the dysfunctional tumult of this family.”
He stepped over toward the defense table and pointed to me, and then over to Mary and Stan. “A family so disorganized that a housekeeper, who has raised both the children, makes all the major decisions of the Tappet empire.”
I rose out of my seat, trembling and flush, but before I could say anything, Brad grabbed my arm and forced me to sit. Denzil gave me a quick smile and turned to face the jurors. How he found Sally’s poem and how my blood got onto her body and clothes was more than confusing, it was frightening; I’d long thought about it, but couldn’t offer any reasonable explanation.
He cleared his throat and looked over. “You’ll come to understand that this man and Sally Tappet were bitter enemies, hatred is not too strong a word to use. Their distorted incestuous relationship was a powder keg, so enemies, yes, yet drawn sexually to one another in a perverse obscene way. The state will simply make it as easy as any jury has ever had it in a murder trial to render a guilty verdict.” I began to weep. Denzil pointed at me. “He murdered his stepsister and main competitor to the Tappets’ empire,” he continued. “In the clear light of the evidence we’ll present, you will wholeheartedly agree.”
I was holding Brad’s arm so tight that he was wincing in pain. I don’t think that Brad’s opening remarks, dug us out of the pit Denzil Burch had put us in. In bed that night, I cried myself to sleep. As the first few days passed by, I soon learned that there were regular faces in the courtroom who weren’t with the press or any interested party, but just wanted to see the city’s best soap opera: a New York City trial with high-paid lawyers and a wealthy beautiful young victim and a seemingly greedy, ill-bred, incestuous adopted defendant. However, as the days wore on, even when a star-witness, expert-witness, or attorney took the stand, most of the testimony was technical and boring. Sometimes I was lulled into sleep, because I wasn’t sleeping that well at night.
On Wednesday, May
18 at Josh Burgess’ apartment at 214 Vermont Mall, while Josh reviewed Tappet’s audit results and other documents made available to him by Stan and Mary, as he had been doing for days, a tremendous explosion ripped through the night and lit up the sky outside his window. It was such a great detonation, Dad told me, that his front windows blew out. His car had been blown to smithereens. The next day, at nine o’clock in the morning, we were informed by courier that Burgess-Veld Investigative Agency had severed its association with Tappets and the murder investigation.
I felt betrayed, and also, I was in disbelief. I had gotten to know Peter so well, and even Ashe and Josh, I just couldn’t buy it. It felt like treachery, but Stan and Mary took it relatively well, as did Brad. That should have told me something, but as always, I judged it emotionally rather than rationally. Instead, to me, it was as if everyone had been bit with the idea that after all, even if innocent, my defeat was inevitable, that The First Law of Life was more powerful that any of the forces of goodness.
Ashe was sent to Houston Texas on another case. Josh left for Florida to trail a banker. Peter had packed up his wife and the new born daughter, and left immediately to Jamaica. Ray Veld and his son, Marshal, began working on a case out of town. They even closed the agency’s office in New York City, and so, as the trial dragged on, I lost track of time and closed my mind to hope. After all the technical witnesses had been called, the police testimony followed.
Days later Denzil Burch called Andy to the stand, and at once, it erupted into practically a donnybrook. Andy was resistant to Denzil’s questioning. When it was over, Brad leaned to me and whispered, “That backfired.”
I was proud of Andy, but by in large, the evidence mounted against me. On May 25, Anna Chapati, the former Love Israel, the one who’d had the Marilyn Monroe type body, who was going to testify, went missing. A witness saw her being kidnapped by men wearing ski-masks who pulled her into a van parked on Sedgewick Street, Lakewood, Colorado. I was horrified. In my heart, I knew that they’d killed her. It was The Family of Truth. If they had the nerve to kill Sally, then why not Anna?
On Wednesday June 1, Fats Cramer took the stand. All our hopes were resting on him. He sat as a rather attractive witness, and clearly at ease in the court room. I watched as Brad gave his notes one last glance. I knew he was nervous, but he hid it well. He rose and scanned the jurors in a friendly manner. He laid his left hand on my shoulder. I took a deep breath and calmed myself, but I knew that I couldn’t get the grim look out of my eyes. With the sudden disappearance of Anna Chapati and the back to back bad days at the trial, it was just too hard.
“Detective Cramer,” Brad said, “you were the homicide officer with the most experience on the case of Sally Tappet’s murder?”
“Yes.”
The stocky Denzil Burch slid out of his seat. “Your honor, may counsel approach?” he said in a loud plaintive voice.
Judge Phil Anderson was often impatient, especially with our side. He nodded and both Brad and Denzil stepped up. After some whispering, the jurors were excused. “Your honor,” Denzil said in open court, “our friend Brad, through the whole trial, has been trying to bring up the lie-detector tests. We are aware of why Detective Cramer came as a defense witness. We strongly object to this tactic.”
“Your honor,” Brad countered loudly, “Christian Tappet has taken three tests and passed them all. Are we going to bury him without a chance to offer an explanation of what we think happened? The prosecutor’s office is always arguing the validity of the polygraph tests. They can’t have it both ways. Our whole defense is that Christian has been set up: This has been our intention from the beginning and there is no surprise here. Fats Cramer is an experienced officer who worked the case and who agrees that the scenario we are describing is a real possibility.”
The judge looked at both lawyers and spoke in a very soft voice. “I’m sorry Denzil, I’m going to refuse you.”
Both lawyers returned to their tables and the court took a break. When we adjourned, Brad then stepped up to near the witness stand. “Detective Cramer,” he said, “were you on the homicide investigation of Sally Tappet’s murder for the procedures from the beginning?”
“Detective Fred Newel and myself. I worked the crime scene.”
“You thought that the accusation by the Tappet family that Christian had been framed for Sally’s murder by someone, held warrant?”
“There were two reasons for this. His polygraph tests were complete–”
“Your honor, objection.” Denzil said as he rose out of his seat, his voice booming with authority. “This is simply not admissible and they both know it.”
“Sustained. Strike the word polygraph from the record. The witness is advised to use the word, ‘tests’ in his testimony.”
Brad had gotten the word in. I knew that was his purpose. “His tests were easy passes?
“Furthermore, the evidence is what I called, Too warm.”
“You honor, objection,” Denzil said. “This isn’t only improper and inadmissible, it is just downright opinionated.”
“Sustained,” the judge said, “the witness must restate his answer.”
“Sometimes Mr. Burlington,” Fats said, “the evidence is so good that it immediately leads to a suspect.”
“Too good to be true, you mean?”
“Your Honor, objection,” Denzil said.
“Can’t you shut the hell up,” I said under my breath.
Brad turned and looked over at me as though he had heard it. “I withdraw the question,” he said. “Detective Cramer, you were also aware that there were two related murders of Tappet executives, branch presidents in fact?”
“Your Honor, objection! There’s no proof whatsoever that these two deaths are related to the murder of Sally Tappet.”
“I withdraw the question,” he said. “Detective Cramer you were also aware that The Family of Truth had responded to Sally Tappet’s suit against them with open threats?”
“Your Honor, objection.”
“I withdraw. Detective Cramer you were aware that the operational executive of Tappets, Hiroyuki Nakamura was a victim of a suspicious hit and run on March 6 this year which killed him?”
“Your honor. This was ruled an accident by NYPD Traffic.”
“I withdraw. Were you aware that one of the defense’s key witnesses, a former member of The Family of Truth, Anna Benjamin, has been reported by reliable witnesses to have been abducted just days ago?”
“Your honor,” Denzil said, “there’s no proof of that.”
I knew Brad was goading him, trying to make the prosecutor look unfair so that the jury would be more sympathetic to us. It certainly seemed to be working. “I withdraw,” Brad said. “Would you say that you protested the fact that no one would investigate the Tappet family’s claim of a murder conspiracy by The Family of Truth?”
“Your Honor,” Denzil said and rose again. “I strongly object to this line of questioning. Mr. Burlington knows that the families of the defense can make this kind of claim, especially in a capital case. Sometimes there are misguided police officers, who aren’t seeing the big picture.”
Brad turned sharply to the prosecutor’s table. “Mr. Burch, do you mean by, ‘the big picture,’ the police budget or Detective Cramer’s future. Are you threatening him?”
“I mean no such thing.”
“Gentlemen,” the judge said, “I warned you about this.”
“Detective Cramer,” Brad continued, turning back, “what happened when you made your objection to the District Attorney?”
Fats rubbed his chin. “He overruled it,” he said softly.
After a smattering of laughter, Brad walked to the defense table and glanced at his notes. “Is it true they took you off the case for this?”
Denzil rose from his seat. “Your Honor, objection.”
Again, more courtroom laughter followed and Brad chanced a wink at me out of sight of the jury. “I withdraw the question,” Brad said. �
�Your honor, I’ve seventy more questions. Could Mr. Burch make a carte blanche objection to all of them so that it wouldn’t take us two weeks with this witness?
“Your honor,” Denzil said and once again rose, “he’s using a perverse way to make his case by bouncing everything off me and then making me look like the bad guy. He knows that Detective Cramer would be a controversial witness.”
So it went, for three days, while Fats was on the stand. The morning after Fats’ testimony ended, Denzil Burch asked the judge to throw it all out. He gave a dramatic and sincere speech. The judge refused but I saw the impression made on the jurors. They doubted the conspiracy theory and thought it was possibly a gimmick. They thought perhaps that a New York detective had been paid off by a wealthy family.
The following days went bad for our side, and worse still, Susan was out of town for a whole week for a case she was working on. That evening at home in my bedroom, the whole shameful event of the trial came to me as an utter defeat of my life. It rose up at me in so many paths I could hardly think: The press, Mary and Stan, Susan, The Family of Truth, and my dreams. It consumed me. I couldn’t eat or sleep. Dread sat on my chest and I couldn’t console myself. To make matters more difficult, my head pounded. I stumbled downstairs and found Una cleaning in the library.
“I have a bad headache,” I said.
She left and returned with a glass of ice water and some headache tablets, then she sat across from me at a small table holding a vase of fresh red carnations and babies’ breath. She picked up the book I was currently reading, Power and Market, by Murray Rothbard. “Sally like this fellow,” she said.
I didn’t respond. He was a libertarian and I think Sally had been becoming one as well.
Stealing Flowers Page 29