He turned to the judge. “He’s not going bite either.”
She blushed. “Thanks.”
Armitage looked at the defense table and pointed out Nancy Parish. “Now, she’s the defendant’s lawyer. I can’t guarantee what she’s going to do, you understand that?”
She was nodding now. “I guess so.”
A few jury members chuckled.
Armitage moved back away. “You swore to tell us the truth. You can do that, right?”
“Sure.’
This was all done very smoothly. Greene was impressed. He’d seen many Crown Attorneys rush their own witnesses and turn good evidence into bad.
“Okay, Suzanne. You finished your shift and were waiting for Jet to come pick you up.”
Good move, Greene thought, talking to her about Jet, not “Mr. Trapper.”
“Yeah, I was having a smoke out back with Jose. He was the baker, and we used to do that.”
“And what happened?”
“Well, I told him that my old boyfriend Dewey—Dewey Booth is his full name—had like just got out of prison, and how he hung out with his buddy Larkin, who had super-long hair.”
“Larkin. Do you know his last name?”
“I didn’t then, but I do now from the papers and stuff. It’s him with the long hair. It used to be way longer.”
She pointed to St. Clair, sitting at the defense counsel table beside Nancy Parish. He’d been staring straight ahead the whole time and didn’t move a muscle. Well coached by his lawyer, Greene thought, to never look at the witness stand. Especially when one of the witnesses was someone he knew and who the jury might think he was trying to influence.
“What else did you say to Jose, while you were out back having your smoke? Before Jet came to pick you up?”
That was smart, Greene thought. Recap the key points to reinforce them to the jury. Make sure they know where she is in her story.
“I said I thought Dewey was looking for me. That I was afraid,” she said. “I told him that Dewey and Jet hate each other.”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Nancy Parish came flying out of her seat.
Rothbart put his hand up as if to say, “I understand,” then looked at Armitage with dagger eyes. “Mr. Crown, I don’t want to hear this kind of highly prejudicial hearsay evidence.” He turned to the jury. “Members of the jury, you will disregard this witness’s last statement. What she thinks other people think of each other is not, I repeat, not evidence.”
Greene wondered how Armitage would take this judicial rebuke.
He stood tall. “Apologies, Your Honor. We have an inexperienced witness here, but I’ll be very careful.”
Nicely done, Greene thought. And good move setting up right from the start that Howett has never been in court before.
“Suzanne, what happened next? Only what you saw and heard, and not what anyone else told you.”
“Okay. We were sharing a cigarette, then Jose went inside.”
“You two were alone?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do?” Armitage was in a smooth cadence with his witness, which made the story easy to follow, and to believe.
“I went around the far side of the building away from the lot where it’s real dark. I heard Jose call me from out back and warn me that he’d seen Dewey and Larkin inside.”
“Did you call back to him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want anyone to know where I was. Especially Dewey.”
“Then what happened?”
“I hid beside the wall for another minute or two until I saw Jet’s Caddy drive up. He owns an old Cadillac.”
“What did you do?”
“Jet got out of the car and I ran across the lot to him. I didn’t even see the father and the little boy.”
“Just tell us what you did see.” Greene saw Armitage look over to the jury. One of the jurors, a young woman, nodded at him. He smiled back at her, his best Ralph Armitage grin.
In the witness box, Howett had stopped speaking. Greene saw her start to shake, just as she’d done when he’d encountered her at the gas station. She reached down with her right hand and massaged her left baby finger. He could almost smell her fear.
It took Armitage a moment to hear the strained silence. He turned to her. “Suzanne, what did you see?”
Howett was nodding her head fast, gulping down air. “I didn’t tell anyone this before,” she said, speaking all in one breath. A sudden spurt of energy. “He, he, Jet I mean, he had a gun.”
50
Ralph Armitage had a sick feeling. He knew what Suzanne Howett was going to say a moment before she blurted out her lie—that Jet had a gun. He might not have been the best legal eagle when it came to black-letter law, but as did most experienced prosecutors who faced this all the time, he knew everything about cross-examining his own witness when they recanted. Changed their earlier evidence and became a so-called hostile witness.
Nancy Parish had taken a big risk by waiving the prelim in this case, but now he could see another reason why she did it. Armitage had no way of knowing what Howett would say the first time she testified under oath. And a surprise such as this in front of the jury could be a disaster for his case.
Everyone in the court looked taken aback by what she’d said. He had to stanch the bleeding right away. He strode over to his counsel table, took three copies of the transcript of the initial statement Howett had given to Greene at the homicide bureau from a folder on his desk, and with a popping sound opened a yellow highlighter that was beside it.
Although he was acting shocked and outraged for the benefit of the jury, Armitage had half expected this to happen, so he had everything ready. If he played this right, it might actually help his case. Make it clear to the jury that Howett had been intimidated into changing her story. Probably by Larkin or Dewey or both. Didn’t really matter. Juries hated this kind of thing and always took it out on the accused.
He highlighted a passage in each copy. The marker made an uncomfortable squeaking noise, the only sound in the packed, tense courtroom.
When he was done, he walked deliberately over to the defense table. Parish already had her copy of the transcript out and had turned to the same page as the one he’d highlighted. He showed her what he’d done and she nodded. She did not look happy. They both knew what was coming.
Then he turned back to Howett on the witness stand. Changing the pace to take her off guard, he barreled up to her and thrust a copy in front of her. He wanted the jury to think he was furious.
He rotated toward Rothbart. “Your Honor, I’m making an application before this court to have Ms. Suzanne Howett declared a hostile witness.” He handed the second copy of the statement to the court clerk, who passed it up to the judge.
“On what grounds?” Rothbart asked.
“Contradiction of a previous signed, sworn, and videotaped statement given freely to a person in authority,” he said. “I direct Your Honor to the highlighted portions on page four.”
Rothbart drummed his fingers on his hand as he read the statement. Then he looked at the defense table. “Ms. Parish?”
Parish looked up from her copy of the statement and didn’t even bother to rise. “I can see no grounds to object,” she said.
She was a smart enough lawyer not to fight a losing legal battle, he thought.
“Proceed,” Rothbart told him.
“Ms. Howett.” He turned his gaze on her. No more calling her “Suzanne.” No more Mr. Nice Guy. “Do you recognize this?”
She barely glanced at the papers. “I do.”
“Take all six pages. Give them a good look.” He was in very close, using his considerable height to dominate the space between them. “Tell the jury what this is.”
She reached for the pages, her elbows tight to her sides, like a timid child about to get her hands slapped. “It’s the statement I gave to Detective Greene,” she said.
“That Det
ective Greene?” He pointed back to Greene, who was sitting placidly at the Crown’s table.
“Yes, sir.”
“At the Toronto police headquarters?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On November seventeenth.”
“Yeah, a few days after it happened.”
“Under oath?”
“Yes.”
“Videotaped?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes. Yes, sir.”
He ripped the document out of her hand and flipped to the last page. “And this signature,” he said, jabbing at the paper, “is it yours?”
“It is,” she said without looking at it.
“No, look,” he demanded. “Is this your signature?”
Shaking now, she bent down. “Yes.” She sounded absolutely defeated.
This was what he needed to do. Destroy this lie she’d just told. He wanted the jury to be as mad as he was. Or as mad as he was pretending to be.
He flipped to the fourth page. “Here.” He pointed to the section he’d just highlighted. “I want you to read the parts in yellow. Including the name of the person asking or answering the question.”
He jammed the papers into her hand and strode back, placing himself square in the middle of the jury box. Let her be alone with her lie. He flipped to page four of his copy, making it clear he was going to follow her every word.
She hesitated.
Armitage didn’t. He had to keep the pressure on. “Your Honor, please tell this witness that she must read this passage out loud.” He’d taken her from “Suzanne” to “Ms. Howett” to “this witness.”
Rothbart put on a very stern face. “Ms. Howett,” he said in his deep bass voice. Good to have an actor on the bench when you needed one, Armitage thought.
“Okay,” she said. “Can I get a glass of water first?”
“Certainly.” Rothbart poured one himself and handed it over to her.
She took a long sip, then started to read.
“‘Detective Greene: “What happened next?”’
“‘Suzanne Howett: “Someone said, ‘Here, take this,’ then I heard the shots. We jumped in the car and took off.”’
“‘Detective Greene: “How many shots?”’
“‘Suzanne Howett: “I don’t know. A lot.”’
“‘Detective Greene: “Did Jet have a gun?”’
“‘Suzanne Howett: “No. He didn’t have a gun.”’”
Howett stopped reading. Her hands were shaking. She took another sip of water. She put the paper down and covered her face with her hands.
“Your Honor,” Armitage said.
Rothbart leaned over to her. “Ms. Howett, please continue,” he said gently.
She wiped her hands across her face and started to read again. “‘Detective Greene: “You sure? You’re under oath now and I’m going to get this statement typed out and have you sign it.”’
“‘Suzanne Howett: “I’m sure. Jet didn’t have a gun.”’
“‘Detective Greene: “Where did the shots come from?”’
“‘Behind me somewhere. Near the Timmy’s.’”
She stopped and looked at Armitage.
“Ms. Howett,” he said. “Were you asked those questions and did you give those answers?” he asked.
She tossed the paper down. “Yes. But I lied. I was afraid. Jet told me what to say.”
This was a pivotal moment in this trial. If the jury believed her new evidence, that Jet had a gun, the case was in serious trouble.
Armitage looked back at Rothbart. “Permission to cross-examine this witness, sir?”
“Ms. Parish, any objections?” Rothbart asked.
“No objections,” she said.
“Granted,” Rothbart said.
Time for a change of pace, Armitage thought. He stroked his chin, smiled at her. “So, let me get this straight. Jet had a gun that night.”
“Yes.” She looked relieved by his less aggressive tone.
“What kind of gun was it?” he asked her, breaking rule number one in cross-examination: never ask a question when you don’t know the answer. A rule he couldn’t risk following right now.
“Umm. I’m not sure. I … I don’t know much about guns.”
“Was it real big”—he held his hands far apart at an exaggerated distance—“or teeny and small?” He moved his hands back so they were almost together.
“I didn’t really see it.”
“You didn’t really see it? Or you didn’t see it at all?”
“Just kind of saw it, you know. Like, I mean it was dark.”
She was a bad liar. And he wanted to leave no doubt about that with the jury.
Back at the counsel table he retrieved a thick black binder. “When you were picked up and questioned by Detective Greene, he told you the police had recorded all your phone calls, monitored your e-mails and text messages.”
“Yeah, they did.” Her eyes were riveted on the binder. She would have read it all before testifying today.
“But you had no idea at the time, did you, that the police were listening in?”
“No, like I said, I don’t really know about courts and stuff.”
Perfect answer. He took the binder and strolled back up to her. “Every one of your conversations with your boyfriend Jet, texts and e-mails to him as well, and to your best friend, Cindy, who even came over to spend the night with you. They are all in here. And you’ve seen all this. Right?”
“Right.”
“And in the three days between the shooting and Detective Greene picking you up and questioning you, in all your calls and messages, you never once mention anything to Jet or Cynthia about a gun. Correct?”
She stared at the black binder. Then at Armitage. She looked pathetic. “I guess I never talked about it. Wasn’t important.”
He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Do you expect this jury to believe that you, a twenty-two-year-old woman with no criminal record, never been arrested before, hear that a four-year-old boy was murdered inches from you, your boyfriend had a gun, and you didn’t think it was important? Never talked about it?”
“I … I don’t know.”
He padded back to the counsel table. Put the binder down in front of him. Let the time and the tension accumulate. “Ms. Howett.” His voice now was soft as silk. Sometimes soft was better than hard. “You haven’t told us yet. Did Jet fire this gun you say he had? The one you never saw?”
Her eyes looked terrified. Clearly this was the one question she didn’t want to be asked. She looked incapable of answering it.
He picked back up her sworn statement with one hand. The other he placed on Greene’s shoulder. “You told Detective Greene the shots came from behind you. Didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“That’s a yes?”
“Yes, I said that.”
“Because it was true, wasn’t it?”
She was still nodding.
“Suzanne,” he said, coming all the way back to using her first name. He was speaking gently, like a comforting adult talking to a disturbed child. “The shots came from behind you, didn’t they?”
“Yes. Yes they did.”
“And Jet never fired a gun, did he?”
She took a deep breath. “No. I mean I didn’t see him shoot.”
He put the statement down and touched the binder in front of him. “And you and Jet didn’t say a word about him having a gun, because he didn’t have one, did he?”
She started to cry. “I didn’t know that little boy was shot,” she blurted out. “And if I hadn’t been there …”
He took a look over at the jurors. One of them caught his eye, then looked back at the witness stand. He had to watch out. If they felt he was yet another man pushing this weak young woman around, they’d start to feel sorry for her. Stuck as she clearly was between these two low-life men, Dewey and Jet.
On the witness stand, Howett started to shudder. Her br
eathing was halting. She was hyperventilating
Rothbart looked at Armitage. “Maybe we should give this witness five minutes,” he said.
“That’s okay, Your Honor,” he said.
He wanted to leave it at this point. If she composed herself he had no way of knowing what she’d say. She might stick to her story that there was a gun. But this way, everyone knew she was at best completely unreliable, and at worst simply a liar.
“I’ll just enter the binder as an exhibit. It says it all. No further questions.”
This is a great way to end a lousy week in court, he thought as he walked up to the court clerk and delivered the binder, then returned to his counsel table. Cedric Wilkinson was sitting behind it and looked straight at him. For the first time since they’d met, Armitage saw something that he hadn’t seen before from the grieving father.
Respect.
51
Her mother would not have approved of the language, but right now Nancy Parish felt like shit. No nicer way to describe it. Fourteen straight hours of working on the case. Her head was pounding. And she looked like hell too. Great way to spend Saturday night. Why oh why had she agreed to meet Ted DiPaulo for dinner tonight? And even worse, at Jump, one of the swish downtown restaurants he loved to frequent.
She’d spent the bulk of the day preparing her cross-examinations for next week, and most of all, her address to the jury. In a case where her client didn’t testify—and Larkin St. Clair had not budged on that—it was the most important thing.
There was one advantage to St. Clair’s not taking the stand: if the defense didn’t call any evidence, she got to address the jury last. She had to make the most of the opportunity.
The jury address was the only thing Parish never typed out. Somehow the old-fashioned way of writing it by hand made her focus better. Problem was, every time she started to work on it, she found some way to get distracted. This was avoidance and she knew it. And having a pen and paper in hand made it too easy for her to start drawing cartoons instead.
She sighed, flipped over the pad to a fresh sheet, and sketched a picture of a courtroom. The judge was up on his dais. Twelve jurors were in the box. And the defense lawyer was standing in front of them. In one hand, she had a gun pointed at her head. With the other, she pulled a noose wrapped around her neck skyward. Parish smirked. She added a third arm, with a samurai sword pointed at her heart. A fourth with a lit bomb held to her chest. Fifth was an ice pick aimed at her ear. Sixth a razor blade about to slice one of the lawyer’s many wrists.
Stray Bullets Page 23