Long Knives

by Charles Rosenberg

  “It showed that it was coffee, and that it contained a high level of sodium azide. It also showed that, in terms of its other chemical constituents, it was an exact match to the coffee found in the victim’s coffee cup.”

  I wanted to put my head in my hands, but I resisted the urge and just sat there gritting my teeth and wishing we had never agreed to the hearing.

  “Can we,” Oscar asked, “get a copy of the report?”

  “I don’t have one yet,” Drady said. “It was read to me over the phone by a colleague.”

  “Then I move,” Oscar said, looking at Dr. Wing, “that Detective Drady’s testimony be struck from this record. This is hearsay on hearsay on hearsay. The report itself is hearsay, and Detective Drady admits he hasn’t even read it himself. He is reporting what someone else says is in it. This testimony is outrageously unreliable totem-pole hearsay, as we call it in my profession. Stacked hearsay.”

  “Well,” Dr. Wing said, “because this is an informal proceeding, I think we’ll admit it and weigh its value later. Greta, do you have more questions?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “How about you, Oscar?”

  “Oh, I have several,” Oscar said. “And let me start with this one: Detective, do you have any evidence that Professor James is the one who put the jar of coffee in her refrigerator?”

  “No, I don’t, not directly. But it was in her refrigerator, eh? So who else would have put it there?”

  “Are you aware that Professor James has a roommate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who majors in molecular chemistry?”

  “Yes, we’re aware of all of that. But so far as we are aware, the roommate didn’t even know the victim. So why would he poison him, eh?”

  Drady’s affectation of the eh at the end of his sentences, as if he were a newly minted Canadian, irritated me. Almost as much as the fact that Oscar knew very well who had put the coffee in the refrigerator because I had told him several days before that I had put it there, and that the police had taken it during their search.

  “Oscar,” Dr. Wing asked, “do you have anything further?”

  “Just two more questions. Detective, even assuming Professor James put the jar of coffee in the refrigerator, do you have any evidence as to when she put it there?”

  “No, I don’t. But I don’t know what difference it would make because it was her refrigerator in her apartment, eh? And most people don’t have poisoned coffee in their refrigerators.”

  “Detective,” Oscar asked, ignoring the sarcasm, “when did you first learn of the analysis of the coffee taken from the refrigerator?”

  “Today.”

  “Did anyone else know earlier?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Why did it take so long? The police department has had that jar of coffee for over ten days now.”

  “The LAPD lab does the analysis for us, and they’re backed up. They did the analysis of the coffee in the victim’s cup first, and then the sugar and the coffee beans. They only just now finished various items taken from the defendant’s—sorry, I mean Professor James’s—apartment.”

  “Anything else, Oscar?” Dr. Wing asked.

  “Not at the moment, but I may call Detective Drady as our witness later on.”

  “Oh, that’s fine,” Dr. Wing said. “Are you willing to come back, Detective?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Then you’re excused for now.”

  If the whole thing hadn’t turned so serious, I would have laughed at watching Dr. Wing fall into the lingo of formal courts, now excusing the witness instead of just telling him he could go.

  “Greta,” Dr. Wing asked, “are you ready with your next witness?”

  “She’s a couple of minutes late, apparently. Let me make a call.”

  “In that case,” Oscar said, “I’d like to take a brief break.”

  “Sounds good,” Dr. Wing said. “Let’s meet back here in ten.” And with that, he pushed back his chair, got up and left the room, as did the other members of the panel. That left only me, Oscar and Greta in the room.

  “Who,” I asked, “is your next witness, Greta?”

  “That will just have to be a surprise, dear.”

  I wanted to protest, but with Dr. Wing and the rest of the panel gone, there was no one to protest to. In the meantime I could feel my stomach knotting up.

  Oscar got up and started to leave the room, and I followed. We walked down the hall and once again went into the nearly empty conference room.

  “Oscar, why did you bother trying to mess up Drady’s testimony about where the jar of coffee came from? We both know where it came from. As I told you earlier in the week, I put it there.”

  “It always helps to sow doubt,” he said and smiled.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I think we should just pull out of this hearing. We went into it thinking we’d learn some things that would help in the civil case. Now it’s turning into a serious preliminary hearing on my possible guilt in a murder, for God’s sake. We’re now worse off than we were before they told you I was no longer on their list.”

  “Jenna, you’ve forgotten everything I taught you about criminal law. Whether this turns back into a criminal case or remains just a civil case against you, it’s free discovery for us. You don’t have to testify, and we get to listen to the potential witnesses against you and ask them questions. Nothing could be better.”

  “What would be better, Oscar, would be for you to have figured out—before we agreed to this hearing—that the police hadn’t yet tested the coffee jar from my refrigerator.”

  “Ouch. That was a fair comment, Jenna. I admit I didn’t think to ask, when the DA said you were no longer a person of interest, whether they’d already processed all of the evidence they seized. I just assumed they had. My mistake, and I apologize.”

  “So do you think I’m again a serious person of interest?”

  “No. Candidly, you’re now at least a suspect, and maybe even a target.”

  CHAPTER 79

  We went back to the hearing room and took our seats. The others, including the panel members, filtered in over the next few minutes. After everyone was seated, Dr. Wing asked, “Greta, is your next witness ready?”

  “She’s just arriving, I think,” Greta said.

  Just then there was a knock at the door. Professor Trolder got up to answer it and admitted a petite Asian woman.

  “This is Thu Nguyen,” Broontz said.

  “Welcome, Ms. Nguyen,” Dr. Wing said. “Please have a seat in the chair next to Professor Broontz.”

  She went and sat down in the chair. I looked at her but couldn’t immediately place her.

  Dr. Wing then went through his usual drill about what we were doing, how she had to tell the truth, the fact that we were recording the session, how informal it all was and to please feel at home and all the other baloney.

  “Now, Ms. Nguyen,” he said, “could you tell us your occupation?”

  “Yes. I own a nail salon on Westwood Boulevard south of Wilshire. It’s called Only Nails. I’m both the owner and the manager.”

  “What can you tell us, if anything, about Professor James’s relationship to the unfortunate death of her student, Primo Giordano?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know the student and I don’t know about his death.”

  “May I ask some questions?” Professor Broontz asked.

  “Of course, Greta,” Dr. Wing said.

  “Okay. First, Ms. Nguyen, have you seen Professor James before? She’s sitting right there.” Broontz pointed at me.

  “Objection,” Oscar said. “You can’t ask someone if they’ve ever seen a person with a certain name before and then point to the person.”

  “That does seem an awkward way to go about it,” Trolder said. “It’s like doing an economics survey where you tell the respondents the answer you’re looking for.”

  I had been looking at Thu Nguyen and had finally recognized
her. She was the woman who had arranged for me to get my hands waxed when they had been so red the day that Primo died. I had no clue what relevance her testimony could have, but I saw no reason to avoid the fact that we had met. And I said so.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “I think we can short-circuit all of this. I know Ms. Nguyen. We met on the day that Primo died.”

  “Is that correct, Ms. Nguyen?” Dr. Wing asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Can you tell us about that, please?”

  “Yes. Professor James—I didn’t know her full name until now—came into my salon and complained that her hands were red. She asked if we had some treatment. We used a hot wax treatment on her hands. She seemed pleased.”

  Professor Broontz resumed her questions. “Did she pay with a credit card or with cash?”

  “I told you the other day when you interviewed me. She paid with cash.”

  “Did she mention,” Professor Broontz asked, “whether she had gotten something on her hands that had irritated them?”

  “I also told you the other day. No, she didn’t say that.”

  I suddenly saw where this was going. Greta was going to argue that I had gone to the salon to get any traces of sodium azide washed off my hands, because I must have spilled some of it on them.

  “But,” Greta persisted, “if Professor James had something on her hands, the wax would remove that, right?”

  “I guess so, but I don’t really know.”

  “Okay,” Greta said. “I don’t have anything further. Let’s move on to the next witness.”

  “One moment,” Dr. Wing said. “Do you have any questions, Oscar?”

  “Yes,” Oscar said. “A few. Ms. Nguyen,” he asked, “do women often come to your salon because their hands are red?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because their skin is irritated?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times this week has your spa given a hot wax treatment to women who complained about red or irritated hands?”

  She stopped and thought for a moment. “Maybe five?”

  “So you might do two hundred and fifty hot wax treatments in a year?”

  “Maybe more.”

  “Finally, is it unusual for someone to pay in cash in your salon?”

  “No. And we prefer it, because then we do not pay a percentage to the credit-card company.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I have.”

  “I have a question,” I said. “How did Professor Broontz contact you?”

  “She came into the shop one day and brought a picture of you. She asked if we had ever seen you. We said yes.”

  “Did she ask you anything else?”

  “She asked if you had gotten a hot wax treatment from us.”

  “Did Professor Broontz say how she knew I might have had a hot wax treatment?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t know. But I knew. Tommy must have told her. He was the only person on the planet, besides the employees of the salon, who knew that I’d had a hot wax treatment that day. And after Tommy told her, Greta must have gone around to all the nail shops in the area with my picture. And hadn’t Tommy also been the person in the best position to plant the sodium azide receipt in my pocket, despite his denial? He was now at the very tip-top of my list of suspects. No, he wasn’t a suspect. He was the target.

  I wanted to leap out of my chair and scream, “Case solved!” But instead, I calmed myself and went on questioning the salon owner. “Did she ask you anything else, Ms. Nguyen?”

  “Yes. She asked if your hands were really red.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I said they were red, but I had seen hands more red.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I have.”

  Dr. Wing looked at her. “Thank you, Ms. Nguyen. We appreciate your coming.”

  “No problem.” And then Ms. Nguyen looked at Professor Broontz and said, “I will see you for your nails next week, right?”

  Broontz looked taken aback. “Oh, of course.”

  “I think,” Dr. Wing said, “that we’re at a good breaking point for the day. Greta, who will you have for us tomorrow as the first witness?”

  “Quinto Giordano.”

  “That won’t work well for us,” Oscar said. “One of Professor James’s other lawyers, Robert Tarza, is particularly familiar with Mr. Giordano’s issues, but he’s out of town. So we’d like to postpone him until Mr. Tarza is back, which won’t be until Wednesday night.”

  “Isn’t he,” Trolder asked, “the guy who was charged with murder a number of years back? And then escaped the charge somehow?”

  I couldn’t stand it. “Yes” I said, “he was that guy. And he escaped the charge because he wasn’t guilty. Kind of like me, ya know?”

  Dr. Wing intervened. “I think there’s no need to go into this. Mr. Tarza is welcome here without regard to all of that.” He gave Trolder a look that said Please shut up, Paul.

  “Well,” Oscar said, “what shall we do about scheduling?”

  Wing looked thoughtful. “You know, we’ve accomplished quite a lot today, I think. Why don’t we adjourn now and meet again on Thursday, maybe 10:00 A.M.?”

  There were nods of agreement all around, and we adjourned until Thursday morning. I hoped Robert would be back by then because Quinto had it in for me, and, I had to grudgingly admit, he was capable of being persuasive.

  CHAPTER 80

  Week 3—Wednesday

  It was almost 9:00 A.M., and I was still in bed when the ringing of my landline woke me from a ragged sleep. Oscar had kept me up late the night before planning strategy for Thursday and talking about who our witnesses were going to be—if any—when Broontz finished with hers.

  To my disappointment, Oscar wasn’t impressed with my Tommy-did-it theory. He pointed out that Greta, who, he noted, was also on my suspect list, could simply have followed me and seen me go into the salon. I argued that she had no reason to follow me and no reason to ask if I’d had a hot wax treatment. I finally dropped it after Oscar said he would let the police know my theory.

  We also talked about the fact that if they dared to call Julie as a witness, we were going to have to find a way to immolate her. I hadn’t slept well at all. And I had pushed the dresser back in front of the door, because if the police were focusing on me again as their prime suspect in Primo’s death, it meant the real killer was still out there, unconcerned and free to act.

  The phone was still in its cradle and continuing to ring. I punched the speakerphone button so I wouldn’t have to hold the thing up to my ear. It was Aldous.

  “Hey,” he said, “I’m back from Buffalo. Sorry I was gone so much longer than I expected.”

  “Welcome back.”

  “That didn’t sound all that friendly.”

  “No, no. It’s just that you kind of woke me up. I’ve had a sleepless night. Greta Broontz has brought charges against me, contending that my alleged murder of Primo has disrupted the teaching environment on campus, and we’re in the middle of a hearing about it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. Three days ago I thought this was all over, and that I was no longer a focus of the police investigation. Now I’m again apparently at least a serious suspect, and I’m also the focus of an investigation by the Charges Committee.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why didn’t you call me and tell me what was going on?”

  “Well, why didn’t you call me, Aldous, and ask how things were going back here?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been in meetings and meals from dawn to dusk. Well past dusk, actually. Anyway, these charges against you are ridiculous.”

  “Yes, they are. I’ve also gone back to thinking that maybe someone was trying to poison me, and that the library thing wasn’t just an accident.”

  “What library thing?”

  “While you were gone, a shelf of books fell on me. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

  “What
about the civil suit for stealing the map, Jenna?”

  “Allegedly stealing the map.”

  “That’s what I meant.”

  “Who knows? I’ll have to deal with that later. How was Buffalo?”

  “It was great. It’s going to be just what I’ve always wanted. A school that combines a great legal education and a great business education for each and every student.”

  Aldous began to describe his whole trip to me in glorious detail. While I listened, or tried to, I climbed out of bed, snatched the portable phone from its cradle so that the speakerphone clicked off and transferred the sound to the handset. I pulled the dresser away from the door and went into the bathroom. My mouth tasted foul. I continued listening—now Aldous was talking about the great facilities they were renting, and how they were going to build their own building within three years—while trying to brush my teeth, but quietly, so he couldn’t hear. I should have put the mute on, but I forgot.

  “Jenna, are you brushing your teeth?”

  “Uh, yeah. My mouth tasted horrible. I was afraid you’d be able to detect my bad breath even over the phone.”

  “Very funny. But listen, I won’t keep you.”

  “Hey, Aldous, I’m sorry, don’t be that way. It’s like being stuck in a long tunnel when I thought I’d already come out of it.”

  “All right. I understand. How about lunch today, Jenna?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s a really beautiful day, and I think you need to do something to cheer yourself up. I propose a picnic in the sculpture garden.”

  “Sounds great. What time?”

  “I’ll meet you there at noon.”

  “Okay. Shall I bring something?”

  “No, I’ll put it all together.”

  “Good. See you there.”

  I spent the rest of the morning drafting end-of-semester exams. Normally by this time in the semester I would already have written near-final drafts of both exams.

  At about eleven the doorbell rang, which was an almost unheard of event. Usually, if I was expecting visitors, the front desk called and asked me if it was okay for them to come up. And, in any case, I wasn’t expecting anyone. I walked to the front door and peered out through the little glass peephole. It was Tommy.