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SITTING NEXT TO GUMA AT THE PROSECUTION TABLE, KARP made notes on his yellow legal pad and pretended not to be interested in what was occurring across the aisle. But it was hard not to smile as Rottingham leaned in close to LaFontaine, arguing quietly yet vigorously. Twice the defense attorney looked back over his shoulder at him before turning back to his client. But whatever he was saying, it was having no effect, as the defendant continued to shake his head and argue back.
Karp heard the door at the rear of the courtroom open and turned in his seat to look back as a woman in sunglasses entered wearing a scarf over her blond hair. Dressed in slacks, a blouse, and a faded beige jacket, she looked like the sort of courtroom spectator who frequented trials where there had been a lot of publicity. The woman looked around for a moment before walking up and taking a seat next to Marlene, who’d called shortly before Karp left for the courtroom to say that she was going to attend the trial that morning. Marlene scooted over a little bit to make room but didn’t say anything to the woman as she gave Karp a slight smile.
Smiling back, Karp then turned his attention to the defense table. At last Rottingham’s shoulders sagged and he nodded. Rising from his seat and addressing Judge Temple, he announced, “The defense calls John LaFontaine.”
Karp managed to keep a straight face, but his heart skipped a triumphant beat. They were now into the second day of the defense’s case, and his plan to bait LaFontaine into taking the stand had worked.
After Monique Hale’s testimony, Karp had wrapped up the People’s case by calling investigators from the insurance companies that had written policies for Natalie Hale and Micah Ellis. The investigators testified that efforts had been made to search national databases for medical records pertaining to the children, but other than typical childhood issues that had shown up in the records of family doctors, there was nothing. On cross-examination, Rottingham had done little more than get the investigators to agree that it was not unusual for death benefits to be assigned to churches and other charitable organizations.
Karp’s last witness had been a handwriting expert. He testified that whoever had signed the insurance applications as Charles Hale and David Ellis “was the same person, neither of whom were the real Mr. Hale or Mr. Ellis.”
After Kenny Katz was shot trying to protect Ray Guma from Kathryn Boole’s rampage, there had been no question that Karp would prosecute the case. The question had been how best to go about it, as it was no slam-dunk. The strategy he settled on had risks, but they were calculated risks he decided to take in part by studying his opponent’s behavior and concluding that the man’s ego could be used against him.
One of the earliest clues had been how LaFontaine, still going by the name Reverend C. G. Westlund, sought out the media spotlight after the Ellises had been charged. Of course, Karp knew that the defendant had been worried that if they were successfully prosecuted, the insurance company wouldn’t pay, but there was more to it than that. LaFontaine had taken the chance that someone with whom he’d had previous dealings—such as Monique Hale—might see him on the national news and expose him. But he clearly enjoyed being a First Amendment poster boy and the support, as well as the funding, of those who’d rallied to his cause.
Some of it came down to understanding that LaFontaine was a man who practiced an extremely evil con game based on his ability to persuade parents not to seek medical attention for their sick children; it took a master manipulator to compromise such a strong bond. He was sure that LaFontaine believed he could sell ice cream to Eskimos and every success had convinced him that he was unstoppable.
Karp was sure that LaFontaine had even used his powers of persuasion on Kathryn Boole, preying on her loneliness, to seduce his way into her bed and her will. Then he convinced the woman, who’d never committed a crime in her life, to murder David Ellis. When she’d done his bidding, he ruthlessly, cold-bloodedly set her up to be killed by his own man, or any police officers present, to “protect” Karp.
After the arrest, Karp had known that LaFontaine wasn’t going to confess or even say much before invoking his right to silence. But Karp had counted on the man wanting to engage in a war of words and knew he could get under LaFontaine’s skin by challenging him and his ego. Then, during the trial, whether it was in his opening statement or with witnesses on the stand, Karp used every opportunity to belittle LaFontaine and paint him as a venal, evil bully who could only take on the weak. He’d made sure the defendant saw his looks of disgust and contempt and had been pleased to note how hard it had been for the egomaniac to control his rage at the insults.
After Karp had presented the People’s case in chief, Judge Temple had adjourned for lunch, saying that the defense would begin its case immediately afterward. True to formal procedure, Rottingham made the pro forma motion to dismiss at the conclusion of the People’s case by arguing that the prosecution had failed to present sufficient evidence to convict his client, and as was routinely done, Judge Temple had denied the motion.
So after lunch, Rottingham had started by calling an “expert” in faith healing to the stand. The man cited half a dozen anecdotal instances in which patients had been told that there was no hope, that their diseases were incurable and they were going to die. “But through prayer and the intercession of men of faith, they are alive today,” declared the witness, who had written a book on the subject.
That witness had been followed by a “faith psychologist,” who claimed that “scientific” data she’d assembled demonstrated that the human body responded to prayer “so long as there is a strong correlation between the intercession and the victim’s beliefs.” And because a child picks up on the beliefs of parents, it was also necessary that “the caregivers be committed to the faith-healing process as well.” As “proof,” she showed the jurors “before-and-after photographic images” of patients’ magnetic fields—“Or auras, if you prefer the term,” she said—that she claimed demonstrated significant improvement in their health.
Karp challenged both witnesses in the same manner, questioning whether their theories were “generally accepted within the scientific community,” to which both, after complaining that the scientific community was not open to “matters of faith,” admitted they were not. They also admitted that none of their studies involved the defendant.
Rottingham then called E. Webster Harding, a constitutional law professor from Harvard, to testify that LaFontaine’s actions were protected under the religious-freedom articles of the First Amendment. “We, as Americans, may not agree with any particular religious practice,” Harding, an effete little man in a wool coat with leather elbow patches, sniffed, “but we believe in tolerance; the individual’s right to worship as he or she sees fit is inviolate constitutionally.”
On cross-examination, Karp queried, “Does one’s exercise of his First Amendment rights immunize him from child abuse, Mr. Harding?”
“No, I would have to say not,” Harding said.
“And, Mr. Harding, does one’s exercise of his constitutional rights immunize him from murder?”
“No, of course not,” Harding huffed.
As Harding left the stand, Karp sat down and leaned over to Guma. “Was Bill Buckley ever right when he wrote that he’d rather be governed by the first two hundred individuals whose names appear in the Boston phone book than by the entire faculty at Harvard, particularly its law school,” he said, then winked. “Okay, so I added the last part.”
When Temple prepared to adjourn for the day, Rottingham gave no indication what his plan for the morning would be. There was the possibility that he would rest the defense’s case and try to make the point in his summation that the prosecution had failed to prove his client guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
However, Karp bet that LaFontaine wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to demonstrate how smart he was by putting one over on the DA, the jury, the court, and the entire justice system. Nevertheless, it had been a restless night, between wondering whether
LaFontaine would take the stand and preparing for it, as well as the looming threat of the Halloween parade in two days.
Following the “assault” by David Grale, Fulton saw to it that extra police units were assigned outside the Crosby Street loft, keeping reporters, television crews, and the public, including LaFontaine’s supporters, at bay. All press calls to the DAO regarding the matter were fielded by chief administrative aide Gilbert Murrow, who had “no further comment.”
The NYPD handled inquiries their own way. “We take this matter extremely seriously,” Police Commissioner Timothy Murphy said at a press conference. “We are searching for this individual and ask the public to report any sightings of him. However, do not approach or try to detain him; we consider him armed and extremely dangerous.” A police media intern had then handed out a police-artist sketch of Grale, essentially a scruffy, white, bearded male with deep-set eyes in a hooded sweatshirt, a description that fit a good percentage of New York’s population.
The next morning, Fulton again dropped Karp off at the Hogan Place entrance, where, other than a brief wave of the hand, he did not respond to shouted questions from the media. An hour later, Karp smiled inwardly as Rottingham called LaFontaine to the stand.
“All right, Mr. LaFontaine …,” Judge Temple began to say.
“Reverend LaFontaine, please, Your Honor,” the defendant corrected him as he stood and brushed back his long hair with his fingers.
The judge studied him balefully for a moment before shrugging. “Okay, Reverend LaFontaine, would you please approach the witness stand to be sworn in.”
LaFontaine rose and nodded to the jurors before striding to the witness stand. As he stood in the witness box he was asked by the court clerk if he would tell the truth and nothing but the truth. He raised his chin and replied, “Of course. I do not lie.”
“The jury is here to determine that, Mr. LaFontaine. You may be seated,” Temple growled, and turned to Rottingham. “You may begin your examination.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Rottingham replied, turning to his witness. “I’d like to begin by clearing something up for the jury. In his opening remarks, Mr. Karp noted that when you came to New York City, you used the name C. G. Westlund. Would you explain why to the jury?”
LaFontaine heaved a dramatic sigh and then looked at the jurors. “There is a simple answer: I feared for my safety. As I’m sure you good people know, men of faith are often persecuted for speaking the truth. As Jesus said, ‘Know that if they hate you, they hated me first.’”
“I would also like you to explain how you came to be addressed as ‘reverend’; did you attend a college or university to get a degree in religious studies?” Rottingham asked.
“I did not,” LaFontaine answered. “I was called to do the Lord’s work from the streets where I had been living a life of sin until I met a man who talked to me about Jesus. That’s when the truth struck me like a bolt of lightning from heaven, and I was saved. This same man, a gifted street preacher himself, said I had a gift and that it was my calling to go out into an evil world and spread the Good Word.”
“So then you are not a reverend?” Rottingham asked.
“Oh, but I am,” LaFontaine answered. “I admit though that the appellation is something I applied for from an online school that offers such things. I would not have bothered except that—praise the Lord—my flock was growing to the point that I needed a church so that I could reach more sinners. My financial adviser, Frank Bernsen, suggested that I needed the title so that we could apply for nonprofit-organization status.”
“So then you are a reverend in name only?”
“Well, I don’t think the title makes the man. I have made myself a student of the Bible, harkening back to my days as a boy growing up in Memphis, Tennessee, on the knee of my grandmother, a God-fearing woman if ever there was one,” LaFontaine said. “And if I might add …”
“Please,” Rottingham said, encouraging him.
“I don’t believe that Saint Paul or any of the apostles had divinity degrees either,” LaFontaine finished with a chuckle.
“I believe you’re correct there,” Rottingham said with a smile. “But let’s move on. Do you know Dr. Aronberg?”
“I do not,” LaFontaine said.
“How about Dr. Holstein?”
“I saw him for the first time when he appeared on this witness stand.”
“So how do you feel about the fact that Holstein testified that he met with you several times and that you asked him to identify sick children and give you private personal information regarding their families?”
A sad look crossed LaFontaine’s rugged face. “I would swear to you that he was bearing false witness against me. I do not know the man. Nor have I ever spoken to him, until oddly, on the night of my arrest, I received a telephone call from a Memphis number I did not recognize. The caller made some sort of statement about an investigation, and I asked him not to call me again. I thought it was a wrong number, or perhaps someone calling for Mr. Bernsen on what he thought was a church telephone number, but I have since learned it was Dr. Holstein.”
“Then why would he make such claims against you?”
LaFontaine thought about it, then shook his head. “I have prayed greatly over this, but I cannot say that I know what is in the man’s heart. Maybe he is trying to escape punishment for his own sins by cooperating with those who would like to see me fail in my work. As I said before, some men, particularly nonbelievers”—he stopped and looked pointedly at Karp—“seek to bring down men of God. They hate the truth. So-called physicians, in particular, are threatened by someone who preaches that all healing comes from God, who also is the only judge of who shall live and who shall die.”
“What about the allegations that, with the help of Dr. Holstein, you targeted families with seriously ill children for personal gain?”
“It’s a lie,” LaFontaine declared, his blue eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “As I said, I do not know that man, nor have I specifically sought out families with ill children. I do believe that God gave me the gift of insight. Some might call it intuition, though I believe its origins are divine, but I sometimes ‘know’ when someone is suffering, to the point of even being able to decipher the physical cause. Or, for instance, when someone is down on their luck and needs a Christian hand out of the muck.”
“Do you profit from this gift?” Rottingham asked.
LaFontaine again paused as if deep in thought. “I guess it would depend on what you mean by ‘profit,’” he said. “I certainly profit spiritually by helping others find the Lord. I grow stronger with each sinner I turn toward the truth.”
“I mean ‘profit’ more in the traditional sense,” Rottingham said, “as in money or some other tangible assets.”
“Again, it would depend on what you mean by ‘profit,’” LaFontaine said. “I have been blessed that some believers donate to my ministry so that others may hear the Word and be saved. I try to live a simple life as I shepherd my flock.”
“What about these insurance policies that the district attorney has alluded to?” Rottingham asked. “Were you aware of them?”
“I was,” LaFontaine answered, “but only after the fact. My brother in Christ Frank Bernsen informed me after the unfortunate deaths of Micah Ellis and Natalie Hale that the families had taken out these policies and assigned the benefits to the church.”
“You did not ask them to do this?” Rottingham asked.
“I did not,” LaFontaine replied. “I was certainly grateful for their gifts. But it isn’t the sort of thing I would have even thought of requesting.”
“So how did these come about?”
LaFontaine’s big head dropped to his chest. He appeared to be speaking, or praying, under his breath. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “I had believed that the families made these gifts of their own volition. However—it tears at my heart to reach this conclusion, and I still don’t believe it—if such a thin
g was proposed to these good families, then I guess it would have had to have been by my brother Frank Bernsen.”
“How long have you known Mr. Bernsen?”
“Many years,” LaFontaine said. “We were both sinners on the street when I was saved. Through my example, Frank was saved, too. … So I believed.”
“How did you meet Monique and Charlie Hale?” Rottingham asked.
“I believe Frank told me that there was a family with a sick child in need of healing,” LaFontaine said.
“So you didn’t just appear out of the blue?”
“No. Frank gave me their address and said they asked me to stop by as they were disenchanted with the physicians attending their daughter.”
“And what about the Ellis family?”
LaFontaine thought about it for a moment and then his face fell again as though he’d just reached another difficult conclusion. “I believe Frank told me about them as well. This was before I met the Hales. Yes, I’m sure Frank also informed me that they had a sick child and the father, David—a good, good man—was out of work and struggling.”
Rottingham nodded and walked over to the evidence table, where he picked up a photograph. “The jury has heard about this woman, Sarah Westerberg, or as I believe Monique Hale referred to her, ‘Sister Sarah.’ Was she known to you?”
LaFontaine studied the photo but after several moments shook his head. “I’m sorry, I looked at that photograph when Mr. Karp showed it to the jury and I just can’t place her,” he said. “Of course, I meet many people in my ministry. Some come to the church once and never come back. Others I talk to on the street and may or may not see again. I don’t just minister to families with sick children. I am called upon by our good Lord and Savior to seek out sinners wherever they may be. Perhaps I met her, but I don’t recall.”
“So if Monique Hale says that she would come with you to prayer sessions at her house …?”
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