VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  Toby turned and scowled at Anne. “You’re not going away, are you?”

  The suitcase, she realized. “No such luck. Just borrowing some things from your mom.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to ever go away.” He threw his arms around her neck and tugged her into an embrace. She kissed him on the forehead.

  “I love you, Aunt Anne.”

  She winced at the sound of the words Aunt Anne. They seemed to put her somewhere between unmarriageable and buried. “I love you, too, Toby. Sleep tight.”

  “Hey, Mom. It’s too dark. Turn the TV on?”

  Kyra flicked it on but lowered the sound. “Now get some sleep.” Thin lines of light and shadow pulsed across the life-size poster of Joe Montana of the Kansas City Chiefs, which kept guard above the bed.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I wish we were all together again—you and me and Dad.”

  “I do too. But sometimes things just don’t work out the way we’d like them to. Sleep tight.”

  Kyra walked Anne to the front door.

  “Isn’t he a little old to be afraid of the dark?” Anne said.

  “It’s only started lately. His shrink says it’s because he’s looking for a father figure.”

  “Is there a connection?”

  “Absolutely.” Kyra pulled the apartment door open. “This custody hearing has got him as much on edge as it has me.”

  “It’ll work out.” Anne kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, sweetie. Thanks for dinner.”

  “And thanks for saving my life. I mean it.”

  SIX

  Tuesday, September 17

  Last day of voir dire

  9:20 A.M.

  PICKETS SURGED AROUND THE 60 Centre Street entrance of New York State Supreme Court, which despite its name was not the highest court in the state system. Voices and placards screamed, Free Corey Lyle!

  Freedom of religion!

  Stop the government-sponsored witchhunt!

  Anne threaded her way up the steps, through the mob, past the pillars. The picketers were a satanic, druggy-looking lot. Many of them, male and female alike, had shaved their heads.

  As she approached the brass-framed door, a young woman jumped in front of her. “Juror! Juror!” she screamed.

  Anne recoiled from eyes of hatred and madness. “You’re mistaken—I’m not on any jury.”

  “Liar! Bitch!” The girl swung her picket.

  A tall, dark-haired man stepped forward and caught the blow on his outstretched arm. Seizing the picket, he snapped it in half and flung the pieces to the ground.

  “Fascist!” the girl screeched. “Racist!”

  The man held the door and shot Anne a grin. “Pretty nerve-racking around here today.”

  “I’ll say. Thanks.” Anne stepped into a two-story marble rotunda lined with plaster friezes and carved inscriptions. Scores of people with scores of purposes hurried through. Echoing voices and footsteps rained down from the vaulted ceiling.

  She went through the upstretched arms of a metal detector. Her Good Samaritan bypassed the detector and showed the guard his wallet. Anne caught the flash of a detective’s gold shield.

  “So you’re a detective,” she said in her most chirping Kyra manner.

  He looked at her oddly.

  “I’m Kyra Talbot. Good to meet you.”

  “Lieutenant Vince Cardozo. We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “Have we?”

  “We met yesterday.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry, I—”

  “Don’t worry. Happens to me all the time.”

  They walked to the elevator. A wave of chattering secretaries swept past. He stepped aside for her to go in first and pushed a button. “You’re five, same as me, right?”

  She had no idea. “Right.”

  The door shut and the elevator lifted with a lurch.

  “Know what I hate?” he said. “Waiting. I’ve been here since nine-thirty yesterday, waiting for the prosecutor, waiting for your jury.”

  “Sorry about my jury.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s the lawyers.”

  The elevator stopped. He walked her down the corridor to room 506. “Have a good one,” he called.

  Cardozo knocked at room 509. The door opened and Tess diAngeli extended a hand in greeting.

  “Thanks for coming by. Sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday. Excuse this broom closet. We’re a little short of space. And time.” She motioned to one of the folding metal chairs. “You took notes on the crime scene, right? Will you be testifying from them?”

  He sat. “If I need to refresh my recollection.”

  “Could I see them?”

  He reached into his pocket and handed her the notebook.

  She leafed through the pages. “You have nice handwriting—for a cop.” She smiled and it softened her face, and for an instant she looked like the young woman she was. “I know some cops who scribble so no one else can read the notes if they’re subpoenaed.”

  Cardozo had a feeling that was a suggestion.

  She flattened out a page. “You certainly were thorough.” Too thorough, her tone said. “Actually, we’re not going to be using all of this.” She took a small roll of Scotch tape from the desk drawer. “We’re going to soft-pedal the physical details of the killings.”

  At first he thought she was patching a tear in one of the pages, but then he realized it was masking tape and she was covering several lines of his writing.

  “We’ve rethought our strategy. If the Briars’ suffering is made too vivid, the jury may have trouble seeing Mickey as a victim.”

  “Victim?” Cardozo’s eyes jerked up. “What are you talking about? That bastard’s no victim—he was responsible!”

  “We’re not interested in Mickey Williams’s responsibility. Forget it. That’s not what this trial is about.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “Corey Lyle’s responsibility. Because Mickey was carrying out Lyle’s instructions.”

  “Tess, will you please skip the commercial?” Cardozo pushed out a weary exhalation. “Just tell me in plain English what the hell you’re up to now.”

  “Mickey is no longer under indictment.” Her glance flicked up. “He’s testifying for the prosecution against Corey Lyle. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Excuse me, but yes, I have a big problem. It stinks.” Cardozo had to wonder: If the deal had been worked out recently, why had the feds erased Mickey’s stats two years ago?

  “Sometimes you have to make a deal with a demon in order to catch the devil. The Briar murders are the first case where we can prove Corey Lyle programmed a man and sent him out to kill. Corey Lyle is a monster. He’s responsible for close to a hundred deaths that we know of. And hundreds of millions of dollars in property damage. Compared to Corey Lyle, Mickey Williams is insignificant.”

  “Fine, but Mickey Williams happens to be a murderer too, and a sociopath, and a child molester. And it sounds like you’re letting him walk.”

  “Mickey Williams is not legally responsible.” DiAngeli slid a manila folder across the desk: PAYNE-WHITNEY. PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION OF MICHAEL WILLIAMS, CONFIDENTAL. “He’s no more a murderer than your gun is. He’s a weapon. And Corey Lyle loaded him, aimed him, and pulled the trigger.”

  “That’s a load of bull guano and you know it.”

  “Damn it, Vince. I don’t impugn your professionalism and I wish you’d respect mine.”

  “Then give me something to respect.”

  Her color darkened. “Now, just hold on a minute. I’ve worked twenty-hour days for almost two years, researching every angle of this case. I’ve interviewed I don’t know how many potential witnesses. I’ve consulted with the country’s top psychologists and criminologists and forensic experts. And one fact emerged time and time again: In and of himself, Mickey Williams is no more dangerous than a cup of water.”

  “Tess, I saw John Briar’s body. No
cup of water did that. I also saw Mickey’s record before the feds shredded it. The man’s a threat to any community he sets his foot in. Including wolf packs and alligator colonies. For the public good, he has to be kept under twenty-four-hour lock and key.”

  “Stop worrying about that. He’s under guard.”

  “Where?”

  “All right—if you must know, he’s in the federal witness relocation program.”

  “Christ. That program’s about as secure as a paper bag.”

  “Vince, I understand the new strategy may come as a shock. I understand you may feel hurt we didn’t call you in at the planning stage. You may even feel we’ve thrown your work out. But we haven’t. You did terrific work, and without it we’d never have had this chance to nail Corey Lyle.”

  “So I get a gold medal, you get your chance, the government gets Corey Lyle, and what does the public get? Shafted.”

  “There are considerations and ramifications here that you’re not aware of.”

  “Then make me aware of them.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Would you please stop seeing this thing in black and white?”

  “Believe me, I’m seeing it in full color.”

  DiAngeli drew in a long, deep breath and slowly let it out. “I hope you’re not planning to take that attitude onto the witness stand with you.”

  “Depends.”

  “Vince … be reasonable. You and I are on the same side. We both want the same thing. We want justice. We want the bad guys locked up and the good guys safe. That’s why I’m prosecuting this case, and that’s why you’re testifying. And your testimony could make the difference between winning and losing.”

  “That’s beautiful. I’m supposed to fine-tune my attitude and edit my testimony to win your case, and Mickey Williams goes scot-free to rampage anytime his hormones sound the hunting horn.”

  There was a silence that reminded Cardozo of that speak-or-forever-hold-your-peace moment in wedding ceremonies.

  “Believe me,” Tess said, “Mickey’s not going to go free. That is absolutely not going to happen.”

  “How can I be sure of that?”

  Tess rose and walked to the window. After a moment she turned. “Because you have my word of honor.”

  Anne saw wooden benches. No cushions. No armrests. There must have been two hundred long-faced jurors and potential jurors trying to get comfortable on those benches. Half of them—obviously veterans—had slipped earphones over their heads. Their Walkmans made mysterious squeaking sounds, like a rain forest of insects at nightfall.

  A middle-aged man with dyed red hair sat at a desk clipping his nails. The desktop held a microphone, three telephones, and jumbled stacks of paper.

  Anne fixed a smile on her face. “Excuse me.”

  The man’s eyes flicked up. “You wish.” Barely a glance.

  “I’m Kyra Talbot.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it, Kyra—dress up as a snow leopard and sing Turandot?”

  “I’m expecting my lawyer—I thought he might have asked for me?”

  “He hasn’t been asking me for you, honey. And when he does, you’ll be the first to know. Now, why don’t you go park your tush.”

  She found an empty seat. She sat down and glanced at the New York Post that someone had left behind.

  “Day two at the twiddle-your-thumbs club.” A woman dropped into the seat beside her. “How are you holding up?”

  Anne looked at the stranger blankly.

  “You Kyra, me Donna? Remember? Donna Scomoda? Hey, you look great. Is your hair different?”

  “A little.”

  “Changes you.” The stranger’s dark eyes scanned her face without embarrassment, as though she were a photograph. “Don’t mind me, it’s my medical training: always eyeball the patient.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  “Used to be a nurse. Nowadays I freelance. TV commercials.”

  In all her nights of channel-surfing, Anne couldn’t remember ever seeing anything like Ms. Scomoda’s six-ties-throwback bouffant.

  “You haven’t seen me. But you’ve heard me. I record voice-overs.”

  They chatted the better part of an hour. Donna did most of the talking; Anne threw in the occasional “uh-huh” and smiled her best Kyra smile. She kept looking around the benches for Mark. Damn. Has something gone wrong?

  Up at the front of the room, a phone rang. Somehow, the man with red hair knew instantly which of the three to answer. He bent toward the mike. “Sandro—Sandrovitch. Please present your summons to the clerk in the courtroom, right through those doors.”

  A man in a denim shirt pushed up from his seat and lumbered toward the next room. Mark Wells bumped into him in the doorway, eyes searching and anxious.

  Anne jumped up. “Mark!”

  He came and embraced her. There wasn’t even a hint that he recognized her. “I’ve been waiting an hour in there. Didn’t they page you? Come on. I’ve fixed it with the prosecutor.”

  He took her arm and steered her into the courtroom.

  “If it please Your Honor,” he called out. “Could we approach the bench?”

  The judge was a middle-aged woman with close-cropped silver-blond hair and an extraordinarily erect carriage. She fixed Mark with a quizzical stare.

  He introduced himself. “I apologize for the interruption, Your Honor, but I represent Kyra Talbot, one of the jurors in your pool.” He explained that Mrs. Talbot and her ex-husband were having custody problems. “Next week, her son turns twelve. The court will decide custody and appoint a guardian. If Mrs. Talbot is on this jury, she won’t be able to make that hearing.”

  The judge studied Anne with dubious eyes. “Mrs. Talbot, you should have mentioned this before you were accepted for the jury. Last week, you said jury service posed no difficulty for you. If this wasn’t a problem then, I fail to see why it’s a problem now.”

  Mark’s jaw dropped. He turned to Anne, voice lowered. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were already impaneled?”

  A chair squeaked across linoleum. A petite, wiry, dark-haired woman rose from a document-strewn table and came with brisk-clicking heels to the bench. “Your Honor, the People have reviewed this juror’s voir dire. We strongly object to having Mrs. Talbot on this jury.”

  “Ms. diAngeli,” the judge reminded her, “the juror has already been impaneled.”

  “We challenge for cause.” The prosecutor’s brown-eyed gaze met Anne’s straight-on, a mano-a-mano sizing up with no attempt at amiability. “Mrs. Talbot’s employer published an article in the Manhattanite magazine eighteen months ago.” DiAngeli slapped a back issue of the Manhattanite onto the bench. “The ‘Town Crier’ column. As you can see, it prejudged the case.”

  The judge opened the magazine and scanned. “Mrs. Talbot, did you write any part of this article?”

  “Actually, Your Honor, I’m photography editor for Savoir magazine. We share a publisher with the Manhattanite.”

  The judge stared at the prosecutor. “Ms. diAngeli, let’s get real. I for one am sick of this slipshod, nitpicking voir dire. We’ve reached the point where a little accommodation is in order.” She turned. “Mrs. Talbot, please take a seat over there.”

  Anne crossed to the spectator section and sat next to a bald-headed man whose pencil was flying across the New York magazine crossword puzzle. He glanced at her. “Egyptian god of the Nile, three letters?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  Voices eddied over from the bench, low but urgent. Mark was pleading. Prosecutor diAngeli was pleading. Finally the judge interrupted, curt and angry.

  “Mr. Elihu.” She beckoned.

  A gray-haired, stoop-shouldered man rose from the near table. Anne estimated his age as mid-seventies. He approached the bench. Four heads bent together.

  Mark crossed the courtroom, grim-lipped. “Kyra. We have to talk. Not here. Outside.”

 
They went into the corridor and found a quiet alcove of nonfunctioning candy and snack machines.

  “The problem’s Gina Bernheim. The judge.” Mark gave Anne a look of whimsical, charming helplessness. “She says there’s no legal basis to re-voir dire you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means she won’t excuse you.”

  It came at Anne like a tennis ball slammed across the net. “You said this was a formality—nothing to it.”

  “You didn’t tell me you’d already been impaneled.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “Under other circumstances, we might have a little wiggle room to work it out. But Bernheim’s aiming for a Supreme Court nomination, and till she gets it, she’s observing every rule in the book—no exceptions.” Mark hauled a cellular phone from his attaché case. “There’s not much reason for Catch to come in next week to discuss custody. Not if you’re going to be stuck in court.”

  She watched him tap a number into the keypad. She couldn’t believe his nonchalance.

  “Catch Talbot, please—Mark Wells calling from New York.” He strolled to the window, braced a foot on a bench, stared down into the street. “Catch, that you? … Just fine, thanks. Look, I’m sorry for the late notice. But Kyra is on jury duty. The Corey Lyle trial, can you believe it? Looks like we’re going to have to change a few plans.”

  Anne turned on her heel. Finding the bank of phones was easy. Finding a phone that worked was not. She dropped her last quarter into the last slot and dialed Kyra’s number at home. The call clicked through a shunt and she realized Kyra must be forwarding calls to her office.

  A voice answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  Anne recognized her sister pretending to be a secretary.

  “Mark couldn’t get me off. I mean, you off. So you’re still on.”

  “But, sweetie, I can’t possibly—”

  “We’ll discuss it later, as soon as I can get out of here.”

  But there was no way of getting out before the entire jury had been impaneled, and that wasn’t until a quarter of five.

  “Before I dismiss the jurors and alternates for the day,” Judge Bernheim announced, “it’s come to my attention that members of the Corey Lyle cult have threatened and even assaulted some of you. To guard against any such disturbances in the future, this jury will be sequestered.”