VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  When he opened the newer one, a small piece of yellowed newsprint, neatly scissored, fell out.

  Virgo Aug. 23–Sep. 22:

  Look beyond immediate boundaries in love, creative endeavor, finance; present appearance of chaos masks future security.

  He wondered why the hell Britta would have kept an ancient magazine horoscope. He turned it over. The other side was a black-and-white photograph of Mickey Williams, grinning and healthy, looking very much the football bruiser in his business suit. Only a portion of the caption had survived Britta’s scissors: MICKEY WILLIAMS, FORMER STAR HOUSTON OILERS RUNNING

  Cardozo examined the notebook. Britta had made entries on the first four sheets only. The final entry was dated yesterday.

  3 P.M. MADEMOISELLE.

  He began putting it together in his mind. Britta had worked the eight-to-four shift yesterday. She’d logged in, but she never came back to the precinct to log out. Her civilian clothes were still in her locker.

  At 3 P.M. she’d apparently gotten a call from the precinct to check on someone she referred to as Mademoiselle. Her last known contact with anyone.

  Cardozo opened the door to the squad room.

  Detective Greg Monteleone was pouring himself a cup of precinct coffee.

  “Hey, Greg, you got a minute?” Cardozo showed him the notebook. “Who did Britta know called Mademoiselle?”

  Greg shrugged. He was wearing a loose-fitting gray cotton shirt, open at the neck to show off his gold chain. Leave it to Greg to find a loud shade of gray. “Plenty of French restaurants in the neighborhood.”

  “Aren’t New York French restaurants all Italian? I think we’d better have a look at yesterday’s calls. See if anything came in around three P.M., a woman with a French accent or a French name. You might check 911 too—something could have got routed to the precinct.”

  Greg made a face as if Cardozo had just handed him a ptomaine burrito. “That could take all afternoon. I was hoping to get off early today.”

  Which explained that extra dollop of Old Spice he was wearing.

  “Greg, she’ll wait.”

  Cardozo returned to his desk and flipped through the older of Britta’s notebooks. It smelled of rose sachet, as though she’d stored it in a drawer with sweaters. Though the pages were lined, her handwriting rarely stuck to the lines. The entries dated from August and September of two years ago. Britta had obviously resurrected the notebook for her testimony in the Corey Lyle trial.

  One page had been altered. Britta had written: J. Briar wearing robe dead on bedroom floor

  And then six words that looked like: hers on lips in mo roat

  Cardozo squinted at the page. He could see erasures: one before hers, another before roat.

  Why would Britta have gone to the trouble of erasing parts of words? If she’d made a mistake, why not cross it out, as she’d done on half the other pages in the notebook?

  His mind played with the word fragments. Roat, on that page, in the context of lips, could be throat. Which made it a fair guess that mo had been mouth. So the partially erased line must originally have read: hers on lips, in mouth and throat.

  He puzzled. What the hell was hers?

  He scooted his chair across the cubicle to the filing cabinet. He opened the drawer where he kept his old notebooks. He found the notebook where Tess had pasted her masking tape.

  He’d written: J. Briar dead on floor struggle abrasions face forearms …

  Tess had covered the rest of the page. He tried tugging the tape, but it wanted to pull the paper with it.

  He lifted the phone and dialed Ellie Siegel’s extension in the squad room. He could see Ellie at her desk, dark-haired and serious, word processing a report. After ten rings she picked up. “What is it, Vince?”

  “If you knew it was me, why didn’t you answer?”

  “I figure you can take ten steps through an open door.”

  “It’s private.”

  “I can keep a secret.”

  “Have you got any nail polish remover?”

  “On me? No. Why?”

  “I want to lift masking tape from a notebook without pulling up the writing.”

  “Why do you need remover? Nail polish is a solvent.”

  “Okay, do you have any clear polish?”

  “I wasn’t suggesting Jungle Red.”

  A moment later, Ellie stepped into the cubicle smelling very faintly and very pleasantly of that new perfume she’d started wearing. She thunked a small designer bottle of transparent liquid down on the desktop.

  “Please.” He pushed the notebook toward her.

  Ellie sat down, pulled the arm of the lamp closer, and unscrewed the bottle top. She lifted the brush out and drew the fine hairs along the upper edge of the tape and then the lower edge. She lifted as much of the tape as would lift, which was barely a half inch. She repeated the operation till she was able to lift the entire tape.

  He saw what Tess had covered: feathers in mouth

  “What the hell is so hush-hush about a man suffocated with a goosedown pillow? Why would a prosecutor care if it was mentioned in court?” He showed her Britta’s notebook. “The same thing was covered in Britta’s notes.”

  “Funny. Neither of you mentioned Amalia’s mouth.” Ellie’s eyes pondered. “Dan Hippolito said Amalia died a natural death, right? But the state threw out his autopsy and went with Lalwani’s. They’re accusing Corey of conspiring to murder John and Amalia, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then the point isn’t pillow feathers in John Briar’s mouth. What you and Britta both noticed—and what Tess doesn’t want coming out—is that there weren’t any feathers in Amalia’s mouth.”

  FOURTEEN

  9:40 A.M.

  “THE PEOPLE CALL JACK Briar.”

  In the jury box, Thelma del Rio shot Anne a quick, knowing glance—as if to say, This is going to be good.

  The door flew open and a tall man—impeccably tailored in a three-piece bank-president charcoal gray—crossed to the stand. He had a lustrous brunette ponytail and the boyishly sprinting step of a TV emcee.

  The bailiff held out the Bible. Jack Briar crossed himself. “So help me God.”

  Tess diAngeli asked him to tell the court about his work.

  “I’m an author and journalist.” Jack Briar settled back comfortably in the chair. He crossed his legs and described books and articles he’d published.

  “What was your relationship with the deceased?”

  “Johnny Briar was my dad and Amalia was my stepmother. But we weren’t just family, we were dear, dear friends. There was very little about our lives we didn’t confide to one another.”

  “How did they come to be acquainted with Corey Lyle?”

  “I’m sorry to say, it was my fault. I introduced them.” Jack Briar’s gaze floated toward the ceiling. Portrait of a man lost in remembering. “I met Corey five and a half years ago. I was doing an article for Gotham magazine. Corey was the new guru in town. He had every appearance of being the lama for the lean decade.”

  Jack Briar described how the Corey Lyle cult reached across the social divides, involving not just rich whites but minorities too. How Corey maintained an active recruitment program in the inner city. How his people distributed food, clothing, medicine to the poor. How they sheltered the homeless. DiAngeli smiled, a sunny woman in a sunny room. “Why did you introduce your father and stepmother to Corey Lyle?”

  “They couldn’t seem to shed the weight they’d put on since Dad’s retirement. They said to me, if they could have one wish in this world, it was to be thin and fit again. Well, I instantly thought of Corey. He’d had spectacular success slimming down fat socialites.”

  “You’d seen such cases?”

  “Oh, yes. I saw many, many fatties transformed overnight into slenderellas.”

  “Mr. Briar, after you introduced your father and stepmother to Corey Lyle, did you personally observe any changes or transformations in them or in their
lifestyle?”

  “Yes, indeed. And I was astonished. The big change was, they scaled way down. They stopped giving big parties. They stopped drinking and they stopped all prescription drugs. They became very concerned with the hunger and misery in the world. They rerouted all their charitable gifts to Corey.”

  “And did you observe physical changes in your father and stepmother after they met Corey Lyle?”

  “Indeed I did. In three months they went from monsters of flab to charmingly pudgy.”

  The prosecutor requested permission to show eight photographs on closed-circuit TV.

  The first showed a man and woman so bloated that there was not a line or wrinkle in the face of either. Except for a desperate weariness in the eyes, they could have been roly-poly children playing at dress-up.

  “This was taken at a fund-raiser for Senator Pat Moynihan,” Jack Briar said. “It was the third day of Dad and Amalia’s weight-loss treatment, so as you can see there really hadn’t been any progress to speak of.”

  Over succeeding photographs, the Briars must have shed a good sixty pounds each. Opening night at the Metropolitan Opera they seemed nearer their true ages, seventy-one and seventy-nine, but strong and trim and smiling, eyes serenely cheerful.

  “In the next three months, my father and stepmother went from pudgy to normal—then to fashionably slim—then to enviably slim.”

  At a gala for the Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute, the process had clearly gone too far—the Briars were skeletons in evening clothes.

  “But it didn’t stop.”

  In the final photo, a Paris Review revel on a yacht in the Hudson, the skeletons had the thickness of paper cutouts and their eyes shone with a fevered, visionary intensity.

  “The last year of Amalia and Dad’s lives, they never ate anything but raw carrots. Never drank anything but carrot juice. Their complexions became yellow. And they … shriveled—there’s no other word for it. I spoke with them about their weight loss. Shouldn’t they be checked by a doctor? My stepmother answered that flesh was corrupt, a burden.”

  “Had you heard anyone else express such an idea before?”

  “I’d heard Corey say the same thing in lectures.”

  “Did you discuss your father and stepmother’s health with Corey Lyle?”

  “I was forced to. The January before my father and stepmother were murdered, at a dinner for King Juan Carlos, I begged Corey, ‘Look at my poor father and stepmother over there—eating carrots while the rest of us stuff ourselves on rack of lamb!’”

  “How did Corey Lyle reply?”

  “Corey said, ‘They have chosen their road.’”

  “How did you interpret this remark?”

  “Naturally, I took it to mean that Corey had absolutely no intention of taking them off that awful diet, even if it wound up killing them.”

  “Objection. Witness is not a mind reader or a doctor.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Why did you feel it was up to Corey Lyle to take your father and stepmother off their diet?”

  “There was no one else they’d listen to.”

  Tess diAngeli walked to the jury box. “Mr. Briar, did you ever witness Corey Lyle heal a sick person?”

  “Only once. I saw Corey stop a child’s nosebleed.”

  In word and hand movement, Jack Briar set the scene: a fund-raising party in Zuleika Carlyle’s garden over on Sutton Place. Tulips in bloom. Sunshine to die for. Peter Duchin and a great backup trio. Champagne and beluga. Caterers rushing with silver trays. A tray colliding with a seven-year-old child.

  “And you know how children’s nosebleeds can be. Well, Corey just crouched down and told that child: ‘You are relaxed and fully at ease. …’” The witness’s voice seemed to belong to somebody else now: it was deeper, booming, yet oddly soft and just a bit seductive. “‘When I touch your hand it will rise.’ Corey touched the child’s hand.”

  Jack Briar’s left hand lay on the railing of the witness box. His right hand touched it. “The child’s hand rose.” Jack Briar’s left hand floated up into the air, pulling jurors’ eyes.

  “Corey said, ‘When I count to three your nose will stop bleeding.’ Then Corey counted: ‘One … two … three …’” Jack Briar brought his hands to rest in his lap. “And the nosebleed stopped.” DiAngeli smiled. “Mr. Briar, did you ever witness an act of Santería or animal sacrifice by a member of the Corey Lyle cult?”

  At the mention of the word Santería, the juror in front of Anne nudged his neighbor.

  “Not exactly,” Jack Briar said. “Not with my own eyes.”

  “Did any member of the Corey Lyle cult tell you they had participated in such acts or knew of members who had?”

  “Yes. Six months after I introduced Dad to Corey, he told me several members of Corey’s circle asked him to join a select group that practiced animal sacrifice. This was the first inkling I had that something might be a little batty in the state of Denmark. But Dad’s Alzheimer’s was kicking in and I couldn’t be sure whether the bats were inside his head or outside.”

  “Did your father tell you the purpose of these sacrifices?”

  “Yes, he did, and I must say he seemed a little baffled by the whole thing. Befuddlement and confused recall are early signs of Alzheimer’s. But according to Dad, it had to do with getting sexual favors through the intervention of the gods.”

  “Objection!” Elihu was shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s one thing for this witness to offer his expertise in diagnosing Alzheimer’s, but to offer blatant hearsay is beyond the pale!”

  Tess diAngeli appeared politely astonished. “Your Honor, statements by a dying person are exceptions to the hearsay rule.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” Judge Bernheim’s broad, unhappy mouth thinned into a flat line. “The reason we are reluctant to accept hearsay testimony is that in olden times, before we had the rule excluding it, a witness might say, Tinker told me that Evers killed Chance, and eyewitnesses to the alleged crime didn’t have to be produced to hang Evers. So nowadays we limit witnesses to their own direct knowledge. But there is an exception—statements made by a dying person. The theory is you don’t lie when you’re about to confront your Maker. So the issue here is whether John Briar knew he was dying when the witness says he made these statements.”

  Judge Bernheim turned to the witness. “Mr. Briar, how long after these statements did your father die? Was it over a year and a day?”

  Jack Briar had to think for a moment before he nodded. “I believe so, Your Honor.”

  “Then I’m going to rule that the statements are hearsay and inadmissible.”

  Tess diAngeli lost none of her self-possession. “Mr. Briar, when did you last see your father and stepmother alive?”

  “Amalia invited me to the apartment two years ago last May.”

  “Was anyone else present?”

  “Two other people: her part-time maid, who spoke no recognizable language I ever heard, and her lawyer, Felix Logan.”

  “And did you learn the purpose of this gathering?”

  “Indeed I did. Amalia asked me and the maid to witness her signature on her will. I made a little joke: ‘Well, I know two people who aren’t inheriting—your maid and me.’ I believe witnesses can’t inherit, am I right?”

  “Was this the first you knew that Amalia Briar’s estate plans did not include you?”

  “It was the first hint.”

  “Was your father present at any time at this meeting?”

  “No, my father was sleeping in his bedroom. I looked in on him—but he didn’t recognize me.”

  “Did you discuss his condition with your stepmother?”

  “I tried to, but she said Dad had started a regime of Belgian carrots, and he was a little disoriented and it was perfectly normal and there was nothing to worry about.”

  “After witnessing your stepmother’s will, did you ever speak to your father again?”

  “Never.”


  “Did you speak to your stepmother again?”

  “You’d better believe it. I made a point of phoning three times a week at a minimum. I kept begging to see her: ‘Amalia,’ I pleaded, ‘at least let me bring you a basket of fresh fruit. Corey isn’t going to excommunicate you over a tangerine!’ But she kept putting me off. Finally I pinned her down to lunch, Tuesday after Labor Day.”

  “Would you describe the events of that day?”

  “I arrived at the appointed time. The building staff was on strike. No one answered the intercom. The phone was busy and the operator said it was off the hook. I finally went to the precinct and persuaded a lady cop to let me into the apartment. Poor gal had to break down the door with a crowbar.”

  “Would you describe what you found?”

  “Dad was lying on his bedroom floor, dead. Amalia was in her own bedroom. She seemed to be asleep. ‘Amalia,’ I said, ‘something dreadful has happened to Dad!’ I shook her. But she was dead too.”

  Tess diAngeli let a moment slide by. “And after that time, did you and Corey Lyle discuss your father’s and stepmother’s deaths?”

  “Yes, we had a long talk.”

  “When and where was this?”

  “It was at Saint Bartholomew’s Church—at my father and stepmother’s funeral. At that time there was a lot of speculation in the press about the role Mickey Williams had played in their deaths. Well, Corey came straight up to me after the service and said Mickey Williams was innocent.”

  “Do you recall Corey Lyle’s exact words to you?”

  Jack Briar glanced toward heaven. “Corey said, ‘Mickey is no guiltier than a pistol. If anyone killed Amalia and Johnny, it was me—I loaded that pistol and pointed it and pulled the trigger.’”

  As the jury filed out of court for the lunch break, Thelma del Rio turned to Anne. “If I didn’t hate carrots, I’d give that diet a try.”

  “I wouldn’t try it for too long,” Anne said.

  FIFTEEN

  12:15 P.M.

  BRITTA BAILEY HAD BEEN married to a cop, and they lived in a modest old wood-frame on a quiet street in Woodside. Obviously neither of them had been a grounds-keeper. Cardozo stepped around flowerpots and dead ferns and pushed the buzzer.