VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  “I see. The carrot DNA on the pillow matched the carrot DNA in her mouth?”

  “I didn’t test the carrot DNA.”

  “You didn’t test it.” Elihu stroked his chin. “Now, Doctor, you say you found hemorrhaging at the back of John Briar’s eyeballs, and you say this proves he was suffocated.”

  “Correct.”

  “Did you find similar hemorrhaging at the back of Amalia Briar’s eyeballs?”

  “I did not. But in some cases—”

  Elihu turned. “Doctor, are you familiar with sudden infant death syndrome?”

  “Objection.”

  “I’m going to allow that question,” Judge Bernheim said.

  “Yes,” Lalwani said in a guarded voice, “I’m familiar with the phenomenon.”

  “In SIDS, don’t infants sometimes asphyxiate themselves?”

  “They sometimes roll onto their stomach and position their mouth and nose in the pillow or bedclothes. If they lack the strength or coordination to roll to their side, they risk asphyxiation.”

  “What is the effect of long-term starvation upon an elderly person’s strength and coordination?”

  “Those abilities would be somewhat compromised.”

  “Could an elderly, starved, weakened, bedridden person such as Amalia Briar … suffocate herself?”

  “Accidental suffocations among the elderly do occur. But Amalia Briar died faceup.”

  “But if she died facedown—hypothetically, now—would the evidence rule out accidental death?”

  “Not necessarily, but she died faceup.”

  “Why bother to kill her if she was already so near death?”

  “Are you asking me to read minds?”

  “I’m asking you for an expert opinion. Why didn’t the murderer roll her onto her stomach if that would make death appear accidental?”

  “In my opinion, the murderer did not care whether or not the death was detected as a murder.”

  EIGHTEEN

  2:20 P.M.

  ANNE SAT IN THE jury room, watching the sunlight walk across the floor. She could feel resentment filling the room like a cold, dark fluid.

  Abe da Silva, the bald-headed juror, was tossing paper gliders at the wastebasket. Ramon Culpeper had laid out a game of cards on the conference table. Thelma del Rio peeked around his elbow. “Solitaire?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What kind of cards are they?”

  “New Age.”

  P. C. Cabot scowled at his watch as though he suspected it of lying to him. “She tells us to be back at two sharp, and it’s nearly two-thirty. What the hell do these judges do?”

  “One of the Coreyites’ victims almost died,” Thelma was saying. “Surgeons had to work on her for ten hours to close her up.”

  “I didn’t hear anything like that,” Shoshana said.

  “Thelma, please,” Anne said. “I really wish we could talk about something else.”

  Thelma drew herself up to full sitting height, her features righteous. “I guess some people don’t want to know what’s happening to children nowadays.”

  “Some of us happen to love and care about kids,” Anne said. “And we resent having their pain and suffering reduced to prurient gossip.”

  “Right on,” Abe da Silva said.

  “Well, I’m sorry.” Thelma mustered a look of dainty astonishment. “It’s not as though I was trying to personally offend you, but I thought as jurors we ought to know the kind of evidence Judge Bernheim is suppressing.”

  “If the judge suppressed it,” Seymour Shen said, “how did you happen to hear it?”

  “I think Thelma’s making it up,” Donna Scomoda said.

  “Hey. Didn’t you hear me yesterday?” Ben Esposito said. “Don’t discuss the case. Those are our orders.”

  Anne had a sudden screaming need to get away from this claustrophobic little room, to go out and breathe the exhaust-laden air of the street.

  “Okay, everyone who bet on the games …” Lara Duggan rose from her seat. “Since we’re sequestered, I may not be able to get the payoffs till after the verdict.”

  Groans from half the jurors.

  “So anyone who wants to withdraw, can. On the other hand, depending on circumstances, I might be able to get the payoffs before the verdict.”

  “What do you mean,” Abe da Silva said, “‘circumstances’?”

  “That’s all I’m going to say. If you want your money back, say so now.”

  There was a jangling of keys. The door opened and the bailiff’s head popped in. “The judge is ready.”

  “You spoke with Sergeant Britta Bailey Wednesday,” Cardozo said. It was a statement, but it was a question too.

  “I did.” Josette de Gramont, headmistress of the École Française on East 64th Street, sat with unbending spine behind an enormous carved wooden desk. She was a waif-thin woman with a giant gray coiffure. “That was the second time I spoke with her.”

  “What was the first time?”

  The air in Mademoiselle’s gray-curtained office smelled of potpourri. A shaft of refracted afternoon light fell on the fireplace.

  “Last Tuesday I phoned the precinct to report a man in a car illegally double-parked on Madison Avenue. The children were playing in the schoolyard and I didn’t like the way he was watching them.” Mademoiselle de Gramont glanced down at her hands. Ancient, liver-spotted hands clasped together on the desktop. “Officer Bailey came to the school—but the man drove away before she could talk to him.”

  “What kind of car was he driving?”

  “It looked new—it was blue—four doors.”

  “You don’t recall the make?”

  “American—but I’m not good at recognizing makes.”

  “Tell me about Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday he was back. This time he was photographing the children.”

  “From the car?”

  She nodded. “He had a camera with a long lens.”

  “Telephoto.”

  “He seemed to have a particular interest in one of the boys—Toby Talbot.”

  Cardozo jotted the name in his notebook.

  “Again I phoned Sergeant Bailey. She came and spoke to Toby. Then she went to speak to the man. I was called to the hallway and when I came back, he was gone.”

  “Did you see Sergeant Bailey after he left?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see her speak to him?”

  “I saw her approach the car and stand by the window, but I can’t say I actually saw her speak with him.”

  “Did she by any chance show you a photograph and ask if it was the man in the car?”

  “She didn’t show me any photograph.”

  “Did you see her show Toby Talbot a photograph?”

  “No, I didn’t. But that doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Could I speak with Toby Talbot?”

  “I’ll have to get his mother’s permission.” Mademoiselle de Gramont found the number in her Rolodex. She lifted the telephone receiver and dialed.

  In the corridor on the other side of the half-opened door, children passed, dressed in navy blue school uniforms. They didn’t run; they walked. They weren’t shouting; they were conversing. In French. It struck Cardozo as eerie.

  Mademoiselle hung up the phone. “I could only get a recorded message. Mrs. Talbot is on jury duty. Without her permission, I can’t allow you to speak to the boy.”

  “Perhaps I could speak with Toby Talbot’s father?”

  “Toby’s parents are divorced. I believe his father lives in Seattle.”

  “Then who’s taking care of Toby?”

  “Mrs. Talbot has a Dutch au pair who looks after the boy.”

  “I’d like to speak with her. Could you give me Mrs. Talbot’s home phone?”

  Bare feet twitching beneath her on the living room sofa, Kyra Talbot stubbed out the eighth cigarette she’d chain-smoked in the last half hour. She hated herself for giving in to the craving, but her nerves wer
e screaming.

  As she ate, she glanced through the noon mail. Bills, bills, junk, and a letter from the co-op. But no airline tickets.

  “Juliana,” she shouted, “the travel agency was supposed to leave an envelope with the doorman.”

  Juliana stepped in from the kitchen. “He didn’t mention it to me.”

  “I hope to God they haven’t screwed up. Would you go downstairs and double-check?”

  Juliana grimaced. “Cigarettes and junk food and checking with the doorman every half hour—are you getting a little compulsive?”

  “I’m getting a little crazy, and your attitude isn’t helping.”

  “Me? Attitude?” Juliana strode to the front door and slammed it behind her.

  Kyra unwrapped the sandwich Juliana had brought her from the deli—low-fat cream cheese on date-nut bread. The first bite tasted like burnt leaves on cardboard. She opened the letter from the co-op. It was a bank notice informing the treasurer that her last check for the monthly maintenance had bounced.

  Frowning, she got out her checkbook and her last statement. She did a quick computation with her calculator. Deduct the outstanding checks for Con Ed and Nynex and MasterCard, for Toby’s tuition at the École, for the mortgage. Add the three-thousand-dollar overdraft line. Deduct the check for the maintenance, and she should show a net balance of …

  Minus three dollars and two cents.

  She realized what had happened: Some computer had bounced her check because of a piddling three dollars. She had to smile. So what if all her checks bounced? So what if the co-op evicted her or the school expelled Toby? For all it mattered, let Con Ed turn off her lights. Neither she nor Toby was going to be around long enough to be bothered.

  And then a thought darkened her mind. What if the Voyageur check had bounced too?

  But there was no check. I used my company travel card.

  She paced to the window and stared down at traffic flowing along Barrow Street. No sign of the minivan from Voyageur Travel.

  What if someone in the accounting department caught the unauthorized charge? What if I wind up stuck here in New York?

  The front door flew open and Juliana bounced in. “Voyageur, finally.”

  She stood aside, and Sally, the travel agent from Voyageur, came briskly across the room, an envelope clutched in one hand. “Sorry to bust in, but I need your signature.”

  Damn, Kyra thought, I’m supposed to be on jury duty—no one can know I’m here.

  “What a disaster!” Sally said brightly. “They canceled your Concorde.”

  Kyra’s heart gave a painful thump. “Canceled?”

  “Not to worry, I got you onto Air France, first class. If you’ll just sign …” Sally handed over the Air France tickets for Kyra and Toby and an American Express charge form with the card number already written in. “I’ve never seen your apartment before.” She turned to study a painting on the wall. “That’s a Hockney, isn’t it?”

  “My mother bought it years ago, before he was expensive.” Kyra scratched her signature at the bottom of the charge form. “Concorde will refund, won’t they?”

  “Or you could credit it against your return flight.”

  “I’m not sure of my return plans.”

  “Really? And usually you’re so sure of everything.” Sally took the charge form and studied it before slipping it into her briefcase. “Anything else you need?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Then I’d better run.”

  Kyra saw the travel agent to the front door. When she returned to the living room, Juliana had flicked on the TV and was channel-surfing with the remote.

  “Are you an idiot, or what?” Kyra said.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “You know I’m supposed to be on jury duty. How could you come waltzing in here with that woman?”

  Juliana shrugged. “She said she couldn’t leave the tickets without your signature.”

  “You always have an excuse for screwing up.”

  “What the hell was I supposed to do? You’ve been wailing all day about those tickets.”

  That word wailing did it. “I’ve just about had it with you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Fine. Turn off that TV and pack your bags and get out of my home.”

  The color drained from Juliana’s cheeks. “You mean—”

  “I mean you’re fired.”

  Juliana flung the remote down onto the sofa. “It’ll be a pleasure. And this time, when you change your mind, I’m not coming back.”

  “Don’t worry.” Kyra went into the kitchen and buzzed the doorman on the intercom. “Hello, Joey? What time do you go off duty today?”

  “Four P.M., ma’am, same as every Friday.”

  “An emergency’s come up.” She was taking a chance, but there was no choice. “I wonder if you’d be able to come up to the apartment for a moment?”

  Three minutes later, the doorman stood in Kyra’s hallway. He arched an eyebrow at the sound of drawers slamming in Juliana’s bedroom.

  “I had to fire Juliana,” Kyra explained.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Would you be able to go to Toby’s school at five and bring him home? Just give the headmistress this note.” She handed him a sheet of stationery, neatly folded over. “Naturally, I’ll pay you for your trouble. Would a hundred dollars be sufficient?”

  The doorman smiled broadly. “Very sufficient, ma’am.”

  Kyra waited for the sound of the front door closing. She used the phone in the kitchen and dialed the École Française and asked to speak with the headmistress. She disguised her voice. “Mademoiselle, this is Kyra Talbot’s secretary.”

  “How may I help you?”

  “Juliana van Dieren is no longer authorized to pick up Toby from school. Mrs. Talbot has had to fire her. Joseph La Plata will pick Toby up this afternoon. He’ll show you a note from Mrs. Talbot.”

  Dotson Elihu’s face imitated perplexity. “Isn’t this unusual behavior for a murderer?”

  In the witness box, Dr. Lalwani leaned back in his chair. “You can’t generalize. Nothing is unusual behavior for a borderline.”

  “Borderline what, Doctor?”

  At counsel’s table, diAngeli drove a palm against her forehead. She jotted something on a pad and passed it to her assistant.

  “Borderline personality. It’s a psychiatric term.”

  “You’ve examined the accused?”

  “I have not.”

  “Dr. Lalwani, are you licensed in psychiatry?”

  “I am not, but I’ve read extensively in the field.”

  “Perhaps you can offer some psychiatric explanation for John Briar’s being so violently suffocated that he was thrown to the floor, while his wife was so gently suffocated that she appears to have died calmly in her sleep?”

  “I can’t speak for the killer’s thought process.”

  “But you just did. You said he was borderline.”

  “I was speaking hypothetically.”

  “Dr. Lalwani—speaking nonhypothetically, have you ever been censured by any medical or legal board of ethics?”

  “I have been censured by the state board of education of Alabama,” Lalwani said quietly. “The board claimed that—”

  “Are you aware,” Elihu interrupted, “that Dr. Daniel Hippolito of New York County performed autopsies on the bodies of John and Amalia Briar four days before yours?”

  “Objection!” DiAngeli cried. “Irrelevant!”

  “Your Honor, I’ll show relevance.”

  “Overruled. Witness will answer.”

  Lalwani folded his arms across his chest. “An exploratory autopsy was performed before mine, but I did not discuss it with Dr. Hippolito.”

  “Didn’t you and Dr. Hippolito discuss his conclusion that Amalia Briar predeceased her husband by four hours?”

  “We did not. I know of no such conclusion drawn by any competent authority.”

  “You did not discu
ss with Dr. Hippolito his conclusion that Amalia Briar died of natural causes?”

  “I had no such discussion.”

  Elihu wheeled around. “Your Honor, the defense will call Dr. Daniel Hippolito. He will testify as to gaping flaws in Dr. Lalwani’s methodology. He will further testify that Amalia Briar died Friday night, four hours before her husband, not Monday morning.”

  “Your Honor,” diAngeli cried, “I object to unsupported claims of nonexistent evidence being made in a transparent attempt to gull the jury!”

  “The objection is sustained. But Ms. diAngeli, please don’t characterize your colleague’s statements. And Mr. Elihu, I don’t want to have to warn you a second time that you are not to employ the preview tactic in my court.”

  “My apologies. No further questions.”

  Tess diAngeli rose from her chair and strolled easily to the witness box. “Dr. Lalwani, why were you censured by the state board of education of Alabama?”

  “For referring in my testimony to the evolutionary theory of the famed Communist agnostic, Charles Darwin.”

  There was laughter in the court. Judge Bernheim hammered her gavel. “If any of you feel you must applaud or laugh, take it outside those doors.”

  “We found Britta Bailey’s body yesterday morning.” Cardozo was sitting at his desk with the phone propped to his ear and a mug of precinct coffee growing lukewarm at his elbow. “In the West Side Conrail yard.”

  “Oh, no.” Even over the phone, Tess diAngeli’s shock was palpable.

  “She was carrying your phone number.”

  “I gave her my number. She was nervous about testifying.”

  “Did she phone you yesterday?”

  “Britta and I haven’t spoken since she testified.”

  “Maybe she left a message with someone?”

  “I’ll check.”

  “Britta was also carrying Mickey Williams’s photograph.”

  Silence. And then: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I thought you might tell me.”

  “Vince, I was not an intimate of this woman.”

  “Relax, I’m not accusing you of anything.”

  “I’m not accusing you of accusing me.”

  “Did you suggest Britta might have to identify Mickey in court?”

  “I did not.”

  “Tuesday and Wednesday a man was hanging around the schoolyard at the École Française over on Madison. He had a camera. He seemed to be especially interested in an eleven-year-old by the name of Toby Talbot. The school called Britta, and Britta confronted the man. He may have been the last person to see her alive. Sixteen hours later she was found dead.”