VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  Ben dropped the ballots into a brown paper bag, shook it, and emptied them in a little mound on the tabletop. His face was grim as he counted them. “Okay, guys, here’s how we stand. Not guilty—four.”

  Anne’s heart jumped. I’ve got three allies! Her eyes scanned the table. Who?

  “Guilty—eight. Far as I’m concerned, we’re heading in the right direction. But four of us need a little convincing. Discussion is open.”

  “There’s a lot of tape we never got,” Anne said. “Phone tapes, conversation tapes, autopsy tapes.”

  “No one mentioned lost phone tapes,” P.C. said.

  “I thought someone did. Could we look into that?”

  Ben grunted. “Anyone else want to look into it?”

  “I’d like to look into it,” Anne said, “no matter who else does or doesn’t.”

  “That’s your right.” Ben made a note on his pad.

  “And what about the phone bill Elihu had?” Abe da Silva said. “The call someone made Labor Day from the Briars’ apartment to the BATF?”

  Is Abe an ally? Anne wondered.

  “The alleged phone call,” Ben said. “It was never in evidence.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the People have a right to choose how they’ll present their case.”

  “What happened to the lady cop?” Lara Duggan said. “How come they wouldn’t let her be recalled?”

  And could Lara be one?

  “Because she was killed,” Thelma del Rio said.

  Abe da Silva scowled. “I didn’t hear anything about a lady cop getting killed.”

  “They discussed it in sidebar,” Thelma said. “We aren’t suppose to know.”

  “Damn it,” Ben said. “If we’re not supposed to know, don’t tell us.”

  “I’d like to see Mickey Williams’s record,” Paco Velez said. “I want to see the kind of person we’re being asked to believe.”

  That’s a pro-Corey comment if I ever heard one, Anne thought. Paco’s definitely on my side.

  “We’re not allowed to know his record,” Abe da Silva said. “That’s prejudicial.”

  “He’s a witness,” Anne said, “not a defendant. Besides, the record came up in testimony. I’d like to see it too.”

  “All right.” Ben sighed. “We can try to get Mickey’s record.” He went to the door and jiggled the handle. “Hey, bailiff!”

  It was five-thirty when Catch Talbot stepped into Cardozo’s office at the precinct. “I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours in precincts and hospitals.” There was something uncertain in his walk, a sort of blinking, I’m-lost-please-help-me confusion. “No one’s seen Toby.”

  “Have a seat,” Cardozo said.

  “I think I know what happened.” Hunched on the spare chair, Talbot stared straight into Cardozo’s eyes. “Kyra’s responsible.”

  “Kyra?” Cardozo didn’t like Talbot’s facial expression, his tone of voice. Because there was no expression, no inflection. It was as though grief or worry or two days of fruitless searching had stupefied the guy and left nothing in his head but the wriggling worms of obsession. Obsessives, Cardozo had found, were impossible to reason with.

  Nevertheless, he made the attempt. “What about the man impersonating you who had dinner with Dr. Gibbs?”

  “He’s Kyra’s accomplice.”

  “How would he or your ex-wife know your charge card number?”

  “I’ve had the same card since Kyra and I were married.”

  “What’s her motive?”

  “To establish that I was here when Toby disappeared. To implicate me and clear herself.”

  In his work, Cardozo had dealt with many a divorced, angry cop; he recognized the paranoia that breaking up often engendered. He was careful to take a nonchallenging, nonconfrontational tone. “Clear herself of what?”

  “Abducting Toby.”

  Uh-oh, Cardozo thought.

  “This week a hearing was scheduled to decide whether Kyra or I get Toby. She canceled the hearing. She’s using jury duty as a smoke screen, because she’s terrified she won’t get custody. Once she’s off the jury, she’ll take Toby outside the court’s jurisdiction. Then she’ll have the income from his trust to herself.”

  Cardozo reflected on that word trust and the unexpected light it cast on the puzzle. “What trust?”

  “Toby’s grandmother on his mother’s side was a very wealthy woman. She left him the bulk of her estate in trust.”

  “How much?”

  “Depending on the stock market, twelve to fifteen million. To a woman of Kyra’s spending habits the guardian’s fees could be a lifesaver.”

  Cardozo ran the theory through his mind. It jibed with the note Kyra had sent her lawyer; it jibed with her disappearing. But … “How could she hope to access the trust if she’s kidnapped her own son and taken him out of the state?”

  “It wouldn’t count as kidnapping. At twelve, Toby’s free to choose which parent he wants to live with; and he tends to choose whichever parent he’s with at the moment.”

  “But how could she get the money out of the state? Wouldn’t the trust be frozen?”

  “Not since New York liberalized its laws. A parent with custody can take the children anywhere, even if the ex-spouse has visitation rights.”

  Cardozo reflected. The theory made a crazy kind of sense. “But how do you explain the threatening phone call?”

  “Frankly, I don’t think there was a call. I think Kyra invented it to cover her tracks.”

  “Look, Catch, I understand divorce has left you with resentments toward your ex-wife. But let’s be realistic. She’s on jury duty. Sequestered. She obviously hasn’t got Toby with her. So where’s she hiding him?”

  Talbot pondered. “She could have sent him some where with that au pair girl. Or her sister could be helping.”

  “Her sister hasn’t been seen since Saturday.”

  “The day Toby disappeared.” Talbot’s eyes flicked up.

  “Then Anne took Toby.”

  Cardozo felt he was trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. “A man took Toby.”

  “Then he’s Kyra’s accomplice. They’re all in on it together.”

  Cardozo didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking: the wife was a criminal mastermind; everyone was involved in Toby’s kidnapping. Next, Talbot would claim that the government was tapping his phone.

  Talbot scribbled a number on a scratch pad. “Anytime you need to reach me—this is my cellular phone. Call me direct. Hotel switchboards have a habit of listening in.”

  Cardozo tucked the slip of paper into his wallet. “Would you excuse me just a moment?”

  He went into the squad room and spoke softly to Greg Monteleone. “Get Catch Talbot out of here. The poor guy’s flipped.”

  “Where do you want me to take him?”

  “Take him to a movie. Take him to a bar. Just keep him occupied and out of trouble. And out of my hair.”

  Cardozo closed the door of his cubicle and tried the number again.

  Tess answered on the third ring. “DiAngeli.” She was obviously in a piss-poor mood.

  “Tess—Vince. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

  “Some of us rest after we deliver summations.”

  “It’s over already?”

  “Everything but the verdict. What’s on your mind?”

  “I was in court this morning. Mickey’s got quite a presentation. That shaved head and that earring.”

  “I could have murdered him when he showed up with that earring.”

  “Remember the man who took Toby Talbot from school? The man who drove off with Britta Bailey?”

  “What about him?”

  “Mickey fits the description.”

  “So do dozens of men.”

  “I followed him from the courthouse. He spent ten minutes ogling little girls in Chinatown.”

  “So?”

  “That may not bother you, but it sure spooked his friend in the blue P
ontiac with the government license plates. He gave Mickey a tongue-lashing.”

  “This is pointless, Vince.”

  “If we could ever find this guy, we’ve got enough to bring him in for questioning. It would be a start.”

  “My hands are tied.”

  Cardozo felt his nerves rising on an arc of impatience. “Murdering Britta and kidnapping Toby are new crimes. They were committed after you made that lousy deal.”

  “Get it through your head, will you?” She was shouting. “The federal government doesn’t give a damn what Mickey’s done. Who he’s molested, who he’s murdered. They want this case. Period.” She was silent for a moment. And then, in a calmer, more conciliatory voice, “Maybe after the verdict is in I could get a bench warrant.”

  “We’ve got to bring him in today. This afternoon. Before he harms the Talbot kid. Assuming he hasn’t already.”

  “The guard hasn’t reported seeing him with a child.”

  “His guard is goofing off. You said yourself, he’s leaving windows of opportunity left and right.”

  “That’s been changed. The guard’s keeping a surveillance log. Mickey’s every move is written down.”

  “Have you seen this log?”

  “Not yet—but I expect to in the next hour.”

  “I get it. The log is in the mail. For your information, Mickey’s guard gave him the keys to the Pontiac and Mickey drove off alone. Unescorted. Unsupervised. I tailed him to the Upper West Side, but I lost him. Tess, the feds are pulling your chain.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Come on—when Mickey’s not on that stand, where the hell is he? What’s he doing? Does his guard know? Do you? Does anyone?”

  “I’ve got another call. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Tess searched her desktop. Even though her contact at Justice had promised her the surveillance log, nothing had come in. She lifted the phone and punched in his number.

  “I’m sorry,” a recorded voice told her. “The mobile phone number you have dialed is currently outside of the service area. Please try your call again later.”

  “The hell with you, Foster.” She broke the connection and phoned Mickey’s guard.

  A male voice said, “Yeah?”

  “Rick?”

  “This is Stan.”

  “This is Tess diAngeli at the Manhattan D.A.’s office.”

  “Hi, Tess, what’s up?”

  “What’s happened to Rick?”

  “Rick’s been reassigned.”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows.”

  “Who’s watching Mickey?”

  “Me.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I’ll know in a few minutes. It’s almost time for him to call.”

  “For him to call? But aren’t you surveilling him?”

  “Passive surveillance.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He phones three times a day and checks in.”

  “Then where are you?”

  “Headquarters. World Trade Center.”

  For one jaw-dropped instant Tess was speechless. And then understanding hit like a wrecking ball. Justice had double-crossed her, and they had been doing it all along.

  “Thanks, Stan.”

  She hung up the phone and spun a slow circle in her chair.

  THIRTY-NINE

  10:55 P.M.

  BEN COUNTED THE RESULTS of the latest vote. “Not guilty—two. Guilty—ten.”

  Anne felt a whisper of panic in her blood. In eight hours, four not-guilty votes had whittled themselves down to two. In her mind, she heard the voice on the phone: If you ever want to see your son alive again …

  Covering a yawn with his hand, Ben pushed the ballots into a paper bag. “It’s taking all night, but we’re getting there.”

  “What about the other autopsy?” Anne said. “It said Amalia died first. And if she died before her husband, Corey Lyle doesn’t inherit and there’s no reason for him to want them dead.”

  Ben Esposito’s lips thinned with annoyance. “There was no second autopsy introduced into evidence.”

  “But you heard Dotson Elihu.”

  “That’s not evidence,” P.C. said. “That’s fabrication.”

  “I disagree,” Anne said. “And Elihu raised another point: what if the Briars both died natural deaths?”

  “Who cares how they died?” Gloria said. “Johnny and Amalia are not the point. They were politically retro society trash. No one’s weeping for them. But Corey could have killed innocent kids—your kids, my kids. And if we let him go, that’s exactly what he’s going to do.”

  “The charge isn’t what Corey Lyle might do,” Anne said. “It’s what he did do.”

  “Bullshit!” Gloria shouted. “Get real for once in your la-di-da life! Our verdict has to send a message that enough is enough!”

  “Sending messages isn’t our job.”

  “In other words, if you’re rich as Rockefeller and connected as Kissinger, you can blow up all the buildings and kill all the people you want? Send that message from your magazine, Ms. Talbot. But don’t try to send it from this jury room.”

  “We’re sworn to try Corey Lyle on the charge,” Anne said quietly, “not on accusations he hasn’t had a chance to answer.”

  “Ms. Talbot’s view is almost funny,” Seymour Shen said, “when you consider that Corey didn’t bother to answer any charge.”

  “For God’s sake,” Anne cried, “that’s his right. Are we back in the old witch-hunting days?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a witch-hunt,” Thelma said, “if the witch happens to be a murderer. And for your information, Corey confessed.”

  “You mean that videotape where Corey told the D.A. he was morally responsible?” Anne slapped the table. “That was no confession. That was a collection of carefully edited sound bites.”

  “We weren’t allowed to see the rest of it.” Thelma’s eyes were sly. “Elihu kept it out. But believe me—there was enough on that tape to convict.”

  “Why should we take your word for that?”

  “Because I saw two lawyers and a judge arguing over it and I’m a damned good lip-reader.”

  “How do you happen to read lips?”

  “My parents were deaf-mutes, so I picked it up.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anne said, “I’m kind of slow—how did you pick up lip-reading if your parents were deaf-mutes? You weren’t reading their lips.”

  “They watched television with the sound turned off. I had to lip-read to get the jokes on All in the Family.”

  “Why did they turn the sound off if they were deaf? What difference did it make?”

  “Hey, hey,” Ben said. “Thelma’s not on trial here.”

  “She’s giving unsworn testimony,” Anne said. “She claims she was lip-reading the sidebar conferences, but even if she was, we’re not supposed to know what goes on in those discussions. And I for one think she’s been embroidering.”

  Thelma pushed up on her arms, rising halfway out of her chair. “I resent that!”

  “Hey, come on.” Ben thumped the table. “The issue is not Thelma’s lip-reading, the issue is two people have died horrible deaths, and are we going to let the killer get away with it or not? Ten jurors say hell no … and two of us”—his eyes lingered accusingly on Anne—“say let him go on a technicality … any technicality.”

  “It’s not a technicality!” she cried. “The whole case against him is full of holes.”

  Donna yawned. “Haven’t we been through this before?”

  “Twenty times so far,” P. C. Cabot said.

  On the other side of the door, something jingled like Santa’s sleigh bells. A key turned and the bailiff thrust a smiling face into the jury room. “Judge Bernheim says you’ve suffered enough. You can go back to the hotel.”

  Anne opened the bath taps all the way. Water pounded into the tub and steam began clouding the air. She tapped Mark’s number into the cellular phone.
>
  On the fifth ring there was a click. “Hello?” Mark’s voice, with a baroque concerto buzzing manically in the background.

  “Mark—it’s me. Sorry to be so late. We started deliberating today.”

  “How come so soon?”

  “The defense didn’t present a case.”

  Mark whistled.

  “Mark, do you remember how Mademoiselle described that man who picked Toby up from the École, the man who claimed to be Catch?”

  “She said he was heavyset and had a shaved head.”

  “And crackle-glass brown eyes that look druggy and hyped, like laser discs spinning off-track?”

  “She didn’t describe them quite that vividly. I believe the exact word she used was brown.”

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “Where?”

  “On the stand in court today. He’s the government’s star witness—Mickey Williams.”

  “Now, wait a minute. Toby wouldn’t just walk out of school with a complete stranger pretending to be his father.”

  “Toby’s a needy, impressionable boy who misses his dad. Mickey Williams is a football hero. Half the eleven-year-old boys in America would leap at the chance to spend an afternoon with him.”

  “Give me a break. Mickey Williams is not taking time off from testimony to kidnap an eleven-year-old boy. He’d have to have a very skewed reality principle.”

  “That’s the point. He got early parole in Texas by submitting to a course of sixty shock treatments. It came out in testimony.”

  “Come on, Anne. If it is the same guy, what’s he trying to accomplish? He’s state’s witness against Corey Lyle—why the hell would he want to hang the jury?”

  “Because he worships Lyle—you should have seen the way he looked at him today in court.”

  “Then why’s he testifying for the prosecution?”

  “Because that’s the deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “Okay—here’s what I think happened. My father argued a federal extradition case—Mathis v. Doe. Have you ever heard of it?”

  “Sure I have.”

  “Leon defended a Texas parolee who broke parole by leaving Texas. Which is exactly what Mickey Williams did. Mark, this is going to sound crazy—but what if Mickey Williams is Doe? The chronology fits. When Mickey murdered the Briars, Texas would have learned his whereabouts and sued for his extradition.”