VC04 - Jury Double

by Edward Stewart

  “What took Texas so long?”

  “Maybe Texas couldn’t trace him. Maybe Mickey laid low. Maybe the murders were his first felony since breaking parole. Now can you tell me who the judge was in Mathis v. Doe?”

  “Robert MacLeod.”

  “That fits. Leon’s old law partner. And wouldn’t Judge Bernheim have had to okay the immunity deal with Mickey?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Which is why she almost had a fit when I said I was Leon’s daughter.”

  “Come on, that doesn’t even make sense. If Bernheim didn’t want Leon’s daughter on the jury, why didn’t she just excuse Kyra?”

  “Because Kyra didn’t say who her father was. When I came down to stand in for her, she was already empaneled. She wanted to get on the jury and she wanted me to take her place.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I don’t know why Kyra did it—but I’m pretty sure what Leon did. He orchestrated a deal: in exchange for testifying against Corey Lyle, Mickey got freedom in Mathis v. Doe and immunity in the Briar murders.”

  “You think Leon and MacLeod and Bernheim conspired?”

  “Mark, they were making conference calls.”

  “Now, just hold it a minute. You’re getting sequesterment fever. Even if there was a deal, and even if MacLeod and Bernheim were mixed up in it, Leon’s client wouldn’t be snatching Leon’s grandson.”

  “Wrong. He’s got two good reasons. He wants to hang the jury and he’s pressuring Leon to keep quiet.”

  “Quiet about what?”

  She explained about Leon’s alleged phone calls. “Mickey admitted in testimony that he’s a compulsive exhibitionist. He was sitting in Leon’s cabin staring at the photographs of those lawyers’ daughters. The photos are autographed. The names are in the Rolodex. He had the motive, he had the opportunity. He made those calls.”

  “Monkey see, monkey phone? Isn’t that a little simplistic?”

  “Why else would Leon be taking the blame?”

  “Didn’t it ever occur to you that Leon could be telling the truth? He could be an old goat who gets his jollies phoning little girls.”

  “No way on earth. Leon’s a monster, but not that kind.”

  “Or he could be an old-fashioned idealist who refuses to rat on any client.”

  “Come on, Mark. Mickey can’t afford to be convicted of another sex offense—so he’s pressuring Leon to take the blame.”

  “Mmm—well, you’re right about another offense. The penalty for repeaters in New York is life. And New York might send him back to Texas. The penalty there can be castration.”

  “That’s it. That’s Mickey’s motive.”

  “Okay, you’ve got the motive, but where’s the weapon? What’s Mickey’s hold on Leon?”

  “He can go public about the deal.”

  “He’d be committing suicide.”

  “People with electro-scrambled brains may not care.”

  “Look. There’s one big problem with your theory, and there’s no explaining it away. Mickey Williams can’t possibly be Doe.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’d have to have had a lot more done to him than sixty shock treatments. I happen to have read a little about Mathis v. Doe. The judicial abstract refers to Doe as she.”

  “She?” Anne suddenly remembered Leon’s phone victim in Chicago—Candace Loffler—and her certainty that the obscene caller had been a woman trying to sound like a man. “You’re sure?”

  “I saw it in cold type with my own eyes. Doe is a woman.”

  FORTY

  Friday, September 27

  Second day of deliberation

  9:30 A.M.

  THE DOOR CLOSED. THE bailiff’s key clicked in the lock and the twelve jurors were alone in the jury room. Morning sun poured through the window, blindingly bright. P. C. Cabot walked over to angle the blinds.

  “Before we get to the business of the day,” Ben Esposito said, “let’s take a vote and see if the Holy Spirit has moved any of us to new wisdom during the night.”

  The sound of ripping paper was like sand running down a drainpipe. Twelve ballots made their way around the table.

  Anne wrote two words—not guilty.

  The jurors passed their ballots back. Ben scooped them into his brown paper bag, shook them, poured them out onto the table, and counted the votes.

  Anne glanced at Paco, at Abe, and Lara. Is one of you still my ally?

  “We’ve made progress,” Ben said. “Eleven guilty, one not guilty.”

  Anne had a sensation like a pane of glass snapping in her breast. I’m alone.

  “We’ve spent half a day explaining our position.” Ben’s eyes nailed her. “Maybe, just out of courtesy, the holdout could explain his or her position to us.”

  “I asked to see Mickey Williams’s criminal record,” she said.

  Ben shook his head. “It wasn’t in evidence.”

  “The man’s an admitted monster. How can we possibly believe him?”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Donna Scomoda said. “The lie detector says he was telling the truth. So does the psychiatrist.”

  “Are we supposed to park our brains in Foley Square just because the court says the lie detector man and the psychiatrist are experts?”

  “The psychiatrist hypnotized him. It’s a medical fact that you don’t lie under hypnosis.”

  “I didn’t hear anyone say that in court.”

  “You didn’t hear anyone in court say the earth is round,” Ramon Culpeper said, “but it is.”

  “Look,” Donna said. “I’m a nurse. I know from hypnosis.”

  “You’re not a sworn witness. You’re only a juror, like the rest of us.”

  “Like some of the rest of us.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, are you just plain mule-headed or are you Corey Lyle’s paid agent?”

  “I resent that.”

  “And maybe some of us resent you nitpicking the witnesses apart. Seems nothing’s good enough proof for you. What the hell do you need?”

  “Facts.”

  “We’ve had plenty of facts,” Seymour Shen said.

  “Name me one fact in this entire case that hasn’t been contradicted.”

  “That little Lopez girl,” Ben said. “No one contradicted her.”

  “Okay—she told a good sob story and no one had the guts to challenge her. But we’re supposed to believe her?”

  Gloria Weston thunked both elbows on the table. “And what’s so hard about believing Lisa Lopez?”

  “Come on,” Anne said. “There wasn’t a single piece of evidence supporting that child’s testimony.” How would Kyra handle this? Ridicule. “Flying sorcerers? Horse-blood cocktails? Give me a break. It was pure movie-of-the-week: everything but the bloodhounds nipping at her heels.”

  “Maybe to you it’s twaddle,” Gloria screamed, “but to a lot of minority kids it’s their daily life.”

  I’m getting sucked into arguments. Losing sight of my purpose. The aim is to keep Toby alive. Period. Anne tamped down her adrenaline. Tried to. “Please don’t shout at me.”

  “Why the hell not?” Gloria glared with a hatefulness that caught Anne like a chop in the throat. “You’ve been shouting elitist crap at us since we began deliberating.”

  “Amen,” P. C. Cabot muttered.

  Eleven faces stared, spewing silent rage.

  How long can I hold out against this? Anne realized she was praying for a miracle; and she realized she wasn’t going to get one. Not from these people.

  There’s no point taking another vote. The next vote will be the same as the last.

  Which left her only one option.

  She turned toward the foreman. “May I speak to the bailiff, please?”

  “Now, cool down a minute, everyone.” Ben’s hands made urgent, placating gestures. “We’re all under a strain. Nerves get frayed. Tempers are short. But Gloria didn’t mean anything, did
you, Gloria?”

  “Like hell I didn’t.”

  “Come on, girls, can’t we settle this between ourselves?”

  “I want to see the bailiff,” Anne said. “Now.”

  As Cardozo dialed Anne Bingham’s number, laughter from the squad room vibrated against the wall of his cubicle. Bingham’s machine gave him a string of beeps and disconnected. Just as he laid the receiver back in the cradle, the phone rang. “Cardozo.”

  Silence. Breathing. “Lieutenant Vincent Cardozo?” A man’s voice.

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Jerry McCauley.” He said it as though the name ought to mean something. “Remember? Jerry, the doorman at 118 East Eighty-first? You asked me to contact you if Anne Bingham showed up?”

  “Right.”

  “The reason I’m phoning, a neighbor reported a gas leak in Bingham’s apartment. I was just up there, and it doesn’t smell like gas. Smells like someone’s died. A man from Con Ed’s breaking in right now. Thought you’d want to know.”

  The bailiff rapped sharply on the oak-paneled door. A voice called, “Come in!”

  He swung the door open. “Your Honor, one of the jurors would like a word with you.”

  Anne steeled herself and stepped into the judge’s chambers.

  “Yes, Mrs. Talbot?” Judge Bernheim folded her New York Times, but she did not rise from her desk.

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “The jury can’t deliberate while you’re gone, so sit down and get to the point.”

  Anne sat in the leather armchair. “I have a confession to make. If you’ll look in the bottom drawer of my closet, you’ll find a cellular phone that I smuggled into the hotel.”

  Expression drained from the judge’s face. “Tell me this is another one of your jokes.”

  “It’s not.”

  The judge folded her arms. “Then you and I and the State of New York have a problem. Have you used this phone since you’ve been sequestered?”

  Anne nodded. “Five or six times.”

  Judge Bernheim rose to her feet, ferocious. “What right entitles you to violate your oath as a juror?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. It was an emergency.”

  “What was an emergency?”

  “The phone call threatening Toby.”

  “Saturday you said there was no such phone call. And now you say there was?”

  “I lied. There was a phone call and I was terrified for Toby and my sister. I still am. I went to her apartment to warn them, but—”

  “You went to her apartment?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “When did you do this?”

  “Sunday, but—”

  “You went to your sister’s apartment last Sunday!”

  “But they weren’t there, so I brought her cellular phone back with me. To stay in touch.”

  “To stay in touch?” Judge Bernheim’s eyes bulged from her head. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve aborted this trial and cost the government fifty million dollars!”

  “I take full responsibility, Your Honor. And I want to make one thing absolutely clear: my roommate isn’t involved. She knows nothing about this.”

  “We’ll have to see about that, won’t we? In the meantime, I’m charging you with jury tampering. I’m setting bail that will get you into the Guinness Book of World Records. You won’t see sunlight for twenty years.” Judge Bernheim seized a pencil from the desk and snapped it in two. “Furthermore: there’s no way a New York court is going to judge you a fit mother. I will personally see to it that your ex-husband is granted full custody of your child.”

  “Your Honor,” Anne said quietly, “that’s not going to make any difference.”

  “Says you.”

  “It’s not going to make any difference, because I’m not Kyra Talbot.”

  Judge Bernheim’s face was suddenly a blank, giving nothing.

  “I’m Kyra Talbot’s twin. My name is Anne Bingham.”

  “In view of circumstances just revealed to me in chambers, I have no choice but to declare these proceedings a mistrial.”

  Judge Bernheim gazed grimly toward the jury box.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury—thank you for the time and effort you’ve put into performing your duty. I’m sorry that your service has been nullified by the irresponsible behavior of one person. All jurors except juror ten are excused. Please see the bailiff and he will give you your certificates. Be sure the court has your Social Security numbers, otherwise your checks cannot be mailed to you.”

  Judge Bernheim’s eyes swung toward the prosecutor. “Ms. diAngeli. The People have eighty days in which to reinstate charges against Corey Lyle or to drop them.”

  Tess diAngeli broke off a whispered conference with her assistant. “Your Honor, the People cannot make that decision today.”

  “In that case, I have no choice but to release Corey Lyle on continued bail.” The judge stared down at the defense table. “Mr. Lyle, you shall not leave this jurisdiction. You may be recalled within eighty days to face these charges, should they be reinstated. But in the meantime you are free to go.”

  Corey Lyle had a startled look. He bent toward his lawyer.

  “Juror Ten,” Judge Bernheim commanded, “approach the bench.”

  Anne rose from her seat. The bailiff held the gate. She stepped down to floor level and crossed to the bench.

  Judge Bernheim had the look of a tired lioness.

  “Congratulations, Kyra Talbot or Anne Bingham or whatever you decide to call yourself. You will soon have achieved your heart’s desire—permanent exemption from jury duty. As well as from ever voting again.”

  She drew back in her chair. She spoke rapidly now, with clipped contempt.

  “You have cost the government close to fifty million dollars. You have made a mockery of the efforts of hundreds of dedicated men and women working almost a decade. And you will bear the full retributive weight of the law for your actions. You are remanded to custody and this court is adjourned.”

  Judge Bernheim’s gavel slammed down onto the shuddering bench. An armed guard stepped forward.

  “All rise,” the bailiff commanded.

  The spectators rose. Judge Bernheim stood, drawing her robe around her. An absolute stillness suffused the courtroom as she glided granite-faced to the door.

  A slam shattered the silence. The benches broke into movement.

  Corey Lyle—crisp in his navy blazer and red striped tie—rose from his chair. He pulled a pair of dark glasses from his pocket and fitted them over his eyes. Masked now, he smiled a triumphant smile.

  At the rear of the courtroom, a guard’s voice howled, “Hey! She’s got my gun!”

  A hundred-voiced scream ignited and spiked upward. Leaping and spilling across benches, spectators shouldered and jammed in a stampede to clear the aisle.

  Yolanda Lopez, eyes blazing, pushed forward through the whirlpooling panic. Gripping a police service revolver in her right hand, she stopped six feet from Corey Lyle and pointed the gun barrel at his chest.

  “Yolanda—don’t!” Corey Lyle’s voice was pushed high and shrill. “Don’t! In the name of God—”

  The first shot cracked out. Corey Lyle stumbled three steps backward.

  A second shot.

  The defense table broke his sideways fall. He slid slowly to the linoleum and lay there, eyes staring upward at the ceiling.

  Papers fluttered down.

  Yolanda stepped up to the body and fired three shots straight into his face.

  Anne’s guard sprang from the cover of the prosecutor’s table. He dove in a running crouch and grabbed Yolanda Lopez.

  FORTY-ONE

  11:40 A.M.

  “MADHOUSE AROUND HERE TODAY.” The guard led Anne through pale cigarette-stained corridors. “We haven’t had a courtroom shooting in months.”

  “Where did she get the gun?”

  “Grabbed it from a guard. What a guard’s doing, leav
ing his holster unbuckled, don’t ask me.”

  He opened the door of a small office crammed with metal filing cabinets. The walls were painted puce and the air-conditioning hit like a slap in the face with an iced catfish.

  “That one works.” He pointed to the phone on the desk. “You better call a lawyer.”

  The guard left and a key clicked in the lock. She lifted the receiver and tapped in Mark’s direct line at work.

  “Mark Wells.”

  “The secret word is mistrial.”

  “Anne? Hung jury already?”

  “Jury tampering. I told Judge Bernheim I’m Anne.”

  A beat of silence.

  “That would do it,” Mark said.

  “That’s not all. When Bernheim declared a mistrial, Yolanda Lopez grabbed a guard’s revolver and shot Corey Lyle dead.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Mark, can you get me out of here?”

  “What’s your bail?”

  “Two point five million.”

  Mark whistled. “I’ll try.”

  The elevator stopped on eleven. A gassy smell floated in the air, faint and familiar. Cardozo followed his nose down the long gray-carpeted corridor to the door of 11-E. The smell grew thicker, with the stomach-turning sweetness of rotted pastries.

  He pushed the doorbell. A moment later the door opened and a foul odor gushed out. The doorman stood there, a wet paper towel pressed over his nose and mouth.

  “Okay, Jerry, what have we got?”

  Jerry shrugged a shoulder. “The Con Ed man’s in there looking. He says it’s not a gas leak.”

  Cardozo stepped into the apartment. The air felt hypersaturated, like a rain forest. He saw at a glance that Anne Bingham’s living room was a workplace. It had been given a light airbrushing of decor—two Chinese vases on a bookshelf, jungle-bird pattern curtains that matched the coverings on the chair and the convertible sofa. But over half the space was taken up by a worktable piled with computer and electronic gear, angled for easy access to the keyboards of a bank of synthesizers.

  There was a monotonous humming sound. The windows were open, and the air conditioner was running on high fan. Cardozo frowned.

  A crystal vase of dead cut flowers had been knocked over on the coffee table. A lamp lay at the edge of the threadbare Oriental rug, its shade crushed. A potted corn plant, upended in the corner, trailed a comet-tail of soil. A goldfish lay dead on the rug amid the shards of its shattered bowl.