Stranglehold

by Rotenberg, Robert

  Kennicott had heard about this legendary group, but this was the first time he’d been asked to attend. It was an honour, and a rare chance to get input from the top cops with years of experience in the field.

  His turn didn’t come until after 11 P.M. All of these men had worked closely with Ari Greene and Jennifer Raglan and so they’d saved his case till last. After everyone had pushed aside their tiramisu, he walked to the front table. He had their full attention.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” he said, opening the binder he’d used to organize the key documents. “I know this case has special meaning to all of us in Homicide.”

  He looked up and saw a number of people nod. Get right to it, Daniel, he told himself.

  “At 10:39 on the morning of September tenth, police received a 911 call reporting a murder in room 8 at the Maple Leaf Motel out on Kingston Road. You all know the motel strip.” Quick look back up. More heads nodded. “I arrived at 11:01 and was met by 43 Division’s lead detective, Raymond Alpine. He informed me –”

  There was a crash at the other end of the room. Kennicott looked up. The door had flown open and in walked Hap Charlton, who had officially announced he was running for mayor a few days earlier. He was accompanied by Clyde Newbridge, one of the cops who had helped Kennicott arrest Ari Greene.

  All heads turned. Then everyone stood and applauded.

  “Hap, Hap, Hap,” someone chanted, and everyone joined it.

  Newbridge dragged out a couple of seats for them near the front and sat in one of them. Charlton, still standing, took an exaggerated bow, then put his hands up to quiet everyone down. “Thanks, gents,” he said. “Who’s got a fucking cigar?”

  Someone passed him a cigar and a lighter. Someone else poured him a glass of wine. He lit up, took a deep drag, let out a big cloud of smoke, and threw back most of the wine. “Ah, that’s better. Don’t let me interrupt. I came to hear about Ari’s case. Off the record, of course.”

  All eyes turned back to Kennicott.

  He walked them through the evidence step-by-step. Taking his time. Talked about the murder scene and showed them a blowup picture he’d brought of the kicked-in bathroom door. Then showed them the girl Sadura’s drawing and pointed to the boots the driver of the scooter was wearing.

  “You all recognize these,” he said. “Same police boots everyone’s worn for thirty years.”

  Everyone smiled.

  He told them how he’d checked Greene’s attendance at the squad’s offices with Francine Hughes, whom they all knew very well. Then how he got Greene’s cell-phone records and saw that Raglan had called him from the Coffee Time at 9:56:12, and finally the arrest.

  He scanned the crowd. All eyes were on him. “Greene’s bail hearing is set for Wednesday. Angela Kreitinger has been brought in to be the lead Crown. Judge is Norville. We think it’s fifty-fifty she’ll let him out. Questions?”

  “How good a match is the footprint on the bathroom door to his boot?” one of the retired detectives asked.

  “It’s not bad, but no slam dunk,” Kennicott said. “We’re getting an expert opinion. I expect he’ll say that it is, at best, possibly the same boot. It will be a good piece of circumstantial evidence, along with the girl’s drawing. No more.”

  “No defensive wounds on Jennifer?” another man asked. “What about under her fingernails?”

  Kennicott shook his head. “No skin. No hair. Nothing to get DNA. There was a bit of glue and paper under the nail on her right forefinger. She was probably taking a label off something. And bits of leather under a few others. If you look at the girl’s drawing, it looks like he’s wearing a leather coat and gloves. Even if she’d tried to scratch his arms, nothing would have stuck.”

  Someone else spoke up. “Rule number one in homicide is that the killer always leaves something behind. You telling us you don’t have anything?”

  Kennicott shook his head. “Not yet. Detective Zeilinski is the ident officer, and you all know how good she is. But we don’t have a thing. Greene knew what he was doing. Gloves, boots, helmet, he’d totally sealed himself off.”

  “What about the scooter?” Hap Charlton asked. “Find it and you are halfway home, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve instituted a search in the area around Greene’s house,” Kennicott said.

  “How big is your perimeter?” Charlton asked.

  “Two kilometres,” Kennicott said.

  Charlton shook his head. “Make it five,” he said.

  Kennicott realized it wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

  42

  PRISON VISITS AT THE METROPOLITAN TORONTO WEST DETENTION CENTRE TOOK PLACE IN a row of glassed-in booths, the prisoners on the inside, family, friends, and lawyers on the outside. Everyone sat on hard steel stools, and the only break in the separating glass was a wire grille atop a narrow ledge at elbow height. This meant both prisoner and visitor had to bend down to talk. It was awkward, especially for taller men, such as Ari Greene and his lawyer, Ted DiPaulo.

  This was their last chance to prepare for his bail hearing, set for the following day. Greene was still getting used to his fate being in the hands of another person, even a talented lawyer such as DiPaulo. It reminded him of when he was fourteen. He’d shattered the femur of his left leg while playing football at school. In the ambulance he overheard the two attendants talk about amputation. He remembered watching the surgeon examine him in the emergency room before they put the gas mask over his face, thinking before he lost consciousness that this man will determine whether or not I lose my leg.

  “I found out who the Crown is going to be,” DiPaulo said, putting his briefcase by his side. Because Jennifer Raglan had been a local Crown attorney, an out-of-towner had to be brought in to prosecute the case to ensure there’d be no appearance of prejudice.

  “Who is it?” Greene asked, looking at him through the thick glass, which was discoloured by a large greasy mark.

  “Angela Kreitinger.” DiPaulo frowned.

  “Angie?” Greene said. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. The Argyle case was six years ago. They say she’s cleaned up her act since she moved to Belleville.”

  Greene sat up. Rubbed his hands across his face.

  The Argyle case had been one of his first homicides. Billy Argyle was a Bay Street tax lawyer who was found one summer evening after work in his red convertible, a bullet through his brain. Greene soon found out that his grieving widow, Verna, was having an affair with George, her handsome fitness instructor. It looked like an airtight case against the two of them.

  DiPaulo was running the Crown’s office back then, and he had picked Kreitinger to take the case. She was tough and competent. The kind of take-no-prisoners prosecutor defence lawyers hated to deal with, and a good choice. But, unknown to anyone, she had a serious drinking problem that she’d managed to hide for the decade and a half she’d been on the job.

  The trial of the lovers pitted Kreitinger against two of the top criminal lawyers in the city, and she cratered under the pressure. On the morning of her key cross-examination of the widow, she didn’t show up in court until 9:45. She was drunk.

  DiPaulo was forced to take over the case at the last minute and adjourn the case for a day. He quickly discovered all sorts of errors had been made, including Kreitinger’s failure to disclose a key receipt from a gas station across town that provided the fitness instructor with an alibi. The next morning George the personal trainer pled guilty to accessory after the fact to murder “by persons unknown” for a sentence of two years less a day. Verna walked out of the courtroom on the arm of her counsel, Canton Carmichael, and greeted the press in full victim mode.

  “I’m grateful that justice has been done,” she said, handkerchief to her eyes. “I certainly hope that, next time, the police do a better investigation before they jump to conclusions about innocent people like myself.”

  Greene was furious, and swore he’d never let a case of his go south like that again.
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br />   The fallout in the Crown’s office had been swift. The attorney general wanted to fire Kreitinger, but the union jumped to her defence. After weeks of tense negotiations, she’d agreed to go to the States for six months of rehab, then when she came back to transfer to a job in a small-town Crown office.

  “Has she been in Belleville all this time?” Greene asked, leaning back down to talk through the grate.

  “Yeah. And apparently she’s been clean. They stuck her in bail court for a few years, and she’s slowly worked her way back up to major cases.”

  “It’s ironic, you know,” Greene said. “Kreitinger never liked Jennifer. She was always trying to compete with her.”

  “Now she gets another chance to prove herself,” DiPaulo said. “She’s going to fight your bail application to the death.”

  “Pedal to the metal, only gear Angie knows,” Greene said.

  “Kennicott will be on the stand, and I plan to poke some holes in his investigation,” DiPaulo said. “It’s going to be hard for you to see him testify against you.”

  “I’m fine with it,” Greene said. But DiPaulo was right. It would be emotional, for both of them.

  “Then your dad is going to testify. I’m going to propose twenty-four-hour house arrest at his home. It’s the only chance we’ve got.”

  Greene winced. “Is there any chance for some wiggle room? Maybe an early curfew so I can get out and try to investigate?”

  DiPaulo gave him a faint smile.

  Greene laughed, as much at himself as with DiPaulo. “Okay, I get it. I’m starting to sound as unrealistic as everyone else in here, aren’t I?”

  “You’re charged with the first-degree murder of Toronto’s head Crown attorney. If I get you out and all you’re allowed to do is sit in your room and go to the bathroom to take a piss, that will be a minor miracle.”

  Greene realized that DiPaulo was speaking to him the way he’d talk to any other client. That had been their deal when he’d agreed to take the case. Greene didn’t want any special treatment.

  “Got it,” he said.

  “Okay.” DiPaulo pulled a black binder out of his briefcase and flipped through it until he came to the page he was looking for.

  Greene was good at reading upside down – a trick he’d learned during many years in court, looking at people’s notes from the other side of the table. He made out the heading: Yitzhak Greene, Interview Notes.

  “We’ve talked about this every day,” DiPaulo said, giving him a stern look. “The Crown can question your dad about every conversation you two had. It’s all admissible evidence against you. I’m asking you for probably the tenth time, did you say anything to him that could possibly be incriminating? Last chance to tell me. Anything?”

  Greene understood why DiPaulo was concerned, and he was smart to keep coming back to it. “As I’ve said. I told him what I told you in your office the day it happened. That when I walked into the motel room I found Jennifer dead. That I took off to find the person who was at the door. That I was going to tell Kennicott, but he told me not to come to the scene, and that later that day I decided not to tell him because if I did I’d be a witness and I’d be taken off the case. That I was determined to find the killer. That I knew the risk but felt I had to take it.”

  DiPaulo lifted his binder to read it, cutting off Greene’s view of the pages. He had refused to show Greene his father’s statement. He’d also made sure that after Greene’s arrest, his father didn’t visit or talk to Greene on the phone. This way it meant he could truthfully testify that he hadn’t discussed any of his evidence with his son.

  “You sure? I hate surprises,” DiPaulo said. “We can’t afford a misstep.”

  Greene closed his eyes and replayed the conversation with his father in his mind yet again. Perhaps it was the pressure of the upcoming bail hearing, or the frown on DiPaulo’s face, but suddenly he remembered something.

  “I just thought of this. I told my father I loved Jennifer, probably more than I realized until she was gone.”

  DiPaulo smiled.

  For the first time in this grim visit, Greene could see that DiPaulo thought this was the type of heartfelt statement that could sway a judge.

  DiPaulo took another look in his binder.

  Greene trusted him. Admired his skill. But he had the feeling that his father had told DiPaulo something unexpected. Whatever it was, Greene could see DiPaulo wasn’t going to share it with him. It was like the day after Greene had surgery to mend his broken leg. “Will I be able to play sports like football and basketball?” he’d asked the doctor who was reading the chart at the end of his bed. He’d taken off his glasses, looked at Greene, and shrugged. “We’ll find out in a few days,” was all he had said.

  DiPaulo flipped to the next page in his binder. “An interesting character showed up at our office yesterday. Guy was bald on top with long stringy hair, and a jacket made from a million patches. You know who I’m talking about?”

  Greene tensed. Fraser Dent had resurfaced.

  “I have a lot of contacts on the street,” Greene said. “Did he give you his name?”

  “No. He said you’d know who he was. And to tell you this: ‘It was already long gone.’ ”

  Greene relaxed. DiPaulo was no fool. He could see the relief on Greene’s face.

  “Ari, we agreed I’d treat you like any of my other clients,” DiPaulo said.

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Every client holds something back, doesn’t tell me everything I should know, and it can really hurt a case. I have a standard line: Tell me the truth, I can do wonders with the truth.”

  “Ted. She was dead when I got there.”

  “You’ve told me that already. But is there anything else?”

  DiPaulo had a penetrating stare.

  Greene thought about Jennifer’s letter. About his last phone call with her. He couldn’t tell DiPaulo about these things. Not yet. Maybe if he didn’t get bail.

  On the other hand, he didn’t want DiPaulo to lose faith in him. He’d be foolish to hold back on this.

  “Perhaps you were wondering what happened to the scooter,” Greene said.

  “I was waiting until after the bail hearing to ask you about it,” DiPaulo said.

  “Nothing to ask. I don’t think it will ever be found.”

  DiPaulo smiled. “One less thing to worry about.”

  Their eyes met through the dirty glass. “Ted, do whatever you have to do to get me out,” Greene said.

  “If I do,” DiPaulo said, “you better be ultracareful. You slip up one time on bail and that will be it. You’ll be stuck in jail until your trial.” He got off his stool and grabbed his briefcase. He looked relieved to be able to straighten up.

  Greene stood slowly.

  Suddenly DiPaulo pointed to the grille. They both bent back down to speak. “What is it?” Greene asked.

  “I knew there was one more thing. Your father asked me to tell you that he’s broken up with his girlfriend, Claudia.”

  “Her name was Klavdiya.” Greene let out a hearty chuckle. “Did he find another Russian?”

  DiPaulo laughed too. “No, he said you’d be glad to know he’s back with Mrs. Greenglass. Said he missed her casseroles.”

  “That,” Greene said, “sounds like my dad.”

  43

  “DO YOU SWEAR TO TELL THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH, so help you God?” the court registrar, Mr. Singh, said.

  Kennicott stared straight into his eyes and grinned. They had met a few years earlier when Mr. Singh (as he always referred to himself), while delivering newspapers to a luxury condo, had come upon an apparent murder. It was Greene and Kennicott’s case. They’d admired the man and were thrilled when he’d got this job.

  Kennicott didn’t want to look at the audience in the courtroom, which was packed to the gills with spectators and reporters. Nor at Judge Norville, who seemed to hover over his shoulder, peering down from her elevated seat. And c
ertainly not over at the defence table, at the man who had been his mentor for such a long time. The defendant, Ari Greene.

  He put his hand on the Bible. “I do so swear,” he said. He watched Mr. Singh place the book back on the far corner of his well-ordered desk.

  Angela Kreitinger stood up, moved over to the standing lectern by her table, lowered it to her height, put her binder on it, and took out a pen from her vest. “Detective Kennicott,” she said. She was a short, rotund woman and her voice had such an edge to it that she seemed to be barking at him, not talking to him. “How long have you been a member of the Toronto Police Service?”

  “Five years.”

  “What is your present rank?”

  “Homicide detective.” He could hear how listless his voice sounded.

  “How long have you been at Homicide?”

  “Four months.”

  “Do you know the accused?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever worked on any cases with him?”

  “A few.”

  Kreitinger scowled. Clearly she wasn’t happy with his staccato answers. She walked out from behind the lectern to face him and crossed her arms. “Detective, can you please tell us about the matters that bring you here to court today?”

  This was a typical lazy Crown-attorney question for cops. It was code for I haven’t had time to read this file – or I haven’t bothered to. Why don’t you fill me in. But he knew Kreitinger had read every word in the Ari Greene file at least a dozen times and there wasn’t a lazy bone in her body. This was her way of saying, Okay, Kennicott, you want to play the reluctant witness to protect your pal Greene, well, fuck you.

  He looked at her and she smirked back. “Detective, do you wish to refer to your notes to refresh your memory?” she asked.

  “I don’t need my notes.” A surge of anger that he’d been keeping in check since the arrest coursed through his body. Greene had lied to him. Betrayed him. The magic of the courthouse, he thought. The place where raw emotions are laid bare.