“On June first, I became a member of the homicide squad, largely as a result of the work I’d done over the years for Detective Ari Greene.”
“Mr. Greene, the accused?” Kreitinger asked.
She couldn’t wait to strip Greene of his badge, call him “Mr.” not “Detective,” and the “accused” and not the “defendant,” Kennicott thought.
“Yes,” he said.
“And do you see that person in court today?”
Fuck you back, Kennicott thought. She was forcing him to look at Greene. He shifted his gaze. Greene was well dressed, as usual, but his skin was sallow and it looked as if he had lost weight. He tilted his head and met Kennicott’s eyes.
The crowded courtroom was still. The silence felt heavy. He had no idea how long it took for him to say, “Yes. Detective Greene is the gentleman in the blue suit, seated at the defence table.”
Kreitinger was no fool. As she’d known, looking at Greene broke the ice and the words flowed. Kennicott focused on a spot at the back of the courtroom and recounted every step he’d taken in the investigation. His mind was back in time, not here in the courtroom.
“We found out where her three kids were at school and made sure they were safe,” he said after describing the murder scene. “The forensic officer, Brygida Zeilinski, gave me Ms. Raglan’s cell phone and I called Detective Greene.”
“What did you two talk about?” Kreitinger asked, snapping him back to reality and all the people looking at him.
“I told him not to come to the motel.” Kennicott tried to resist looking at Greene, but like some magnetic pull, his gaze was drawn to him. Greene felt it, and looked back.
Kennicott broke off his stare and looked again at the far wall. “We agreed to meet later that afternoon. He suggested a bakery downtown that a friend of his owns. After that first meeting, I’d meet with Detective Greene every night and brief him on the progress I’d made that day. I was seeking his input.”
“In other words, the accused was privy to all aspects of the investigation.”
“He was. A hundred percent. I told him everything. He even helped out with surveillance.”
“And what was your the main focus?”
“My number one priority was to find out the identity of the man Raglan had been meeting with every Monday morning. He was our prime suspect.”
“In all that time, did the accused ever tell you, or even suggest to you, that he had a personal relationship with the deceased?”
“No, he did not. Never.”
“And have you since learned that he was, in fact, romantically involved with Ms. Raglan?”
“I have.”
“And who do you believe was this missing man?”
Kennicott closed his eyes. “Detective Greene.”
A rumble went through the courtroom.
“The accused before the court?”
“Yes.”
“The same man who mentored you and guided your career as a police officer, the man you were telling everything about this investigation?”
“Yes.”
“So he lied to you,” Kreitinger said.
“Objection!”
Kennicott looked over and saw Ted DiPaulo shoot to his feet. The defence lawyer was a powerful man and his voice rattled through the large courtroom. “There is not a stitch of proof before this court of my client saying one word of a lie.”
“That’s true,” Kennicott said, jumping in before the judge and lawyers could argue the point. For days he’d played back in his mind, endlessly, every conversation he’d had with Greene. He realized how careful Greene had been with his words.
He resisted the urge to look at Greene again. “Detective Greene betrayed my trust. He misled me. He used me. But,” Kennicott said, “he never in fact lied to me. Never.”
44
GREENE HAD SPENT A GREAT MANY HOURS IN COURT, BUT HE’D NEVER BEFORE SAT AT THE defence-counsel table. Like everything else in his life right now, it felt strange, disjointed.
The first thing he noticed was that the jury box was farther away. The Crown was given the subtle advantage of having their counsel table beside the jurors and the witness box directly in front of them. Greene was accustomed to looking straight ahead at whoever was testifying, but now, from his seat behind the defence table, Kennicott sat to his right at a forty-five-degree angle, with Judge Norville in his sight line.
She didn’t look pleased by the evidence she was hearing. He couldn’t blame her. It sounded terrible. A senior homicide detective had run from the scene of the crime and then misled his colleague in a crucial murder investigation.
“How did you come to arrest Mr. Greene?” Kreitinger asked. Kennicott no longer looked uncomfortable on the stand.
“It took a few days to put it together,” he said. “I met with Mr. Darnell, and he told me that he’d met Detective Greene at the visitation for his wife in Welland. He said his wife had done a number of cases with Greene and spoke of him often. And that Greene had seemed awkward talking to him at the funeral home.”
“I see,” Kreitinger said.
“I kept thinking about the mark on the bathroom door of the motel room,” Kennicott said. “The door was dented right under the door handle. That is how we are trained to kick a door down at police college. Shortly after the murder, a young girl named Sadura Sawney saw a man get on his scooter and leave a nearby strip mall. She drew pictures of what she’d seen, and fortunately she’s a very good artist. I took a close look at one drawing that showed the man’s boots. They looked like the standard-issue type that all police officers wear. I have a copy of the drawing here.”
Good detective work, Greene thought. He felt a strange pride, even though he was the fish Kennicott had snagged.
“Objection,” DiPaulo said, jumping to his feet again.
Norville raised her eyebrows. “Yes, Mr. DiPaulo?”
“Your Honour, surely this is much too remote and prejudicial to go in as evidence at this hearing.”
Norville frowned and turned to Kennicott. “Let me see it,” she said.
He passed the drawing over and she looked at it carefully. Then lifted her eyes toward DiPaulo. “Have you seen this?”
“My friend Ms. Kreitinger showed it to me this morning.”
“They sure look like police officer’s boots to me.”
“And that’s my point, Your Honour. A drawing by a child that looks like something. What weight can it safely be given as evidence before a jury? Think of how prejudicial it would be.”
“You make a very good point,” she said.
“Thank you, Your Honour.”
Greene kept his eyes on Norville. He could see she wasn’t finished.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “Yes, during a trial I’d be hesitant to allow this drawing into evidence. But before me at a bail hearing, it’s simply a part of the narrative of how Detective Kennicott came to arrest your client. I give it no more or less weight than that. Crown counsel, please proceed.”
As he sat down, DiPaulo tapped Greene on the shoulder and made a thumbs-up sign below the table. Greene understood why he was happy to lose his objection. He knew DiPaulo couldn’t stop Norville from looking at the drawing during the bail hearing and didn’t really care. He was feeling her out for the trial. If the jury saw a drawing done of him leaving the scene at 10:41, it would be devastating. Now he was confident that Norville would keep this evidence out.
Kreitinger cleared her throat. “What did you do after you took a close look at the boots in the drawing?” she asked Kennicott, getting him back on track with the story.
“I spoke to the receptionist at Homicide, Francine Hughes, about Greene’s hours on the five Mondays before the murder. He hadn’t come in to work until one P.M. on any those days. This was a complete break from his pattern for years of showing up first thing in the morning. And on the day of the murder, September tenth, same thing, He got to work at one.”
A low murmur from the audience be
hind him told Greene the mood in the crowded courtroom had shifted. Norville looked down at him from her perch, and shook her head.
“Armed with all this information, I swore out a warrant to search Detective Green’s house,” Kennicott said. “We already had the boot mark from the bathroom door. We’d used an ultraviolet light to highlight and photograph it. While he was working at headquarters, we went into his house and found his boots in the back of the hall closet. We took them to the Centre of Forensic Science, where they made a mould and photographed that. Then we put the boot back, without him knowing.”
“Did the two match?” Kreitinger asked.
“Objection,” DiPaulo said, back on his feet. “Your Honour, Detective Kennicott is a very bright and impressive young police officer, but I’m not aware that he’s an expert on boot-mark identification.”
Norville nodded and gave Kreitinger a withering look. “Madam Crown, please.”
DiPaulo sat down.
“I’ll rephrase the question,” Kreitinger said. “Do you have the results back from Forensic Science yet?” she asked Kennicott.
“No, but I have the photos of both.”
“Let me see them,” Norville said.
DiPaulo stood.
“You can sit down, Mr. DiPaulo,” Norville said, before he could say a word. “It is on the record that no expert comparison has been made yet, but as you know, I’m perfectly entitled at this preliminary stage of the proceedings to view all the available evidence, without drawing a definitive conclusion.”
“Actually, I was standing to say that I agree with Your Honour,” DiPaulo said. “And I’m glad you clarified that for the record.”
Greene knew this was nonsense. DiPaulo had wanted to object, but he was a master at knowing when he was about to lose an argument and making the best of it.
Norville gave him a wry grin. “Thank you for your assistance, Counsel.”
“My pleasure,” DiPaulo said, and sat back down.
Kennicott held up two enlarged photographs of the boot marks. Even from a distance, Greene could see they looked similar. As could everyone else in the courtroom.
Norville took the photos, studied them for a few seconds, and passed them to Mr. Singh. “Have these marked as Exhibit One.”
“Detective Kennicott,” Kreitinger said, “what other steps did you take before deciding to arrest the accused?”
“On the morning of the murder, indoor cameras at the Coffee Time doughnut shop located close to the Maple Leaf Motel caught Ms. Raglan calling someone from a pay phone. I subpoenaed Greene’s cell-phone records and there was an incoming call lasting one minute and thirty-two seconds from the phone at Coffee Time.”
“When was it received?”
“At 9:56:12 A.M. We triangulated the location of Mr. Greene’s phone at the time he received the call.”
“And where was the accused?” Kreitinger asked.
“At his house.”
“And how long is the drive from the accused’s home to the motel?”
“I instructed Detective Alpine, who is working with me on this case, to do the same drive last Monday, starting at exactly 9:58 A.M.”
“How long did it take?”
“Twenty-three minutes. He arrived at 10:22 A.M.”
“I understand there was an anonymous 911 call made reporting this murder. When was that received?”
“At 10:39.”
Ted DiPaulo passed a folded over note to Greene. He opened it under the table. Think of this as practice for the trial. It will feel much worse when the jury is staring at you.
“I thought about putting Detective Greene under surveillance,” Kennicott said. “He’s an experienced detective, and I was sure he’d spot us if we got too close. When we took his boots, we installed listening devices in his home and also tapped his phone, but that didn’t get us anything. We put a tracking device on his car, and two days later we followed him to a lawyer’s office on the Danforth, a Mr. Anthony Carpenter. When he walked out I arrested him for first-degree murder.”
Greene remembered how pale Kennicott had looked that day. He seemed even more tired today. Worn down by the work and by his mentor’s betrayal. It made him a compelling witness.
45
AWOTWE AMANKWAH HAD ARRIVED EARLY TO SECURE FOUR SEATS IN THE FRONT ROW FOR Greene’s bail hearing. This was a perfect perch for himself and his fellow court reporters. All morning, they’d sat riveted, watching Detective Kennicott on the stand wrestle with his emotions as Crown attorney Angela Kreitinger questioned him.
It was time for cross-examination. Ted DiPaulo, who was usually energetic and confident in court, didn’t have his usual swagger this morning. He looked worried.
Amankwah wasn’t surprised. Kennicott’s open-wound sense of betrayal by Ari Greene permeated the courtroom like a foul odor. His emotions were unusually raw for a cop on the witness stand. He’d be tough to cross-examine.
“Congratulations, Detective Kennicott.” DiPaulo walked slowly from behind his counsel table and stood in front of the witness box. “I understand you have recently joined the homicide squad.”
That was a smart way to start, Amankwah thought, by highlighting Kennicott’s inexperience.
“Thank you.” Kennicott frowned.
“How long have you been on homicide?”
“Four months.”
“And this was your –”
“Yes, it’s my first murder case,” Kennicott snapped. “And yes, Detective Greene helped me get the job.”
“And for many years you trusted Detective Greene.”
“Absolutely.” Kennicott was looking straight at DiPaulo, yet his eyes seemed unfocused.
“But the events of the last few days have shaken that trust to the core, haven’t they?”
“Yes, they have.”
Amankwah could see what DiPaulo was doing. Tackling the elephant in the room. Everyone could see how much anger Kennicott felt toward Greene and it was best to get it out in the open.
“But Detective Greene has not given a statement to the police, has he?”
“No, he has not.”
“He hasn’t confessed to anything, has he?”
“No. He’s chosen to remain silent. As is his right.”
“You have no witnesses to this crime, do you?”
“Not to what actually happened. No.”
“No video, no audiotape.”
“Not at this time.”
“So.” DiPaulo took a step closer to Kennicott. “Without going into all of the evidence, chapter and verse, you’ll agree with me that this is a circumstantial case, isn’t it?”
“There’s no direct evidence, if that’s what you mean,” Kennicott said.
“It’s a circumstantial case, correct?” DiPaulo raised his voice for the first time.
“It’s a circumstantial case, yes.”
“And you understand the question here today at this bail hearing is not Detective Greene’s guilt or innocence, but whether or not he is a good candidate for release on bail. Correct?”
“Correct.”
This is what Amankwah admired about DiPaulo. He was keeping Kennicott on a tight leash by asking specific, leading questions to which yes or no were the only answers.
“And you know that Detective Greene has no criminal record.”
“Of course.”
“That he has never been arrested before.”
“True.”
“That he’s never been investigated by the police for any crime.”
“That’s right.”
“And putting aside the question of whether or not he committed this horrible act, you don’t believe for one moment that, if he were released on bail, he’d be a threat to anyone, do you?”
Kennicott lifted his eyes and looked at the back wall. The place Amankwah noticed he had looked at earlier, when Kreitinger was examining him. “No, I don’t,” he said after a long pause.
“Nor do you have any doubt that Detective Greene would come
to court if he were released on bail, do you?”
Kennicott bit down hard on his lower lip. “He’d come to court.”
“And if one of the conditions of the bail was that he live under house arrest with his father, you believe he’d follow it to the letter of the law, don’t you?”
Kennicott’s gaze drifted to the defence table. “Ari loves his father,” he said. Then looked away.
It was such a simple statement. Ari loves his father. It didn’t answer the question, but that didn’t matter. Kennicott’s words had been sincere. And he had used his mentor’s first name. Amankwah had covered hundreds of bail hearings, and knew they almost always hinged on one key piece of testimony that could turn a judge either way. This was it. Even the arresting officer, when pressed, knew that Greene would obey his bail.
“You made this arrest because you had reasonable grounds to believe that Detective Greene committed this crime, didn’t you?” DiPaulo asked.
“That’s the only reason I arrested him.”
“But you don’t know, for certain, that he is guilty.”
“That’s not for me to decide. He has the right to a fair trial,” Kennicott said.
“But deep in your heart” – DiPaulo paused until Kennicott made eye contact with him – “you hope that Greene has an explanation for why he misled you. You hope you are wrong about this arrest, don’t you? And you hope that he’s innocent.”
“Objection, Your Honour.”
Angela Kreitinger was on her feet. She was a little firebrand, and she was hot. “My friend very well knows that the personal opinion of this witness is irrelevant,” she shouted. “We all wish that people were innocent, but wishing is not evidence.”
Norville peered over her glasses at DiPaulo, frown lines creasing her otherwise smooth skin. “Mr. DiPaulo?”
Amankwah saw what DiPaulo was doing. It was an improper question, but Kennicott looked frozen in thought. DiPaulo had hit his mark and planted a seed of doubt in the competing camp.
DiPaulo ducked his head a notch, as a gesture of faint apology to the judge. “Let me try this question instead. Detective, it’s occurred to you that there might have been another reason why Detective Greene misled you in the early stages of this investigation, hasn’t it?”
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