Stranglehold

by Rotenberg, Robert

Kreitinger flushed beet red. Her hand went to her lower back, as if she’d been stabbed there. She didn’t seem to know what to do or say.

  Everyone in the courtroom was in shock. No one more than Ari Greene.

  “I haven’t ever spoken about this before,” his father said. “Not to my second wife. Not even to Ari.”

  Greene had never heard his father refer to his mother as “my second wife.” He felt a part of him sinking. How had all this happened? Jennifer murdered. Like his father’s first wife. Sarah. He’d never even heard her name before.

  “Thank . . . thank you, Mr. Greene,” Kreitinger finally said. She limped back to her counsel table as if she’d been injured.

  No one else in the courtroom moved.

  Greene looked over at DiPaulo. His eyes were fixed on the witness box.

  “Mr. Greene, we all very much appreciate you coming to court today,” Judge Norville said, filling the silence. “I have no doubt you will be an excellent surety. I will release your son to live with you, under very strict conditions.”

  “Why not?” his father said.

  That seemed to say it all.

  Greene watched as his father climbed down from the witness box and nodded at DiPaulo. DiPaulo smiled back.

  Greene felt the penny drop. DiPaulo knew all along his father was going to say this and the powerful effect it would have. Especially on Judge Norville, who had herself lost a child. And on himself, hearing this for the first time. Norville would see the shocked look on his face as a mark of his father’s sincerity. It was DiPaulo’s trump card and he’d kept it hidden, even from his own client, to ensure the revelation had maximum power.

  He remembered the sign in his office that DiPaulo had read to him the first time they’d met: A trial was after all a savage and primitive battle for survival itself.

  48

  “I SURE AS HELL GOT MY ASS HANDED TO ME TODAY, DIDN’T I?” KREITINGER SAID TO KENNICOTT the minute they were back in her office.

  “Could have been worse,” he said.

  She laughed. “I don’t see how.”

  Kreitinger knew that nobody liked to work for a loser. A criminal trial was like a prizefight, with many tough rounds. Some you win, and some, like today, you lose badly. It was important to take defeat in stride, laugh it off, rally the troops, and move on.

  “You didn’t really think Norville would keep him in jail, did you?” Kennicott asked.

  He was remarkably self-assured for such a young man, Kreitinger thought. But she could see that having to testify against Ari Greene had shaken him. DiPaulo had done a good job with him as a witness and had got him to question Greene’s guilt.

  “No, I didn’t, and frankly it doesn’t bother me that he’s out,” she said. “What’s more important is that we now know the theory of the defence. That Greene came upon Raglan when she was already dead, and raced off to chase a phantom killer. Sounds like a movie, doesn’t it?”

  “Far-fetched,” Kennicott said. He didn’t sound convinced.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Kennicott opened it and Jo Summers marched in. She had to be close to six feet tall and had the kind of high cheekbones you see in models on the covers of fashion magazines. Then there was her beautiful blond hair that she wore tied up with a dark wooden clip. Her face was flushed and angry. “Can you believe that?” she said.

  “What?” Kreitinger asked. “That Norville gave him bail?”

  “No. I don’t give a shit about that. But his story? Greene’s a homicide detective. He walks into the motel room, sees Jennifer strangled to death, and then he doesn’t tell anyone? Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.”

  “One thing is true,” Kennicott said. “When I called him he said he wanted to come and meet me at the scene and I told him not to.”

  “Screw that,” Summers said. “He could have gone back to the department and told anyone he’d been there, for God’s sake.”

  “True.”

  “And when you met him that afternoon, he didn’t tell you a bloody thing, did he?” she demanded.

  “You’re right,” Kennicott conceded. “He used me.”

  Kreitinger was impressed. Summers was a crackerjack cross-examiner.

  “Guy’s a liar. He broke up Jennifer’s marriage. He’s saying there was someone else at the door who took off? That’s a laugh. Who was it, a one-armed man?” She looked at Kreitinger. “You’re the prosecutor, what do you think?”

  Kreitinger’s first thought was that she needed a junior lawyer on this case. Summers was smart and passionate. Pretty too. That never hurt in front of a jury. She’d be perfect.

  “In most trials we never know in advance what the accused’s story will be or even if he will testify. But now we know that if his father testifies, we get in the evidence that Greene and Raglan were having an affair, that he was there that morning, and that he took off.”

  “It’s perfect,” Summer said.

  “Not really,” Kreitinger said. “Because then the father can give his whole defence. How Greene thought there was someone outside the door and how he took off to try to find the killer. Why he misled Daniel because he wanted to investigate who killed the woman he loved.”

  Summers rolled her eyes. “It is such total bullshit.”

  “The problem is the jury will love the father. And then Greene won’t have to testify.”

  Summers nodded. “You’re right.”

  “We won’t tell the defence this, but DiPaulo will probably figure it out. Still, we’ll subpoena the father to make it look like we’re going to call him. And you never know.”

  “I’ve already got him on my list,” Kennicott said.

  “We can’t get distracted. We have to figure out how to prove this circumstantial case without the father. How do we put Greene with Jennifer and in that motel room?” Kreitinger said. She made a fist and smacked her open palm. “We have to force him into the box. Make him testify.”

  Summers grinned. “I can’t wait to see you cross him. You’ll nail him.”

  “One day at time. This case is going to be a battle.” Kreitinger turned to Summers. “I need a junior lawyer who’s prepared to put in the hours to help me with this case. It’s going to be tough slogging. You interested, Jo?”

  Summers beamed. “There’s nothing in the world that I’d like more. Daniel, are you on board?”

  It was the question that Kreitinger had wanted to ask him since they left court. She’d read his body language on the witness stand. Sensed his torn emotions. He was having second thoughts about Greene’s guilt. A jury would pick up on this in a flash.

  He straightened his back. “Jo. I arrested him, didn’t I?”

  This is interesting, Kreitinger thought. They were both young, both good-looking. And, as far as she knew, both single. They’d called each other “Daniel” and “Jo.” What was that all about?

  “Okay, team.” She pulled the top evidence box off her trusty old cart and dumped it back on her desk. “Time to get to work.”

  49

  “DAD, LET ME DRIVE,” GREENE SAID AS THEY WALKED TOWARD HIS FATHER’S DODGE, PARKED underneath the courthouse in the lot reserved for judges. Ernest Sapiano, the shift supervisor from the jail cells, was with them. He’d arranged for Greene’s father to park down here so they could drive out this way and avoid the press, who were hovering around all the usual courthouse exits.

  “You’re not too tired?” his father asked.

  “Not at all,” Greene said. “This good officer has treated me very well today.”

  “Thank you, sir,” his dad said.

  “My pleasure,” Sapiano said. “Your son is a gentleman. Drive up to the gate, I’ll put my card in, and you’re out of here. I suggest you gun it.”

  It felt good to Greene to be behind the wheel of a car, just as it had felt good ten minutes earlier when the handcuffs were taken off. He zipped up the ramp and headed north on Centre Street. In his rearview mirror he saw a few TV cameramen facing in the wrong d
irection. A reporter heard his car, turned, and pointed at it.

  “We’ve been spotted,” he said.

  “So, let them look,” his father said.

  “I bet there will be a bunch of camera crews at your house.”

  “Who cares?”

  They drove in silence for a long time.

  Greene had been in jail for only four days, but in that short time the city had changed. Summer had turned to autumn. There was a chill in the air. People in the street were no longer wearing shorts and sandals. And with the election officially on, campaign signs had sprouted on almost every street. Again and again they passed Hap Charlton’s garish sign, with the photo of him, his sleeves rolled up, showcasing his powerful forearms.

  “Looks like your old boss is going to be mayor,” his father said when they got about halfway to his house.

  “That’s what Hap’s always wanted,” Greene said. “You never told me your first wife’s name.”

  Sarah, he thought. Sarah. He didn’t dare say the name out loud.

  “I never wanted to tell you that story.”

  “I know.”

  “Your lawyer is a very smart man.”

  “He is.”

  “You told me you were in love with this woman who was murdered,” his father said.

  “I’m discovering that I was in love with someone I didn’t really know,” Greene said.

  “What’s unusual about that?” his father asked.

  They drove in silence again until Greene got to his father’s street. It was packed with TV trucks waiting by the curb. Cameras flashed as he passed the crowd of reporters and steered into the driveway. He put the car in park and turned to his father. “I’m going to walk you to the door. You go inside. I’ll talk to them.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “Nothing. They don’t care what I say. They want a photo. Much better that I do it head-on than look like I’m trying to hide. I’ll make sure you are kept out of this.”

  “Okay.”

  “How’s Mrs. Greenglass?” he asked.

  “I hope you like casseroles.”

  He walked his father up the concrete steps to his house and waited while he unlocked the front door. As he was about to walk back down, his father grabbed his arm. “Ari, time to start thinking how you can get out of this mess.”

  “It all still seems unreal.”

  “It’s very real. And don’t be foolish. Just because you found out some surprises about a woman doesn’t mean you weren’t in love with her. You knew who she was and she’d want you to take care of yourself.”

  Before he could respond, his father let go of his hand and disappeared inside the house. Greene’s whole body felt lighter, as if a second pair of handcuffs had been removed.

  He walked over to the reporters, who were waiting at the edge of the property. They jostled around him, some stepping on the grass. Cameras and microphones were jammed unnaturally close to his face. The click, click, click sound of the cameras was like crickets. But louder and more annoying.

  He shook his head and pointed to the feet of the reporters on the lawn. “We need some ground rules, folks,” he said. “No one on my father’s property. And no one says anything about his address. And no funny stuff, like saying it’s in the Bathurst and Lawrence area. And no pictures of him or the front of his house. Judge Norville slapped a publication ban on the bail hearing. Simple. You play ball and I’ll play ball. Agreed?”

  The people on the grass stepped back to the curb. A few of them looked at each other and nodded.

  “Agreed,” Awotwe Amankwah said. He was one of the few reporters Greene trusted.

  “I’ll make a statement, then you’ll all leave. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Amankwah said, without consulting his peers.

  “Okay. You’ve got your picture of me. Here’s my statement: ‘I am grateful to Justice Norville for releasing me on bail. I look forward to the opportunity to defend myself on these charges.’ ”

  He turned and started to walk back to the house.

  “Detective Greene, how does it feel to be arrested by Detective Kennicott, the officer you trained?” someone shouted. “Detective, what was your relationship with Jennifer Raglan?” another voice said. “Are you going to testify at your trial?” a third asked. Then someone yelled, “If you get off, are you still going to work on Kennicott’s brother’s unsolved murder?”

  That last question almost made him stop in his tracks. He longed to talk to Kennicott. Apologize. Tell him that this would only make him more determined to find his brother’s killer.

  Instead, he waved without looking back. Their clamour died down as he climbed the front steps. Like well-trained pets, none of them had dared step onto his father’s property.

  Sarah, he thought again. He pulled hard on the sticky screen door he’d opened several times a day for most of his life, and headed inside the home he grew up in.

  50

  THERE HAD BEEN MANY TIMES IN HER LIFE WHEN KREITINGER HAD WISHED SHE’D BEEN A MAN. And now, inside a stall in the women’s washroom at the Crown’s office, pissing into a bottle, was one of them.

  It was part of the deal she had agreed to when she took on this case. She had to go to the Canterbury Clinic twice a week to get her urine tested. Canterbury was a no-nonsense drug-and-alcohol rehab place, different from any of the other rehabs she’d been to. It wasn’t fancy. The people were friendly. They called you by your first name. No bureaucracy. No bullshit. And Marshall McGregor, the director, was no fool. Twice-a-week testing wasn’t enough to stop a smart drinker, who could get the alcohol out of her system in twenty-four hours, and he knew it.

  At their first meeting, she and McGregor had sat for an hour in cheap plastic chairs on a skinny little rooftop patio. It had taken him about ten minutes to tell her his life story as he chain-smoked no-name cigarettes he’d bought in Chinatown. A farm boy from Wisconsin, he’d been blessed with a great pitching arm and “too much brainpower to keep me on a tractor.” A baseball scholarship landed him at Cornell right in the midst of the Vietnam War. “Then my Nixon number came up, forty-one, which was ironic since Eddie Matthews was my favourite player when I was a boy.” In 1969, he crossed the border as a draft dodger, got married, had two kids, realized he was gay, and hid it for ten years with booze.

  “When my wife kicked me out, I did every self-destructive thing in the book for five years, got into rehab, thought, ‘Hey, I’d be good at this,’ went back to school, and graduated with honours. I worked for ten years at big, fancy clinics for rich people and couldn’t stand all the bullshit bureaucracy. Now I have this.”

  Kreitinger was a big Blue Jays fan and they talked baseball and literature and politics. Everything but addiction. When she got up to leave, he gave her a big hug. “I have to warn you, Angel, I’ll pop up when you least expect it with a bottle for you to do a little pee-pee in. The big bad government is going to cover the costs of my keeping an eye on you. Even my cab fares.”

  Sure enough, there he’d been, sitting in the waiting room this afternoon when she left the office. What luck. After one of the worst days in court in her life.

  “Rough job you have, huh, Angel?” he’d said, standing and giving her a hug.

  “That’s why they invented tomorrow,” she’d said, hugging him back.

  “Come on, my dear, do your little tinkle” – he’d waved a brown paper bag at her – “then I’m taking you to the game. Those Republican Yankees are in town, and I love to hate them.”

  The clinic had bottles with broad rims, which made the task of giving a urine sample a little less humiliating. She loosened her bladder and felt the jar grow warm in her hand. She finished, put the top on tight, washed her hands twice, put the bottle back in the paper bag, and headed outside.

  It wasn’t alcohol that was a problem for her anymore. It was the little blue pills, Percocets, that she’d started taking two years earlier to relieve the pain in her twisted back. It had all started innocently
enough. Her car was rear-ended in the Walmart parking lot, and she thought all that she’d suffered was a mild case of whiplash.

  But it turned out she had a bad curvature in her spine, made worse by her being overweight and doing no exercise. A week after she was hit, she ended up one night in the emergency department, writhing in pain. She was given a little blue pill, and half an hour later, her body felt the sweet glow it had craved for the whole six years she’d been on the wagon.

  She was worried about Marshall McGregor. He was street-smart and wise to addicts’ tricks. He took her paper bag and put it into his knapsack. “It’s a beautiful night and the dome is open. A client of mine’s a lawyer with seats right behind third base. We can jeer at A-Rod and Jeter and eat candy popcorn.”

  It sounded a thousand times better than going home alone to the one-bedroom apartment-hotel suite she was renting month to month. Until she knew whether she would be able to stay in Toronto, her whole life was in storage. Again.

  “It’ll be a lovely walk,” he said once they’d passed through the security doors and were outside. “Besides, it’ll be good for your back.”

  “You read my file, didn’t you,” she said.

  “Every word of it, my dear. And remember. My instructions are to keep you off the booze and report back that you’re not drinking.” He linked his arm with hers. “As for keeping you off the Percs, that’s between you and me.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered, and squeezed his arm, trying not to cling to him.

  51

  JUDGE NORVILLE KNEW HOW HIGH PROFILE THIS CASE WAS, AND SHE KNEW EVERY RADIO talk-show host in the city would rant and rave about a police officer charged with murder being given bail. As a result, she’d locked Greene down with strict conditions.

  Essentially he was under house arrest. He wasn’t allowed to leave his father’s home “except for medical appointments, visits to his lawyer, or for religious purposes.” He couldn’t “associate with any person known to him to have a criminal record” and he had to “keep the peace and be of good behaviour.”