“About the accused’s home,” Kreitinger said. “Do you know if any other adults were living there at the time of your search?”
“It appeared from the limited number of clothes that we found that only one person lived there. Only one of the two bedrooms seemed to be used. Very little food was in the refrigerator and freezer. I did a record check of the address for any driver’s licences, residential phones, taxes, and water and electricity bills as well as the electoral roll. Each time only one name came up. The same name was on all the mail I found.”
“And what name was that?” Kreitinger asked, with a self-satisfied grin.
“Ari Greene.”
“Thank you,” Kreitinger said.
Greene realized that this was about a lot more than matching his boots to the mark on the bathroom door. Kreitinger had used this whole scenario to portray him as a loner. The kind of love-starved, jealous, possessive man who would snap and kill a woman who was trying to end their affair.
67
IN RECENT YEARS, AMANKWAH HAD FOUND IT INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT TO GET AN INTERVIEW with the families of murder victims during a trial. It used to be that they would walk in and out of court with everyone else, eat in the same cafeteria, hang out in the hall on breaks. Once the proceedings were under way, Amankwah would start by saying a polite hello in the hallway, and then perhaps make a comment about the food while in the lunch line with them, and after a few weeks they’d start to talk to him. First chitchat, but eventually he’d get a full interview, which he’d hold off publishing – it was called embargoing a story in the trade – until the trial had ended.
But now families were protected by an army of Victim Witness people, who escorted them to and from court, where they sat in specially reserved seats, sat beside them during the proceedings, provided them with a private room where they went during breaks and where they ate their meals. Like first-class passengers with their own boarding lounge and their own flight attendants, they travelled in a protective cocoon.
Amankwah didn’t begrudge them their privacy, but he missed the casual intimacy of the old system. And often, he found, the families really did want to talk.
Every once in a while, there was someone who rejected this blanket coverage, and to his surprise Howard Darnell was one of them. All last week, while the pretrial motions were being held and the jury was being selected, he had come to court on his own, sat by himself, waited patiently in the hallway during breaks in the proceedings, and went out of the courthouse alone during lunch breaks.
Amankwah had watched him from a distance. Last Wednesday, he had timed it so that they got in the elevator at the same time.
“Hi,” he’d said, when the doors closed.
“Hello,” Darnell said.
They travelled in silence. Before they landed on the main floor Amankwah spoke. “No secrets. I’m a reporter for the Star, covering the trial,” he said.
“I know who you are,” Darnell said. “I’ve read your stories for many years.”
The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Darnell insisted that Amankwah exit first.
At the end of the day last Thursday, Amankwah had made sure he left the courtroom at the same time as Darnell. They rode down in the elevator again. When the doors opened, Darnell said, “Good night, Mr. Amankwah,” before he walked away.
On Friday, court finished early. Amankwah caught up to Darnell in the hall. His heart was pounding, like a teenager asking a girl out on a first date. “I don’t want to intrude,” he said, “but do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
Darnell smiled. “Please, call me Howard,” he said. “Sorry, I can’t today, I’ve got to go pick up the kids.”
This morning, when he came into court, Amankwah made a point of sitting in the press seat closest to Darnell. They’d exchanged glances and smiled at each other.
It was lunchtime, and his gang of journalists was debating where to eat. Kirt Bishop from the Globe wanted dim sum on Dundas, Zach Stone from the Sun wanted Italian on Bay, and Kristen Thatcher from the Post voted for sushi on Queen.
“I’m going to beg off today, guys,” Amankwah told them.
“Oh, now that you’re a, quote unquote, political commentator, you can’t be seen hanging out with us lowly, ink-stained wretches,” Bishop said, clapping a hand on Amankwah’s shoulder.
They all laughed and the three reporters went off for sushi.
Amankwah had been eyeing Darnell, who he sensed was deliberately lingering nearby. They got in the elevator at the same time yet again.
“Tough morning,” Amankwah said when the doors closed.
Darnell pushed the button to the main floor. “Would you like to go for that cup of coffee?” he asked.
“Sure, let’s leave by the north door. Not many people use it,” Amankwah said.
Snow had been forecast. It hadn’t yet arrived, but it was cold outside. They both buttoned up their overcoats. “Jennie used to tell me most Crowns were afraid to talk to reporters,” Darnell said, moving at a quick clip. “She thought it was a mistake.”
“Your wife was a very good lawyer.”
“That’s what everyone tells me. Look, I don’t really want to go for coffee. Let’s walk, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Amankwah said.
They headed up to Dundas Street, then west, and soon they were in the midst of Chinatown.
“I’m a mathematician. You’re going to have to explain to me this on-the-record and off-the-record stuff you journalists use,” he said.
“It’s simple,” Amankwah said. “You tell me something. If you say it’s off the record, then it’s our secret. If you don’t, I can print it.”
“So the onus is on me to be clear about things.”
“That’s right. You can also embargo a story with me.”
“Meaning, we talk about something now, and I say you can use it, but not until after the trial is over?”
“Exactly.”
They were already at Spadina Avenue. It was surprising how far you could go in a short time if you headed in one direction, Amankwah thought. They crossed the wide street and Darnell kept going. In two blocks he turned north, and soon they were in the midst of Kensington Market, the city’s old outdoor market district, filled with a dizzying array of shops selling cheese, bread, nuts, meat, and fruits and vegetables; a jumble of eclectic vintage-clothing stores; tons of restaurants with foods from all over the globe. Every immigrant group that had come to the city had passed through here and left its mark. Every spare wall was filled with colourful graffiti.
Darnell stopped in the middle of the street. Reggae was playing from a music store that also sold rugs from Nepal. The smell of fresh bread drifted from another. Tortillas were frying at a Mexican restaurant with its windows open despite the cold.
“Look at this place, isn’t it fantastic?” he said, a smile on his face for the first time since Amankwah had met him. He checked his watch. “It took us fifteen minutes to walk here.”
“We used to shop here all the time when my family first arrived from Ghana, but I haven’t been here for years,” Amankwah said.
“Okay, this is off the record, for now at least. Jennie and I moved to Toronto when we were both so young. I started at an actuarial firm and I worked all the time. She was a cop, and then became a lawyer. We bought our house out in the Beach. Then we had kids. I was sheltered. I’d never seen much of the city. Imagine, I’d never been here, Kensington Market, until this summer, after I was fired. She was lying to me about her affair. Well, I never told her I’d lost my job. I spent six weeks walking all over Toronto. I couldn’t believe what I’d missed.”
Amankwah looked closely at Darnell. Was the man crazy? Still in shock? He could never have predicted a conversation like this.
“I’ve come here every day since the trial began,” Darnell said. “I don’t have much of an appetite these days. I get an apple at that fruit stand over there. Can I buy you one?”
“Sure, but why do
n’t you let the Toronto Star pay?”
“No,” he said firmly. “Because we’re still off the record. You have children, Mr. Amankwah?”
“Six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son. I’m divorced. I only get to see them every other weekend and Wednesday nights.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I could say you get used to it, but that would be a lie.”
Darnell shook his head. “You know, sometimes I think if this hadn’t happened, we probably would have ended up getting divorced. And then, how often would I see my kids?”
“I know it’s such a clichéd question, but how are they doing?” Amankwah asked.
They were at the fruit stand on the corner. Darnell bought a pair of bright red McIntosh apples and handed one to Amankwah.
“The younger two are going to be okay, I think. As okay as you can be. It’s my oldest son I’m worried about.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t think so,” Darnell said. “But make sure this is off the record. Aaron is an out-of-control graffiti artist who has a serious drug problem. I tricked him to get him across the border and put him in a rehab program down in a remote location in New Mexico. He was supposed to be there for at least a year. But he’s too smart for them. They went into town last week and he escaped.”
“Where do you think he’s gone?” Amankwah asked.
“Oh, he’s back here in the city.”
“How’d he manage that?”
Darnell shook his head. “That’s Aaron. As much as we can tell, he met some girl, talked her into letting him use her phone to text a friend in Toronto who wired him some money. He either hitchhiked or took a bus. Or both. Got to the border, and even though he didn’t have a passport, he’s a Canadian citizen and an adult. He talked them into letting him in without notifying me.”
“How do you know he’s here?”
Darnell took another bite of his apple. “Yesterday he sent me an e-mail from an Internet café. Said, ‘Dad, I’m back. I’m safe. Don’t look for me.’ And last night I checked the garage, and his bicycle was gone.”
“Where could he be?”
Darnell chuckled. “Your kids are young. Wait till they’re teenagers. Aaron’s done this before. He can couch-surf for months and he’s impossible to find.”
“Why don’t you tell the police?”
Darnell took a final bite of the apple and tossed the core in a garbage bin. “This is still off the record. Aaron’s had more than enough problems with the police. The cops at 43 Division were glad to see him go and I don’t want to tip them off that their least-favourite graffiti artist is back in town.”
68
GREENE OFTEN STAYED UP FOR FORTY-EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT, OR MORE, DURING THE FIRST days of a homicide investigation and usually didn’t feel tired at all. But by three o’clock on the first day of his own trial, he was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life.
And he knew the worst was yet to come.
“Detective, I want to play you the video from the Coffee Time doughnut shop, the one located down the street from the Maple Leaf Motel,” Kreitinger said to Alpine, who’d been on the stand all afternoon.
During the lunch break, Jo Summers had set up a screen and positioned it so that everyone could see it. Now she picked up a remote, Kreitinger nodded at her, and the four-part video began to play.
DiPaulo had repeatedly told Greene never to look at the jury, but he couldn’t stop himself from stealing a glance at their faces. These people only knew Jennifer from the still photos of her dead body. Now they would see her moving. Alive.
The jurors watched intently as Alpine described for them what they were seeing on the screen: Jennifer coming into the Coffee Time in her running gear, slipping into the washroom, coming out in her new clothes wearing the wig and sunglasses, going to the pay phone.
When Jennifer headed toward the front door, Alpine nodded at Summers. She hit a button on the remote and the one-quarter image filled the screen.
No one spoke as Jennifer walked briskly along the empty sidewalk, swinging her backpack. It was like the final scene in a movie you never want to end, Greene thought.
“Could you pause it here for a moment please,” Kreitinger said.
The image of Jennifer froze.
All Greene could think of was that she looked beautiful and happy and was about to die. He felt ill. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream in rage and frustration.
He heard one of the jurors sob, but he didn’t dare look over again.
“Officer, the pay phone we saw Ms. Raglan using,” Kreitinger said. “Were you able to find out who she was calling?”
Greene couldn’t stop staring at the screen. Summers had paused it at a perfect point. Jennifer’s body seemed to be in full motion. This was how Kreitinger had staged it, for maximum emotional impact.
“Yes, we were,” Alpine said. “Before we arrested the defendant, we obtained a search warrant for his cell-phone records.”
“Excuse me,” Judge Norville said.
Kreitinger looked up. “Yes, Your Honour?”
Norville pointed at the video screen. “Do we really need to have this on any longer?”
As if on cue, the video started up again on its own and within seconds Jennifer walked into the void. The street was empty.
“Of course not, Your Honour,” Kreitinger said, acting as if this was some oversight. She nodded at Summers, who immediately hit the remote and the screen went blank.
They’ll be high-fiving themselves about this back in the Crown’s office after court, Greene thought. A criminal trial was theatre, and they’d put on a showstopper.
Kreitinger focused her attention back on Alpine.
“Detective, you were telling the jury about the defendant’s cell-phone records. What were you able to find?”
Alpine opened his notebook to a page he’d folded over to mark it.
Greene knew that a veteran cop such as Alpine didn’t need to refer to his notes. He’d have all the numbers burned into his brain. But it was a good prop. It made his testimony more authoritative.
“A call was received on the defendant’s cell phone that originated from this phone at the Coffee Time at 9:56:12 on September tenth. It lasted for one minute and thirty-two seconds. We triangulated the location of the cell phone at the time the call was received.”
“What does ‘triangulate’ mean?” Kreitinger asked.
Alpine turned to the jury. “All cell-phone calls in Toronto are located between three towers. By a method known as triangulating, we can track which cell tower received the strongest signal, and by comparing it with the strength of the signal received by two nearby towers we can get an exact location of where the incoming call was received.”
“And where was the accused’s phone located when it received the call the victim made from the pay phone at the Coffee Time on Kingston Road?”
“At the accused’s residence.”
“The same place where you found Exhibit Two, the boots?”
“Yes, the same location.”
“And, Detective, it’s a bit hard to read up on the screen, but can you please tell the jury the time indicated on Exhibit Three, the tapes from Coffee Time, when we see Ms. Raglan pick up the receiver of the pay phone.”
“9:56:12,” Alpine said.
“The exact same time to the second.”
“The exact same time.”
Greene didn’t dare look at the clock on the wall above the jury. He pulled back the cuff on his left wrist and checked his watch. It was 3:50. Ten minutes to go until court ended.
From her position at the lectern Kreitinger motioned to Summers, who reached down for a board that she took over to her. Greene couldn’t see what was on it.
Kreitinger walked back to the witness box. “Detective Alpine, this is a scale map of Toronto, which I have had enlarged and mounted.” She showed it to him, turned it toward Judge Norville, and then the jury.
&n
bsp; “As you can see, I’ve marked the location of the Maple Leaf Motel and the Coffee Time on Kingston Road with yellow arrows and labelled them. Are these accurate?”
Alpine studied the map, pretending he’d never seen it before. “That’s right,” he said.
These last ten minutes are going to seem like an hour, Greene thought. He could see what Kreitinger was going to do. It was like being buried alive.
“I have more of these arrow sticky notes in my pocket,” Kreitinger said, pulling them out of her vest pocket. “Could you please place one on the location of Detective Greene’s residence, where he received that phone call.”
Alpine took the first label and placed it pointing at Greene’s house.
“Thank you. Do you know how long it would take to drive from the accused’s house to the Maple Leaf Motel?”
“I tested it myself,” Alpine said, referring to his police notebook again. “On Monday morning, September 24, at 9:58 A.M. I left the accused’s residence and drove at the legal speed limit.”
“How long did it take?” she asked.
He traced his route along the map. This was very shrewd. Often lawyers would talk about streets assuming the jury knew the locations they were referring to. But with twelve jurors in such a large city, it was impossible to know if they were familiar with these roads and neighbourhoods.
“Twenty-seven and a half minutes. I parked in the nearby strip mall and walked into the courtyard of the motel. I arrived at the door of room 8 at 10:23:08.”
“And remind me please, what time was the initial 911 call received?”
As if she needed any reminder, Greene thought.
“10:39:12,” he said, without looking at his notebook, but at the jury instead. Sixteen minutes and four seconds later.”
Kreitinger plodded back to her lectern, her footsteps the only sound in the big courtroom.
“Excuse me, Madam Crown,” Judge Norville said. “I see it is almost four.”
Thank God, Greene thought.
Kreitinger smiled at Norville. “Thank you, Your Honour. I have one more brief set of questions for the detective. I know it’s been a very long day, and that Your Honour has an important commitment at City Hall, but if I could complete it, then my friend Mr. DiPaulo can start his cross-examination first thing in the morning.”
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