Stranglehold

by Rotenberg, Robert

  “Shit,” Greene heard DiPaulo mutter. My sentiments exactly, Greene thought.

  Norville gave an exaggerated frown. “Okay, be quick.”

  “Detective, you told us about checking the records on the accused’s cell phone, and how you can triangulate the position of a cell phone when a call is received. Were any other phone calls received on his cell phone that morning?”

  “Only one. At 11:12.”

  “And who was that from?”

  Alpine pointed to the Crown counsel table right in front of him. “Detective Daniel Kennicott, the officer in charge of this case. He made the call from the Maple Leaf Motel.”

  “And please, put a last arrow on the spot where the accused was located when he received the call from his fellow police officer.”

  “Right here,” Alpine said, placing the arrow on a side street behind the motel. “Once I got these cell-phone records, I went back to the motel and walked to the spot. It only took me three and a half minutes.”

  “The accused is a homicide detective,” Kreitinger said, “isn’t he?”

  “Correct.”

  “Was he a part of this murder investigation?”

  “No.”

  “Had you or anyone else on the police force notified him of the murder?”

  “No.”

  “Or the indentity of the victim?”

  “No.”

  “Was there any reason tied to this investigation why he should have been so near to the Maple Leaf Motel that morning?”

  “No official reason.”

  “Thank you, Detective Alpine,” she said.

  And with that last piece of evidence, Greene realized, Angela Kreitinger had just pushed him into the witness box.

  69

  KREITINGER SAT DOWN. HER WHOLE BODY FELT LIKE A STRING PULLED TO ITS LIMIT AND HER back felt as if it was about to go into spasm. But she wasn’t going to break. I did it, she thought. I did it.

  Judge Norville looked at the courtroom clock and scowled. It was 4:38. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, court will resume at ten tomorrow morning,” she said.

  The jurors stood up, then bunched up at the exit as they waited awkwardly in line to leave. Much like airline passengers trying to get off a plane.

  “Counsel, anything we need to discuss?” Norville asked the moment the last juror was out of the courtroom and the oak door had closed behind them.

  DiPaulo stood. “Thank you, no, Your Honour,” he said.

  Kreitinger could hardly get to her feet. She half stood. “No,” was all she was able to say.

  Norville nodded at Mr. Singh, seated below her. He rose to his feet in his usual dignified way and announced, “Court stands adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Norville raced off the bench.

  Behind her, Kreitinger heard the courtroom fill with noise. A hand touched her shoulder.

  “Incredible,” Jo Summers said. “You were amazing.”

  Kreitinger smiled. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted everyone to leave so she could savour the moment by herself. She took a deep breath. “I’m going to wait for the court to clear,” she said.

  “Sure,” Summers said. “Can I get you anything? A coffee? A Coke? Sandwich?”

  Kool-Aid, Kreitinger thought to herself. Jo, you’ve drunk the Crown Kool-Aid. She poured herself some water from the silver jug on the table and took a small sip. “No. But thanks. You were a great help.”

  “I’ve made a list of potential witnesses for tomorrow. I’ll go back and pull out all the files. Lay everything out for you.”

  Already the hubbub behind them had begun to subside. DiPaulo and the defence team had left. Soon there would be blessed quiet. “Perfect,” Kreitinger said between gritted teeth.

  “You weren’t watching the jury, but I was,” Summers said. “I’m telling you, it was incredible. When you showed Jennifer in that video, did you know that one of the female jurors started to cry?”

  “I didn’t.” It was a lie, but Kreitinger had to end the conversation. Her back felt as if a huge hand were squeezing the life out of it. She looked at Summers and her enthusiastic, smiling face and wanted to smack her. God, I’m an asshole, she thought.

  “Okay, see you back at the ranch,” Summers said.

  Back at the fucking ranch? Kreitinger said to herself. What is this? Some rich kids’ summer camp? It was a totally unfair thought, Kreitinger knew. Just leave, Pretty Ms. Perfect. Just leave. She put one of her hands under the table and dug her nails into her palm until it hurt.

  Summers seemed to take a hundred years to pack up her files, but at last Kreitinger was left alone. With her unclenched hand she reached into her vest pocket and took out four little pills. She slipped them onto her tongue and drank them down with the blessed glass of water.

  The relief would take some time to arrive, but at least it was on its way. Soon thousands of receptors in her body would open their welcoming arms to the familiar soma of the drug. The heat would spread out across her skin in a luscious, warm wave.

  She unfurled her tightened hand. It felt like she could breathe again. She smiled. Of course she’d kept an eye on the jurors. One had cried. Two others had sniffled. A number of them had looked at Greene with a look of total disgust.

  Today was the result of six years of re-creating herself. She’d reined in all the excesses of the old Angela and distilled her performance down to a perfect pitch.

  She closed her eyes.

  I’m back, she thought. I’m back. And it felt good. So, so damn good.

  70

  GREENE LEANED HIS HEAD BACK IN A COMFORTABLE LOUNGE CHAIR IN THE BARRISTERS’ lounge and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows onto City Hall Square. DiPaulo sat beside him, equally prone. The top button to his court shirt was undone and his starched white tabs were in his hand.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired,” Greene said.

  “Welcome to the defence side of the courtroom,” DiPaulo said. “The opening day of a trial always feels endless. Especially when you don’t make an opening statement. It’s like travelling for the first time on a road in the dark. Seems to go on forever.”

  “Tell me this gets easier,” Greene said.

  “The only good news is that Monday is over. There are only four more days in court this week.”

  Greene rubbed his eyes. He yawned.

  “Nancy’s gone to get your father,” DiPaulo said.

  “I saw him during the lunch break. He’s having a great time. Talking to everyone,” Greene said.

  “Glad that someone had a good day,” DiPaulo said.

  “Was it as bad as I thought it was?” Greene asked.

  “It was worse,” DiPaulo said. “I always knew that if Angela could control herself, she’d be a top lawyer. What she did in there was masterful.”

  “She’s forcing me to testify, isn’t she? The boots. The video from Coffee Time. My cell phone putting me around the corner after the murder.”

  “Let’s say it’s close,” DiPaulo said.

  “She’s not going to call my dad, is she?”

  “Highly doubt it. She subpoenaed him to try to catch us off guard. That’s no-holds-barred Angela.”

  Greene closed his eyes. Somehow, foolishly, until today nothing about the trouble he was in had felt real. Despite all he’d been through – being charged with murder, going to jail, the bail hearing, the long days of house arrest – he hadn’t really believed he could be convicted and go to jail for twenty-five years. Denial runs deep, he realized. But seeing those jurors, the disgust and anger in their eyes directed right at him, had changed everything. For the first time he was afraid.

  “They hated me today,” he said. With a great effort he hauled himself to his feet. Blood rushed from his head and he felt dizzy. He steadied himself on a chair in front of him.

  “Ari, are you all right?” DiPaulo asked.

  “Yeah, Ted. Never better.”

  He went to the coffeemaker, got two coffees
, came back, and sat on the couch. “I started drinking coffee,” he said.

  “That’s progress,” DiPaulo said.

  “And I sold my big old car.”

  DiPaulo laughed. “I guess you don’t have to be a married guy to have a midlife crisis.”

  Greene took a sip. The coffee tasted bitter. “What are you going to ask Alpine in cross-examination tomorrow?”

  “No idea,” DiPaulo said.

  Greene looked at him. He couldn’t tell if DiPaulo was joking.

  “I’ve spent the last threee months working flat out on this case and going over every detail,” DiPaulo said. “When I’m in court, I have to let it happen.”

  “I don’t entirely believe you,” Greene said.

  “You shouldn’t. I’m going to ask Alpine about some things we’ve never discussed. Watch carefully and please make sure you don’t react at all.”

  “You going to give me a hint?” Greene asked.

  “No. You’ll have to trust me. And don’t be so hard on yourself. You did well today in very trying circumstances.”

  Greene got back up and walked over to the big windows. People down below were scurrying across the square, clutching their coats closed around their necks. The remaining light of the day was flat and bleak. Low-hanging black clouds had moved in, like prison guards at the gate, incarcerating the city in the oncoming darkness.

  71

  DESPITE THEIR BEST EFFORTS OVER THE PAST COUPLE OF MONTHS TO AVOID BEING ALONE together, tonight Kennicott and Summers had ended up by themselves in the Crown’s office. Kreitinger had only stayed for an hour after court, before saying she was going with a friend to watch the Toronto Raptors play the Chicago Bulls. She said watching the basketball game would help her relax before another big day in court. Alpine had joined them for take-out sushi and had helped them interview a few of the witnesses set to go tomorrow before being called back to division to investigate a home invasion.

  They worked in silence. Kennicott was standing by one of the long tables, packing up the evidence boxes to take to court. Summers stood with her back to him, going through a box of folders, pulling files for a legal memo she had to write tonight.

  “How do you feel about the case?” he asked at last.

  “More convinced than ever that Greene is guilty,” she said, without turning around. “But you still don’t think he is, do you?”

  “All I care about is making sure everything is ready,” he said. He tried to imagine how Summers would react if she ever found out that he’d sent Lindsmore to help Greene. She’d probably never talk to him again.

  She jammed a folder back into a full box and looked at him. “I have to admit, you’ve done a good job, Daniel.”

  “Thanks. But I always wonder what I’ve overlooked.”

  “I can’t think of anything,” she said.

  “You’ve done very good work too.” He put the last file into the box he was working on. “I can see Kreitinger is impressed.”

  “She’s a hard-ass, but she cares.”

  A chime sounded. She reached into her purse, found her cell phone, and turned it off.

  “Time for Cinderella to go home?” he said.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m staying late. I’ve got too much to do.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. Was this a chance to thaw the cold war between them or was he misreading her?

  “I’m done,” he said. “I have to be in early to line up the witnesses.”

  She turned back to the table, sat down, and started reading through a photocopy of a case.

  He closed the box and put it on neatly on top of the stack in the corner.

  “Jo,” he said.

  “What?” she answered, without looking up.

  He took in a big breath. “It’s going to sound stupid, I know. But if you’re stuck in the city, I do have a second bedroom.”

  “It sounds extremely stupid.” Her back was still to him. “I’ve got a lot to do. This memo has to be on Angela’s desk at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  He picked up his jacket, walked to the door, and looked back. Her head was down, reading, and she was twirling an errant strand of hair.

  “Jo,” he said.

  “Daniel, please leave,” she said, without lifting her head.

  He turned to the door, opened it, and closed it softly behind him.

  72

  GREENE HAD DRUNK A CUP OF COFFEE THIS MORNING BEFORE COURT WHILE HE READ THE newspaper reports about Hap Charlton’s inaguration as mayor yesterday, his broad face beaming as the gold chain of office was draped around his neck. Charlton had promptly declared this coming Saturday a “War on Graffiti” day and promised to go the Scarborough Civic Centre to power-wash some walls himself.

  Now Greene was back in court and the coffee was churning in his stomach. The jury door opened and he tried to make eye contact with each of the jurors as they took their assigned seats. DiPaulo had instructed him to do this at the beginning and end of the day so they wouldn’t feel he was afraid to look at them. But to be careful not to stare. He felt awkward, looking quickly at those who glanced at him and not looking too hard at those who did not.

  “Mr. DiPaulo,” Judge Norville said after everyone was in place, “your witness.”

  DiPaulo strode out from behind the long counsel table, leaned against it, and folded his arms.

  “How are you this morning?” he asked Alpine, who was back on the witness stand.

  “I’m fine, Ted, I mean Mr. DiPaulo,” Alpine said.

  DiPaulo opened his hands magnanimously. “Detective, we’ve known each other for many years, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, sir. We have.”

  “I used to be a Crown attorney, like my friend Ms. Kreitinger. And you were the officer in charge of many of cases I did, just as Detective Kennicott is the officer in charge today.”

  “We did lots of trials together,” Alpine said.

  “You’ve known my client even longer than you’ve known me.”

  “Ari and I have been on the force for a long time. We worked the same division years ago.”

  “You always respected his work.”

  “I did.” Alpine said.

  “And you knew Ms. Raglan.”

  “Very well. We did many trials together too.”

  It was as if DiPaulo was having a normal conversation with an old friend. He strolled across the floor and stopped in front of Alpine, blocking his view of Kreitinger. He smiled at the jury. He had no notes. He nestled his elbow into the palm of his hand and cupped his chin. “This whole thing is tough for you, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Alpine seemed taken aback. “Tough? What do you mean?”

  “I mean everything.” DiPaulo put his arms out in front of him and walked up to the witness box. For a second Greene thought he was about to give Alpine a bear hug. “Your friend Jennifer Raglan is horribly murdered in a seedy motel. Then a trusted colleague of yours is arrested for first-degree murder. Tough, this is real tough, isn’t it?”

  Alpine looked relieved. “It is difficult,” he admitted. “But I’m treating it the same as I would any other case.”

  “As you should,” DiPaulo said, turning to the jury and letting his voice out like an engine revving up to full speed. “Detective Greene never asked for special treatment, did he?”

  “No.”

  “And he hasn’t been given any, has he?”

  “Not at all.”

  Greene realized that DiPaulo was talking about the elephant in the room. Everyone knew this was no ordinary case, and hearing it said out loud was like releasing the pressure from an overblown tire.

  “The Maple Leaf Motel had no video camera, did it?” DiPaulo said, his voice taking on a more let’s-get-back-to-business tone.

  Alpine shook his head. “No.”

  “This boot mark we heard so much about yesterday, you have no idea exactly when it was made, do you?”

  “Exactly when? No, I c
an’t give you a precise time.”

  “It looked pretty recent, didn’t it?” DiPaulo said. “But you agree, even if it was done that morning, the impression could have been made before or after the murder. Correct?”

  Alpine took his time answering. He knew from the bail hearing just how important this point was for Greene’s defence.

  “There’s no way to know,” he said.

  DiPaulo grinned. He went over to the registrar’s desk. “Mr. Registrar,” he said, “I can never remember exhibit numbers, but can you please pass me that map the good detective put all those yellow arrows on yesterday.”

  Mr. Singh smiled, warmed by the limelight of DiPaulo’s attention. He passed it over.

  “Detective, I noticed yesterday when you traced out the route you took a few weeks ago, on that Monday morning . . . You started here, at Detective Greene’s house, in midtown Toronto, drove south and east through the city until you hooked up with Kingston Road. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fortunately, I’m the father of a seventeen-year-old young lady.” DiPaulo gave Alpine a big grin. “So last night she showed me how to use Google Maps. You ever use that?”

  “Many times. My teenage son showed me how.”

  This got a laugh from the jury, a smile from Judge Norville, and titters from the audience.

  “Well, Google Maps showed that the fastest way to get out there was to go north on the Don Valley Parkway, east on Highway 401 to Morningside, and then down to Kingston Road. Takes about twenty-one minutes.” As he spoke DiPaulo traced out the route with his finger.

  Alpine stared at the map. He nodded. “Technically it’s the fastest route, but not early in the morning.”

  “Why not?”

  “Rush hour. The parkway is usually jammed, both directions. You know how bad traffic is.”

  DiPaulo went back to the defence table and Nancy Parish handed him a white file folder. On the outside in bold black letters Greene saw the words Tuesday Morning Drive – DVP – 51 minutes. DiPaulo held the file to his chest and returned to his spot in front of the witness box.