They both knew that if Greene got on the stand and said he’d been caught up in the traffic in front of the Scarborough Golf Club Road because of the Oprah and Tiger Woods event, the case against him would be in tatters. It offered the perfect explanation for how he had arrived too late to have killed Jennifer.
Of course, if he hadn’t been there, then everything was still on the line.
The problem for DiPaulo was that, as an officer of the court, he couldn’t knowingly present false evidence at the trial. That’s why he had never directly asked Greene the question. He was avoiding an answer he didn’t want to hear and virtually inviting Greene to get on the stand and testify that his scooter was caught in the Oprah traffic jam. In effect, he was saying to Greene: If I’m right about this, great. If not, well, you decide what you want to say under oath. With twenty-five years in jail on the line, if you decided to tell a little white lie, so be it.
DiPaulo pulled out his cell phone. “My daughter gave me this iPhone for my birthday last year,” he said. “She put all these apps and other junk on it. I still don’t even know how to use most of them. But the one I love is called ‘Clock.’ Look, you tap here and there are four things. World Clock, which is perfect for me. I’ve been dating an air hostess who works for Air France. If I want to call her, in a second I can find out what the time is wherever she happens to be. Alarm, which I use every morning. Timer, perfect for my workouts. But the one I like the most is this one: Stopwatch.”
He put the phone on the desk between them.
“You know, Ari, defence lawyers call it peeling back the onion. You get a case, there are so many facts, and you work and you work and you work. But every time, no matter how hard I try, there’s always one simple and obvious thing that I’ve overlooked. And often it’s something that my own client hasn’t told me.”
Greene watched DiPaulo’s fingers caress the rounded corners of the phone.
“Time estimates are the most difficult thing for people in court. Witnesses are constantly saying, ‘I watched such-and-such happen for five minutes.’ You know what I do on cross-examination now? I take this out and say, ‘You’re sure it was five minutes?’ They always say yes. Then I show them this, and have them push the button. The seconds start to click off, then I take it with me and sit down. I say, ‘Okay, close your eyes, play back in your mind what happened, and open them when you’re done.’ ”
Greene was pretty sure he knew what DiPaulo was after. He reached out his hand and DiPaulo put the phone in it.
“It works every single time in court,” DiPaulo said. “People can’t stand the pressure of the silence. Usually in less than half of the time they’ve said, they open their eyes and say that’s how long it took. I push the stop button and show it to them and the jury.”
Greene held the phone up so they could both see it. “You want me to replay the phone call I had with Jennifer in my mind, don’t you?”
“Good guess.”
Greene touched the start button and handed the phone back to DiPaulo. Then he closed his eyes. He heard the conversation. It was easy. Her every word had been running in a loop in his brain since the horrible moment he had found her dead.
Ari, Howard texted me this morning and wanted to meet up. I told him I couldn’t because I was running. I’m so glad this is almost over. One more week. I can’t wait to be with you.
He heard her voice. And her last words to him: I’ll see you soon, my love. Don’t be late.
“Okay,” he said, opening his eyes.
DiPaulo touched the screen and looked at Greene. “Thirty seconds short.” He turned the phone around. It read 1:02.
They stared at each other.
“Kreitinger made a big mistake in her opening address to the jury, didn’t she?”
“How so?” Greene asked. It was foolish. They both knew he was playing dumb.
“She put all her eggs in the motive basket. You were the spurned lover. Jennifer was ending things. Going back to work on Monday mornings. Back to her family.”
“And?”
“I looked at your cell-phone records for the other five Mondays. She never called you on any of them. She was super careful. I think she called you that morning to tell you about her husband’s text, how she’d lied to him and said she was jogging that morning, and I bet how she told you she was looking forward to ending all your secrecy and finally being together. If she was about to end your relationship, she wouldn’t have risked calling you that morning.”
“Anything else?”
“You were arrested walking out of a lawyer’s office in the east end. The only reason in the world I can think of why you were there is that she must have hired him. I looked up Anthony Carpenter in the Law Society registry. His practice is restricted to two things, estates and family law. She went there because she’d finally decided she wanted a divorce.”
“You’d be a good detective, Ted,” Greene said. His body was full of nervous energy. He stood up and started to pace. “How did you figure it out?”
“The champagne was the giveaway. A woman who’s going to end a relationship with a man doesn’t bring champagne to celebrate that it’s over. It was meant to be a celebratory bottle, wasn’t it?”
“Sounds foolish, doesn’t it?”
“Love is always foolish. But a man who is going to see a woman he loves, a woman who is about to leave her husband and family for him, has no motive to kill her. Instead he’s got every reason in the world to do incredibly stupid things, such as take off from the scene to try to find the killer, and to hide the fact he was there from the police. Especially if he happens to be a homicide detective.”
Greene sat back down. “Does this make my story ‘sound true, sound believable’?”
“Very. But only if you get on that witness stand and tell it to the jury. But you don’t want to testify because you don’t want to hurt Darnell.”
Greene started to laugh. “All this time I’ve thought that Kreitinger was trying to force me to testify. But it was you, wasn’t it?”
“I had to wait you out. A modern jury needs to see you step in that witness box, put your hand on that Bible, and tell them that you are innocent.”
“I know you’re right. But I hate the thought of Darnell sitting right in front of me in court. Saying it to his face. And for his kids to hear that their mother was about to leave their father for me.”
“Get over it. Going to jail for twenty-five years for a murder you didn’t commit to spare someone’s feelings is downright stupid,” DiPaulo said. “And besides, I hate to lose.”
75
KENNICOTT WORKED LATE SO THAT, AT LAST, HE’D HAVE SOME TIME OFF THIS WEEKEND. RACHEL, the border guard in Buffalo, had texted him that she was going to be in town again to go dancing at the Riva Lounge on Saturday night. What the hell, he deserved it.
It was almost ten o’clock when he walked out of the courthouse into the cold night. A smattering of snowflakes drifted down, hurled about by a strong wind. None of the trees on University Avenue, the widest boulevard in the city, had any leaves left on them, and a couple of work crews in cherry pickers were stringing up Christmas decorations. None of them was lit yet.
The fresh air felt good. He decided to walk and made his way through a series of side streets. Most of the houses had lights on inside. People were in their homes, sitting, talking, being together.
He was extremely tired and yet also keyed up. He probably wouldn’t be able to sleep. But he didn’t care. For a change he wanted to spend the night at home, instead of at work.
This is what you always wanted, Daniel, he thought as he passed block after block of houses. You worked for years to make it to the homicide squad. And this is your reward. You blew any relationship you might have had with a woman you care for, you arrested the man who took you under his wing for a murder he might not have committed, and you are no closer than you ever were to finding out who killed your brother.
As his favourite law professor used to say ab
out a case when the bad guy won, “Nice work if you can get it.”
He walked up Clinton to College Street, near his home. Here, in Little Italy, Christmas had come early. Decorations were hung high across the street, flooding the sidewalks with light. Shop windows were all aglow, the sidewalks packed with people and the restaurants filled with diners.
Almost two years ago, on a December night like this, he’d run into Jo Summers at this very spot, right across from the Café Diplomatico, a place where they’d often met for coffee. She had been going out for dinner with a well-dressed, handsome man, and Kennicott had assumed they were dating. Turned out he was her stepbrother, and six months later he had been murdered.
He could picture Jo, turning and smiling at him as they’d crossed the street. He’d better get that image out of his mind.
A few steps north on Clinton Street, he was glad to be in near darkness again. The block and a half walk to his place was quiet. Peaceful.
He was surprised to see a big car, parked half on the sidewalk in front of the house. As he got closer he recognized the vehicle. A Cadillac with the distinctive licence plate HAP on the back.
The driver’s door opened and Hap Charlton got out. He had a glass jar of tomato sauce in one hand. “Good evening, Detective,” he said, as if this were something that happened every night. He held out his meaty hand.
“Hello, Mr. Mayor,” Kennicott said, shaking hands.
“Fuck that Mr. Mayor crap. How you doing, Daniel?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Hap, call me Hap. I’ve officially been mayor for three days. Always wanted this job, and already I miss being a cop. Crazy, isn’t it?”
Kennicott smiled. He knew that when Charlton was the chief he also always wanted to know what was going on in big cases. Clearly that hadn’t changed.
“Your landlord, Mr. Federico, he’s quite a gardener.” Charlton held up the jar. “He showed me his cellar with his tomato crusher, his canning machine, his stack of mason jars. Quite an operation. He insisted on giving me one. He says you work too hard.”
“He’s a good landlord.”
“Sounds like you’re a good tenant.”
Stop being an idiot, Kennicott told himself. Charlton hadn’t come here to talk about making tomato sauce. He’s here for information.
“Crown closed its case this afternoon,” he said.
“So I heard. How does it look?”
“Hard to tell. DiPaulo’s theory is that the murder happened close to ten, when Jennifer first got to the motel room. Greene’s defence is going to be that he got stuck in traffic and didn’t get there until after she was dead. You remember during the film festival, when Oprah and Tiger Woods had that Armitage Foundation event out at the Scarborough Golf Club?”
Charlton twisted the jar in his large hands. “Oh yeah. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Well, DiPaulo showed the jury how it bunged up traffic farther down Kingston Road that morning. Raglan called Greene from a Coffee Time near the motel just before ten. From Greene’s cell records we’ve got him at his house at the same time. I had Detective Alpine test-drive from Greene’s place to the murder scene. On a regular Monday morning it took him about twenty-three minutes. That means the earliest he could arrive was about 10:23, and the 911 call goes in at 10:39. It’s just enough time for him to do the murder. But now DiPaulo’s got Greene stuck in traffic, so it pushes back his arrival time. We know from what his father said at the bail hearing that Greene’s going to say she was dead when he got there.”
Charlton tossed the jar from hand to hand, like a cop with a baton. “I see.”
“The time before Greene arrives is a blank. DiPaulo established through the pathologist that the murder could have happened in the first twenty-three minutes, when Greene couldn’t have possibly been there.”
Charlton stopped fiddling with the jar. “Is there any evidence of someone else going into the room then?” he asked.
“No. Nothing.”
Charlton smiled. “DiPaulo’s a very smart lawyer.”
“We also know from the bail hearing that Greene’s going to say he saw someone run away from the scene. That’s why he took off and didn’t call in the murder.”
“Any evidence of that?” Charlton asked, tapping the tin top of the mason jar.
“No. Nothing again.”
Charlton put a hand on Kennicott’s shoulder. “You look tired.”
“One more day to go this week.”
“Strange, isn’t it,” Charlton said. “You worked with Ari for, what, six years. I’ve known him for twenty-five. He’s been my top homicide cop for years. And neither of us can talk to him. In a few days, if he’s acquitted, things will probably go back to normal. If he’s convicted, I guess we’ll never speak to him again.”
“I guess so.”
Charlton opened the door to his car. “By the way, I had Lindsmore wired when you sent him to check up on Greene.”
“You did?” How did Charlton know about Lindsmore?
“Sorry I didn’t tell you. Turned out there was no need.”
“What did Greene say?” Kennicott asked. Charlton had gone around his back to do the wiretap. But he should have known. The chief was famous for poking his nose into everything.
“Nothing that helps your case. Ari said he was innocent and determined to find the killer.”
“Maybe it’s true,” Kennicott said.
“Or maybe he realized he was being wired and tried to throw us off track,” Charlton said. “With Ari you never know. Good night, Daniel.”
“Good night, Hap,” Kennicott said.
Charlton tossed him the jar of sauce and jumped into his car. For such a big man he was surprisingly nimble.
It occurred to Kennicott that Charlton had made it a campaign issue that he’d drive his own car instead of using a limousine and a driver because of the independence it gave him. He still wanted to know everyone’s business.
I better get used to it, Kennicott thought as he walked up the stairs to his flat. And I better get to sleep so I’m in shape for Saturday night with Rachel at the Riva.
76
KREITINGER SAT BACK IN HER CHAIR. IT WAS DIPAULO’S TURN TO BE CENTRE STAGE.
She had hoped to catch him off guard by finishing her case quickly. But she could see as he walked over to the jury, no notes in his hands, that he was ready. All she could do was watch his opening to the jury and hope that she’d at least get her answer to the big question in her mind and, she was sure, in the mind of the jury as well: Is Ari Greene going to testify?
“Good morning,” DiPaulo said with a warm smile. He didn’t bother addressing them with the tried-and-true ladies-and-gentlemen-of-the-jury opening that almost everyone else used.
“You’ve all seen enough courtroom dramas on TV and the movies to know what a lawyer’s opening address is supposed to sound like. You probably expect me tell you how important and vital a role you are playing in the justice system and thank you profusely for doing your civic duty. Wax eloquent about the presumption of innocence and tell you over and over again how my client has the absolute right to remain silent. And I’m supposed to speak in solemn tones about the heavy, heavy burden of truth on the Crown to prove its case against my client beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Kreitinger saw a few jurors smile.
DiPaulo shrugged. “Well, be prepared to be disappointed. I’m going to spare you all that mumbo jumbo.”
DiPaulo had put the jurors at ease, Kreitinger thought. They like him. They’ll never like me. But that’s not my style. This isn’t a popularity contest. Still.
“Life is never as simple as it seems, is it?” He looked at the jurors one at a time. A number of them nodded. “Clearly, for Jennifer Raglan, by the morning of September tenth, it had become very complicated. Hadn’t it?”
He walked right up to the railing of the jury box. Put his hands softly down on it and shook his head.
“Why?” he asked. “Because she was loved
by two men. Yes. Two good men. Both loved her.”
Kreitinger thought back to DiPaulo’s gentle cross-examination of Howard Darnell.
Mr. Darnell, you loved your wife.
Very much.
That’s my only question. Thank you, sir.
He’d set this up right from the start, she realized. The jury was totally with him.
“Howard Darnell didn’t kill his wife of twenty-three years, the mother of his three children. Of course not. He loved her. And Ari Greene didn’t kill Jennifer Raglan either.
“Ari Greene loved her too. And that’s exactly what he’s going to tell you when he takes the stand right here in this court.”
He walked over to the witness box, put his hand on the high front ledge, and rubbed it back and forth, comfortably, like a chauffeur getting ready to open the back door of a limousine for a special guest.
“You all know the law. Ari Greene has the absolute right to remain silent. He doesn’t have to testify. But of course he will.”
Well, that settles that, Kreitinger thought. She’d been up night after night preparing for this cross-examination and had a binder filled with her questions and notes.
“He’s going to tell you that he loved Jennifer Raglan. That on the morning of September tenth, thanks to a traffic jam on Kingston Road, he didn’t get to room number eight at the Maple Leaf Motel until 10:41. And what happened next was the worst thing that ever happened in his life. Worse than getting arrested. Worse than having to endure this trial. Worse than being publicly exposed for his human failings. Worse than having to see the pain he caused to Mr. Darnell, and his and Jennifer’s three children.”
DiPaulo’s voice rose steadily as he spoke. Kreitinger looked up at Judge Norville. She was staring at DiPaulo, as captivated as the twelve jurors.
“He found her dead. Horribly murdered. Who did this terrible crime? We still don’t know. But what we do know, and we know it with absolute certainty, is that Ari Greene loved Jennifer Raglan. Is that Ari Greene did not kill her.”
DiPaulo looked at the jurors again, one at a time, went back to his chair, and sat down.
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