02 - The Guilty Plea

by Robert Rotenberg

  “She hasn’t seen her son yet. He’s at the nanny’s apartment.” DiPaulo looked back to the sidewalk where his daughter had disappeared moments before. “Her family lawyer was going to go to court tomorrow to try to get her access.”

  Greene exhaled. Clearly he was torn. “Here’s the best I can do,” he said. “Pick her up and bring her to the nanny’s place. I’ll follow in an unmarked car. We’ll find a corner of the lobby and do the arrest. Upstairs she’ll have fifteen minutes with her son. I won’t be able to leave them alone.”

  “Thanks,” DiPaulo said.

  He hung up and tightened his tie. This was just what the doctor ordered: a big-time, center-stage, no-holds-barred, first-degree murder trial. To hell with sleep.

  I deserve five minutes for myself, DiPaulo thought. He charged downstairs, blasted Cobain on the stereo, and danced around the vacant living room, playing air guitar like a young Tom Cruise. “‘Here we are now,’” he shouted out at the top of his lungs, “‘entertain us.’”

  25

  “Ms. Wyler, you know why we’re here,” Ari Greene said, more as a statement than a question. He was standing in a side room of the lobby of Arceli Ocaya’s apartment. Kennicott, who’d gone ahead and found this location, was at his side.

  Samantha Wyler wore a pair of slacks and a blue work shirt. She had her left hand wrapped around her right wrist, manacling herself. Her shoulders were tight. Ted DiPaulo was beside her. Wearing a suit.

  “Yes. Ted told me.” She flicked her head, moving her dark hair from her face.

  A nervous tic, Greene thought. He motioned to Kennicott. “Officer Daniel Kennicott is here to assist.”

  Wyler was trembling.

  Without hesitating, Greene clasped her shoulder. Gently. He always made physical contact with a suspect when making an arrest. There was something very human about it. Touch.

  “Samantha Wyler, it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest for the charge of first-degree murder of Mr. Terrance Wyler.”

  She brought her fist to her mouth and bit down hard on the middle finger. Her breathing was rapid, but her dark eyes never left Greene as he informed her of her rights. When he finished, she pulled her hand away from her face.

  “Are there handcuffs? This is all new to me.”

  “Not necessary now.” You’ll be shackled soon enough, he thought. “We’re going upstairs and you can see your son for fifteen minutes. I’ll be there the whole time you’re with him. No talking about what happened.”

  “I know, I know.” Wyler nodded over and over. “Ted explained everything to me. Thanks for this.”

  They all went together, in silence, up the elevator. Ocaya’s apartment was remarkably neat, even though an enormous number of things were stuffed into so little space. Spotless, just like Terrance Wyler’s house had been when she took care of it, Greene thought. The front door opened into the kitchen, where there was a sink, a hot plate, a small fridge, and, on a tiny table under the only window, a round rice cooker. A tall, cylindrical blue plastic barrel dominated the far corner.

  Greene had seen similar barrels in many homes over the years, and they always impressed him. Immigrant families, usually working two jobs at minimum wage, stuffed into tiny apartments in far-flung suburbs, somehow scrimped and saved to fill these large containers with all kinds of goods—canned food, clothes, batteries, toys, tools, and other utensils—to send back home to their families.

  Samantha and DiPaulo came in behind Greene. Kennicott stayed by the door. Billy barked, and Greene rubbed the dog behind his ears. Simon, who was playing in the adjoining living room, spotted his mother and rushed into her arms. “Mommy, it’s not your week.” He paid no attention to the other adults in the crowded kitchen.

  Wyler clasped his little head to her body. “Mommy won’t be here next week. I have to go away for a while.”

  “Oh,” Simon said. He wriggled free and led her into the living room. Greene sat at the edge of the kitchen, where he could see them. Simon picked up a building block. “I sleep on this couch. It’s comfy.”

  Wyler kissed the top of his head. Her jaw was clamped tight.

  Simon showed her a book, Chugga-Chugga Choo-Choo. “It’s a baby’s book, but I can read some of the words,” he said.

  “I’m proud of you.” She stroked his hair.

  “Cely eats lots of rice. It gets stuck in my teeth.”

  Greene glanced behind him. DiPaulo, Kennicott, and Ocaya were hanging back. He pointed to a sink and made a drinking motion, and Ocaya rushed over with a glass of water. “Thanks,” he whispered.

  The fifteen minutes seemed to go by in a few seconds. Wyler must have felt the deadline approach, because as Greene was about to stand up, she held Simon. “Time for Mommy to go,” she said. The boy’s shirt had become crooked from her embrace, and she straightened it with both hands.

  Greene looked back to Kennicott and DiPaulo and motioned for them to step outside.

  “Bye-bye,” Simon said to his mother.

  Her body seemed like a dead weight as she walked through the small kitchen to the front door. Ocaya slipped past her into the living room and went to hold the boy.

  Greene followed Wyler to the door.

  “Mommy, Mommy!” Simon yelled. He scooted past Greene and grabbed Wyler by the leg. “Did you find my Thomas?”

  “Your Thomas?” Wyler turned. Tears were in her eyes. “No, I didn’t.”

  “It’s missing. Uncle Jason told me he was going to go back to my Daddy’s house to look for it. Maybe he can find it.”

  “I hope so.”

  Greene stepped forward. “The police will search for it too.”

  Wyler looked over the child’s head at Greene and mouthed the words “thank you.”

  “The police always find lost things,” Simon said. “And bad guys too, don’t they, Mommy?”

  Wyler put her hand on her son’s head. Her eyes were fixed on Greene. “They always try their best to get the bad guys,” she said. “But even the police sometimes make mistakes.”

  “No, they don’t. They’re the police.” Simon looked up at Greene. “Isn’t that right?”

  Greene knelt down so he was at eye level with the boy. “Why don’t you give your mommy the biggest hug ever.”

  Simon squeezed his mother as hard as he could, the way a child does when he doesn’t want to say goodbye.

  PART TWO

  SEPTEMBER

  26

  When they appear in Superior Court for serious charges, such as murder, Canadian lawyers wear black robes, white shirts, and white tabs. The tradition of “gowning” is a holdover from the British judicial system and Ted DiPaulo loved everything about it—his crisp shirt, gold cuff links, and the great swish of the gown that accentuated his big frame.

  Like everything in law, there was a tradition to the legal robes. Years earlier DiPaulo had been appointed Queen’s Counsel, an honorific for veteran lawyers. Being a QC no longer meant a great deal. The only vestige of status was a subtle difference in the robes they wore. Junior lawyers’ gowns had a narrow sash across the left shoulder that had no apparent purpose. An astute observer would note a gap in the fabric near the top, designed so clients could discreetly deposit an envelope with payment enclosed. The robes of a QC were conspicuously flat across the back with no place to deposit funds. The reason: a senior barrister would never bother with anything so trifling as fees.

  In the robing room during the tense minutes before court commenced at ten o’clock, the lawyers chatted away as they struggled with buttons and tabs. To an outsider the scene might appear to be quite genteel. But really it was no different from a boxers’ dressing room before a fight. Mondays were always busy. Every lawyer with a case on the trial list was summoned to court at the beginning of the week.

  DiPaulo was keyed up. It had been more than three weeks since Samantha Wyler was arrested, and he was about to step into the ring for round one: the bail hearing. He opened his vertical locker, took out his blue vel
vet bag with the initials TLD written in flowing white script on the side—Lando was his middle name—and laid out his clothes on the long table in the center of the crowded room.

  A thin man with streaked blond hair spotted him. “What’ve you got today?” His name was Clarke Whittle, a talented lawyer who always wore dramatic eyeglasses, of which he seemed to have an endless supply.

  Like most defense counsel, Whittle loved to gossip. What’ve you got? was one of the two most common questions asked in the lawyers’ robing room. It meant: What are you doing in court—a bail hearing, a pretrial with a judge, or a trial?

  “Bail,” DiPaulo said, as if the case were nothing unusual. “On a murder.”

  Whittle pulled off his latest pair of glasses, a combination of wood and metal, and polished them with a special cloth. “Who you got?”

  This was the second robing-room question. The “who” referred to the judge on the case. Most of the talk every morning was about judges, their foibles, their strengths, what they liked to see from counsel, and any other goodies that could be thrown into the mix.

  “Norville.” DiPaulo unbuttoned his blue work shirt. Another thing he liked about wearing robes was that he could dress in casual clothes coming to and from the courthouse. No need to put on a suit and tie first thing in the morning.

  “Madam Justice No Decision,” Whittle said. “Better you than me.” DiPaulo unzipped his jeans and hung them in his locker and pulled on his striped black and gray court pants. “Thanks,” he said.

  Until her judicial appointment two years before, Irene Norville had been a family lawyer at a small, undistinguished firm with no trial experience in criminal matters. Her second husband, a partner in a downtown firm and a heavyweight in the Conservative Party, had lobbied hard to get her the job. The word on the street was that during trials, when a tough legal question came up, she’d phone him for advice—and would even get one of his juniors to do legal research for her—because she was too embarrassed to ask the more senior judges.

  The upshot was that Norville was forever finding reasons to take breaks during a trial. It drove lawyers—Crowns and defense—crazy. DiPaulo found the best way to deal with her insecurity was to overwhelm the judge with legal precedents that addressed even the most mundane issues.

  In preparation for today, he had filed with the court a thick case-book with all the relevant passages highlighted in yellow marker. There were a surprising number of decisions in which people charged with murdering a spouse had been released on bail. Almost always they were women with no criminal record, like Samantha.

  After a quick cup of coffee in the adjoining lounge, DiPaulo found a quiet corner and pulled out a clean pad of paper. He had two boxes of files back at his office, and his briefcase was packed with pretrial notes, but before going into court he liked to put everything aside and write all the key points on one page. If you couldn’t do it in a page, he had taught young lawyers for years, then you didn’t know your case.

  At the top of a blank sheet he wrote, “Samantha Wyler, née Samantha Frankland, Bail Hearing, September 14:”

  PLUSES

  Mother, one child, Simon, age four

  Thirty-five years old, good work history

  No criminal record, no outstanding charges (note: can’t say “no police contacts” because of e-mails and voice mails she recently sent Terrance)

  Plan for bail:

  • Live with mother in Cobalt—small town in northern Ontario

  • Report to local police station—daily if necessary

  • Leave town limits only with express permission of police and in the company of her mother or brother

  • Ask that she be able to use local libraries

  • Surrender passport

  Sam made no statements—only circumstantial evidence against her. No proof she had the knife. Question—do they have evidence she was in the house that night? Don’t know—be careful. Reason why Sam must not testify at bail hearing.

  Justice Norville?

  MINUSES

  Bad divorce

  No criminal record—but recent contacts with police—angry e-mails and voice mails to Terrance. Very bad.

  Motive

  • Family court trial slated for the next day

  • Jealousy—the new, famous girlfriend

  • Anger—e-mails and voice mails—see above

  • Child custody?

  No alibi. She made no statement—i.e., she had motive AND opportunity

  Justice Norville?

  DiPaulo sat with his notes. Let the time pass, his mind drift. Then he used his own little secret code to guess his possibility of success. He never wrote out a number, for fear that somehow his clients might see it. Instead, he used the election years of American presidents in the twentieth century. He played with his pen for a few seconds, and wrote “FDR II.” Roosevelt was elected to his second term in 1936. That sounded about right—there was about a 36 percent chance, one in three, of getting Samantha out.

  Then he had a thought. He pulled out the four-color glossy photos of Terrance Wyler’s bloodied body on the kitchen floor. The multiple slashes in his white shirt were like lightning bolts across his chest. DiPaulo crossed out “FDR II” and wrote in “Herbert Hoover.”

  Hoover won the election in 1928. That was closer. There is about a one in four chance, he thought, if I’m lucky. Just the kind of challenge he relished.

  27

  “The first witness for the Crown will be Ms. Arceli Ocaya,” Crown Attorney Jennifer Raglan said, standing tall at the long wooden counsel table she shared with Detective Ari Greene.

  Judge Norville nodded from the chair up on her dais. She made a show of opening a red book and writing some notes on the first page. The large wood-paneled courtroom was packed. Most of the first two rows were taken up by the press, and behind them were a sea of spectators and a few lawyers in gowns who’d drifted in to watch.

  The Wyler family sat in a specially reserved row of seats directly behind Raglan and as far away as possible from the defense table and Samantha. Raglan had met with them yesterday afternoon, and like most families of the deceased, they were upset and anxious. The oldest brother, Nathan, and the father were the most boisterous.

  “You’re telling me there’s even a chance she could get bail?” Nathan demanded.

  “Ridiculous.” The father’s face was red with anger. “Why’s this taking so long?”

  For people like the Wylers, who lived in a world of instant decision making and rapid results, the lumbering criminal justice system frustrated the hell out of them. Mr. Wyler senior had seemed particularly agitated.

  This morning, Mr. and Mrs. Wyler looked tense, Nathan was a case study in fury about to boil over and Jason, the disabled son, held his head high in defiance.

  Raglan watched the nanny approach the witness stand. A small woman, about five feet tall, she moved haltingly. Last week Raglan had brought Ocaya here and walked her through the courtroom so she wouldn’t feel too awkward today. Still, it was clear from her uncertain gait that she was intimidated by the august surroundings and the crush of onlookers.

  Smiling down at her, Norville greeted Ocaya as if they were old friends newly reunited. “Come right up and sit here beside me.” She patted the side of her desk next to her.

  Ocaya sat in the tall witness-box and practically disappeared. Damn, Raglan thought. During their little tour yesterday she hadn’t had Ocaya try sitting down. Mistake.

  Norville frowned. “You may stand if you like.”

  “Is it permitted?” Ocaya asked.

  “Certainly.” Norville glared at Raglan, her smile replaced by a scowl that said “Jennifer, why the hell didn’t you bring this poor woman into court before today so she could see what it was like?”

  Great way to start, Raglan thought. The court registrar, who sat directly below the judge, was a wiry, balding man who always had a crossword or a sudoku puzzle tucked under his notebook. He swore the nanny in as a witness.
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  “Ms. Ocaya, good morning,” Raglan said.

  “Good morning.” Ocaya looked terrified.

  “You remember last week, when I brought you here to show you around the courtroom?” Raglan shot the judge a sideways glance.

  “Yes.” Ocaya’s voice was weak. “You were very kind.”

  “Was that the first time you had ever been in a court of law?” Raglan made a point of not using contractions when questioning Ocaya.

  “I have never been in any trouble in my life,” she said. “I have done everything for immigration, and more community hours than requested to bring my family to Canada.”

  Raglan smiled. No matter how many times you go over things beforehand, when an inexperienced witness hits the stand, all the insecurities are there to see, clear as day. In Ocaya’s case, it all made her more believable. I wish I’d saved this for the trial, Raglan thought.

  “You know all that is required is that you tell us the truth,” Raglan said. “Can you do that?”

  “Of course.”

  For the next half hour she led Ocaya through her evidence: how she came to the country as part of the nanny program, how Mr. and Mrs. Wyler hired her when Simon was born, how she’d become close with the boy, how she stayed with Mr. Wyler when the couple split up.

  “Tell us about Mrs. Wyler,” Raglan asked.

  “When she moved away from the house, I saw her at the pickups and drop-offs for Simon.”

  Raglan waited for Ocaya to say more. In the witness interview they’d had last week, the nanny had gone into great detail about how Samantha Wyler was unpredictable, angry, and sometimes nearly out of control. But now she was freezing up. A woman like Ocaya wouldn’t want to speak ill of someone in public, especially with Samantha Wyler sitting right across the courtroom from her.

  The rules of evidence didn’t allow Raglan to ask her own witness leading questions. She’d have to coax the story out. Moving from behind the counsel table, she strolled up to the witness-box. She crossed her arms comfortably. “How about Simon. Is he a good boy?”