For some reason, judges loved double negatives. As if they were more nuanced. Why say “it’s not unprecedented” instead of spitting out “there’s precedent” for granting you bail.
DiPaulo’s hand froze on his pen. He’d been gripping it so tight his fingers were in spasm. They were stuck. He let go of the pen and tried to move them.
He realized that Norville was silent. This was the moment of decision. He didn’t dare look up. His fingers were numb. No one in the courtroom moved.
Please don’t say “but,” the dreaded word every criminal lawyer hated to hear, the fulcrum upon which a negative decision always turned. If the next word was “but,” it was all over.
He looked up at the judge. Her eyes were on him.
“Mr. DiPaulo,” she said. “What arrangements are in place for your client to see her son if she’s living up north and he’s down here in Toronto?”
DiPaulo shot to his feet, his mind a jumble of emotions. There was no “but.” Norville’s going to let Wyler out. The videotape of the boy playing with Greene—DiPaulo thought it had sunk his case. Blood was coming back into his fingers.
Now he saw it. Norville didn’t want to cut Simon off from his mother. When her first husband died, she must have seen what happened to a child who lost a parent. That was her focus. Why didn’t I think of that? That tape of Simon playing with trains would be a killer at trial, but now it was going to get her bail.
Keep your cool, Ted, he told himself. Don’t act like it’s a done deal.
“Your Honor, that’s an excellent question.” He was stalling for time to get his thoughts in order.
Raglan stood. “Your Honor. I appreciate your concerns about the boy seeing his mother, but I want to remind the court that Simon will be a key witness for the prosecution. There’s a real danger he might be unduly influenced by the accused. In a homicide case, this must be the court’s paramount concern.”
Norville tapped her pen.
I’m losing her, DiPaulo thought.
“The Crown makes an excellent point.” Norville bit her lower lip. She shrugged her shoulders at him, as if to say, “Sorry, Ted. Close, but no cigar.”
“Mr. DiPaulo. I have grave concerns about separating mother and child, but …”
There it was. The “but.”
The idea came to him in an instant. Damn the “but.”
“I share Your Honor’s concerns,” DiPaulo said, interrupting the judge, which was a real no-no in her court. Norville scowled. He kept talking. “And I agree with my friend. We can’t allow my client to be alone with her son—”
“Okay then.” Norville cut back in. “Then I’m going to deny—”
“But, Your Honor, I have the solution. Hear me out,” DiPaulo said.
Norville had her mouth open. She was about to speak. Don’t stop, he told himself.
“When Ms. Wyler comes to Toronto to meet with me, I’ll take her to see Simon in the playroom at police headquarters. The one in the video. Obviously the boy was comfortable there.”
“Hmm,” Norville said.
“It keeps Ms. Wyler in touch with her son.” Come on, Judge, keep nodding, DiPaulo thought. “It doesn’t prejudice the trial. Just the opposite. It keeps my client totally visible to the police. Everything’s recorded.”
Norville broke into a grin. Like a hiker who’d made it across a wild river, safe on the far shore. “I was thinking of something along the same lines,” she said. “Ms. Wyler, I’m granting you bail, but believe me the terms of your release will be the strictest that I can fashion without keeping you behind bars. Step over the line once and you’ll be in custody so fast your head will spin. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” Wyler said. It was stunning to hear her voice for the first time in court.
For the next twenty minutes Norville piled on every term and condition she could think of. House arrest, the only exception being allowed to go to the libraries in Cobalt and New Liskeard. No use of Internet or e-mail. No cell phone. No long-distance calls except to her lawyer.
DiPaulo dutifully made notes of every word on the left-hand side of the page. In the blank right-hand margin he drew an enormous happy face.
Round one to the defense. With Herbert Hoover odds, no less. Man oh man, he loved to win. And tonight he was going to get a very good night’s sleep.
PART THREE
NOVEMBER
34
Arceli Ocaya was worried about Simon. It had been three months since Mr. Wyler was killed and the boy had stopped talking about his father. Any time she brought up the subject, the boy took out one of his toy guns and shouted, “Bang bang! I’m police. Bad guys hands up!” Guns and police were the only things he talked about.
After the murder, Simon and Arceli had spent a few days at the home of Simon’s uncle Nathan. The police sent over a social worker, and Simon started crying, saying he wanted to go back to day-care camp. They worked out a plan. For the fall Simon would live at Arceli’s apartment during the week and spend the weekends at Nathan’s house. Uncle Jason would drive them back and forth. In January they would move permanently to Nathan’s place.
When the boy first went back to day care, many of the parents tried to help out, inviting Simon for playdates at their houses. Now they were complaining about all his talk of police and guns.
Every two weeks Detective Greene came by the apartment and took Simon to police headquarters to see his mother. He loved the police radio. “Copy that,”
“Ten-four,”
“Roger, we’re on our way.” Simon used those phrases over and over again.
When the detective called the day before, Ocaya broke down and told him her concerns about all of Simon’s gun talk. “I am so sorry to bother you with this,” she said.
“You did the right thing,” he assured her. “No more police cars, and I’ll get rid of his guns tomorrow.”
The intercom from the downstairs lobby buzzed. Simon rushed over to push the Entry button.
“Police headquarters.” He stretched onto his toes to reach the speaker. “Come in with your hands up.”
“Simon, stop that.” Ocaya pulled him from the wall.
“Why?” Simon squirmed away from her grip, rushed into the living room, where he slept on the couch, and grabbed the toy gun he kept under his pillow.
By the time he got back, Detective Greene was in the kitchen with a big white cloth bag in his hand. It had a large police logo on it. Billy barked and wagged his tail.
Greene bent his knees to get close to the boy’s height. “Good morning.”
“Did you find my Thomas?”
Simon had lost his train at the old house and asked about it every time he saw Greene.
“Afraid not. But I’m on a special police mission.” Greene pulled a long piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Look at this.”
Simon put his hand on the detective’s shoulder.
“This is called a search warrant,” he told Simon. “See. Can you read that word?”
Simon looked at it closely. “Simon. That’s my name.”
“How about this one?”
“Arceli,” he said, proud of himself, and looked over at Ocaya.
She clapped her hands together. “Good, Simon.” She always felt better when Detective Greene came over.
“How about this little word? It’s only four letters,” Greene said.
“Guns. Did you bring me more guns?”
“Afraid not. This says I’m supposed to collect all the guns in the house and put them in this police bag. Time for another little boy or girl to play with them.”
Simon looked at the gun in his hand, then crossed his arms in front of his thin chest.
“No,” he said. “I won’t.”
“Simon, be a good boy,” Ocaya said.
“It’s mine,” Simon screamed at Detective Greene. To Ocaya’s amazement, he spun on his heels and ran out the apartment door. The dog ran right after him.
“Simon,” Ocaya yelled.
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Greene didn’t hesitate. He charged out into the hall. Ocaya rushed to the kitchen drawer, grabbed the front door key, and ran outside. Simon was heading to the stairwell, the dog at his heels. The detective was running after them.
“Simon, please,” Ocaya shouted. She locked the door and by the time she turned back to the hallway they were gone. At the stairway she heard their footsteps heading down. She descended as fast as she could and on the fourth floor she saw them in a corner. Detective Greene was on his back with Simon on top of him, his arms wrapped around the boy. The dog was nuzzling them both. The floor was filthy. Poor Detective Greene was wearing such a nice suit.
Simon looked up. “Daddy didn’t have a gun,” he said. “I need my gun.”
35
Reason number nineteen to never work on a homicide, Daniel Kennicott thought, crossing off yet another name on the long list of witnesses Detective Greene had given him to go back and interview. Most of the work was boring. After the initial flurry of activity during those first few hectic days, the daily routine ground down to getting out and pounding the pavement, which was the backbone of any good investigation. Going over things again and again.
A lot of detectives would have hit Cruise Control in a case like this, given the piles of evidence that were stacked up against the accused. But not Greene—even though tomorrow was the judicial pretrial and the whole thing would probably end in a guilty plea. This morning he wanted Kennicott to return to Terrance Wyler’s street and knock on doors yet again. Kennicott had been back twice and reinterviewed all the witnesses but one, a teenage boy named Brandon Legacy who lived next door. Both times he’d called ahead and left a message that he’d be stopping by, and both times Legacy’s mother answered the door and said her son wasn’t home.
“Don’t call this time,” Greene said. “Get there good and early.”
Kennicott drove past Legacy’s house. Like Terrance Wyler’s, it was built into the hill, with a steep stone stairway to the front door and a driveway snaking up the side and disappearing behind.
Kennicott thought back to the morning of August 17. The heat. The near empty street. Speeding over to the Ontario Food Terminal, telling Nathan Wyler his brother was dead, then rushing back to Terrance’s house to help out. While he was gone, other officers had been doing door-to-doors, standard procedure in a homicide. The protocol was to touch base quickly with every possible witness, collect basic information, and do more detailed follow-ups later. Everything was recorded on preprinted interview sheets that Kennicott collated into one chronological log.
Another officer had been to Legacy’s door first. The log entry read:
August 17, 10:31—223 Hillside Drive. Knocked. Rang doorbell. Three attempts each. No one home.
Later in the day Greene had asked Kennicott to try the house again. This time Legacy answered the door. A tall teenager with a big mop of dirty-blond hair, he was just waking up. Classic, Kennicott thought. The interview was short.
August 17, 14:52—223 Hillside Drive. Brandon Legacy, age 18, alone in the city, parents at cottage. Working as lifeguard, City of Toronto. Home last night. Playing video games. Knew neighbor, Mr. Wyler. Babysat occasionally. Didn’t notice any cars or anything unusual on the street last night or in the morning. Was asleep at 10:31 a.m. and wouldn’t have heard the doorbell when first police officer came.
Kennicott got out of his patrol car. There was a biting November chill in the air. He was determined to talk to this kid. The ringer on the front door had a loud chime.
“Oh, hello, Officer Kennicott,” the boy’s mother said as she answered the door. They’d met on his two previous visits. She wore a tight tracksuit. Although probably in her mid-forties, she looked as fit as a retired Olympic athlete. A workout bag was slung over her shoulder and there was a water bottle in her hand labeled quad east. “You didn’t call.”
“I need to speak to your son today,” Kennicott said.
“He’s still in bed. Teenagers. Gets up about two minutes before he has to drive to school.”
Kennicott didn’t move. Let his presence at the door speak for him.
She glanced at her ultrathin wristwatch, the kind that doubles as a heart monitor. “I’m running late for my eight o’clock spin class.”
“Ma’am, this is a first-degree murder investigation,” he said.
She unscrewed her water bottle and took a sip. “I’ll get him. There’s a nine-thirty I can take.”
Twenty minutes later Kennicott was sitting at a wrought-iron table in the kitchen nook at the back of the house, sipping a cup of herbal tea the Legacy’s nanny had prepared.
There were windows on all sides and the room was bathed in sunlight. The Legacys had a big backyard, and like the Wylers next door, their driveway curled around in back so it was level with the house. Three vehicles were parked there. Eighteen years old, and young Brandon had his own car, Kennicott thought. The neighboring lots were separated by a row of trees with a footpath running through it.
Brandon Legacy came in wearing loose-fitting jeans that flared out on the bottom, sneakers with a respectable number of holes and a tight black sweater. A white undershirt showed at the neckline.
“Here he is,” his mother said.
“I need to speak to Brandon alone,” Kennicott said.
“Oh.” She checked her watch before she turned to her son and touched his cheek. “Honey, you okay if I go?”
He recoiled from her. “Mom. Whatever. Don’t miss your class for this.”
She grabbed her workout bag and practically sprinted out of the room. Brandon watched her go through the slits of his eyes and sank into the chair across from Kennicott.
“Mom’s a cardio queen, has to work out every day or else.” He spied Kennicott’s teacup. “That one of her fancy teas?”
“Handpicked from India, according to the package,” Kennicott said.
He shook his head. “How can you drink that stuff so early in the morning? I need coffee. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Go right ahead.”
The boy had a certain charm about him, despite his baked-on teenage persona. He settled back in his chair, a large mug of coffee in hand, and looked across the table. He wasn’t defiant but Kennicott caught something. Maybe he was scared. Kennicott placed a micro-recorder in front of him.
“I tape all my interviews,” he said after he’d snapped on the recorder. “Okay?”
Legacy gave a mechanical nod.
In fact, Kennicott didn’t tape all his interviews. But it was a good way to get the young man’s attention.
“This is Officer Daniel Kennicott. I’m sitting in the kitchen of the home of Brandon Legacy, age eighteen. It’s November sixteen, and the time is …” He looked at his watch. “Eight oh nine in the morning. Is that all correct, Brandon?”
“Yeah.” He hunched over toward the recorder.
“Brandon, when we talked back in the summer, I asked you what you were doing on Sunday evening, August seventeenth, the night Terrance Wyler was murdered. You said you were home playing video games.”
“Yeah.” He sat back.
“Here’s the question I didn’t ask that first time. Were you alone?”
The young man took a noisy slurp of his coffee and looked out the window. Stalling, Kennicott thought. “Not really,” Legacy said at last.
“What do you mean, not really?” Kennicott checked the little recorder between them to make sure the function light was on.
“Well, not like the whole night.” Legacy took another sip. Not slurping this time.
Kennicott looked straight at Legacy. “Who was with you?”
“A friend.”
“Who was the friend?”
Legacy looked over his shoulder. The kitchen was empty. “Do I have to tell you?”
“Your neighbor Terrance Wyler was killed right next door. You used to babysit his son, Simon.”
“He’s a smart boy.”
“A boy who doesn’t have a father. Forget
what you see on CSI. We don’t solve crimes in the laboratory, we solve them because citizens help out. I need to know who was with you.”
People always surprise you, Kennicott thought as a cascade of tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks. There was a cloth napkin on the side of the table and Kennicott gave it to him.
“Thanks,” Legacy said.
“This is important.”
“I haven’t been in Mr. Wyler’s house since they split up and Samantha left,” Legacy said.
“I was asking about who was with you in your house.”
“After my friend left, I was online. I went to summer school in Europe last year and met this girl from California. We chatted for at least an hour. There’s this game called Flight Simulator. You can fly planes and copilot with people all over the world. After that I hooked up with this guy in Perth, Australia. I didn’t get to sleep until about four. I saved everything. You can check the times. I never left this house that night. Ever.”
Giving extraneous information like this was a classic evasion tactic by a witness.
“Brandon, stop avoiding the question. Who was with you?”
“I really need to talk to my dad. Okay?”
“You’re eighteen. Not a minor. I can question you without your parents present.” Kennicott looked out the back window and traced the path between the houses. He thought about Legacy’s bell-bottom jeans and that swatch of blood down at the bottom of the back door of Terrance Wyler’s house.
Legacy had followed Kennicott’s glance next door. “Samantha.” He sounded scared. “She was here. But I swear, I swear, I never left my house that night.”
“How long was she here?”
He shrugged. “A few hours.”
“Your parents were away, weren’t they?”
He blushed. “Yeah. They’ll kill me if they find out.”
“What time did she leave?”
“I don’t know exactly. Around one o’clock.”
02 - The Guilty Plea Page 16