Fractured Justice

by James A. Ardaiz

  Jamison didn’t hesitate before answering. He knew what his options were. “No, I’m not going to do that. But both you and your client have some hard decisions to make. Even if this evidence doesn’t go in now, St. Claire had better get used to sitting in the defendant’s chair.”

  Chapter 33

  With O’Hara trailing behind him, Jamison raced back to his office. He had bought a little time to put together a murder case. But in fact, his explanation to Wallace sounded far more confident than he felt. He had bits and pieces but no smoking gun.

  He sagged into his chair and the air came out of his mouth like a deflating tire. “Bill, we don’t have it. I can feel it, and now my ass is on the line.”

  O’Hara shook his head. “We have it. You know that bastard did it. We have the evidence that he looked at the medical files for those three women. He had access to the blood samples that were all switched. He had access to the blood with the heroin and barbiturates. He used that coroner’s van and we have hair and fiber samples.”

  “Yeah, those hair and fiber samples of T. J.’s. I don’t have a good feeling about that and neither should you.”

  O’Hara pushed his big fingers across his mustache. “Good feeling, bad feeling. I’m telling you, Matt, you need to just take what you got.”

  “Yeah, I know you’re right, but my gut is telling me something’s wrong. You get the reports together, everything we’ve got. All of it goes to McGuiness. Start sending part of it over this afternoon and keep sending it. If we have any shot at getting this in, then we have to make sure we’ve done everything we can to make sure we don’t give Wallace the slightest excuse to turn us down.”

  He looked at the papers covering his desk, shook his head, and pushed them aside, leaving a bare spot. “Now I have to sit here and start thinking about how to present a triple murder case by the day after tomorrow. That’s two days to put together a case that we would normally put together in two months.” Jamison hesitated before finishing his thought. “And that assumes that Wallace doesn’t grant a mistrial even if he decides to let it in.”

  “Well, relax. At least we have two days. It could have been worse.”

  “How?”

  “He could have said no without even listening to what you have.”

  Jamison shot his investigator a grim smile. “Tomorrow, you and Ernie, seven a.m. Be ready. And tell Ernie to go over St. Claire’s car again.”

  When the three of them gathered the next morning Jamison could tell by Ernie’s face that what he had wasn’t good. He didn’t waste any time. “Matt, I went through St. Claire’s car again. I found a receipt in the glove compartment for some repair work. I had to go to the garage to check it out. Long story short, St. Claire’s car was in the shop at the time of the Ventana kidnap. I don’t know how that hair from Ventana got in there, but it didn’t happen because she was in that car. Maybe he had it on his shoe or something. That could explain how it got there along with the fiber samples from Johnson and Symes.”

  Jamison’s stomach sank. “Right. And they were all found in exactly the same spot. T. J. put that hair and those fiber samples in that car. I knew everybody couldn’t have missed it.” His hand slapped the table so hard it stung. “T. J. just couldn’t leave it alone.”

  O’Hara reacted. “Matt, you don’t know that. St. Claire must have tracked that evidence into his car on his shoes. That’s how it got on the floor. T. J.’s a good cop. He is.”

  Whether T. J. had been around a long time wasn’t going to explain the garage receipt. “Bill, you and I both know what happened here. Get T. J. over here right now. Don’t warn him of anything. I need to know.”

  As O’Hara started to get up, Ernie put his hand on O’Hara’s shoulder to keep him seated, and said, “Matt, you bring T. J. over here and you know what you’re asking?”

  “This is a murder case. It’s not about opening a trunk and then remembering some bullshit about consent to search. Get T. J. over here. This is his problem to answer.”

  T. J. sauntered into Jamison’s office. The expression on his face said it all. T. J. Longworthy had been around a long time and he had broken more men in interrogation than Jamison could ever dream of. He wasn’t afraid of the prosecutor. “You wanted to see me?” His tone was defiant as he glanced over at O’Hara and Ernie. Neither man said a word.

  Jamison took a deep breath. His voice was firm. He knew it had to be. “Sit down, Detective Longworthy. I have a question, and you need to think carefully before answering. Ernie did a search of the glove compartment in St. Claire’s car. He found a receipt that matched the time of the Ventana murder. The car was in the shop. St. Claire didn’t have it when that crime was committed. So can you tell me how that hair sample got into St. Claire’s car?”

  T. J. didn’t flinch. “The same way the fibers got in his car. The same way every perp screws up. They walk through the evidence and it gets stuck on their shoe. That’s how.” T. J. leaned back and put one foot up on Jamison’s desk.

  “First of all, Detective, get your foot off my desk. Second, is that the story you’re sticking with, that St. Claire had Ventana’s hair stuck on his shoe and that just happened to be right near the carpet fiber samples from the Symes and Johnson murders and all our forensic people missed it except you?”

  “I don’t miss much.”

  “You’re sure you want to go with that?”

  Longworthy stood up, the rapid movement slamming his chair backward as he pointed his finger at Jamison’s face. “You listen, Jamison, and you listen good. St. Claire killed those women. You know it, and so do I. You said you needed evidence and I got the evidence you needed. You want to go after somebody? Then go after him. But you stop riding my ass.”

  Longworthy walked toward the door and then turned. “That’s the trouble with you lawyers. Nobody ever told you in law school that this is a dirty business. These aren’t nice people, Jamison, and nice people don’t catch them.”

  After Longworthy left, Jamison sat silently. O’Hara was drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair while Ernie shuffled through the papers in his lap. Both men knew when to keep their mouths shut. Finally O’Hara broke the silence. “So, Matt, what are you going to do? T. J. is willing to testify to what he found. You know St. Claire did it, and you haven’t got any proof that T. J. planted that hair and fiber in St. Claire’s car. You’re letting your suspicions get the better of you.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Listen, you and Ernie go see if T. J. had any access to that stuff that he found in the car. Anything at all. And I need to know by this afternoon. Get it for me if it’s there. I need to know.”

  Jamison was at his desk diagramming the evidence argument that he would make to Wallace in the morning. He wasn’t going to have the test results back from the FBI on the succinylcholine. So he would have to go with arguing that he didn’t need to show what killed the women, only what could have killed them. If he could show St. Claire had access to the medical reports and to the blood and tissue samples, he could make the argument, but what would turn the case was the hair and fiber samples that T. J. found in the car. If he had those, then he knew it would be enough. A big if.

  A few hours later, O’Hara and Ernie walked into his office. Both men were grim. Ernie had checked with the manager at Symes’s apartment and with Johnson’s boyfriend. T. J. had been to see both of them and had access to the carpets. Neither investigator knew whether he had taken a carpet sample but clearly he’d had the opportunity.

  O’Hara’s news was even worse. T. J. had gone to Ventana’s apartment and asked if she had a hairbrush. O’Hara had to acknowledge that T. J. could have taken hair from it.

  The look on Jamison’s face was enough for O’Hara to offer his thoughts. “I know you’re not asking us, but T. J. said he’ll testify that it happened the way he said it did. Sometimes you just need to let it go. Let the jury decide.”

  Listening and drawing endless circles of frustration on his legal pad, Jamison was subdued. “
Well, I’m not McGuiness and I like to think my job is always based on me doing what I think is right rather than what I think I can get away with. I need to think about my argument to Wallace.”

  Alone in his apartment, Jamison sat in an armchair. He hadn’t moved for several hours. The apartment was dark. He hadn’t gotten up to turn on any lights. He kept going over it all in his mind, sure that if he put in T. J.’s evidence he could dance around the explanation of how Ventana’s hair got in the car. But that wasn’t the problem. Putting on that evidence meant that he was vouching for it.

  For the first time Jamison understood something that one of his law school professors said—that consequences didn’t dictate ethics; ethics dictated consequences. He was a prosecutor. It came down to a matter of his personal sense of integrity. He had to do what was right but what was right under the circumstances was still unclear.

  Besides, T. J. could be telling the truth and O’Hara had a point. It was a jury decision in the end. But Jamison also knew that juries depended on him to only offer evidence that he didn’t doubt himself.

  He leaned back in the chair, tired of debating with himself. He might as well remain where he was. There were only a few hours before sunrise and he wasn’t going to sleep either way.

  When Jamison entered the courtroom, McGuiness looked at him but didn’t say a word. Jamison sat his file down on the counsel table as the bailiff walked into the courtroom.

  “All rise. Court is now in session, the matter of the People versus St. Claire.”

  As Wallace moved up several steps to the elevated bench, it didn’t look as if he had gotten a good night’s sleep either. “Mr. Jamison, Mr. McGuiness, before I call the jury into the courtroom, I would like to discuss this matter in my chambers rather than open court. I’m sure you understand.” Wallace walked off the bench without another word.

  Both lawyers picked up their files and followed Wallace into the judge’s chambers. It made sense. Wallace didn’t want everybody in the courtroom to hear what Jamison was about to say.

  The court reporter set her machine up in the corner of the judge’s office and waited for him to make a statement. Wallace looked at all the parties. Jamison stood. “Your Honor, I have something I would like to say.” He had made his decision. Before he could continue, Judge Wallace raised his hand for him to stop.

  “Mr. Jamison, before you say anything, I’ve spent considerable time thinking about this. What you said troubles me deeply, but I don’t see any way I can allow you to put on the type of evidence you have told me about without giving Dr. St. Claire the opportunity to prepare adequately. I can’t send a jury out for two months while Mr. McGuiness prepares and that assumes that two months is enough time.

  “I’ve thought about what is the most just thing to do. A mistrial would mean that everything that has been done in this case with this jury would be wasted. On the other hand, I recognize that the evidence you have discussed, if you can prove it, would most likely be enough to convince any jury to convict.

  “The only problem with it is that if I were on the court of appeals looking at this case with a cold record, I would have serious questions about abuse of discretion. Maybe I would vote to reverse and maybe I wouldn’t. But I’m not on the court of appeals, and unlike three justices on the appellate court who can talk it over among themselves for hours, I am one judge, and I have to do what I think is the right thing under the circumstances.

  “So I’ve decided I’m not going to allow it. If you have the evidence, then you can charge Dr. St. Claire and try him for murder but he will have a reasonable opportunity to prepare to defend himself against those charges.

  “I take you at your word that you have been trying to put all of the evidence together and I understand your frustration, but sometimes things don’t happen just the way we want them to happen. I’ve made my decision. Monday be prepared to finish this case and argue it.”

  Jamison silently considered Wallace’s statements before responding, wondering whether he would do the same thing if he were sitting in the judge’s chair. “Thank you, Your Honor.” In some ways Jamison meant that more than Wallace would ever know.

  Jamison wasn’t listening as McGuiness started rambling about sanctions and delay. He was thinking about Monday when he had to make everything come together. He knew the first thing he had to do was phone Beth Garrett. They needed to talk. When he walked out of Wallace’s chambers he saw the questioning look on O’Hara’s face. He shook his head and leaned in close to O’Hara, his voice low. “I’ll explain later. Call Beth and get her down to our office.”

  Monday morning, Jamison rose when court was called to order. “Your Honor, the People recall Elizabeth Garrett to the stand.”

  Jamison handed an exhibit to Beth. “Miss Garrett, I show you now a letter that has been received into evidence. Is this your handwriting?”

  Beth turned the pages in her hand. Her face flushed. “Yes.”

  Jamison watched her reaction intently. “There is no face sheet indicating specifically to whom the letter was written. Do you know who this letter was written to?”

  The answer came out softly. Elizabeth seemed to be distracted, as if recalling the past was an effort. “It was written to Bobby Allison, a young man I dated when I was in college at Tenaya State, here in town.”

  “Do you know how this letter came to be in the hands of the defense?”

  Her eyes wandered around the courtroom and then focused on St. Claire. She seemed resigned to the reality that there was nothing unknown of her life. “No, this letter was either mailed or it was part of my personal possessions and it was kept either at my parents’ home or my apartment before I moved home or maybe my car.”

  “Did you send it to Mr. Allison?”

  “I don’t recall. Probably, but I haven’t seen it since it was written and that was almost seven or eight years ago.”

  “If you mailed it, would you drop it off at a post office?”

  “No. I would have put a letter in the mailbox in front of my parent’s home for the mailman to pick up.”

  “And if you did that, would it be correct that anybody would have access to that mail until the postman picked it up?”

  “That’s true. We, my parents, live in the country and the postman picks up the mail. We don’t worry about somebody stealing the mail from the box.”

  “Have you ever been the victim of a burglary, someone breaking into your home or apartment?”

  “When I was in college my apartment was broken into but nothing of value was taken. There were papers scattered around. We just assumed whoever it was heard something and left before they could get our stereo and television. That’s all we had that was worth anything as we were college students, you know?”

  “Was that at a time after you dated Mr. Allison? In other words after you would have written this letter?”

  “Yes, it could have been there at the time but I never realized it was gone.”

  “I have nothing further.” Jamison returned to his seat at the counsel table. He didn’t have a choice. He had to put Elizabeth in front of a jury to explain the letter and now McGuiness was going to have another chance to tear into her.

  McGuiness picked up the letter. “Miss Garrett, this letter says that you miss the person you are writing to and want to see him again. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You deny writing this letter to my client, Alex St. Claire?”

  “I had no contact with your client after I returned from Los Angeles.”

  McGuiness quickly moved toward the witness stand, putting an envelope in front of Garrett. “Do you know what this is?”

  Beth picked up the envelope with a puzzled expression on her face. “It’s my graduation announcement from college.”

  “Who is it addressed to, Miss Garrett?”

  “It’s addressed to Alex St. Claire, but that isn’t my handwriting. I didn’t address this and I didn’t send it.”

  “So somebody, y
ou have no idea who, sent my client the announcement of your graduation from college?”

  Elizabeth began to cry. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t send him anything. I just wanted him to leave me alone. This isn’t my fault! It’s his fault! I hate you, Alex! I hate you! Just leave me alone, you bastard! Leave me alone!” Her voice trailed off as McGuiness stepped back, surprised at the outburst.

  “I have nothing further.”

  Jamison walked toward the witness stand and took the paper from Elizabeth’s hands. He looked into her eyes. He was so close it was as if no one else was in the courtroom. As she returned his gaze, he could see her eyes searching his, as if she was saying the only thing that mattered was that he believed her. Jamison leaned in. “It’s over, Beth. You can step down.”

  He could ask more questions of Elizabeth but the result would be the same, her saying she told the truth and insisting St. Claire was lying. If the jurors believed her, then saying more wouldn’t change that and if they didn’t, then he knew that saying more wouldn’t change that either. He put out his hand and helped Elizabeth down. All eyes followed her as she walked out of the courtroom.

  O’Hara handed him a slip of paper from Ernie. Jamison looked at it, but he kept his expression neutral as he turned to face Judge Wallace. “Your Honor, the People rest.”

  McGuiness stood. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  Wallace shifted his bulk in his chair as he turned back toward the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience in this case. It has been a long trial. Tomorrow we will hear the closing arguments of counsel.” Wallace moved his head slightly so that he could focus on Jamison and McGuiness. “Gentlemen, court will resume tomorrow at nine a.m.”

  Jamison reread the slip of paper O’Hara had handed him. Ernie’s usual scrawl had been replaced with block letters. It read, SUCCINYLCHOLINE INCONCLUSIVE.