Outside the courthouse, Jerry had noticed that the local TV stations had set up satellite transmission trailers so that their reporters could present live coverage of the day’s events in the morning, before the trial was called to order, during the lunch hour, and after the trial adjourned for the day just in time for the six o’clock news. Presently, Jerry noticed four guys in sports jackets, who looked to be reporters from the local TV news and newspaper, The Buffalo News, had crowded into the second row behind the defense table. They were watching the testimony unfold with mild interest, jotting notes every now and then in their respective compact notebooks, while Dr. Nguyen’s testimony droned on.
Jerry’s sister, Joan, was in the row immediately behind the low railing separating the gallery from the prosecutor’s long oak table. Jerry hadn’t noticed whether or not she had glanced back upon his entrance. If she had, she too had failed to recognize him.
Jerry was wearing a dark blue sports coat, khaki dress slacks, a crisp navy blue shirt, and a nondescript striped tie. It was his plan to be mistaken for a young lawyer or reporter who had ventured inside the courtroom simply to observe one of the more interesting homicide trials going on that week in the county courthouse. As he settled into his seat to observe the testimony, Jerry chuckled to himself with the realization that the judge, the lawyers, Holly and Jeff, the bailiffs, the jurors and the other spectators, including Joan, were oblivious to the fact that the alleged victim of this murder trial— himself—had just walked in. Perhaps given a few minutes, rather than a quick glance, Holly and Jeff and his sister would have seen past his disguise. Then again, perhaps not.
Jerry’s father was missing from the gallery. This worried Jerry and he wondered how the old man was holding up. Jerry felt bad about participating in a crime which had left him invisible to Joan and his father. Granted, he hadn’t been all that close to Joan after leaving for college. They hadn’t really had a meaningful conversation about anything in all that time, and he really wasn’t sure what was going on in her life, how her kids were, how her marriage was going. But all that was behind him now, too late. Perhaps she too regretted never establishing a relationship with him. Little brothers are hard to find.
Standing at the podium conducting the direct examination was a tall, gaunt Assistant District Attorney, Matt O’Connor. He was assisting the lead prosecutor, the confident and determined, Joe McGraw, who sat stiffly with a smug, astute expression at the prosecutor’s table. O’Connor’s slow, stilted questioning of the deputy county medical examiner gave himself away as a rookie, Jerry thought, McGraw’s shambling apprentice.
Not that the testimony of Dr. Nguyen was a substantial factor in the course of this trial. The medical examiner really had nothing important to say. It hardly took an expert to reach the conclusion that the victim had burned to death.
Still, at McGraw’s direction, his protégé had Dr. Nguyen meticulously describe the lump of charred human flesh that had been found on the burnt floor of the garage after the Town of Hamburg volunteer fire unit had put out the fire. O’Connor also had Dr. Nguyen describe the manner in which a human body is decomposed by fire into a grayish, lifeless, unrecognizable pile of ash.
Then the young prosecutor stepped forward and after stopping to ask permission from the Judge, approached Dr. Nguyen with a handful of photographs, the first one of which was the lump of burnt flesh. After Dr. Nguyen had laboriously identified each photograph, and stated that they were accurate depictions of the human flesh upon which he had conducted the autopsy, ADA O’Connor asked the Judge permission to publish the photographs to the jury. The Judge nodded his consent, mumbled something, and then O’Connor handed them to the bailiff, who gave them to the jury foreman. The six men and six women jurors, most of them elderly, squinted and sighed as they observed the ghastly human remains depicted in the photographs.
The bailiff took back the photos and deposited them before the stenographer, who remained expressionless.
“Would that be painful?” O’Connor abruptly asked Dr. Nguyen, as he had been surely coached by McGraw. “Dying like that?”
“Objection!” stated Dan Stauber, Jeff’s lawyer. He stood and waited.
In his mid-forties, he was an accomplished enough criminal defense attorney who made the papers regularly by defending high- level drug dealers and the occasional homicidal maniac. What the papers didn’t reveal was that most of his colleagues thought him arrogant and over-rated.
“Sustained,” replied the Judge, an emphatic growl. “Irrelevant, speculative and no foundation for this witness in this particular case,” he added gratuitously, as he always did to explain his decision, like an umpire locating the pitch outside, inside, high or low, to inform the pitcher why his pitched had been called a ball.
The judge was the Honorable Leonard Pratt, a trial judge of many years, a slight bodied, bald-headed, hard-nosed chap with a reputation for being tough on attorneys, prosecutors and defense counsel alike. The old codger made everyone’s life miserable, even that of his confidential law clerk and secretary. It was a big mistake to be late for work or especially for a proceeding in his court or to fail to have a grasp of the law or facts in a case pending before him.
O’Connor didn’t protest, but meekly thanked the judge, who grunted again, and moved on. Still, the point had been made. It was obvious that someone who had died this way suffered pain, lots of it. Asking the question highlighted the point and made the crime all the worse.
Jerry shivered and realized that the young ADA, for all his amateurish ability, had somehow pulled it off, hitting the jury over the head with the extreme cruelty of Jerry Shaw’s murder and planting the seed of distaste and dislike in the minds of the jurors for the defendants, Holly and Jeff.
Dan Stauber's cross-examination of Dr. Nguyen was next. Stauber was tall and lean, wearing a crisp, dark suit, nothing flashy, but reeking of professional savvy. His brown hair was freshly barbered, and the brief gray tinges at his temples further enhanced his air of professionalism.
“Isn’t it a true and accurate fact, Dr. Nguyen, that you are unable to state, based upon your medical examination, whether or not Mr. Shaw’s death was accidental or the result of a homicide?”
“Correct,” said the medical examiner, seemingly non-plussed, just a McGraw had told him he should be. “I am unable to state which one it was.”
“So Mister Shaw’s injuries were consistent with accidental death, correct?”
“Yes.”
Stauber nodded, thanked the witness, and smiled at the jury. “No further questions, your Honor.”
Judge Pratt looked to Holly’s attorney, Paul Blake. Holly had hired Blake after Pete Dobson had suddenly quit her case, unhappy with her decision not to take a plea and just too damned busy with a major federal drug case starting at around the same time that was paying him big bucks.
Blake was an older fellow who looked about as yellowed and tattered as an old newspaper. His defiant alcoholism was destroying his liver and gave his eyes a perpetually rheumy glaze. Still, he was a rare bird, a fossil of forgotten lore, a much respected, legendary old veteran. He was noted particularly for his sly glances at the jury and his flair for the comic hyperbole. And, it was well known, he was an extremely effective and wily cross-examiner, feigning ignorance or a lack of sophistication in the manner of Detective Colombo.
“Mr. Blake, any questions?”
“After that stirring debate,” Blake boomed, looking up casually from the page full of doodling on his long, yellow legal pad, “I have nothing to add, your Honor.”
“Mr. O’Connor?” Judge Pratt turned to the young prosecutor. “Any redirect?”
It was McGraw who stood.
“May I ask one question, your Honor?” He asked.
“Be my guest.”
McGraw stood, but before he could start, Blake piped up. “I must protest, your Honor. This is a veritable double-team.”
McGraw smiled. “Now, we’re even. There’s two of you, and two of us
.”
“Gentlemen!” Judge Pratt snapped. “I will not put up with clever banter from either one of you.” He glared at Blake. “Even you, Mr. Blake, will exercise decorum in my courtroom.” The Judge scowled as Blake shrugged indifferently, and turned to McGraw. “You may ask, Mr. McGraw, but keep it brief.”
“Of course, your Honor,” said McGraw, then he faced the witness.
“Dr. Nguyen,” he said. “It was your testimony that the medical examination was consistent with an accident, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Shaw’s burning alive could have been accidental.”
“Yes.”
“But someone also could have intended to burn him alive, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Like the defendants, for instance, as far as you know.”
“Objection!” it was Stauber.
“You made your point, counselor,” interrupted Judge Pratt. “Objection sustained.”
“Thank you, your Honor,” said McGraw. He looked to the jury. “No further questions.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The next two witnesses that first morning of the trial were Jerry’s former Northview Lane next door neighbors, a Mrs. Gladys Kovach, sixty-something, squinty-eyed, white-haired, plump, judgmental, gossipy; the other, Sandi Morgan, Holly’s age, somewhat pretty in a slutty way, and certainly pert and opinionated.
The young prosecutor, O’Connor, conducted the direct examination of Gladys Kovach, a laborious, stilted process, peppered by meaningless objections from Stauber, in which, at long last, she described seeing Flaherty at the Shaw house day and night immediately after Jerry’s death.
In cross-examination, Stauber again failed to make any points, except perhaps for the prosecution. After getting Mrs. Kovach to admit that she never actually saw Holly and Jeff together, she gratuitously added, and quite comically, Jerry thought, what else was he doing there? His laundry? That got a chuckle out of the two or three members of the jury who seemed to be paying attention; a smirk out of Stauber; and, left McGraw grinning.
McGraw conducted the direct examination of Sandi Morgan and seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself as he led her on a lively recitation of her observations of the Flaherty visits. How could she remember all this, McGraw asked, calling her “Sandi” at one point as if they were old friends.
“Because he’s so damned good looking,” she replied, nodding toward Flaherty.
“I think I looked forward to his visits as much as she did,” said Ms. Morgan with a laugh as she nodded at Holly and naturally, the jury laughed along with her.
Neither Jerry nor Holly had been close to either woman, though Jerry had certainly noticed Sandi Morgan. Gladys Kovach and her husband, Stan, were quiet, lonely people who kept to themselves. Jerry didn’t realize at the time, but the testimony of the busybody neighbors would serve to provide an opening for McGraw to challenge the conclusion of the arson investigators that the fire in the garage killing the victim had been caused accidentally.
Neither woman had anything specific to say about the fire itself. Gladys Kovach heard the fire engines coming from out of nowhere and suddenly stopping in front of the Shaw’s house. She had looked out the picture window of her living room and watched the firemen hustling into action and spraying the garage and had worried about her house catching fire and burning down, too.
And then McGraw called Jack Fox, telling Judge Pratt that Fox would be his last witness that first morning of the trial.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“What is your occupation, Mr. Fox?” McGraw asked.
“I’m an investigator for the Special Frauds Unit of the Global Life and Casualty Insurance Company.”
“How long you been so employed?”
“Three years.”
“And before that, where were you employed?”
“Philadelphia Police Department.”
Fox went on to chronicle his considerable law enforcement career, an impressive resume of training and experience, including several medals for bravery and outstanding achievement. He had even won a Purple Heart in Vietnam.
Then McGraw turned to the meat of Fox’s testimony.
“Did there come a time when you were assigned to the claim made by the defendant, in this case, Holly Shaw, under a policy of life insurance in the name of her deceased husband, Jerry Shaw?”
“Yes.”
“And do you see Mrs. Shaw in the courtroom today?”
“Yes.”
“Could you please identify her for the record.”
Fox pointed at Holly and indicated that she was the blonde haired, attractive lady sitting at the defense table wearing a lavender pants suit.
“I would ask the record to reflect that Investigator Fox has identified the defendant, Holly Shaw.”
“Well, he pointed to her and said her name,” growled Judge Pratt. “The record shall reflect that, Mister McGraw.”
McGraw gave a begrudging smile. Judge Pratt, always a pip. “Thank you,” he said to the judge, then to Fox, “And on what date were you assigned to the Shaw claim?” Fox gave the date.
“Do you know how the company received the claim?”
“It was Fed-Exed.”
“What did you do upon being assigned to the claim, Investigator Fox?”
“Flew to Buffalo -”
“From Philly?”
“Yes, from Philadelphia.”
“By the way, what was the amount of the claim, the claim that had been submitted by the defendant, Holly Shaw?”
“Four million dollars.”
“Mr. Shaw had taken out a policy of insurance with Global for four million dollars?”
“No, for two,” said Fox. “It was a double-indemnity policy. If Shaw was deemed to have been killed as the result of an accident, the policy doubled.”
“And upon your arrival in Buffalo, could you describe what you did in the course of your assignment?”
Fox went on to quickly outline how he set up the stake-out of the Shaw residence on Northview Lane. He then described his observations the first night of Jeff’s arrival at the Shaw house, and the friendly manner in which he had been greeted by the widow Shaw. And that they had kissed.
Jerry sighed, then scanned the jury. Most of them were scowling, and two middle-aged women sitting in the front row wore hard expressions. Their faces remained the same as Fox described how Holly had finally welcomed Jeff into the house.
“By your calculation, Investigator Fox,” asked McGraw, “how long did Mr. Flaherty remain in the house?”
“About three hours,” said Fox.
“Three full hours?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fox then narrated what he saw the next night, pretty much the same as the first, only this time with much less detail.
After eliciting this verbal testimony, McGraw asked Fox if he had videoed his observations and Fox said of course he had. He also identified the digital recorder he had used. McGraw asked permission from Judge Pratt to play the video, promising that it wasn’t long. Stauber objected and he and McGraw went over to discuss the objection in a sidebar with Judge Pratt.
After an animated debate, Stauber returned to the defense table with a displeased expression. McGraw had his younger colleague, O’Connor, rolled in a table holding a flat screen television monitor directly before the jury. After some fumbling under the disagreeable, impatient scowl of Judge Pratt, he finally managed to get the DVD player that was attached to the television working.
The video displayed all that Fox had stated during his testimony and more. Jerry had to admit that the picture of it was better than a thousand of Fox’s words. With several deep breaths, he managed to restrain himself from standing up, striding over to the defense table and putting a fist straight into Jeff’s mouth.
When the video finished, O’Connor rolled the table away.
Then, McGraw got straight into the emails, how they surprised Fox by showing up in his in-basket one day, just about seve
n months after Shaw had burned to death. McGraw walked over to the defense table holding the two emails, and showed them to Stauber and Blake, who both nodded with apparent disinterest. McGraw then asked permission from Judge Pratt to approach Fox on the witness stand with the emails, and after the Judge grunted his approval, he did just that and Fox identified them as the emails he had received.
And that was it. McGraw didn’t ask to publish the emails to the jury, and Jerry thought that another clever ruse. The jury frowned as he told Judge Pratt he had nothing further for this witness at this time and had concluded his direct examination. This, of course, left the jury wondering what the hell was in those emails, and that would, when the time came, magnify whatever they stated.
McGraw told the Judge he had no further questions and Stauber rose.
“Your observations weren’t enough, were they, Agent Fox, to prevent your employer, Global Insurance, from paying the claim?”
“It’s not agent,” Fox snapped. “What?”
“I’m not an agent,” he said. “I’m an investigator.”
“Yes, whatever,” Stauber said. “Global paid the claim despite your observations, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes,” said Fox. “They paid Mrs. Shaw four million dollars despite what I saw.”
“They paid it,” repeated Stauber. “Yes.”
Then Stauber appeared to fall into a trap laid by McGraw. “And you waited three hours in the car? Both nights?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Fox said, “I did not.” Stauber looked surprised.
“The second night,” Fox explained, “after about a half an hour or so, I exited the car and positioned myself against the outside of the back of the house under what appeared to be the upstairs master bedroom.” Stauber appeared dumbstruck as Fox continued. “From that position, I was able to hear the muffled sounds of two voices, one deep, like a man’s, another softer, higher, like a woman’s. I surmised from that observation that Mr. Flaherty and Ms. Fox were together in the master bedroom of the house.”
The Anonymous Man Page 17