Proof of Intent

by William J. Coughlin

  I gave him a last hard squeeze. And damned if a tear didn’t appear at the corner of one of his eyes and run down the side of his face. It was a moment of transcendent courtroom beauty, a moment I will never repeat, not if I stand before the bar for another thousand years. I could have jumped up in the air and shouted hallelujah.

  Instead, however, I inclined my own face a few degrees toward the jury and put two fingers up to one eye as though stanching a few tears of my own. Then I sat and buried my face in my hands. I know, I’m a shameless ham. But this is my job. And let the record reflect that, like his client, Charley Sloan loves his work.

  Perhaps, beyond all reason.

  Thirty-five

  Stash Olesky’s first witness was the responding officer, a young kid named Jerry Ingram. He wore his dress uniform, and although the linen was crisp and the leather spit-shined, there was something vaguely bedraggled about him. He was fair, blond-haired, with the last vestiges of adolescent acne still clinging to his pale cheeks. After the clerk swore him in, Officer Ingram set his hat next to the microphone, then sat down nervously.

  After asking Ingram a few questions about his training and his work assignment, Stash Olesky said, “Now Officer Ingram, directing your attention to October 21 of last year, during your shift did you receive a radio call from 911 dispatch?”

  “Yes sir.” The kid’s voice was nervous and squeaky.

  “Could you tell us about that?”

  “Well, I got one about a cat stuck in a tree . . .” Ingram looked puzzled when some of the reporters tittered in the back of the courtroom.

  “Okay,” Olesky said patiently. “So maybe you got several 911 calls. But is there one that sticks out in your memory? A particularly important one.”

  Ingram blushed. “Oh. I see. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat, then spoke as though he’d memorized the next line with great struggle and effort. “Yes sir. At approximately 4:11 A.M. in the morning, this officer responded to a Code 3 at 221 Riverside Drive.”

  “Just tell it in your own words, son,” Olesky said. “You ion’t have to say it like it was written down in your report or anything. Just tell me what happened like you were telling your girlfriend.”

  Ingram swallowed. “Um. I don’t, currently, right now I’m not seeing nobody.”

  Olesky nodded patiently. “I know you swore to tell the whole truth. And I appreciate your honesty on the subject. You have a mother?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Terrific. Tell the folks in the jury what happened just like you’d tell your mother.”

  “Okay.” Ingram blinked. “Well. What happened is I had gotten the Code 3. That’s the radio code for an emergency deceased person call. So I rolled up at 221 Riverside. I knew it was Mr. Miles Dane’s home because he’s like the most famous guy in town. So I got out of my cruiser and I went up and I knocked on the door with my baton. That’s how they tell us to do it in training. With the stick? So if anybody inside is deaf or asleep or whatever . . .” He cleared his throat uncertainly. “So anyway the door opens and there’s a gentleman standing there. He tells me his name’s Charley Sloan.”

  “Did you recognize Mr. Sloan?”

  “Yes sir. He’s pretty well known in law enforcement for getting criminals off around here.”

  I hoisted myself out of the seat. “Your Honor!” I did my best to sound grimly aggrieved. “I have to protest that spurious characterization.”

  Judge Evola scowled. “Officer Ingram, I’d ask you to limit your testimony to your direct observations.” He turned o the jury. “Mr. Sloan is a criminal defense attorney. He has represented a variety of individuals, some of whom have been found guilty, some not. His extensive track record on that score is of no concern to this trial, and you should disregard anything suggesting otherwise.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Olesky smiled at the officer. “I know you’re fairly new to the courtroom, Officer Ingram, but you’re doing fine. Continue with your story if you would.”

  “So Mr. Sloan tells me that he’s representing the owner of the house, Mr. Dane. And then he says for me to follow him upstairs and he’d show me the, um, the decedent.”

  “When you say ‘decedent,’ Officer, you mean a dead person.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “So he indicated at that time that he was aware there was a dead person up there.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “He didn’t say, Officer Ingram, there’s a woman upstairs in need of medical attention, somebody’s hurt upstairs, anything of that nature?”

  “No sir.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “He asked me if I had ever been involved in securing the scene of a murder before. I told him no, and he said that he’d help me out.”

  Olesky raised his eyebrows slightly. “Well, wasn’t that kind of him.”

  “He seemed pretty friendly, yes sir.”

  “I bet he did. What happened then?”

  I stood and said, “Your Honor, could I have a brief word with you and Mr. Olesky?”

  Judge Evola squinted malevolently at me. “Mr. Sloan, are you currently engaged in examining a witness?”

  “Why, no, Your Honor,” I said, all innocence and confusion.

  “Well, just because you have the urge to butt in and start making demands doesn’t mean this court will allow you to do so. If you have something to say in this courtroom while Mr. Olesky is engaged in this examination, it had best be in the form of an objection.”

  I tried to look hurt. My main goal in objecting was to show the jury that Judge Evola despised me. It was all part of my general plan to paint Miles as the innocent dupe, steamrolled by callous functionaries and factotums of a careless and heartless judicial machine. “Okay, then, I must object to the hearsay portion of this witness’s testimony as regards my role at the scene of the crime. Naturally his observations relating directly to the crime are relevant—”

  “Good. Thank you,” Evola interrupted me. “Mr. Olesky, do you wish to address that issue in any way?”

  “Officer Ingram’s testimony as to anything Mr. Sloan may have said goes to the officer’s investigatory observations, which, as Mr. Sloan is well aware, are bright and clear exceptions to the hearsay rule.”

  “What this goes to,” I bellowed, waving my finger, “is a general and transparent attempt by Mr. Olesky to smear my client based upon strange and bizarre allegations and insinuations as to my conduct.”

  “Denied. Sit down, Mr. Sloan.”

  I sat down slowly, slumping a little and looking terribly dejected. Poor ol’ Charley, taking an unfair beating from The Man.

  “Continue, Officer Ingram,” Olesky said.

  “Well, Mr. Sloan, he said that there had been a break-in and that somebody had been killed by a burglar. Then we went upstairs, and he showed me the decedent. I asked him if there was anybody else in the house and he said that the only other person there was the decedent’s husband and that he was pretty distraught, so he told me that while I was securing the scene he would take care of Mr. Dane, and that I didn’t need to talk to him. He said a detective would take care of that later.”

  “At that time did Mr. Sloan identify who the victim was?”

  “Yes sir. He said her name was Diana Dane, that she was Mr. Dane’s wife.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “Mr. Sloan said that I ought not to go in the room with the victim, that I was liable to disturb important evidence. He said that if I wanted to look like a professional to my superiors, I should go outside and put up crime scene tape, leave the examination of the body and the scene to the detectives. He pointed out some trees and stuff that I could wrap my tape around.”

  “So what did you do then?”

  “I went out and started stringing tape around the property.”

  “Just out of curiosity, did Mr. Sloan’s advice turn out to be popular with your superiors?”

  Ingram blushed again. “Well, Sergeant Borden,
my supervisor, he got a little hot about me leaving Mr. Sloan and Mr. Dane in there alone with the body.”

  “Thank you, Officer.”

  Judge Evola leaned forward. “Mr. Sloan, do you have any questions for this witness?”

  I stood without leaving the spot where I’d been sitting. “Officer, did you observe me doctoring evidence?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sneaking out of the house with weapons under my coat, anything along those lines?” “No sir.”

  “Moving furniture? Hiding secret decoder rings?”

  “No sir.”

  “Good. You’re a fine young man, and if in my zeal to protect the scene of the crime from contamination so that evidence leading to the capture and conviction of the real killer could be preserved, I may have gotten you in dutch with your boss, well, I sincerely apologize.”

  Thirty-six

  After lunch Stash put Detective Chantall Denkerberg on the stand. She looked even more Catholic-girl’s-school than ever as she walked to the front of the courtroom. Spine straight, hair cut short and neat, blue suit, starched white cotton blouse, sensible blue shoes.

  “Detective Denkerberg,” the prosecuting attorney began, “could you tell us about the morning of October 21 of last year?”

  “I received a page from Dispatch at 4:07 A.M.,” the detective said in her firm, big voice, “indicating that a violent death had occurred at 221 Riverside Drive. I was instructed to investigate. At that time I proceeded to the scene. I was greeted at my car by Sergeant Dale Borden, the senior uniformed officer at the scene. He and his officers had just arrived and were in the process of securing the scene. At that time he informed me that the victim was named Diana Dane, a white female, age fifty-seven. His observation at the time was that it appeared to be a homicide by beating.”

  “And who was the next person you spoke to?”

  “As I approached the front door of the residence, a man came out and identified himself as Charley Sloan. Mr. Sloan indicated that he was an attorney and that he represented the victim’s husband, Mr. Miles Dane.”

  “Did Mr. Sloan say anything else?”

  “He said that Mr. Dane had told him that the murderer had apparently been a burglar who had jumped out a window after committing the crime. Then he added that Mr. Dane was very distraught and that he would not be capable of making a statement until later that morning.”

  “You run into lawyers often at crime scenes?”

  “Almost never. In my experience innocent people don’t call their lawyers the minute a crime is committed.”

  I popped out of my seat. “Objection!” I said. “In twenty years of law practice that is the most inaccurate and prejudicial thing I’ve ever heard. The defense moves for a mistrial!”

  Judge Evola looked down at me darkly. “First, Mr. Sloan, you can forget about a mistrial. Motion denied. However, I’m going to sustain the objection. Detective Denkerberg, keep your opinions to yourself if you would.” He turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, Detective Denkerberg has implied that because someone calls a lawyer, one may infer that they are guilty of something. Not so. People call lawyers for all manner of reasons. I’m instructing you to put this statement out of your minds and give it absolutely no weight.”

  The old put-it-out-of-your-minds trick. Ladies and gentlemen, please pay no attention to the elephant sitting over there on your sofa. Evola was enjoying the moment, I could tell.

  Stash continued. “Detective, typically what do you as an investigator prefer to do when you reach the scene of a crime?”

  “I do two things. First, I want to tour the perimeter and make certain the crime scene is secure. While doing so I begin to identify potential avenues of investigation. Second, I want to speak at least briefly to any and all witnesses. In this case I was prevented from doing that by Mr. Sloan.”

  It was time for me to hop up again and look apoplectic. “Your Honor, not only is that factually inaccurate, it entirely misrepresents my intent at the time! What I was trying to do was assist her. Mr. Dane’s wife had just been murdered. He was extremely distraught and I merely suggested to Miss Denkerberg that by giving Mr. Dane time to collect himself, he could most coherently explain what had transpired that night, and thereby best aid police in their finding the actual perpetrator of this heinous crime. Apparently I was unsuccessful in that because here we sit with Mr. Dane unjustly pilloried and—”

  Judge Evola whacked his gavel lazily on the bench a few times. “Mr. Sloan, that’ll do just fine. Save your windy speeches for closing arguments. And if you want to get up here on the stand and testify that Detective Denkerberg’s recollection of events conflicts with yours, you may feel free to do so. Objection denied.”

  I sat.

  “Detective Denkerberg, continue please,” Stash said.

  “At that point I circled the property. I noted that there was a window open on the second floor. I photographed and documented the fact that there was glass on the ground outside the window indicating that the window had been broken from the inside. I then carefully examined the ground under the window. It was at that point that I became somewhat puzzled.”

  Stash looked interested. “Oh?”

  “At that time I had no reason to doubt the story Mr. Sloan had related—the burglar-kills-Mrs.-Dane-and-jumps-out-the-window scenario, if you will. So when I saw the broken window, I naturally assumed the perpetrator had jumped out that particular window. Well, it had rained the day before, and the ground was very soft beneath the window. Anyone jumping out that window would almost certainly have left footprints when they hit the ground. Very likely even indentations from hands and knees as they pitched over to regain balance. So I was quite puzzled when a very careful search revealed no footprints at all.”

  “Surely something? Scuff marks, dents, something?”

  The detective shook her head. “Nothing. Just glass.”

  Stash Olesky proffered several of her crime scene photographs, which appeared to confirm the lack of footprints.

  “What did you do then?”

  She explained about her further examination of the grounds, then her investigation of the house as she circled in toward the body.

  “Eventually I reached the body.”

  “Tell us about your first impression.”

  Chantall Denkerberg showed emotion for the first time. She looked at Miles Dane with fire in her eyes, and said, “Horrific violence. I’ve investigated hundreds of homicides and assaults in my career and this was by far the worst beating I’d ever seen. Diana Dane was barely recognizable as a woman.”

  “Did you make any immediate determination as to cause of death?”

  “Obviously the final determination on that would be the medical examiner’s purview. But it was clear she’d been beaten savagely.” She went on to describe where Diana Dane lay, the condition of the room, the apparent lack of struggle, the blood on the walls and ceiling, then she explained how she and the state police crime scene technician had worked together to document everything.

  “So did you ever get a chance to talk to Mr. Dane?”

  “Yes. Eventually Mr. Sloan slithered in and said Mr. Dane was ready to talk.”

  Up I went, hands raised heavenward. “Your Honor! Please!”

  Judge Evola raised his eyebrows at Detective Denkerberg. “You’re an experienced witness, Detective,” he said piously. “If you want to engage in sly character attacks, do them elsewhere. This is a court of law.”

  “I demand you sanction the witness,” I said. “A night or two in jail might assist her in doing her job a little more conscientiously.” Slithered in? I wasn’t posturing now: I was mad.

  Judge Evola gave me a big, cool smile. “Mr. Sloan, when you get to be a judge, you can do what you want. In my courtroom, however, you will not presume to instruct me in how to do my job.”

  I didn’t apologize. I just stood there with my arms folded, giving Denkerberg the evil eye.

  “That’s your cue to sit, Mr.
Sloan,” Evola said, still smiling.

  I went down slow, not hiding how I felt.

  Stash Olesky jumped in quickly, not wanting to let me disturb the flow of his examination. “All slithering aside, Detective, what happened next?”

  “Mr. Sloan led me to Mr. Dane’s office in the back of the house and introduced me to him. I then questioned Mr. Dane about the events of that night. He explained to me that he had been in his office most of the night and into the morning. Frankly, it took a while to get the story out because Mr. Sloan kept interrupting on some pretext or other.”

  “Objection!” I said. I didn’t even stand up this time.

  Stash held up his hand. “Now, Your Honor, let’s get real here. This is a highly trained and experienced investigator. In the course of conducting an investigation she’s drawing on years and years of experience to draw conclusions as to the totality of the scene she’s investigating. Mr. Sloan—and his conduct—are part of that scene. It’s part of her evaluation of what’s what. The state contends that she is not merely entitled but obliged to testify as to all the facts and impressions on which she drew to make her conclusions in this case. To steer around Mr. Sloan as though he were some untouchable, unseeable black hole in the middle of the room is to mislead the jury and to render a disservice to the cause of justice.”

  “Your Honor,” I said. “Once again I must protest that this case is not about me. It’s about Mr. Dane’s guilt or innocence.”

  Evola frowned as though this were a grudging decision. “Alright, Mr. Olesky, as long as your witness sticks very carefully to how Mr. Sloan’s conduct impacted her evaluation of the crime scene and her immediate impressions of the case, I’ll allow it. But tread lightly. Mr. Sloan is not on trial here.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, “for coaching the witness on how to hide prejudicial testimony behind the rules of evidence.”