Tasker looks pained, as well he should. “Your Honor, surely you don’t think that I had any idea that the witness would not be forthcoming.”
“Not be forthcoming? Is that what you call it? The guy lied through his teeth. He thought the defendant was a ‘short black guy.’ If I said I think Mr. Carpenter is Miss New Jersey, would you call that ‘not forthcoming’ as well?”
I chime in with, “Your Honor, in all fairness to Mr. Tasker, I was first runner up. The swimsuit competition was my downfall. It’s all politics.”
“Can it, Mr. Carpenter,” Hatchet says. “The worst part of this entire incident is how happy you look about it.”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
“Now, Mr. Tasker, how will we deal with this? Mr. Carpenter told the jury in his opening statement that they would be hearing fabricated evidence and then you go ahead and call Mr. Tomasino to prove him right.”
“I don’t think there is anything to be done, Your Honor. The jury saw it all, and they will reserve the right to hold it against us. Rehashing it in front of them would seem unnecessary and prejudicial. Mr. Carpenter will no doubt refer to it in his closing statement as well.”
“Heck, that’s a good idea,” I say.
Hatchet turns to me. “Do you have anything to add that isn’t snide and sarcastic?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Tomasino is a slime ball and he lied, but I would suggest that we look at the bigger picture here.”
“You will enlighten us on what that is?” Hatchet asks.
I nod. “Right now. The real question is why did he lie? This is not an inmate looking to get a reduced sentence. I can’t imagine that Mr. Tasker offered him money for fabricated testimony. But somebody with a motive got him to lie.
“That recording was done in a fairly expensive restaurant. This guy was testifying about conversations that he alleged took place in a homeless shelter kitchen. There is something wrong with that picture.
“He was clearly paid to lie. So I don’t care if you remind the jury that he lied; they already know that. What I want the jury to know are the implications of that. I want the jury to know that someone was willing to spend money, and break the law in the process, to get Mr. Carrigan convicted.”
Tasker says, “I suggest we have the police interrogate and investigate Mr. Tomasino to find out who put him up to this.”
“That’s all well and good,” I say, “but if I’m right, and I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t, then it won’t accomplish anything. Because Tomasino is going to be a hell of a lot more afraid of the person who paid him than he will be of the police. And that will be the first intelligent assessment he’s made in a very long time.”
Hatchet asks, “You think you know who paid him to commit perjury?”
“I believe so, Your Honor, but I’m not yet ready to come forward with it. Hopefully during the defense case.”
Hatchet nods. “Very well. For the time being, here’s what we’ll do. I will refer Mr. Tomasino to the police for investigation, with a recommendation of a charge for perjury. Mr. Carpenter, you can refer to the obvious lies in your closing statement, and you may also discuss your theory of Mr. Tomasino being paid. You also obviously retain the right to bring forth evidence of that at any point during the defense case. I will give limited instructions to the jury.
“Mr. Tasker, I very strongly advise you to more carefully vet your remaining witnesses. Because you are one lying witness away from a directed verdict of acquittal.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Hatchet calls the bailiff and tells him to take Tomasino into custody. But when we go back in, Tomasino is already nowhere to be found, and Hatchet tells the jury that obviously Mr. Tomasino was not telling the truth. They can assign whatever weight to that they wish, understanding that they may hear more about it as the trial progresses.
I’m quite pleased with how the court day went; it isn’t often that defense attorneys get to experience a “Perry Mason” moment, where the witness is actually proven to have committed perjury while on the stand. Unlike in Perry’s many triumphs, in this case the victim didn’t break down in a tearful or angry admission of guilt, but this was close enough.
By the time I get home it’s fairly late. Laurie has held dinner so we could eat together, and Ricky has already finished his homework. I’ve looked over his shoulder at it a few times, and I dread the day that I will be called on to help. It’s upsetting to know I don’t have the smarts or knowledge to make it out of fourth grade.
Ricky is upstairs watching television when I get home, but Laurie calls him down to eat. “Hey, Dad,” he says. “What’s a town drunk?”
I turn to Laurie. “What kind of environment are you providing for this young, impressionable lad?”
“Ricky, where did you hear that expression?”
“On that Mayberry show, the one with Opie.”
“Opie’s old enough to be your grandfather,” I say, but nobody pays any attention to me.
Ricky continues. “They said this guy Otis is the town drunk, and then everybody laughs. What does that mean?”
I turn to Laurie. “You want to take this?”
She nods, sort of wearily. “Ricky, that show was made a long time ago. That person drank too much alcohol, which is a very bad thing to do. Today we know better than they did back then, and we know it’s not really funny.”
“Same thing with the movie Arthur,” I say.
“Thanks, Andy, that’s helpful,” Laurie says, and then turns back to Ricky. “Do you understand?”
“Why is too much of that alcohol stuff bad?”
“Because it takes away your ability to think and it hurts your body.”
Ricky nods. “Otis looked like he was going to fall down.”
“Yes, Rick, and that’s bad,” I say. What I don’t say is that he gave me an interesting idea. It isn’t directly connected to our case, so I put it back in the future idea bank, but I’ll be retrieving it soon.
I take the dogs for a walk and Laurie is on the porch to greet me when we return.
This could be good or bad, but it’s going to be something. I don’t see her holding my pipe and slippers, so that can’t be it. Behind her I can hear Bing Crosby singing “Silver bells, it’s Christmas time in the city.” Laurie needs a holiday intervention.
“Marcus called,” she says. “I’ve had him watching the Montana, to follow Ganady if he left the building, just to see where he goes.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because we need to shake things up. If we learn nothing from it, then we learn nothing. It’s called ‘investigating.’ Marcus and I are ‘investigators.’”
She seems annoyed that I might be questioning her tactics; I may not have handled that little conversational maneuver correctly. Time to reboot. “Good idea, honey.”
“That’s better. And it turned out to be a great idea. You want to know where Marcus followed him to?”
“I definitely do.”
“Karen McMaster’s apartment building. He spent forty-five minutes in there, and then went back to the Montana.”
This is huge. We have an incontrovertible connection between Karen McMaster and such bad guys as the late Ernie Vinson and now Yuri Ganady. And the connection goes back to the days up to and including the one on which her husband was killed.
We can’t get it to a jury yet, but I’ll figure out a way. Whatever it is has got to include rattling Karen McMaster into making a mistake.
I find Craig Kimble’s cell phone number. He answers with, “Carpenter, you’re becoming as annoying as every other lawyer in my life.”
“Stop, you’re making me blush.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing that will make you happy. I’m informing you that I’ll be calling you as a witness in our trial.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m afraid it’s true.”
“What the hell do you need me for?”
“To testify to Steven
and Karen’s marital troubles, their infidelities. Just like you told me.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I’m talking about the affair that you and she had. About your telling me that they had an open marriage.”
“I never said any such thing. Karen and I are still friends, so you are wasting your time.”
He’s lying. He knows it, I know it, and he knows I know it.
“I assume one of your many lawyers has explained the subpoena process to you?”
“I testify every twenty minutes; I’ve been in courtrooms more than you. I’m testifying tomorrow in a trial a lot more important than yours. So you don’t need to lecture me on the legal system. Let me say this very clearly: I have nothing to say that will help your case.”
I’m not going to get anywhere with him, especially if he’s prepared to lie on the stand. For now, I’ll back off, because I want a favor. “Okay, you win. Then do me one favor and I’ll leave you alone.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
“I am aware of that. I want you to look at two photos and tell me if you can connect Karen to either of them, from back at the time before, or even after, her husband was killed.”
“You think Karen killed Steven? Is that what this is about? You’re out of your mind.”
I’m not surprised that Kimble thinks Karen is innocent. They’re still friends, and it’s pretty disconcerting to think of your ex-girlfriend as a cold-blooded killer, especially when the apparent victim is the lover she had just before you.
“Just please look at the photos.”
“So you’re going to come to my office again? Maybe I should get you your own cubicle.”
“No, I’m still paying off the parking loan I took out last time. I’ll email them to you. What’s your email address?”
“Is this important?” he asks.
“Life and death.”
He sighs. “Okay. Send them to me.” He gives me his email address, and I say I’ll send them within ten minutes, which I then do. Or at least Laurie does; uploading photos and emailing them does not fall directly within my technological skill set.
We’ve sent him photos of Vinson and Ganady. He told me in his office that he had never heard of Vinson, but perhaps he’ll recognize his face. Can’t hurt to try.
Less than five minutes later I get back the answer.
“I’ve never seen either of them before. Since I assume they are not upstanding citizens, I am pleased to say that I certainly can’t connect them to Karen. Please remove my phone number from your contact list … even though I don’t know how the hell you got it in the first place.”
I’m not surprised by the answer. I doubted that Karen would have met with either of them with anyone else around. My hope and belief is that Kimble, still friends with Karen, will call her and tell her about his interaction with me.
I want Kimble to warn Karen McMaster that I am after her.
I want her to panic. Especially now, because she will be on the stand very soon.
Jason Morris has been a jeweler for twenty-seven years.
One of the first things he conveys to Tasker when he gets on the stand is that a jeweler is different from someone who sells jewelry. Morris, by his own estimation, is an artist.
And the truth is, he’s correct. Tasker gets him to project slides featuring some of his work. They consist of rings, necklaces, and bracelets that he has made for his clients. They are beautiful, even to my jewelry-unappreciating eye.
“Did you ever make jewelry for Steven or Karen McMaster?” Tasker asks.
“Oh, yes. They were among my favorite clients. Not because they bought so many pieces, but because they appreciated them. They both had a fine eye and excellent taste.”
Tasker introduces the ring found in Carrigan’s locker as evidence, and then hands it to Morris. “Does this look familiar to you?”
“It certainly should; I created it. Mrs. McMaster purchased it three years ago for her husband.”
“You take photographs of all your pieces when you make them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bring a photograph of this ring?”
“Yes.”
Tasker projects a slide photo of the ring, which he says was taken three years ago. The jury then gets to see the actual ring, which is obviously identical.
Tasker then gets him to wax semi eloquently about the uniqueness of the ring, and how there can’t possibly be another one like it.
I have little to gain by going after Morris. “When was the last time you saw this ring?” I ask. “Before today.”
“I’m not sure, probably about a year ago. Steven bought something then, and I think he was wearing it.”
“But you’re not sure?” I ask.
“Not completely.”
“So it could have been on eBay, it could have been stolen, it could have been regifted, it could have been lost, and you might not know it?”
“Anything is possible, but I would be surprised if any of that was true.”
“You don’t think it was stolen?”
He’s confused, since the entire premise of Tasker’s case is that it was stolen. “Well, maybe stolen.”
“Who put this ring into the locker at Welcome Home?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“You couldn’t know, unless you saw it take place, correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“No one could know, unless they saw it take place, correct?”
Morris says “Correct” before Tasker can jump to his feet to object. Hatchet sustains the objection, obviously meaningless since the jury heard the answer.
Next up is Sean Aimonetti, the director of Welcome Home. Here with him is James Lasky, the guy who seems to do most of the “hands-on” work there. Both of them had been on the witness list, but I suspect Lasky was on there to vouch for Tomasino. Since vouching for Tomasino is no longer within the realm of possibility, he’s probably going to be called if Tasker can’t get what he wants out of Aimonetti.
Tasker gets Aimonetti to run through his history and qualifications. This is a guy who has spent his life helping people, not just to get them off alcohol and drugs, but to survive. I give money; he gives everything.
Aimonetti is there to talk about the ring that was found in Carrigan’s locker. He describes how each person that wants one has a locker which they can keep belongings in, even when they’re not there. He says that it gives them a sense of permanence and belonging and helps ensure that they will be back. Aimonetti wants them back because he wants them sheltered and fed.
The important point that Aimonetti makes, at least as far as Tasker is concerned, is that the lockers are locked and that the users possess the only key.
When I get up to cross-examine, I trot out the old “thank you for your service” line. Then I introduce as evidence the photograph that I took of the locker room when I was there.
“Is that the locker area at Welcome Home?”
He nods. “It is.”
“And were you with me when I took the photo?”
“Yes.”
“Was there any planning or setting up anything special before I took it?”
“No. I showed you the room, and you asked if you could take the photographs. I gave you permission.”
“Some of the lockers in this photograph are open, yet the people who use them aren’t there. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you can see that some of the open lockers have possessions in them, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So someone could come into this room and place something inside one of the open lockers, even if it wasn’t their locker?”
“Yes. We encourage people to make sure their lockers are closed and locked, but obviously not everyone listens.”
“Could someone place a ring inside one of the open lockers?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. To your knowledge, has
Donald Carrigan ever caused a problem at Welcome Home?”
“No.”
“No violence of any kind?”
“No.”
“Thank you, no further questions.”
Tasker redirects and gets Aimonetti to say that he was there when the search warrant was executed on Carrigan’s locker, and that it was locked when they arrived and had to be broken into.
The court session is adjourned and I head home. Late night tonight because I’m pretty sure that tomorrow is the day Karen McMaster will testify.
I’m going to go easy on Karen McMaster.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to treat her with kid gloves; I’m just not going to unload everything on her. I am planning to call her back during the defense case and much of what I’ll be doing will be more effective then.
Another way to put it is that although I’m not going to destroy her, I’m damn well not going to thank her for her service.
Tasker, on the other hand, makes it clear from his first words that he’s going to treat her as the poor, grieving widow. “Let me first say that I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she says, sounding very sad. Any minute she’s going to ask for a tissue so she can dab away the fake tears.
He takes her through how she and Steven met and married and what a happy life they shared. I could object on grounds of relevance, but since I want to go after this on cross, I let it go.
“Please tell us what happened on the night your husband lost his life,” Tasker finally says.
“I was in New York at our apartment working on details for a charity event, and Steven was in Short Hills. He told me he was going out for dinner with a business associate. Steven always liked to eat early because he was at his desk at work by seven o’clock every morning.” She smiled. “He was a self-described workaholic.
“He was ordinarily home by eight thirty and I called him at nine. I got no answer, so I kept trying. By ten fifteen or so I was frantic, so I called a neighbor, Walter Zimmer, to see if he was home and just not answering the phone for some reason.”
Deck the Hounds--An Andy Carpenter Mystery Page 17