A Criminal Defense

by William L. Myers Jr.

  Ginsberg rolls his eyes. “Tredesco.” He knows the detective as well as I do.

  Thirty minutes after the ten-minute break has begun, the jurors are back in their seats. Judge Henry gives me the nod, and I’m on my feet in a flash, going right at John Tredesco.

  “You would have this jury believe that you conducted an exhaustive investigation?”

  “Very exhaustive.”

  “That you left no stone unturned? That you looked into every possible suspect?”

  “Every credible suspect.”

  “List for the jury the names of the drug-pushing cops you looked into. Tell the jury every step you took to investigate each of them.”

  “Like I said, their prints weren’t at the scene. There was no evidence they even tried to contact the victim before she was killed.”

  “List their names, Detective. The names of the drug-pushing cops indicted by the grand jury.” Tredesco pauses, glances at Devlin, who merely opens his hands.

  “I don’t remember their names,” Tredesco says, so I hand him the list.

  “Does that refresh your recollection?”

  Tredesco hems and haws, but I eventually get him to list the officers’ names.

  “What was that phrase you used on direct examination?” I ask. “That Ms. Yamura ‘wasn’t exactly liked’ by the crooked cops? Did you really say that?” Tredesco stares at me. “Those crooked cops hated her, isn’t that true? Her story on them instantly destroyed their reputations, cost them their jobs, and sped up their prosecution. Isn’t all of that true?”

  “Like I said, there was no evidence they even tried to contact the victim before she was killed.”

  “Really? They didn’t call her to warn her they were coming? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Tredesco’s eyes bore into me. “There was no contact between any of those officers and the victim. And none of their fingerprints were found at her house.”

  “Did you consider the fact that experienced police officers might have heard about fingerprint evidence and decided to wear gloves?”

  “We found no gloves at the scene.”

  “Because the police would know better than to leave gloves at the crime scene. Gloves that would have their prints and DNA all over them.”

  Tredesco sits rock-still in his chair. “The police didn’t kill her.”

  “They killed one of their fellow officers who testified against them, Stanley Lipinski. Shot him down like a dog in the street.”

  Devlin is on his feet, objecting, as he should. “Your Honor, there is not one shred of evidence that Officer Lipinski was killed by other police officers, let alone the ones implicated in the drug ring. I move to strike counsel’s remarks and ask the court to stop this absolutely improper line of questioning.”

  The court sustains the objection, and I move on.

  “Let’s change direction for a minute,” I say. “You told the jury that you couldn’t find any witnesses who placed Mr. Hanson somewhere other than the murder scene at the time Ms. Yamura was killed.”

  “Not one.”

  “What about the other half of the equation, the half that you forgot to tell the jury?” Tredesco squints. He knows where I’m going. “In all your exhaustive efforts, with all those people you interviewed, all those stones you turned, you didn’t find a single witness who placed Mr. Hanson at the murder scene that afternoon, either. Isn’t that true?”

  “I guess nobody was looking out their window when he came in and out of the house.”

  I’m about to move the court to strike the snide answer, but Judge Henry beats me to the punch, leaning over the bench toward the witness. “Answer the question squarely, Detective. Did you find any witnesses who placed the defendant at the scene of the murder at the time of the murder?”

  Tredesco answers grudgingly. “No.”

  Tredesco and I dance a little more around the lack of evidence placing David at the scene when Yamura was killed, then I move on to another subject. “I understand there was a rash of break-ins in Ms. Yamura’s neighborhood around the time she was murdered.”

  Tredesco shrugs. “It’s Philadelphia.”

  A couple of the jurors smile.

  “Two break-ins before the murder and one afterward, all within a couple blocks of the house on Addison Street?”

  “I looked into it, thoroughly. There was nothing to connect the burglaries to the murder.”

  “One of the burglars was caught. He was booked and charged and is sitting in prison. Damian Sheetz. Did you go to the prison and interview him, try to get a confession out of him?”

  “I was aware of Mr. Sheetz. I looked at his rap sheet. There was no history of violence. Just break-ins. And a bunch of shoplifting charges. Possession of stolen goods.”

  “So he was stealing money and valuables from people’s homes and from stores, to pay for a drug habit. Tell me, Detective, what happens when a drug addict, desperate for a fix, breaks into someone’s house to steal something and is surprised to find the resident inside? Do they have a nice conversation? A cup of tea?”

  “He would have run, not attacked her.”

  “Because running away would be the smarter thing to do and, being a hard-up junkie, he’d have been thinking rationally, right?” Devlin objects, so I withdraw the question. “Speaking of drug addicts looking for money and things to pawn,” I continue, “please tell the jury what you did not find at the murder scene.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m talking about Ms. Yamura’s jewelry. And the money from her wallet. Did you think Mr. Hanson was strapped for cash? And what about Ms. Yamura’s laptop? That was gone, too. Did you think Mr. Hanson couldn’t afford a new computer?” I fire these questions so fast I’m out of breath by the time Walker stands and objects.

  The judge sustains the objection. “One question at a time, counselor,” he scolds me, though I can see by the smile in his eyes that he’s enjoying my cross.

  I turn back to Tredesco. “You can certainly see that Mr. Hanson has no need to steal a laptop computer.”

  Tredesco smiles. “I’m sure your client could afford to buy a computer for every room in his mansion,” he says. “For every stateroom on his yacht. He didn’t steal the computer for its cash value. Our theory is that he wanted the computer for what was on it. Your client had a long-term relationship with the victim. Maybe they sent each other naughty e-mails. Or sex videos.”

  I steal a glance at Devlin Walker. He smiles. I turn back to the witness stand. “And the money? The jewelry? Did you think Mr. Hanson was short of cash?”

  Again, Tredesco is ready for me. “This is why we believe the crime was premeditated. He took the money and jewelry to make it look like a robbery gone bad. To use as a defense, like you’re doing for him now.”

  I turn to the judge and object. “This whole theory should be stricken from the record. It’s all just so much speculation.”

  Even before Devlin can answer me, Tredesco butts in. “It’s not speculation, Your Honor,” he says, lifting his finger up to the side of his nose. “It’s fifteen years investigating crimes.”

  “The objection is overruled,” says Judge Henry.

  I look back at the witness. “You testified that it struck you as odd that, when you asked Mr. Hanson where he was when Ms. Yamura was killed, he said he’d been in the office all afternoon. Do you remember that?” Tredesco says that he recalls the testimony. “You said his answer made you conclude he had to have known when she was killed, yet you hadn’t told him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But Mr. Hanson had spent some time in the house before the police came. He’d have seen the body and seen that her blood was dried. He’d have known she’d been dead for a while.”

  “I don’t know about that. Your client’s not a medical examiner. Or a police officer.”

  I spend the next ten minutes grilling Tredesco about the 911 call, retracing my questioning of the uniformed officers. “So there’s no doubt t
hat someone other than David Hanson knew about the goings-on at 1792 Addison Street and deliberately lied to the police to get them to show up when Mr. Hanson was still in the house.”

  “I can’t say he lied. Maybe there was crashing, but nothing got broke.”

  “Things were crashing but nothing got broke? Did you really just say that?”

  Tredesco doesn’t answer.

  “How can that happen? The same way two people can be shouting at each other when one of them has been dead for eight hours?”

  “Objection,” Devlin says, an edge to his voice. “Hounding the witness.”

  Judge Henry sustains the objection. “We get it, Mr. McFarland. Move on.”

  “So we have this other person making the call. What efforts did you make to find out who it was and why he lied to the police?”

  “We tried to trace the call, but it was made from a disposable cell phone.”

  “A disposable cell phone? Like the ones drug dealers use?”

  Tredesco leans over the stand at me. “Like the phones thousands of people use. Like maybe someone who wants to report a crime but doesn’t want any blowback.”

  “Blowback?”

  “Witness intimidation! It happens all the time in this city. Everyone knows about it. It’s all over the papers. It’s the biggest problem we have in making arrests. No one wants to come forward because they’re afraid.” Tredesco has scored a point with the jury, and he knows it. He leans back, satisfied with himself.

  I quickly change the subject and trade punches with Tredesco for another few rounds, winning points, losing points. Finished with the detective, I turn toward counsel table. Then, as though I’ve just remembered something, I turn back to the witness. “Oh, one more thing. Your testimony about Mr. Hanson wanting his coffee heated up and asking for skim milk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you suppose Mr. Hanson would ask for milk at all? Given that he’s lactose-intolerant and always drinks his coffee black?”

  Tredesco blinks. He knows I “gotcha’d” him. So do the jurors, several of whom cross their arms and smirk. Devlin’s probably stewing. Like most by-the-book prosecutors, he doesn’t like Tredesco’s tricks. He’ll have a little talk with the detective, I’m sure, after trial.

  It’s 12:30, and Judge Henry dismisses the jury for lunch.

  “He hurt us,” Vaughn says.

  “Yep. For all his smarminess, Tredesco gave the jury two things it lacked up to now. A reason for taking the computer and an explanation for why David would have stolen the cash and jewelry, too.”

  Half an hour later, I’m sitting at the defense table, going over my questions for the next witness, Matthew Stone, the CSU team leader. I hear the door behind me and turn to see Vaughn racing for me, out of breath.

  “You’re not going to believe what’s all over the news!” Vaughn exclaims. “Foreign-aid workers are coming forward claiming they’ve received millions in under-the-table humanitarian donations from Hanson World Industries. They say it’s been going on for years. The stories came out first on YouTube, but now they’re being picked up by the mainstream news outlets. And get this, two donations of two million apiece supposedly showed up in—”

  “Let me guess,” I interject. “South Sudan.”

  Vaughn stares at me.

  “Marcie warned me last night that something like this was going to break.”

  The clock on the wall reaches 1:45, then 2:00, then 2:15, but the trial does not resume. Mike Holleran tells Devlin and me that the judge is holed up in his office, watching TV.

  I glance at Devlin.

  “Another stunt.” He sits and murmurs something to Christina Wesley.

  “This is tremendous,” Vaughn whispers next to me at counsel table. Once David is brought into the courtroom, he’ll move to his usual seat next to Marcie. “I think we should demand a mistrial. And if the judge doesn’t go for it, we should ask for a week’s adjournment to fly those foreign-aid workers here, have them testify.”

  I purse my lips, say nothing. Vaughn can see I’m displeased, and he’s confused. Vaughn has no idea that the case isn’t about the case. I look back at Alexander Ginsberg, who seems confused himself. He knows that Bill Henry is not one to be late to court. Piper, too, casts me a look that says, “What’s happening?” The only person who appears at ease is Marcie, who smiles when I glance her way.

  At 2:30, Holleran ushers David into the courtroom. A few minutes later, the judge strides onto the bench, buttoning his robe on the fly. He begins talking even before he’s seated. “We have a problem,” he says. “I’m going to want to talk to counsel in my chambers. First, though, I’m going to call in the jury and dismiss them for the day.” Judge Henry nods to Holleran, who brings in the jury. He smiles at the jury, tells them he has good news, they’re getting a break. Something’s come up—an administrative matter, nothing to do with the case—and the trial day is being cut short. “So go back to the hotel, relax. Don’t talk about the case. And, most important, as always, do not, under any circumstance, listen to the news or read the papers.”

  The jurors look from the judge to Devlin and me, and then to one another. They’re all thinking the same thing. Something big about the case has broken in the media.

  Fifteen minutes later Vaughn and I, along with Devlin Walker and Christina Wesley, are seated in Judge Henry’s chambers. The judge begins by saying, “I’m now convinced that I made a mistake letting in the evidence about the money and the trips to Mexico and the Caymans. I’ve been in my chambers for the past two hours watching news stories about millions of dollars in under-the-table humanitarian aid spread around the world by Hanson World Industries. It’s been going on for years. And, apparently, it was all being run by the defendant.”

  With that, the judge uses his remote to turn on the television in his office. CNN comes on with a video clip of David in some remote, war-torn village. He’s sitting with a group of villagers. On his lap is a dark-skinned boy, maybe four or five years old. David smiles at the boy, tousles his hair, talks to the camera about the desperate plight of the villagers. A second video clip shows David in jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt leading a group of adults and children along a path in some other remote village. David himself looks to be about five years younger than he is now.

  The judge turns down the sound and turns back to us.

  “Your Honor, please. This has to be some kind of—” Devlin begins, but the judge interrupts.

  “Let me finish. This does not appear to be fabricated. The foreign-aid workers themselves are coming forward with the information. And there are video clips purportedly showing Mr. Hanson meeting with these same workers in a number of villages over a period of time going back at least five years.”

  This part floors me. I’d assumed that Marcie’s plants were going to come forward only with claims of recent donations, money tendered after David withdrew the $4 million. I imagined that Marcie could get her hands on another $4 million and fly it abroad fast enough to cover David’s tracks. But if the judge is right, David has been dumping cash for years.

  Why?

  Devlin pipes up again, and he and the judge begin arguing. Their voices fade into the background as my mind locks on to what David has been up to. I remember Marcie’s threat to Edwin to disclose HWI’s rampant criminality should he hurt David in court. Criminality that included illegal payoffs to foreign officials. And just that fast, I get it: David has been secreting millions in humanitarian aid as potential cover should HWI ever be accused of foreign bribery and need to account for vast sums of money disappearing from the company’s coffers. Any congressional subcommittee poring over HWI’s books would find a paper trail carefully left by David showing millions of dollars in HWI funds making their way to the hands of happy foreign-aid workers ready to testify to their receipt of the money, which they then used to feed, clothe, and educate the world’s poor and downtrodden. All of which has turned out to be a massive stroke of luck for David, who can use th
e same planted millions as cover for the money he stole to pay off the blackmailer. Absolutely brilliant. Absolutely sinister. Absolutely David Fucking Hanson.

  “Mr. McFarland?” It’s the judge. “What are your thoughts? A limiting instruction telling the jury to disregard everything they’ve heard about the four million dollars? Or an outright mistrial?”

  I pause a moment to let the question sink in, bring myself up to speed.

  “Your Honor,” I answer, “I’d like some time to think about it. To talk about it with my client. Certainly a mistrial would not be unwarranted. But perhaps a limiting instruction would be enough. I’d like to talk to Mr. Ginsberg as well. Your Honor may have noticed that he’s been sitting with Mrs. Hanson throughout the trial.”

  “Yes, of course. Talk to your client. Talk to Mr. Ginsberg. Think it through. Just tell me tomorrow.”

  “Your Honor, I really must protest.” Devlin’s voice is thick with desperation. “As I said before, a limiting instruction will poison my credibility with the jury. You’d be telling them that I’ve been spouting nonsense. A mistrial would be . . . would be . . . it’s just not warranted.”

  Bill Henry turns to me. “I’m assuming that your client, or someone from HWI, would be able to testify that the four million was in fact used for humanitarian aid. As part of this larger program. Is that right?”

  “I’m sure that’s exactly what Mr. Hanson would say. But, of course, I haven’t decided to call him as a witness. Your Honor isn’t suggesting that I must call Mr. Hanson to the stand to rebut the testimony about the four million?”

  The judge sighs. “At this point, I’m not sure what I’m suggesting. Let’s everyone sleep on this, and we’ll revisit it tomorrow.”

  Half an hour later, I’m sitting across from David in his holding cell.

  “Let me guess,” David begins. “The news of my philanthropic ways has His Honor out of sorts.”

  I want to rip David a new one for this latest ploy. Tell him he’ll never get away with it, at least not in the long run. But, of course, for David there will be no long run unless he beats the murder charge. Almost any risk is worth taking. So I limit myself to a question of tactics: “Why wait? Why rot in prison for three weeks before springing the news?”