The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella

by Steve Cavanagh

After a few seconds of shuffling his papers and clearing his voice, Boles got into it with Maria. Her husband’s record for violence, the knife with the victim’s blood on it, the whole nine yards.

  When he sat down an hour later, he got daggers from a few jurors, nods from a few others, but most of them didn’t react. This was bad news for us. Boles had scored some points and won some jurors. A repetitive squeak from a busted wheel drew the judge’s attention. In the center aisle, an object about six feet high, moving on castors, was being wheeled toward the witness stand. Only the wheels were visible. The rest of the object was covered with a white sheet. It looked like something you’d find in the attic of an old farmhouse.

  “What’s that?” asked Maria.

  “That’s our next witness,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Please state your name for the record,” I said.

  “John Patrick,” said the man in the blue, button-down oxford shirt. He wore tan pants, polished brown shoes, and a tie that just had to be a Christmas gift from his mother-in-law: penguins playing golf on dull, green silk. He sat quite comfortably in the witness box, his hands relaxed and open on his thighs, his answers clear and concise. Most expert witnesses had the same poise, but none would’ve worn that tie.

  “And what is your field of expertise, Mr. Patrick?”

  “I was a police officer for twelve years, and following an injury on duty, I moved into police recruit training. For fifteen years I worked in the Police Academy in Gramercy Park. I was a senior officer and instructor within the academy’s Tactical Training Unit.”

  “What is the Tactical Training Unit?” I said.

  “A group of experienced, senior officers who provide a range of training modules. Mostly, we taught recruits how to handle themselves in a physical confrontation and how to affect a safe and clean arrest.”

  “Has the training course itself changed much over the last twenty years?”

  “Not at all. We’ve changed nothing, only added to it as new weapons come into the police arsenal.”

  “Are there any rules, or codes of conduct, that govern a police officer in a physical confrontation?”

  “Absolutely. The officer is trained to control and restrain the subject, only with the necessary force required. There are also written rules about what an officer cannot do in such a situation.”

  “And what are these rules?”

  “I believe you’ve referred to these in your opening statement. The NYPD Patrol Guide expressly forbids an officer from choking, or taking any action that may impede a subject’s breathing capabilities. Like sitting on the subject’s chest or putting their hands on the subject’s neck.”

  “Mr. Patrick, have you read the statements from Detectives Roark and Marzone in relation to the death of Chilli Hernandez?”

  “I have.”

  “What is your expert view in relation to their conduct?”

  “In my opinion, Detective Marzone breached the Patrol Guide.”

  “Please explain your answer.”

  “May I demonstrate, Your Honor?” said the witness, drawing an eye on the judge.

  A simple nod from Winter and Patrick was on his feet, walking toward the sheet that covered his prop. He flung away the sheet to reveal a foam dummy beneath. Turning it so that the dummy faced the jury, Patrick took a moment to unbutton his shirtsleeves and roll them up. Before he made a move on the dummy, he addressed the jury.

  “To put this in context, Detective Marzone states that he and his partner stopped the vehicle driven by the deceased. Detective Roark got out of the police vehicle first, and Detective Marzone hung back as cover. Roark approached the driver’s side and states that as he bent down to speak to the driver, the deceased flung open his door, striking Roark in the face. According to Detective Marzone, as Roark lay on the ground, the deceased exited the vehicle brandishing a knife and Detective Marzone feared that his partner was about to be stabbed. He states, and I quote, ‘To restrain the suspect and prevent him from carrying out a fatal attack on a fellow officer, I grabbed him from behind. I had a split second to take action. My right arm reached over the deceased’s right shoulder as I sought to take control of him by placing him in a headlock. He struggled, kicking his legs and trying to head-butt me. My arm slipped down. The suspect still had the knife in his hands. We wrestled like this for a few minutes, and then the suspect became limp.’ So, something like this, at first . . .” said Patrick.

  From behind, his right arm slipped over the dummy’s right shoulder in an attempt to mirror Marzone’s description.

  “Mr. Patrick, can I just stop you there. Detective Marzone says that he is trying to prevent an attack on his partner. What can he reasonably do, in this situation?”

  “Well, he’s already going for the safest option, a headlock. The forearms are drawn across either side of the jaw, hands clasped.”

  Arms across the face of the dummy, Patrick tilted the dummy’s head toward the ceiling.

  “As the members of the jury can see, no pressure or contact is made with either the neck or throat of the suspect. The officer is in control.”

  “Any other options?”

  “The other option is the blood choke,” said Patrick. He dropped his arm a little further across the dummy’s chest, then angled his hand so that it gripped the shoulder.

  “By exerting pressure during this hold, my biceps comes into contact with the carotid artery on the right side of the suspect’s neck. The suspect can breathe normally, but the pressure closes down that artery and cuts off blood flow to the brain. Within a minute the suspect will be rendered unconscious—safely and with no loss of air.”

  “And what did Detective Marzone actually do?”

  “From his statement, he did this,” said Patrick, and drew his arm tightly around the dummy’s throat. “A choke hold. This is banned by the NYPD, because it can kill. In this instance, it did exactly that.”

  The jury couldn’t take their eyes off Patrick. This was what killed Chilli Hernandez. And even though it was a foam dummy, the violence of the grip was dramatic. This was how it had gone down.

  At that moment I had one more question. Something Patrick and I had discussed. Patrick was waiting for me to ask him.

  Jack looked at me like I was Babe Ruth, my bat ready to knock a home run off a sloppy pitch.

  Before I made my decision, I took a second to appraise Vinnie. His feet were tapping under the table, arms folded, biting his lip. He was ready to get into the game, ready to blow our witness out of the water with his hero cop routine. I could smell it.

  The only sound in the room came from my heels as I walked to my seat. It would be better to let this aspect of the case come out in Vinnie’s cross. I couldn’t wait to watch him run straight into a brick wall.

  “Your witness,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Mr. Patrick, Tactical Training is a vital survival skill for NYPD officers, right?”

  “I’d say so. It saved my life more than once.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. However, training is one thing. The real world is quite another,” said Vinnie, smiling and nodding to the jury.

  “I wouldn’t disagree with that. No training environment is a substitute for the real thing.”

  “Then we are in agreement. Now, you mentioned the Patrol Guide. I presume you are familiar with that code?”

  “I am.”

  “So you will know that the use of lethal force is a last resort, correct?”

  “That is accurate. However, in this—”

  “Thank you. It would’ve been remiss of Officer—”

  This time it was me who had to interrupt. Vinnie’s attempt to cut Patrick’s answer short wouldn’t wash with me. “Objection, Your Honor. The witness had not finished his answer.”

  A wave from the bench acknowledged, ruled upon, and found favor with my objection. “Mr. Federof, please allow the witness to complete his answer.”

  There were two choices
for Vinnie: Argue the point or let it go and then it seems like the answer didn’t matter. He let it go and rolled his eyes as Patrick said, “I was going to say that the use of lethal force is a last resort to preserve your own life or the lives of others, but I don’t believe that was the situation here.”

  Cross-examination isn’t a war of words. It’s not a legal battle. It’s not about who shouts the hardest or loudest. Cross-examination is daylight robbery; you go in hard and fast, grab what you need, and get the hell out. Nodding to himself, Vinnie saw that he was on dangerous ground with Patrick: He needed to gain control, hit Patrick one shot, and sit his ass down before the witness did any more damage.

  “Detective Marzone will testify that he was in a life-or-death situation, struggling to control a known, violent offender armed with a knife, and his actions saved his own life and the life of his partner. You accept that was the situation?”

  “No,” said Patrick.

  I edged forward in my seat. Patrick’s style of testimony was often to give an answer and then expand on it. He didn’t give any further explanation for that answer. My fingers clasped together as I prayed that Vinnie would take the bait.

  “With respect, Mr. Patrick, you cannot say that any part of Detective Marzone’s account of that night is anything other than one hundred percent accurate because you were not there, correct?”

  “I wasn’t there, but that doesn’t matter. I know that your client is lying.”

  My client’s trembling hand fell into mine. We held our breath together as we watched the anger rise in Vinnie and saw his mouth working before his brain had a chance to tell him to shut the hell up.

  “Oh, you just know, do you?” said Vinnie.

  There it was, a slow ball, perfect height, just enough speed for the bat to swing into the stands. Patrick leaned forward and looked at the jury as he said, “You don’t need to be an expert to know that Chilli Hernandez was unarmed when he was choked to death by Freddy Marzone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  That was the question I’d left unspoken. And instead of coming from the plaintiff, it was the defense that brought it in front of the jury.

  “Objection, Your Honor. This testimony was not given in direct examination,” said Vinnie.

  Judge Winter shrugged his shoulders and said, “And? It wasn’t asked. You’ve opened that door, Mr. Federof . . .”

  Shaking his head now, Vinnie swung back to the witness.

  “That is a total fabrication. This is nothing more than a poor attempt to bolster the plaintiff’s case and slander this officer,” said Vinnie.

  “If the ‘officer’ you are referring to is your client Detective Marzone, then I disagree. In his witness statement, your client maintains that the deceased still held the knife while he was struggling to slip out of the hold. This is nonsense. Your client had no recorded injuries. If a man is being strangled and he’s got a knife in his hand, he will use it. It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world to put that knife in your client’s arm and, presto, the choke hold disappears. Your client didn’t have a scratch on him. So you are incorrect. I don’t accept the deceased was armed when he was choked to death. If he had a knife, your client’s legs and arms would’ve looked like Swiss cheese.”

  “But you were not there,” said Vinnie.

  “I was not there.”

  “Mr. Patrick, you’ve given evidence in around fifty cases in the last five years, correct?”

  A switch. Vinnie was pulling the parachute on Patrick, and he wanted to get out fast with a good point in his client’s favor.

  “That would be about right,” said Patrick.

  “In all of those fifty cases you gave evidence against the NYPD?”

  Shit. Vinnie was going for witness bias.

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you have against the NYPD?”

  “Nothing. I gave my best years to serve this city.”

  “Your pension was cut around six years ago. That right?”

  Damn, I hadn’t seen this coming. Patrick shifted in his seat, adjusted his awful tie.

  “Yes.”

  “Was that a result of a historical allegation of sexual harassment being proven against you?”

  “The inquiry upheld the allegation. I don’t accept their finding. The complaint didn’t arise until ten years after the event. Witnesses in my defense had passed away. Some were—”

  “So just to clarify, your pension was cut by the NYPD because you were found to have sexually harassed a fellow officer? Yes or no?”

  “Again, the allegation was totally—”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  “And as a retired officer, now with a reduced pension, it’s just a coincidence that you decided to supplement your income by giving evidence against the NYPD as an expert witness?”

  “Pure coincidence.”

  “Nothing further,” said Vinnie.

  Not a bad rescue job. But the damage had been done. As Vinnie sat down beside his client, I saw the entire defense table rise up as Marzone’s knees brushed against it when he began to quietly rip into this counsel. Neither Vinnie nor Marzone looked happy.

  Boles asked no questions of Mr. Patrick. If he could make Marzone the bad guy, this only helped him. Without Vinnie or Boles landing any real blows on Patrick, there was no need to ask anything on redirect, and Judge Winter released him from the box.

  We all knew what was coming next. In any other case like this, in front of any other judge, we would call our next round of expert witnesses, who spoke to the issue of damages. In the last three months, Jack and I had spent around thirty grand on forensic accountants’ reports detailing Chilli’s estimated earnings for what would’ve been the rest of his life. This kind of speculation was a fine art, and if you chose the right accountant, you could double or even triple the amount of damages your client could legitimately claim.

  Any other court, any other case, any other judge. But not Winter.

  He hated accountants, didn’t understand the actuarial calculations, and stated openly that juries didn’t either. So he offered the attorneys a choice: Either agree on an amount of damages that the jury should award if the plaintiff wins, or simply let the jury read the damn reports in their own time.

  “Any further liability witnesses, Mr. Flynn?” asked Judge Winter.

  “None at this time, but I reserve the right to call further witnesses in rebuttal,” I said.

  “Noted. I’ve already made counselors aware of my approach to damages. We’ll proceed with the remainder of the testimony. Mr. Federof, we’ll begin your case after the lunch adjournment. Who is your first witness?”

  “Detective Marzone.”

  We packed up our files and greeted Maria’s sister, who’d come to court to support her. They went off together for an appointment at the maternity unit. In the hall outside the courtroom, I saw McAllister leaning against a pale marble pillar. She hadn’t changed her clothes, still had that lithe, casual pose. She saw me and tugged her sunglasses over her nose. Her eyes said it all.

  Whatever Frost had on Marzone, McAllister had found it. Before I got to her, I felt a strong hand on my arm. It was a big hand. A hand the same size as a stop sign. In the exact same moment that I felt the grip, McAllister slipped behind the pillar before Marzone saw her.

  A voice that sounded like it came from inside a barrel said, “A friend of mine will be in court this afternoon. He wants to make sure I don’t get nervous. When people are nervous, all kinds of accidents can happen.”

  Releasing his grip on my arm, Marzone lumbered away to join his counsel.

  “What did he say?” said Jack.

  “He said he’s got a friend coming this afternoon to watch the trial.”

  Any blood in Jack’s face flooded down to his feet. His skin looked the same color as the marble hall. Without acknowledging McAllister, Jack and I made for the elevators. Just as the doors began to close, McAllister ducked inside.

>   Only then did I see she’d brought a backpack. A man’s backpack.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The screen on the digital camera was no bigger than my business card. I couldn’t tell if it was excitement or fear that made my hands shake so much.

  “I can’t see it. Put it down on the desk,” said Jack.

  We took our seats and placed the camera on the worn desk of the consulting room. Frost’s files held nothing, and McAllister had almost given up until she checked an old backpack that she’d found in his desk drawer. Underneath a pile of stinking sweatpants and T-shirts, she’d found the camera. It wasn’t departmental issue—far too expensive. As far as McAllister knew, Frost had no interest in photography as a hobby. The camera looked to be worth several thousand dollars, and instantly she knew this was what Frost was hiding. In plain sight.

  She told Jack and me that she’d found a few memory cards in the inside pocket of the bag. They contained some vanilla pictures of various members of the Morgue Squad, but two of them held video. This was what Frost had hinted at on the ferry.

  The screen came to life as the video finished loading and started playing.

  “I don’t want to watch it again,” said McAllister, taking a seat on the other side of the desk.

  At first all I could see was a gray blur accompanied by the sound of a drum. Then the blurring slowed, along with the beat, which I figured didn’t come from a drum but from feet moving fast along a sidewalk. As the beat stopped, the angle tilted upward beyond the pavement to display two cars parked along the side of the street maybe a couple hundred feet ahead. The headlights of the Crown Vic burned into the trunk of an old, red Pontiac. The camera swam and focused on the license plate of the unmarked cop car, then the Pontiac. I knew that plate—it belonged to Chilli Hernandez.

  “Frost was following Marzone on his own dime?” I said.

  She nodded and said, “I think he discovered the chalk mark at Ed Genarro’s murder scene and knew that it was only a matter of time before Marzone found somebody to pin it on. There are hours of footage on those memory cards. His persistence paid off when he got this footage.”