by Ray Flynt
If Nick was looking for reinforcements to control me, he was out of luck. “Picked for a murder jury. Expects to be out for two weeks.”
Nick looked at me with wide eyes. “No shit. I wonder if that’s the case I was reading about this morning.” He tossed me the Philadelphia Inquirer and pointed to a front page article: “Opening Statements Due in Montgomery County Murder Trial.”
I studied the newspaper as Nick continued to peruse the file in front of him. After noting that the judge had issued a gag order in David Nesbit’s murder trial, the reporter went on to describe the prosecution’s strategy to paint Nesbit as a man motivated to inherit his wife’s fortune so he could take up a new life with another woman. No named sources were cited.
“Damn!” Nick angrily crashed his cup on the desk, sloshing coffee in the process, which just missed soiling the papers in his file. “I see what Jerome told you, but it wasn’t me.” Nick shoved a sheet of paper in my direction. “Take a look.”
Nick had handed me Alfred Miles’ case summary. For the first time I read details about the car, a burgundy-colored 1991 Chevy Lumina with 78,472 miles on the odometer. The vehicle had an automatic transmission. The report noted that the brake fluid line had been cut using an X pattern, and an attached mechanic’s inspection indicated that the car appeared to still have its original brake pads, which after so many miles needed replacing. It concluded with Miles’ recommendation that Martin Tetlow had caused his own accident. Scribbled below were the words, “No. Keep digging,” and Nick Argostino’s signature.
“What do you mean, it wasn’t you?” I pointed at the page. “Your signature’s right here.”
“That’s not my signature.” Nick rifled through a pile of papers on the corner of his desk and held up a document. “This is how I sign my name.”
Where he stabbed his finger I saw a two-inch scrawl—impossible to decipher—compared with the easy-to-read cursive signature on the bottom of Miles’ report.
Nick grimaced. “But I know who signed it.”
“Who?”
“Tony Aiello. He worked here in the 90’s, but was fired when it was discovered that he was shaking down suspects. The guy loved using a fountain pen and had a fancy-ass signature. It was him, alright. He favored black ink.”
So? Didn’t most people use black or blue ink? The signature had a broader line than that of a ball point or rollerball pen. “You’re sure?”
“Ninety nine percent. It sure as hell wasn’t me. I wasn’t even here then.”
I sipped my coffee and stared at him suspiciously over the top of the cup.
“See the date?”
August 10, 1995. “Yeah.”
“My son was one year old on that August 9th and had a defective heart valve replaced on his birthday, but there were complications and he spent the next four days in intensive care. Ruth and I never left his side.”
“Was Aiello connected with organized crime?” I asked, wondering whether he might have ties with Pancavetti.
Nick shook his head. “He was a bad apple. The department was well rid of him.”
“Why would Aiello want to dismiss Miles’ findings?”
Nick squinted and stroked his mustache. “Maybe Aiello saw contradictory evidence; he was a decent investigator, even if he was a crooked cop.” Nick shrugged. “Miles ran out of steam after his theory was shot down. I checked the records, but I can’t see where another detective was assigned to the case. Technically, it’s still on the books as unsolved.” Nick tapped the paperwork with his index finger. “You might want to remind your client that if the department had made a judgment that Tetlow’s actions caused his own death, then suicide clauses would have knocked out any chance of insurance being paid.”
As I fished in my purse for a tissue, I thought about what he’d just said. My mind raced over the idea that Aiello might have known Rachel’s mother. If so, had she prevailed upon him to prevent a ruling of suicide? “Where can I find Aiello?” I started to ask, when a man in a rumpled gray suit appeared in the doorway saying, “Hey Nick, got a minute?”
Nick mumbled, “Be right back,” and followed the other guy down the hall.
I sat patiently for about two seconds and then realized that the file on the seventeen-year-old murder case I was investigating sat two feet away from me. Nick had shared Alfred Miles’ recommendation page, and I still had the case summary. I should put it back. I reached across Nick’s desk and pulled the folder in front of me and flipped to the front.
I glanced over my shoulder, didn’t see Nick or anyone else in sight, and then scanned the face sheet. I knew most of those details, so I flipped the page and saw the summary of Miles’ first meeting with Maggie Tetlow, Rachel’s mother. The report noted her birthdate as April 21, 1961. Because Rachel had mentioned her mother’s recent death, I had pictured her as older. She would have been my age when her husband died seventeen years ago, too young to be a widow.
The report, badly typed on a cheap portable typewriter, summarized the meeting:
Met w Martin Tetlow’s widow, Margaret “Maggie” nee Harris, on Fri, 14 July 1995 at hom – Lyceum st. in Manayunk. Informd her of invesstigators concerns husband’s death not an accident (i.e. brake line tampered).
I skimmed through the part that Rachel had already shared with us about her mother telling investigators the death must have been related to his jury service.
Askd Mrs. Tetlow to recall her husband’s activites in the 24-hrs before his death. She said he left for jury at 6:30 a.m. on 10 July and retuned home shortly after 4. Per habit, parkd car on stret instead of drive. Tinkered in garage, body work on 1953 Pontiac Chieftain til dinner (aprox 6:30) which consisted of pork chops, creamed corn, noodles. Took out garbage – gone less than minute. Watched re-runs. Tucked daughter (Rachel) in bed. She went to bed at 11 p.m. Said husb joined her a half-hour later. Not aware if he lef the house before coming to bed. Depart for jury 6:40 a.m. on 11 July.
Why had he parked his car on the street, which could make it easier for a stranger to tamper with the brakes?
Asked to vist garage. Saw the Pontiac – two-tone green - badly rustd. Lots of body filler. Neat work bench. Tools organized on peg board. Before leaving inspctted street noting visible brake fluid stain. Took picture.
At the bottom of the page, Miles, I presumed, had penned “check court schedule for July 10th.”
I flipped ahead looking for the picture of the brake fluid stain but saw none. Behind me I heard a cough and hurriedly closed the file. I held my breath and then ventured a glance over my shoulder. The coast, as they say, was still clear.
I perused the accident investigator’s report, which included now-faded Polaroid shots of the scene where Martin Tetlow had been killed. From the photographs, it was fairly clear that a dump truck had broadsided Tetlow’s Chevy. A witness said the truck was traveling at 45 to 50 MPH. The hydraulic spread cutter used to extricate him from the severely damaged car could be seen in a close up Polaroid. In one photo, with a shot of the street sign, the intersection of Levering with Cresson Street was established, while additional pictures were taped together to create a panoramic view.
The accompanying report noted that Tetlow had been heading south-southeast on Levering, but from the photos it was clear that Levering Street dead-ended at Cresson. To get to jury duty, he would have had to make a sharp turn at that intersection—complicated by the fact that an overhead SEPTA rail line shared Cresson, with steel pillars narrowing the lanes of traffic. Martin Tetlow knew the route he’d be taking. If he cut his own brake fluid line, he would have had to anticipate crashing into either a brick building or an elevated railway steel pillar.
There had to be easier ways to get out of jury duty.
I began to have doubts about whether Tetlow had caused his own accident and vowed to check a map to determine how far he had traveled from home until the fatal crash. This brought me back to the theory that Pancavetti, or one of his associates, had tampered with Tetlow’s car. Had Alf
red Miles seized too soon on the theory that Tetlow caused his own death, and not looked at foul play? I desperately wanted to know more about the juror who had been shot.
Another look at the accident report confirmed that Tetlow had been wearing his seatbelt at the time of the accident.
I found the autopsy report, noting that Tetlow was a large man at 6’1” and 224 pounds. He suffered multiple traumas, but the cause of death was the fracture of cervical vertebrae #6 resulting in asphyxia. Might he have survived if he hadn’t been trapped in the car? I wondered what else Aiello had seen that made him discount Miles’ theory about Tetlow staging his own accident?
“No, you can’t have any,” I heard Detective Argostino’s voice as it neared his office, accompanied by mock cries of, “Please, Nick.”
I closed the file quickly and placed it on Nick’s side of the desk, hoping the tab was in the same direction as he’d left it.
“Sorry to be so long,” Nick said, as he entered and plopped a waxed paper bag on the desk. He sat, reached into the bag and pulled out a sugared donut. The scent of cinnamon filled the office.
He pointed at the bag. “Want one?”
I shook my head.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Nick asked, before chomping a big bite, scattering sugar all over his face.
“Huh?” I tried to look innocent.
“I swung past here when I finished with Evans. Saw you were looking at Tetlow’s file, and figured I’d go across the street for sustenance.” He held his donut aloft. “It’d give you more time.”
“Uh, yeah,” I sputtered. “Thanks. Any chance of visiting with Tony Aiello?”
“Sure.” Nick winked. “I hear he’s got a plot at Laurel Hill Cemetery.”
9
Brad followed as Jerry led the small procession of jurors to the Court House Diner, eagerly pointing out local attractions along the way.
“They have a great fish sandwich here,” Jerry volunteered, as four of them were seated near the front of the restaurant. “My office is just down the street. I come here all the time.”
In addition to Jerry, Brad shared a table with fellow jurors Mary Ellen and Bonnie. Nearby, Elaine and two of the alternates studied their menus.
“It’s great to get this chance to break bread with y’all,” Jerry said, in what Brad surmised was part of his campaign to become foreman of the Nesbit jury.
Jerry talked non-stop, like a radio talk show host trying not to leave “dead air,” but Brad learned that he was an insurance salesman. Mary Ellen, who worked as a nurse in the emergency department of the new Einstein Medical Center, had a penchant for questions, and the twenty-something Bonnie had a degree in environmental studies, but she had no job yet and still lived with her parents.
The attorneys hadn’t been afraid to put educated professionals on the jury; maybe both sides figured they’d be needed to sort out the facts in a circumstantial case.
“That bald guy looks kind of creepy,” Bonnie said.
“We’re not supposed to discuss the case,” Mary Ellen chided.
Bonnie rolled her eyes back and pursed her glossy pink lips. “Like, what are we supposed to talk about?”
“Maybe Brad could tell us about his cases.” Jerry added loudly, “He’s famous around here.” The remark drew glances from adjacent tables.
Brad’s jaw tightened. “We probably shouldn’t be discussing crime. Just to be on the safe side.”
Mary Ellen nodded. “I agree.”
Brad mouthed, “Thank you,” eliciting an approving smile from Mary Ellen.
Bonnie sighed. “Well, I hope we get dismissed early on Friday. I’m going to the Poconos this weekend with friends.”
After the waiter took their orders, the mid-thirtyish Jerry shifted tactics and began flirting with Bonnie, who nodded and fluttered her eyelids.
The waiter appeared with their drinks, and Bonnie gushed, “Wow, that’s big.”
When Jerry winked at her and said, “Big can be a good thing, don’t you think?” Mary Ellen shot him a give-it-a-rest glance.
Brad welcomed the silence that followed the arrival of their sandwiches.
Small talk with strangers made him uneasy. Ever since taking a social psychology course a year earlier, he’d come to realize that he was an introvert. Comfortable in social settings to be sure, a trait he’d inherited from his father, but ultimately leaning toward his mother’s introspective demeanor. Beth had noticed it too. On more than one occasion at a restaurant or cuddling on the sofa she’d tilt her head, smile and quietly ask, “Penny for your thoughts?” To outsiders he probably seemed like a gregarious extrovert, especially when questioning suspects on one of his cases. But even his favorite hobby, an attic-filling HO gauge model railroad, provided hours alone with his own thoughts.
As they were ushered back into the jury box at 1 p.m., the first thing Brad noticed were the tablets and pens on all the juror’s chairs.
Judge Whitaker took the bench and quickly explained. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as we enter the testimony phase of the trial, we’ve provided you with note pads.” The judge appeared to be reading from a paper. “It is entirely up to you whether you wish to take notes to help you remember what witnesses said in case you care to refer to them during your deliberations. Don’t become so involved with note taking that it interferes with your ability to observe a witness or distracts you from hearing the questions being asked and answers given. Each time that we adjourn, your notes will be collected and secured by court staff. Your notes are completely confidential. After you have reached a verdict in this case, court personnel will destroy your notes.”
The judge shifted his gaze from the jury box to the prosecution table, saying, “The Commonwealth may call its first witness.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Diane Cunningham said. “We call Ms. Francine Holt.”
The tipstaff opened a side door to admit the witness. Brad recognized Ms. Holt as the woman who had sat directly behind the prosecution during opening statements, and who had all but been identified as the daughter of Genevieve Favreau Nesbit. Wearing a well-tailored gray suit and light blue blouse, she approached the witness stand with the bearing of a Main Line socialite. He guessed her age as thirty-five. She passed the defense table without so much as a glance at Mr. Nesbit.
After she was sworn in, testimony quickly established that Francine was the daughter of Genevieve and Norman Feldman, Ms. Nesbit’s first husband. Francine had grown up at the Haverford estate Genevieve shared with Mr. Nesbit, and she currently lived in Palm Beach, Florida, with her husband, Eric Holt.
Cunningham stood next to the witness box, facing the jurors as she asked, “Ms. Holt, on Wednesday, March 7th of this year did you visit your mother’s home in Haverford, Pennsylvania?”
“Yes, I did.”
The prosecutor gestured toward the jury box. “Please tell the jury what happened.”
Francine turned to face the jurors, and spoke haltingly at first. “Eric… ah, my husband, was at a conference in Philadelphia.”
Brad noticed her glance toward a man in the second row, who leaned forward, hands under his chin, and offered a supportive smile. Husband, no doubt.
Francine seemed to relax and picked up steam. “So I decided to join him. After arriving at the airport I caught a cab to my mother’s place, and Eric said he would catch up with me at the hotel.”
“Had you notified your mother that you were coming?”
“No.” It appeared to Brad that Francine wanted to say more, but after glancing at the prosecutor repeated, “No.”
“What did you do when you arrived?”
“I rang the doorbell. It took a while, but eventually Carmelita answered.”
“Who is Carmelita?”
“Carmelita Diaz. She does cooking and light housework for my mother. I mean, she did.”
“Continue,” Cunningham said.
“I learned that my mother wasn’t home, and Carmie didn’t know when
she might return. I remember looking at my watch and saying that I was hoping to have lunch with her. Carmie offered to fix me lunch, and before I could stop her she disappeared into the garage. I realized she wanted to get leftovers from the freezer. A minute later I heard this horrid scream.”
Brad knew what was coming next, but it didn’t lessen the dramatic impact.
“When I got to the garage, Carmelita was standing next to the open freezer, still screaming. I went over to see what was wrong…” The words caught in her throat. “That’s when I saw my mother inside the freezer.”
Diane Cunningham crossed to the prosecution table, looked at a paper and turned back to the witness. Brad suspected Cunningham wanted to allow time for Francine’s words to sink in. She needn’t have worried. “What did you do next?”
“I called 9-1-1.”
“Just to clarify,” Cunningham began, “how much time elapsed between when you entered the garage and made the 9-1-1 call?”
Francine Holt shrugged. “A minute. Two at the most.”
“Did you use a cell phone or landline?”
“Uh, landline. The phone in the kitchen.”
“Your Honor, the Commonwealth would like to offer in evidence a digital recording of the 9-1-1 call Ms. Holt made on March 7th of this year.” She picked up a document. “I have a notarized statement from the dispatch office certifying to its authenticity.”
“Without objection,” Whitaker said, “this will be marked as Commonwealth’s exhibit number one.”
Shane Asher called out, “No objection, Your Honor.”