by Ray Flynt
In the darkness, Oliver guided me from the dining table into his bedroom. The drapes were drawn and it was pitch-black. We’d made love before, but I couldn’t recall a time when it was so dark.
I found myself immersed in his world where sounds, touch, and scents replaced the sights with which I was so familiar. I felt wonderful, and overwhelmed with fresh vision.
16
Brad arrived early for court that Friday morning, checked his phone, and visited the snack shop for a cup of coffee. As he passed by the jury assembly room, he spotted a fresh crop of prospective jurors. Unlike his standing-room-only experience earlier in the week, only about fifty people milled around, most likely summoned for one-day trials where the stakes weren’t as high as in a murder case.
He climbed the marble steps to the second floor shortly before nine, and prepared to line up in the hall with his fellow jurors as they had on previous mornings. A tipstaff spotted his juror badge and informed him that there’d been a delay in the proceedings. He directed Brad to join other jurors in the nearby deliberation room.
Brad did a quick count and noted that eight of the remaining fifteen jurors and alternates had already arrived. The others should drift in momentarily.
He sat at the table between Wendell and Layla, two of the African Americans serving on the jury. Wendell was part of the regular panel, while Layla served as one of the alternates. Brad introduced himself using his first name, but as several of the other jurors had commented, they knew who he was.
More jurors arrived, and the room buzzed with conversation.
Jerry, who gripped a cup of coffee and held court with several of the jurors, blurted out, “Maybe he pleaded guilty, and we’ll all get to go home soon.”
While chatting with his table mates Brad learned that Wendell drove a bus for special-needs children in the local school district, and Layla taught music to middle school children in the Quakertown school district in nearby Bucks County.
Wendell glanced at his watch. “Wonder what the holdup is!”
Brad also noticed it was past time for court to start, and only fourteen of the fifteen jurors and alternates had arrived. He didn’t know all of the jurors’ first names, but realized that Bonnie, one of the women he’d met at lunch a few days earlier, was missing. He wondered if her absence had anything to do with the delay, and remarked, “I don’t think we’re all here yet.”
Wendell and Layla glanced around the room with puzzled looks as if trying to determine who wasn’t there.
“The judge wants to see you in the courtroom,” a tipstaff announced.
Jurors lined up for their solemn procession down the hall and into the jury box. The seat for juror number three—Bonnie—remained empty.
The courtroom fell silent as they marched in, and the clock above the rear door showed that it was after 10 a.m. Unlike other days, Judge Whitaker was already on the bench. When the last alternate had taken her seat, Whitaker swiveled in his chair. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “I apologize for our delay, but it appears we’ve had an incident of juror misconduct.”
Brad felt like everyone on the jury held their breath.
“Overnight,” the judge continued, “one of the jurors left a phone message that she was sick and unable to make court today. However, when court staff called to verify the seriousness of her illness, a family member reported that the juror had left this morning on a trip with friends.”
The spectators’ gallery hummed at this news, and Brad heard Frank next to him mutter, “Oh, brother.”
Brad remembered Bonnie’s comment at lunch a few days earlier that she hoped court would let out early on Friday, since she had plans to travel to the Poconos. Although the judge had announced there would be an early dismissal that apparently didn’t satisfy her. Brad suspected that Bonnie never imagined calling in sick would be subject to verification.
“The Court has issued a bench warrant for juror #3,” Whitaker said in a stern voice, which softened as he added, “I want to emphasize that a legitimate illness is a valid reason for missing these proceedings. Our staff followed up so that we might determine if the illness necessitated a one-day trial postponement or required replacing the juror in question. Based on their findings, in this instance I have no choice. Alternate juror #2, please take the empty seat in the jury box.”
Brad turned and saw that Layla, whom he’d just met, would be the replacement juror. She appeared momentarily dazed, but rose, gathered her purse and a sweater draped across the back of her chair, and walked to her new front-row seat.
The judge turned toward Diane Cunningham and said, “The Commonwealth may call its next witness.”
“Your Honor, we once again call Detective John Cordes to the witness stand.”
A side door to the courtroom opened to admit a smiling John Cordes, comfortably attired in his blue blazer. He strode briskly to the witness stand, and when he had taken his seat, the judge reminded the detective that he was still under oath.
Cunningham started off slowly, and consulted a yellow legal pad on the podium in front of her. Her initial questioning felt to Brad like a train engine chugging out of the station as it attempted to build up a head of steam.
Cunningham peppered Cordes with questions that covered old ground about the discovery of the body, his arrival on the scene, and his professional judgment as to when Genevieve Favreau Nesbit had died. Brad noticed that a reporter seated in the row directly behind the prosecution table had stopped taking notes, and a glance at fellow jurors revealed their similar disinterest.
Nearly every question Cunningham asked focused on issues of date and time. He reached for his tablet and pen, safely stowed under his chair, and began making notes for a timeline in the case.
Sunday, March 4th
Genevieve left restaurant at approximately 5:30 p.m.
Per medical examiner, death 2 – 3 hours later (7:30 to 8:30 p.m.)
Wednesday, March 7th
Body discovered in freezer shortly after noon
Police arrive 12:35 p.m.
Tuesday, March 13th
Autopsy conducted
“Detective Cordes were you present when David Nesbit was contacted regarding his wife’s death?” the prosecutor asked.
“I was.”
“And would you please describe for the jury those circumstances?”
“During my conversation with Francine Holt, Genevieve Nesbit’s daughter, I asked about next of kin, and she mentioned the victim’s husband. I told her that I would need to contact him. She added that she wasn’t sure if I would be able to reach him, since he was out of the country.”
“Did she identify where?”
Cordes shook his head. “No, somewhere in Africa. But she was able to provide us with his cell phone number.”
Cunningham inhaled. “And were you, in fact, able to contact David Nesbit?”
“Eventually. Not right away.”
“Please, explain for the jury.”
“I called Nesbit’s cell phone, but the call went into voice mail. I left a message explaining who I was and that it was imperative that he contact me. Then, as we conducted our search for evidence in the victim’s home, we found an itinerary for Mr. Nesbit’s trip and learned that he had traveled to Tripoli for a conference.”
Diane Cunningham showed a document to the witness and asked Cordes to verify it was the itinerary he had found, and then asked the judge to admit it into evidence. Soon the itinerary flashed on the TV monitors for the jury and spectators to see.
Sunday, March 4
Depart PHL at 9:45 p.m. on Lufthansa
Arrive Frankfurt at 8:45 a.m., March 5th
Air Algerie at 10:12 a.m. to Algiers
Arrive at 1:18 p.m.
Depart for Tripoli on Air Algerie at 3:03 p.m.
Arrive at 4:38 p.m.
Corinthia Hotel
Souk Al Thulatha
Tripoli 82874
Libya
Brad copied relevant i
nformation from David Nesbit’s itinerary alongside the notes he’d already made. As a result of conference calls Brad had had with a Frankfurt man who served on the board of directors of Joedco, his family’s business, he knew that Frankfurt was six hours ahead of Eastern Time.
Brad also took note of the return flight information. Nesbit hadn’t planned to leave Tripoli until March 9th—two days after his wife’s body was discovered—and had scheduled a two-day visit to Paris before returning to Philadelphia on the 12th.
“With this information detective,” Cunningham continued, “did you try other means to contact David Nesbit?”
“Yes, I called the Corinthia Hotel in Tripoli and asked to speak with Mr. Nesbit. They rang his room but there was no answer. I left a message with the hotel’s front desk asking that he call me as soon as possible.”
Brad noticed that Cordes continued his habit of looking in Brad’s direction as he testified. Cordes seemed relaxed, spoke in a conversational style, and made a credible witness.
“Did you receive a return call from Mr. Nesbit?” Cunningham asked.
“I did.”
“Please explain to the jury where you were when you received that call.”
Cordes cleared his throat, turned and faced the jury. “We wrapped up our work at the crime scene at approximately 6:30 p.m. on Tuesday, March 7th. I returned to the office to follow up on messages I’d received throughout the day for several other cases I was working on. I called my wife to tell her that I wouldn’t get home until late, and that I would grab a bite out. Then I stopped at a KFC to pick up—”
Shane Asher was on his feet. “Objection. Irrelevant.”
“Sustained,” Judge Whitaker said, before gently prodding the detective, “Just get to the phone call.”
Cordes turned back to the jury with a broad smile on his face.
Brad wasn’t sure if Asher’s objection was a good tactic. Every member of the jury had found themselves in similar circumstances—an overly long work day and forced to grab dinner on the run. They could empathize with Cordes. Asher’s objection only seemed to draw more attention to those circumstances.
“I was at my desk at the office when my phone rang at approximately 7:20 p.m.,” Cordes explained.
“Was this your office phone or cell phone?” Cunningham asked.
“The office phone. I had left both numbers in my message to Mr. Nesbit.”
Cunningham took a step closer to the witness stand. “Please continue.”
“The caller identified himself as David Nesbit and asked for me. I told him that I was speaking, and thanked him for returning my call.”
Brad did the mental calculation and determined it would have been 1:20 a.m. Frankfurt time when Nesbit called the detective.
Cunningham paused, clasped her hands together and brought them up under her chin. “Was an audio recording made of your conversation with David Nesbit?”
“Yes, there was.”
“Your Honor, at this time the Commonwealth would like to play a recording of that telephone conversation for the jury.”
Shane Asher stood. “Your Honor, may we approach?”
Judge Whitaker motioned for the attorneys to join him at the bench. As he’d done before, he clicked off his microphone. Brad watched as an animated, but outwardly cordial conversation unfolded among opposing counsel and the judge.
Brad couldn’t make out their words, but at one point during their sidebar both attorneys laughed. That prompted Francine Holt to huff from her front row seat directly behind the prosecution table. She was loud enough that Assistant Prosecutor Jeffrey Holbrooke turned to glare at her, and Francine’s husband shushed her as well. Brad could tell that several of the jurors were distracted by her display of annoyance.
The recording would have been known to the defense as a result of discovery, and Brad knew that any motions to suppress it would have been disposed of by the judge before the start of the trial. It finally clicked with Brad what Asher was up to. With the Friday session scheduled to be short, Cordes appeared destined as the only witness of the day. Since Cunningham wasn’t likely to relinquish the driver’s seat, Asher wanted to remind the jurors that there was another side to be heard.
Or maybe he just wanted a chance to show off his plaid tie and matching handkerchief. Brad grinned.
The short bench conference broke up, and counsel returned to their respective tables. Judge Whitaker faced the jury. “Jurors will receive a printed transcription of the audio recording you are about to hear. Ms. Cunningham, you may proceed.”
Diane Cunningham nodded at her assistant, Jeffrey Holbrooke, who passed out the promised transcript to the jurors. He then pressed a button on the digital player and the monitor crackled to life. The transcribed conversation also scrolled on the screen as those present in the courtroom heard the telephone conversation.
Nesbit: This is David Nesbit. I received a message to call a Sergeant John Cordes at this number.
While most of the jurors paid attention to the monitor, Brad listened to the audio and watched the defendant.
Cordes: Detective Cordes here. Thank you for returning my call. I wanted you to know that we’ve found your wife.
Nesbit: Uh. I… ah… didn’t know she was missing.
Cordes: We thought maybe you’d been trying to reach—
Nesbit: What’s going on? Where’s my wife?
Cordes: I’m afraid I have bad news. Your wife is deceased.
Nesbit: What? What happened? Where is she?
The first “What?” caught in Nesbit’s throat and he paused before his subsequent questions.
As a detective, Brad admired Cordes’ technique; providing Nesbit several opportunities to admit his knowledge of events before Cordes revealed them. Listening to that call, it would be hard for jurors not to conclude that Nesbit was the key suspect from the beginning.
Cordes: Your wife was murdered.
Nesbit: Oh, my God!
Brad glanced at the monitor and saw [unintelligible] next to Nesbit’s response. But there was no mistaking the moans, groans and gasps of a man who’d just heard devastating news. At the defense table, David Nesbit bowed his head as he listened, and Shane Asher placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. The cynic in him made Brad wonder if that scene had been preplanned.
A long stretch of silence had several of the jurors looking around, wondering if the tape had concluded. Brad knew that silence was often the best questioner, and Cordes had patiently waited for his news to sink in and Nesbit to speak.
Nesbit: When did this happen? How?
Cordes: We won’t know for sure until the autopsy is completed. But it looks like asphyxiation. As to when, I was hoping you might be able to help me with the time line.
Nesbit: Of course, anything I can do to help. Ah… has Gen’s… Genevieve’s daughter been notified?
From her seat in the gallery, Francine Holt scowled and stared plaintively at her husband. Brad didn’t consider himself a good lip reader, but there was no mistaking “that bastard” passing her lips.
Next, Cordes revealed to Nesbit the police department’s assumption that Genevieve had been killed in her bedroom, noting that no one had seen the victim since Sunday night, March 4th. Throughout this part of the call, Nesbit could be heard mumbling, often while the detective spoke, “Oh, my God” and “I can’t believe this is happening.” While the intent of his mutterings was clear, the transcriber labeled much of it as unintelligible.
Cordes reported that a receipt had been found for dinner at Porcini’s Bistro in Swarthmore, at which point David Nesbit interrupted to say that he had eaten supper there with his wife.
Cordes: Do you recall what time you left the restaurant that evening?
Nesbit: About five-thirty.
Cordes: Did you go directly home?
Nesbit: No. Genevieve dropped me at the airport. I had a 9:30 p.m. flight to Frankfurt that night.
Brad looked at his notes. Per the itinerary, Nesbit’s flight was
scheduled for 9:45 p.m. In theory, he wouldn’t have to be at the airport before 8:15 p.m. While he’d have checked baggage for a week-long trip, Brad thought, with Nesbit’s diplomatic background, he probably participated in the TSA’s trusted traveler program and would have had expedited clearance through security.
Cordes: What time did you arrive at the Philadelphia airport that evening?
Nesbit: Around six.
Cordes: Were you traveling with anyone?
Nesbit: No.
Cordes: Can you recall your movements once you were at the airport?
Nesbit: Ah…
Brad knew what the detective was trying to accomplish. He wanted to nail down Nesbit’s version of the time line. Any discrepancies found later would turn him from a “person of interest” to prime suspect. After an initial hesitancy, Nesbit finally responded.
Nesbit: Let’s see… I got there early. I always like to be early, but Gen said she had plans and could only take me if we arrived by six. I checked my luggage with Lufthansa, and then found a Wi-Fi hot spot so I could catch up on e-mail and review my notes for a presentation I was making at the conference. Later I made my way to the gate.
Cordes: What time was that?
Nesbit: Well, we were supposed to leave at nine-forty-five and boarding started about a half hour before. But our takeoff was delayed, and it was nearly ten-thirty till we pushed back from the gate.
Pushed back. Spoken like a true frequent flyer, Brad thought.
Cordes: Do you recall what gate you were at?
Nesbit: I’m sure it was A16. I’ve taken that route through Frankfurt many times.
Cordes: Did you attempt to contact your wife during the time you were at the airport?
Nesbit: No. Like I said, she had plans. I told her I’d leave her a message when I got to Frankfurt.
Cordes: Did you?