Final Juror (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 5)

by Ray Flynt

  Nesbit: Did I what?

  Cordes: Leave her a message?

  Nesbit: Yes, I left a text message. When I didn’t get one in return I left at least one voice mail… could have been two.

  Once again, Brad knew these were details that could be checked. The police would obtain records of every call he’d made and every text sent during the course of his travels.

  Nesbit’s responses seemed natural, though Brad wondered about his second mention of Genevieve having plans for that evening. Brad’s mind flashed back to the testimony of Genevieve’s alcohol consumption, and once again what the missing Carmelita Diaz knew could be crucial. Had the housekeeper found more than one liquor glass when she showed up at work on the Monday following Genevieve’s murder? Or was Nesbit’s reference to his wife’s amorphous “plans for the evening” designed to cover his own tracks as a cold-blooded killer?

  Cordes: Weren’t you worried when you didn’t hear from her?

  Nesbit: No… I guess I should have been. My cell doesn’t work in Tripoli. Gen knew I wouldn’t be in touch before I got back to Europe.

  Cordes: Do you know what her plans were for last Saturday night, or who she might have gotten together with?

  Nesbit: No.

  After a pause during which Cordes once again said nothing, Nesbit added, “We try to give each other space.”

  At this remark, Brad witnessed Crochet Lady give a raised eyebrow stare at the female juror next to her.

  The conversation ended with Cordes asking when Nesbit would return to Philadelphia. He reported that he’d arrange for the first available flight back and would notify the detective as soon as he confirmed his flight schedule.

  As the video monitor went to black, Diane Cunningham stood next to the prosecution table holding her yellow legal pad. “Detective, did there come a time when you had reason to challenge the truthfulness of what Mr. Nesbit told you during that phone conversation?”

  “Yes.”

  Brad eagerly anticipated hearing Cordes connect the dots that led to Nesbit’s arrest.

  Gesturing toward the jurors, Cunningham said, “Please describe those circumstances for the jury.”

  Cordes cleared his throat. “On the following morning, March 8th, I heard from Mr. Nesbit with the details of his return flight. Because of difficulty making connections in Frankfurt, he couldn’t get a direct flight back to Philadelphia, and the quickest way involved a layover in Atlanta. He informed me he’d land in Philadelphia on the afternoon of March 10th.

  “Just as I completed that call, one of the secretaries brought me a note that an anonymous caller reported that Nesbit had taken a taxi cab from his home at 8:22 p.m. on the night of the murder.”

  The courtroom hummed at hearing that revelation.

  “Do you have a recording of that anonymous call?”

  Cordes’ expression tightened. He shook his head before saying, “No.”

  “Please explain why not.”

  “We record all incoming calls made to 9-1-1 and to our non-emergency line. In this instance, we believe the caller misdialed the last two digits of the non-emergency number and that’s how the secretary came to ans—.”

  Asher cut him off. “Your Honor, this is pure speculation.”

  “Overruled, the witness may continue.”

  Asher stood. “This Case of the Dyslexic Informant is prejudicial to my client.”

  Cunningham said, “Your Honor, we intend to provide corroborating testimony.”

  “Your objection, Mr. Asher, is noted for the record and remains overruled. Please be seated.” Whitaker turned toward Detective Cordes. “You may complete your answer.”

  “Well…” Cordes seemed momentarily lost. “The caller wrongly dialed the non-emergency number, but still reached a secretary in our office and was able to relay the information.”

  “Was the anonymous caller male or female?”

  “The secretary believed it to be a female caller.”

  The dust-up between opposing counsel seemed to jog jurors out of their late-morning-coffee-fading stupor, Brad thought, and fellow jurors leaned toward the witness stand to hear what would happen next.

  “Detective Cordes,” Cunningham began, “did you take steps to verify the information supplied by the caller?”

  “Yes. We secured a warrant to review security videos at the airport in order to document Mr. Nesbit’s movements there on the night of March 4th.”

  Brad thought Cunningham looked smug as she asked, “What did you discover?”

  “We were able to track Mr. Nesbit’s passage through the security checkpoint in Terminal A at 8:58 p.m. on the night of the murder.”

  “Did you find any other video showing Mr. Nesbit’s activities at the airport that night?”

  Cordes looked apologetic as he turned toward the jury and answered. “Unfortunately, the airport’s other security cameras were not working at Terminal A that evening.”

  Cordes caught Brad’s eye with an expression that said, You know how it is.

  “Did you contact a taxi company for confirmation of what the anonymous caller reported?”

  “Yes. We contacted the Academy Taxi Company and explained the situation. They were happy to cooperate, but asked us to get a search warrant.”

  Brad figured the taxi company’s lawyers would require that to prevent blowback on customer privacy.

  “Did you obtain a warrant?” Cunningham asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “The manager provided us with a copy of their log records for March 4th, and…” Cordes tried to continue, but Cunningham raised her hand to stop him.

  She extracted a piece of paper from a file folder and carried it to the witness stand, handing it to Cordes. “Detective, is this a copy of the log record supplied to you from the Academy Taxi Company?”

  Cordes glanced at the paper for a few seconds before saying, “It is.”

  “Your Honor, the Commonwealth would like to place this exhibit in evidence and show it to the jurors.”

  The judge admitted the evidence, which was then marked by the clerk, before being handed back to Cunningham. Moments like that added to the tedium of jury service, and Brad suppressed a yawn. He found his mind drifting to what he would do over the weekend, and planned to contact Beth when court recessed for the afternoon.

  Finally, a document bearing the logo of the taxi company materialized on the video monitor in front of the jury. Cunningham asked several questions, but Brad saw that a cab had been dispatched to One Feldman Circle, and picked up a man at 8:22 p.m. for a trip to PHL—the three letter code for Philadelphia International Airport. Brad recorded the information on his notepad.

  The time on the clock at the rear of the courtroom was 12:14 p.m. Over the next forty-two minutes Cunningham glanced frequently at the time while asking seemingly minute questions of Cordes about his interactions with the cab company, efforts to locate the driver, etc. On the gridiron this tactic was known as running out the clock. It felt no less blatant in the courtroom, but the spectators weren’t allowed to boo.

  Because of hearsay rules, there was no testimony as to what the driver of the cab witnessed that night, and his appearance at a future court session was implied, but everyone in the courtroom left with the sense that once the driver got on the stand he would point the finger at David Nesbit as the man he drove to the airport that Saturday night.

  At 12:56 p.m., to the relief of jurors and spectators alike, Cunningham announced that she’d completed her examination of the witness for the day. Brad thought he even saw the judge crack a smile at that news.

  After admonishing jurors not to discuss the case or form an opinion as to the guilt of the defendant, Whitaker announced, “Court will stand in recess until 9 a.m. Monday morning.”

  For Brad, it felt good to stretch his legs.

  He dashed down the marble stairs, retrieved his cell phone from the cloak closet near the jury assembly room, and sent a text me
ssage to Beth asking if it’d be okay for him to come to New York City for the weekend.

  As he exited the building, Brad witnessed a deputy escorting Bonnie—former juror #3—into the courthouse. She stared plaintively at him, with a mixture of fear and please-help-me etched on her face. He offered a half-wave in return and muttered, “Good luck.”

  He recalled those few moments over lunch when he’d gotten to know the young juror. She seemed intelligent, but her naiveté had landed her in hot water with the judge. Brad could only hope that the judge would limit Bonnie’s punishment to a tongue lashing.

  17

  The trial had gotten under Brad’s skin, so much so that the detective in him desperately wanted to drive to One Feldman Circle and walk around the crime scene, pay a visit to Porcini’s Bistro where Genevieve Nesbit had eaten her last meal, and confirm the drive time from Haverford to the airport. But he knew that any independent investigation would get him kicked off the jury and, most likely, charged with contempt of court.

  As he pulled out of the parking garage for his return trip to Bryn Mawr, he could think of nothing else. The judge had cautioned jurors not to form an opinion on the case. He didn’t need to worry about that, because so many ideas rattled in his brain that Brad found it impossible to settle on just one. Not counting opening statements, there’d been only two days of testimony, but it felt like he’d been on the jury for a month.

  Hearing the audio recording of Nesbit’s phone call with Detective Cordes gave him a strong impression of the defendant, which he summed up as: 1) guarded, 2) clever, and 3) sincere. He questioned why Cunningham had introduced the recording, rather than rely on a printed transcript, since it managed to humanize the accused. Nesbit’s reaction to hearing news of his wife’s death had prompted a sympathetic response, as Brad noticed several of the female jurors wiping their eyes with tissues.

  Still, the evidence from the cab company called into question Nesbit’s account of events. Brad wondered what other witnesses would poke holes in his veracity.

  If Nesbit could stray from the truth so convincingly in his phone call, perhaps Cunningham wanted jurors to have a sense of what Nesbit might be capable of—should the defendant take the stand in his own defense.

  The early afternoon court dismissal made the drive home a breeze. As he pulled into his driveway, Brad received a text response from Beth about visiting her in NYC for the weekend. It consisted of a smiley face, which he took as a “yes.”

  Brad smiled broadly, grateful for the opportunity to get out of town. He looked at his watch, and decided that if he quickly packed an overnight bag he could drive to 30th Street Station in time for the 3:30 p.m. Acela.

  He texted Beth, suggesting that she secure a 7 p.m. dinner reservation for the two of them at Donato’s, and promising to meet her there.

  I scanned the West Virginia countryside and what looked like a fresh coating of frost as I drove the few miles from my hotel to FCI Beckley. I pulled into a visitor parking spot across from the prison’s administration building.

  Autumn seemed further along in the mountains of West Virginia than in Philadelphia. I realized that I hadn’t been sneezing or sniffling overnight. Perhaps I had allergies rather than a cold.

  At first glance, the single-story structure with its arched window above the main entry evoked the “country club” image I’d heard so many critics make of the Federal prison system, especially the minimum security ones. The four-story gray cellblocks to my left, surrounded by twelve-foot-tall chain link fencing topped with razor wire, left little doubt that it was anything but a country club.

  I retrieved my photo ID and shoved it into a pocket of my sweater, before tucking my purse under the front seat—otherwise I’d have to check it once inside. I double-checked my hair in the rear view mirror, locked my car, and made my way toward the entrance.

  A chilly gust nearly knocked me off my feet.

  I took in the stark surroundings, made more austere by the surrounding barren trees. A lone maple leaf danced in the wind on the sidewalk in front of me, and I welcomed the warmth of the prison’s lobby.

  As I approached a receptionist’s desk, I was prepared to undergo the third-degree. However, no sooner did I identify myself, than Assistant Superintendent Griffith was summoned.

  From my research, I knew that Monday was a general visitation day at the 2,000-inmate facility. Given the remote location of the prison, and the fact that convicted felons weren’t usually assigned to a particular prison based on the convenience of family visits, I doubted there’d be a huge turnout.

  It had taken me eight hours the previous day to make my way across three states from Pennsylvania. At points along the journey it had become clear that Thanksgiving-week travel had already begun. Under partly cloudy skies, the roads had remained dry until I got into the higher elevations of Maryland and light snow began to fly. Then I freaked out a bit every time I saw a sign that said, bridge freezes before road surface.

  I had hoped to catch up with Brad that past Saturday to discuss the Martin Tetlow case, but found out that he’d headed off to New York City for a weekend with his fiancée, Beth.

  The long drive had given me time to think about exactly what I wanted to say to Pancavetti.

  “Sharon Porter?” A deep voice asked. I immediately recognized it as Griffith’s from our phone call, and it shook me from my reverie.

  “Yes.” I turned and checked him out. I’ve always been a sucker for a guy in uniform, and his starched blue shirt and glistening name tag was close enough. I’d recently joked with Oliver that I was going to buy him a shirt with epaulets and a pair of handcuffs for Christmas.

  “Mike Griffith,” he said, offering a firm handshake. “I’ve got you all set up in a room nearby. They’re bringing Pancavetti over right now.”

  Griffith escorted me down the hall and directed me toward a rectangular wooden table in a large public gathering room. I’d read all their visitation rules but hoped that my reason for visiting might merit a private space. I’d have to cope with less privacy than I’d anticipated. As I glanced around, I saw at least a half-dozen inmates meeting with family members, including children, in groups of three or four. At a neighboring table a woman held an infant in her arms. Prison guards, stationed at the corners, stood watch.

  I thanked the deputy superintendent, sat at the table, and composed myself as I replayed the game plan in my head.

  On the opposite side of the room, a door swung open. A guard entered with a prisoner, and headed in my direction. In person, Hugo Pancavetti wasn’t what I expected. At age seventy-two he looked gaunt compared with the robust photos of him I’d seen in the media accounts of his trial seventeen years earlier. He now wore his gray hair in a buzz cut, and it occurred to me that he must have colored his hair back then.

  The guard approached, and asked if I was “Ms. Porter.”

  I nodded.

  “Mr. Pancavetti,” the guard said, and waited until the prisoner sat before withdrawing.

  A musky scent wafted in my direction as Pancavetti propped his elbows on the table, leaned forward, and asked, “What the fuck do you want?”

  I resisted laughing—because nothing pisses a guy off more than a woman laughing at him. If he thought foul language would intimidate me, he hadn’t heard my potty mouth. I stuck with my game plan.

  “I’m here because a twenty-six-year-old woman wants to know who killed her father seventeen years ago when he served as a juror in your first racketeering trial. His name was Martin Tetlow.”

  Pancavetti pursed his lips.

  I added, “Her name is Rachel Tetlow.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I still don’t get what that has to do with me.”

  “I thought you might know what happened—who killed him.”

  No response. I stared him down, long enough that I saw he had cold, gray eyes, and that the whites of those eyes were bloodshot.

  I continued, “Martin was the second juror killed during t
hat trial.”

  He snorted. “You drove all the way from Philly to tell me that? Think I don’t remember? I had to sit through every day of that shit.”

  He punctuated each sentence by pounding his fist on the table. This invited the curious attention of the couple with the baby at the next table, and Pancavetti flashed them a what-the-hell-are-you-looking-at stare.

  From embarrassment or guilt—I couldn’t tell which—his eye contact with me ceased.

  I waited him out, letting the silence work on him, until he finally looked in my direction, and I said, “Well, Martin’s death prompted a mistrial that kept you out of prison for another six months.”

  Pancavetti closed his eyes, and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. When his eyes popped back open, venom spewed from his mouth. “You fuckin’ get this straight, missy! I never killed nobody.”

  Missy?

  He pushed his chair back.

  This wasn’t going as I’d hoped. “Do you know Tony Aiello?” I quickly asked.

  The look in his eyes told me he did.

  Pancavetti looked at me with piercing eyes. “Did he send you?”

  I shook my head. “He’s dead.”

  A smile crept on to his face. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while.”

  “Did he work for you?”

  He scoffed. “You kiddin’ me? He’s a lame excuse for a cop… all the time shakin’ us down.”

  “So you wouldn’t have asked him to get rid of a juror for you?”

  He flailed his arms and shifted in his seat. “You ain’t been listenin’. I never asked nobody to kill for me.”

  Before he could stand and motion for a guard, I had to grab his attention.

  “Okay, asshole,” I said, forcing a smile. “I get that that’s your story and you’re sticking to it, but what about the threats made to Martin Tetlow at the courthouse?”

  The muscles in his neck stood out. He fumed—probably because I’d called him an asshole, but I didn’t care. “What threats?”

  He asked like he expected a serious answer, and wasn’t trying to wriggle out of his chair. Maybe this is an opening.