by Ray Flynt
Cunningham consulted her notes before returning to the witness. “Mr. Reed, how many times would you say that you saw Heather while she lived in your apartment building?”
“Maybe five or six.”
“And when was the last time you saw her?”
Reed blinked. “It’s been awhile. I had a two-week cruise back in April, and I haven’t seen her since before then. A guy lives in that apartment now.”
Cunningham used her “important question” voice to ask, “Did you ever see Heather in the company of a man while she lived across the hall from you?”
“Yes.”
“Please describe that for the jury.”
“One evening I had just gotten on the elevator, and was pushing the button for my floor when I heard her call out, ‘Hold the elevator.’ I did so, and she entered, and behind her was a man. They both boarded, and I couldn’t help but notice that he started nuzzling her neck. She said, ‘David, wait.’ But he didn’t stop. When we reached the third floor they hurried off the elevator ahead of me and were already inside her apartment by the time I’d gathered a few bags of groceries.”
“Was the man short or tall?”
“Tall. Definitely. He was a lot taller than her, and even taller than me. I’m 5’ 9”.
“Did you see that same gentleman—that she called David—on any other occasions?”
“I saw him say goodbye to her one evening.”
Cunningham said, “Please describe that incident.”
“I heard a noise in the hallway, and peeked out my door through the peephole. He was giving Heather a big hug. Then he disappeared from my view and I heard the elevator arriving at our floor. She watched him the whole time, and waved at him just before I heard the elevator doors close.”
“Now, Mr. Reed,” Cunningham began solemnly, “do you see the man in this courtroom that you witnessed visiting with Heather on two separate occasions?”
Reed glanced around the courtroom before saying, “I do.”
“Would you please point out that man for the jury.”
Holden Reed aimed his finger at the defense table. “That’s him over there, with the nearly bald head.”
Brad thought the moment seemed anti-climactic, perhaps because it was easy to see it coming. There were no gasps or sharp intakes of breath from spectators or jurors.
David Nesbit remained stoic as the finger was pointed at him, and after the attention left him, Brad saw Nesbit shaking his head in disbelief.
“Your Honor, I have no further questions for this witness,” Cunningham announced.
“Mr. Asher, you may proceed with your cross examination,” the judge said.
Asher stood. “Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Reed, you just identified a bald man as the person who visited your neighbor’s apartment. Was the man you saw bald during his visits?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Did the prosecutor’s office show you a lineup of potential suspects and ask you to ID the man you’d seen?”
“No.”
“Had you seen photographs of my client—David Nesbit—in the media prior to this trial?”
Reed glanced at the prosecution table as if seeking guidance, before he stuttered, “Y…yes.”
“You contacted the prosecutor’s office volunteering to be a witness in this case, after you heard about the connection of the mysterious woman in Unit 302?”
“Uh, yeah… Nathan, the building manager, told me about being contacted by the police.”
Shane Asher moved toward the witness stand. “I couldn’t help but notice that you squinted when looking at the floorplan of the apartment building. Are your glasses not a strong enough prescription for you to see well?”
“I wear glasses for distance. If I read while I’m wearing them, I have to squint.”
“Were you wearing your glasses when you first saw the man called David with your neighbor Heather?”
“Yes. I’d just driven back from the grocery store.”
“As you described the situation, you were standing on the right-hand side of the elevator, and had reached down to the control panel to hold the doors open. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you would have kept your finger on that button until everyone had boarded the elevator. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And by the time you released your finger, to permit the elevator doors to close, the man called David was nuzzling Heather’s neck?”
“Yes.”
“What, then, were you able to see?”
“I could see that he was horny.”
Whitaker tapped the handle of his gavel on the desk to quiet the chorus of laughter.
Asher smiled at the jurors. “Perhaps I should be more explicit. How were you able to see the face of the man called David when it was hidden behind Heather’s neck?”
“Well, I… I, ah.” Reed appeared rattled. “I guess it was when he started to leave.”
“But didn’t you testify a few minutes ago that the couple hustled off the elevator while you bent down to retrieve your groceries?”
“Yes, but I’m pretty sure I saw his face for a few seconds.”
Brad had to admire Asher’s technique. He now had a previously confident witness using words like pretty sure and guess—leaving lots of room for reasonable doubt.
“Only a few more questions, Mr. Reed,” Asher said. “Were you wearing your glasses during that second time that you observed the man leaving Heather’s apartment?”
“No.”
“How were you able to see clearly what was happening six feet away?”
“Well…” After a pause, Reed sounded more comfortable with his answer. “The peephole has a magnifying affect, I guess.”
“You guess? But are you sure?”
Reed took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He appeared to concentrate on his memory of that event, and then his face brightened. “Yes. Because that’s when I saw her birthmark.”
If the answer threw him, Asher managed to dance with it anyway. “Please describe her birthmark for the jury.”
“When she hugged him, I could see that she had a thumb-sized birthmark under her right chin.”
“How do you know that it was a birthmark, as opposed to a smudge?”
“Duh! I work for a dermatologist.”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Reed,” Whitaker cautioned.
“Sorry,” Reed said. “It had the coloring of a typical port-wine stain birthmark.”
“But during this second incident of seeing a man visit Heather’s apartment, you did not see his face?”
“No.”
“How many times did you observe your neighbor through the peep hole in your door?”
“I don’t know. Three or four.”
Asher turned, as if planning to return to his seat, then looked back at the witness. “From your observations of Heather, would you ever use buxom brunette or chestnut beauty to describe her?”
“No way,” Reed replied.
Asher stared at the jury, as if hoping he’d made his point, before saying, “Thank you, Your Honor. I have no further questions for this witness.”
“Does the prosecution have any re-direct?” the judge asked.
Cunningham stood. “No, Your Honor. The Commonwealth rests.”
After once more cautioning jurors not to discuss the case, Whitaker announced, “This court is in recess until 9 a.m. Monday morning, at which time the defense will present its case. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.”
Brad glanced at Frank’s latest drawing featuring a Norman Rockwell-like image of Judge Whitaker standing behind a gigantic turkey, with Diane Cunningham and Shane Asher on either side, knife and fork in hand.
22
Brad had much to be thankful for, not the least of which was his relationship with Beth. She grounded him and provided that sense of family that had been missing following the murder of his mother and sister.
He enjoyed spending the holid
ay with Beth’s brother, Daniel, and his family. They’d stuffed themselves with a meal of turkey and ham with all the trimmings, and then they watched Houston defeat the Lions 34-31. Brad tried not to think about the trial.
Joanne, Beth’s sister-in-law, kept asking about their wedding plans. He and Beth both wanted a small, family-only gathering. They’d talked about the following summer, but hadn’t yet settled on a date.
After a day of family togetherness Brad looked forward to just the two of them spending the weekend in Hershey. Beth had made all of the arrangements. On Friday morning they drove for two hours, checked into the historic Hotel Hershey, toured the Hershey Gardens, visited Chocolate World to see how the candy was made, and sampled several of the yummy confections for sale there.
That evening they had a window table in the ornate circular dining room at the hotel. Beth seemed anxious, like she had news to share but was waiting for the right time. Brad wondered if she might be pregnant, and smiled at the thought. He reached across the table and took both of her hands in his. “You look lovely.”
Beth blushed.
After a pause to savor the moment, he asked, “Is everything okay?”
Beth smiled. “You can read me too well.”
“Hey, I’m a detective. It’s what I do.”
She laughed. “I was planning to wait until dessert, but here goes. I’m going to be transferred.”
The smile slipped off of Brad’s face. He knew her firm had a San Francisco office and feared they might become separated by thousands of miles.
“Mr. Whitman is splitting from the firm and planning on opening his own business,” Beth explained. “He’s asked me to be a partner and manage his new Washington, DC office.”
Brad felt relieved that she was not moving far away, and he was excited for Beth. “Congratulations! That sounds like a great opportunity. Fortunately for me, the Acela also travels south to DC.”
“My office will actually be in New Carrollton, Maryland, about 30 minutes from DC. I’ll be very busy over the next few months.”
Beth relaxed almost immediately after she shared her news.
The following day they visited Hershey Park with its spectacular holiday lights—more than two million—as part of Hershey’s Christmas Candylane. It was a much-needed diversion and great preparation for the season.
Still, Brad couldn’t escape the fact that in the coming week David Nesbit’s fate would be in his hands and in those of his fellow jurors.
I called Oliver with a “heads up” on my dilemma of needing time to review the financial records Rachel had given me. I asked how anxious he was to hang out in Atlantic City with his friends over the Thanksgiving holiday. “I want to spend time with you,” Oliver said. “If that’s poring over bankers’ boxes, so be it.”
Isn’t he sweet!
“I’ll bring my scanner with me,” Oliver added, “so I can help you go through the records.”
I collected Oliver at his West Chester apartment on Wednesday evening, and brought him back to my quarters above the garage at Frame’s mansion. On the way back we stopped to pick up a sausage pizza, and then we settled in to enjoy the Thanksgiving holiday. I made arrangements for us to have a traditional feast at the nearby Radnor Hotel, but otherwise we spent the day feet up and cuddling as we enjoyed the Macy’s parade and a procession of football games.
First thing Friday morning we began our task in earnest.
I set us up to work at my dining table. I grabbed a box with a variety of files labeled “Insurance” and placed it on a chair next to Oliver for his easy access.
He plugged in his reading device, which looked like a hand-held scanner. As Oliver ran the wand over a piece of paper it magically converted printed text to sound, and he donned a pair of earphones to listen.
He looks so cute with his headphones; like a soldier waiting to hear communiques between enemy combatants.
Deep down I was a romantic, but I’d had too many bad experiences with guys over the years to allow myself to get too hopeful. With Oliver, I sensed that was beginning to change.
I dove into a box of tax records and tried to organize them chronologically from 1995. The Tetlow’s had a modest income, which plunged appreciably after Martin Tetlow’s death. Maggie wasn’t old enough to collect Social Security benefits for herself, but did receive payments for Rachel until she reached the age of eighteen. It also appeared that Maggie collected her late husband’s pension, which amounted to just over $1,200 per month.
At one point, I glanced over at Oliver, who sat with his eyes closed and his head swaying as if to imaginary music.
The time passed quickly. I fixed us sandwiches for lunch, and then we shared what we’d learned during the morning.
Oliver had studied the $500,000 life insurance policy that Maggie’s sister Kay told me about. He mentioned that there were dozens of letters in the file between Maggie and the insurance company. They held off making payment on the policy, “pending official confirmation of the cause of death.”
“They never used the word suicide,” Oliver said, “but it was clear they weren’t going to make a payout until the cause of death was resolved. Maggie was very impatient to receive the insurance money, and that’s what most of the letters were about.”
I flashed back to my conversations with Jerome Miles, and his brother’s belief that Martin Tetlow had killed himself in the crash.
We continued working in silence. I noticed that Maggie had managed to take advantage of various tax credits available to her, but there was no indication that an outside firm had prepared her taxes. All of her 1040’s had been hand-written and signed by her.
I was going cross-eyed by 4 p.m. that afternoon. I called time-out on our work, and asked Oliver what additional information he had to report.
“I found the mortgage insurance policy,” Oliver said. “The insurance company paid off the balance of their mortgage of $187,000. Oh, and I found another insurance policy that Martin had through his work for $75,000. That payment was made within a month of his death.”
We picked up Chinese take-out for supper, and vowed to plunge back into the financial records the following day.
I woke late the next morning—after 9 a.m. I considered what it meant about my comfort level with sleeping in the same bed as Oliver. At least I didn’t have to worry about scaring him off with how frightening I looked in the morning—before makeup and a brush through my hair.
We got dressed, ate an impromptu brunch of eggs, bacon and French toast, and it was nearly 11 a.m. on that Saturday morning before we started our work.
I gave Oliver another box to go through. The one I opened contained bank statements.
I figured out very quickly that Maggie Tetlow liked to write checks, and apparently didn’t believe in using a debit card. I wondered if she felt the same way about credit cards, suspecting I’d find the answer in one of the as-yet-unopened boxes. On the monthly statements I viewed, the information consisted of a check number and amount. Maggie routinely wrote fifty or sixty checks each month, and I was shocked to see how many were for amounts of less than $5.
After an hour of scanning, Oliver looked frustrated. “I think it’s a waste of time for me to go through any more of this box,” he said. “They’re receipts for anything Maggie Tetlow ever bought, from a carton of milk to a dresser at Target.”
“Did you notice any credit card receipts?”
“Nope, these are all cash receipts.”
That may have answered my question about credit cards.
“Okay, Oliver, don’t worry about these any more. I’m working on bank statements. Let me see if I can find the box with cancelled checks.”
I lifted the lids off two more boxes before I found what I was looking for. I swapped out the box of receipts he’d been working on, and told him to start reading checks. “Maggie Tetlow was a fan of small checks,” I warned him.
I returned to my review of the bank statements. I’d been so focused on the quantity
of checks and small amounts that I’d overlooked a couple of larger amounts. Unlike the tax returns, I hadn’t organized the bank statements chronologically. They’d been stored haphazardly in the box, so that a statement from January 2000 might be followed by one from March 2003. But on the next two statements I grabbed, I noticed checks in the amounts of $500 and $1,000.
Thanks to insurance, Maggie owned her home outright. The smaller of the two amounts could be a car payment, though it seemed odd to find such an exact amount.
I went back in the box to find a few more statements, and I uncovered checks in those same amounts. I purposely routed through the box in search of statements closer to 1995 and more recent. The same payments were found in both.
“Oliver, have you seen any cancelled checks in the amount of $500 or $1,000?”
“I just saw one for a thousand. It was payable to Sullivan Credit Union.”
“Let me know when you see a cancelled check for $500.”
“Will do.”
I returned to the bank statements and began to circle payments in the amount of $500 or $1,000. A pattern quickly emerged, as each month’s statement contained checks in those amounts.
“I found a $500 one,” Oliver said. “Looks like a donation. It’s made payable to Cassandra Charity.”
“Good work. Keep looking.”
I’d never heard of a Cassandra Charity. I fired up my laptop and did a search for the name, but the closest reference was for a charity auction half a continent away.
I abandoned my work on bank statements, and pitched in to help Oliver locate $500 and $1,000 cancelled checks. It took several hours, but we finally had a stack of each type beginning in September 1995—the month in which Maggie received the $500,000 in life insurance—through August 2012. I didn’t know the date of Rachel’s mother’s death, but suspected it wasn’t long after that time. There were 204 checks to Cassandra Charity totaling $102,000, and a similar number to Sullivan Credit Union totaling $204,000. On about a third of the credit union checks, Maggie had penned “For Rachel” in the memo line.
“Wow,” Oliver said, as he held one of the stacks of checks in his hand. “I wonder what happened to that credit union account?”