“He’s saying she was crazy?”
“Yeah. I had a psych report on Julie, but I only commissioned it after she was convicted. The psychiatrist died of a heart attack two years ago. So he’s not around to defend his position and say she was fit to plead. What we know is that a year into her sentence she was declared insane. If Copeland can convince a judge she was mentally unfit to instruct counsel at the time she would automatically get a new trial. Because she’s dead, she can’t be tried again and would probably be acquitted.”
“And what would happen to you?”
“If I was at the bar, I could lose my license. But because I’m a judge, I’m out. Think about it, it’s prima facie evidence that my judgment is compromised. No decision of mine would stand after that. I’d be automatically appealed for every single decision I make because of this case. My position would be untenable. Career over. Everything I’ve fought for, every sacrifice just to get here … it would all be for nothing. The commissioner would insist I resign.”
“It’s not going to happen. I’ll make sure of it.”
“There’s nothing you can do. Say, why do you need the Rosen papers now anyway? What’s the sudden urgency?”
I debated what I should tell Harry on the phone. If he thought I might endanger the Rosen case appeal, he might refuse to come up here. But I trusted him, and the truth was more important to Harry than covering his own ass.
“There’s a connection to the Caroline Howell case. My client was visiting his wife’s grave on the morning Caroline Howell disappeared. He said his wife’s sister was Julie Rosen, and that Julie had something to do with the death of his wife. Any of this ring any bells with you, Harry?”
At first he didn’t respond, but I could hear his breath rush down the phone.
“I’m stunned. This is all new to me. I mean, I knew there was family, but Julie didn’t talk to them, and wouldn’t allow us to go near them. Julie never faced charges for anything other than infanticide and arson. Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe it’s just the same name and not the same Julie Rosen?” said Harry.
He could’ve been right. I thanked him and said I’d see him in the courthouse. I headed back to the courtroom and saw Harper leaning against a pillar and sipping take-out coffee. Before I approached her I looked up and down the hall and made sure Lynch wasn’t watching us. He wasn’t around, or at least I couldn’t see him. Harper nodded at me and I made my way over.
“You trust me now, Counselor?” she said.
“Why’d you warn me?” I said.
Harper took a sip of coffee and stared into the cup as she gave her answer. “I still don’t think he killed his daughter. He wouldn’t put her at risk for money. I don’t care what the evidence says, I trust my gut.”
“I wish your boss thought that way,” I said.
“Me too.”
“I have to say this is a strange position for a federal agent. You don’t think he did it. I get that. But why are you willing to put your career on the line for Howell? You don’t know him, so what’s the play?”
“My boss didn’t see the note. He never will. You asked the damn question anyway. There’s nothing he can do. I’m still taking a risk, but it’s a small one. And there’s no play here, I don’t want Howell’s money. I just don’t want to see an innocent man go down.”
I detected something in Harper’s voice.
“I kinda got the impression there was a little personal history between you and Lynch. Is this about him? Proving him wrong?”
“Between you and me, there’s history but none of it is good. That still doesn’t change what I believe and it’s not the reason I’m doing this.”
The clerk opened the courtroom doors, calling everyone back in. Recess was over.
“Why are you doing this?”
Harper tossed her coffee into the trash, stood up straight and said, “Whatever happened to just doing it because it’s the right thing to do?”
Five minutes later, the judge and jury were reseated and I was back on the case.
“Mrs Howell, your husband went to that location, in Virginia, to visit the grave of his first wife, isn’t that right?” I said.
She seemed more relaxed. Maybe she knew she’d already landed a few good punches during her testimony and didn’t need to worry about it any more.
“I don’t know for sure. Maybe,” said Susan.
“He went there every year, on the anniversary of her death. Don’t you remember?”
“Like I said, maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t there.”
“Precisely. You weren’t there, Mrs Howell, so you can’t say for sure why your husband was there or what he was doing, correct?”
“Correct,” she said.
I didn’t dare ask anything further. With the way King had laid that trap for me, God knows what else I could’ve walked into. I decided to end the cross. And let Mrs Howell leave the witness stand before she did any more damage.
“Nothing further for this witness,” I said.
Susan stood and as she stepped out of the witness stand, her eyes lingered on Howell. I found it hard to interpret the look for sure, it was probably a mixture of knowing she’d won and a bitterness that he’d finally seen through her – right to her core. The ugliness which lies at the heart of some people is their most closely guarded secret – they don’t like others knowing about the beast that lies inside.
“How could you?” said Howell. He didn’t shout it. Just said it, loud enough for the jury to hear.
His wife put her hand to her mouth, and at first I thought she was stifling a laugh. No, she was telegraphing his slight, so that the jury could see Howell’s words hit her deep.
“Keep it down,” I whispered.
The judge focused her attention on Howell, ready to strike down any further outbursts.
“Caroline always hated you,” he said.
At this, Susan fell to her knees and wept as if she’d taken a gut punch. I heard a few gasps from the jury, and hushed whispers. I guessed the whispers might’ve come from TV casting agents, marveling at her performance.
The judge stamped her foot, “Mr Howell, you have a lawyer to speak for you in this court. Do not speak, except to your lawyer. I will not tolerate anyone being abused in my courtroom. That’s your second strike. One more outburst and I will have you removed and the trial will continue in your absence. Do you understand?”
He said nothing. Simply stared back at the judge. A silence filled the room, spreading out from the bench and touching every person. Howell’s eyes had gone, lost in a world of suffering that no man could take from him. There was pity in Judge Shultz’s eyes. She could see this was a man who had lost the most important person in his life – and that aching was making him crazy.
“Lenny, stop it,” I said.
His eyes reverted to the floor, and fresh tears came. He held them back. There was some kind of resolve left, and I hoped it would be enough to see him through.
The next prosecution witness got up in readiness for their appearance on the stand. King was about to call them, but she’d stopped and waited to let the scene with Howell and Susan play out before the jury. She was ready now, the moment had passed.
“Your Honor, the People call their next witness: Doctor Dallas Birch.”
My client covered his face. I’d done everything I could to prepare him, but this would be beyond most parents. Doctor Birch was an experienced Blood Pattern Analyst. He’d examined the blood found in the basement, and made two conclusions. The first was that Caroline was beaten to death in that basement. The second conclusion was that she was beaten to death by her father. The details were almost too horrible to bear. I knew then, whatever Howell had left wouldn’t survive the next twenty minutes.
May 2002
Upstate New York
A car pulled up outside the cottage. Julie heard the tires crawl through the gravel. It was almost four in the afternoon and she knew her sister was always early. Not rudely early, ju
st a few minutes. Polite and punctual. Dependable, their mother had called it. Even her sister’s punctuality became a source for comparison in Mother’s eyes. The volume on the CD player had been turned down low – so she could listen for the car. For all the years of rivalry and mutual loathing that lay in their past, things had become better between Julie and her sister in the last year. Julie wanted to maintain that accord.
It was important.
She heard her sister’s key in the front door. Smoothly, she covered the canvas with oilcloth, put down her palate knife and took off her overalls.
A month ago the overalls would’ve dropped to the floor and she could have simply stepped out of them. Not so, these days. Julie had to maneuver the overalls down, over her swollen belly. Careful that the fasteners should not catch on her jewelry. She threw the overalls in the corner of her makeshift studio, left the room, closed and locked the door.
“I’ve got all your favorites. All the good stuff. Chocolate chip cookies, raspberry swirl ice cream, popsicles – cherry of course. I got four bags of potato chips in the back seat. But you know it’s a treat, right – you need your organic fruit salad first. The muesli …” said a voice from the kitchen.
It was Rebecca. Her arms were filled with brown paper sacks, brimming with pasta, French bread, and even the bristles of a pineapple poking over the edge of the bag. Her soft brown hair drooped over her face. That face. Clear, smooth, skin which looked almost golden in sunlight.
The contrast in Rebecca’s appearance, as Julie remembered, came in the shape of her eyes. Julie knew Rebecca had her mother’s eyes. They are hard, and quick to anger. And they sometimes robbed her of her natural beauty.
But not today.
Rebecca bent from the knees, placed the sacks on the table and exhaled. Julie watched her straighten up and stretch – her left hand pressing into the small of her back, and her right hand gently caressing the bump that made her maternity dress balloon out from her still slender figure.
Julie felt her own bump, and stared at her sister’s belly.
They were the same size; the bumps. That was about it. Julie was smaller, and much heavier than her sister. Mother said Rebecca got the looks – but Mother always failed to mention what attribute Julie had received in return. As she grew older, Julie realized that while her sister possessed their mother’s clear skin, high cheekbones and long slender frame, Julie had inherited their mother’s sickening, spiteful tongue. As she grew older still, Julie realized that she had more in common with her mother than Rebecca ever would.
Julie had inherited her mind. And all of the twisted, thorny branches of thoughts that came with it.
The memory caught Julie unawares – and when she returned her attention to the present, she saw her sister staring at her. No. Not at her. At the bump.
Without speaking, without arrangement, or prompt, both sisters approached one another. They stood only a foot apart, and each of them held their hands on each other’s stomachs. Running their fingers over the fabric of their clothes, feeling the smooth, roundness of each other.
Rebecca’s eyes were clouded with tears.
The sound of another car on the driveway startled them both. They broke apart and each turned toward the large window in the kitchen that led to the drive.
“Who is it? Who could that be?” said Rebecca.
Julie knew who it was, but said nothing.
“Don’t tell me it’s him. Don’t tell me you called him,” said Rebecca, backing away, shaking her head.
“Goddamn it, Becca, I was lonely up here. It’s been months now, and I’m still clean and the baby is fine. I’m going a little crazy is all.”
Her sister took another step backwards, angled her gaze to the corner of her eyes and was about to speak when Julie said, “Not crazy. Relax. Bad choice of words … it’s just that I’m so lonely.”
“But him. We talked about this,” said Rebecca.
“He’s changed. He’s working now. Honest to God. It’s not nine to five but he has money in his pocket, he’s clean and sober and we’re good. I’m being careful, trust me.”
The back door that led to the kitchen opened and Scott stood in the doorway. He carried a clutch of shopping bags in his right hand.
“Rebecca, good to see you,” he said.
She ignored him for a moment, and instead kept her eyes on Julie. Julie approached Scott and gently took his hand, leading him into the kitchen.
“You remember Scott Barker, Becca?” said Julie.
Rebecca nodded, and placed her hands over her stomach protectively as she eyed Scott.
“I remember the last time we met very well. Do you, Scott?”
He said nothing, looked at the floor and inhaled.
“I remember it very well,” Rebecca continued. “I dragged Julie out of your apartment, covered in bruises and vomit and took her to the ER before she OD’d. She almost died. You were too stoned to notice.”
“I’m clean now …” he said, but didn’t get the chance to finish.
“So is Julie. So is her skin. When she was with you she got a lot of bruises, burns, cuts. You’re clean and sober, I get that. But are you still beating your girlfriends?”
Scott said, “I got help for that too. I’ve changed. Julie’s changed. We’re both better now.”
Julie folded herself into Scott’s arms and watched her sister back away toward the hallway and the front door.
“Congratulations, by the way, on the baby,” said Scott, in a dead voice.
Rebecca’s fingers spread over her stomach, shielding it. “We’ll talk later, Julie.” And with that, she turned and slammed the front door on her way out.
Nuzzling into Scott’s chest, Julie said, “Thank you. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were coming up this weekend. I could’ve warned you Rebecca would be here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“I suppose you’re right. As long as we’re together – that’s all I want.”
“I know, and we will be together. You, me, the baby. I have one more job – then I’m done,” he said.
They kissed, and Julie tasted something familiar on Scott’s lips. Something hot, and oak-like and sour. Whiskey. She took his face in her hands and said, “Promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Promise me you won’t tell her.”
“I swear,” said Scott.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
At least half a dozen jurors didn’t know what Blood Pattern Analysis meant. They looked lost. When Doctor Birch explained that he analyzed bloodstains to determine how a violent crime was committed, a murmur floated around the jury. They knew the bad stuff was coming: the photographs, the details of how a young woman died, horribly. I could see some of the jurors steeling themselves; breathing in and out, rolling their shoulders, biting their lips. Two of the male jurors looked apprehensive. Especially the young guy in the white, button-down shirt with a row of pens in his breast pocket. The female jurors appeared to be better prepared for what was to come. The lady in the black top and jeans sat up straighter, her pen in her hand, ready to make notes.
“Doctor Birch, what qualifies you to provide expert testimony in this case?” said King.
The corner of his mouth curled, and Birch looked toward the jury. He was a man who enjoyed discussing his resume.
“For twelve years I was a serving police officer and I developed an interest in blood spatter analysis. It turned out that my interpretation of blood spatter, even while I was an amateur, proved decisive in a number of cases and led directly to arrests and convictions. This, I felt, was my calling. I left the force and trained with the Federal Bureau of Investigation in blood pattern analysis. After gaining my Blood Pattern Analysis certification, I set up my own consultancy practice and so far I’ve been involved in around three hundred cases in over fifteen years.”
I made a few notes and watched the jury appraising Doctor Dallas Birch. He was an impressive man; physically large and
with the personality to match. He wore gray pants, a white shirt and blue sports coat. His hair was short and neat. Just like his answers.
I’d done my homework on Birch. A few phone calls to local defense attorneys who were good enough to talk to me. It seemed that Birch was almost part of the furniture in this courthouse. His involvement in blood spatter analysis went right back to the time when the discipline was just starting to become a regular aspect of police investigation. And because he used to be a serving White Plains cop before he went into this field, he got all their blood spatter work. Cops look after their own.
Even though he’d prepared a ton of reports, all of them favorable to the police, he had only testified twice before. In most cases he wasn’t required to testify because the perp pleaded guilty, or the defense didn’t challenge his report and it just got read into the record. Even if this was all that happened, Birch still came to court to watch. Like the defense attorneys told me, Birch was part of the furniture around here.
King needed to get the expert testimony moving. She got right into it.
The first photograph on the screens was a wide shot of the house after the fire. Smoke was still rising, and part of the structure had collapsed.
“I was tasked by White Plains Police Department to undertake an analysis of the blood found in the defendant’s basement, bloodstaining on the defendant’s spectacles and the blood found in the deceased’s vehicle,” said Doctor Birch, in an accent not far from Texas. Then again, nowhere is very far from Texas.
He continued, “According to the Fire Marshals, and the structural engineers, the fire had spread to the gas line, and caused the explosion in the basement which compromised the steel supports. Part of the ground floor marble slate had collapsed so I had to wait until the engineers propped the area and made it safe to conduct my examination.”
With a flick of her wrist, King pressed the remote control and brought up a photograph of the basement. There was a clear blast pattern in one corner, but the remainder of the room appeared free from smoke damage.
“Talk us through this photograph, Doctor,” said King.
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