The corners of her mouth turn up almost imperceptibly. "I've had some problems since the kids were born," she says.
"It's tough with little kids. And real tough with twins."
"I've been taking medication for depression, Mike. It started right after the boys were born. And it won't go away."
"A lot of people go through the same thing."
"I know. But I think it bothers Joel." She looks down. "I feel like I've pushed him away."
"The important thing is that you're getting better."
She sighs. "There's been a lot of talk about Joel and Diana. Joel and I don't have any secrets." She's starting to cry. I hand her a tissue. "Joel told me about the incident with Art Patton at Silverado. I don't care what they say. I believe my husband when he tells me he wasn't having an affair with Diana. I came here to tell you that no matter how it looks, and no matter what they say in the papers, my husband wasn't having an affair. I'm sure of it."
I give her a hug. "I believe you." I'm relieved he told her. I wasn't sure he would have.
She buries her head in my shoulder and sobs. A moment later, she lifts her tear-stained face and looks at me. She blurts out emphatically, "My husband isn't a killer, Mike."
"I know."
Later the same afternoon, Rolanda brings in a large manila envelope. It contains police reports and photos and the coroner's report.
I always start with the pictures. They put things into perspective. When you put aside the news reports and the lawyerly posturing, the pictures tell the essential story. Two people are dead. The pictures are about what I'd expect. Bob's partially destroyed head. Diana sitting near the door, eyes open, chest covered with blood. A.38-caliber revolver on Bob's desk.
The coroner's report is succinct. The time of death was somewhere between one and four A.M. Coroners always give themselves at least a three-hour range. Diana was killed by gunshots to her lung and heart. Bob died of a single bullet wound to the head. The wound had the outward appearance of being self-inflicted. Traces of gunpowder were found on his right hand. Powder marks and burns were found on his head at the entrance wound. There was an apparent concussive injury to his head just above the exit wound.
Based on what I've seen so far, Mort's probably right. Unless we get a confession from somebody else by Tuesday, this case is going to trial.
I flip through the police reports. It's all there. The fingerprints. The arguments. The tapes. The alleged threats. I'm about to pick up the phone when the last police report catches my eye. It's signed by Inspector Marcus Banks. It describes an interview with Joel at the Hall of Justice on January 8. It contains no new information, except for the last paragraph, which describes some questions Banks asked Joel. It then says, in capital letters, "SUSPECT CONFESSED TO THE MURDERS OF HOLMES AND KENNEDY."
16
"HOW STUPID DO YOU THINK I AM?"
"It's an open-and-shut case. We will reveal evidence at the preliminary hearing on Tuesday that will undoubtedly cause Mr. Friedman to change his plea to guilty."
—Skipper Gates. CNN's Burden of Proof. Wednesday, January 14.
"Of course I didn't confess. For the love of God, Mike, how stupid do you think I am?" I'm at Rabbi Friedman's house at nine the next morning, getting Joel's version of the Marcus Banks interview. I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt and treat his question as a rhetorical one.
"Tell me about your interview with Banks."
He's exasperated. "I already told you. I spent about four hours with Banks and Johnson at the Hall. I told them everything. They were interested in Diana's sex life. I told them I didn't know who she was sleeping with. They seemed to think she was sleeping with me. I straightened them out."
"So, where did Banks get the idea you confessed?"
"He made it up."
"Are you sure?"
"We went over the same stuff about ten times. I told them everything. They said I wasn't a suspect. If I thought I was a suspect, I would have called you. It was about eight at night. I thought we were finished. Johnson left the room for a few minutes. While he was gone, Banks asked me if I did it. I said no. He asked me again. I said no again. He asked me if I was absolutely sure. Finally, I asked him what he wanted me to say. He said he wanted me to say I did it. And I remember exactly what I said. I said, and I quote, the word
"You agreed with him?"
"Of course not. I was being sarcastic. And he knows it."
Joel's his own worst enemy. "He seems to have taken the word ‘right’ a step farther than you might have intended."
"Then he's full of shit."
"It's still a problem."
He frowns. "There's no way they can use it at trial, is there?"
"We'll get it thrown out before the trial. Did they read you your Miranda rights?"
"No. Nobody read me my rights until I was arrested."
"Good. We'll say you weren't properly Mirandized. We should be able to get it thrown out."
"That's not the point. He's lying. I didn't fucking confess."
"I understand. But it's his word against yours. He's going to testify that you confessed."
The crow's-feet around his eyes become more pronounced. "I'm completely fucked."
He's right. At least for the moment. "We'll try to get it knocked out."
At eleven o'clock the same morning, I'm in my office on the phone. I try my best source first. "Roosevelt," I say, "I got the police reports. Your partner seems to think my client confessed."
Silence at the other end. He clears his throat. "I just got a copy of his report. I didn't know."
I pause for effect. "How is it possible you didn't know? You were there."
"I wasn't there when he confessed," he says.
"Allegedly confessed, Roosevelt. We're going to get it knocked out. For one thing, he didn't confess and Marcus knows it. For another thing, he wasn't Mirandized. If you guys were going to question him, you should have read him his rights. Judge Brown will never let it in."
Silence. "I'll see what I can find out."
"I never would have figured this from you. I don't like being sandbagged."
"I'll see what I can find out," he repeats.
"Skipper, it's Mike Daley." I could leap through the phone.
"What's up?"
"I just got the police reports."
"So?"
"It seems Marcus Banks claims my client confessed."
"Really? Imagine that."
"Don't play games with me."
"What do you want me to say? That Marcus lied?"
"Yeah."
"Well, he didn't."
"Bullshit. We're going to the judge. We're going to get this alleged confession kicked out right away. He'll never let you use it."
"I'll see you at the prelim."
"Mort, I'm faxing the police report I told you about. I need you to prepare a motion to get this thing tossed out. I don't want it to see the light of day. I want it out before the prelim Tuesday."
"I'll take care of it." I can hear a chuckle in his voice. He lives for moments like this. "I talked to the judge's clerk. I told him we want to see the judge. He's available right before the prelim."
Mort may be useful after all.
The phone rings in my office later in the afternoon. "Mr. Daley," a familiar voice sings, "Rita Roberts, NewsCenter 4." I swear the name on her birth certificate is "Rita Roberts, NewsCenter 4."
"I'm a great admirer, Rita."
"Thank you. As you know, I'm covering the Friedman murder case."
I hadn't noticed. "Yes, Rita. I know."
"We've received a tip from a reliable source that Mr. Friedman confessed. Can you confirm this information?"
"Will you tell me who gave you the tip?"
"You know I can't."
"Sure you can. And if you want anything from me, you'll have to tell me who tipped you."
She stops. "I can't do that, Mr. Daley."
I stop to think. If I say there was no confession, I'll
sound defensive. If I say no comment, it probably sounds worse. As Mort would say, either way I'm fucked. "For the record, Mr. Friedman did not confess. And if you run a story that suggests that he did, you will be embarrassed and I will bring legal action against your station."
"Come on, Mr. Daley. You don't really plan to sue us, do you?"
She's right, of course. "I know you'll do the right thing so it doesn't come to that."
Late that night, I run my fingers through Rosie's dark hair as she nuzzles my chest. Sex was always the best part of our marriage. We've come a long way since our first date when she said she wouldn't sleep with me until they took off my training wheels. Rosie taught me everything I know about sex. She was a good teacher. Before we started going out, I had dated only younger women. I had one long-term relationship with a woman in my law-school class. She dumped me as soon as she got a job offer from a Wall Street firm. By the time I started seeing Rosie, I had a lot of catching up to do. Nowadays, we have a workable arrangement. We have recreational sex every few weeks. It's not ideal, but it's easier and safer than the personals. Grace is staying at Rosie's mom's house tonight.
She purrs and I kiss the back of her neck. She opens her piercing, dark eyes and looks at me. "So," she says, "do you think he really confessed?"
"It's just like when we were married. Can't we forget about business for just a few minutes and focus on high-quality sex? We're consenting adults, after all."
She laughs. "Sorry, Mike. It's just the way I'm drawn."
I kiss her on the forehead. "That's why I'll always love you. Even if you drive me nuts."
"Are you going to answer my question?"
"Yes, Counselor. I don't think he confessed. Marcus lied or rearranged the facts."
"Good answer. Here's your reward." She kisses me softly on the mouth. As always, she has me eating out of her hand. "Let me ask you another question. After your little talk with Naomi yesterday, how solid do you think their marriage is?"
Interesting question. "Very solid. At least I think so." I pause and smile. "Maybe our marriage wasn't as screwed up as we thought." At least we never cheated on each other.
She kisses me again. "Now for the tough one. Do you think he was sleeping with Diana?"
In this little game, the prizes tend to get better as the questions get harder. I decide it's in my best interests to answer. "I don't think so. He would have told her." She gives me a cynical look and softly bites my left ear. "Then again," I say, "I don't know for sure."
17
THE CORONER AND THE CRIMINALIST
"You have to be curious to be a coroner. Your patients can't talk to you."
—San Francisco Chief Medical Examiner Roderick Beckert. San Francisco Chronicle. Thursday, January 15.
"Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Beckert. I know you're busy." At eleven o'clock the next morning, I'm meeting with Dr. Roderick Beckert, chief medical examiner of the city and county of San Francisco, in his small office on the first floor of the Hall. A stout sixty-two-year-old with a huge bald head and black-framed glasses, he is the dean of big-city coroners. And he knows it. And he'll tell you so. I wouldn't dream of addressing him other than as Dr. Beckert. Then again, he'd never call me Mike. He has been chief medical examiner for almost thirty years. His textbook on autopsy procedures for victims of violent crimes is a seminal work. He is very good at what he does.
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Daley," he lies politely.
His neat office smells antiseptic. His bookshelves hold meticulously arranged texts on anatomy and pathology. There are carefully framed pictures of his wife, two grown children and three grandchildren. A model of a skeleton smiles at me from the corner. I've always wondered what coroners talk about at the dinner table.
His glasses are perched on his furrowed brow. His thick lips frown through a brown-gray beard. He wears a paisley tie under his white lab coat. A tweed sports jacket hangs on a wooden coatrack in the corner. "How may I help you, Mr. Daley?" he asks. His voice is the perfect combination of authority and empathy, with a singsong lilt and hint of a New York accent that's particularly effective at trial. I'll bet the anatomy class he teaches at UCSF is terrific.
"Dr. Beckert," I say, "you know I'm representing Joel Friedman."
"Of course, Mr. Daley."
"I was hoping we might go through your autopsy reports on Robert Holmes and Diana Kennedy. Maybe you can help us figure out what happened."
He juts out his lower lip in a mock pout. "Mr. Daley, I already know exactly what happened. It's in my report." He adds, with little enthusiasm, "I'd be happy to discuss it with you." We eye each other. There is no malice in his tone. He knows I'm here to try to find holes in his report. I have a better chance at winning the lottery. "Where would you like to start?" he asks.
"Maybe you can explain how you figured out the time of death."
He flips through his report. It's an act. He's capable of reciting verbatim the contents of his reports from twenty years ago. "In both cases," he says, "I put the time of death between one and four in the morning."
"I've wondered how you figured that out," I say, trying to sound innocent. Actually, I already know. He knows I know. I still want to hear it from him. It's a free preview of his testimony.
"We look at a number of factors," he says. "First, we look at body temperature, which drops by about one and a half degrees per hour after death. Second, we look at lividity. When you die, your blood pressure goes down to zero and your body begins to discolor. We can calculate the time of death based upon the amount of discoloration. We look at food in the victim's stomach. We see how far the digestive process has gone. We know Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy each ate dinner around ten o'clock. There was undigested food in their stomachs. Mr. Holmes had crab cakes for dinner. Ms. Kennedy ate a little bit of a cheeseburger. Of course, we do a number of other tests."
I try to sound like an earnest high-school student. "And from this evidence, you concluded the time of death was between one and four in the morning?"
"Yes. We always give ourselves a three-hour window."
"Did you find any alcohol in their systems?"
"Yes. Mr. Holmes had a couple of glasses of wine with dinner. Ms. Kennedy had consumed a small amount of liquor late in the evening."
I'll bet he knows the type of salad dressing each of them had with dinner. "Perhaps we could look at the pictures."
"Very well."
We start with Diana. He shows me pictures of her naked body lying on the stainless-steel autopsy table. I've seen hundreds of similar photos. Still, I'm glad I didn't eat a big breakfast.
"Ms. Kennedy," he explains, "died within seconds. The first bullet pierced her right pulmonary artery and the lung parenchyma, causing a hemopneumothorax. In layman's terms, it went through her right lung, causing a collection of blood and air in the space between the lung and the chest wall. The second bullet penetrated the left ventricle of her heart." He nods melodramatically.
He opens a manila envelope and pulls three enlarged pictures of what I presume is Bob's head. He clips them to his bulletin board. He takes out a gold Cross pen and uses it as a pointer. "Entry was in the right parietal, just above the temple. Exit in the left parietal, above his left ear. Slight upward trajectory."
This may help our suicide argument. Bob was right-handed. His analysis is consistent with a right-handed shooter.
"How far was the barrel of the gun from his head when he was shot?" I ask.
"The starburst splitting of the skin indicates it was a contact wound," he replies. "I found powder marks and burns on his head. In other words, the barrel was placed against the head." His delivery is calm and clinical. He could be reciting baseball scores. He gestures toward the picture on the right. "This is the left side of his head, or, if you'll forgive me, what was left of it. The exit wound was quite dramatic."
I'll say. Although I can make out the left ear, the rest of his head above the ear line is virtually unrecognizable. "Did you find evidence of
gunpowder on his hands?" When a gun is fired, traces of gunpowder and other chemicals can be found on the shooter's hand. I already know the answer.
"As a matter of fact, we did. We found gunpowder on his right hand and forearm."
This adds to our suicide argument. He looks at the pictures. I stop to think. I decide to probe a little more. "Doctor," I say, "your report indicates there may have been evidence of a concussive wound on his head. How can you tell?"
"There was a concussive wound, Mr. Daley," he says emphatically. He moves his glasses down from the top of his head so he can see up close. He points to the area about an inch and a half above Bob's left ear. "Do you see this area right here?" he asks.
"I'm not sure." I'm not playing games. I haven't the slightest idea what he's pointing at.
He zeros in on a spot just above the top edge of the exit wound. It reminds me of the first sonogram pictures of Grace when Rosie was pregnant. They looked like a test pattern to me. The OB could make out a head, a backbone and various organs. Rosie and I stood there and said we could see everything. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what you're pointing at."
"Look a little closer," he says. "It's a little hard to make out in the pictures."
No kidding.
"Right here," he says, as he gestures again toward a spot near the edge of the exit wound. "It's as clear as night and day to a trained coroner."
I still can't see it. Then again, I'm not a trained coroner.
"It may have been larger," he continues, "but part of it may have been obliterated by the exit wound. What's left is about a quarter of an inch in diameter. There's a small hematoma."
People think lawyers talk in code. Hematoma is doctor-speak for a swelling containing blood. It's hard to make out on the flat pictures. I think I see something, but I'm not sure. "How can you tell it was not just part of the exit wound?" I ask.
He points to a spot on the edge of the exit wound. "The exit wound stops here," he says. "The concussive wound is a separate injury."
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