by Tami Hoag
“Was he armed?”
“Yes. He had a nine-millimeter semiautomatic handgun.”
“And was he threatening Agent O'Malley?”
“Yes. At one point he had the gun pressed to her temple.” And Mitch had known a wrong move, a wrong decision, and she would be dead right there and then, before his eyes.
“I ordered him to drop the weapon, informed him he was under arrest,” he went on. “Agent O'Malley knocked him off balance. He pushed her at me, fired several rounds, and jumped back into the truck, which was still running. I jumped into the back of the truck, fired a shot through the back window in order to break the glass, ordered him to stop the truck.”
“Did he?”
“No. He returned fire, then lost control of the vehicle.”
The truck roared off the path and into space, landed bucking, skidded sideways, sending up a spray of snow.
“I was thrown clear. The truck slammed into a tree.”
“You then pursued the suspect on foot?”
“Yes. He ran west, into the woods and up the hill toward Lakeside, occasionally stopping to fire at me.”
“Were you hit?”
“One shot cut through the sleeve of my coat and grazed my arm.”
“But you continued pursuit?”
“Yes. At one point he discarded his ski mask. I found it lying on the ground along the trail.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Left it where it was. The crime-scene unit later photographed it in place, then bagged it as evidence and sent it to the BCA lab to be processed.”
“Your Honor,” Ellen addressed Grabko as Cameron rose and presented several photographs to the clerk. “The ski mask itself is still at the BCA lab, but the State would like to introduce the crime-scene photographs in its stead for the purpose of this hearing.”
“Mr. Costello?” Grabko asked, arching a brow.
“No objections, Your Honor.”
Grabko nodded to his clerk. “Receive the photographs into evidence.”
“Where did the suspect appear to be headed?” Ellen asked, turning back to Mitch.
“The Lakeside subdivision,” Mitch said. “He ran up through the backyards of the houses on Lakeshore Drive.”
Running along the cross-country ski trail, darting in and out between the snow-frosted spruce trees. The cold air like razors in his lungs. Thinking how insane it was to be chasing a college professor who drove a Saab and worked with juvenile offenders.
“I pursued the suspect through the yards, heading north. I saw him let himself into a garage through the back door, followed him in, took him down, and arrested him.”
“And is that man sitting in the courtroom?”
“Yes, he is.” He glared at the man whose game had shredded the fabric of life in Deer Lake irreparably. “Dr. Garrett Wright, the defendant.”
“Thank you, Chief Holt,” Ellen said with a nod. “No further questions.”
Mitch watched Costello rise, wondering if he would play the same game he had played with Megan—moving closer and closer into her space until she lashed out at him. He would have liked the chance to lash out at Costello, himself. Preferably in a dark alley with no witnesses. It had killed him to sit impassively in the gallery watching Megan unravel. A female bailiff had escorted her from the stand into the jury room after her final outburst. He wanted only one thing more than he wanted to go to her, and that was to nail the lid on Garrett Wright's coffin.
“Chief Holt,” Costello began, standing at ease behind the defense table. “You testify the suspect was wearing a ski mask when you first encountered him in the park. You did not see his face at that time?”
“No.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“No.”
“The truck he was driving was registered to whom?”
“Roy Stranberg, who was in Arizona at the time. The truck was stolen.”
“And were Dr. Wright's fingerprints found in this truck?”
“No.”
“And when you were pursuing the suspect through the woods, did you see him discard the ski mask? Did you see his face?”
“No.”
“That's a fairly dense woods, isn't it, Chief Holt? A lot of trees?”
“That would be the definition of a woods, yes,” Mitch said dryly.
“You didn't have a clear and constant view of the suspect, did you?”
“Not constant, no, but the gunfire kept me apprised of his whereabouts.”
Another snicker ran through the gallery, but Costello jumped onto the opportunity.
“And when you apprehended Dr. Wright, was he in possession of a weapon?”
“No.”
“According to the statements, Dr. Wright's hands were later tested for gunpowder residue and the tests were negative—isn't that right?”
“Yes.”
Costello steepled his fingers and arranged his features in a contemplative mien. “So you're running through the woods. It's dark. It's snowing. You're dodging gunfire, dodging trees. You lost sight of your suspect more than once, didn't you?”
“I saw him just fine when he went into that garage.”
“But you had lost sight of him prior to that?”
“For no more than seconds.”
“How many seconds?”
“I didn't time the instances.”
“Five seconds? Ten? Twenty?”
“Less than twenty. Less than fifteen.”
“But you have no way of knowing for certain?”
“No.”
“So it could be possible that the man you saw going into that garage wasn't your suspect at all, isn't that right?”
“That would be unlikely.”
“But possible?”
“Remotely.”
“Prior to making the actual arrest, did you have any reason to believe the suspect you were chasing was Dr. Wright?”
“Agent O'Malley had told me it was Dr. Wright.”
“I see,” Costello said with an exaggerated nod. He turned sideways, cocking a hip against the table, absently twirling a pencil in his hands. “Chief Holt, when you received that phone call from Agent O'Malley and heard that she was in distress, in danger, what did that make you feel?”
Mitch squinted at him, suspicious. “I don't follow.”
“Were you in fear for her life?”
“Of course.”
“And when you saw her in Quarry Hills Park and she was obviously badly wounded, did that make you angry?”
“Objection,” Ellen said, looking askance at Costello. “Is there a point to this?”
“A very sharp one, Your Honor.”
Grabko nodded. “Proceed. Answer the question, Chief Holt.”
“Yes.”
“It made you angry. You were frightened for her. You wanted to get the person responsible. You wanted that badly.”
“That's my job.”
“But your feelings went beyond a professional concern, didn't they? Isn't it true you and Agent O'Malley are involved—”
“Objection!” Ellen surged to her feet. “This is absolutely outside the scope of this hearing! We're here to review facts and evidence, not the personal lives of police officers!”
Grabko smacked his new gavel. “I don't want to hear another lecture from you, Ms. North,” he snapped. “Mr. Costello, perhaps you'd better state your point for the court.”
Ellen tossed her pencil down and crossed her arms.
“Do you have a problem with my suggestion, Ms. North?” Grabko asked coolly.
“Yes, I do, Your Honor. It gives Mr. Costello the opportunity to present his case to the press, which is very likely the reason he went down this road in the first place.”
Grabko stuck his lower lip out like a pouting child. “The outcome of this hearing will not be based on the opinions of the press, Ms. North. The decision is mine and mine alone, to be made on the basis of the evidence presented. And so it is for me to decide the relevance of Mr.
Costello's line of questioning. If I feel it bears merit, I'll allow it. If not, it will be disregarded.”
“And will it be disregarded by every potential juror who reads the Pioneer Press or watches KARE-Eleven News?” Ellen argued. “We may not have a jury seated, Your Honor, but we have a gallery who will act as jury and judge. If Mr. Costello has to make this lame argument, please let him do it in sidebar.”
The judge's eyes scanned the eager faces in the gallery, every last one of them salivating at the idea of hearing something someone didn't want them to hear.
“Sidebar,” he declared unhappily.
They arrayed themselves at the side of the bench, Costello and Ellen shoulder to shoulder, flanked by their associates.
“Now, by all means, Mr. Costello,” Ellen said under her breath with sharp-edged sweetness, “enlighten us as to your big-city legal brilliance.”
Costello smiled. “You'll have to forgive Ms. North, Your Honor. It's understandable she wouldn't want this particular subject raised—the effect of personal relationships on motivation.”
The subtext cut to the quick. Ellen was stunned that even he would skate so close to such a dangerous edge. Turning back to the judge, she shifted her body just slightly and planted the heel of her pump on Costello's handmade Italian oxford, grinding down on his little toe.
“Your Honor, Chief Holt and Agent O'Malley were acting in their capacity as law-enforcement officers. They are here today testifying in that capacity,” Costello said through his teeth as he tried to surreptitiously wrench his foot out from under hers. “But as Ms. North well knows, Your Honor, emotions spill over from our personal lives into our professional. Particularly in a highly charged situation—which this obviously was. If those emotions affected Chief Holt's judgment, I think the court should know about it.”
“Will it make your client any less guilty?” Ellen asked.
“My client is an innocent man, victimized by circumstance and Agent O'Malley's desperate attempt to cling to her own professional life.”
Ellen narrowed her eyes at him. “Your Honor, may I suggest the only ‘desperate attempts' we're looking at here are Mr. Costello's attempts to introduce a wholly inappropriate line of questioning.”
“No, you may not,” Grabko said. “You will kindly stop trying to make my decisions for me, Ms. North, and remember your place here in this courtroom.”
“My place?”
Cameron nudged her back a step in warning. “Your Honor, I don't have as much experience in this type of proceeding as Ms. North or Mr. Costello,” he said, his freckled face shining with humility, “but I thought the defense, if they are to present a case at all, are to bring hard evidence that is clearly exculpatory in nature, rather than speculative theory. Am I wrong about that?”
Grabko's expression softened somewhat at the opportunity to play law professor, and the tension diffused. “You're correct, Mr. Reed. However, statements can be exculpatory, can they not?”
“Uh, yes, Your Honor.”
“And, theoretically, even a statement from a prosecution witness can be considered such if given proper weight and light.”
And fertilized by the right defense attorney. Cameron's attempt at diplomatic steering had just been bent into a pretzel by Grabko's love of the sound of his own voice.
“Proceed with caution, Mr. Costello,” Grabko went on. “I want to hear a definite point made in the questioning, not counsel giving testimony in the guise of cross-examination.”
Costello nodded. “Of course, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”
Ellen refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Taking no chances, Cameron physically turned her back toward their table.
“Nice try, Opie,” she said under her breath.
He leaned his head toward hers as he took his seat. “You're pissing him off, Ellen.”
“He's pissing me off.”
“Yeah, but his fate isn't in your hands.”
“In my dreams.”
Costello resumed his place behind the defense table, maintaining distance from the witness stand.
“Chief Holt, is it true you and Agent O'Malley are involved personally?”
Mitch's jaw hardened. “I don't see how that's any of your damn business, Mr. Costello.”
Grabko leaned toward the box. “You'll answer the question, Chief Holt, and please refrain from using profanity in my courtroom.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” he responded grudgingly, glaring at Costello. “Yes, we are.”
“So when you saw Agent O'Malley in danger, in pain, your reaction went beyond ordinary professional concern.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted to get the person responsible, and Agent O'Malley told you the person responsible was Dr. Garrett Wright.”
“Yes.”
“You believed the person you were pursuing was Dr. Wright. Dr. Wright lives on Lakeshore Drive. The chase took you in that direction, and when you saw someone going into Dr. Wright's garage, you pursued, even though you admit you had lost sight of your suspect for an unknown period of time. Isn't that correct?”
“Seconds,” Mitch specified. “A heartbeat. What are you getting at, Costello? Spit it out and spare us the theatrics.”
He wanted to punch the smug little smile off Costello's face, and he realized that the distance the attorney was keeping between them was aggravating him more than if the son of a bitch had been standing a foot away, as he had done with Megan.
“You wanted to see Agent O'Malley keep her position here as regional agent, didn't you?”
“Agent O'Malley is an excellent cop.”
“And your lover. And Agent O'Malley had decided, based on virtually no evidence, that Dr. Wright was guilty. She told you Dr. Wright was the one. You pursued Dr. Wright.”
“I pursued the suspect,” Mitch corrected him, his blood boiling at the insinuation. “I apprehended the suspect. I didn't give a damn if he was Dr. Wright or Dr. Spock.”
“It never occurred to you that the man you ultimately apprehended and the suspect you chased through the woods in the dead of night were not the same person?”
“Never.”
“Dr. and Mrs. Wright live at 93 Lakeshore Drive, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me who lives just two houses north, at 97 Lakeshore Drive?”
“The Kirkwoods.”
“Paul Kirkwood?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions, Chief Holt.”
Ellen watched Costello as he settled into his chair.
“He's really going to do it, isn't he?” Cameron whispered. “He's going to try to pin this on Josh's father.”
“He'll do whatever he has to,” she murmured. “Garrett Wright and his shadow aren't the only ones playing a game here.”
She rose again just as Grabko started to dismiss the witness. “Redirect, Your Honor?”
Impatience flashed in Grabko's eyes, but he grumbled a yes and sat back to pet his beard.
“Are the houses on Lakeshore Drive numbered on the back side, Chief?”
“Not that I'm aware of.”
“So when you followed the suspect into that garage, you didn't know if you were in 93 Lakeshore Drive or 95 or 91.”
“I had no idea. It didn't matter.”
“The suspect you chased through the woods was dressed in black, is that correct, Chief?”
“Yes. Black pants, black boots, black jacket.”
“And how was Dr. Wright dressed when you apprehended him?”
“He was in black pants, black boots, and a black ski jacket.”
“Did he show signs of physical exertion?”
“Yes. He was breathing hard, perspiring.”
“And do you have any idea what the temperature was that evening?”
“About twenty degrees with a windchill factor of six degrees.”
“Not the kind of night the average person would break a sweat, was it?”
“Object
ion.”
“Withdrawn,” Ellen said, biting down on a sly smile. “In regards to the tests for gunpowder performed on Dr. Wright's hands: would the outcome of the tests be affected if he had been wearing gloves at the time he'd used the gun?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions, Chief Holt. Thank you.”
The final witness for the prosecution was a criminalist from BCA headquarters in St. Paul. Norm Irlbeck had been on the scene the night of O'Malley's abduction, had been the one to collect the bloodstained sheet that had been draped around Megan. Ellen showed him photographs of the sheet taken at the scene and at headquarters.
“Is this the sheet, Mr. Irlbeck?”
“Yes, it is.” He nodded a big, square head that sat like a block atop a big, square body. His voice was the deep, sonorous voice of authority that caught Grabko's attention and held it.
Ellen handed the photographs over to the clerk. “The sheet is still undergoing some tests in the lab—is that correct?” she asked, coming back toward her witness.
“Yes. The DNA tests will take another four to five weeks to complete.”
“But there have been some conclusive preliminary findings, have there not?”
“Yes, there have been. Two distinct types of blood were found on the sheet. O positive, which is the blood type of Agent O'Malley, and AB negative, which is the blood type of Josh Kirkwood.”
“And the extensive DNA tests now being conducted will determine if indeed the AB-negative blood is in fact Josh Kirkwood's—correct?”
“Yes.”
“Hairs were also found on the sheet?”
“Yes. Hairs that were tested against samples and were found to be consistent in type with Agent O'Malley, Josh Kirkwood, and the defendant, Dr. Garrett Wright. There were also hairs from an unidentified fourth person.”
“What about the ski mask found along the trail of pursuit, Mr. Irlbeck? Were hairs also found on that?”
“Yes. Hairs that were consistent with the defendant and also hairs that matched those unidentified from the sheet.”
“Thank you, Mr. Irlbeck. I have no further questions.”
“Mr. Irlbeck,” Costello said before Ellen was even back to her seat. “Is the analysis of hair an exact, reliable science?”
“No, it is not.”
“You can't make an absolutely positive identification as to whether a hair found on a sheet belongs to a particular person based strictly on the study of the hair itself.”