First Degree

by David Rosenfelt

  Dylan finally finishes with Sabonis and turns him over to me. I’ve always believed that a trial doesn’t begin until there’s a contentious cross-examination. If that’s the case, the curtain’s about to go up.

  “Lieutenant Sabonis, you knew Alex Dorsey fairly well, didn’t you?”

  “We worked together.”

  “That would be a really good answer if the question were, ‘How did you and Alex Dorsey work?’ You could say, ‘We worked together,’ and then we could move on. The problem, and I do hope it’s not a recurring one, is that wasn’t the question.” I pause. “Am I going too fast for you?”

  Dylan objects to my tone, but Sabonis lets the insult roll off his back. He’s an experienced witness; he’s not going to be drawn into a fight with me. “I knew him fairly well, yes,” he says.

  “So when you saw the body that night, you were upset that this person you worked with and knew so well was dead?”

  “I didn’t realize it was him. He had been decapitated and his body badly burned.”

  I nod. “So he couldn’t be identified from the condition of the body?”

  “Not by me. It took the DNA tests.” I can tell by Sabonis’s self-satisfied expression that he’s pleased to have gotten in the mention of the DNA. He no doubt thinks it makes my questioning about the body seem unimportant.

  “Yes,” I say, “we’ll get to that. So if there were no subsequent scientific tests, you still wouldn’t know who that poor soul was?”

  “He was wearing that distinctive ring, which I noticed at the morgue. I’ve seen Alex wear that ring before.”

  “You’re not saying that you can identify a man’s body by the ring on his finger, are you?”

  “I’m saying it makes it much more likely that it was him.”

  I take the ring, which Dylan had introduced into evidence, and hand it to Nick. “Do you recognize this as the ring he had on that night?”

  He nods. “I believe so, yes.”

  “Would you try it on, please?”

  Nick puts the ring on his finger and looks up at me, as if waiting for the next command.

  “Alex, we were so worried about you,” I say, wiping my brow in mock relief. “They said you were dead.”

  Hatchet admonishes me even before Dylan objects.

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” I say, then I turn back to Sabonis. “You are Alex Dorsey, aren’t you?” I ask.

  Dylan jumps up. “Objection, Your Honor, this is frivolous. Counsel knows who the witness is.”

  “Sustained,” says Hatchet, staring a hole through my forehead. “Be very careful, Mr. Carpenter.”

  Undaunted, or at least only partially daunted, I try again. “Does it make it more likely that you are Alex Dorsey because you’re wearing that ring?”

  Dylan objects again and this time Hatchet overrules him.

  “No, it does not.”

  “But putting Alex Dorsey’s distinctive ring on his otherwise impossible-to-identify body would be a good way to make you believe it was him, isn’t that right?”

  “There is no evidence that happened. And we have the DNA results.”

  It’s my turn to be annoyed. “That’s twice that you’ve mentioned DNA, just like Mr. Campbell asked you. Did he promise you a lollipop if you did what you were told?”

  I can see a flash of anger from Sabonis, which makes the question worthwhile, even though Hatchet sustains Dylan’s immediate objection.

  I change the tempo and throw some questions at him in rapid-fire fashion. “Did you run the DNA test, Lieutenant?”

  “No.”

  “Are you an expert on DNA?”

  “No.”

  “Would you know a piece of DNA if it walked into this room, stood on the prosecution table, and sang, ‘What kind of strand am I?’”

  Dylan objects again, and I move on. I like to jump around, moving from subject to subject, to keep the witness off balance. “You said that Ms. Collins didn’t like Oscar Garcia, that she had a grudge against him. Do you know why?”

  “I was told it was because Garcia got the daughter of a friend of hers hooked on drugs.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure. I think about two years ago.”

  “Has Mr. Garcia ever filed a complaint that Ms. Collins attacked him? Tried to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “So she carried this terrible grudge for two years, yet never cut off his head? Never set him on fire?”

  “No.”

  I press on. “Was Oscar Garcia protected during those two years? Any police unit assigned to make sure Ms. Collins couldn’t get to him?”

  “He wasn’t under police protection.”

  “Do you know if Ms. Collins is licensed to carry a gun?”

  He nods. “She is.”

  A quick change in attack. “How did you happen to be there when Ms. Collins showed up in the area behind Hinchcliffe Stadium?”

  “We received some information linking her to the Dorsey murder. We initiated surveillance, and she led us to the stadium,” he says.

  I react as if surprised by his response, though of course I’m not. “Information from who?”

  “It was a phone call from an anonymous informant.”

  I nod. “You testified earlier that you received information from an anonymous informant initially linking Oscar Garcia to the murder. Is there an ‘anonymous informant fairy’ looking down on this case?”

  Dylan objects and Hatchet sustains; it’s getting to be a pattern.

  I rephrase. “Was the extent of your investigative efforts in this case to sit by the phone and wait for someone to anonymously call you?”

  “It is not uncommon to get such information. People often know things, but don’t want their identities to be known.”

  “And sometimes the information is right, and sometimes it’s wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant Sabonis, did I ask you to go over Ms. Collins’s internal police records before you testified today?”

  “Yes. I did so.”

  “Thank you. Would you please tell the jury how many times the then-Detective Collins was found to have committed any form of police brutality?”

  “None that I could see.”

  “Any times that she was accused but not found guilty?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything in her record that could in any way have predicted she could be capable of a brutal act like this murder?”

  Sabonis looks at me evenly. He’s pissed and he could waffle, but he doesn’t. “No, there isn’t.”

  I end the cross there, and Dylan tries to patch up the holes I punched. Afterward, we break for lunch, and Laurie, Kevin, and I are all feeling pretty good about the Sabonis testimony. We cast some significant doubt in an area where there should automatically already be doubt: the question of whether someone like Laurie could have committed such a horrendous act.

  Kevin and I do some quick preparation for Dylan’s next witness. It’s the head of the police lab, Phyllis Daniels, who will be testifying to the DNA typing. She is our key to establishing doubt that the DNA evidence is reliable, and I think we’ve got a shot to do just that. Marcus, with some off-the-record help from Pete Stanton, has come up with some good information on lab practices to help me in that effort.

  Twenty years ago, Phyllis Daniels was a police lab technician, not particularly accomplished, who had the foresight to recognize the incredible implications the infant science of DNA would have in forensics. She successfully set out to make herself an expert, thereby putting herself on the fast track, or at least the fastest track a scientist in the Paterson Police Department can be on.

  I have come up against Phyllis on cases before. She can be long-winded and proud to show off her expertise, but her basic knowledge and honesty come through. In Dylan’s hands she is an outstanding witness, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind that the DNA from the body absolutely matched the blood labeled as Dorsey’s in the police lab. This testimon
y comes as no surprise, nor do I have any intention of challenging it.

  “Ms. Daniels, you testified that Lieutenant Dorsey’s blood sample was in room 21 of the police lab. How is that room guarded?”

  “There is always a person sitting at a reception desk at the entrance to the room. Twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Is that person armed?”

  “No, it is a civilian job. But everyone entering must sign in.”

  “If you know, is the evidence room entrance handled the same way?”

  “No,” she says. “The evidence room has an armed officer assigned to it.”

  “So an armed officer is considered more effective than a civilian sign-in monitor?”

  “I would say so, yes.”

  “Who is allowed to enter room 21, after signing in?”

  “Police officers who need to access material in the room.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Now, you testified that the DNA in the blood listed as Lieutenant Dorsey’s matched that of the body in this case. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Allow me to present a hypothetical. If the blood in the lab had been changed or incorrectly marked—and in fact wasn’t Lieutenant Dorsey’s?—then the body also could not be his. Correct?”

  “That’s certainly correct. But I saw the vial myself when I ran the test.”

  I introduce a sign-in list from the lab into evidence and ask her to read a specific part of it. It shows that Alex Dorsey had entered the lab twice in the three weeks before his disappearance.

  “It is not unusual for him to have been there,” she says. “Officers enter all the time.”

  “If he entered for the purpose of substituting a different vial of blood for the one in his file, could he have done so?”

  “I guess it’s possible” is her grudging response.

  “Reasonable to assume he could have?” I ask. It’s a loaded word, since if I can establish reasonable doubt that the blood was Dorsey’s, we’re home free. How can Dylan prove Laurie murdered Dorsey if he can’t even prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Dorsey’s dead?

  “I’m not sure I know the answer to that” is the closest she will come to a concession.

  “What if you were to hear Lieutenant Dorsey’s wife testify that he planned to fake his own death? Would that make it reasonable to believe he could have changed the blood?”

  “I suppose that it would.”

  “Thank you. And just so we’re clear: If that blood were changed, if it were not Dorsey’s blood, then that would mean that the body was not Dorsey? Correct?” I’m repeating myself for effect.

  “Yes.”

  I let her off the stand while barely stifling my desire to yell out “Game, set, and match.” We have had a hugely successful day, and the evidence of that is etched on Dylan’s face.

  I stop outside long enough to conduct a mini-press conference, during which I allow myself some gloating. The questions demonstrate just how successful a day we have had, as the reporters want to know if I believe Hatchet will dismiss the charges once the prosecution rests. I don’t believe that he will, but I certainly do nothing to discourage the speculation.

  We have our evening meeting as usual, and I try my best to temper the group enthusiasm. Laurie and Kevin completely understand intellectually that we won a battle today but that victory in the war can only be declared by the jury. Nevertheless, we have become so used to depressing news that it is only natural we overreact on the positive side.

  Laurie proposes a toast at dinner to her “wonderful attorneys,” and since it is bad luck to refuse to toast an obvious truth, I join in. I throw in a toast to Barry Leiter, partially as a sobering device. Kevin is as happy as I’ve ever seen him, and it takes me a while to get them both to calm down so we can start planning for tomorrow’s witnesses.

  Just when I think I have them sufficiently wary and depressed over what lies ahead, Willie Miller shows up. He explains that he was going to call to find out if there’s been any counteroffer on his case yet (there hasn’t), but when he heard today’s good news on the radio about the trial, he decided to come over. And with him is Cash, the Wonder Dog.

  Cash goes everywhere with Willie, and Willie has determined that Cash is the smartest, most amazing dog in the history of the universe. Since it is a known fact that Tara is the smartest, most amazing dog in the history of the universe, I am aware that his claims are overblown, but I let him continue in his blissful ignorance. Besides, Cash is a pretty cool dog, and Tara seems to like him.

  Unfortunately, Willie also brings along his infectious enthusiasm. Without the benefit of any knowledge at all, he confidently tells Laurie that she is just days from vindication. In the process, he pretty much eradicates my efforts to get the group back to thinking cautiously. Just when Laurie is about to bring out the party hats, I convince Willie to take Cash and Tara outside in the yard to play, so that we can get back to work inside.

  Willie obliges, grabbing a couple of tennis balls and a Frisbee and leading the dogs out to the yard. Kevin and I get started on the files, but after a few minutes I see Laurie looking out the window and shaking her head in disapproval.

  “Look what they’re doing to my vegetables.”

  I sigh and go to the window. Cash is out near the back of the yard, digging furiously in Laurie’s vegetable garden. I don’t think it’s such a big deal. “Looks like we’re back to buying basil like the city folk,” I say.

  “Come on, Andy. I put a lot of work into that garden,” Laurie complains.

  I’m annoyed at the interruption, but I’ve got little choice but to deal with this vegetable crisis. I tell Kevin that I’ll be right back, and go out to the yard.

  As I exit the house, I’m surprised to see Willie coming toward me, looking uncharacteristically upset. He’s holding on to Cash by the collar, and I can still see the dirt on Cash’s nose from his digging.

  “Andy,” Willie says, “you’d better get your ass over here.”

  My initial instinct—make that panic—is that something has happened to Tara. But Willie turns and runs back to the garden, and Tara is standing there, looking none the worse for wear.

  Willie points down to where Cash was digging, and I see why he is so upset. Something is buried there, in clear plastic and well preserved.

  Alex Dorsey’s head.

  AS LONG AS I LIVE, I WILL NEVER SEE AS DISGUSTING a sight as that severed head in that plastic bag. I only look at it once, but it will forever be etched in my memory.

  I turn and walk back to the house, asking Willie to stay by the garden and secure the area. I go in and tell Laurie and Kevin what I’ve seen, and we basically sit there speechless, waiting for Pete to show up.

  Within five minutes, it is as if a police convention has convened on my lawn. Pete is there, as well as Nick Sabonis and just about every other cop of every rank in the department. Dylan shows up as well, acting as if he is in charge. His look is somber and serious, in an attempt to conceal his total glee at this turn of events.

  I tell Nick what happened, truthfully disavowing any knowledge of how the head got there. I remember that Tara had barked out the window facing the garden a few nights before, and that might be when the head was buried. They don’t believe me, and they don’t even attempt to question Laurie, no doubt fully aware that I would not allow it.

  The forensics people spend a couple of hours out there, and the detectives fan out to interview my neighbors. The head is actually taken away in an ambulance, though I think it’s too late to save it. I can’t speak for the EMS people, but I’m certainly not about to give it mouth-to-mouth.

  Just before Nick leaves, he tells us that the coroner is going to be examining the severed head tonight, and Kevin goes down to the morgue to get the results of that examination. Once everyone is gone, Laurie and I stay up to wait for his call.

  The call from Kevin comes in less than an hour. “We’ve got a problem,” he says. “The official determination is that the head was fr
om the body in the warehouse, and that obviously means the time of death is the same. He also says that the cut was made from the back, so the murderer probably snuck up on him.”

  That is all the information he has, and I ask very few questions. We are both aware that our case is in shambles. All our success so far has centered on creating a reasonable possibility that Dorsey’s death was faked, that the body in the warehouse may not have been his. We staked our credibility with the jury on this, and the resulting loss of that credibility is devastating, and most likely impossible to recover from.

  Just as bad is Laurie’s claim that Dorsey called her, at a time long after he was dead, as has now been shown. The jury can logically conclude that she lied about this and can thus doubt anything else she or her lawyer has to say.

  It is a disaster.

  I tell Laurie what we’ve learned, and she receives the news quietly, almost with a sense of resignation. She’s smart enough to know what it means to our case and to know what Dylan will do with the revelation.

  It’s only as we get into bed that she reveals what she’s been thinking about. “Andy, why don’t you ask me if I did it?”

  “Laurie—,” I begin, but she cuts me off.

  “You say that everything in the case fits perfectly into our claim that I was framed. Wouldn’t it fit even more perfectly if I actually did it?”

  “Laurie, this is not a conversation worth having. We need to focus on what’s important. I know that you didn’t do it.”

  “How?” Her eyes are boring in on me like a laser beam.

  I sigh, a tactic that turns out to be pitifully ineffective against laser beams.

  “Andy,” she presses, “how do you know I’m not guilty?”

  “Because I know you.”

  She shakes her head. “Not good enough,” she says. “I want to hear facts—facts that prove my innocence to you.”

  I’m not going to put her off, so I might as well play this out. “Okay. Did you send Stynes to hire me?”

  I keep going before she can answer; the questions come out in a barrage, and there’s no prosecutor to object. “Did you send yourself to find your own bloodstained clothes? Did you ask me to represent Garcia? Did you murder Barry Leiter? The damned facts are on your side, Laurie. I’m just the only one who knows them.”