Rising to his feet, Karp smiled. "Yes, Your Honor, thank you. The people call Detective Marj Cobing to the stand."
As he waited for the detective to enter the courtroom, Karp reflected on the scene outside the Criminal Courts building that morning. Many of the same cast of characters had lined up on the sidewalks. Only now, instead of a circus, they'd settled into a sort of organized encampment. They even seemed to be operating under a loose set of rules meant to keep the peace among natural enemies.
Karp had watched from Dirty Warren's newsstand as one of the NOF organizers showed up with a bagel and coffee for Edward Treacher. She handed it to the street preacher with a little bow, but didn't say a word. However, he picked up his milk crate and moved it to the other side of the police cordon from the NOF protest line, where he ate and drank with relish. He was still within shouting range when he resumed his perch on top of his crate; but he maintained his distance, and the two sides even took turns drowning each other out.
Meanwhile, little bands of tourists and curiosity-seekers, as well as the vendors and pickpockets who preyed on them, scurried up and down the sidewalk, or crossed the street haphazardly, hurrying to wherever there seemed to be a bit of action. One middle-aged mom from Wisconsin was struck by a taxi when she sprinted across the street to purchase the second "Special... fu-fu-fucking bullshit... Edition" of the New York Post from the nasty little man at the newsstand.
Every once in a while, some young man would sprint through the crowd, snatch a purse, and take off running with cops in hot pursuit. Otherwise, most of the activity occurred whenever the television cameras whirred into action, which would cause the protesters to start shouting and waving their signs.
Twelve floors above the commotion outside, Karp looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. They'd already wasted a half hour in Dermondy's office that morning on Linda Lewis's objection to Cobing taking the stand.
"If the prosecution insists on calling her, and you allow it," Lewis told Dermondy, "I especially object to her discussing statements allegedly made by Jessica Campbell to her husband."
"On what grounds?" Dermondy asked.
"On the grounds that the statement will be taken out of context and unfairly prejudicial to the defendant."
"Your honor, that's nonsense," Karp argued. "Obviously, the law won't allow us to force Mr. Campbell to testify against his wife. However, there's nothing to prevent the detective from testifying as to what Mr. Campbell said of his own free will to police officers regarding relevant facts having everything to do with this case."
"Well, Miss Lewis, I'm going to overrule you on this," the judge said. "We'll just have to leave it to you to put the statements into context." Cobing took the stand, where Karp led her through the police investigation. "How was it that the NYPD located the defendant, Jessica Campbell?"
"We were called by her attorney and told that there was a possibility that the defendant had 'lost' her children, and that they might possibly be deceased."
"Were you able to speak to the defendant's husband, Charles Campbell?"
"Yes, I did get to speak to Mr. Campbell."
"Please tell us what, if anything, he said."
"He told me that when he came home that night, he couldn't locate his children, and that his wife was lying in bed."
"Did Mr. Campbell tell you anything the defendant said to him about the children?"
"Yes, he said she told him that she'd sent the children to be with God in order to save their souls from Satan."
"Thereafter, what did you do in furtherance of this investigation?"
"After speaking to Mr. Campbell, we believed that we had a homicide case, so we asked for a court order to obtain blood, tissue, and hair samples from Mrs. Campbell, as well as photographs of marks on her body."
"What sorts of marks?"
"Scratches on her arms and a bite mark on her forearm, as well as abrasions and contusions on her arms, knees, and back."
"By abrasions and contusions, you mean scrapes and bruises."
"Yes, sir. Those would be the layman's terms."
Using photographs introduced into evidence to illustrate the detective's testimony, Karp had the detective point out the marks on Jessica Campbell. "Detective Cobing, did you learn when the defendant was injured?"
"That day," she replied. "The physician who treated her at Bellevue said the injuries were less than twenty-four hours old. Also, Mr. Campbell told me that he didn't believe she'd had those marks on her body earlier that morning. But he wasn't certain with respect to the injuries on her back."
"And why was that?" Karp asked.
"Because Mr. Campbell said that he and his wife were not sleeping or dressing in each other's presence."
The answer caused a stir in the courtroom. One of the supermarket tabloids had run a story alleging that Charlie Campbell had been seen kissing another woman about the same time his wife was killing their kids.
Now, Charlie Campbell kept his head pointed straight forward. His wife stopped her drawing for a moment, then resumed again without looking up.
"However, she had been wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a skirt the previous evening when he got home," Cobing continued, "and was dressed similarly the morning he left her. He could not recall seeing any of the marks on her legs or arms."
"Detective, do you recall talking to a Mr. Homer Paris in Staatsburg?"
"Yes. He's the station master at the Staatsburg train station."
"And Staatsburg is a small town about one hundred miles north of Manhattan on the Hudson River, is that true?"
"Yes."
"What were you doing at the train station in Staatsburg?"
"I was attempting to locate anyone who might have seen Jessica Campbell there in March ... around the time of the murders."
"How were you attempting to do this?"
"I had several photographs of women with me, including one of Jessica Campbell taken from the New York City University yearbook. I was asking people at the station if they, first, had been at the station in March, and if so, did they recognize any of the women in the photographs."
"And did you find such a person?"
"Yes, I found Mr. Paris."
"And who did Mr. Paris identify, if anyone?"
"He picked the photograph of Jessica Campbell. But he said she was wearing a disguise when he saw her in March."
"A disguise?"
"Yes, a wig—he described it as a bad wig—and big sunglasses."
"Yet, he recognized her."
"Yes, he said he recognized her big ears and her chin."
"What about her chin?"
"Well, the shape."
"What shape?"
"He said it looked like 'a little butt' because of the dimple in her chin." The spectators burst into laughter. Judge Dermondy banged his gavel. "People, please," he drawled. "I'll ask you to remember we're here in a Supreme Court setting, which requires all of us to act like adults and respect the dignity of these proceedings." Smiles disappeared. "Now, let's all just pay attention and save our levity for when we have adjourned. Mr. Karp, let's proceed."
"Thank you, Your Honor," said Karp, who had always admired the way Dermondy controlled a courtroom whether as a prosecutor or a jurist. "Detective Cobing, can you recall any instance in which the defendant, Jessica Campbell, told anyone else where or how she murdered her three children?"
"No, not to my knowledge."
"Did she tell anyone where she hid their bodies?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Are you aware of her ever telling anyone that she couldn't remember where she left their bodies?"
"No. To my knowledge, she simply refused to answer that question." Karp kept his examination of the detective short. But Lewis's cross-examination was even briefer.
"Detective," she said, without bothering to move from behind the defense table, "do you know of any instance in which Jessica Campbell said that she had 'murdered' her children?"
"According to Mr. Campb
ell, she said she sent them to be with God."
"But she did not use the word 'murder' or even 'killed,' did she?"
"No."
"Because it's not what she believed, was it?" Lewis asked.
"I wouldn't know."
"No, you wouldn't. But detective, do you know of a single instance in which Jessica Campbell told anyone that she 'hid' the bodies of her children?"
"No."
"Thank you, no further questions."
Karp jumped up for redirect like a bantam rooster ready to fight. "Detective, when someone kills someone else—and it's not in self-defense, an accident, or a soldier at war—what is the word for it?"
"Murder."
"And when someone puts bodies in a car and then submerges that car into a river, is it fair to say that person tried to hide the bodies?"
"Absolutely."
The rest of the morning had been taken up by the first police officers on the scene at the Campbell house, who testified that there'd been no sign of the children and no evidence that a crime had been committed.
"Did you notice anything in particular about the kitchen?" Karp asked.
"Not really," one of the officers testified. "It was a mess. There was a breakfast on the counter that looked like it hadn't been touched and dirty dishes here and there. But nothing unusual."
After the lunch break, Lewis objected again when Karp called the lead NYPD crime-scene investigator, Officer Bob Watts, to the stand—on, as she put it, "the same grounds, that the expected testimony will be taken out of context and will be unfairly prejudicial." Again the judge overruled the objection, and Watts entered the courtroom.
Referred to by his colleagues as "the Walrus," Watts fit the name, with thick reddish-brown hair cut short; a long mustache of the same color, which hung down on either side of his mouth like tusks; and a body built for surviving the frigid waters of the Arctic. He was also a consummate professional—affable and polite under the most heated cross-examination; jurors liked and believed him, which also made him a favorite of the DAO.
Under Karp's questioning, Watts explained that this case was unusual because when the police began their investigation, they believed that a crime had occurred—the murder of the Campbell children—but no one knew how or where it happened. "So we started with the defendant's residence and went over it with a fine-toothed comb," he said. "We didn't find much. Nothing unusual or indicating a crime—no blood or other physical evidence—not until we got to the main floor bathroom."
"And what did you find there?"
"Well, it was more of what we didn't find that was unusual," the investigator replied with just a touch of mystery.
"Could you explain what you mean by that?" Karp said, pitching the softball question.
"There were no fingerprints."
"No fingerprints? Do you mean only a few fingerprints?"
"No, I mean 'N-O' fingerprints. None. Zip. Nada."
"And why is that unusual?"
"In a house with three kids?" Watts scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I don't know about your kids, but when mine were growing up, they put their grimy little mitts on just about everything in our house. I would have expected the same of the Campbell kids. And as a matter of fact, they did leave fingerprints on just about every surface of that house—except for the main floor bathroom."
"Couldn't that be explained by a good housekeeper cleaning the bathroom?"
"Maybe Super Maid, but I doubt it. Fingerprints aren't necessarily visible to the naked eye, at least not the ones that aren't left by some goo-or dirt-covered hands. In my professional experience of twenty-five years as a crime-scene investigator, the only time a scene is that clean is when it has been wiped down specifically to remove fingerprints. It's the sort of thing I'd expect at the scene of a mob hit, and even then the suspects rarely get them all."
"So, Mr. Watts," Karp continued. "You are saying that it would be extremely unusual to NOT find any fingerprints in the main floor bathroom of a home occupied by two adults and three young children?"
"Especially where the children were bathed," Watts replied. "There were Sesame Street bath toys and a little boat on the edge of the tub."
"And why is it especially unusual in a bathroom?"
"Lots of smooth, hard surfaces—like metal, tile, and porcelain—all of which lend themselves to leaving latent fingerprints."
"And there were none?" Karp repeated for effect.
"Not a one. The place had been wiped clean as a whistle."
After Karp finished with the direct examination, Dermondy decided that it was a good time to take the afternoon break. When the trial resumed, Watts returned to the stand to be cross-examined by Linda Lewis. Again she kept it short.
"Mr. Watts, do you know why that bathroom was so spotless?"
"I believe I do now."
"Do you know who cleaned it?"
"I believe I do."
"Well, essentially all you really told this jury is that you didn't find anything at the Campbell residence to indicate a crime had been committed there, isn't that true?"
"Yes, ma'am. We didn't find any evidence that a crime had been committed."
"No further questions."
After Watts stepped down from the stand, Karp called his last witness of the day, Homer Paris, the station master from Staatsburg. The door at the back of the courtroom opened, and an old man—bent over at about midchest level like a candy cane—hobbled into the courtroom and stopped, looking around at the spectators with suspicion.
"What the hell you people looking at?" he snarled.
"Don't let them bother you, Mr. Paris," Judge Dermondy said, amused. "Please, come take a seat so that we can swear you in and these fine lawyers can ask you a few questions."
"Well, make it snappy," Paris replied. "I need to get back to my station."
"We'll do our best."
Homer Paris had not wanted to appear at the trial. "Waste of my time," he complained when Clay Fulton drove to Staatsburg to serve him with a subpoena. "Who's going to keep the trains running on time if I'm not here, huh? Answer me that."
Fulton had pointed out that the subpoena required him to appear in court or be held in contempt, "and possibly jailed or fined." He added that Detective Cobing would be there, too.
"Oh that cute little black cop is going to be there?" Paris replied. "Well, I suppose I can make it. She's a fine-looking woman."
When the station master spotted Cobing sitting in the pew behind the prosecution table, he stopped and winked. She smiled and nodded toward the witness stand. He gave her a little salute, then straightened his back as best he could and hobbled to the stand to be sworn in.
As requested, the attorneys kept it snappy. Essentially, Paris was asked to relate the story of the day that past March when the woman in the cheap wig and big sunglasses had walked into his station and asked for a one-way ticket to Grand Central Terminal. "Paid cash," he recalled. "Nobody pays cash anymore."
"Is that woman in the courtroom today?" Karp asked.
"You bet your ass, sonny," Paris replied and pointed at Jessica Campbell. "The record should reflect that the witness, Mr. Paris, pointed to the defendant, Jessica Campbell," Karp noted. "How is it that you're so certain?"
"She's got big ears and her chin looks like a butt."
Before anyone could laugh, Dermondy cleared his throat, having anticipated the answer. "Please, don't," he warned those in the courtroom.
"Don't what?" Paris scowled. "Can I go now?"
Dermondy raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Karp?"
"No further questions."
"Miss Lewis?"
"No questions, your honor."
"Well then, Mr. Paris, thank you for your time. You may step down and return to your station," Dermondy said.
"Well la-di-da." The old man climbed down from the stand. "Brought me all the hell the way down here for that? Waste of my time, that's what it was." Apparently not a complete waste, however, as he stopped again next to the pew and
gave Cobing another wink. "Now that's a fine-looking woman," he announced. This time, Dermondy didn't bother to bang his gavel and laughed along with everyone else.
The irascible station master left the room with a few choice words for a couple of reporters who dared ask how to spell his last name. Dermondy shook his head and asked the attorneys if there was anything else. "As you know, we're going to call it a little early tonight. I got invited to a gig with Woody's group down at Michael's Pub."
"Nothing from us," Karp said. "We expect to finish our case in chief tomorrow."
"Miss Lewis?"
Lewis, who'd also stood and was waiting for Karp to finish, held up a sheaf of papers. "Yes, actually, there is, your honor. I'm making a motion for a mistrial due to my earlier objections to the testimony of Detective Cobing and Officer Watts."
Judge Dermondy stared at Lewis for a long time, as if doing so would make her go away, but when she didn't, he turned to the jury. "I'm going to excuse you now while we discuss some legal issues that are not part of the evidence. Refrain from watching television newscasts, listening to radio news reports, or reading newspaper stories about this case. You are not to talk about it with anyone—not your family, not your friends, not your priest or rabbi, not even the television set. If someone—including any one of these rascals in the press—approaches you, please report it to the court clerk, and I will deal with them as harshly as the law allows. Have a good night, eat something healthy, and sleep well. Remember, this is a marathon, not a sprint."
The jurors filed out of the courtroom. "Okay, counsel," Dermondy said, "what are your grounds for dismissal based on?"
"Judicial error. You should not have allowed that testimony."
"I'm inclined to let the appellate courts decide if you're correct," Judge Dermondy said. "I have little doubt that you'll not succeed there either. But for the record, let's hear your reasoning."
"I already said—the testimony was out of context and unfairly prejudicial to my client receiving a fair trial," Lewis retorted.
"Now Miss Lewis, isn't it a matter of record from your opening statements, and your cross-examination of the witnesses, that you intend to use some of these very same statements in your case to demonstrate that your client was mentally ill?"
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