The Company of Demons

by Michael Jordan

  “Jennifer Browning had no relationship with her brother Frank. And her motive for wanting him out of the way? What about being sole heir of her father’s estate, which would gain her more than a million dollars? And Jennifer was not the only one who had a reason for wanting Frank dead. You’ll hear evidence that the Andar Feo, the drug gang that my worthy opponent claims to be a nonissue, was particularly violent. They wanted Frank dead because of his involvement in a botched drug deal. This case has quite a cast of characters, but one thing will stand out. There is more than one potential killer of Frank Frederickson, and John Coleman isn’t on the list.”

  She attacked the state’s forensic evidence as well, including the fact that my prints were plastered all over the murder weapon.

  “And that fingerprint evidence that Mr. Flanagan emphasized? We’ll show you that there are serious questions about what those prints mean. The state can’t just prove that Mr. Coleman’s prints are on the knife. They must prove that he used the knife to kill Frank Frederickson.”

  She wove it all together, and the jury was locked on her, just as they’d been on Flanagan. She ended by standing in front of the jury box, her hands pressed together as though she were praying, and she moved them in unison for emphasis. “There is a lot that you will and should dislike about John, what he’s done to his wife and to his daughter and to his profession, but there is no proof beyond a reasonable doubt that he was the killer of Frank Frederickson. When you’ve heard all of the evidence, ladies and gentlemen, there is but one conclusion: John Coleman is not guilty.”

  With a firm nod to the jury, Arlene concluded her opening comments. The clock read quarter to five, so Seidelson adjourned for the day. The jury filed out, none of them looking at me, and the judge called counsel to the bench. Sitting alone at the table, I realized that Arlene had been wrong about Jennifer not being in the courtroom. I sensed her hot voice, somehow inside my mind, laughing at me.

  Arlene returned to our table and stuffed a stack of manila folders into her leather briefcase. “The judge wanted to know what to expect tomorrow. Flanagan’s starting with the deputy coroner, then on to those cops, Salvatore and Coufalik. Then—you okay?”

  Bernie Salvatore testifying against me was still difficult to digest, even though I’d anticipated facing him for months. My heart told me that there was no way he would relish taking the stand, but Coufalik would be gunning for me. “You did a real good job. Your opening.”

  “There’s a lot more work to do, John.”

  “They say most jurors make up their minds during opening statements.”

  “That’s what a lot of so-called experts claim. Truth is, you can’t be sure of a damn thing until they read the verdict.” She snapped her briefcase shut. “Let’s go. The real work starts tomorrow.”

  When Jack dropped me off, I grabbed a beer and dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. For some reason, a film of dust on the fake flowers in the ceramic bowl caught my attention. I loosened my tie, too drained to hoist myself upstairs and change, and turned on the news. There was a brief clip of Flanagan and Arlene delivering their opening statements and a close-up shot of a sullen and squinty-eyed me. My fifteen minutes of fame, as an admitted immoral cheat, one who might be headed for the needle.

  I started thinking about Coufalik, how she’d been the one to supervise the scene when they’d searched my car. Bernie hadn’t been there. What if she’d done something with the evidence just to screw me, still angry about the day she had warned me not to stare at her ass? The angry scowl on her face was unforgettable. But would she have really set me up on a murder rap, just because she thought I was a jerk? Maybe my suspicions were idiotic, a desperation shot, but there was a way to find out—and what the hell was there to lose? I took a swig, turned down the volume on the TV, and called my brother-in-law.

  Of course, Alison answered.

  “It’s John.”

  “She’s tired. Sitting in that courtroom, hearing how you cheated on her all over again.”

  “I’m not calling for Cathy. I need to talk to Carl.”

  She was silent for a moment, as though debating whether to grill me about why I wanted to talk to her husband, but then Carl came on the line.

  “If you’re asking for money, the answer’s no.” I could sense Alison standing behind him, monitoring his every word. “Cathy told me it’s tight, but we’re helpin’ out with her and Molly as it is. We—”

  “It’s not that, Carl. There’s something you can do for me. Check the file on my case.” My gaze drifted to the refrigerator, and I imagined every shelf lined with skulls.

  “John …”

  “Just to see if they’re holding anything back, or if they fudged something. That’s all I’m askin’.”

  “No.” He didn’t hesitate. I pictured him looking at Alison, her approving nod as he stood up to me.

  “Carl, this isn’t the serial killer bullshit we talked about before. This is me. My life on the fuckin’ line. I’m just asking you to look.”

  The son of a bitch hung up.

  I stared at the phone for a moment before shoving away from the table and slamming the receiver into the cradle. The ceramic bowl and spray of artificial flowers rocked back and forth. Just when my vocabulary of curse words had been exhausted, the phone rang. What the hell?

  “I’ll take a look.” Carl was terse. “That’s all. Got it?”

  “That’s all I ask. Jesus, thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. Cathy wants this done, so I’m doing it. You were a prick to her, what you did, but she doesn’t think you killed the guy.”

  “Let me talk to her, Carl.”

  “No.”

  “Ask her, okay? Let her decide.”

  “Jesus, you’ve got some nerve.”

  There was a long silence until Cathy, sweet Cathy, whispered into the phone. “You think the cops did something wrong? Bernie wouldn’t—”

  “Not him, no. But … it doesn’t make sense.” Hot tears suddenly welled up. “I didn’t do it, but they’ve got all this stuff. My fingerprints, for God’s sake, my fingerprints on the knife … maybe Carl …”

  “You need to keep it together, John. You have a good lawyer.”

  “I know, but … damn it, there’s so much, coming from all directions …”

  “What do you want from me?” Cathy sounded like she was crying too. “I have my hands full with Molly.”

  I paused, surprised. “But she seemed okay …” And then it hit me: of course, Molly wouldn’t want to burden me with her problems, not on top of what was already happening in my life.

  “She’s getting into fights, and she swore at one of the teachers. They’ll probably suspend her.”

  “I’ll talk to her.” I was responsible for all of the tumbling dominoes. “When she’s here this weekend, we can sort through it.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea anymore.”

  Her words took a moment to sink in. “But … we had a deal.”

  “I know what we said, John, but it’s just not working. You’re back in the news, every day. She shouldn’t be around you until the trial is over.”

  I leaned into the wall. If Cathy were still with me, the flowers would have been dusted, every plate cleaned, the floor mopped. “Not now, don’t do this to me.”

  “You’re being selfish.” There was no rancor in her tone, just a simple statement of fact. “You need to think about Molly.”

  “Of course, but …” My little girl fighting, swearing, running off. God, the playground must have become a nightmare. “What if I come over to Alison’s sometime, just for a while?”

  “Can’t you give me this, please? You may be on trial, but this is hell for all of us. The kids stare at me like … some kind of guilt by association. I can’t even go to Heinen’s without seeing the whispers, the pointing.”

  “Cathy, if there were any way to change things …” I leaned into the wall and sank to the floor. “Thanks for coming today.”

 
; “I’m not there to play the good wife, John. I’m there for me, to watch everyone take the stand and swear on a Bible to tell the truth. I want to believe you.”

  “I told you the truth.”

  “Not about Jennifer Browning.” She was definitely crying now. “And now the Torso Murderer’s come back. Everything seems so upside down.”

  “I go to bed every night, afraid.”

  “Everyone does.”

  “But for me—”

  “Please. I just can’t do this.” Her words were ragged as she choked back tears. “Good-bye.”

  The phone clicked off. They were everywhere, my Cathy and my Molly: in the faded coffee pot, the scarred surface of the countertop, the stark face of the clock as the red hands relentlessly ticked away the remaining minutes of my existence. I fetched a bottle and a glass and woke up on the cold kitchen tile at two a.m. A smart, cautious man would have checked the locks again, but I didn’t care.

  Didn’t care at all.

  37

  “So he definitely did not die from a drug overdose.” Jerome Becker, the Deputy Cuyahoga County Medical Examiner—still called coroner by most—was a straitlaced sort of guy, about fifty, who nevertheless looked like a prep boy in his starched white shirt and plain blue tie.

  Flanagan’s direct examination was succinct, and he established the chain of custody for the knife found in my trunk. “And did you identify the blood that was found on the blade?”

  “I did. It was Frank Frederickson’s.”

  Flanagan flashed an enlarged photograph of Frank, as found at the Tremont house, on a video screen. Christ, a groundhog would have understood that the poor bastard’s throat had been slit. I resisted the temptation to turn and witness Cathy’s reaction. She had cast a curt nod in my direction upon entering the courtroom that morning.

  “The knife is absolutely consistent with the injury inflicted on the decedent.” Becker was an earnest sort who nodded to emphasize his conclusions.

  Flanagan kept the photo on display, letting the jury wonder what kind of a monster I was to have committed such a gruesome crime. And each juror would question, too, whether sweet little Jennifer could have been responsible in any way for that happening to her own brother.

  “… and the killer could have avoided the blood spatter by slitting Mr. Frederickson’s throat from behind.”

  Flanagan asked him some wrap-up questions, then returned to his table.

  As Arlene rose for cross-examination, I tempered my expectations. A real-life cross is seldom like what you see in the movies or on television. Witnesses rarely break down on the stand, and good lawyers know the exact questions they want to ask. A fundamental rule of cross—one obeyed even by wannabes, like me—is that you never ask a question unless you already know the answer.

  Arlene blew up a picture of the knife and addressed Coroner Becker. “Sir, you recall telling Mr. Flanagan that this knife is consistent with the type of wound made to Mr. Frederickson’s neck?”

  “I do.”

  “Would you explain to the jury what you mean by consistent with?”

  “Sure.” Becker faced the jury box. Experienced expert witnesses know to make eye contact with the jury from time to time. “It means that the knife in question could definitely have caused the injury to Mr. Frederickson.”

  “But you would agree that comparing a knife to a wound is not like matching a bullet to a gun?” Arlene stood at the podium in the center of the room, which compelled Becker to focus his attention in her direction and away from the jury.

  “Absolutely. All you can say about a knife, based on the dimensions and size, is that it could have caused a wound. Similar knives, or other instruments, would create a similar-looking wound.”

  “So you would agree that another knife could have been used to kill Frank Frederickson?”

  I knew where she was going and was anxious to see how this line of questioning would play out.

  Becker glanced smugly at the jury. “No, Counselor, I won’t agree with that. You’re forgetting my earlier testimony. We found the decedent’s blood on the blade of this knife. There is no question it was the murder weapon.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I did listen to your earlier testimony. But you weren’t in the room when Frank Frederickson was killed, were you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Isn’t it possible the killer could have dipped the knife that you examined in Frank’s blood to frame my client?”

  Flanagan jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, this is absurd speculation—”

  Judge Seidelson banged his gavel. “There will be no speaking objections in my courtroom. Counsel, approach the bench.”

  Seidelson conducted a quick sidebar conference, out of earshot of the jury, and overruled the objection. But Flanagan’s attempt at what is known as a speaking objection was clever. By stating the basis for the objection in front of the jury—absurd speculation—he undermined Arlene’s question, even if the judge did not rule in his favor. The attorneys returned to their places as if they were actors in a play, and Arlene repeated her question to Becker.

  He smiled benignly. “I guess anything’s possible.”

  Arlene knew that she’d scored a few points, which is typically the best result possible on cross, and ended her examination. The jury might think that Becker’s concession was minor, but they’d have to consider the possibility. Anything to create that sliver of reasonable doubt. Even so, I could hear Jennifer again, jeering: Is that all you got?

  They called Bernie Salvatore to the stand, and he shuffled past our table on the way. He looked like his usual self, except that he’d donned a plain blue tie, which ended about four inches north of his naval. Flanagan asked him some preliminary questions to establish his background and training and then launched into a line of questions directly about my case.

  “In fact, you played football with the defendant in high school?” Flanagan glanced at the jurors. They’d understand that even an old teammate was testifying against me.

  “Correct. Holy Name.” Bernie never once looked over at me. He had to know, in the depth of his soul, that murder wasn’t included in the litany of my sins.

  In response to Flanagan’s questioning, Bernie confirmed that I’d called him after finding Frank Frederickson and that Frank’s fingerprints were the only ones on the cell phone. His hand smoothed the unfamiliar tie, and he shifted the knot.

  “And did you discuss with the defendant the money that had been in Mr. Frederickson’s possession?” In his natty black-and-white pinstripe, Flanagan seemed burnished with authority.

  “Yes, and I told him to tell his client, Jennifer Browning, that we’d be unlikely to recover it.”

  “Did the defendant tell you that he had all or any of the money?”

  Bernie shook his head and looked at me for the first time. “No.”

  Flanagan walked away from the podium and tapped his fingertips together, near his chest. “Had you encountered the defendant at other crime scenes, prior to Mr. Frederickson’s death?”

  Arlene objected. She had anticipated that Flanagan would argue that my visits to the Butcher’s dumping grounds were relevant to the issue of premeditation. Like, maybe I was visiting the crime scenes to pick up some pointers about killing. Seidelson apparently agreed with Flanagan’s position, because he instructed Bernie to answer the question.

  “Yeah, he was there when the first victim, Frank’s father, was found in Lakewood, and he followed me to the crime scene of the second victim. We’d been having lunch.”

  “And did he contact you regarding the third victim?”

  “He did.”

  “How long after the body was found?”

  “The next morning. He wanted to meet, so we did.”

  “Did he tell you what he’d considered doing when he found out about that killing?”

  “Yes.” Bernie ran a finger under his collar and grimaced, as if the tie were choking him. “He told me he’d thought of driving to
the crime scene when he heard about it.”

  “And where was he when he heard about it?”

  “At his wife’s birthday dinner, a restaurant on the West Side.”

  “And where did the murder occur?”

  “Shaker Heights.”

  Flanagan paused and glanced over at the jury, as if to telegraph that only a nut job would consider leaving his wife’s birthday dinner to drive across town and pop up at a crime scene. He had made it sound as though I was traipsing to crime scenes and begging to talk with the police.

  Then, before Flanagan could ask another question, Bernie smoothed his tie and continued. “To be complete, John’s dad was in charge of the original Butcher investigation. He committed suicide, and the Butcher wrote to John, saying that she would be watching him. And we all know that, later, the Butcher did kidnap him.”

  For just a moment, I could tell, Flanagan lost his poise. Bernie had spoken in a sympathetic tone and twice referred to me by my first name, humanizing me before the jury, and making it look like I wasn’t a head case after all. My bet was that he had determined not to follow Flanagan’s script.

  Flanagan quickly recovered. “What else did you discuss that morning?”

  “He had some questions about the killings.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “What had happened to the guy, what the coroner had found out about the victim in Rocky River, whether there were similarities, that sort of thing.”

  “Did you respond?”

  “Yeah, I told him to leave it alone, that it was police business.”

  “Did he make a request of you that night?”

  “He asked to meet with Detective Wendy Coufalik. She has a background in serial killings and was assigned to the task force handling the investigation.”

  “Very well. We’ll ask Detective Coufalik about that meeting.”

  Arlene rose, passing Flanagan as she approached the podium, and the contrast between them—white and black, man and woman—couldn’t have been starker. There wasn’t much that Arlene could accomplish with Bernie on cross, but I was convinced that he wouldn’t sell me out. My breathing slowed as Arlene asked one question in particular.