“Tell me, Detective, you testified that you’ve known John Coleman since high school. Did he have a reputation for violence?” Arlene had explained to me that a defendant’s reputation for violence is relevant in a murder case, and I’d trusted Bernie to tell the truth.
Flanagan objected, likely surprised that we’d asked the question of a witness for the prosecution. Seidelson let him answer.
My old Green Wave teammate looked at me and held my gaze. “No. Not at all.”
We adjourned for the day. Bernie had stuck by me, no waffling, and the courtroom felt a tad less oppressive for one day. Even though I saw Cathy hurry out without a backward glance, by the time we reached Jack’s car, I was smiling, which had become a nearly forgotten trait.
“Salvatore did you a solid in there,” Jack said as we drove. “I bet he surprised the fuck out of Flanagan, and then he answered Arlene just the way you wanted.”
“Yeah, I needed that. After that call with Cathy last night …”
“Like I said this morning, if you’re serious about talking with her, your only chance is to go through Father McGraw. Her sister’s not doin’ you any favors.”
“She never liked me, not from day one.”
“Good judge of character.” His mouth was somewhere between a sneer and a smile, but he made me laugh.
“Christ, I remember when she lit into me about something once, can’t even remember what, but for a Catholic-school girl, she was damn creative. ‘Numbnut prick,’ ‘shitlicking cocksucker’—think about that—and she ended with ‘fucking flying fucked fucker.’”
Jack was chuckling, and I was whooping. The levity of the moment took hold, and we spit out every curse word we knew, each one funnier than the last, until we were hysterical. Jack wiped tears from his eyes just to see the road. I raised mine to the heavens and thanked God for allowing a man who’d been tortured, who’d lost his wife, who was on trial for murder, and who had a serial killer on his ass to laugh like that. For a few brief miles along the Shoreway, with the pink rays of the descending sun reflecting in a placid Lake Erie, I relished a moment of solace.
38
My memory of that momentary euphoria faded the next morning, when they called Wendy Coufalik to the stand. She stepped past our table and shot me a look that would have melted lead. Flanagan asked her about the crime scene that she’d supervised, in the parking lot near Great Lakes, where they found my car. She testified that she had been suspicious of my interest in the crime scenes and that I had been the one to find Frank’s body. Her testimony was pretty dullass routine until they got to my meeting with her and Bernie at the Lakewood Police station.
“And did he have any new information about Wilbur Frederickson?”
“Not a thing.” She looked from me to the jury. “Mr. Coleman clearly had some problems.”
Arlene objected, and Judge Seidelson ordered the jury to disregard the remark. My mental state was not at issue, but Flanagan’s cagey trick had worked. He’d no doubt coached Coufalik on what to say, and the thought that an experienced police officer felt I was off-kilter would linger in the back of the jurors’ minds.
Flanagan asked a few closing questions before Arlene rose and smoothed the front of her tailored jacket. “To follow up on Mr. Flanagan’s last few questions, you are a police officer, not a psychologist, correct?”
“I already testified about my work as a police officer and never claimed to be anything else.” Coufalik was brusque. I glanced over at Flanagan and sensed he was uneasy about her tone.
“Fine.” Arlene was unfazed. “So, are you a psychologist?”
“I think I just answered that.” Reality hit me: Coufalik resented being questioned by an African-American. She couldn’t escape the little girl who had grown up in Slavic Village, treading on racial tension and ethnic slurs.
“I’d like a yes-or-no answer.” Arlene would not allow Coufalik to control the examination.
“I’ve given you my answer.”
Judge Seidelson stepped in. “Detective, it’s not an argument. You can answer that question: yes or no.”
For a minute, I thought that Coufalik was going to say something to him, but she turned back to Arlene. “No.”
“Let me turn to the crime scene at Frank’s apartment. You saw Mr. Coleman there that night, didn’t you?”
“I sure did, and now we know why he was there.”
“Again, can you answer my question with a yes or no?”
Coufalik hesitated, but I knew that she wouldn’t want to provoke Judge Seidelson a second time. “Yes.”
“And you were well aware that he had been looking for Frank for some time, right?”
“Define what you mean by some time.” Coufalik was sitting ramrod straight.
Arlene remained unperturbed. “I’ll rephrase. In fact, when you met with him at the Lakewood police headquarters, as you described on direct, you talked with him about looking for Frank Frederickson, correct?”
“I believe so.” Coufalik was fighting that yes-or-no thing.
“To be precise, you encouraged him to find Mr. Frederickson, didn’t you?”
“We thought he could help.”
“Yet you testified earlier, in response to Mr. Flanagan, about your suspicion,” Arlene said, making air quotes to further undermine Coufalik’s words, “at seeing him at another crime scene. Why would you be suspicious upon finding him at Frank Frederickson’s?”
Coufalik shifted in the witness stand, and I expected that she was raging with the desire to simply have at it with Arlene in a parking lot. She paused for a moment. “It just struck me as too coincidental.” Arlene smiled. Coincidences don’t mean a lot, not when the prosecutor has to prove you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. “Coincidental. Hmm … well, let me ask you just a couple of questions about your meeting with Mr. Coleman at the Lakewood Police headquarters. Did you make a statement to him as you were leaving the meeting room?”
Coufalik almost sneered. “Yeah, I caught him staring at my backside. I looked at him, like, really?”
I wished that Cathy wasn’t in the room to hear this line of questioning, but I understood where Arlene was headed.
“You don’t much like Mr. Coleman, do you?”
“This case has nothing to do with whether I like him or not.”
“Can we agree you didn’t like it when you felt he was looking at your backside?”
I glanced over at the jury, and a couple of them were grinning.
“Would you?” Coufalik looked smug, like she’d scored a point. She said it in a way that inferred that Arlene might enjoy a glance, that any black woman would naturally appreciate someone staring at her booty.
Arlene’s diction remained precise and her demeanor unaffected. I pictured them in a gravel schoolyard, circling, ringed by a group of other kids urging them to get it on. She said, “Detective, we all know it’s your testimony we’re interested in now, and you didn’t like it, did you?”
“No, Counselor, I didn’t.” She sounded snarky as hell.
“Thank you, Detective. I have no further questions.” Arlene, I’d bet, would be the one to finish a schoolyard brawl.
Flanagan didn’t ask her any questions on redirect, which told me that he just wanted her off the stand. It wasn’t so much what she had said, but the way she had said it. And the back-and-forth about her backside was important. The testimony wouldn’t hurt me, because I was already a cheating pig in the eyes of the jury. But Arlene had established that the detective who was in charge of the crime scene didn’t much care for me and maybe even held a grudge.
Following an afternoon lunch break, Flanagan qualified his fingerprint expert, Kenneth Wilson, without objection from us. Wilson was articulate and polished, leading the jury through a discussion of ridge characteristics and points and latent prints.
He pointed to a large blowup of a print. “Latent prints aren’t visible but can be made so by chemicals or powders.”
“And how are they preserved?
” Flanagan was on cruise control with this guy. Wilson was a good witness, well-groomed and wearing a stylish pinstripe suit.
“By photography, or using lift tape to transfer them onto a contrasting surface.”
“Was that technique used in this case?”
“Absolutely. We found fingerprints and a partial palm print on a large knife in the wheel well of the defendant’s Buick.”
“Were those prints compared to those of Mr. Coleman?”
Wilson nodded. “We found thirteen points of comparison that matched between the two sets of fingerprints, many more than are needed for me to give an opinion as to whether the prints are a match.”
Flanagan waited a beat. “And did you form an opinion, Mr. Wilson, to a reasonable degree of scientific certainty, as to whether the prints are a match?”
“I did.”
Oh, for Christ’s sake, I thought, just spit it out.
“And would you give your opinion to the jury?”
“Gladly. It is my opinion that the prints left on the knife found in the trunk of Mr. Coleman’s car are, indeed, his. I am so certain of my opinion that I believe it is one hundred percent correct.”
Experts can only testify as to expert opinions, not expert facts, so the way Wilson had framed his statement was clever. Flanagan asked nothing further, and Arlene began her cross. She’d really done her homework on the prints, consulting an expert of her own, which necessitated one more dip into my already dwindling coffers. I could only hope the investment paid off.
She walked through some basics, even having Wilson admit that the theory underlying fingerprint analysis—that no two individuals have the same prints—could not be scientifically validated. She then referred to the blown-up photos and drew his attention to a few areas. “Sir, the prints here are indistinct. Is there terminology you use to describe those areas?”
“Yes, we typically use terms such as smudged or blurred.”
“I see. And the handle of the knife, would you agree that it is a nonporous surface?” Arlene put a photo of the knife up on the screen.
“Yes.” Wilson shifted on the stand.
“What significance is a nonporous surface to a fingerprint analyst?” Arlene, in total control as always, shifted the slides so that the fingerprints were again displayed for the jury.
“Well, as I already told Mr. Flanagan, fingerprints are created when the fingers touch a surface and leave behind a trace of body oil. On porous surfaces, the oil can be absorbed, so the prints don’t hold as well, which is why you won’t find prints on money or articles of clothing. That’s not a problem with an item like the handle of that knife. You may see some blurring; that’s not uncommon at all.”
“And you can’t be certain what caused the blurring or smudging here, can you?”
Instead of just answering no, Wilson tried to get cute. “I can’t be sure. Perhaps the defendant did it himself, afterward, when the knife came into contact with something before it was put in the trunk.”
“But you don’t know that, do you?” Cross is all about control, which is tough with a sharp witness. Arlene needed to take Wilson in a certain direction, and I sensed she was getting there.
“Of course not.”
“There’s no evidence that whoever used this knife tried to wipe it clean, is there?”
“No, but sometimes, in the heat of the moment, people don’t think things through.”
“But you don’t know that either, do you? All you know is that no one tried to wipe the prints from the knife, right?”
“Correct.” Wilson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, apparently accepting that Arlene had a tight hold on the reins.
“Sir, I want to ask you a hypothetical. Assume that John Coleman left his prints on this knife before the night that Frank Frederickson was killed. If the killer later used the same knife, couldn’t that account for the smudging of Mr. Coleman’s prints?”
Wilson fidgeted with his tie and paused, which is never a good thing in front of a jury—they’ll figure the witness is groping for an answer. The jury members all stared at the photo of the knife. My prints were from the end of the handle down; the smudges were nearest the blade. What Arlene was suggesting certainly appeared plausible—particularly if whoever grasped the knife after me had a smaller hand.
“There are a lot of things that can cause—”
“Sir, my question is about one thing: could the smudging have been caused by someone else using this knife after my client left his fingerprints on it?”
“That’s one possibility,” Wilson said.
“And you found no other prints on the knife, did you?”
“No, only Mr. Coleman’s.”
“So if someone else had handled the knife after Mr. Coleman, they’d have worn gloves?”
“If you’re asking hypothetically—”
“Of course.”
“Hypothetically, if someone handled the knife after Mr. Coleman, they could have worn gloves.”
“And you’d also agree that Mr. Coleman, an attorney with nearly three decades of legal experience, did not wear gloves when he handled the knife and made no effort to wipe his prints from the handle, correct?”
“I would agree with that.”
“Have you ever enjoyed sliced sausage, maybe fruit, at your home, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, on many occasions, in fact.”
“Have you ever worn gloves or wiped your prints from the knife afterward?”
Wilson looked at Flanagan, then back to Arlene. No one would do that if they were just preparing snacks prior to a cozy conversation with Jennifer Browning. “Of course not.”
“There was some discussion in opening statements, Mr. Wilson, about a text message received by Mr. Coleman approximately one hour before he says he found Frank Frederickson dead. There were no prints other than Frank Frederickson’s on his cell phone, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“But someone else could have worn gloves and sent Mr. Coleman the text message, couldn’t they?”
“So could your client; he could have sent the message to himself.”
“So you believe that Mr. Coleman did not wear gloves when he allegedly used a knife to kill Frank Frederickson, but then remembered to put on a pair to allegedly send himself a text?”
Wilson glanced at Flanagan, as if he were waiting for a lifeline. They had to have anticipated the question, but Arlene was wielding a bludgeon here. “I couldn’t possibly know what the defendant was thinking.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson.” Arlene smiled and took her seat next to mine. For the first time in several insufferable weeks, I thought maybe there was a glimmer of hope. It was nearly five o’clock, so we adjourned for the day, and Arlene told me that Jennifer Browning would be the first witness in the morning. On her way to the witness stand, she’d pass through the gallery, where Cathy would be sitting. Then she’d ease by our table, her hips undulating just feet from me. I own you, John. My glimmer of hope slipped away.
As Arlene gathered her papers, I pulled her aside. “Look, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for Cathy to be here tomorrow. Can you give her a call? She’s not talking to …”
I didn’t need to finish the sentence.
“Not a good idea for her or for you?”
“C’mon, she’s not gonna want to hear what Jennifer has to say.”
“Can’t imagine them in the same room together, can you?” She shoved her papers into her briefcase. “I’ll talk with her, but you know it’s her choice.”
I nodded my thanks and checked my phone. Carl had left a message, saying that he’d call that night. Jesus, the jury now knew that Coufalik didn’t view me as her bosom buddy, and if Carl uncovered anything suspicious about the search of my vehicle, the impact would be enormous. Jack dropped me at home, and I busied myself checking locks and reheating some pasta. After dinner, I essentially paced, staring at the carpet and my watch, until my brother-in-law finally phoned.
“Sorry, John. It’s all in order. Nothing missing, nothing changed, everything by the book.”
“You gotta be shitting me.” I leaned into the door frame.
“I checked, as promised.” He was silent for a five count. “Cathy’s goin’ through hell. And Molly? Christ.”
“There’s no need to remind me, Carl.”
“Why don’t you just plead guilty, end it?”
I stared at the worn floor and the scratched countertop. My own damn brother-in-law. “I didn’t do it.”
“Maybe you got all fucked up—”
“Drop it, Carl.”
“Whatever you say.” Another five count. “Remember, you brought this on yourself. Cathy didn’t do a damn thing.”
“You think I don’t know that? I never meant to hurt them. You—”
“Christ, how you can say this shit, I just don’t know. Don’t call, don’t write, and good fuckin’ luck.”
I stood in the glow of the kitchen light and glared at the dead black receiver.
39
“Shit. Nothin’?”
I’d just told Jack, on the way to court, that Carl had come up empty.
“Yeah, says he wonders why I just don’t plead.” My brother-in-law was not the cavalry, and there wasn’t any silver bullet, no ferry to Canada.
“Son of a bitch.” Jack snorted and then cackled. “Maybe Torso will find ya first, spare you the trial.”
I looked over at him, and he was grinning at me. “Fuck, even when I can sleep, I dream about that bastard comin’ through a window.”
“You haven’t checked into a CCW, have you?”
“It’s just not my thing, Jack. You packin’ now?”
He nodded toward the glove box. “In there. Can’t take it into the courthouse, even with a permit.”
“After everything that’s happened, maybe I should strap a butcher knife to my waist, see how that plays with the jury.”
Jack chuckled. “People are givin’ every old guy out there the evil eye, like, Is that bastard the Torso Murderer? I even catch people doin’ that to me. Hell, some lynch mob’s probably gonna torch an old folks home.”
The Company of Demons Page 24