“And could have been bought in ten thousand places by a million people,” says Adrian.
“A question of fact for the jury,” I tell Ingel.
The judge makes a face like maybe. I have him thinking at least in the right direction.
Adrian is jumping all over his desk, pointing out that the Scofield murders also have a common MO, but that these have not been charged against his client. Instead, he says, the police have tacitly admitted that these crimes were committed by another perpetrator. “It’s the only thing so far that they got right,” he says.
He will be singing a different tune when I dump Tolar’s medical evidence on him, the autopsy results showing the knife wounds and the fact that the Scofields were killed someplace else. Let him try to massage that and make it fit.
“Two days ago you were ready to cop a plea in Scofield,” I tell him.
“That was tactical,” he says. He knows I cannot make this argument or reveal any of the matters pertaining to settlement negotiations to the jury. Mention of such failed deals is taboo at trial, a policy rooted in the ancient maxim that the law favors settlement. If defendants knew their openers to cop a plea would be revealed to the jury, the time-honored practice of bargaining would die a quick natural death.
Ingel finally looks up. He’s had enough.
“We’ll take this out on the record,” he says. If he gives me a break it is against his better judgment, but, one thing is clear, he will not spare me a good thrashing in the press. The papers and TV will have a field day, headlines and ten o’clock teasers about how the DA lost critical evidence.
With all of my problems, Adrian still has a single overweening difficulty with his case. He must explain how the coiled cord, the one now tied to the second two murders, and the metal stakes came to be found in his client’s vehicle. It is on this pivot point that his entire defense now turns.
For the moment Ingel has rejected his motion to dismiss the Park and Snider murders. This was done out of the presence of the jury, to avoid tainting them with thoughts of evidence, the missing cord, which may or may not later be produced.
I can no longer look Kim Park square in the face as he sits in the audience and glares. I know that on the first break he will accost me in the hall, ask me how justice is possible in the face of such negligence.
To avoid Ingel’s mounting hostility I have clung to the inner limits of restraint in my opening statement to the jury, a straight recitation of the evidence, the van, its registration, the incriminating items found in it.
“We will demonstrate, ladies and gentlemen, by expert testimony, the sociopathic links among these four murders, the common methods employed, and the inner workings of a sick and dangerous mind that will demonstrate beyond a shadow of doubt that the defendant, Andre Iganovich, committed all four murders and did so in a cold and calculating manner.”
I lay out the bloody rag found in the van which DNA testing now shows to have traces of blood not inconsistent with that of Sharon Collins and Rodney Slate. A few round eyes in the jury box.
I talk about the common manufacture of the cord, the fact that some pieces found at the second murder scene have been scientifically linked, a conclusive match, with the coiled length found in the Russian’s vehicle. The measure of my loss, the missing piece of cord, is now underscored by the snapping of necks in the jury box with mention of this forensic connection. It is the touchstone of my case.
Here I concede the broken window of the vehicle, touch on this briefly so that it does not look as if I am running from this circumstance of fact.
I talk about the stun gun taken from Iganovich at his arrest, and the burn marks found on Julie Park and Rodney Snider, evidence that the medical examiner will talk about.
Ingel shows appearances of growing restive as I hit the final issue, the uncharged Scofield murders.
“The defense will no doubt,” I say, “try to confuse you with a third and final set of murders, the deaths of Abbott and Karen Scofield, which at this time, and based on the evidence in our possession, we believe are copycat crimes.”
I take the middle ground here, not entirely absolving Iganovich, but leaving a little wiggle room if evidence later develops, which might allow me at the last moment, before the close of my case, to amend and charge the Russian. Lenore is feeling particularly nervous on this. She wants to talk about something involving Scofield when we break for lunch today.
“The evidence,” I tell the jury, “will demonstrate marked differences in the manner in which these crimes were carried out, which at this time, and given the evidence available, lead us to believe that Andre Iganovich did not commit them.”
I use this to foster a picture of evenhanded justice, the avoidance of overzealous prosecution. But the fact is that I must touch on it to avoid giving the appearance that we are hiding from these unresolved questions, unsolved murders with a seemingly common perpetrator.
With this I turn and take my place at the counsel table.
Chambers does not reserve his opening to the commencement of his case. Instead he is on his feet, almost before the invitation from Ingel. He wants to neutralize early any major points I may have scored, and he wastes no time.
He hits on Scofield, the theme that the true murderer is out there, stalking, still at large, that his client is a defendant of convenience, an immigrant with limited language abilities, someone obvious to dislike, easy to convict.
Ingel stops him. “You’re making argument, Mr. Chambers. Stick to the evidence of your case,” he says.
“Yes sir,” he says. Adrian regroups.
“The evidence of this case,” he says, “is entirely circumstantial. The fact is that my client would not be here today but for three pieces of evidence, a coil of cord, some metal tent stakes, and a piece of cloth with human blood on it.
“This and the inference,” he says, “that found in his car they must therefore belong to Mr. Iganovich. That in a nutshell is the state’s case.
“On first blush,” he says, “this may seem damning. But consider for a moment the rest of the evidence, the part that Mr. Madriani did not emphasize, the part that he does not know.”
With this he turns and looks at me sitting at the table.
“The evidence will show,” he says, “that indeed a window of this vehicle was broken as the prosecutor willingly admits. What he does not tell you,” he says, “what he fails to disclose is the fact that this window was smashed completely out, leaving the vehicle open to anyone who chanced by. The van sat there in a public garage, open to any passerby for a substantial period, for a number of days, before police came upon it, opened it, and found the seemingly incriminating evidence. This is the state of the evidence.
“The fact is anyone could have deposited the evidence in that vehicle after it was parked.”
“You’re arguing again,” says Ingel. “Keep to the evidence, I don’t want to tell you again,” he says.
“I was just getting to it, your honor, a critical piece of evidence.”
Ingel looks at him and nods as if to say, “then do it.”
“For some time police operated on the theory,” he says, “that this window was broken by a vandal, a possible witness who may have looked inside, who may have noticed the presence,” he lingers for a moment, mental italic for the words that follow, “or the absence of this critical evidence inside.
“They had reason to believe,” he says, “that this was the case. Testimony from their own officers will reveal that this theory in fact was pursued, but to no effect. The police,” he says, “on that stand”—he points to the witness box—“will tell you this.”
I look at Lenore, like how could he know this.
She leans in my ear. “Roland,” she whispers.
She is right, the tripping little fingers of Roland Overroy are all over this, revelations no doubt intended as a show of good faith to Adrian in their negotiations.
“But the police failed,” says Chambers, “to find this
critical witness. Perhaps they should have looked a little harder. For it is failure which we have rectified.”
Lenore is leaning toward me to add something, when she hears this, breaks off and looks instead at Adrian, his hands gripping the jury railing.
“We will present a witness,” he says, “who will testify that he is responsible for breaking the window of this van, a man who has cut no deals with the prosecution for his testimony, who is willing to face the penalty for his crime.”
Like this is an assurance of credibility, a single misdemeanor count for vandalism.
“Our witness,” he says, “will testify under oath that when this window was smashed, he intended to burglarize the vehicle, that he opened the doors and went inside. He will testify unequivocally that after entering the van he was disappointed. He will tell you that he found nothing of value to take, no radio or tape deck, no tools, nothing of significance.”
Adrian turns from the jury and looks directly at me. In the instant before he speaks I get a premonition of what is to follow. Then he drops the hammer.
“He will also tell you,” he says, “here under oath, that on the day he smashed the window there was no coiled cord, no tent stakes and no bloody rag in the defendant’s vehicle.”
With this all I get is Adrian’s simpering smile.
Lenore and I are the picture of cool sitting at the table, seeming indifference dripping from us, like perhaps the only thing on our minds is an early lunch.
Inside I am a hot caldron, steaming to get my hands on Chambers’s witness list, buried in the pile of papers in front of me.
Adrian takes his seat. Ingel checks his watch.
“Too late,” he says, “to call a witness. We’ll take the luncheon recess now. Mr. Madriani,” he looks down at me. “You will be ready for your first witness when we convene,” he looks at his watch. “At one-fifteen.”
“Yes, your honor.”
He admonishes the jury not to discuss the case, then smacks the gavel on its wooden base.
Chapter Thirty-two
This noon Lenore and I order out for lunch from the office, sandwiches in brown bags from the greasy spoon a block away. While one of the secretaries is running for these we are talking strategy, and poring over the list of Adrian’s witnesses. Something which by law we are forced to exchange.
The artifice of his case at this point is beginning to emerge. The defense in a capital murder trial is always a variation on some age-old theme; in this case that somebody else did it.
Adrian will put his own flourish on this old saw. Using the unsolved Scofield murders as a diversion, he starts with our own hypothesis that someone else did the Scofield crimes. That we agree on this premise gives his case a gloss of legitimacy.
From his witness list, the experts assembled, we can surmise the main point of attack, an all-out assault on the factual distinctions that set the Scofield killings apart from the other murders. If someone else did the Scofields, and if the differences in the MO between these crimes and the others appears illusory, Adrian is halfway home.
The flanking move is his secret vandal. A planned coup de grace aimed at the head of our case. If credible, this witness can destroy the only link binding Iganovich to the incriminating evidence in the van.
Lenore and I study his list like some seer perusing tea leaves. There’s a lot of misdirection here. Both sides have seeded these with deliberate distractions, an ocean of red herrings, people with whom they have rubbed shoulders during their investigation, but who have nothing meaningful to offer in the case. In this way it is easy to conceal the handful of actual witnesses, to put the other side to a great deal of work before trial.
For my part, Adrian now has the name of Julie Park’s former hair-dresser, and the guy who read the gas meter at her apartment building, this along with two dozen others whose only knowledge of the facts in these cases is what they’ve read in the papers or seen on the tube.
But one reaps what he sows. For the most part, studying Adrian’s list is a barren exercise. It is a column of names and addresses, the bare minimum required by law. We are also entitled to any written reports of testimony prepared by witnesses. Adrian has kept all of this verbal.
In the frame for this trial we have had little time to check his witnesses, to send Claude and his minions to talk to many of these names, to winnow away the chaff. We are stabbing in the dark as to which of these people is Adrian’s magic pellet, his mystery vandal. I’m scoping down the column of names with the point of my pen, an idle exercise until I hit one that sounds familiar.
“James Sloan.” I look at Goya. “Any bells?”
She shakes her head.
I go down the balance of the sheet. Nothing.
I come back to “Sloan.” I’m wondering where I’ve heard this name. Something recent, in the last several weeks.
I pick up the phone, dial a number. A female voice answers.
“Ester, Paul Madriani across the street,” I say.
Ester Peoples is the docket clerk who handles filings for the criminal courts in the main lobby of the Davenport County Courthouse. I can hear her chewing on something. Another bureaucrat donating her lunch hour.
“Can you check a name for me, on the computer?”
“Sure. How far back?”
“A year,” I say.
I give her James Sloan, spelling the last name. I hear the clicking of keys. Then: “Which one do you want?” she says.
“More than one James Sloan?” I say.
“One guy,” she says, “three convictions.”
“What for?”
“One count arson, reduced to malicious mischief, two counts vandalism . . .”
“Bingo,” I say. I get his social security number from Ester, thank her and punch the next line on the phone to call out again. This time I don’t dial, but hit one of the self-dialing numbers up top. Claude does not answer, but on the third ring I hear the voice of Denny Henderson.
He tells me that Claude is on his way over to my office. Dusalt is my first witness this afternoon. We will prep with him only briefly before heading back to court.
“Denny. I want you to pull the most recent booking sheet on one James Sloan.” I read him the social security number, and court file number from Ester.
“Right now?” he says.
“No, yesterday,” I say.
Some grumbling on the line, then dead air. I hold for what seems like ten minutes. Then he’s back on the line.
“Got it,” he says.
“See if there’s the mug photo,” I say.
Some shuffling on the other end. “Charming,” he says.
“You got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me guess, a purple do, done up in spikes, pock marks on the face like the bubbles in a sulfur pot?”
“You know the guy?” he says.
“In a manner,” I say.
The porcelain prince, I think. The men’s john at the courthouse the day I ran into Adrian, the punk with his schlong caught in the mesh of his zipper, Chambers’s erstwhile client.
It was the zippered jacket and weird hair. There was something incongruous in the name “James Sloan” when Chambers went through the charade of introducing us that day. This it seems has held the name like some computer batch file at the edges of my recall ever since.
“I want everything you’ve got on him, every arrest file, as soon as you can get it over here. Then I want you to go by the courthouse and get the depositions, the court files on the charges.”
“They won’t let me take the originals,” says Henderson.
“Then copy them.”
He counts up the arrests. “It’ll take all day,” he says.
“You got something better to do?” I tell him he can draw straws with Claude as to who gets this duty. He gives me a groan knowing already that he will come up short in this contest. Claude is in court. I hear a lot of grousing, like he’s about to hang up.
“And Denny.”
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“Yeah.”
“Run a current rap sheet on the guy. See if he has any felony convictions anywhere else.” We hang up.
“It would be nice,” I tell Lenore, “if we could hang him out on a felony conviction.” This would be something with which to impeach his credibility before the jury. Convicted felons carry the scar for life.
“Then you know who it is?” says Lenore. “Chambers’s witness.”
“If I know Adrian,” I say.
“But how did he find the guy when we couldn’t?”
“You’re assuming,” I say, “that he did.”
She gives me a look.
“Adrian’s famous for producing witnesses of convenience,” I tell her, “better at curing the blind spots in his case than a faith healer.”
Watching Adrian in court over the years I have learned that the margin of victory is too often measured by the preponderance of perjury emitted by his witnesses, a stench like a good dose of mustard gas from the stand.
She looks at me wide-eyed, that any lawyer, an officer of the court, would do this knowingly, as a matter of course. For all of her street-smarts and barrio background, if you scratch the hard surface of Lenore, underneath you will find a romantic.
“If Adrian Chambers ate nails,” I tell her, “he would pass corkscrews. He does not simply torture the truth, he is more devious.”
Because I have seen it before, I can predict Adrian’s tactic with some confidence.
“When we put Claude on the stand,” I tell her, “to lay the foundation for the evidence of our investigation, Adrian will ask him about our theories on the vandal who broke the window, our futile efforts to find this witness. Thanks to Roland,” I say, “he will build his defense by fulfilling our own prophesies, and modifying the message. In his version, the witness broke the window, but can attest that none of the evidence was inside. It is Adrian’s ethic, any means to defeat the perfidious powers of the state.”
There’s a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
It’s Claude. He’s got a number of files under his arm, folders containing police reports and other business documents compiled during the course of our investigations. He will use these on the stand to refresh his memory in case any details are hazy.
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