Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury

by Steve Cavanagh

  The board is located in room 1000 in the court building – the clerk’s office. Inside that office, along with the lines of people waiting to pay fines, a whiteboard stood up with a list of the trials and motions going for hearing that day. The board is there to tell witnesses, cops, DAs, law students, tourists and lawyers exactly where the trial action is in the building at any given time. An hour before the motion was due, I went up to room 1000, made sure my back was to the clerk, found my motion on the board, rubbed out the courtroom number and scrawled in a new one. A small trick. Not like the long, risky operations I’d run when I was a con artist for ten years. Since I’d become a lawyer I allowed myself the occasional lapse back into my old ways.

  Given how long you have to wait for an elevator in this place, I figured my diversion was good enough to set Norm’s witness back by ten minutes or so.

  Detective Mike Granger walked into the courtroom twenty minutes late. At first, I didn’t turn when I heard the doors opening behind me. I just listened to Granger’s feet on the tiled floor, walking almost as fast as Judge Parks’ fingers rapping on his desk. But then I heard more footsteps. That made me turn.

  Behind Granger, a middle-aged man wearing an expensive suit walked into the court and sat at the back. Instantly recognizable, he had a flop of fair hair, a row of TV-white teeth, and a pale, office-bound complexion. Rudy Carp was one of those lawyers who battled out cases for months on the nightly news, appeared on Court TV, got his face on the cover of magazines and had all the courtroom skills to back it up. An official litigator to the stars.

  I’d never met the guy. We didn’t hunt in the same social circle. Rudy had dinner at the White House twice a year. Judge Harry Ford and I drank cheap Scotch once a month. At one time I’d let the booze get the better of me. Not now. Once a month. No more than two drinks. I had it under control.

  Rudy waved in my direction. I turned and saw the judge staring at Detective Granger. When I swung back Rudy waved again. Only then did I realize he was waving to me. I waved back, turned around and tried to refocus. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what the hell he was doing in my court.

  “Good of you to join us, Detective,” said Judge Parks.

  Mike Granger looked every inch the veteran New York cop. He walked with a swagger – he took off his sidearm, spat out his gum and slapped it onto the pancake holster before leaving it under the prosecution table. No guns were to be taken into court. Law enforcement were supposed to check their sidearms at security. The court officers usually let veteran cops slide, but even the vets knew not to wear a gun on the witness stand.

  Granger tried to explain why he was late. Judge Parks cut him off with a shake of the head. Save it for the stand.

  I heard Jean Marie sigh. Her black roots were showing through her bleached dye job and her fingers trembled as she brought them to her mouth.

  “Don’t worry. I told you already, you’re not going back to jail,” I said.

  She’d worn a new black pantsuit for court. It looked good on her – gave her a little more confidence.

  While I tried to reassure Jean, Norm got the show on the road by calling Granger to the stand. He was sworn in, and Norm took him through the basics of Jean’s arrest.

  He was passing 37th Street and Lexington that night, saw Jean standing outside a massage parlor with a bag in her hand. Granger knew she had a rap sheet for turning tricks, back in the day. He stopped, approached her. Introduced himself and showed her his badge. At that point he says he saw drug paraphernalia protruding from the top of Jean’s brown paper sack.

  “What was this drug paraphernalia?” asked Norm.

  “A straw. It’s routinely used by addicts to snort narcotics. I saw it, clear as day, sticking out of the top of her bag,” said Granger.

  Judge Parks wasn’t surprised, but he rolled his eyes nonetheless. Believe it or not, in the last six months a half a dozen young African American men had been arrested and held by the NYPD for possession of drug paraphernalia because they had soda straws in their possession, usually stuck into the top of a soda cup.

  “And what did you do then?” said Norm.

  “For me, seeing drug paraphernalia on a person – that’s probable cause. Ms. Marie has a record for drugs offenses, so I searched her bag and found the drugs inside. Five small baggies of marijuana in the bottom of the sack. So I arrested her.”

  It sounded like Jean was going to jail. Second drug offense in twelve months. No probation this time. She was going down for probably two to three years. In fact, I was reminded that she’d already done a little time for this offense. After her arrest she spent three weeks inside before I could get a bail bondsman to write me a bond for her.

  I’d asked Jean about the bust. She told me the truth. Jean always told me the truth. Detective Granger had rolled up on her looking for a little free action in the back of his car. Jean told him she was done turning tricks. So Granger got out of the car, grabbed her bag and when he saw the weed inside, he changed his tune; told her he wanted fifteen per cent of her takings from now on or he would bust her right then and there.

  Jean told him she already paid two patrol officers in the 17th Precinct ten per cent and from the looks of it they weren’t doing their job. Those cops knew Jean and had an easy time looking the other way. Despite her background, Jean was a patriot. Her product was one hundred per cent home-grown US marijuana straight from the state-licensed farms in Washington. Most of Jean’s customers were elderly – smoking away their arthritis pains, or getting relief from glaucoma. They were regular customers and no trouble. Jean told Granger to get lost so he busted her and cooked up a story.

  Of course, I couldn’t prove any of that in court. I wasn’t going to even try.

  As Norm sat down, I stood up, cleared my throat and adjusted my tie. I placed my feet shoulder-width apart, took a sip of water, and steadied myself. It looked like I was getting comfortable – ready to go at it with Granger for at least a couple of hours. I picked up a page from the file on my desk, and asked Granger my first question.

  “Detective, in your statement you said the defendant was holding the carrier bag in her right hand. We know this is a large brown paper sack. Hard to hold in one hand. I take it she was holding the sack by the handles at the top of the bag?”

  Granger looked at me like I was the man stripping away his precious time on banal, stupid questions. He nodded and a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  “Yeah, she was holding the bag by the handles,” he said. He then looked over at the prosecution table confidently, letting them know he had this down: I could tell Norm and Granger had discussed the lawful use of straws at some length in preparation for today. Granger was more than ready for that. He’d expected to have a big argument with me about the straw, and whether it was just being used for a soda – yada, yada, yada.

  Without another word, I sat down. My first question was also my last.

  I could see Granger eyeing me suspiciously, like he might’ve just had his pocket picked but couldn’t be sure. Norm confirmed he had no desire to re-examine the witness. Detective Granger left the witness stand and I asked Norm to give me three exhibits.

  “Your Honor, Exhibit one in this case is the bag. This bag,” I said, holding up a sealed, clear evidence bag which contained a brown paper sack with the McDonald’s logo on the front. I bent down and picked up my own McDonald’s bag. Held it up for comparison.

  “These bags are the same size, precisely. This bag is twenty inches deep. I got this one this morning with my breakfast,” I said.

  I put both bags down, picked up the next exhibit.

  “This is the contents of the defendant’s bag, taken from my client the night of her arrest. Exhibit two.”

  Inside this sealed exhibit bag were five small wraps of marijuana. Altogether, they wouldn’t have been enough to fill a cereal bowl.

  “Exhibit three is a standard soda straw from McDonald’s. This straw is eight inches long,” I said,
holding it up. “This is an identical straw I picked up this morning.” I held up my straw then put it on the desk.

  I placed the weed inside my McDonald’s bag, held it up for the judge. I then took the straw, held it vertically, and dropped it inside the bag with one hand while I held the handles with the other.

  The straw disappeared from view.

  I handed the bag to the judge. He looked at it, took the straw out and dropped it back inside. He repeated this a few times and even stood the straw upright inside the bag on top of the baggies of marijuana. The straw remained a good five inches from the top of the bag. I knew this because I’d practiced the same thing myself.

  “Your Honor, I’m subject to the court stenographer, but my note of Detective Granger’s testimony with reference to the straw is, I saw it, clear as day, sticking out of the top of her bag. The defense concedes it’s possible for the straw to be exposed if the top of the bag is curled up and held lower down. However, Detective Granger confirmed in his testimony that my client held the bag by the handles. Your Honor, this is the last straw – so to speak.”

  Judge Parks put a hand up. He’d heard enough from me. He turned in his seat and directed his attention to Norm.

  “Mr. Folkes, I’ve examined this bag, and the straw with the actual items located in the bottom of the sack. I am not satisfied that Detective Granger could have seen a straw protruding from the top of this bag. On that basis, there is no probable cause for his search, and all evidence gathered as a result is inadmissible. Including the straw. I am concerned, to say the least, at the recent trend among some officers in classifying soda straws and other innocuous items as drug paraphernalia. Be that as it may, you have no evidence to support an arrest and I am dismissing all charges. I’m sure you had a lot to say to me, Mr. Folkes, but there’s no point – I’m afraid, you’re too damn late.”

  Jean hugged my neck, partially strangling me in the process. I patted her arm, gently, and she let go. She may not want to hug me when she gets my bill. The judge and his staff got up and left the courtroom.

  Granger stormed out, shooting me with his index finger as he left. It didn’t bother me, I was used to it.

  “So when can I expect you to file an appeal,” I said to Norm.

  “Not in this life,” he replied, “Granger doesn’t bust low-level operators like your client. There’s probably something else behind this arrest that you and I will never know about.”

  Norm packed his gear and followed my client out of the courtroom. Just me and Rudy Carp left in the room now. He was applauding, with what looked like a genuine smile on his face.

  Rudy stood up and said, “Congratulations, that was … impressive. I need five minutes of your time.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to know if you’d like to take second chair in the biggest murder trial this city has ever seen.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kane watched the man in the plaid shirt open the front door to his apartment and stand there, stunned into a dead silence. He saw confusion take hold and Kane wondered what the man was thinking. He was sure that at first, the man in the plaid shirt thought he was looking at his reflection; as if some joker had rung his doorbell, then fitted a full-length mirror right across the door frame. And then, when the man realized there was no mirror, he rubbed his forehead and took a step back from the door as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It was the closest Kane had come to the man. He’d been watching him, photographing him, mimicking him. Kane looked the man up and down and felt pleased with his work. Kane wore exactly the same shirt as the man at the door. He’d dyed his hair the same color, and with some trimming, shaving, and make-up he’d managed to copy the receding hairline in exactly the same pattern around the temples. The black-rimmed glasses were identical. Even the gray pants carried a precise bleach stain on the lower left leg, five inches from the bottom and two inches from the inside seam. Same boots too.

  Turning his attention to the man’s face, Kane counted three seconds before the man realized this was not a practical joke and he was not staring at a reflection. Even so, the man looked at his hands, to make sure they were empty. Kane’s right hand held a silenced pistol down by his side.

  Kane took advantage of his victim’s confusion. He pushed the man hard in the chest, forcing him back. Kane stepped inside the apartment, kicked the door shut behind him and heard the door slam against the frame.

  “Bathroom, now, you’re in danger,” said Kane.

  The man held up his hands, his lips moved soundlessly as they struggled to find the words. Any words. None came. The man simply reversed down the hall and into his bathroom until the back of his thighs touched the porcelain tub. His hands shook as he held them high, his eyes tracing every inch of Kane, confusion fighting his panic.

  Likewise, Kane couldn’t help but study the man in the bathroom, and notice the subtle differences in appearance. Up close, he was thinner than the man by a good fifteen to twenty pounds. The hair color was close, but not quite right. And the scar – a small one just above the man’s top lip, on his left cheek. Kane hadn’t seen the scar from the photos he’d taken five weeks ago, nor did he see it on the picture held by the DMV that appeared on the man’s driver’s license. Maybe the scar had formed after the license picture had been taken. In any event, Kane knew he could replicate it. He had studied Hollywood make-up techniques; a thin, quick-drying latex solution could replicate almost any scar. Kane nodded. One thing he had got right was the eye color; that at least was an identical match to the contacts. He thought he might need to add darker patches around the eyes, maybe lighten his skin just a little. The nose was a problem.

  But one he could fix.

  Not perfect, but not bad, thought Kane.

  “What the hell is going on?” said the man.

  Kane took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and threw it at the man’s feet.

  “Pick it up, and read it out loud,” said Kane.

  The man bent low on shaky legs, picked up the paper, unfolded it and read it. When the man looked back, Kane held a small digital voice recorder.

  “Out loud,” said Kane.

  “T-t-take whatever you w-w-want just don’t hurt me,” said the man, hiding his face from Kane.

  “Hey, listen to me. Your life is in danger. There’s not much time. Someone is coming here to kill you. Relax, I’m a cop. I’m here to take your place and protect you. Why do you think I’m dressed exactly like you?” said Kane.

  Peeking between his fingers, the man looked at Kane again, narrowed his eyes and started shaking his head.

  “Who would want to kill me?”

  “I don’t have time to explain, but this man has to believe that I am you. We’re going to get you out of here – get you safe. But I need you to do something first. See, I look like you but I don’t sound like you. Read the note aloud so I can hear your voice. I need to learn your speech rhythm, figure out how you sound.”

  The note shook in the man’s grip as he began to read aloud, hesitantly at first, skipping and stumbling over the first words.

  “Stop. Relax. You’re safe. It’s all going to work out fine. Now try again, take it from the top,” said Kane.

  The man took a breath, and tried again.

  “The hungry purple dinosaur ate the kind, zingy fox, the jabbering crab, and the mad whale and started vending and quacking,” he said, with a confused look on his face.

  “What’s that all about?” he said.

  Kane hit stop on the digital recorder, raised the gun and pointed it at the man’s head.

  “The sentence is a phonetic pangram. It gives me a base for your phonetic range. I’m sorry. I lied. I’m the man who is here to kill you. Believe me, I wish we had more time together. It would have made things easier,” said Kane.

  A single round from the silenced pistol cut a hole through the roof of the man’s mouth. The gun was a silenced .22 caliber. No exit wound. No blood and brains to clean up, no bullet that neede
d digging out of the wall. Nice and clean. The man’s body fell into the tub.

  Kane dropped the pistol in the sink, left the bathroom and opened the front door. Kane checked the hallway. Waited. No one in sight. No one had heard a thing.

  Across the hall from the front door was a small storeroom. Kane opened the door, picked up the gym bag and the bucket of lye he’d left there, went back to the apartment, and returned to the bathroom. If he’d been able to kill the man and move the body, he would have completed his work elsewhere, and much more efficiently. Circumstances dictated otherwise. He could not risk moving the body, even in pieces. In the five weeks of surveillance that Kane had undertaken, he’d seen the man leave his apartment on no more than a dozen occasions. The man knew no one in the building, he had no friends, no family, no job, and importantly no visitors. Kane was sure of that. But the man was known in the building, and the local area. He said “hi” to neighbors in the lobby, passed the time of day with store clerks, that sort of thing. Passing acquaintances, but contact nonetheless. So Kane needed to sound like him, look like him, and keep to the man’s routine as closely as possible.

  With the obvious exception. The man’s routine was about to change in the most extraordinary way.

  Before he worked on the man’s body, he needed to work on his own. Kane took a moment to study the face again, up close.

  The nose.

  The man’s nose bent over to the left side and it was thicker than Kane’s. He must’ve broken it some years before and either didn’t have the insurance, the money or the inclination to get it reset properly.