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

by Steve Cavanagh

  For most of his life, Kane had been practicing at being other people. Sometimes these identities stuck around for a while, especially when Kane had taken the place of a real person. Sometimes the fake identities were used up and disposed of quickly after they had served their purpose. Of the identities that stayed around, Kane had a few fond favorites. And he’d soon learned, that in order to stay in his identity, he needed to be able to sign some documents – new driver’s license, checks, money transfers, the usual. In his spare time, Kane would practice his identity’s signature and learn how to forge it, perfectly. Over the years, he had become skilled. His pen control and hand-to-eye coordination became that of a fine artist.

  Finally, satisfied with his penwork, Kane eased deeper into his seat, flicked the notepaper back to the first page of his notes and folded his arms.

  Pryor finished his examination-in-chief, and Kane watched, transfixed as a line of people came through the back doors holding boxes and even a mattress. He saw Pryor arguing with Flynn.

  “Your Honor, I would like to raise a motion to allow a formal demonstration during my cross-examination of this witness,” said Flynn.

  “Let’s hear it, but before that we need the jury to be excused,” said the judge.

  The jurors on either side of Kane got up. He followed their lead, put his notebook in his pocket. The jury keeper led them out of the side door, back to the jury room. In a lot of cases juries were up and down and back and forth from the jury room ten or twelve times a day while the lawyers argued about the law. Kane was used to it.

  The jury keeper stood outside the room, holding the door open for the jurors. As Kane approached her he said, “Sorry, is it okay if I use the bathroom?”

  “Sure, down the hallway, second on the left,” she said.

  Kane thanked the officer, made his way down the hall. The bathroom was small, dark and smelled like most male bathrooms. One of the lights was out. Two urinals sat against white tiles. Kane made his way to the single cubicle, closed and locked the door.

  He worked fast.

  First he took out a pack of bubble gum from his pocket. It had already been opened and had one piece removed. He tipped the pack into his palm and the rest of the gum spilled out. Along with a small baggie around the same size as the individually wrapped pieces of gum. He removed the cellophane wrapping from the baggie and shook out a pair of impossibly thin, latex gloves. Quickly, he put them on. He removed the notebook from his pocket and tore off the page with the word “Guilty” written on it. Scrunching the paper in his hands, Kane made a small ball of paper, but was careful to keep at least the first three letters of the word in view. He put the balled-up note in his jacket, took off the gloves and put some pocket change inside of them, wrapped them in toilet paper, dropped them in the bowl and flushed.

  The jury didn’t have to wait too long. Ten minutes. Just enough time for Spencer to step out of line.

  “Look, I know this doesn’t look good for the defendant, but the case isn’t over. And I don’t trust that cop,” said Spencer.

  “Me either. And that slimy prosecutor had the knife all along. Just didn’t want to give it to the defense,” said Manuel.

  “We don’t know that. All I can say is it sure looks bad for Solomon right now,” said Cassandra.

  Kane had noticed Cassandra stealing the occasional glance at Spencer. He was young and slim and Cassandra had not yet worked up the courage to talk to him, but the attraction appeared obvious even to Kane.

  “We have to keep an open mind. And we’re not allowed to discuss the evidence until the trial is over,” said Kane.

  A few of the jurors nodded their approval.

  Betsy said, “He’s right. We can’t discuss it.”

  “I’m just sayin’ the same thing. We shouldn’t trust this as Gospel just because it came from a cop. Open minds, people,” said Spencer.

  The jury took their seats and before Kane sat down, he took off his jacket and folded it. He draped the jacket over his right knee after he took his seat on the jury panel, right behind Spencer. The judge brought the trial back to life.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I have allowed Mr. Flynn some leeway in a practical demonstration. You should remember that the prosecution will have a right to elicit further testimony from this witness on any matter arising from the demonstration. Now, proceed Mr. Flynn,” said the judge.

  Kane let his jacket slide to the floor, ensuring it fell with the left sleeve facing toward him. He bent down to pick it up, careful to ensure the jurors on either side of him were focused on Eddie Flynn’s opening question. Both Terry and Rita concentrated on the lawyer. As Kane gripped the jacket, he pushed the wad of paper from the right-hand pocket from the outside of the material. This meant the ball of paper was on the floor with his jacket on top. Kane lifted the jacket just an inch off the floor, in a sweeping motion. For the briefest of moments, he caught sight of the ball as it rolled into shadow beneath the bench in front of him.

  He quickly checked the faces of the jurors on his left, and Rita on his right. None had seemed to notice.

  As Flynn began his cross-examination, the tension between him and Anderson didn’t escape Kane’s notice. It happened when the cop talked about his broken wrist. The cop said it had happened because of a fall.

  Kane wondered if Anderson had fallen, or if he’d taken a swing at the defense attorney and missed.

  Flynn was in pain. He moved more slowly than when Kane had seen him yesterday. And he’d noticed the attorney fighting to hide a grimace every time he got up from his seat.

  Kane thought that if he had to bet on it, Anderson and Flynn had had a fight of some sort the night before. The way the cop looked at Flynn had some weight behind hit. The hatred that rose from Anderson like steam was more than the passing disgust homicide cops usually felt for defense attorneys.

  No, there was history there. Recent history.

  Kane didn’t mind cops. He had no hatred of them.

  That’s why he had chosen to work with one of them. They came in handy. He made a note to call his contact later. There was more work to be done.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  There are three basic elements to a good hustle. Doesn’t matter if you’re a con artist in Havana, London, or Beijing. You’ll still go through these three stages. They might have different names, and may be used to different ends, but when it comes down to it these three processes lead to successful cons.

  The magic number, again.

  It just so happens there are three stages to a good cross-examination. It just so happens these stages are exactly the same as those used by two-bit hustlers and silk handkerchief con artists. The art of the con and the art of the cross were one and the same. And I knew how to use both.

  Stage one. The convincer.

  “Detective, from the photographs that we’ve seen, and the autopsy reports on the victims, and from your own investigations, these murders could have been committed by someone other than the defendant, correct?”

  He didn’t think about it at all. I knew he wouldn’t. Once homicide cops get an idea in their head, it’s damn near impossible to shake them out of it.

  “No, incorrect. All of the evidence points toward the defendant as the murderer,” he said, calmly.

  “The defense does not accept that, but let’s say for a moment that you’re correct. That all of the evidence points toward the defendant as the killer. Is it possible that the real perpetrator of this crime simply wants you, and your colleagues, and the DA to believe that the defendant is guilty of this crime?”

  “You mean somebody floated in and out of that property without being seen, and planted evidence against Bobby Solomon? No,” he said, suppressing a laugh, “I’m sorry, that’s just ridiculous.”

  “Could the murders have happened only in the way you described to the jury? The bat used on Carl Tozer, and then the knife used on Ariella Bloom as they both lay in bed?”

  “That’s the only scenario that fits
the evidence,” said Anderson.

  I returned to my laptop, accessed the court video system with my password and loaded up two of the photographs Harper had taken yesterday morning. I looked at the screen, and saw Pryor had left up the picture of the murder scene. That was useful. I whispered instructions to Arnold on how to scroll through the images and transfer them to the court screen. He gave me the thumbs up, then got up and moved our equipment to the well of the court, the space on the tiled floor right in front of the judge, jury and witness.

  I got up, winced at the increasing pain in my side and told myself I was due some more painkillers soon. I just had to hang on a little longer. For a moment, I looked at the boxes and the mattress, and the bag sitting on top of the mattress.

  Stage two. The pay-off.

  “Detective Anderson, the photo on the screen of the victims, is that exactly how you found them when you attended the scene?” I said.

  He glanced at the photo again. Carl on his side, blood on the back of his head. Ariella on her back, blood on her stomach and chest and nowhere else.

  “Yes, that’s how we found them.”

  I’d read the medical examiner’s report from the scene. It gave a detailed description of the positioning and injuries to the body. She’d arrived around one a.m. And had given the time of death to within three to four hours of her arrival.

  I held out two fingers to Arnold, he changed the photo on the courtroom screen. A close-up of the product tag at the bottom of the mattress at the crime scene.

  “Detective, the mattress on the floor here is a NemoSleep, product number 55612L. Can you confirm this is the identical product number to the mattress shown in the photograph with the victim’s bloodstains on it?”

  He looked at the photo, said, “It seems to be.”

  “The medical examiner records that Ariella’s torso was positioned twelve inches from the left-hand side of the bed, and her head nine inches from the top of the bed, correct?”

  “I believe so, I can’t recall exactly without reading the report again,” he said.

  I paused while Pryor’s ADA found a copy of the report and gave it to Anderson. I referred him to the relevant page from memory. It’s a skill that’s served me well in the law. I never forget.

  “Yes, I’d say that’s correct,” he said.

  He also confirmed Tozer’s head was located at twenty-four inches from the top of the bed and eighteen inches from the right-hand side of the bed according to the medical examiner.

  I picked up the bag from the mattress and laid out the items on the floor.

  Tape measure. Magic marker. Shot glass. Corn syrup. Bottled water. Food dye. A bed sheet.

  I opened the new bed sheet, spread it out on the mattress. I measured out the distances for the positioning of the victims recorded by the ME, and drew a circle around them on the sheet with the marker. I then raised a finger at Arnold – I needed the first photo on the screen.

  The image on the courtroom screen changed. It showed a picture of the mattress taken yesterday. A heavy, wide bloodstain pattern on Ariella’s side of the bed, and just a spot of staining on Tozer’s side below his skull, around the same size as the bottom of a coffee cup.

  “Detective, would you agree the marks that I’ve made on this bed correlate with the bloodstains in the photograph?”

  He took his time, glancing between the screen and the mattress on the floor, then said, “More or less.”

  “You have the medical examiner’s reports in front of you. She recorded Ariella Bloom’s weight at one hundred and ten pounds and Carl Tozer’s at two hundred and thirty-three pounds, isn’t that right?”

  He flicked over the pages, then said, “Yes.”

  “Detective, this isn’t a math test, but Carl Tozer weighed more than twice as much as Ariella Bloom, wouldn’t you say?”

  He nodded. Shifted in his seat.

  “You’ll need to answer for the record,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said, leaning forward into the microphone.

  I opened the box, removed two kettlebells. Showed them to Anderson. He agreed one weighed twenty-five pounds, the other fifty pounds. I placed one in the circle on Ariella’s side and one just below the spot on Tozer’s side of the bed. I could tell before I went any further that this demonstration was going to work. I’d known that back in Bobby’s bedroom when Harper and I had lain on the bed. The fifty-pound bell sat way lower on the mattress. It had sunk down with the weight. The twenty-five pound bell looked at least a couple of inches higher on the mattress.

  “Detective, again, from the medical examiner’s record, she noted that Ariella Bloom suffered significant blood loss. Almost a thousand ccs?”

  He found the record, “Yes.”

  I opened the bottle of water, poured some out into my glass on the defense table, then trickled corn syrup into the water and two drops of food dye. I replaced the cap on the bottle and shook it up. Took off the cap and filled the shot glass.

  “Detective, this shot glass, which you are free to examine, holds fifty ccs. Do you wish to examine it?” I said.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

  “The NYPD crime lab uses a mix of one part corn syrup to four parts water to replicate the consistency of blood. It’s in their reconstruction handbook for blood spatter experts. Are you aware of this?”

  “I wasn’t, but again I don’t disagree,” he said. Anderson was careful not to concede points when he knew I had something up my sleeve. If he argued needlessly it might weaken his testimony. All NYPD cops had the same witness training. I’d cross-examined enough of them to know how they play it.

  Slowly, I poured the shot glass over the kettlebell on Ariella’s side of the bed. A pool formed around the base of the kettlebell then, the dark stain spread. It trickled across the bed and snaked around the kettlebell on Tozer’s side. The ball of muscle in Anderson’s jaw started working like a pump. I could hear the dull grind of his teeth ten feet away.

  “Detective, you are free to get up and examine this mattress, if you wish, before you answer my question. I want you to look at the photograph of the mattress on screen and tell me what’s wrong with that picture?”

  Anderson looked at the screen, looked at the mattress. He was a poor actor. He rubbed at his temples then shook his head as he tried and failed to feign confusion.

  “I don’t see what you mean,” he said.

  I knew he was trying to make things difficult for me, but he’d given the wrong answer and opened the door for me to explain it all to him, and more importantly, to the jury.

  The screen changed and Arnold brought up the photo of the victims taken at the scene. At least Arnold and I were on the same page. Before I opened my mouth, I saw Harry making notes. He was way ahead of me.

  “Detective, there is no blood from Ariella Bloom on the body of Carl Tozer, is there?”

  “No, I guess not,” he said.

  Pryor had listened to enough. He bounded out of this seat and stood beside me.

  “Your Honor, the prosecution must object to this … this charade. Whether blood, or whatever it is on this mattress right here, flows downhill to another part of this mattress means nothing. The mattress in the defendant’s home has not been tested. It is different. There is no evidence to say that what happens on this mattress would have happened, in principle, on the mattress at the crime scene.”

  Harry’s eyebrows rose up on his head, and he tapped his pen on the desk.

  “I’ve let this proceed, thus far, but Mr. Pryor raises a valid point, Mr. Flynn,” said Harry.

  Stage three. The moment when you realize you’re a sucker.

  I looked out over the crowd, who were all waiting anxiously on my answer. I saw a lot of things on the faces looking back at me. Some were dubious, some confused, but most were intrigued. For months they’d heard one story and one story alone – that Bobby Solomon had murdered his wife and chief of security. Now, maybe, they were hearing a different one.

&nb
sp; Everyone loves a good story.

  I found the face in the crowd that I’d been looking for.

  “Mr. Cheeseman, would you stand up please?” I said.

  A man around fifty years of age stood proud in the second row of the public seats. He had thick black hair, neatly combed, and a mustache that looked as if it was cared for like a much-loved family pet. A large man, in every department, in a midnight-blue suit, white shirt and emerald tie.

  I turned back to Harry.

  “Your Honor, this is Mr. Cheeseman. In 2003 he designed and patented the NemoSleep mattress. It’s made with a latex and Kevlar-coated fabric that is one hundred per cent waterproof, guaranteed. This mattress has the same absorption rate as high carbon steel. It’s also hypoallergenic, antibacterial, anti-fungal and used by the hotel industry worldwide. If it’s required, Mr. Cheeseman can provide testimony now, out of sequence, if Mr. Pryor cares to cross-examine him.”

  Harry could barely keep the delight from his features as he stared at Mr. Cheeseman. What made it all the more satisfying was the look on Pryor’s face. Surprise didn’t quite cover it. He’d walked into a brick wall with “not guilty” written all over it.

  “Ahm, Your Honor, I’m afraid I shall have to reserve my position on Mr. Cheeseman at this time,” he said.

  “I’m allowing this line of questioning to continue, for now,” said Harry.

  I had my foot back on Anderson’s throat before Pryor had reached the prosecution table.

  “Detective, as we have already established, there is no blood from Ariella Bloom on Mr. Tozer’s body. Not one drop. If the victims were situated as you found them when they were murdered, there would be blood on Mr. Tozer. Do you accept that?”

  “No, I believe the victims were murdered where they lay,” said Anderson.

  “Do you accept that liquid runs downhill?” I asked.

  “I … of course I do,” he said.