Judge Me When I'm Wrong

by Cheryl A Head

  The first hour and a half of the trial was spent on Spivak’s summary of the testimony they would hear from thirty witnesses, and the introduction of volumes of evidence. There were a series of letters, police reports, scores of memoranda, reams of phone transcripts, and a dozen depositions from witnesses the jury wouldn’t hear from firsthand. Gleason’s forte seemed to be document management, and she effortlessly passed along papers to her colleague that she often had ready before Spivak asked for them.

  Charlie quickly regretted not having a second cup of the so-called breakfast-blend coffee from the vending machine downstairs. At the morning break she headed for the escalators and more caffeine, passing a handful of people sitting in the wooden benches along the courthouse corridor. One of them, a balding man with thick black glasses, had come into the courtroom at the start of the trial and stayed an hour before leaving. Now he was talking to a man whose briefcase identified him as an attorney. She studied the man with the glasses. He seemed familiar, but didn’t look up from his conversation.

  Following the break, the jury heard several hours of witness testimony—mostly law-enforcement personnel—asserting the authenticity of documents the prosecution had put into evidence. The witnesses described the searches conducted at Canova’s main office and at several of his parking garages, and the type of evidence they’d collected. In a lull, when one piece of paper was being exchanged for another, Charlie leaned over to the retiree and whispered: “This is going to be a long trial.”

  When the judge gaveled a recess for lunch, the jurors scattered. Rather than sit in the designated jury room, Charlie purchased a third cup of coffee from the vending machine, and spread out at a table against the back wall of the main-floor break room. She read the campus police account of the Hebert assault, and sipped. Both the report and the java were disappointing.

  The campus investigation had been woefully inadequate, and the local police follow-up not much better. Detectives had interviewed a dozen fraternity members, a few residents in the neighborhood of the frat house, and the victim. The report labeled Maya Hebert as uncooperative, noting that she initially refused a rape kit, and describing her clothing in disparaging language. Police had rounded up six Gamma members, including Jason, who had been Mirandized, charged with first-degree sexual assault, and released on bond within four hours of their arrests. Charlie made a note to have Gil find out if any of the Gamma members had recently quit the fraternity.

  She glanced at the wall clock. The ninety-minute lunch break was over. The apple slices and Snickers bar weren’t the best lunch, but they were better than the offerings in the vending machines, and had successfully counteracted the bitter coffee. She’d need to bring her own thermos of coffee and a lunch to survive this trial.

  # # #

  During the afternoon, lead prosecutor Spivak aimed questions at an employee of Fleetstar. The witness, Cornell Iverson, recited his well-practiced testimony which was made even more wooden when he paused to enunciate “collusion.” Several times he swiped his index finger at the sweat on his brow and upper lip. He shifted in his seat and avoided eye contact with the jurors.

  “How is it you witnessed Mr. Canova’s meeting with Ms. Raab?” Spivak asked.

  “I drove him down to Chene Park where they met.”

  “Can you tell us what you saw, Mr. Iverson?”

  “Well, Canova and the lady from the city sat on a bench close to the parking lot and talked. Canova had the paper bag with the money on the bench next to him. Then the lady, uh, Ms. Raab, picked up the bag and walked out of the park.”

  “I have no further questions of this witness,” Spivak said.

  “Your witness,” the judge said in the direction of the defense table.

  Canova’s celebrity attorney, Allan Bateman, pushed back from his seat, but didn’t stand. He had Kennedy-style thick hair, gray at the temples, which emphasized his chiseled jaw and cleft chin. Charlie noticed the female court clerk and court reporter both had the same appreciative look for the barrister. The judge was unmoved.

  “He’s very good looking,” the fancy-clothes juror whispered toward Charlie.

  “Umm Hmm,” Charlie replied.

  “Mr. Iverson? Was Ms. Raab already sitting on the park bench when Mr. Canova arrived?” Bateman asked.

  “Yes. She was waiting for him.”

  “How do you know Ms. Raab was waiting?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How do you know she didn’t just come to the park and sit on the bench to enjoy a beautiful afternoon?”

  The question clearly hadn’t been part of Iverson’s preparation. He glanced nervously around the room, his face reddening from the neck up. He looked to the prosecution table for help, getting none. Bateman stood now, lifting to his six-five stature. He asked to approach the witness, and moved forward with a smug grimace splashed on his handsome face. Iverson sighed loudly, swabbing his brow, staring stone-faced.

  “Do you need the question repeated?” Bateman asked.

  Charlie watched the prosecutors. Spivak was annoyed by Bateman’s new line of inquiry, and conferred quietly with Gleason.

  The witness smirked and turned his shoulder away from Bateman. “Yeah.”

  The court reporter, using her transcription software, scrolled to the defense attorney’s question, and read it aloud: “‘How did you know Ms. Raab was waiting?’”

  Iverson squirmed. “Well, when Canova sat next to her, they spoke to each other.”

  “Maybe they were just noting what a nice day it was.”

  Iverson didn’t respond.

  “Were you part of the conversation?”

  “No.”

  “Did you overhear what was said?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know there was money in the bag?” Bateman leaned in, glaring at Iverson.

  “What else could it be?”

  “Mr. Iverson, you’re here to answer questions not pose them. Is that clear?” the judge admonished the witness.

  “Yes, judge, uh, I mean Your Honor.”

  The prosecutors shared a look. Their witness’s testimony was going off the rails.

  “Did you see the money in the bag?” Bateman crossed his arms.

  Charlie noticed that a half-dozen jurors had imitated Bateman’s “convince me” gesture. Iverson looked as if he might try to stonewall again, then sneered and leaned toward Bateman.

  “Canova said it was money. He said we were going to the park to pay off this bitch who works for the city.”

  The profanity changed the mood in the courtroom. A couple of jurors voiced shock, and a few more folded their arms disdainfully. The judge reproved the witness for his language.

  “I have no further questions of this person, Your Honor,” Bateman said. He paused as he turned away so the jury could see his look of disgust. If the action had been on a television soap opera, it would have been a close-up accompanied by tension-building music.

  Spivak nodded to his associate, and Ms. Gleason rose for the redirect of the witness.

  “Mr. Iverson. How long did Mr. Canova and Ms. Raab sit chatting on the bench?”

  “They talked for maybe five minutes, like they knew each other, and then she left with the paper bag.”

  “Did Mr. Canova tell you there was money in the bag he took to the park on May 19, 2005?” Gleason asked.

  “Yes ma’am, he did.”

  “What exactly did he say about the contents of the bag?”

  “He said it was money to pay off the city employee lady,” Iverson said, softening his earlier language.

  “What’s your occupation, Mr. Iverson?”

  “I’m a driver,” Iverson said, squaring his shoulders, tilting forward to grip the rail of the witness box.

  “What sort of a driver?”

  “I’m sort of like a chauffeur.”

  “You drove for Mr. Canova?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long were you employed by him?”

  “
Four . . . almost five years.”

  “Do you know Mr. Canova well?” Gleason smiled and leaned closer to Iverson with each question. Charlie thought it was a ploy to demonstrate the witness was not threatening.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “No further questions.”

  Bateman fired his recross from his chair. “So, you were Mr. Canova’s chauffeur. Weren’t you also his body guard?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “So, he trusted you?”

  “Yes.” Iverson glanced up at Canova and quickly dropped his head.

  “That was his mistake.” Bateman slung the words.

  “Objection.” Spivak rose.

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” Bateman said in response to the judge’s glare. “I have just one more question.” Bateman leaned back in his chair staring at Iverson. “Have you been given anything by the prosecutor’s office for your testimony?”

  “If you mean did they cut me a deal, yes,” Iverson said, releasing the rail and slumping in the chair.

  The courtroom was quiet. Charlie watched red welts spread across Iverson’s neck. The prosecution had momentarily softened the severity of his cockiness and vulgarity only to have Bateman reveal the man as an emasculated, disloyal peon trying to keep himself out of jail. Spivak and Gleason stared at the jury box, as did the bald, bespectacled man who had returned to the courtroom after lunch.

  The prosecution called two more witnesses, both tying Canova to a pattern of making cash payments to those he was trying to influence. However, Bateman effectively whittled away at each person’s credibility. At 4 p.m. the judge had heard enough and adjourned the trial until the next day.

  Chapter 3

  Monday

  Gil arrived in Kalamazoo at four o’clock and checked into an all-suites hotel that had free parking, a gym, and room service. Jason Ferry was to meet him at six-thirty. The hotel was far enough away from campus that other students, and Jason’s fraternity brothers, would not easily run into him. The plan was to order dinner and go over the specifics of the case and the crime. Gil hoped the informal, comfortable atmosphere and the food would put the boy at ease.

  Gil reviewed the background information Charlie had compiled. It suggested that even if Jason hadn’t participated in the assault of Maya Hebert, he might have been a not-so-innocent bystander. Gil considered himself a good judge of character, a skill honed by years of work as a car salesman at his uncle’s dealerships, and he wanted to give the young man a once-over to decide for himself whether the boy was innocent, or guilty, of the rape.

  When Jason called from the lobby, Gil provided the room number and then stepped into the hallway to peer down into the atrium. He watched the twenty-year-old depart from the registration desk and move to the bank of elevators. He could tell a lot about a person from their stride. Jason walked slowly, but deliberately, and with confidence. He stood at the room’s door to watch Jason step out of the elevator, pause to read the brass sign pointing the way, and move up the hall with the sureness of an athlete. Gil waved, and Jason reciprocated with an upheld hand and a tentative smile.

  “Hi.” Gil extended his hand, and the boy gripped it firmly. “Come on in.”

  Jason surveyed the suite with a swivel of his head. He walked to the small sleeper-sofa and lowered his six-foot-seven frame into the soft cushions. He wore expensive sneakers and nylon sweatpants with a matching jacket. His hair was cut short on the sides in a modified mohawk popular with young black men, and he wore small diamond stud earrings and a large sports watch.

  “Nice room,” Jason said with a nod.

  “Thanks. I wanted to have enough space for us to eat and talk. You want to find something on the room service menu?”

  After Gil phoned in the dinner order, he turned the desk chair toward Jason, crossed his legs, and leaned back. Jason already seemed relaxed, but Gil hoped the boy would really let his guard down.

  “So, tell me about what happened at the fraternity party . . .” Gil looked down at the paper on his lap. “On February 18, where Maya Hebert was assaulted.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me all of it. Everything you can remember.”

  “I think it’ll be easier if you ask me questions.”

  Jason’s demeanor was cool and unflustered, but Gil could tell he was also concerned about making a mistake. He’d seen the body language a hundred times before when a customer walked into an auto dealership wanting to buy a new car, but needing to be persuaded she or he was making a good decision.

  “Okay. How did you sleep the night before the party? Were you excited about the initiation?”

  Gil let Jason wind up with the softball questions. He listened intently, prompting a bit at first, then allowing the silences to feel comfortable by smiling and nodding. Gil nonchalantly pulled a bag of Gummy Bears out of his backpack, put one in his mouth, wiggled the bag invitingly, and poured a handful into Jason’s waiting palm.

  Jason was talking freely now, leaning against one of the sofa pillows. He had been one of seven initiates for the local fraternity. The year before, the university had cracked down on hazing violations, so the ceremony itself was sober, but the celebration that followed was something different. Drinking and soft drugs were a mainstay at campus parties, and by midnight the revelry was in full swing. Four hours later, only a few guests remained among the fraternity members. One of them, Maya Hebert, had been drinking heavily all night along with her two girlfriends. Jason had watched two of his fraternity brothers, one on each of Maya’s elbows, hoist her up the stairs. Her limp legs and feet never touched the steps.

  “Why didn’t Maya’s girlfriends intervene?”

  “They were passed out on the couch. A bunch of people were out of it and sleeping all over the room.”

  One by one, the new initiates were summoned to the bedroom where the barely conscious Maya was repeatedly raped while a half-dozen onlookers lined the walls. A few of the bystanders videotaped the attack with their cellphones.

  “What did you do, Jason?”

  The boy shifted position on the sofa, grabbed one of the cushions, and held it tightly against his chest. He began to perspire, and finally buried his face in the cushion. His head bobbed and his shoulders jerked as he cried. Gil looked away when Jason finally lifted his head and wiped away tears with the tail of his jersey.

  “When they called me upstairs, I pretended I was too drunk to . . . well, you know. I hung against the wall for a little while, then played like I was about to throw up. I went back downstairs where Maya’s friends were still passed out on the sofa. I knew what was happening upstairs, but I didn’t know what I could do. I just knew I didn’t want to be a part of it. When her friends started to wake up, I told them Maya had already gone home.”

  “Jason, why did you say that?” Gil tried to keep the tone of judgment out of his voice.

  A knock, and the call “room service” cut short the interrogation. Gil bounded from the chair and moved to the door. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Jason had regained his composure before allowing the server into the room.

  They ate steaks with red potatoes and mixed vegetables, and shared a dinner-sized Caesar salad. Gil had ordered a large bottle of sparkling water, but Jason requested a beer. Gil hesitated only a moment before retrieving a Bud from the minibar. The two enjoyed a discussion about basketball while they ate. When Jason picked up his fork to attack a piece of chocolate cake, Gil picked up where he’d left off.

  “Why did you send Maya’s girlfriends away?”

  Jason had shaken off the premeal conversation and was caught off guard by the question. He swallowed the huge piece of cake in his mouth in one hard gulp and looked up at Gil with annoyance. He pushed the plate away.

  “I thought if they stayed around, the same thing might happen to them,” he said angrily. “I wanted to get out of there myself, so I walked them to Maya’s dorm. When I got back to the fraternity house, everybody was gone or asleep.”

/>   “Where was Maya?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t there.”

  “Did you tell the police your story?”

  “Yeah. I told ’em what I’m telling you, but all they keep asking is, if you didn’t rape that girl, then who did?”

  “And you won’t tell them.”

  “Man, I ain’t no snitch.”

  # # #

  Gil sat at the desk, punching the keyboard of his laptop. He had preferred not to distract Jason with a lot of notetaking while they talked, but now he rapidly recaptured their conversation. When he was done, he had twelve pages—general thoughts about the case, observations about Jason, answers to verify, and other revelations he was still curious about. He was disgusted by the things Jason had told him. When had it become a spectator sport to watch a young woman being raped? At what point had the reflex to help a person in trouble been replaced by the reflex to record that trouble on a phone camera?

  Gil dialed Charlie, who picked up on the third ring.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No. Mandy and I just got back from walking Hamm. How’d the meeting go with Jason?”

  “Good. He’s smart. He has a jock’s cockiness but also a sensitive side. A typical young man trying to figure things out for himself. He ate a whole lot of food.”

  “We’ll charge the meal to his parents,” Charlie said, laughing. “So do you think he was involved in the girl’s assault?”

  “No. I think he’s telling the truth about that. But he witnessed a portion of it. Didn’t try to stop it. Lied to Maya’s friends and didn’t report any of it to the police. I’m pretty pissed off about his inaction.”

  “He doesn’t want to inform on his friends.”

  “So he said.”

  “That’s also what he told his father, and why they want us to find another way to prove his innocence.”

  “I don’t know, Charlie. It feels like there may be more to it than that. Not wanting to be a snitch, I mean.” Gil let that idea hang in the air. “Did you ever speak to Maya’s girlfriends?”