The Baker Street Jurors (10 page)

“My fault, I'm sure, for not being more explicit,” said the judge. “The process is this—after each witness, you may write questions on pages from your notebook. You will give those to Ms. Sreenivasan, and I will review them and decide whether they should be asked. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now then—are there any questions from the jury?”

Siger's hand shot up again. No one else's.

The judge sighed and nodded.

Ms. Sreenivasan collected a folded note from Siger and took it to the judge. The judge unfolded it, read it quickly, and then called both barristers forward to see it as well.

Both barristers read it—and then shrugged.

The judge nodded, sent them back to their places, and then turned again toward the jury. “Thank you for your note, alternate juror one, but your question regarding a cleaning service has no relevance for this witness. Are there any further questions from the jury?”

No one raised a hand.

“Excellent. The prosecution may call its next witness.”

Slattery stood and called Sergeant Thackeray.

Langdon immediately stood as well. “We object to this witness, my lord. He can add nothing to the evidence that Inspector Wembley has already stated, and the defense is willing to stipulate to those facts. This witness is unnecessary and the prosecution is calling him only for the purpose of inflaming the jury.”

Weak objection, thought Nigel. It will be denied.

And, indeed, Slattery had a quick response.

“My lord, Sergeant Thackeray was the first law enforcement officer on the scene. Surely his testimony is relevant.”

“It certainly could be,” said the judge. “The witness may take the stand.”

Sergeant Thackeray took the stand. He looked even less happy about being there than Wembley was.

The prosecutor began. “Sergeant Thackeray, were you sent out on a call in Hampstead on the day in question?”

“Yes.”

“Where was that call?”

“It was the … the McSweeney residence.”

“What did you find when you got there?”

“I was met at the front of the residence by the gardener. He escorted me to the back of the residence.”

“For what purpose?”

“To show me…” Sergeant Thackeray paused. He cleared his throat. “What he had found.”

“And what was that?”

“The body of Mrs. Marlie McSweeney,” he said, a bit hoarsely.

“And what condition was the body in?”

“Mrs. McSweeney was dead. Bludgeoned to death.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Nigel could see the defense barrister half out of his seat, ready to object. But he didn't need to.

“I'm sure you can call the forensics examiner to give you the details,” said Sergeant Thackeray to the prosecutor.

Langdon mulled it over, and then apparently decided to do just that.

“That's all right, Sergeant Thackeray. You needn't describe it.”

The prosecution wants something else from this witness, thought Nigel. What is it?

Slattery started to turn away, as though he were done—clearly a feint—and then he turned back.

“Sergeant Thackeray, was this the first time you were called to the McSweeney residence?”

“Objection, my lord!” Langdon leaped from his seat as though he were on a coiled spring.

“Approach,” said the judge.

Both barristers did so. They spoke with the judge in low whispers so that the jury couldn't hear. But Siger leaned forward, watching intently.

“The prosecution is trying to introduce evidence of an alleged prior bad act,” said Langdon. “It is inflammatory and has no bearing on this case.”

“It goes to both state of mind of the victim and the motive of the defendant,” said Slattery.

“I want to hear it,” said the judge. “If I change my mind after, I'll instruct the jury to ignore it.”

“That will be bloody too late,” muttered Langdon, so low that even the judge could barely hear it—but he did.

“It's the best you're going to get, counselor,” said the judge. “Step back.”

Slattery continued his questions. “Sergeant Thackeray, was this the first time you were called to the McSweeney residence?”

“No. I was called there once before.”

“When?”

“Three years ago.”

“For what reason?”

“A domestic disturbance call.”

“Who placed the call?”

“Mrs. McSweeney.”

“And what did Mrs. McSweeney tell you when you arrived at the scene?”

Langdon was on his feet again for the defense. This time, there was no whispering. “My lord, I strenuously object. Mrs. McSweeney is not available to be cross-examined. Whatever Sergeant Thackeray recalls from any possible conversation with her is hearsay.”

Slattery displayed his most condescending smile. “That's true, she is not. We all know why. My lord, I withdraw that question. I will happily confine myself to what can be supported independently of Sergeant Thackeray's recollection.”

“Then do so.”

“Sergeant Thackeray—was the disturbance call itself recorded?”

“Yes. It is standard practice at our station to record all incoming calls.”

“And do you have in front of you a transcript from that recording?”

“Yes.”

The defense barrister looked as though he were considering another challenge.

Careful, thought Nigel. Technically, perhaps it's still hearsay. But better to hear the transcript than the victim's voice from beyond the grave. And if you point out that the transcript can't be cross-examined any more than the deceased can, you might open the testimony up to everything that Thackeray saw when he went on the call. You probably don't want that.

“Would you read it for us, please?” said the prosecutor.

“Which part?”

“Just the first line. What Mrs. McSweeney said first when the call was received.”

The sergeant looked very carefully at the transcript in front of him. Then he read it aloud, flatly and unemotionally. “‘Mrs. McSweeney's voice: “Help me. He's hit me. He hit me. Please come at once.”'”

“And then after that, she identifies herself and gives her address, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Nothing further.”

The defense barrister stayed in his seat, hesitating.

There's only one thing you want to point out now, thought Nigel.

“Cross?” offered the judge.

“A bit, my lord,” said Langdon, “but it's not the first time a ruling hasn't gone my way.”

The judge almost smiled at that, but not quite, and he told Langdon to proceed. Langdon did so.

“Sergeant Thackeray, were any charges filed as a result of this call?”

“No.”

“Thank you,” said Langdon. “Just one more thing. Would you please read that exact transcript statement aloud again, please?

Sergeant Thackeray did so.

“Thank you. I believe I did not hear the defendant's name in that statement. I only heard the pronoun ‘he.' Thank you, sergeant, no further questions.”

“But when I arrived at their home, the only person there besides Mrs. McSweeney was her husband,” said the sergeant quickly.

“Nonresponsive and move to strike!” said Langdon.

“My lord, I object to this tactic!” said Slattery. “If my learned friend has a question, he should ask it and allow the witness to answer. If instead he merely wants to express his own opinion about what he has heard, he can very well save it for his closing!”

“I suppose he can,” said the judge. “Mr. Langdon, save your commentary. Mr. Slattery, do you feel a need to redirect?”

“No, my lord.”

“The witness may step down.”

The witness did so, and that was it. The witness did not look happy. The prosecutor did not look happy. The defense did not look happy. And Nigel was not satisfied as a juror with what he had heard in the testimony. But the judge showed only the annoyance of a man who had been through it all before, and the trial moved on.

Over the next week, the jurors heard testimony from Helen O'Shea, the forensics examiner, who brought details and photographs of the scene that Wembley had described only generally. The jurors heard testimony about shoe sizes and brands and unique tread patterns, about fingerprints on cricket bats, including when and how gloves were used in the game—and including that of a cleaning lady, called by the prosecution on the second day of testimony, who said that she was in the habit of dusting the trophy displays every week, including the cricket bat, which had hung prominently on the wall. As it happened, she had wiped it down only two days before it had been used on Mrs. McSweeney.

Siger seemed very gratified when that witness was called. Nigel nodded to him politely, though it was not clear whether the prosecution had intended it all along or not.

Then came the day for the final prosecution witness. In Nigel's opinion, it would make or break the prosecution's case .

So far, all the witnesses called had provided only forensic testimony about the crime scene. It was bloody good forensic testimony, to be sure—but there had not been one word spoken about motive since the prosecution's opening statement.

Was proof of motive absolutely necessary? No. Would the judge make that clear in his instructions? Almost certainly. Would the jury follow those instructions to the letter and ignore what would seem to them a flaw in the case, when all of England was demanding an acquittal? That was not certain at all.

Besides, the prosecution had already promised a motive. They had bloody well better deliver it.

The prosecution called Carole Stoddard to the stand.

She was forty years of age, stylishly dressed, and tanned and fit in appearance.

Slattery began his questions and confirmed with the witness that she had joined Marlie McSweeney for brunch at the Chelsea Rose Cafe one week prior to the slaying. He asked her what they had talked about, and Langdon was on his feet immediately.

“Objection, my lord, anything this witness heard Mrs. McSweeney say, other than perhaps what she ordered for lunch, would surely be hearsay.”

“My lord, certainly the witness can testify to the general subject matter of a conversation in which she herself was a participant.”

“I'll allow that as far as her own part in it,” said the judge. “But proceed cautiously, Mr. Slattery.”

Slattery turned back to the witness.

“What did you talk about?”.

“The usual thing.”

“Did the usual thing include personal relationships?”

“Yes.”

Nigel glanced at Langdon, who was coiled like a spring.

“And did you say anything to Mrs. McSweeney about the state of your own personal relationships?”

“Relevance!” cried Langdon.

The judge waved that one off, and the witness answered. “I told her about an affair I was having.”

“My lord…”

“And did she say anything in response?”

“She said she was having one, too.”

The defense lawyer fairly flew out of his chair. “My lord, this is hearsay!”

This will be fun, thought Nigel. Another twist in the law student's Rubik's Cube.

The prosecution was ready for it. “My lord, it is an exception to the hearsay rule. It is a declaration against interest on the part of Mrs. McSweeney.”

Wrong approach, thought Nigel.

“That exception seems a little thin here, Mr. Slattery,” said the judge. “It's not as though she was admitting to a crime.”

Slattery tried another tack.

“My lord, we are introducing this evidence to show her state of mind—that it was such that she would tell her friend that she was having an affair.”

“Relevance, my lord! Mrs. McSweeney's state of mind is not at issue!”

Mistake, thought Nigel. Now you're giving the prosecution a chance to spell it out.

“My lord, the relevance is that if she was telling this friend that she was having an affair, then she may have told others about it, too—and if she told others, they may have talked about it as well, and so on—until word of it may have reached Mr. McSweeney. And that is motive.”

“My lord,” said Langdon, “If learned counsel for the prosecution has any evidence that the defendant actually knew of this alleged affair, then let them present that—not this idle rumor-mongering.”

“Yes, we are getting rather speculative here,” said the judge. He thought about it for a moment, then turned to the prosecution. “Mr. Slattery, do you have anything from this witness that would indicate that the defendant actually was aware of the alleged affair?”

“I'm getting to it, my lord.”

“Do it now, then.”

Slattery approached the witness again. Langdon was so ready to object that he did not even bother to sit down.

“Ms. Stoddard,” said the prosecutor. “Did Mrs. McSweeney show you anything to support her contention that she was having an affair?”

“What, you mean like a hickey?” said the witness, and then she laughed.

And so did the press and the public audience. Behind the jury screen, Nigel had forgotten, just for a moment, how much everyone was watching.

“No,” said the prosecutor. “I mean, something more … lasting.”

“Oh, you mean the love letters!”

“She showed you love letters?”

“Yes.”

“Letters to her, or letters from her?”

“Letters from her.”

“So Mrs. McSweeney told you she was having an affair—and then she showed you love letters that she had written as part of that affair?”

“Yes. She took them right out of her purse and showed me. And then she put them back in.”

“Why did she have in her possession letters that she herself had written and had presumably sent to someone else?”

“She said that she had taken the letters back because she was ending the affair.”