VC04 - Jury Double (32 page)

Judge Bernheim turned to the prosecutor. “Ms. diAngeli?”

“Your Honor, I never heard the witness mention this information before this moment.”

“Your Honor, is this a court of law or a vaudeville theater?”

“That’s up to you, Mr. Elihu.”

“Haven’t we had enough of the People’s mind reading and the People’s hearsay and the People’s cover-up? I
demand
that Sergeant Britta Bailey be recalled to the stand to be properly examined on this crucial point.”

“That’s not possible,” Tess diAngeli said.

Elihu whirled. “I’d like to know what law forbids it.”

“Your Honor,” diAngeli said, “may I approach?”

Judge Bernheim asked both attorneys to approach the bench. After five minutes of whispering, Judge Bernheim informed the court that Officer Britta Bailey would not be recalled to the stand. “I shall review this witness’s previous depositions and grand jury testimony. Pending the outcome of that review, direct examination may continue.”

Tess diAngeli smiled encouragingly at the witness, as if to say,
We’re almost home
. “Mrs. Lopez, after the police refused to investigate, what did you then do?”

“I spent the day running from hospital to hospital—trying to persuade a doctor, a nurse, somebody to come back to the apartment and help. No one would come.” Yolanda Lopez looked down guiltily at her hands. As though they had somehow failed.

“When you were unable to get medical help, what did you then do?”

“I kept phoning BATF, but I always got the answering machine. So I spent Saturday night in the entrance hall outside the apartment—ringing the bell and pounding on the door.”

“And did you see Mickey Williams again?”

“Labor Day morning, he finally opened the door. He said, ‘It’s done. They’re gone.’”

In the jury room, afternoon light streamed through the window.

“I’m starved,” Thelma del Rio said. “There should be a law: morning sessions end at one sharp.”

“If John was dead,” Lara Duggan said, “how could he have answered the phone?”

“I’m not going to think about it,” Anne said, “till we have all the evidence.”

“It
wasn’t
John who answered,” Seymour Shen said. “It was Mickey.”

Lara made a confused face. “I didn’t hear anyone prove that.”

“Sometimes,” Thelma del Rio said, “you have to use your head just a little.”

“Hey,” Ben Esposito said. “No discussion.”

THIRTY-ONE

3:40
P.M.

C
ATCH TALBOT PUSHED THROUGH
the revolving door into the lobby of St. Andrea Polyclinic. He joined the line at the information desk. A blue-haired matron was fielding inquiries.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

She gave him a look that said,
Go ahead, take another piece of my sanity
.

“I’m looking for an eleven-year-old by the name of Toby Talbot?”

She typed the name into her computer. He could see the cursor on the monitor, blinking in a column of T’s that went from
Tabachnik
straight to
Taylor
. No
Talbot
.

“Sorry, we have no patient by that name.”

“Could he have been released?”

“He was never admitted to pediatric.”

“What about the adult wards? Maybe there was a mix-up in the records.”

Fingers danced over the computer keyboard. She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Have you admitted any unidentified eleven-year-old boys since Monday morning?”

She entered more data. “We had a young burn victim, male, yesterday.”

Catch had to think very hard about getting his next breath. “May I see him?”

“He was transferred the same day to the burn center at St. Vincent’s, Manhattan.”

“Thank you.” As Catch turned, he saw a heavyset man in line behind him, wearing a jacket over a Hawaiian shirt. The man quickly looked away.

Help you, sir?” The smiling clerk with the name tag
Mitzi
had to shout.

Cardozo showed his I.D. Mitzi lost the smile.

Philmar’s Car Rental agency was crowded and bad-tempered, echoing like a fast-food joint. Jet planes passing overhead added to the din.

“A man by the name of Catch Talbot rented a car from you last Wednesday. I’d like to see that contract.” Cardozo gave her the transaction number.

Mitzi consulted with coworkers, searched drawers, and finally produced a pink sheet with unreadably small print and a barely legible carbon scrawl filling in the blanks.

Cardozo noted that the blue ’94 Pontiac was not due to be returned for ten days. He copied the license number, 12F73, and Catch Talbot’s New Jersey address, the Holiday Inn in Kearney. “Thanks, Mitzi. I appreciate it.”

“Isn’t it a fact”—Dotson Elihu’s tone was let’s-work-this-out-together helpful—“that John and Amalia Briar were both dead when you left the apartment, and both voices that Officer Bailey heard on the phone were Mickey Williams?”

“No.” Yolanda Lopez’s eyes were burning moistly. “Amalia was alive—there was still a chance. Why would I phone BATF if she was dead?”

“I’m glad you asked that question. I don’t quite understand … if you were seeking help so desperately, why did you repeatedly phone an answering machine that you knew no one was answering?”

“I phoned because those were my instructions and I hoped someone would get my message in time.”

“But after phoning and never once getting through—why didn’t you return to Amalia Briar’s bedside and protect her yourself?”

“I tried to—but I couldn’t get into the apartment. Mickey wouldn’t open the door.”

“So you sat vigil outside the apartment for over twenty-four hours—pounding on the door?”

“Yes!”

Dotson Elihu looked politely astonished. “Did anyone
hear
or
see
you during this time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you sleep in the hallway?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Did you
urinate
or
defecate
in the hallway during these twenty-four hours?”

“Objection!” Tess diAngeli cried. “Hectoring the witness!”

“Counselor,” Judge Bernheim warned, “save your scatological humor for your poker club.”

Elihu inclined his head just sufficiently to suggest respect. “My apologies, Your Honor, if I’ve offended the court’s sensibilities. However, as a sage once remarked, biology is destiny, and I’m sure the jury is as curious as I to know how Ms. Lopez managed to evade it for so long a stretch of time.”

Cardozo laid his shield unobtrusively on the countertop. The desk clerk of the Kearney Holiday Inn flinched.

“Did you have a Catch Talbot registered here September eighteenth?”

The clerk entered the name into her computer. A river of print flowed up the monitor screen. “We show no one by that name registered then or now.”

“Could I speak with house security?”

She tapped a number into the phone. “Mr. Higgins—a police officer to speak with you.”

He calls himself Catch Talbot. He could be using other names as well.”

Higgins examined the sketch and then the photograph. A scowl creased his sallow, jowly face.

“Over the weekend he might have had an eleven-year-old boy with him.” Cardozo handed Higgins the snapshot of Toby Talbot.

Higgins squinted a long, considering moment. “Haven’t seen the boy.”

“What about the man?”

Higgins shook his head. “If a skinhead registered here, believe me, I’d have made it a point to notice. Sorry.”

Dotson Elihu turned slowly toward the witness, holding an official-looking document at arm’s length. His face was grave. “Ms. Lopez—out of all this alleged conspiracy to murder John and Amalia Briar, how is it you managed to record only three minutes of innocuous conversation that bear even remotely on this case? How is it you couldn’t record a single instance where Dr. Lyle even once mentioned the Briars by name?”

“Corey mentioned their names all the time! He was always talking about getting them to die!”

“And why didn’t you tape those conversations?”

“I did. But that tape was—” She caught herself … Elihu’s eyes came around. “That tape was what, Ms. Lopez?”

“It was lost.”

“How was it lost?” Dotson Elihu’s tone was soft; almost compassionate.

But Yolanda Lopez sank away from his concern into the corner of her chair. “I was carrying the tape in my purse and it was stolen.”

Dotson Elihu’s gaze bored into the witness. “Ms. Lopez, isn’t it a fact that you made only one call to the BATF on Labor Day weekend, and that was on Sunday—and this is the call?”

He pressed a button on the audiocassette player. A sound of labored, jerky breathing pulsed from the plastic box and then a woman’s voice. “
This is Yolanda
—
I’m at the Briars’; Johnny and Amalia have died
.”

Elihu stopped the tape.

“I made that call Monday,” she said, “not Sunday.”

Elihu stared at her skeptically, craftily. “Now I’m going to play another call you made to your favorite answering machine. You may care to revise your recollection as to the day and time you made it.”

Dotson Elihu pushed a button. Hysteria exploded. “
This is Yolanda. I’m in the Briars’ apartment
—
Saturday morning. Send somebody up
—
it’s an emergency. Corey’s hypnotized Mickey. Mickey’s gone crazy
—
he’s killed John and he says he’s going to kill Amalia. I’ve locked her bedroom door and I’m in here with her
—
but that door won’t keep him out. Send help! Please! Oh, God!
”

With two loud clicks, Elihu stopped the tape.

“I made that call Saturday morning,” Yolanda Lopez said. “That’s the first call I made.”

“And this call?” Elihu snapped another tape into the player.

“
This is Yolanda
—
Sunday morning
—
Mickey’s locked me out of the apartment
—
he’s murdered John and he’s in there murdering Amalia
—
you’ve got to send help!
”

“That’s the second call I made. That was Sunday.”

“Then you couldn’t have made that call from the Briars’. So where did you call from?”

“A pay phone in the street.”

“So in your first call on Saturday you shriek that John has been murdered. Then a day later you call and shriek that Mickey’s murdering Amalia too. And a day later you call and calmly announce that John and Amalia have died. Now, when people are murdered, the normal description is
they were murdered
, not
they’ve died
. What happened? Did two murders suddenly turn to natural deaths?”

“Murdered people die too!” the witness screamed. “I’m sorry if you don’t like the way I speak English!”

“On the contrary, Ms. Lopez. Your English is charming.” Elihu stared at the witness with saddened, this-kills-me-more-than-it-kills-you eyes. “Tell me, Ms. Lopez, when were you finally able to reach your employer on the phone?”

“Monday night.”

“And on Monday night didn’t he tell you to make two more phone calls to the answering machine? Didn’t he tell you to phone and give false days and times?”

“That’s not true.”

“Didn’t he tell you to be sure this time to mention murder and madness and Mickey Williams?”

“That’s not true.”

“And weren’t those Monday night calls the two you claim you made Saturday and Sunday? And weren’t they scripted for you by the BATF?”

“That’s not true.”

“Ms. Lopez, didn’t the BATF script the testimony that you’ve given here today?”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it a fact that there was no conspiracy before the Briars died? Isn’t your whole story about a hypnotic conspiracy between Dr. Lyle and Mickey Williams a fabrication? Didn’t you and Mickey Williams and the BATF work out this entire preposterous farrago
after
the Briars died?”

“That’s not true.”

“Ms. Lopez—you claim you found John Briar murdered the Saturday before Labor Day. You claim you reported his death to Sergeant Britta Bailey of the Twenty-second Precinct on Saturday. You then make the incredible claim that Sergeant Bailey refused to help.”

“She did refuse.”

“But according to Sergeant Bailey’s testimony, it was Sunday when you reported John and Amalia Briar sick and in trouble—but you made no mention of John Briar’s murder. How do you explain the contradiction between Sergeant Bailey’s testimony and yours?”

“She made a mistake.”

“I submit that
you
made the mistake—in fact, you’re lying: John Briar was not dead when you went to the precinct.”

“Everything I said is the truth! I swear to God!”

Elihu turned toward the jury. “A pity we can’t recall Sergeant Bailey to the stand. It would be interesting to establish once and for all which of the prosecutor’s witnesses is lying.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

The manager of the Scotsville Tru-Val Supermarket referred to the piece of scratch paper where Cardozo had jotted the MasterCard transaction number. She tapped the data into the keyboard.

Something electronic yelped.

“Sorry about that.” She cleared and reentered. The computer went to work, conjuring memories. The screen flashed a question. She tapped another key. A screen full of data flashed. “Do you want a copy of the itemized receipt?”

“Please.”

She pressed a key. A printer clattered. She ripped off a ribbon of curling paper.

Cardozo examined the purple markings.
Pro
was obviously produce, and
dry
dairy. His eye went to the final figure:
cash returned $0.00
. Just above,
cash tendered $0.00
. Above that,
67.19
. “How many bags would this order fill?” he asked.

“We’d bag it in four or five.”

“That’s a lot to carry. Was this a delivery?”

“We don’t deliver after four on Sundays. This was rung up at five forty-two. The customer took the groceries herself.”

“Himself.” Cardozo showed her the drawing and the photo. “His name’s Catch Talbot. Ever seen him?”