Full Disclosure

by Beverley McLachlin

  The jury gasps audibly. I let the answer sink in.

  “So tell me if you agree with this summary of the situation, Sergeant. The Vancouver Police Department Homicide Unit is trying to find Trevor Shore in connection with a murder case in which he is a potential suspect—indeed, a prime suspect. Some three months after the murder, the same police force issues a traffic ticket to the very same Trevor Shore they say they are trying to find.”

  “I don’t understand.” Evans shakes the ticket. “There was a BOLO. It would have come up on the CPIC—the electronic record attached to his license—and the police would have brought him in for questioning. Standard procedure.”

  “Except it appears they didn’t bring him in. Or, if they did, they let him go without asking him about Laura Trussardi’s murder.” Arms crossed, I wait for Evans’s response.

  “Yes, so it seems.”

  “Would you call that effective police work, Sergeant?”

  “Something went wrong. That happens sometimes despite our best efforts.”

  Half turning, I catch Richard’s eye in the public gallery. He gives me a thumbs-up. I resist the urge to smile back. Raquella, from her chair on the aisle, wraps us both in a glare of contempt. Time to finish up. “The picture I’m getting is this: the Vancouver police did all the routine things to locate Trevor Shore, but they did not put out red alerts as you have suggested. Why wasn’t Trevor Shore an urgent priority, Sergeant?”

  “We assumed that because the victim was killed in the matrimonial home—”

  “You assumed, Sergeant? What kind of police work is that?”

  “Sometimes we have to assume things to do our jobs.”

  “You knew Mr. Shore had designed the Trussardi residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you knew he had the code to the front door that would have allowed him to get in?”

  “I didn’t know that, don’t know that.”

  “You never checked, did you, Sergeant?”

  “Not personally.”

  “But you did know Trevor Shore had designed the cabinet where the combination to the safe that held the gun was kept?”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Did you check?”

  “No. Maybe somebody else did.”

  “If they did, they never told you or anyone else on the investigative team.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “I suppose not,” I repeat, letting the words sink in for the jury. “All those months, weren’t you concerned that Trevor Shore might be hiding, Sergeant? Trying to avoid arrest for the crime he committed?”

  “No, as I say, we had arrested Vincent Trussardi.”

  “Tell the jury the truth, Sergeant. Your department, early on in its investigation, focused on Vincent Trussardi and made him its prime suspect on purely circumstantial evidence. Didn’t they?”

  “Yes, we did. And with good reason.”

  “So you thought. But having done so, you failed to effectively investigate other possibilities.”

  “I deny that.” But there’s a quiver in his voice that belies the bravado of the words.

  “We’ll let the jury decide what you did and, more to the point, did not do. There’s a name for this in police work, isn’t there, Sergeant?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Have you heard of tunnel vision?”

  “Of course.”

  “And do you know what tunnel vision refers to in the context of homicide investigation work?”

  Evans looks at Cy, but Cy just stares at the wall. Finally, he answers. “Tunnel vision refers to the possibility that investigators develop a theory early in the case and then don’t investigate other possible suspects.”

  “And would you agree, Sergeant Evans, that the term tunnel vision has recently been cited in studies as a leading cause of wrongful convictions?”

  Cy rises. “Counsel knows better than to give evidence,” he bellows.

  “Careful, Ms. Truitt,” Justice Moulton warns.

  I keep my eyes trained on Evans. “We await your answer, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, I’ve read something to that effect.”

  “You let him get away, Sergeant; your police force is responsible. And now we will never know what Trevor Shore might have been able to tell us about who killed Laura Trussardi.” I enunciate each word, as I eye the jury. “We will never know if Trevor Shore killed her.”

  “I don’t believe he did—”

  “No further questions,” I say, and return to my seat.

  CHAPTER 45

  WE REGROUP AT TWO. WE know what’s coming. Cy, as required by the rules, has told us that his penultimate witness is an inmate from the penitentiary up valley—a drug dealer by the name of Regie Coop. After that, the surprise witness. At least, a surprise to some.

  The sheriffs bring Regie Coop through the side door. They’ve taken the shackles off, but he still wears his prison jumpsuit. He settles his muscular frame into the witness box, greases his black hair with the palm of his tattooed hand, and shoots a smirk in the direction of the defense bench. Nice manners.

  “Your name?” Cy asks.

  “Regie Coop.”

  “You are currently in custody, serving a sentence for drug dealing, Mr. Coop?”

  I rise. “Objection. As far as I have been able to glean from the Crown’s disclosure, drug dealing has nothing to do with this case.” Richard dug the drug evidence up, Alicia confirmed it: nothing in the Crown’s records mentions drugs.

  Cy shifts. “The defense has had ample notice of this witness’s appearance. The relevance of his evidence will become clear in due course.”

  “Objection overruled,” says Judge Moulton.

  Cy repeats the question. “You are in custody for drug dealing, Mr. Coop?”

  “Yes, sir,” Regie answers proudly.

  Cy takes him through the details, and we learn that Regie Coop is a biker. During his decade and a half on the street, he ran whatever the bosses wanted—booze, drugs, women. Reliable and efficient, he always got the job done. Not that he actually sold the drugs or women. Regie works at the “executive level,” he informs us. Present tense.

  “Do you recall the names of your clients, Mr. Coop?”

  “Of course, man. That is my job. Not like you can write them down or put them on your iPhone.” He laughs. “Keep ’em in your head or you’re dead.”

  Cy proffers a piece of paper. “I’m going to show you a list of names and ask you to tell the jury if any of them are among the names of clients you kept in your head, Mr. Coop. Can you do that?”

  Regie nods, all business now.

  Emily slips a copy of the paper across the aisle. Regie’s finger runs down the twenty or so names, forehead creased. “This one—a woman named Trussardi. Used to place an order once a week or so.”

  “And you made sure she got the drugs she wanted?”

  “Sure, mostly coke.”

  “And how did you deliver the drugs, Mr. Coop?”

  “Kids, runners with a habit. Of course I had to check everything out first. There were only certain times she could receive. Afraid of her husband, maybe.”

  “Objection,” I call. “Pure conjecture.” But Moulton, captivated by Regie’s street swagger, ignores me.

  Cy decides not to take it further. “Give us some of the runners’ names.”

  “Rob Fink, Tuffy Leon, kid named Damon Cheskey.” A grin twists the corner of Regie’s mouth. “I remember Damon telling me she was a real looker, this Mrs. Trussardi.”

  “Hearsay, my Lord,” I cry, but it doesn’t matter. Cy got what he wanted.

  “Over to you, Ms. Truitt.”

  “Content,” I reply, and I take my seat. Cross-examination will only make this worse.

  Cy hefts himself to his feet. “The Crown has one more witness. I call Damon Cheskey.”

  The jury follows Damon’s figure as he strides down the aisle and into the witness box. He’s dressed in a dark jacket, gray
roll-neck sweater, slim gray slacks, shining shoes. Styled blond hair falls artfully over his forehead. The women in the jury box lean forward.

  “If only they could have seen him six months ago,” Jeff whispers. We sculpted him, Pygmalion style, and now he has returned to haunt us. I could object, argue that we haven’t had notice of this witness, but we have, from the young man himself, no less. Cy’s doing, I’m sure of it.

  “Mr. Cheskey, did you deliver cocaine to the Trussardi residence?” Cy begins.

  “Yes, to Laura Trussardi,” answers Damon, his voice deep and clear.

  “How did you know she was Laura Trussardi?”

  “I didn’t. Except on one rainy evening, after I had been delivering for a while, she invited me in. She told me her name was Laura.”

  “So Laura Trussardi was doing cocaine?”

  “Objection.” I rise. “Mr. Kenge is both leading and giving evidence.”

  “You know better, Mr. Kenge,” Justice Moulton admonishes.

  Cy nods in mock contrition.

  “Can you describe how she looked when you saw her that time? Was she happy? Sad?” Cy asks.

  “Usually she seemed anxious, trying to hustle me out as fast as she could. Except the time she invited me in.”

  “Did you stay the night?”

  “No. At some point, Mr. Trussardi came home. She looked surprised. She told him I was a friend. I was scared, but he just nodded. He didn’t say much. She asked the maid to set a third place at the table, and we had something to eat. When supper was done, Mr. Trussardi left the room. I could tell something wasn’t right, so I got up and left.”

  Hope surges briefly. Maybe Damon didn’t tell Cy what came next; maybe he’s going to leave out the part about Trussardi caressing the gun. But Cy isn’t finished.

  “Something wasn’t right . . . between Laura and her husband?”

  Damon hesitates. “I can’t say that.”

  “Did he kiss her when he came in, say ‘hi, dear,’ or something like that?”

  “No kiss. He just said hello.”

  “Did he seem angry?”

  “Objection,” I interrupt. “Mr. Kenge is leading. Again.”

  Cy rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “How did Mr. Trussardi seem as he greeted his wife who was standing there with you?”

  “He seemed upset.”

  “Did he talk during dinner?”

  “No. Not much.”

  “And as soon as dinner was over, he left the table?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see where he went?”

  “Behind the fireplace. There seemed to be rooms there, another wing of the house.”

  “When did you decide to leave?”

  “She—Laura—told me to sit on a couch in the living room, to wait while she fixed the bed. I got to thinking. Maybe . . .”

  “Maybe what, Damon?”

  “Maybe he would do something to me.”

  “You were afraid Mr. Trussardi would harm you, Damon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Afraid he might kill you?”

  “Leading and speculative.” I stand, but Damon’s already speaking.

  “Yes.”

  Cy lets that lethal yes sink in. Damon looks at me with the same wild expression I saw that night in the hotel, tries feebly to make amends. “You have to understand, I wasn’t thinking straight because—”

  Cy cuts him off. “Who do you think was doing the drugs?”

  “Objection!” I shout, but it’s too late.

  “I didn’t know, I assumed—”

  “You assumed it was Laura,” Cy finishes.

  “Yes,” Damon whispers.

  “Can you tell us approximately when that evening was, the evening she invited you in?”

  “I don’t know, but it was winter, a few months before her death maybe. You have to understand, I was doing a lot of drugs then—I was a little crazy.”

  “So let’s sum up, Mr. Cheskey,” says Cy, brushing over Damon’s attempt to qualify his evidence. “Laura seemed sad; she seemed lonely.”

  “Leading again,” I say. “My Lord, I’m getting tired of jumping up to object. Mr. Kenge knows better than to give evidence.”

  “I retract the question.” Cy shrugs. “Let’s put it in your words, Damon. Laura wanted the drugs. Laura wanted to talk to you. Laura on one occasion invited you in to stay overnight.” He turns to the jury. “The jury will draw the inferences as to whether Laura Trussardi was sad and lonely.”

  Damon nods.

  “On the one occasion you saw her husband, he seemed upset with her.”

  “No, I couldn’t—”

  “Mr. Cheskey, don’t play games. You’ve told us how Mr. Trussardi was hardly the picture of a pleased husband. In fact, you were terrified of him. He scared you so much you ran away.”

  “Yes,” Damon says faintly.

  “Thank you. That’s all. Your witness.” Cy slumps down.

  I stand, move toward Damon, keeping a neutral expression on my face.

  “Mr. Cheskey, did you ever see Laura Trussardi take drugs?”

  “No.”

  “She might have been buying them for someone else, then?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “There were other people in the house?”

  “I don’t know. The maid, maybe. And I recall her saying something about a sister in a separate suite when she was showing me the house.”

  I glance back to the gallery. Raquella’s face is unreadable.

  “The night Mrs. Trussardi invited you into her house, Mr. Trussardi came home and said hello to his wife. And to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t raise his voice? Tell you to get out? Threaten you?”

  “Never. He was polite.”

  This is the hard part, the choice I’ve been agonizing over. Leave Damon alone or take a risk? No choice but to go for it, or we’re lost.

  “You were high on drugs, doing amphetamines?”

  “Lots.”

  “How did the amphetamines affect you?”

  “I saw things, but differently from normal. I was scared, more suspicious, paranoid maybe, but I still saw clearly.”

  I circle back. “After dinner you said Mr. Trussardi went somewhere.”

  “Yes, there was a corridor behind the fireplace.”

  “At some point, did you walk over and look down that corridor?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And did you see Mr. Trussardi?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you see him do?”

  Damon gives me a confused look, but he answers. “He went to a panel and pushed it. There was a safe.”

  “And then?”

  He searches my face—Are you sure?

  I remain expressionless.

  “He pushed a panel below and a little drawer came out—a drawer with a piece of paper. He looked at the paper and punched in some numbers. The safe opened. He took out a gun.”

  “And that’s when you got scared and ran out of the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you had no real reason to be scared of Vincent Trussardi. It was just the drugs, right?”

  “Right,” he says at last. “Looking back now, I know my reaction was irrational.”

  I move on. “You were infatuated with Laura Trussardi, weren’t you, Damon?”

  “Infatuated? I don’t know about that. I delivered drugs to her.”

  “But it was more than that, wasn’t it? You were entranced by her; you loved her.”

  He grows pale. “I thought about her a lot. I—”

  “You kept going back to her house, hanging around the garden, waiting for her to come out, to ask you in again, didn’t you?”

  “I may have,” he whispers. “I can’t remember everything clearly.”

  “But you remember that you kept going back to her place, hoping desperately to see her.”

  “Yes.”

  I buckle down for the kill.

  “Yo
u were there the night she died, weren’t you?”

  He bows his head mutely. We wait for him to speak, but he cannot. I let him hang, his silence more eloquent than any words. “Yes, I was there,” he whispers.

  The jurors sit transfixed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cy turn to Emily. Where did this come from? his face asks.

  “You were there the night she died. You knew where the code to the safe was, where the gun was. And you were crazy. High on drugs.”

  “Yes.” A tear trembles on his lower lash.

  Cy is on his feet. “Objection!” he roars.

  “I thought this was cross-examination.” I turn to sit. No need to give Damon the chance to deny the deed. But Moulton, caught up in the moment, jumps in.

  “What did you do while you were there the night of the murder, Mr. Cheskey?”

  Damon’s face is white as he turns it to the judge. “Nothing,” he whispers, “nothing.”

  “My Lord.” I leap up angrily. Moulton, by intervening at a critical moment in cross-examination, has given Damon the opportunity to deny killing Laura Trussardi.

  Justice Moulton sees my glare and attempts a mop-up. “Nothing you want to tell the jury,” he adds with a twinge of sarcasm.

  “No further questions.” I sit, offer Damon a small, sad smile as silence descends upon the courtroom. I didn’t want to do this to you.

  Justice Moulton is looking at Cy. He rises. “No reexamination. That concludes the case for the Crown.”

  “Order in the court,” the clerk cries and court breaks.

  I catch Raquella wheeling away in disgust, but Jeff is grinning. We’ve made it through the worst, and everything’s more or less on track. So why do I feel so empty?

  CHAPTER 46

  WE HUDDLE IN OUR ANTEROOM. The Crown’s case is closed; ours is about to begin. Jeff and I convened late the night before, debating whether to rest with what we have or to call evidence.

  Jeff stated the obvious. “The jury will wonder why Vincent Trussardi wouldn’t testify if he’s innocent. Moulton will tell them he’s presumed innocent, doesn’t have to testify, but they’ll still wonder.”

  In the end, we decided that the risks of not calling evidence were greater than the risks of doing so. But I still have my doubts.

  “I think we should reconsider,” I tell Jeff now. “We’ve got our tunnel vision; we’ve got our reasonable doubt. Cy could get to Trussardi in cross.” I think of Lois’s drunken babbling about an occurrence report. “Who knows, he could even scrounge up rebuttal that could hurt us. Why give him the chance?”