Brashares immediately objected to her testimony as hearsay. The judge sustained it, but Brashares made a big show of asking for a mistrial. It was denied, but the judge instructed the jury to disregard the witness’s comments.
Which was like telling them not to think about pink elephants.
Ryan concluded his questioning, and Brashares approached the stand. Again he chose not to attack Rhonda on cross. He did shake loose some inconsistencies, racking up points when she admitted she didn’t know how Santoro and Mary Jo first met, nor did she know what they were fighting about on the night in question. As she stepped down from the stand, the sketch artist reported, she dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
By the time the prosecution rested on Tuesday, momentum was on their side. It was a circumstantial case, which, Brashares said, was the kind of case a jury loved to get. Drunk boyfriend follows angry girlfriend; girlfriend shakes him off; boyfriend flies into a rage and shoots her. It was easy to connect the dots.
Wednesday morning the room was packed with reporters, court-watchers, and gawkers. I was glad I’d worn my gray power suit. Especially after I met Brashares outside the courtroom.
“Who’s on besides me?” I asked.
He frowned at me through his glasses. “A vice-president from the water district who’ll talk about the hours Olive Park was open.”
It turned out Olive Park, adjacent to the filtration plant, was owned by the water district. It had been open to the public until Nine-Eleven.
I nodded. “Good. Who else?”
“That’s it.” He smiled thinly.
I stared. “I’m it?”
“I couldn’t find anyone else who saw Santoro. Maybe if you’d come forward earlier…” His voice trailed off.
“You couldn’t get a continuance so you could keep looking?”
“The judge denied it.”
“What about the night crew at the water treatment plant? Maybe someone saw Santoro walking around.”
Brashares shook his head.
“Well, what about Mac? Or my cameraman?”
“They’ll say the same thing as you. You called the shots, anyway.”
“But Ryan’ll crucify me.” Prosecutor Kirk Ryan’s conduct on cross had earned him the nickname the Hammer.
“Don’t worry,” Brashares said optimistically. “We have the tape.”
I know enough about the legal system to know that when a lawyer tells me not to worry, that’s precisely when I should.
The judge asked Brashares if he was ready. He nodded and replied in a clear voice, “May it please the court, we call Eleanor Foreman.”
I tried to ignore the stir in the courtroom as I walked down the aisle, but all eyes were on me, including Santoro’s. I stole a glance at him. He wasn’t a big man, but he had broad, powerful shoulders. His buzz cut had grown out into a thick mat of dark hair, and he sat at the defense table, wearing a cheap brown suit.
As I mounted the step to the jury box, our eyes met. At first his were vacant, with a curious lack of focus. But then, in the next instant, an expression of hope flashed in them.
I swallowed.
“Miss Foreman, thank you for coming today,” Brashares said after I’d been sworn in. “Tell us what you do for a living.”
“I’m an industrial video producer.” I answered succinctly, not volunteering anything extra, just as Brashares had instructed.
“And what does an industrial video producer do?”
I wanted to say, “Whatever it takes to get the damn show made.” Instead I explained that while a producer’s role depends on the director, the budget, and other circumstances, I generally did all the research, handled preproduction logistics, wrote the script, and supervised the location photography and postproduction.
Brashares nodded. “Let’s turn to July twenty-third of last year, the night Mary Jo Bosanick died. Were you engaged in your profession that evening?”
“I was.”
“What were you doing?”
“My crew and I were preparing to shoot a scene on the Harrison-Carter intake crib for the water district.”
“Intake crib?”
I told him what it was and where it was located.
“And what were you photographing?”
I summarized the reenactment and what we had planned. I heard a few snickers when I got to the part about Big Bill and Capone.
Brashares waited until it was quiet. “Now. On the night in question, you didn’t begin filming at the intake crib, did you?”
“No.” I told him how we experimented with the camera gain and took a few shots near Olive Park before going out to the crib.
“Tell me, Miss Foreman. Was anyone in or around Olive Park that you see in court today?”
I pointed my finger at Santoro, the way Brashares had coached me. A murmur went up from the crowd.
“Let the record reflect that the witness identified my client, Johnnie Santoro. Now, Miss Foreman, what was he doing?”
“He was lying on a bench under a streetlight. He looked like he might have been asleep.”
“Was he?”
“Not at first. He did try to get up. But he couldn’t make it, and he collapsed back on the bench. He didn’t move after that.”
“How do you remember that? I mean how do you recall exactly where he was and what he was doing?”
“Because I recorded video of him doing it.”
More murmurs went up from the crowd. Smiling faintly, Brashares paused to milk the moment.
“And when did you come to realize that the individual on the video was my client?”
“When I saw pictures of him on the news. I knew he looked familiar, but it took me a few days to realize where I’d seen him. When I figured it out, I immediately called you.”
“Now.” Brashares took a measured step in my direction. “It was your understanding, was it not, that my client wasn’t moving all that well because he’d had a few drinks?”
“Objection,” Ryan cut in.
Brashares blinked.
Ryan stood up. “Leading the witness. Plus, the witness has no knowledge of what condition the accused might be in. Anything she says is speculation.”
“Your Honor, we intend to recall a witness who will talk to the number of drinks he had at the Lakeside,” Brashares countered. “And Miss Foreman saw how he moved. Or failed to move. She can testify to what she saw.”
The judge pursed his lips. “I’ll allow it, but rephrase the question, counselor.”
Brashares smiled. Ryan sat down, shaking his head.
“Now, Miss Foreman, what did you see Mr. Santoro do?”
I explained again what I had seen.
“As far as you know, did Mr. Santoro get up and leave the park?”
“Not while I was filming him.”
“And what time was that?”
“Approximately one in the morning.”
Ryan looked like he wanted to object, but then apparently decided not to.
“Now, Miss Foreman,” Brashares continued. “You never completed the video for the water district, did you?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why not?”
I explained that it was canceled last September.
“However, even if it hadn’t been canceled, you wouldn’t have used any of the tape that my client appears on in your final product, isn’t that right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why not?”
“Those scenes were never meant to be part of the finished tape. They were outtakes. Shots we did to establish the right exposure.”
“But since that time, you have since discovered something about those outtakes, haven’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Could you explain it to the court?”
“The tape with Mr. Santoro’s image on it turns out to have been slightly damaged.”
“Damaged how?”
“There appears to be some kind of interference on the tape.”
> “Radio interference?”
“Objection,” Ryan shot up again. “She’s not an expert on radio frequencies.”
The judge looked at Brashares, then at me. “Sustained.”
“Let me rephrase that,” Brashares said smoothly. “Not being an electronics expert, perhaps you could explain the problem from a producer’s perspective.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Ryan shouted again.
“Will both counsel please approach the bench?” The judge rose and stepped to the side of the bar.
While the lawyers and judge whispered, I looked around. Mary Jo’s parents were sitting behind the prosecution’s table. Next to them was Rhonda Disapio. Mary Jo’s mother sat with her arms crossed, back straight. Her father stared at me with venom in his eyes. Only Disapio’s face seemed to hold open the possibility I wasn’t a lethal adversary.
I gazed at the row of people behind the defense table, wondering if any family members or friends of Santoro’s had come to the trial, but from their detached expressions and body language, I surmised that wasn’t likely.
Their side bar apparently now concluded, the two lawyers backed away from the bench.
“The objection is overruled,” the judge said.
Brashares smiled at me. “Now, Miss Foreman, how did the problem manifest itself on the tape?”
I described what RF can do on a tape.
“And the RF was evident on the shots—excuse me, the outtakes—of my client.”
“That’s right.” I was beginning to feel more comfortable. The questions were going the way Brashares said they would, and we were talking about subjects about which I had some knowledge.
Brashares moved to a separate table and picked up a videotape in a plastic sleeve. “Do you recognize this videotape?” He handed it to me.
“Yes. It’s the original tape that I gave you.”
“How do you know?”
I pointed to the label on the spine, which said Foreman Communications. “My label is on the edge of the cassette.”
“Is this the tape that shows my client on the bench in Olive Park?”
“Yes.”
“Does the tape fairly and accurately show how he appeared that day?”
“Yes.”
“And to your knowledge, has that tape been tampered with or altered in any way, since it was recorded?”
“No.”
Ryan scribbled furiously on his legal pad.
“Your Honor, I’d like to move this into evidence as defense exhibit number one,” Brashares said. “With your permission, we will play it for the jury.”
“Objection.” Ryan again. “Chain of custody. Where was the tape from the day it was made until now?”
Brashares’ eyes narrowed. “Counselor, I thought we worked that all out.” He turned toward the judge. “Approach the bench, Your Honor.”
The lawyers had another side bar with the judge, after which Brashares asked me a series of questions that elicited the fact that the tape had been in Mac’s tape library since we shot it, and that the tape library was locked and accessible to only two or three people. Ryan seemed satisfied and sat down.
Brashares wheeled a cart with a video player and monitor to the front of the room. The jurors leaned forward, and the room quieted. Brashares inserted the cassette and pushed Play. The tape was cued to the scene of Santoro on the bench. We heard the buzz on the track, saw the streaks on the picture. The entire scene lasted less than a minute, after which Brashares hit Pause. There wasn’t a sound in the courtroom. Brashares stepped toward the jury.
“Again, Miss Foreman, who is the man on the videotape?”
“It’s Johnnie Santoro.”
“And when was this shot?”
“July twenty-third of last year.”
“Thank you, Miss Foreman.” Brashares clicked his heels, turned around, and withdrew to the defense table. His face had a sheen, as if he’d just finished a five-mile run. He nodded to Ryan. “Your witness.”
Chapter Nine
I took a sip of water. The mood in the courtroom lightened. A low buzz came from the observers, and people seemed to relax, except for the Bosanick family, who sat tight-lipped and silent.
But when Kirk Ryan rose, the murmuring stopped. People shifted in their seats. A woman in the second row licked her lips. The door at the back of the courtroom opened, and my father walked in. How had he gotten downtown? He nodded at me and sat down in back.
Ryan, a squat man with the confidence of someone much bigger, pushed a hand through wavy blond hair. Pasting a smile on his face, he ambled toward me as if we had all the time in the world.
“Good morning, Miss Foreman. Nice to see you again.” He was referring to the deposition I’d had last week with his staff. Brashares had been right. They hadn’t been hostile; in fact, everyone had been quite polite. I returned a weak smile.
“You’re a documentary filmmaker, correct?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re not?”
“I produce industrials—corporate sponsored videos.”
“But you did produce Celebrate Chicago for the city’s millennium celebration, which subsequently ran on cable television.”
“Yes. The City of Chicago sponsored that.”
“So.” He cupped his hands around an imaginary sphere. “Some of your products eventually do end up on television?”
I didn’t know where he was going, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it. “Yes.”
“And prior to being on your own, you worked at a television station producing news documentaries, correct?”
“Many years ago, yes.”
“Even so, would you say you have an understanding of the news process?”
“Objection!” Brashares jumped up. “I don’t know where this is leading, or how it’s relevant to the proceedings.”
“I’m laying foundation, Your Honor,” Ryan replied quickly.
The judge rubbed his nose. “I’ll allow it.”
“So.” Ryan turned back to me. “Miss Foreman, would you say you have an understanding of the news gathering process?”
“I suppose so.”
“You watch the news regularly?”
“Local or national?”
He dipped his head, as if to acknowledge I’d scored a point. “Let’s start with local.”
“Not that often.”
“Pardon me, but didn’t you say you recognized Johnny Santoro from his picture on the news?”
“I saw it in the newspaper.”
He ran his thumbs underneath the lapels of his suit. “So you do keep up with local news. Through the newspaper.”
I nodded.
“Please respond audibly.”
“Yes.”
“And when was it that you recognized Johnnie Santoro’s picture in the newspaper?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“But the crime with which Santoro is charged occurred over a year ago. Are we to believe that you, a former TV news professional, haven’t watched the news or picked up a newspaper in all that time?”
“Objection!” Brashares again. “The prosecution is assuming facts not in evidence.”
“I’m getting to them right now,” Ryan said.
“See that you do, Mr. Ryan,” the judge said.
“Well, Miss Foreman? Have you not watched the news or read a paper in that time?”
I squeezed my hands together. “Of course I have.”
“Then you know the Santoro case has been one of the major news stories of the past year, correct?”
I nodded.
“Please respond audibly.”
“Yes.”
“For someone who was once in the news business, someone who knows the value of timely information, someone whose shows are still broadcast on the airwaves, why did you wait so long to come forward with your…”—he made imaginary quotation marks in the air—“…discovery?”
“I didn’t realize that Mr. Santoro was the man on the in
take crib video until last week.”
“But you read the newspaper, and you watch television. Tell me, how many hours of coverage do you think have been accorded to the Santoro case since his arrest?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would it be fair to say it’s been in the news frequently?”
“I don’t know.” My stomach was churning.
“Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Once a month, perhaps? And now, with the trial, even more?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“And in all that time, you haven’t seen one photo or image of Mr. Santoro until last week?”
“That’s right.”
“And that one image just happened to spark your memory?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that convenient?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
Ryan turned toward the jury, making sure they saw the smirk on his face.
Several jurors exchanged meaningful glances. I caught a glimpse of my father, a defiant glare in his eyes. My cheeks burned. Compared to this, maybe white-water rafting wasn’t so bad.
Ryan strutted back and forth in front of the jury box. “Now, Miss Foreman, you saw the defendant on a park bench July the twenty-third, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“How much time did you spend taking his picture?”
“About ten minutes.”
“And while you were there, you photographed other things besides the defendant, correct?”
“We were trying to find the right exposure.”
“Yes. Now, you arrived in the vicinity at about what time?”
“About twelve or twelve-thirty.”
“And you left at what time?”
“About one.”
“And when you left, you motored directly out to the intake crib, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Where you spent the next five or six hours, correct?”
“We wrapped about seven in the morning.”
“However, after you left the vicinity of Olive Park, you really have no direct knowledge about what transpired, either at the park or onshore?”
“Objection!”
“Overruled. The witness may answer the question.”
I looked at my shoes. “No.”
A Picture of Guilt Page 5
