by David Staats
Parker retreated to the other side of the island in the kitchen and faced Dure and company across it. “I didn’t talk to her. It must be a mistake.”
“If it’s a mistake,” said Dure, “we needn’t keep you long. Your number is 289-3760?”
Parker nodded.
“That’s the number that was on Mrs. Houlihan’s phone. Let’s do this. Show us your phone's log of calls received. If the call’s not there . . . we’re done.”
“How do I know?” said Parker. “She might have called me, I have no control over that, but I didn’t talk to her. Even if there’s a call to my phone, that doesn’t mean that I talked to her.”
“True,” admitted Dure.
An awkward moment ensued in which no one said anything.
“You don’t have to talk to us,” said Dure. “But that makes you suspicious. And this is a murder case. Inquiries may get insistent. Various forms of legal process could come into play.”
Parker looked uncomfortable. His face glistened and his body showed a sort of jumpiness, as if he wanted to run away, but was forcing himself to stand where he was.
Kniffe took from his right trousers pocket a thin fold of bills and held it below the island, out of Parker’s sight. They were fifties and hundreds which he carried with him to act as a catalyst to assistance, on occasions when he thought it would be helpful. He separated out a hundred dollar bill. “You have, as it seems, nothing to hide; and if nothing to hide, nothing to fear. I realize that we are taking your time, for which we are willing to compensate you.” He palmed the folded hundred dollar bill, and sliding his hand onto the center of the island, lifted his hand, exposing the hundred. He withdrew his hand, leaving the bill.
“You keep your phone in your hands,” said Dure, using a presumptive approach himself, and walking around the island to approach Parker. “We don’t need to touch it. Just let us review the log of incoming calls. You bring it up, we’ll just watch. And,” he added, “when we’re done, I’ll let you know a bit of useful information.”
“Okay, because,” said Parker, feeling himself in a tight spot, “I really did not talk to her, and it appears that this is the only way to convince you.” He took out his phone and placed it on the island countertop.
Kniffe and Dure came around the island from opposite directions. Dure stood to Parker’s left, and Kniffe to his right. Ralph came up to the island and occupied the place where Dure and Kniffe had been standing.
Parker tapped his phone several times. “Okay,” he said, “here’s the missed calls list.”
“Scroll down to June 5,” said Dure.
Parker swiped the phone a couple of times with his thumb. Then he touched the phone to stop the scrolling and with his forefinger moved the image a bit and steadied it.
“There it is,” said Dure. “So she did call.”
“Right,” said Parker, “but this is the ‘missed calls’ log. I didn’t talk to her.”
“There’s a voicemail message,” said Dure. “Let’s hear it. It could be very important. Even a matter of life and death.”
Parker looked at him.
“It has nothing to do with you,” said Dure. “If she was alive at that time, it could prove that my client didn’t kill her.”
The air was fraught with tension, and perhaps Parker was curious himself, or perhaps he knew what was on the voicemail, having listened to it himself before. In any event, Parker tapped the voicemail icon, tapped again to turn on the speaker feature, and took his hand from the phone.
A sort of dull hissing began to play. It continued, modulating slightly in tone. This continued for over five minutes, and then stopped.
“Pocket dial,” said Parker. “Must have been.”
When Dure experienced emotion, there were almost no external signs of it. The only one was that his breathing came noisily through his nostrils. This happened now. His facial expression did not change. “Where were you when this call came in?” he said.
“I’ve given you what you wanted,” said Parker, now seeming to feel that he had the upper hand. “That’s all you’re getting.”
“Alright,” said Dure. “I thank you. But don’t you want to know who killed Mrs. Houlihan?”
Parker shrugged his shoulders. “What’s she to me?” he said. “I’ve got a business to run.”
Kniffe said, from Parker’s other side, in a sort of ambush, “But you did work with her in Reform Party matters? I have it on good authority.”
“Gentlemen,” said Parker, turning to Kniffe – Parker’s smile was bright and toothy but his eyes were narrowed – “if you know of anyone in the market for a new home, this development is the prestige development in the Canterbury area.” He took from his pocket a small block of business cards, and dealt one to each of the three men.
Dure and Kniffe and Ralph began to walk out of the kitchen, in the direction from which they had come. Parker stayed behind the island, and the hundred dollar bill remained on the island, untouched. At the doorway, Dure stopped and turned. “I promised you a piece of information,” he said. “It’s this: I would not be surprised if the police came for your phone with a subpoena.”
In the driveway Dure and company stood for a few moments, talking.
Dure, the man of frowning mien, said, “Kurt, find out as much as you can about Mr. Parker. I really want to know what was the relationship between him and the decedent. And, where was he and what was he doing at the time of the murder?”
“What are we calling the time of the murder?” asked Kniffe. “Is it still from Friday morning to Saturday afternoon?”
“I guess it’ll have to be,” said Dure. “This evidence didn’t narrow it down, as I had hoped it would – what do you think?” he asked. “Even to make a pocket dial, she would have had to be alive at the time?”
Kniffe was noncommittal. “It’s possible. Or, the phone could have been in somebody else’s possession – the murderer’s perhaps?”
“My understanding,” said Dure, “is that the police recovered the phone from the body. Maybe that’s worth double-checking.”
“Maybe,” said Ralph, “she started to make the call and was interrupted by the murderer.”
“But there was nothing on the voicemail recording other than basically silence,” said Dure. “If she had been interrupted, we should have heard voices, or the phone being dropped, or something. Maybe we should listen to the voicemail again.” He took out his phone and made a call.
“Kara? . . . I want you to make up a subpoena right now for the Houlihan trial for . . .” Dure paused for a moment to phrase his thoughts, “all messages, voicemail recordings, communications in written or electronic form by, between, to, and/or from Tiffany Houlihan and Rhys Parker during the time period from May 1 through June 8.’ . . . put my electronic signature on it, and text me an electronic copy right now, as soon as you can. . . . Okay, right, thanks.”
To Kniffe he said, “We’ve got Parker’s phone number, right.”
“Of course.”
“As soon as I get the subpoena, I’ll text it to him. Then we’ll go in and talk to him again. Let’s go sit in my car.”
“Maybe he’s erasing the message right now,” said Ralph.
Dure huffed a loud sigh, turned on his heel, and went back to the model home. Kniffe and Ralph followed.
Inside, Parker was again at the sales desk. His phone was out on the desk top and he was tapping it. As Dure entered the foyer, Parker looked up sharply, guiltily.
Dure said, “I realized I shouldn’t assume things, and although it was clear to me, maybe it was not clear to you that you should not erase that voicemail message – nor any other messages you might have gotten from Mrs. Houlihan.”
“Why, and who said so?”
“It’s evidence in a criminal investigation and the law says so.”
Parker shrugged his shoulders.
“You haven’t erased it, have you?” asked Dure.
“No,” said Parker sullenly.
A ding sounded from Dure’s phone. He began to tap its screen.
Kniffe moved forward and engaged Parker. “You live in the same development as Mrs. Houlihan,” he said.
Ralph wandered off into other parts of the model home.
Dure tapped “Send,” and a moment later a ding sounded from Parker’s phone.
The front door opened.
“I’ve just served you with a subpoena,” said Dure to Parker, “for that voicemail message –”
Lt. Wisdom came in through the front door.
“-- and any other similar messages from Mrs. Houlihan.”
“And I have a subpoena for the phone itself,” said Lt. Wisdom. He was a small man and slender, almost slight, except that he had thick, muscular forearms. His short hair was all white. He advanced to the desk at which Parker was sitting. “Are you Rhys Parker?”
“Yes.”
He took a folded paper from a pocket, opened it up, and waved it at Parker. “I have a search warrant. Is that your phone? Give it to me.”
“I need this phone. It’s got all my calendar and contacts. You can’t take it.”
“You’ve got it backed up?” said Wisdom.
With a shrugging, surrendering kind of head bob, Parker admitted that he had. Wisdom held out his hand.
“If I might suggest,” said Dure to Parker. “You ought to read the warrant and see if it’s valid and if what it asks for actually includes your phone.”
“This man your client?” demanded Wisdom.
“No,” said Dure.
“Then I would advise you, counsellor, not to interfere with a police investigation. It’s a criminal offense, you know.”
Parker held out his hand for the paper which Lt. Wisdom had shown. The lieutenant gave to him, and he began to read it.
Wisdom turned to Dure. “You should be working on negotiating a plea deal, rather than causing trouble. Your guy is going down, and you know it. You put up a hard fight on a losing case and you don’t make any friends in the County Attorney’s Office.”
“Or with the police, I take it,” said Dure.
“You got that right. I’ve got other work to do besides chasing down nonsense on a case where the investigation is done – and an open-and-shut case if I ever saw one.”
‘You’ve found the murder weapon then?” said Dure.
Wisdom glared at him. “We’ve got your guy’s confession. It’s all we need.”
“Where’s the head?” said Dure.
“It’s on the port side, amidships – ha, ha,” said Wisdom.
“I see you’re at sea,” said Dure.
Lt. Wisdom turned to Parker. “Done with your legal analysis?” he asked, and he reached down and took the phone. “I’ll take the warrant too, if you’re done with it.”
Parker dropped the paper on the desk.
Wisdom took it up. Turning to Kniffe, whom he had up until then ignored, he asked, “How does it feel, Kurt, working for the dark side?”
Kniffe narrowed his eyes to slits and smiled. “How are you, Harold?”
Lt. Wisdom huffed through his nose in disdainful acknowledgment of the greeting. “I always thought better of you, Kurt. You were one of our best.”
“We’re all seekers after truth,” said Kniffe.
“To protect the public and see that justice is done,” said Lt. Wisdom. “That’s our mission.” Looking at Dure he said, “Too bad the legal system is more interested in technicalities.” He paused. “I don’t like lawyers,” he said. And letting that remark serve as his good-bye, he left.
9.
Courtrooms in the Justice Complex were on the third floor. A long corridor stretched some three hundred feet from the bank of elevators to the other end of the building. Along this corridor were five courtrooms on each side. Up-to-date LED lights threw bright circles of light on the corridor floor, but there were not enough of them to make the whole corridor bright, and the margins of the corridor remained in twilit obscurity with undulating accumulations of dimness swelling to peaks at the midpoints between the bright spots. No artwork adorned the cinder block walls, which had been painted institutional pastel blue.
The hearing on Dure’s Motion to Suppress Confession was scheduled for 10:00 a.m. in courtroom 308, the fourth courtroom down, on the left side. Dure had arrived at 9:35 carrying his briefcase, in which were his motion papers and examination notes. Kara had brought a large document case on rollers, containing exhibits, some files, and the laptop computer. At 9:40, two sheriff's deputies brought in Houlihan, handcuffed.
“Please take off the cuffs,” said Dure.
The deputies complied.
Houlihan sat at the defense table, next to Dure. He hunched up his shoulders and rubbed his wrists. The two deputies sat in chairs behind Houlihan.
“Wish yourself luck,” said Dure to Houlihan. To Houlihan’s blank expression, Dure whispered, “We’ve gone over this. This motion is the whole ball game. If we can get the confession suppressed, you have a reasonable chance for an acquittal. If not . . ..”
Houlihan gave him a weak smile.
In the meantime, Preston and his team had come into the courtroom and occupied the prosecution’s table.
One spectator had appeared: a man appearing to be in his fifties. His body was wide; he was bald and had a large, full beard, mostly white with some rust color to it. He resembled Santa Claus.
Dure got up and introduced himself. “I’m Walter Dure.”
“I know. My name is Torvald Bornstein.” His teeth were stained and gaps were between them. “I run the ‘Coke’s Law Blog’?” he paused upon this questioning note, seeking an acknowledgment from Dure that he was familiar with his website.
Dure smiled and nodded.
“Of course I know who Walter Dure is,” continued Bornstein. “For my readers, could you give me any insight into today’s hearing?”
“I can’t say anything extensive, because as you see, the hearing is about to start. We think we have a good case to make that the confession taken from my client was coerced, not voluntary, and should be suppressed.”
“I’ve been following the case,” said Bornstein. “It’s an interesting case.”
“Let me know if you get any tips as to who the perpetrator might be,” said Dure, smiling sardonically.
Bornstein laughed heartily. “Sure thing. Good luck to you.” As Dure sidled out of the narrow space between the long, long spectator benches, Bornstein began tapping quietly on the keys of his tablet computer.
On returning from the spectator seating to the well of the court, Dure went over to Preston and shook hands. They had been adversaries a number of times over the years. Preston was at his best before a judge. Although juries often were resistant to his charm, judges seemed to either like, or be intimidated by, his tall, patrician presence.
Dure returned to the defense table. To Houlihan’s gaze of mute inquiry he said, “Even when there’s no jury, it’s important to understand, and if possible control, the atmosphere of the courtroom. Therefore, I wanted to know who is sitting in the courtroom and what his interest is. That fellow is a legal blogger. I don’t think he’ll be a problem for us.”
The clock on the wall showed three minutes before ten o’clock. The bustle of arranging papers and briefcases, books and bags, and the murmur of nervous conversation had died down, and a silent tension began to throttle the courtroom. The attorneys sat immobile.
The second hand on the clock in the courtroom had spun off another thirty seconds, and the sound of someone clearing his throat resounded, then hung in the air, as if the sustaining pedal on a piano were depressed. In another moment silence had swallowed up the echo.
Dure sat with his left leg crossed over his right. The crease on his trousers was sharp; his black leather wingtips gleamed; and his slender foot neither bounced nor trembled.
A small buzz sounded, “ALL RISE!” shouted the bailiff. With a rushing sound like a gust of wind, everyone in the courtroom stood. The judge came in
through a door to the left of and behind the bench, ascended the steps to the bench without hurry, and sat in the large judge’s chair. “Take your seats,” he said in a conversational tone of voice. He sighed, then opened a folder on the bench in front of him. “This is Commonwealth v. Houlihan, the defense’s Motion to Suppress Confession.” he said. “Are counsel ready to proceed?”
“Ready, Your Honor,” said two voices, almost simultaneously.
“I will allow counsel three minutes each for an opening statement. Mr. Dure?”
“May it please the Court,” began Dure, “the evidence which we will adduce at this hearing will show – and there will be no dispute about these facts – that at the time the statement of confession was signed, the defendant, Mr. Houlihan, was represented by counsel and that he had asserted his Miranda rights. He had told the police that he did not wish to speak to them, and at that time the police did in fact honor the request. Further, the evidence will show that later the police held Mr. Houlihan unreasonably long in custody, misrepresented to him the facts of their investigation, made both threats and promises to such an extent that, under all of these circumstances, Mr. Houlihan’s will was overborne; so that the confession must be treated as coerced and involuntary, and therefore must be suppressed as a violation of the defendant’s Fifth Amendment rights.”
“Thank you counsellor,” said the judge. “Mr. Preston?”
“Your honor, this is a desperate motion, a hail-Mary pass, as it were, by Mr. Dure, who realizes that he has a hopeless case. The evidence will show that the conversation which resulted in the defendant's full and free confession of the murder of his wife, whom he had grown to hate, was initiated by the defendant – at a time when he was not in custody; that the defendant voluntarily accompanied a police officer to the station where he voluntarily continued the discussion he had started. Furthermore – and this is important – even though the defendant had been given Miranda warnings before, he was given renewed Miranda warnings on this occasion. He waived these warnings and truthfully confessed his crime. Your Honor will see this confession on a videotaped recording.
“To say that a fifty-one year-old man had his will overborne by totally non-violent police questioning is a grasping at straws by a defense which has no defense.”
