“Sounds like he knew what he was looking for, and maybe he got it too.”
“Yeah.” She brings her wineglass up to her mouth to take another sip. She stops, letting the glass rest on her lips.
“Let’s get to work, shall we?” he repeats, breaking Astrid out of her thoughts.
“Let’s do this.” She sits in the chair opposite the view she was enjoying before Detective Penance arrived.
“Okay, so we have the phone calls and texts from Micah, which we have in the timeline,” he starts. “We also have the phone call from Talbot to Lennox that night telling him that he couldn’t make their meeting, whatever that means, and another voice message from James West, who basically said he was at the party, he had just seen Micah, and everyone was wondering where he was. Are you gonna use the Talbot and James West phone calls?”
“Yes, I think we have to if we talk about Micah’s. By introducing the one call, we open ourselves up to the rest of the them during cross.”
“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do. I know you can handle it.”
“Yep. What’s next?”
“Despite Lennox being found naked, the autopsy results showed no signs of sexual battery, plus the shower DNA results showed mostly dark hairs from Lennox. We think he had just taken a shower and was grabbing a snack, which matches what Micah told us in his voluntary deposition. Stomach contents included barely digested cereal and milk, which goes along with the half-eaten corn flakes we found on the desk.”
“What about the chair? What’s your feeling about that?”
“The bloody desk chair that was moved across the floor during the attack? No one doubts that the chair is where the initial murder took place. My guess is the victim was rolled and dumped on the floor. The perpetrator either finished stabbing him there, or just discarded him and left him for dead.”
“My God. I dare someone to convince me this wasn’t a crime of passion. Poor guy, not a care in the world, having some cereal at his desk. If I get caught up in the emotion of that, I’m done for. Moving on.”
“So the Wi-Fi camera that may have taped the murder, where is it, here it is.” He moves the photo of the camera found inside the African trinket box to the forefront of all the other photos. “Now, we still haven’t found any recording, but I leave to you to introduce the camera to the jury.”
“I filed a motion to dismiss it,” Astrid says. “Since nobody knows what the hell it even did. But if the camera is entered into evidence, I’ve been thinking about a counter. Something about sadism … wanting to video his own crime. We don’t know that he didn’t set this up himself.”
“Actually, we might know who did. I went to see James West this week and found a number of souvenirs from his African travels in his office, including a box that looks remarkably similar to this one.” He points to the picture of the box from the crime scene, then unearths a magazine photo of James West next to the console in his office, with an African box clearly on display. He circles the box with a red grease pencil. “Now, might be coincidence, might not, but again, something to consider.”
“Considered. I read your report.”
“Now, along the same lines, we confiscated the main servers and combed any interactions with James West and Lennox Holcomb. We found nothing. Well, we found chats, but any conversations between the two of them from about six months ago until now are gone. Wiped. Not even a trace. Which I thought was kinda strange, especially considering that all other emails, interoffice messaging, everything on virtually every single employee was still there.”
“Wait, so are you saying we should be looking at this company, this CEO, instead of who we arrested and charged?”
“Not exactly. See, my colleague is working the other case, the Union Square murder case, and with all the knowledge I have of the two cases, I have a theory that Élan Publishing was keeping tabs on key conspirators in some sort of financial cover-up, and they may have been keeping tabs on Lennox by placing a camera in their living room, which might have recorded the murder that night. Accidentally.”
“May have, might have. Speculation. You can’t say that on the stand.”
“I could work it in somehow. If the camera’s admitted into evidence.”
“Good luck with that. What’s next?”
“Jenna.” Detective Penance pulls out a photo of Jenna Ancelet. “Now, I saw this chick … excuse me, lady … when I was leaving James West’s office. I remembered her from the night we took in Micah. She was the one Micah saw as we were leaving the murder scene, and he yelled at her to call his lawyer. That’s not even the juicy part.”
“I should say not, you interviewed her as well. I have the transcript.”
“Right, right. She was cleared. Alibi, everything. Done. But get this. I saw her at Élan talking with Mr. West right before I got there. She doesn’t work there anymore, I remembered, so why would she be there? I combed the servers and found out that all of her emails and instant messaging to Lennox were gone from the same exact timeframe, too.”
“Wait, I thought you said everyone else’s emails were still on the servers?”
“I said virtually everyone else’s. Jenna’s is gone, too. Zip. Nada.”
“Jesus Christ, this company. Does that lead you to believe we’re on the wrong path here, Bron? Seriously?”
“Look, I want to be a team player.” Detective Penance leans back, rubs his eyes. “I know you have a lot of pressure on you. I know there’s something off here, but I just can’t wrap my mind around it. On the one hand, too much evidence points to this crooked company in two murders of two different employees in the same night, and they’re really good at getting rid of evidence. On the other hand, evidence supports motive and opportunity for Micah to kill his husband, apart from any company angle … Not to mention a confession, albeit a weak one, and DNA evidence.”
“Exactly. DNA evidence.”
“But that’s where I stop and think, should we ask for a postponement? Or at least consider a plea deal?”
“That’s not your job.”
“You asked.”
Astrid sits up from her chair. She lets out a sigh that feels like it’s been screaming to be released. “I did. I did ask. Not because I wanted to know, but maybe because I wanted to hear it out loud.”
Detective Penance leans back in his chair, mirroring Astrid.
“These are lives we are talking about,” he says. “Like I said, I know you’re under a lot of pressure on this. But we gotta remember, a human being is dead. Drugs or not, conspirator or not, gay or not, not that I have a problem with that.”
Anyone who says they don’t have a problem with that clearly does, Astrid thinks.
“Plus, I am not letting go of these wiped emails and missing hard drives. I just need more time to find better resources,” he continues. “And from what I’ve heard, Lennox was a decent man. He just got caught up in the wrong place with the wrong people. Did these people include Micah? I think that’s the real question here. If we believe it, then let’s go for it. If we don’t, then we have an ethical responsibility to hold off until we know for sure. Both of us.”
Detective Penance plops the photo of Jenna he had been waving around throughout his monologue onto the table, like a drop-the-mic exclamation to end his point. And THAT is doing my job, he thinks, somewhat relieved to get his concerns off his chest.
Astrid pushes herself up out of the chair and begins pacing around her condo. Normally she would look at cases from many different angles before landing on a truth, a passion behind her representation of the People. But regardless if she wanted to believe it, this woman, this predecessor, this Elaine Holcomb, has control of her decisions. Astrid wants to prove herself. She wants to advance her career.
But is it just that? she wonders.
Something else is nagging her. An overwhelming feeling that Micah somehow orchestrated his husband’s death. Call it intuition, call it experience. She begins to talk out loud, outlining her own “on-the-one
-hand” dissertation.
“True, there’s evidence to suggest this company could’ve orchestrated the murder, and Micah was the innocent victim in all of this. But isn’t it also true that there’s more evidence to the contrary? We have a timeline with massive gaps, we have blood all over the alleged perp, we have a taped confession, we have Micah’s beyond-squeaky-clean hard drive, witnesses that corroborate a psychopathic switch that turns Micah from a Christian-raised schoolboy into a raging luna—” She stops mid run-on. “Wait a second, that’s it. That’s our argument.”
“Hard to believe, but I’m actually following you,” he says.
“Then get out. I’ve got work to do.”
He continues to sit, smiling at Astrid’s sarcasm, while gathering his documents and pictures. “You should start by subpoenaing Micah’s therapy notes. He’s got tons of receipts from this Jewish lady in the Flatiron District.”
“It’s cute that you think I haven’t already done that. Now go on. Git!” Astrid says with a shuffling gesture.
“Okay, okay.” He stands up to leave. “I heard you, I heard you.”
C h a p t e r 3 4
“Oyez. Oyez. Oyez. All rise.”
Shawn and Micah stand along with the rest of the court. Micah looks at Shawn, who winks as if to say, We got this.
“New York County Supreme Court is now in session,” the court clerk continues. “The honorable Judge Christopher K. Wilson presiding. All persons having business before the Honorable Court are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the court is now sitting. God save the great state of New York and this Honorable Court.”
A quiet hush covers the room, followed by squeaks and shuffles as lawyers, jurors, and audience members sit down in their seats. The wooden spectator pews are filled with various local and national media and interested onlookers, each wanting a glimpse of the first “Pub War Murder Trial,” as the New York Post has dubbed it. Contrary to the second Pub War case involving the other Élan employee murdered on the same night, this case has a suspect, a confession, an arrest, and its trial is now underway.
The courtroom, with twenty-foot ceilings and original eight-foot mahogany wainscoting, is a throwback to an older age of tradition, respect, and admiration for the justice system. A hodgepodge of renovated additions over the years includes the same speckled vinyl flooring as the Tombs next door, thin black microphones that look like they were ripped from the hands of Bob Barker himself, and large flatscreen television monitors next to the jury box on the left and in front of the defense on the right.
Shawn is sitting next to Micah, who is dressed in a dark-grey wool suit and a blue tie, both of which were gifted by Shawn the night before. Shawn is paying close attention to the jury, and at the same time watching Astrid get her notes together.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” says Judge Wilson, high atop everyone else on his large, looming wooden bench that has been covered in layer after layer of stain and shellac over the years. “Quite the weather we’re having, huh? Had to keep my boots on cuz m’feet are cold.”
The packed courtroom shows respect by snickering. The judge recognizes the mild feedback.
Judge Christopher K. Wilson, originally from South Carolina, is one of the few judges in any New York municipality who has an unblemished reputation. With no questionable ethics, no violations of code or process, he is sixty-six years old and considered by most in the legal profession to be a bit eccentric, very old school and by the book. He attended Vanderbilt University Law School from 1974 to 1977 and began working in New York as a defense lawyer in the late seventies. After rising through the legal ranks, serving in various capacities as judge for several civil and criminal courts, the Mayor of New York City appointed him to serve out his remaining years as a New York County Supreme Court Justice.
“Now, before we get started, I’d like to make something clear. My courtroom is formal. I will not stand for gimmicks, for outbursts, for anything not pertaining to the case. We are on the people’s dime and we don’t have time for any nonsense.”
Great, a Republican judge too, Shawn thinks. He takes a deep breath. Am I in Manhattan?
“Calling the case of the People of the Great State of New York versus Micah Breuer-er,” the clerk says, fumbling over the last name.
“Are both sides ready?” asks the judge.
“Ready for the People, your Honor,” ADA Astrid Lerner says.
“Ready for the defense, your Honor,” Shawn says.
“Will the clerk please swear in the jury?” asks the judge.
“Will the jury please stand and raise your right hand?” asks the court clerk.
The jury rises. Astrid Lerner gleams with approval and looks to the audience where she knows the Holcombs are sitting. Elaine is stoic.
The clerk begins to scan the jury. “Do you solemnly swear or affirm that you will try the matter of the People of the Great State of New York versus Micah Breuer in a fair and impartial manner and render a verdict according to the law and the evidence, so help you God. Do you so truly affirm?”
“I do,” they state in unison.
“You may be seated.”
“Thank you,” says the judge. “Ms. Lerner, you may begin.”
Astrid, dressed in a navy-blue pinstriped power suit, is seated right in front of the jury box. Her hair is styled in an updated Marlo Thomas That Girl style, straightened and flipping up at the ends. She places her hand on the slick varnished wall that separates her from the jury risers and begins.
“Thank you, your Honor. And thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. The defendant has been charged with the murder of Lennox Holcomb, his husband.
“Lennox, or Lenny, as his family and friends called him, was stabbed thirty-three times on the evening of August 17, 2018. And that man, Micah Breuer, sitting right there in the dark suit, confessed to killing him. That is a fact. Our evidence will show motive to commit murder, our timeline will prove opportunity to commit murder, and our DNA evidence of the murder is undisputed.
“Now, the defendant over here might look like an all-American Christian boy, and he is. Born and raised. He grew up with a loving family. Church-going. God-loving. But the defendant had another side. One that he hid from both his parents up until the day they died. Expert testimony and even the defendant’s own words will show a pattern of lying and hiding his true self beyond those early years, well into adulthood, ultimately up until the time his husband was murdered.
“The defense attorney, Mr. Connelly over here, is going to try to sway you with conspiracy theories, corporate espionage, and even ghosts.”
The jury chuckles.
“I know, but it’s true.” She begins to march across the front row of the jury box. “Oh, it’ll be interesting. Sometimes it’ll be hard to stomach, as the brutality of this crime is well-documented in the evidence we will present. But throughout this process, I would like for you to ask yourself: Is it easier to believe in ghosts, or that a conflicted young man living a double life could be a real-life murderer?”
Astrid looks at each member of the jury, one by one.
“Thank you for your time and service.”
She spins on her heel and takes her seat.
“Mr. Connelly?” Judge Wilson prompts.
“Thank you, your Honor.” Shawn begins his opening statement. “Ladies and gentlemen, Micah Breuer walked into his home on the evening in question and found his husband in a pool of blood on the floor. His husband was still breathing. Micah did what any of us would do: he tried to save him. He did CPR. Now, maybe CPR wasn’t the best choice, but defense will show that his state of mind and lack of knowledge as to what exactly was happening with his husband caused him to act quickly.”
He pauses, walks to his right, continues.
“Imagine for a second you’re at dinner. One of your loved ones is choking on, let’s say, some random meatball from your grandmother’s under-baked, chewy, lumpy beef stew.”
The jury laug
hs, louder than they had with Astrid.
“Objection,” Astrid Lerner states. “Meatballs, your Honor?”
“I think it’s a metaphor, Ms. Lerner, kinda like your ghost thing,” the judge says. “Overruled.”
She tries not to react. That’s completely different, she thinks.
“You know the Heimlich, right?” Shawn continues, looking at the jury. “You go to do the Heimlich on your loved one. You’re desperate. You push upward and push upward. But instead of releasing the meatball, you accidentally break your loved one’s rib. That rib punctures the heart and your loved one passes away. Are you going to think you killed your loved one? Absolutely. But was that homicide? Absolutely not. Can any of Micah’s acts that evening be considered homicide? No.
“When the prosecution has finished, the defense will bring to light the real truth: one they neglected to pursue any other line of questioning or suspect to the fullest extent they could have; and two, the evidence will show several other avenues, several avenues, that point to the real killer of Lennox Holcomb that fateful night.
“Reasonable doubt will definitely come into play here. Because there’s a whole lot of doubt in the prosecution’s reasoning. Thank you for your time and service.”
“Objection,” Astrid repeats.
“Sustained,” says the judge. “The jury will ignore Mr. Connelly’s personal conclusion regarding the prosecution’s reasoning.”
Astrid is pleased.
“The prosecution may present its first witness,” says the judge.
“Thank you, your Honor. The prosecution would like to call Officer Mateo Palino to the stand, please.”
The tall, burly Italian police officer walks in front of Astrid up the single step to the witness stand and sits down. He is dressed in full uniform.
“Please stand and place your hand on the Bible,” orders the clerk. “Raise your right hand. Do you promise that the testimony you shall give in the case before this court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
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