by Ed Gaffney
Terry scanned the decision quickly. It was a 1982 case appealed from a decision of the District Court of Alabama, involving a guy charged with racketeering. Apparently, the government’s evidence had featured some irrelevant and highly inflammatory information involving the defendant’s personal life—something about the guy or his roommate being a drag queen—that the trial judge never should have let the jury hear about. So the appellate court determined that the trial was unfair, threw out the conviction, and ordered that the defendant be retried or set free.
And in a concurring opinion, one of the judges also determined that the sentence that had been imposed was improperly calculated.
If Terry had spent hours looking, he might have been able to find a case that was less related to Babe’s than this one.
But it would have been tough.
“Jesus Christ, Babe,” Terry began. So much for keeping his voice down. “Would you mind telling me exactly what the fu—”
But before he could finish his question, Zack pointed to the opinion and Terry looked down. His partner’s finger was resting next to the last paragraph of the second page, where the court had spelled out the facts against Rinaldi. The defendant, who was also known as “Babe,” had returned from his trip earlier than expected….
God Almighty. Babe thought this case was relevant because he and the defendant had the same nickname. And, naturally, since the Eleventh Circuit had decided that female impersonator Babe Rinaldi had been unfairly tried by some clown judge in Alabama more than twenty years ago on a gambling scheme, it was obvious that Babe Gardiner was innocent of the murder of Steve Hirsch.
Babe had recommenced his interplanetary artwork. He was probably wondering why the COs weren’t planning his going-away party. Sean swallowed loudly and wiped his glasses on his shirttail. It looked like there was a little sweat on his top lip.
Terry began to feel ill.
But Zack hung in there. He picked up Babe’s precious research and said, “Listen, Babe, this is a very interesting case, but we’re still going to have to decide what we’re going to do at the trial when the government introduces, uh, tries to tell the jury that you robbed this man and killed him. Remember how we were talking about that the last time? I wonder if you remembered where you were that night, so we can tell the jury that you couldn’t have robbed or killed this man, because you were doing something else.”
And once again, Babe underwent his incredible transformation from idiot to lying idiot. One minute, he was just a clueless schlub, dumber than dirt, barely able to wrap his head around the concept of the difference between an accusation and proof.
And the next, he was a lying sack of shit, a festival of unmistakable nonverbal cues announcing his complete lack of veracity. He averted his eyes, he cleared his throat, he stammered, his hands shook, and he all but broadcast the following message: Don’t believe anything I’m saying.
And what he actually said was “I, uh, I was, uh, I’m pretty sure that I was at The Burger Barn that night for dinner, but I’m not sure, exactly.”
“You know what, Babe?” Terry stood up. His voice must have been a little loud, because poor Sean looked like he was about to dive under the table. Whatever. They had been trying for weeks to talk to this cretin in a calm, reasonable, Zack-like way, looking for some kind of direction in creating a defense. And yet here they were, with their heads still firmly up their asses, still stumbling around in the dark, waiting for somebody to open a map or light a candle.
Well, fuck candles. It was time to light a fire.
“Here’s what I think. I think you know exactly what you did that night, and you’re afraid to tell us. Maybe you went to The Burger Barn, maybe you didn’t. But this ‘I don’t remember’ story is a bunch of bullshit.”
Zack was watching Babe intently. Babe was still looking down at his papers, but he had stopped doodling, which was something. Sean looked like he had come to the conclusion that the only things safe for him to move were his eyes, which were rapidly flickering back and forth between Terry and Babe.
“And you know what else I think?” By now, Terry was in full voice. Finally letting himself get into it with this guy was kind of freeing. It wasn’t exactly fun, but it sure didn’t suck. “I think that when the jury hears the evidence against you, they’re going to wonder what you have to say for yourself. And if you get up on that witness stand and say, ‘I went to The Burger Barn, but I don’t remember anything else,’ I swear to God they’re going to convict you. Because they’re going to think you’re lying, and you’re trying to hide something.” He paused for a minute. “And you know what else I think?” Terry said. “I think they’d be right.”
For a minute, no one spoke. In fact, no one moved. Which was good, because if they had, they probably wouldn’t have heard Babe whisper, “Maybe they would be right.”
TEN
ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY LOVELL: Can you describe the condition of the victim’s body?
DR. TRAHN: Yes. The body was in a state of advanced decomposition….
Q: And as a result of your investigation, Doctor, what were you able to conclude with respect to the cause of death?
A: Because of the condition of the body, certain tests and observations were not possible, so I couldn’t rule out several possible causes of death. For example, if the victim had suffered injuries to the skin, muscle, or internal organs—soft-tissue injuries, if you will—they were, for the most part, not able to be detected, because those tissues had deteriorated in the normal course of decomposition. Even with those limitations, though, I was able to observe that the victim’s skull had been fractured—actually severely crushed—and the presence of dried blood on the collar and upper portion of the victim’s shirt, as well as on that portion of the plastic bag that had been covering the victim’s head, strongly suggest that the victim died as a result of a severe cranial injury.
Q: The victim died merely as a result of a broken skull bone?
A: No. As I said, I can’t be 100 percent certain how the victim died, but when a skull is fractured as this one is, the brain suffers injuries, too. There is swelling and hemorrhaging at the site of the skull fracture, and occasionally, if the injury is severe enough, a situation develops called contrecoup contusion hemorrhaging.
MR. WILSON: Objection.
THE COURT: Overruled.
Q: And what is contrecoup contusion hemorrhaging?
A: That is bleeding in the cortex of the brain at the opposite side of the skull from where the contact injury occurred.
Q: Can you be sure that contrecoup contusion hemorrhaging—or any hemorrhaging—took place in this case?
A: No. As I said, by the time that I examined the body, the brain had decomposed too severely to make that determination.
Q: But is it likely that there was hemorrhaging in this case?
A: I would say that it is overwhelmingly likely that the brain swelled, and hemorrhaged, both at the site of the skull injury as well as on the opposite side of the brain.
Q: And what would the likely result of such swelling and bleeding be?
MR. WILSON: Objection.
THE COURT: Overruled.
A: The likely result would be what is called herniation.
Q: And what is that?
A: The brain swells to such a degree that it strangles itself against the skull, cutting off the blood supply to itself. Brain cells die. And ultimately, the entire body dies.
(Commonwealth v. Gardiner, Trial Volume V, Pages 66–69)
AS THEY PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT, MARIA wondered, for about the fiftieth time that day, whether they were crazy for doing this.
According to Anthony, getting a threatening phone call was a sure sign that they were doing something right.
But to Maria, getting a threatening phone call was a sure sign that she wasn’t going to sleep for about six years.
They were back at The Burger Barn, the restaurant where Babe swore he’d eaten dinner on the night of the rob
bery. They were there to meet with the owner.
It wasn’t that Maria was stupid—she knew that it was the job of private investigators to get involved in other people’s business, and she also knew that there were going to be times when those people weren’t going to like that very much.
But there was a huge difference between a vague understanding that her work might upset some unknown stranger at some random point in the future and a phone call in which a very real and very angry person took the time and the trouble to actually call her up on the phone and scare her to death.
“You sure you’re okay?” Anthony asked as they got out of the car. Unlike the Volvo that Anthony had rented for that time they were working undercover, he was driving the vehicle he actually owned—a hot green Audi.
Every time she got into and out of the sports car, Maria felt a tiny sting of envy. One of these days she was going to be able to buy a new ride for herself.
“I’m fine,” she lied, closing the door and following her boss across the parking lot and into the restaurant. The truth was that she wasn’t really going to be fine until the Gardiner case was over and done with. Anthony had decided that until they finished the case, or until they found out and dealt with the person who had made the threat, whenever Maria was working, he would be with her. Thank the good Lord and Saint Francis for that, anyway.
On the way to the restaurant, Anthony had told Maria that they were now officially investigating a murder case. This high school girl had found the body of the clerk that had been robbed, and the cops had found evidence that linked Babe to the murder.
Now it was more important than ever for them to establish Babe’s comings and goings on the night of the robbery. Anthony said it didn’t matter if what they found confirmed that Babe spent the whole night at the convenience store, or whether they found him an airtight alibi. Their job was to find out what happened. Period.
So he had arranged a meeting with Fred French, the owner of The Burger Barn. They arrived after the place had opened for lunch, and had to be ushered back through the kitchen to Mr. French’s office. “I was hoping that you might be able to look through this list of employees that Maria and I spoke to over the past couple of weeks,” Anthony told the short, skinny man with the thick glasses as they entered the small, dimly lit room. “We’re hoping to confirm that these are all the people that were working on Friday, March 19. We’re trying to verify the story of a client who says he had dinner here that night, but your place is so busy, we haven’t found anyone who specifically remembers whether he was here then.” They sat down in a couple of folding chairs that were so close to the desk that their knees almost touched it.
Mr. French was old—probably sixty at least. And he looked about as brittle as a bread stick. The little hair he had left was white, and his skin was leathery and tan. His glasses were big, and tinted yellowish, and his voice was kind of rough, like he was a heavy smoker.
The thin old man coughed, took the list that Anthony handed him, sat down at his desk, and hoisted a huge, three-ring notebook off the floor. Then he took off his glasses, flipped through the binder until he found the page he was looking for, and began to read.
Fred French’s tiny desk was covered by messy mountains of paper, a telephone, and an ancient-looking Rolodex. There was also a skinny bookshelf in the corner of the room behind the desk that was overflowing with papers. There were a few old pictures sitting up on the shelves, including a black-and-white one of some soldiers standing in front of an old airplane. Next to it was a framed patch of something that looked like an angry hawk or eagle.
“I’m not on the dining room floor much anymore,” Mr. French said, squinting at the paper and then back at the open binder. “But I keep the books….” He left the sentence unended. As he read down the list, he reached for a pencil. “I can tell you that Shirley, and Max, and Alberto…” His voice trailed off again as he began to make a series of check marks on the sheet.
A minute later he put the pencil down, put his glasses back on, and handed the sheet over to Anthony. “The ones I checked off were working that night,” he said. “And the only one that was working that night that you didn’t talk to was Bruce Flowers, who was washing dishes. So as far as him remembering anybody specific who came in for dinner…” He shrugged and made a face that managed to say “You can ask him, but there’s no chance.”
Of course, by now, Anthony had seen the stuff on the bookshelf, too. He motioned to it and asked, “You served in World War II?”
World War II. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Mr. French was a lot more than sixty.
The old guy looked over his shoulder at the photo and then back to Anthony with a small smile. “Yep. Airborne.”
“Wow,” said Anthony. “Hundred and first?”
“Able Company. Dropped in on D-Day, liked it so much I stayed for the whole war.” The smile faded. “But then again…”
Anthony was quiet for a moment, then leaned over the desk with his hand outstretched. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
Mr. French was taken aback, but just for a second. He took Anthony’s hand and shook it. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly. Then he cleared his throat and asked in a rough voice, “Did you bring a picture of your client? Has he been coming to the restaurant for a long time?”
Whatever confusing men’s moment had just happened seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had arisen, and Anthony reached into the breast pocket of the blazer he was wearing and held out the picture they had been showing around. “His name is Rufus Gardiner, but his nickname is Babe. The other reason we came was to check and see if you recognize him at all.”
That’s not exactly what Anthony had told Maria. The real other reason that they had returned to The Burger Barn was because Anthony figured that if their prior visits had shaken somebody up, they’d visit some more, this time while the lunch staff was on duty. He planned to keep shaking until something came loose.
Maria was just hoping that whatever came loose didn’t land on her head.
Mr. French coughed, took his glasses off again, and peered at the picture. “Oh him!” he said with a laugh. “I know this fellow. What did you say his name was?”
“Babe Gardiner,” Anthony said.
“Yeah. That’s right. Babe.” He put his glasses back on and handed the picture back to Anthony. “I’ve seen him here a lot. A while ago he started talking to me about getting a job here, which wasn’t exactly…” The restaurant owner shook his head and laughed, which started a fit of coughing. He took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and covered his mouth.
Maria stole a quick look at Anthony, who remained focused intently on Mr. French. As soon as the coughing stopped, Anthony asked, “So Babe never worked here, right?”
“I don’t do much of the hiring anymore,” Mr. French replied. He put the handkerchief back, then closed the three-ring binder and replaced it on the floor. “I leave most of that to the managers now, because they’ve got much more…” He waved his left hand vaguely. “But when you’ve been in business for as long as I have…” He looked down and shook his head back and forth.
It was weird, but even though the man never seemed to actually finish a sentence, Maria was always pretty sure she knew what he meant. And in this case, he meant there was no way in the world he would ever hire Babe Gardiner.
Of course, that was not exactly a great surprise. From the way the lawyers talked about him, it was a miracle Babe had any job at all.
“Can you be more specific?” Anthony asked, sitting back. “I really don’t know Babe that well. Was there something about him—” He hesitated. “I guess I’m wondering how you could tell that he wouldn’t have been a good worker?”
“It’s funny,” Mr. French said, “but after a while, you learn to go with your gut. It was a few years ago when your client was looking for a job. And even though he seemed like a nice enough kid, he always seemed to be hanging around with these other fellas…” He pursed his lips and shook his
head again. Disapproval.
Anthony was still sitting back in his seat, but if he had been a dog, his ears would have been standing at attention. “Really. You know, Babe said that he was here alone that night, but I wonder if he might have forgotten that he came with somebody else.”
“Well, like I said, I don’t spend too much time in the dining room anymore, but come to think of it, I saw your man fairly recently, and he was here with a friend I hadn’t ever seen before.” He paused for a minute. “That other one—I don’t know.”
“You don’t happen to remember the other guy’s name, do you?” Anthony asked.
“I didn’t speak to them—I just saw them for a few minutes. But I had this feeling that the other man was watching me…” The old man shook his head again. “I don’t like to say things about other people, but there was something, I don’t know, something not right….” What kind of guy was this Babe person hanging around with?
“Not exactly at the top of your party invitation list, huh?” Anthony said with a smile. “I’ve run into a few of those myself over the years. The kind of job I have…” And taking a page from Mr. French’s conversation stylebook, he just let the phrase dangle there.
The older man smiled back and nodded. “I can imagine.”
“You don’t happen to remember what he looked like, do you?” Anthony continued. “I’m wondering if we can check and see if he might have been with Babe that night.”
Mr. French considered that for a moment, took a breath, coughed a little, and then said, “He was a white guy, with dark hair and dark eyes, but what I really remember was that he had this pointy little beard. You know the kind. They used to call it a Vandyke.”
“A goatee?”
“That’s it. Exactly. A goatee.”
VERA OPENED THE FILE FOLDER ONCE MORE AS she waited for the parole officer to get off the phone. The mug shot of a thick-necked, dark-haired, scowling young man with a goatee stared up at her. Roger Tedesco. Age twenty-six. Made parole about a year ago after doing four years on a conviction for robbery. Before that, he’d been on probation a few times—twice for assault and once for violating a 209A order. Apparently he had ignored the court’s directive to stop calling his ex-girlfriend’s new husband.
