Lying with Strangers

by James Grippando

  “Fine. We’ll leave it at that.” She closed her notebook, as if to add finality.

  “Fine,” said Kevin, not sure he’d convinced her.

  Peyton’s early-morning meeting with Tony meant watching him sweat. He was in the workout room beside his office, going full tilt on the treadmill, wearing sweatpants and a Boston Bruins T-shirt. A dark triangle of perspiration dipped from his shoulders to his sternum, as if pointing to the paunchy belly he was trying to work off. Peyton sat facing him on the weight bench.

  It took her just a few minutes to bring him up to speed on the e-mail she’d opened a day too late. Tony seemed to be listening, though he never broke stride.

  “You have no idea who sent it to you?” he said, winded.

  “No. It came from a rented computer terminal at some copy center.”

  “But you’re convinced that this person knows who’s framing you?”

  “The message said that the man I need to meet will be in the park at midnight. Bring the cops. Why else would I need to bring the cops?”

  The treadmill kicked up a notch, whining loudly. Tony was struggling to keep up.

  “Should we call the police?” asked Peyton.

  He punched the control panel and slowed the pace. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that message could have come from a friend, your husband. Just about anybody who wants to help substantiate your theory that you’re being framed.”

  “Or it could be the legitimate link we need to prove that Gary was kidnapped.”

  He stopped the machine and leaned on the panel, catching his breath. “That would be pretty convenient at this stage, don’t you think?”

  “You think I created this e-mail myself to bolster my kidnapping defense?”

  “No. But it’s possible someone you know did exactly that.”

  “Meaning Kevin?”

  “Meaning who else?”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?”

  She shook head, frustrated. “So you’re saying we should just forget about it?”

  “Yes. I told you at our very first meeting that I don’t want to inject the kidnapping claim into this case. The jury won’t buy it, and the prosecution will twist it into an argument that Gary Varne was blackmailing you and Kevin, which only strengthens your motive to murder him. So far, Ohn shows no sign of going there. I don’t want to be the one who opens the door for him by sharing a mysterious e-mail that probably came from your own husband.”

  Peyton struggled to contain her anger. “You don’t believe any of it, do you?”

  “Any of what?”

  “That someone’s impersonating me on the Internet. That someone kidnapped Gary and demanded a ransom. You think Kevin and I made it all up before our first meeting with you.”

  He toweled off his sweaty neck. “Let me say this much. I believe I can get you acquitted without going into any of that.”

  “How are we going to get through this trial if you don’t believe me about the kidnapping?”

  “I didn’t say I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s what I’m hearing.”

  “Then you’re not listening closely enough. What I’m saying is, I don’t trust your husband.”

  She lowered her eyes. “A few days ago I might have taken you to task on that. But after yesterday, those aren’t exactly fighting words.”

  Tony took a seat on the bench, facing her eye to eye. “Trust me on this kidnapping argument. And level with me on one point, will you?”

  “What?”

  “I’m asking this only because I want to understand Kevin’s state of mind right now, not as your husband but as your codefendant. And be honest, please. Did you leave Kevin because of Sandra? Or did he kick you out over Gary Varne?”

  With that, she glowered. There were only so many false accusations she could stand, and one more from her own lawyer had her just about over the edge. “I’ll trust your instincts on the kidnapping defense, Tony. But don’t you dare ever ask me that question again.”

  She shot a parting glare, then rose and left the room.

  58

  PEYTON WISHED SHE COULD BE SOMEWHERE ELSE. ANYWHERE ELSE. It was bad enough having to watch the prosecutor parade one witness after another before the jury, each one trying to paint her as a murderer. Having to sit quietly at the defense table beside the man she’d walked out on just last night was a real test of personal fortitude. Their greeting had been cool but not openly hostile, not with the press watching, and definitely not with the eyes of the jurors upon them.

  “Morning, Peyton.”

  “Morning, Kevin.”

  Those had been the only words exchanged all morning. It might have been painful if there hadn’t been so much else to worry about.

  Ohn began the day with the first officer on the scene, whose testimony was brief and straightforward. He’d spotted what he thought was an abandoned car by the wharf and stopped to check it out. He found Peyton slumped unconscious in the front seat with an open bottle of sleeping pills spilled on the floor. He radioed for an ambulance, and after Peyton was whisked away, he noticed blood seeping through the backseat, apparently from the trunk. So he popped it open.

  “What did you find?”

  “A white male. Late twenties. He’d been shot in the head.”

  “Was he dead?”

  “Quite.”

  At that point, Ohn dragged out the enlarged photographs of the crime scene, including the victim, and Peyton felt numb. It was bloody, but not so bloody that she couldn’t plainly see Gary’s likeness. Ohn was asking follow-up questions on the position of the body, its condition and so forth, but Peyton couldn’t concentrate, not even on her own lawyer’s methodical cross-examination. For days, maybe weeks, her only focus had been on the fact that she had not killed Gary Varne. Seeing the pictures made her face head-on the chilling fact that someone had killed Gary, that it had been terribly violent, that he’d spent his final moments on earth stuffed in a trunk with a loaded gun to his head—an absolute horror that she would have wished on no one.

  Mercifully, it was over in short order. The prosecutor quickly transitioned to his next witness.

  “Dr. Sidney Gersch,” the witness said, introducing himself to the jury. “I’m a forensic pathologist with the medical examiner’s office.”

  He was a gray-haired man with dark, tired eyes that peered out from behind wire-framed spectacles. With rounded shoulders he seemed incapable of sitting up straight even in a courtroom, as if so many years of stooping over dead bodies had given him terrible posture.

  “You were called to the crime scene when the victim’s body was discovered?”

  “That’s correct. And I was also the attending pathologist at the autopsy.”

  Ohn breezed through preliminaries, then asked, “What was the victim’s cause of death?”

  “Gunshot. A single thirty-eight-caliber bullet that entered at the right temple. Exit wound was at the left temple. We refer to this as a through-and-through wound.”

  “So the bullet passed completely through his skull?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did you determine the manner of death?”

  “The medical examiner’s finding is homicide.”

  “How did you rule out suicide?”

  “For one, no gun was found anywhere near the body.”

  “Isn’t it possible that someone came along and stole it?”

  “Theoretically. But the victim’s hands were also tied behind his back.”

  “Not to be a fly in the ointment, Doctor, but isn’t it at least theoretically possible that Mr. Varne killed himself, then someone happened by who stole the gun and tied his hands behind his back to make it look like homicide?”

  Peyton glanced at her lawyer, wondering where Ohn was headed with what seemed to be undue concern over the possibility of suicide.

  “That would be pretty illogical, but I see your point. The third and perhaps conclus
ive reason that we ruled out suicide was that there was no blood spatter on the victim’s hands.”

  “Explain that for us, please.”

  “Sure,” Dr. Gersch said as he turned to face the jury. “The entrance wound was basically a bullet hole surrounded with soot that was easily wiped away. The presence of soot suggests that the firearm was discharged at fairly close range, perhaps one to three inches.”

  “Wouldn’t that be consistent with suicide?”

  “Yes, but with a close-contact entrance wound there would certainly be what’s known as blow-back spatter of blood. Essentially, the entrance of the bullet at high velocity causes the blood to break into fine aerosol-like particles. In a near-contact execution-style shooting, these particles are dispersed back toward the barrel of the gun.”

  “And what’s the significance of that in this case?”

  “Mr. Varne had no traces of blood on his hands. If it had been a self-inflicted wound, we would have found it.”

  “So, even though Dr. Shields was found in the front seat with a bottle of spilled sleeping pills, it’s clear that this was not a botched attempt at a joint suicide? A so-called lovers’ pact?”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  Peyton cringed inside. Even when questioning the medical examiner, Ohn was clever enough to find a way to keep the jury focused on infidelity.

  The witness answered, “Someone murdered Mr. Varne. I can’t say what happened to Dr. Shields.”

  Ohn moved on to other areas of questioning, but Peyton’s thoughts were stuck on the last exchange. The schoolteacher on the jury was flashing a judgmental look. The young artist in the second row seemed to be shooting Peyton looks, as if hoping to be next in the growing line of men who had seen her naked. Maybe she was imagining it, but maybe not. She glanced at Kevin, wondering if he appreciated the irony of her being the one painted as unfaithful.

  “Just a couple more questions,” said Ohn. “Dr. Gersch, were you present on the scene when the victim’s body was removed from the trunk of the car?”

  “Yes. I supervised it.”

  “How big was Gary Varne?”

  “We measured him at six foot two. One hundred ninety-eight pounds.”

  “How many people did it take to physically lift his body out of the trunk?”

  “Two.”

  Ohn turned toward the defense table, his gaze coming to rest first on Kevin and then on Peyton. It was as if he were counting—a-one and a-two—giving the jury just enough time to come to the realization that if it had taken two people to lift his body out of the trunk, it had probably taken these two people to put it in, the murderer and the accessory after the fact.

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  “Cross-examination?” said the judge.

  It was Tony’s turn to go first for the defense. He rose and approached the witness, his gait slightly tighter than normal, as if stalking his prey from the weeds. Some might have thought it was a strategic adjustment to his normally strident style, but Peyton knew that he’d simply pushed too hard on the treadmill this morning. Then again, maybe it was choreographed. She was beginning to realize that little happened by accident with Tony.

  “The cause of death was gunshot,” he said, more a statement than a question. “You determined that from your examination of the wound, correct?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, at the risk of stating the obvious, there was no gun at the scene.”

  “There was a bullet. But frankly, I don’t need a gun or a bullet to recognize a gunshot wound.”

  “My question was, there was no gun, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And there was no back spatter of blood on Gary Varne’s hands.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Is it fair to infer from your testimony that whoever did pull the trigger on this missing gun would have had back spatter of blood on their gun hand?”

  He thought for a moment, as if sensing a trap. “With a shot at such close range, yes.”

  “For example, if Peyton Shields had shot Mr. Varne before losing consciousness in the front seat, she would have had back spatter on her hands, maybe even her clothes.”

  “One might expect that.”

  “Would it surprise you to know that neither the paramedics in the ambulance nor the physicians in the emergency room noted any sign of blood on Peyton’s hands or clothing?”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Washing would remove it. And a change of clothes.”

  Tony smiled thinly. “So let me get this straight. No gun. No back spatter on my client’s hands or clothing. Are you suggesting that Dr. Shields shot the victim at close range, threw away the gun, washed her hands, changed clothes, came back to the car, and swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills to kill herself?”

  “Objection. That’s way beyond the scope of this witness.”

  “Your Honor, I’m just trying to understand how much trouble murderers normally go through to cover up their crimes before they kill themselves anyway.”

  “No speeches, and you’re not going there with this witness. Sustained. Move on.”

  Tony looked toward the jury. “I think we all got the point. Nothing further.”

  Tony returned to his seat, flashing his client a smug look. Peyton gave him a subtle acknowledgment, though in her mind the score hadn’t been as big as Tony seemed to think it was.

  Jennifer was on her feet before Tony had fully settled into his chair. She spoke from behind the table, right where she’d been sitting, as if suggesting that she would be even more brief than her co-counsel.

  “Dr. Gersch, do you have an opinion as to where Gary Varne was when he was shot?”

  “It appears that he was shot while lying in the trunk.”

  “What do you base that opinion on?”

  “As I mentioned, the bullet entered the right side of the head and exited through the left. The blood-spray patterns found in the trunk are consistent with this type of exit wound. And perhaps most important, the bullet was found lodged in the wheel well.”

  “So he was alive when he was put in the trunk?”

  “That would be my opinion.”

  She nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Your autopsy report notes only one injury, one wound. That’s the single gunshot that killed Gary Varne.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You performed a thorough examination, I’m sure.”

  “Very thorough.”

  “You found no signs of blunt trauma to the skull, such as might be found with a blow to the head.”

  “Just the gunshot.”

  “You performed a toxicology report?”

  “That’s standard in a case like this.”

  “No signs that the victim had been drugged.”

  “Nothing of that sort.”

  “So no one clubbed him over the head, then put him in the trunk and shot him?”

  “It wouldn’t appear that way.”

  “No signs that anyone had drugged him into an unconscious state, put him in the trunk and then shot him?”

  “No.”

  “By all indications, Gary Varne was alive and conscious when he got into the trunk. And he was shot while he was alive and fully conscious.”

  “That was probably the case.”

  “To follow up on Mr. Ohn’s question about how many people it took to remove the body from the trunk, let me ask you this. How many men or women holding a gun does it take to order a fully conscious man to step into the trunk?”

  “One, I would presume.”

  “Thank you. That’s all I have.”

  Peyton caught her eye as Jennifer took her seat. Before coming to court today, Tony had told her that they needed to be more careful now that she and Kevin had split, and watch every move of their codefendant with a little more circumspection. It had seemed as though Jennifer had been trying to help both defendants by proving a lone gunman
. But now that it was over, Peyton was getting the same ugly vibes that she’d gotten after her polygraph.

  She just didn’t like the way Jennifer was looking at her.

  At the break, the lawyers went straight to the attorneys’ lounge in the courthouse, leaving their clients behind. Tony needed a moment with his wife, and he didn’t intend to hold back. He closed the door, checked the bathroom to make sure he and Jennifer were alone, then proceeded to unload.

  “What the hell are you trying to pull in there?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That last question. How many men or women would it take to order Varne into the trunk at gunpoint?”

  “I was just being gender neutral.”

  “Don’t give me that.”

  “My only point was to debunk the prosecution’s theory that it would have taken two people to lift Varne’s body into the trunk. Someone made him get in the trunk at gunpoint, then shot him. It’s the perfect setup for your theory that Peyton was framed.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “I’m not. I’m only trying to prove that my client was not involved.”

  “Then don’t do it at my client’s expense.”

  “I’m sorry if you don’t like my approach,” said Jennifer. “But it’s my duty to watch out for my client. Especially a client who refuses to watch out for himself out of love for a wife who slept with the victim.”

  “She didn’t sleep with Varne.”

  “Oh, come on, Tony. I know that even you don’t believe that.”

  He stepped closer, looking her in the eye. “You think she killed him, don’t you? That’s what you’re up to. You weren’t in that courtroom today trying to prove it was a lone gunman. You’re trying to prove it was a lone gunwoman.”

  She gave him a serious look, no anger in her tone. Just conviction. “It’s the prosecutor’s job to prove it, Tony. But, yeah. I think she did it.”

  Tony watched as his wife headed for the door.

  “Jennifer,” he said, and she stopped.

  “What now?” she said.

  “You’re not a prosecutor anymore.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t have to convict my client to acquit yours.”