by Scott Pratt
I paused for a few seconds before I said, “How many trials have you testified in, Dr. Pemberton?”
“This makes the fifty-fourth.”
“Fifty-four trials. Then you must be familiar with the rules regarding hearsay evidence. At least you must have some working knowledge of what it is.”
“I’m not quite sure what you’re asking.”
“You know someone can’t come into court and tell the jury what somebody else told them, don’t you?”
“I suppose I’m aware of some of the limit—”
“Yet you just threw the rules out the window and spouted off that little tidbit about the piece of skin you found.”
“You walked right into it,” the judge said. “You got what you deserved, Mr. Dillard.”
“Thank you, Your Honor, for pointing out to the jury that you don’t care about the rules of evidence any more than the State or its witness.”
Before the judge could respond, I turned back to Dr. Pemberton. “You didn’t test the piece of skin, did you, doctor?”
“I did not.”
“Because that isn’t your area of expertise, is it? You’re a pathologist. You conduct autopsies and make conclusions regarding causes of death. DNA identification is not what you do, is it?”
“No.”
“But since we’re on the subject, who told you the piece of skin you found came from my client? The criminologist? The district attorney?”
Now Pennington Frye was on his feet. “Objection! He just chastised the witness for offering hearsay evidence, and now he’s asking him for more!”
Things were going surprisingly well. I’d learned very quickly that I could create a fair amount of chaos with very little effort. Some defense lawyers call it “making the State come off their mountain to fight on my molehill.” I just called it fun.
“That’s enough!” Judge Graves said. “Approach. Both of you.”
Frye and I walked up to the bench. Judge Graves’s cheeks were pinker than usual, and Frye’s back was a little stiffer than usual.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, Mr. Dillard?”
“I’m cross-examining the medical examiner.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know how the judges run their courtrooms up there in the mountain country where you come from, but I—”
“They run them pretty much the same way you do, Judge. They help the prosecution every chance they get, and they treat defense lawyers like flies at a picnic.”
“You’re practically begging me to hold you in contempt.”
“All I want is a fair shake. Level playing field. Same rules. All those clichés. Neither of you said a word when the witness blurted out hearsay. You probably thought it was funny. You even said I walked right into it. You want to try to hold me in contempt for being upset about it? Go ahead. All you’ll do is delay the trial while I beat you in the court of appeals and then the case will get assigned to another judge.”
His complexion had darkened from pink to almost purple, but he knew I had him, at least for now, and the jury knew I’d won, too, which was even more important.
“Move on to another line of questioning,” the judge hissed. “Step back!”
I walked back to the lectern and faced Pemberton.
“So just to be clear, just so the members of this jury are clear, you don’t know any more than I do about what happened in that room that night, do you, Doctor?”
“I know a young girl was strangled,” he said meekly.
“Thank you. That’s all I have.”
CHAPTER 36
“State your name, please,” Pennington Frye said.
“David Biggs.”
“Where do you live, Mr. Biggs?”
“Outside Franklin, on the Milius estate.”
“How are you employed?”
“I’m an assistant to Paul Milius. I help him with a lot of things, but the most important thing is to drive him from place to place.”
“You’re a chauffeur?”
“You can call it that if you like.”
“Did you drive Mr. Milius anywhere on December tenth of last year? And I’m speaking of the evening in particular.”
“I drove him to the Bridgestone Arena for the Country Music Television Awards show.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“I think we got there around seven in the evening.”
“And how long did you stay?”
“Mr. Milius came back out to the parking lot around midnight, I believe, and we left for the after-party.”
“Did you witness anything that went on at the awards show?”
“No, I stayed near the car.”
“Where was the after-party held?”
“Sambuca. It’s a restaurant on Twelfth Avenue.”
“How long did it take you to get from Bridgestone to Sambuca?”
“Not long. It’s less than a mile, but there was some traffic. Maybe five, six minutes.”
“So this is after midnight, and now it is December eleventh?”
“Correct.”
“Did you go inside the restaurant, Mr. Biggs?”
“I stayed in the car and waited for Mr. Milius. I always stay with the car. It’s a pretty boring job.”
“How long did you wait?”
“About two hours, I guess.”
“So it’s now two in the morning, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And did Mr. Milius come out alone?”
“He did.”
“Where did you go from there?”
“Mr. Milius asked me to take him to the Plaza Hotel downtown.”
“Did you do that?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“I’m not sure. It only took about five minutes to get there. Traffic was light. It was probably two ten, two fifteen.”
“What happened when you got to the Plaza?”
“I dropped Mr. Milius near the front door. He got out and walked inside. Before he walked away, he told me not to wait for him, that he would see me in the morning at the usual time, and that I should go on back to Franklin and get some sleep. So that’s what I did.”
“Did you see Mr. Milius again that night?”
“No.”
“When did you next see him?”
“At six thirty the next morning. I was waiting in the car for him when he came out of the house, and I drove him to work just like I always do.”
“Any idea how he got home?”
“No.”
“Did he say anything about the night before?”
“No.”
“Does Mr. Milius often ask you to drop him off at hotels at two in the morning?”
“No.”
“How many times would you estimate in the past that Mr. Milius has asked you to drop him off at a hotel at that time of night?”
“Never. That was the first time.”
“And you’ve worked for him for how long?”
“Seven years now.”
“That’s all. Thank you, Mr. Biggs.”
The judge looked down at me and said, “Any questions, Mr. Dillard?”
I stood up and thought for a second. Most lawyers cross-examine every witness, no matter what the witness said or didn’t say on direct examination. Some do it because they’re so anal retentive they simply have to dredge through everything again, others do it because they think they’re not doing their job if they don’t ask at least a few questions, and still others do it because they like to hear themselves talk. I’m of the opinion that if the witness hasn’t hurt you too badly and really has nothing else to add, it’s best to keep your mouth shut and sit down. David Biggs had testified that he dropped my client off at the Plaza around two in the morning. My client didn’t intend to deny it. The only thing that really hurt—and it wasn’t terrible—was that Paul Milius had never before asked David Biggs to drop him at a hotel at two in the morning. I decided to keep my mouth
shut.
“No, sir,” I said to the judge.
“Excellent. Mr. Frye, call your next witness.”
CHAPTER 37
“My name is Donald Tuttle,” said the man sitting in the witness chair. He was sixty, with thin, gray hair and wire-framed glasses. He was wearing a powder blue sport coat and a bow tie of the same color.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Tuttle?” Pennington Frye said.
“I’m an insurance agent.”
“Do you sell life insurance?”
“I do.”
“And within the last year, did you sell a policy to insure the life of a young lady named Kasey Cartwright?”
“I did.”
“To whom did you sell that policy?”
“To Paul Milius of Perseus Records, Incorporated. The corporation is actually the owner and beneficiary of the policy, but Mr. Milius contacted me on behalf of the corporation and signed the contract on behalf of the corporation.”
“And how much was to be paid to Mr. Milius’s company in the event of Miss Cartwright’s death?”
“Thirty million dollars.”
Frye held up a thick document.
“I’m holding a copy of the policy in my hand, Mr. Tuttle. Would you please identify it for the court?”
The bailiff handed the document to Tuttle, who examined it for a few minutes.
“Yes,” Tuttle said. “This is the policy.”
“So what you’re holding in your hand there is a true and accurate reproduction of the original policy on Kasey Cartwright’s life sold by you to Perseus Records, Incorporated?”
“It is.”
“The state moves to admit the policy as an exhibit, Your Honor.”
“So admitted.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tuttle. No further questions.”
I knew this was coming, of course, although I thought Frye might try to milk it a bit more. I don’t think he really believed that Paul Milius killed Kasey Cartwright for insurance money, but it certainly did appear suspicious that the policy was taken out less than a year earlier, and $32 million was the kind of money that any juror would have to take into account when considering whether it was a factor in someone’s death. I needed to deal with it.
“Mr. Tuttle,” I said, “you’re not just a run-of-the-mill insurance agent, are you? And by that I mean you’re not the guy who tries to sell everyone in his church and civic club a policy. You’re a big fish, aren’t you? You make big deals.”
Tuttle smiled slightly. I’d talked to him twice before the trial, had asked around about him, and had learned that he was amenable to flattery. I wanted him to be at least a little sympathetic to our side, so I fluffed him a bit in front of the jury.
“I’ve made some substantial sales, yes,” Tuttle said.
“How long have you been in the business?” I asked.
“Twenty-two years.”
“You deal primarily with businesses—big businesses—and you do a lot of what is known as ‘key man’ deals, isn’t that right?”
“I see you’ve done your homework, Mr. Dillard. You’re correct.”
“And Kasey Cartwright is not the first country music star your company has insured, is she?”
“No. There have been several others.”
“Including Lana Raines-Milius and a couple others who signed with Mr. Milius’s record company?”
“Correct.”
“And you basically value the artist by multiplying the artist’s prior year’s earnings for the record company by four, don’t you?”
“That’s typically the way it works, yes.”
“So in Miss Cartwright’s case, the fact that your company insured her life for $30 million meant that she earned eight million, or roughly eight million, the previous year for Perseus Records, Paul Milius’s company?”
“Yes. I believe it was just over eight million, actually.”
“And that would mean Kasey made how much? Around two million?”
“Objection!” Frye was on his feet, looking pained. “Mr. Dillard isn’t a witness. He can’t testify as to how much the record company grossed and the artist made.”
“Why don’t we ask the witness?” I said. “Mr. Tuttle, do you have firsthand knowledge of how the recording industry works?”
“Like I said, I’ve been in the insurance business for twenty-two years. I’ve sold key man insurance policies to more than three hundred recording artists, musicians, producers, promoters, and executives. Prior to becoming an insurance agent, I was actually a talent agent who represented the artists. I negotiated contracts on their behalf. That was exactly what led me to become an insurance agent because I realized I could make far more money selling the insurance policies. So, in answer to your question, yes, I have intimate, firsthand knowledge of how the industry works.”
Frye sat back down, now looking a bit bewildered.
“All right,” I said, “back to my first question. If Kasey Cartwright earned $2 million in the year preceding the purchase of the insurance, then did Mr. Milius’s company gross roughly eight million from her work?”
“That would be about the industry standard,” Tuttle said. “The recording artists typically wind up with around 20 percent of the gross.”
“And were there plans to revisit Miss Cartwright’s policy for the purpose of updating it anytime in the near future?”
“She was a rising star, Mr. Dillard. We would have gotten together once a year to update the amount of coverage. It would have increased.”
“So if Paul Milius killed her, he cost himself a fortune.”
“Objection!” Frye yelled.
“Sustained,” the judge said sternly.
“Thank you, Mr. Tuttle,” I said, and I suppressed a smile and sat down.
CHAPTER 38
“The State calls Lt. William Smiley,” Pennington Frye said.
I’d spoken to Lt. Smiley a couple times leading up to the trial, once at Ronnie Johnson’s office and another time at the police station downtown. He was stand-offish toward me, as many police officers are, because I was on the “other side.” To him, I was a bad guy because I represented the interests of the person he had decided was the bad guy. His physical appearance reminded me a little of Jack in that he was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and strapping. He was ten years older than Jack, though, in his mid-thirties, and he walked confidently into the courtroom wearing a navy blue suit, a white, button-down shirt, and a solid, navy blue tie.
The clerk swore Smiley in, and Pennington Frye spent a few minutes going over his background. They were trying to make it sound impressive, but I’d done my homework on Bill Smiley. Actually, Jack had done most of the homework. Jack had found a couple cops who were willing to talk to him about Smiley. He’d tracked down some of Smiley’s old friends—including some old girlfriends—and he’d learned a great deal, not the least of which was that Smiley’s position as a detective in the Metro Nashville Police Department had as much to do with family ties (his father-in-law was an assistant chief) as it did his abilities. I couldn’t use that information in cross-examination, but it always helped to know as much as possible about the witness with whom I was dealing.
Smiley’s reputation, according to Jack, was that he was smart, but he was also lazy and he drank too much. He’d earned an associate’s degree in business from a junior college and then switched to criminal justice at Middle Tennessee State University after he met the young woman who would eventually become his wife and whose father was a rising star in the Nashville PD. He got hired by the Metro Nashville PD right out of MTSU, spent two years on patrol and another doing undercover narcotics work before becoming the youngest homicide investigator in the department’s history. He was a closet alcoholic—Jack said his sources told him Smiley drank Scotch whisky neat every day to the point of passing out—but he did his drinking at home and did his best to keep things on good terms with his wife, who was a registered nurse in the pediatric intensive care unit at Saint Thomas Midtown Hospit
al. They had no children.
Smiley had worked dozens of murders, both as a lead and assistant investigator. He’d been to half a dozen training programs around the country and was smooth and articulate in front of the jury. He avoided cop speak and, for the most part, talked like a normal human being. It was obvious he was an experienced witness.
“Would you please describe to the jury how you became involved in this particular case?” Frye asked.
Over the next half hour, Smiley described in detail how he came to be assigned to the case (he was up on the rotation), and the process he went through once he arrived at the hotel room. Cops don’t exactly have checklists, but there are certain things that need to be done at every crime scene, and Smiley did them all. He secured the scene, he identified the victim, he took photos, he checked for blood and other evidence in all the rooms in the suite, (they found some blood that later turned out to be Kasey Cartwright’s in the bathroom), he talked to Maria Ortero and Elena Rodriguez, the maids who found the body, etc., etc. He also documented everything he did in either field notes or reports.
