Murder One

by Robert Dugoni

  Anastasia leaned forward, inching closer. “Is this where you show me pictures of the perp?”

  He arched his eyebrows. “The perp?”

  “Isn’t that what you guys call the suspect? I saw it on a TV show—the perp.”

  “I don’t watch TV, it depresses me; nothing good on anymore.”

  “I hear you, brother.” She gave him a mock frown. Dear God, where was she when he was twenty-one?

  “You remember seeing this kid in here.”

  “That night? That’s awfully specific.”

  “Any night. Maybe you served him and his friends?”

  She considered the pictures. “Is there a reward?”

  “If there was, I would split it with you.”

  “Liar.” She stuck out her tongue and gave him a raspberry, then continued through the photographs before slapping them down. “Nope.”

  “I think he plays in a band,” Jenkins said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Everyone in here plays in a band. They’re all going to be the next Nirvana. See that stage?” She pointed. “We get three or four bands every night. They come in here to play for an hour, then the next one gets a chance. They have battles.”

  “Battles?”

  “Battle of the bands,” she said. “The people cheer. The band getting the loudest cheer wins.”

  “What do they win?”

  “The undying applause of their fans . . . and a beer.”

  “But you don’t remember this kid in particular?”

  “Can’t say he’s that memorable.”

  “And you were the only one on duty that night.”

  She gestured to the narrow area behind the bar. “Where are you going to put anyone else?”

  He gathered the photographs and slipped them back in his pocket. “I like your tattoo,” he said. “What does it say?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “Just something I read somewhere. I don’t even remember.”

  Jenkins stood. “Well, Anastasia, I’ll be leaving now.”

  She clutched her hands over her heart, tilted her head to the ceiling, and touched the back of her left hand to her forehead. “Romeo, Romeo, parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  “Ah, you’re an actress.”

  “I used to be.” She raised the eyebrow again and held her finger near her nose, tempting him.

  “But the director fired you because you wouldn’t sleep with him,” Jenkins said.

  TWENTY - FOUR

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2, 2011

  KING COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  The following morning, Underwood asked if there were any matters to be discussed before the bailiff brought in the jury. Sloane was surprised to see the same shoe Cerrabone had inched around the leg of the table the prior afternoon, only this time Cerrabone did not pull it back. He rose.

  “There is, Your Honor. And I would suggest we meet in chambers.”

  Cerrabone approached and handed the clerk a document, a pleading she dutifully handed to the judge. Cerrabone gave a copy to Sloane. The motion requested that Underwood instruct the jury to disregard the late-afternoon testimony of Officer Adderley concerning the anonymous telephone call from the crime scene.

  Taking a moment to read the first few paragraphs, Underwood rapped his gavel and swiveled to the side, standing. “The court will be in recess.”

  In the judge’s chambers, Cerrabone verbalized the written motion, arguing that Sloane’s solicitation of information concerning the phone call violated the intent of the judge’s order that there be no mention of Cruz or Willins, their footprints, or Cruz’s fingerprint. He said it implied there had been a third party at the site who could have shot Vasiliev when in fact it was Willins who had made the anonymous call.

  “The potential confusion of the jurors is obvious, Your Honor.”

  Sloane fought to control his anger. “To the contrary, counsel raised the subject in his direct examination when he asked Officer Adderley to describe how it was that he came to the crime scene. He solicited the response from Officer Adderley that he was responding to a call of a prowler.”

  Cerrabone said, “But I did not go further because of the court’s order. Counsel’s line of questions implies to the jury either that the shooter called it in, which would make no sense whatsoever, or there had to be an ‘experienced criminal’ at the scene who called it in, when we are all aware there exist no facts to support such a theory. I can’t do anything about it on redirect to explain Jerry Willins made the call without violating the court’s order that we not discuss Willins or Cruz. It was disingenuous of counsel to put the witness in the position of violating the court’s order.”

  Underwood nodded. “I agree. Mr. Sloane, I don’t think you did it deliberately, but I do think, as any good attorney would, that you exploited a crack in my prior order. Since Mr. Cerrabone cannot explain the evidence without violating that order, it is my intention to advise the jury that it has since been determined that the call reporting a prowler was made by a person who is not a suspect in this case.”

  Sloane could not help but consider that Cerrabone had sandbagged him, that when he had pulled back his foot the prior day, it was not because he thought it best not to try to save Adderley in front of the jury, but because he planned instead to have the judge do it for him. Ordinarily that might have been a risk for an attorney not known to be a risk taker, but given the judge’s prior order and the fact that Cerrabone’s objection would have looked like he and Adderley were hiding evidence, the decision not to object was a smart one. Cerrabone must have gone back to his office and immediately prepared the motion.

  “Your Honor, Mr. Cerrabone had enough time yesterday to object to my line of questioning as I cross-examined Officer Adderley, and he did not do so. This is not his first rodeo, and I would suggest that what is disingenuous, given that the state offered no objections to any of my questions that it now finds so offensive, is to come into this court the following morning and request that you instruct the jury. It implies wrongdoing on the part of the defense—that I was trying to mislead the jury, pull a fast one, and that was not the case.”

  Underwood raised a hand to cut off any response by Cerrabone. “I will advise the jury that defense counsel did nothing underhanded and that there was no impropriety, that if anyone is to blame, it is me for failing to properly instruct counsel on the matter.”

  Sloane thought it a hollow concession, but with it already five minutes past the hour, he knew Underwood was not about to listen to further argument. Even if he did, nothing Sloane said was going to change the judge’s mind.

  When the jurors entered the courtroom, Officer Adderley had already retaken his seat on the witness chair, part of the facade that everything was as it had been when they recessed the prior afternoon. After they settled, Underwood instructed them as he had advised, and Cerrabone proceeded with his redirect.

  Just like that, everything good about the prior day felt as if it had been erased, making Sloane’s statement to Pendergrass that they not get ahead of themselves prophetic.

  After a brief redirect of Adderley, Cerrabone dismissed him and called the CSI detective, Kathy Stafford. An attractive blonde, Stafford dressed in tight blue jeans, boots, and a suede jacket. In case a juror had any doubt of her occupation, she clipped her badge to her belt, and a shoulder holster and gun could be seen beneath her jacket. Sloane anticipated that Cerrabone would follow Stafford with Barry Dilliard, the ballistics expert, then tracker Kaylee Wright before hitting him with Joshua Blume and Felix Oberman. That would leave a series of witnesses to discuss Barclay’s motivation after Carly died of a drug overdose, with Detective Rowe to bat cleanup, summarizing the evidence that proved Barclay’s guilt just before Sloane put on his defense witnesses.

  Stafford spent the morning testifying about the condition of the crime scene as she and the resources at her disposal encountered it. She and Cerrabone used crime-scene sketches and photographs to describe for the jury the p
recise location of the body, what she called the “defect” in the sliding-glass door, and the location and caliber of the bullet embedded in the floor. She testified that they did not locate a spent shell casing, which was consistent with the police’s theory that the killer had used a revolver, and of course, she testified that they did not find the gun, which she said was not unusual. As part of her detailed report, she noted that she and Rowe had agreed to call out both Kaylee Wright and Barry Dilliard.

  “And why did you do that?” Cerrabone asked.

  “During the course of my walk-around with Detective Rowe, we noted footprints in the backyard on the lawn. We discussed the possibility that the perpetrator had used the lake to gain access to the property.”

  It confirmed for Sloane the likely order of witnesses.

  Cerrabone didn’t leave him much to work with on cross-examination, but again Sloane set to the task.

  “Detective Stafford, you testified about calling out fingerprint technicians from the Washington State Patrol crime lab. Is that unusual at a crime scene such as this?”

  “It’s a bit unusual, yes.”

  “Why was it done in this instance?” Sloane knew the answer. He asked an open-ended question hoping Stafford would provide a narrative response.

  A savvy witness, she did not oblige him. “Detective Rowe asked that it be done.”

  “And did Detective Rowe tell you why he wanted it done in this instance?”

  “He said he wanted the interior of the house dusted for fingerprints,” she said, not answering his question.

  “And dusting an entire house for fingerprints requires a significant amount of manpower, or at least more than what you initially brought to the site, correct?”

  “It does, yes.”

  “So again, I ask.” Sloane wanted the jury to understand Stafford had not answered his prior question. “Did Detective Rowe explain to you the reason he wanted it done in this instance?”

  She paused as if considering how to phrase her answer. “Given the condition of the crime scene, the lack of a weapon or a suspect, he said this could be a difficult case.”

  “But you just testified it was not unusual to not find the weapon at the crime scene, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “So surely Detective Rowe must have given you some other reason to justify his request for this significant increase in manpower?”

  “Detective Rowe informed me that he had been advised by one of the responding officers that the victim had recently been a suspect in a federal investigation,” she said.

  “Let’s not mince words, Detective. Mr. Vasiliev had been suspected of being a significant trafficker of heroin, had he not?”

  “Yes, that’s what I was told.”

  “And that is what you wrote in your report, correct?”

  “I did, yes,” she said, knowing the contents without looking.

  “And didn’t you also note in your report that Detective Rowe sought the additional manpower because, given Mr. Vasiliev’s reputed line of work—trafficking in heroin—Detective Rowe wanted to determine Mr. Vasiliev’s associates?”

  “He did express that to me.”

  “Because dealing large quantities of heroin can be a dangerous profession?”

  Cerrabone was up. “Objection, Your Honor, this goes far afield. Mr. Vasiliev was suspected, not convicted.”

  Underwood shook his head. Perhaps he sought to even the playing field following his morning statement to the jury, like an umpire’s makeup call. Or perhaps it was because judges were far less likely to rescue someone who was part of the judicial system—such as a detective—but he overruled the objection.

  Stafford looked up at the judge. “You may answer, Detective.”

  “I don’t know if that was part of Detective Rowe’s thinking or not.”

  “That’s not what I asked. You are a detective, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “And based upon your education, training, and experience as a detective, is the dealing of large quantities of heroin a dangerous profession?”

  “I suppose it could be, yes.”

  “Could be? Let’s start with the fact that it’s against the law, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “And it can involve millions of dollars, can it not?”

  “It can.”

  “Did you not process three crime scenes this past year that were determined to be homicides as a result of rival gangs fighting over their drug turf ?”

  “I don’t know the number, but I do recall one.”

  Sloane refreshed her recollection with three reports Alex had obtained. Stafford conceded there had been three such homicides. Sloane moved on.

  “Now, you did not find Barclay’s fingerprints anywhere in the house or the backyard, did you?”

  “No, we did not.”

  “You did not find any traces of her DNA anywhere inside or outside the house.”

  “We did not.”

  “However, you did obtain four fingerprints at the crime scene that, when run through the AFIS computer system you and Mr. Cerrabone earlier discussed, did produce positive identifications, correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  Underwood had previously ruled admissible the identity of the four individuals and the crimes for which they had been arrested. Sloane had Stafford identify on one of her charts where the first of the four fingerprints had been located, in the den where Vasiliev’s body had been found. “And that fingerprint belonged to Vladimir Kurkov, who has a criminal record for selling heroin, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Kurkov also work as a used-car salesman for Mr. Vasiliev?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sloane went through the second fingerprint, also belonging to a person of Russian descent with a criminal history of drug trafficking. That fingerprint also had been lifted from a counter in the den. The other two fingerprints belonged to Russian women who worked as “dancers” at a club in Renton. Each had a criminal record of prostitution.

  Underwood had ruled that Sloane could not use the term “Russian mafia,” and he would not. But that didn’t prevent him from using the evidence to imply that Vasiliev associated with known criminals.

  Turning to the gun, Sloane said, “No weapon was ever found, correct?”

  “No weapon was found at the crime scene,” she said.

  “So your unit was unable to match the bullet found at the crime scene with any particular gun, correct?”

  “We have not, no.”

  “The bullet you located was subsequently identified by the Washington State Patrol crime lab as a thirty-eight Special, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That’s one of the most popular bullets produced, is it not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sloane didn’t care. The answer was implied. “But you do know there are several different handguns on the market that are capable of firing a thirty-eight Special bullet, correct?”

  “I would assume that to be the case. Barry Dilliard would be better able to answer that question.”

  “In fact, isn’t it the case that even guns that aren’t thirty-eight-caliber, such as the three-fifty-seven Magnum revolver, are capable of firing a thirty-eight Special bullet?”

  “Again, I would defer to Barry on that,” she said.

  Again, Sloane didn’t care. “Isn’t it also true that some guns that aren’t even revolvers—semiautomatic pistols, for instance—are capable of firing the thirty-eight Special bullet?”

  “Again, I don’t know for certain. But I can say that we did not find any spent cartridges at the crime scene.”

  “Which led you to believe a revolver was used?”

  “It is another piece of evidence factored in.”

  “And did you factor in the possibility that the shooter could have used a semiautomatic and simply picked up the spent casing?”

  “We don’t come to conclus
ions at the crime scene,” she said. “Our job is to process the information and provide it to the homicide detectives.”

  “Is that why I don’t see any note in your report that the lack of a shell casing at the site could be due to the shooter picking it up from the ground after shooting a semiautomatic?”

  “Again, that would be a conclusion, and that is not my job.”

  And again, Sloane didn’t care. “How many registered owners of thirty-eight-caliber handguns live in the state of Washington, Detective?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about in King County?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We could probably get those records, could we not?”

  She smiled, indicating she knew what was coming next. “I’m sure you have.”

  “Two hundred and thirty-six thousand, six hundred and nineteen registered thirty-eight-caliber handguns,” Sloane said, knowing he was testifying. It drew an objection from Cerrabone, which Underwood overruled. “And that wouldn’t include unregistered handguns, would it?” Sloane went on.

  “Not as you have phrased it, it wouldn’t.”

  “Nor would it include weapons that are capable of firing a thirty-eight-caliber round such as the three-fifty-seven Magnum, would it?”

  “Again, not as you have phrased the question.”

  “So, would it be fair for me to say that since you don’t have the gun that fired the thirty-eight-caliber bullet found at the crime scene, that gun could have been any of those two hundred and thirty-six thousand, six hundred and nineteen registered thirty-eight-caliber handguns, one of the unknown number of unregistered thirty-eight-caliber handguns, or one of the registered or unregistered handguns capable of firing a thirty-eight-caliber bullet? Would that be fair?”

  Cerrabone was on his feet before Sloane finished the question. “Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is speculating and testifying again.”

  “Sustained.”

  Sloane looked at Stafford. “You can’t say for certain what caliber of gun was used, can you, Detective?”

  “Not without the gun,” she conceded.

  When they broke for lunch, Pendergrass, Sloane, and Barclay ate in the food court in the basement of a building near the courthouse. They took a table once satisfied that no jurors or courthouse personnel sat nearby. Sloane didn’t each much, splitting a pastrami sandwich with Pendergrass and leaving half of that unfinished. Barclay didn’t order, and to Sloane, she looked to be losing weight, but she kept telling him she was fine and that she hadn’t lost a pound.