by Paul Levine
A lawyer can start cross slowly, letting the witness relax like a patron in a barber chair. A steaming towel of warm, fuzzy questions lulls the witness to sleep, and out comes the straight razor…whoosh…to the jugular. Or you can just burst into your role like a gunslinger banging open a saloon’s swinging doors. Willow chose to come through the doors firing six-shooters.
“You’ve been convicted of at least two crimes, correct?” she began.
“Objection!” Emilia was on her feet. “Once the witness admits the crime, any further inquiry is precluded.”
“Except Mr. Crowder opened the door on direct by discussing one of the crimes, then virtually denying he committed it,” Willow said. “You can’t admit a conviction and simultaneously pooh-pooh it.”
It was the first time I’d ever heard pooh-pooh in a courtroom, and I sort of liked it.
“Ms. Marsh is correct,” the judge said. “The door’s open, and the defense may inquire.”
“You were convicted of both assault and battery and computer fraud, correct?”
“Yeah, true.”
“Odd combination, Mr. Crowder. You were both a tough guy and a hacker, correct?”
“In my younger days. Nothing anymore.”
“You broke a man’s jaw in a fight outside Paranoia, correct?”
“He started it.”
“Don’t they always,” Willow said, consulting her notes. “When you were 19, you also committed identity theft, correct?”
“That’s what they called the computer fraud.”
Willow walked into the well of the courtroom, closer to the witness stand, but not so close as to require court approval. “Now, on direct, you testified that Pamela confided certain fears to you about my client, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Just a few hours before she was murdered?”
“Yeah, that night.”
“You live on Miami Beach, right?”
“Sure. South Beach.”
“Just a few blocks from the Prime 112 restaurant, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And Ms. Baylins was an ex-girlfriend of yours?”
“That’s right.”
“Who you still cared deeply about?”
“Fair enough.”
“So why didn’t you run right over to the restaurant and protect her?”
Crowder paused, looked toward Emilia, who gave him no help. “Well, Pam didn’t ask me, too.”
“In fact, you would have been breaking the law if you had gone to the restaurant because Pamela had a restraining order against you?”
That question had jurors exchanging puzzled looks. They wanted to know more.
“Yeah, technically.”
“Technically, you stalked her after she broke up with you.”
“That’s what she told the judge, yeah.”
“And the reason she told the judge that was because you refused to stop following her, coming to her place of employment, and calling her dozens of times each day.”
“I was going through a bad phase.”
“Well apparently, she was afraid of you, too.”
“More like I bothered her, I’d say.”
“But on the night she was murdered, you expect us to believe that of all the people in the world, Pamela called you to save her from big, strong, dangerous Jake Lassiter?”
“Objection, argumentative,” Emilia said, never rising from her chair.
“Overruled,” said the judge, “but watch the editorializing, Ms. Marsh.”
“It’s the truth,” Crowder said.
“Even though you couldn’t legally do anything about the problem, Pam calls you?”
“She trusted me. Like I told you, that stalking deal was over.”
“Really? Isn’t it true that up until the time of her death, you still parked across the street from her condo, secretly observing who came in and out?”
Nice work, Willow, using what I told you.
“Her building’s on the bay. It’s a good place to sit and listen to music.”
“What were you listening to on Sunday night, six days before the incident at the restaurant?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were parked outside Pamela’s condo that night, weren’t you?”
Crowder shot a look at me, doubtless regretting he’d ever opened his mouth.
“I was there. I think Adele was singing the theme from Skyfall.”
“And you noticed a man come to the phone and keypad at the front door?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone you had seen there before.”
“That’s right.”
“This night, just as in the other nights, did he appear to dial Pamela’s number?”
“He did.”
“Did Pamela buzz him in?”
“Not this time.”
“What happened?”
“He shouted something into the phone, then slammed down the receiver and took off.”
“Apparently he was angry?”
“Objection. Calls for a conclusion.”
“Overruled.”
“Yeah. Steamed.”
“Was that man Jake Lassiter?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Eddie Novak, somebody else she was seeing.”
“How often had you seen Mr. Novak there before?”
“Sunday nights mostly. A lot of Sunday nights.”
“Did he ever leave angrily before that night, a week before Ms. Baylins was murdered?”
“No. She always let him in before.”
“One competitor gone, one to go, was that it, Mr. Crowder?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Apparently, after breaking up with you, Pamela was seeing two men. If she broke up with Mr. Novak, only Jake Lassiter stood between you and Pamela.”
“I didn’t see it that way.”
“You didn’t want her back?”
“Well…”
“Isn’t it true you crawled over railings to Pamela’s balcony to spy on her after Mr. Novak left?”
That sent a ripple through the gallery, and the jurors exchanged surprised looks.
“I was worried about her. Maybe Pam was sick. So I got access to her balcony and checked to make sure she was okay.”
“Sick? Did you think she had the flu and the best way to help was to violate the Restraining Order and become a Peeping Tom?”
“She wasn’t naked or anything. She was sitting in her office, working on the computer.”
“Her back to you?”
“Yeah.”
“The computer monitor facing you?”
“Yeah.”
“What was on the screen?”
It was a question I had failed to ask Crowder. This is why we all need lawyers. Even old courtroom war horses like me don’t think of everything.
“All I could make out was the logo of Eddie Novak’s company.”
“Global Investments.”
“That’s the one. An eagle clutching some arrows.”
“Then what happened?”
“Pam scrolled through a few pages, taking notes by hand on a pad. Then she tossed down the pen, angry like, picked up the phone and made a call.”
“To whom?”
“Eddie Novak. Told him to get his ass back there. Angry like.”
“Then what happened?”
“About ten minutes later, her phone rang and she buzzed someone in the front door. Couple minutes after that, Eddie Novak came in the apartment. They were having an argument about his business. She said–”
“Objection, hearsay,” Emilia said.
“Sustained.”
“Without telling us what was said, what did you see happen?”
“Well, they argued for a few minutes. Then, it quieted down and they came into the bedroom. Clothes started coming off, and they apparently were about to have sex. I climbed over the railing and up the balcony to the roof, then came down the f
ire stairs to the street.”
“Sounds like make-up sex?”
“Objection. Calls for a conclusion.”
“Sustained. Next question, Ms. Marsh.”
The judge shot a look toward the clock on the wall, letting us know she was ready for lunch.
“Just a couple more questions, Your Honor. Did you ever witness Pamela having an argument with Jake Lassiter?”
“No.”
“Only with Eddie Novak?”
“That’s right.”
“The Sunday night before she was killed?”
“That’s right.”
“And of course you argued with her many times, did you not?”
“Yeah. That’s why we broke up.”
Willow turned to the judge. “May I have one moment, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded, then shot another look at the clock on the wall. Twenty past noon.
Willow whispered to me. “I’m done. You okay?”
“What about Saturday night? Get Crowder to admit he came to the room and hacked my computer.”
“He’ll deny it. We need the proof first, then we’ll call him on our half the case.”
“But we have him on the run.”
“You’re thinking like a client,” she whispered. “We have the jury thinking about the mysterious Mr. Novak as a potential killer. Don’t give them too much at one time. And let’s end on the high note.”
I wasn’t sure we should let Crowder walk away. Like so much in court, his testimony had been a mixed bag. If the jury believed Pamela telephoned her stalker, they would either believe she was afraid of me or just wanted Crowder to think that. At the same time, Crowder’s testimony seemed completely credible that another man – Eddie Novak – was both arguing and having sex with Pam six nights before I argued and did not have sex with Pam. Just what the hell was their relationship about? The jury would want to know. I sure as hell did. So many questions and so few answers.
“Counselor?” the judge prodded.
“Just a few more seconds, Your Honor.” Willow raised an eyebrow toward me. I thought about it another moment.
The admissions we got from Crowder were fine, but not enough. We needed to place the big galoot in the hotel suite hacking my computer and Eddie Novak in the suite killing Pam. Or vice versa for all I cared. If I were just one of three possible suspects, the term “reasonable doubt” crept to mind. But there was no way we could establish all of that on cross of Crowder, so I nodded my okay to Willow.
Looking at the starving jurors, my lawyer said, “Your Honor, subject to re-calling Mr. Crowder, we have nothing further for him at this time, and we believe this would be a propitious time for lunch recess.”
“Excellent idea, Ms. Marsh,” the judge said. “I believe the daily special downstairs is lasagna.”
24
Follow the Money
The afternoon session went quickly. The judge granted Willow’s motion to test the latex gloves for DNA with no objection from the state. Then, the room service waiter who discovered Pam’s body testified. He’d been delivering the early breakfast we’d ordered just after checking in the day before. He’d found the door to the suite slightly ajar, and when no one answered the doorbell, he wheeled his cart inside and found Pam, sprawled on the floor, dead. The testimony did give the state an opportunity to introduce more gory photos. Willow objected on the grounds they were unduly gruesome and therefore prejudicial, but the judge, not unexpectedly, allowed the whole batch into evidence.
A fingerprint expert testified that my prints were on the murder weapon. Hardly surprising, since it was my belt. Unfortunately, no one else’s prints were on the belt, except Pam’s. They could have been there for a while. Or she could have grabbed at the belt while fighting off her attacker. That ghastly image came to me, Pam using all her strength, a fighting wildcat, even as life was being squeezed out of her. It was a gut-wrenching thought.
So strange, but I still cared for her. The fact that she deceived me, while heartbreaking in one sense, did not ameliorate my horror at her death.
The fingerprint expert’s name was Willard Osprey, a fact that seemed to tickle the judge, who restrained a smile when the witness was sworn. The osprey, of course, is the Florida fish hawk, a large, nasty bird of prey. This Osprey was a wisp of a man with milky blue eyes and thinning hair the yellowish tint of a nicotine stain.
On cross examination, Willow got Osprey to admit that my fingerprints were indeed found everywhere in the suite, so there was no big whoop-tee-do that they were on my very own belt.
“You can lift fingerprints from human skin, can you not?” Willow asked.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Osprey said, respectfully.
“Did you check for fingerprints on Pamela’s neck?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Did you find Mr. Lassiter’s prints?”
“We didn’t find anyone’s prints on her neck or anywhere else on her body.”
“Wouldn’t you have expected to find someone’s prints?”
“Unless they were wearing gloves.”
“As killers sometimes do, correct?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Wouldn’t it be far more likely that some third party who entered the room with the intent to kill Ms. Baylins would have been wearing gloves, as opposed to her lover who was sharing the suite with her?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, are you aware of any evidence that Mr. Lassiter checked into the hotel on a warm June day wearing gloves?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Were any gloves found on his person or in his effects?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“So the gist of your testimony is that Mr. Lassiter obviously touched his own belt, but there is no evidence he ever put his hands on Ms. Baylins’ neck?”
“That would be correct.”
“And no evidence that it was Mr. Lassiter who placed the belt around Ms. Baylins’ neck?”
“Also correct.”
“Nothing further.”
The judge recessed early, either because she truly had an emergency hearing in another case, or she wanted to beat the traffic to South Beach for a food and wine festival.
After court, I was driving the old Caddy down Bayshore Drive, headed to see Barry Samchick. The accountant had done a helluva job creating a trust account flow chart showing money in, money out, and money back in again. My largest accounts, by far, belonged to Carlos Castillo. At any given time, he might have twenty to thirty million dollars socked away, awaiting investment or transfer. Or, perhaps laundering.
What Samchick did was follow the money. He’d already told me on the phone how he tracked funds from my trust accounts to Novak Investments, then to Castillo shell corporations in Colombia. What we needed to prove was that Pamela alone was responsible for the skimming. If I could do it while not being whacked by Carlos Castillo, so much the better.
Samchick’s office was in a bungalow behind his Mediterranean style home on Bay Heights Drive in the North Grove. I parked my 1984 Eldo next to his red Lamborghini – the low-slung Aventador with the gull-wing doors – in the driveway out front. Business must have been good. Two years ago, he was driving a Prius.
I didn’t know if he was in the office or the house.
Until I heard the sobbing.
It came from the back. I ran around the house, following a path of polished coral rocks and came to the shingled office bungalow. Barry Samchick sat on the front steps, holding his ears, emitting wails and sobs. On the ground were his broken eyeglasses. Nearby, his Rolex was smashed as if someone had stomped on it.
“Barry, what the hell happened?”
He looked at me through wet eyes and gestured with his head toward the open door to the bungalow. The door hung on one hinge, leaning like a drunk holding onto a lamp post. I stepped inside. The one-room office had been tossed. Files scattered. Shelves torn from walls. Samchick’s desktop computer was on the floor, its innards opened,
hard drive presumably missing. On the floor, a stack of colorful prospectuses for Novak Global Investments, Ltd.
I came back outside and put an arm around the cowering man. “Who did this?”
He shook his head and pointed at his ears. He couldn’t hear me.
With palms up, I mouthed the word “Who?”
“Two of them!” he shouted. “Big guys in suits. Black Escalade.”
Castillo’s men. They wanted Samchick’s report. And they wanted to terrorize him.
I pointed at his right ear and mouthed, “What happened?”
He made a motion with both hands clapping onto his ears. “Big bastard!” he shouted. “Boxed my ears. Damn near broke the drums. Said if I testified and mentioned Castillo’s name, next time, he’d stick a gun in my ear!”
“I’m sorry, Barry. This is my fault.”
“Damn straight!”
“Do you have the documents backed up?”
“Screw you! I’m not testifying.”
I took that to be a “yes.” And a “screw you.”
“I had every dollar pinned down! From your trust account to Novak Global to Castillo’s purchases of gold bullion. Futures market in Chicago. Real estate in Honduras. Even a week at the Ritz Carlton on St. Thomas.”
“What do we care about a hotel bill?”
“I don’t care! I just thought you would. Carlos Castillo spent the week there with Pamela Baylins.”
25
The Floozy
I wasn’t drunk exactly, but I wasn’t sober either.
I was being consoled by my nephew, criticized by my Granny, and warmed by a tumbler of sour mash whiskey.
“Told you she was a floozy,” Granny said for the ninth or tenth time.
“Maybe this can help the case,” Kip said.
Glug, glug, glug, Jack Daniels said, a river of liquid gold flowing down the throat.
We were once again on the back porch of my little coral rock house on Kumquat Avenue. Peacocks were screeching while they hunted and pecked for whatever it was the big birds hunted and pecked. Overhead, a flock of green parrots, resembling a squadron of fighter jets, dive bombed the palm trees.
