by Paul Levine
"I remember."
"And do you recall your answer?"
"Not verbatim."
"Well, it struck me as a little odd, so let's just take a look at it." The jurors leaned forward in their seats. I had them. I had Schein. I had the whole damn world just where I wanted it. Cindy handed me the daily transcript, provided efficiently by the stenographer for a sum equal to the gross national product of a small Caribbean nation.
"I asked you this question: 'So you blamed Harry for Emily Bernhardt's death?' And you answered, 'Yes. Not with a gun or a needle, but by stripping her of her dignity, keeping her prisoner in the home,' et cetera, et cetera. Now, what did that mean, 'Not with a gun or a needle'?"
"It's just an expression. It means, not with a weapon."
"Then wouldn't the expression be 'a gun or a knife'? Where does a needle fit into this?"
"Knife, needle… They sound alike."
"But you were thinking of a needle. So it made me wonder, Doctor, what would Freud say? Why were you thinking of a needle? What memories were lurking in your subconscious?"
"I have no idea."
"Going back to the night of June sixteenth at the Beach Mart Pharmacy, you also purchased a fifteen-gauge hypodermic needle, didn't you? If you like, I'll show you the store's cash register receipt."
A vein in his shaved scalp seemed to throb, but it could have been my imagination. He stretched his neck out of his shirt collar, then answered. "Yes, I sometimes inject tranquilizers into patients, and of course sodium amytal during hypnosis, as you know. I was out of syringes, so I…"
He drifted off.
"On the way to see Harry Bernhardt, who had just been shot and operated on, who was in the ICU, you stopped off to do some shopping-is that your testimony, Doctor?"
"Well, yes."
"Now you don't inject potassium chloride into any of your patients, do you, Doctor?"
"Of course not."
"What would happen if you were to inject potassium chloride into someone not undergoing surgery, someone not on a heart pump?"
"It would short-circuit the electrical activity of the heart."
"There'd be a rhythm disturbance, wouldn't there. Doctor?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"And the heart would go into ventricular fibrillation, then stop, indicating to all the world that the person died of cardiac arrest?"
"I didn't do that!"
"I didn't say you had."
"I've seen the autopsy report," Schein said, though no question was pending. Good. Let him run his mouth. "There's no indication of anything like that."
"No, there aren't even any unexplained puncture marks on the body, are there?"
"That's right."
"But if the potassium chloride had been injected directly into Harry Bernhardt's IV tube, it wouldn't leave any unexplained marks on the body, would it?"
"I suppose not."
"Is that how you did it, Dr. Schein? Did you pop a dose of KC1 right into the IV?"
"What are you saying! No!"
"Doctor, when the man you hated…"
Motive.
"… was lying flat on his back, semiconscious and sedated.. "
Opportunity.
"… you took that fifteen-gauge hypodermic needle and injected his IV tube with a massive dose of potassium chloride, didn't you?"
Means.
"No!" He looked toward the judge for help but didn't get any.
"When the potassium chloride hit his arm, he started thrashing. Even coming out of the anesthesia, he could feel the sting of the KC1, couldn't he?"
"No! I don't know."
"Doctor, if I told you that the ocular fluids removed from Harry Bernhardt's eyes showed elevated levels of potassium, would that surprise you?"
"Not at all," he said, licking a bead of perspiration from his upper lip and calming down. He relished the question, had a ready answer. "Potassium levels increase after death. It's not an indication of hyperkalemia."
"To what level would they increase?"
"I don't know exactly, but they could easily double or more, say from five milliequivalents per liter to ten or fifteen."
"So if the test showed two hundred milliequivalents per liter, what would that suggest, Doctor?"
Good old Charlie Riggs.
"I'm not sure. But you can't prove…"
He let it hang there.
"And if a cardiologist with special expertise in heart rhythm disturbance comes into this courtroom after examining the EKG of Harry Bernhardt and identifies a widened QRS duration and subsequent ventricular fibrillation, indicating probable potassium poisoning, what then, Doctor? What do you say then?"
The swinging gate in the bar squeaked open, and Jonas Blackwell rushed through. "Your Honor, I request a brief recess."
"Denied!" the judge shouted. "And sit down."
The lawyer stopped in his tracks, looked around, and took a chair next to Cindy. Judge Stanger turned toward the witness. "Dr. Schein, there's a question pending. If you wish, the stenographer can read it back."
"I've made a ter…" Schein mumbled, his voice trailing off.
"What's that, Doctor?" the judge asked.
"I've made a terrible mistake," he said, his voice barely audible. "I believed Guy. I never would have done it had I known. I swear.. "
Jonas Blackwell was on his feet. "Your Honor, my client invokes his Fifth Amendment rights. I request that the questioning be terminated."
"I said, sit down!" the judge thundered. He leaned close to the witness stand. "Doctor, your counsel suggests that you rely on your right against self-incrimination. Do you wish-"
"No!" Schein waved off the judge with a stiff gesture that reminded me of Richard Nixon on the day he quit. "Harry Bernhardt was an evil man. Maybe he didn't abuse Christina, but what he did to Emily was a crime. He knew we were in love. He could have let her go, but he was so cruel, so inhumane. And Emily was so beautiful and frail. She lost the will to live. It's Harry's fault she died, not mine."
That puzzled me. "No one said it was your fault."
"He killed her," Schein said, "maybe not with a gun or a needle."
There it was again. What was he saying? We weren't here to talk about Emily. Or were we?
"How did Emily die?" I asked.
Socolow stood up, seemed to think about objecting, and sat down again.
"I begged her to leave him." Not exactly responsive, but why not let him ramble? "I told her how I'd take care of her, protect her, but she couldn't do it. She wasn't strong enough. He snuffed the life out of her. She begged me to do it…"
Lawrence Schein stared into space. Abe Socolow and I exchanged looks. He shrugged his shoulders, telling me it was my ball, run with it. At the defense table, Chrissy's eyes were filled with tears.
"Do what?" I asked.
"End it. We made a pact. I'd poison her while she was sedated. Then I'd kill myself."
Omigod.
A rumble of astonished voices swept through the courtroom.
Judge Stanger lifted his gavel, but never brought it down. Miraculously, the noise stopped, no one wanting to miss a word.
"With potassium chloride," I said, all the gaps filling in. "The needle. You injected Emily Bernhardt, but then you chickened out. You killed her but not yourself. You're a killer and a coward."
His head bobbed up and down. "At her first spasm, I knew what I did was wrong. All these years, and I still see her pain, even with the sedatives. I've carried it with me all this time. That's why I had to do something."
"Why?"
It's a question you're never supposed to ask on cross, but this time I knew the answer.
"Because I'd killed the wrong Bernhardt. I'd carried the guilt and shame for so long, it had nearly driven me insane. I had to kill Harry Bernhardt. I had to heal myself. It was my therapy."
34
The Defense Rests
Judge Myron Stanger shed his black robe and tossed it across the sofa. He loosened his tie, op
ened a door of leaded glass on his credenza, and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's.
"Let the record reflect that we have reconvened in chambers," he said. "Counsel for the state and defense are present, as well as the defendant."
And the court stenographer. She never gets mentioned, but there she was, banging away at her little machine. I could hear the commotion on the other side of the door, the judge's secretary fending off reporters like a blocker picking up the blitz. Britt Montero's angry voice came through the door, something about the First Amendment and access to the courts. Chrissy and I sat next to each other in chairs facing the judge's desk. She looked confused and frightened. I patted her hand and winked at her.
"Let's go off the record, Margie," the judge said, and the stenographer straightened up and cracked her knuckles. "God-damnedest thing I've ever seen in a courtroom, and I've tried more cases than the two of you put together. What the hell do we do now, boys?"
The judge hadn't opened the bottle, wouldn't until the hearing was over. He pulled a Cuban cigar out of his desk drawer, a stubby four-inch Entreacto that would have looked good on Edward G. Robinson.
"I'd like to make a motion," I said.
The judge simultaneously lit his cigar and nodded to Margie, whose fingers were poised over her keys the next instant.
"But first, the defense rests," I said.
The judge exhaled a pungent puff of white smoke and turned to Socolow. "Any rebuttal?"
Socolow said, "The state waives rebuttal."
"The defense moves for a judgment of acquittal," I said, opening the rule book. "Under 3.380, no view which the jury may take of the evidence favorable to the state can lawfully support a conviction. The undisputed evidence is that my client simply did not kill her father. A third party did, and hence…"
Did I really say "hence"?
"… there is no basis on which a jury could find her guilty of murder of any degree or of manslaughter."
"What about aggravated assault, Jake?" the judge interrupted, while studying the red-hot tip of his cigar. "If Abe here asked for it, I could charge the jury on ag assault or maybe attempted murder."
"Respectfully not, Your Honor," I said. "She hasn't been charged with aggravated assault, and under Perry v. State, the charging document can't be amended now because of a variance in proof. Additionally, attempted murder is not a lesser included offense, because it's possible to commit each offense without committing the other, and each contains elements the other does not. Therefore, under the rule, the court has no choice but to render a judgment of acquittal."
There are occasions-not many, I grant you-when I almost sound like a lawyer.
The judge puffed on his stogie, if a thirty-dollar cigar can be called a stogie. "Abe, sounds like your buddy's done his research. You got anything to say?"
"Jake's wrong about one thing," Abe said, looking at me with a tight smile. "The evidence isn't undisputed. The medical examiner testified that the cardiac arrest stemmed from the shooting. Dr. Schein seems to think he killed Harry Bernhardt. Technically, therefore, it's a jury question. It's-"
"Judge, the EKG and the electrolyte test make it clear what killed-"
"Jake, don't interrupt me!" Socolow stood and paced to a window overlooking the Miami River. "I said, technically it's a jury question. That doesn't mean the state wants it to go to a jury. We'll be in front of the grand jury this afternoon and we'll have an indictment for first-degree murder against Lawrence Schein by dinnertime, maybe another against Guy Bernhardt for conspiracy. It'd be pretty damn embarrassing if we charged a man with murder the same day a jury convicted someone else of the crime. I'm not sure what killed Harry Bernhardt. Maybe your client did it; maybe Schein did it; maybe God said it was time. But I know this. There's a difference between moral culpability and legal culpability. This young woman's been victimized by her brother and her doctor. I'm not going to add to it."
Socolow turned back to us. I thought he was looking at me, but he gave Chrissy a rueful smile. "The state does not oppose the entry of a judgment of acquittal."
"Motion granted," Judge Stanger said, happy to close another case. "The defendant is forthwith discharged. Bond is released. Ms. Bernhardt, the clerk will return any possessions that may have been seized by the state." The judge looked at me and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. "Anything further? I think I see a special setting on my calendar with a Mr. Daniel."
"Judge, I'd just like to say one thing," I told His Honor- lawyer-speak for intending to say several things. "I've known Abe Socolow for a lot of years, and he's busted my chops more times than I can remember, but he's always been honorable, and today… well, today, it just reaffirms my faith in Abe the man. The system doesn't always work. Hell, it doesn't usually work. But Abe is living proof that if you care more about justice than merely winning-"
"Shove it, Jake!" Socolow was turning red, embarrassed to be considered a human being instead of a coldhearted prosecutor. "Next time you come in here with one of your typical lowlifes, I'll kick your ass from here to Sopchoppy."
"I love you, too, Abe."
Charlie Riggs was cutting the heads off a mess of mullet, slicing down the backbone and through the ribs. He removed the gizzard and liver, scraped away the gray membrane of the stomach cavity, then used a garden hose to rinse away the blood. He moved quickly and efficiently. No wasted motions with the knife.
"You've done this before," I said.
"Twenty thousand autopsies is pretty good practice for cleaning fish," he replied.
He laid open half a dozen corpses and slid them into the bottom tray of Granny's smoker, a homemade contraption that looked like a little shingled house on top of a fifty-five-gallon steel drum.
"Aren't you going to scale them?" I asked.
"Not for smoking, Jake. The scales and skin insulate against the heat."
Charlie asked me to get the melted butter and a paintbrush, so I headed into the kitchen where Granny was making a strawberry pie. As usual, Kip was watching TV in the Florida room. Ferris Bueller's Day Off, about a smart-ass kid playing hooky. I could hear Kip talking back to the tube, saying Matthew Broderick's lines. " 'They bought it. Incredible. One of the worst performances of my career and they never doubted it for a second. How could I possibly be expected to handle school on a day like today?'"
I made a mental note to check on Kip's number of sick days.
"So where is she?" Granny asked. "Can't have a celebration without the guest of honor."
"Said she had a stop to make and would be along later, Granny."
"That poor child. She's not healthy, Jake. Dark circles under her eyes, looking so sad today, even after you won. And I swear, she's skinnier every day. Just skin and bones."
"Flesh and bones," I said, absentmindedly.
"What's that?"
The phone rang before I could answer her. I walked into the front hallway. The phone was an old black model with a rotary dial. When Kip first saw it, he laughed and asked if Granny had stolen the props from Dial M for Murder. But it wasn't Grace Kelly on the phone. It was Abe Socolow.
"Where's your client, Jake?"
"Right about now, I'd say she's on Useless One, headed down here. Granny's throwing a party. You want to come?"
"That would be inappropriate."
Inappropriate. A perfect Socolow word. Though it was after six P.M., I knew old Abe still had his suit coat on, his tie knotted snugly at the neck.
"Jake, I think you ought to keep a close watch on her for a few days."
"I intend to. Maybe for more than that." There was an uncomfortable silence. "What is it, Abe?"
"Maybe nothing. People get strung out in trial, I can understand that. But your client caused a big stir in the clerk's office when she got her stuff back. I wasn't there, but the head clerk said she was pretty near hysterical when they couldn't find the evidence file. It was still up in the courtroom, so it took a few minutes, and your client cussed up a blue streak, started crying and shaking, that sor
t of thing. Finally, they gave her the box, and she was rooting around in it, frantic like. She tore through all the exhibits, the medical records, her papers, the dress she wore the night of the shooting, the purse, everything. Then she ran out of there with just one thing."
"What, Abe?"
"Exhibit three, Jake. She took the gun."
35
Stolen Waters Are Sweet
I raced north on U.S. 1 from Islamorada. She would have been headed south from Miami. The farm in Homestead was closer to her.
I prayed I wasn't too late.
I was doing eighty, occasionally ninety, passing RVs on the two-lane road, staying in the passing lane where the road widened every few miles. Flying past the shell shops, convenience stores, and telephone poles topped with osprey nests. The Olds 442 had stiff springs and a rear stabilizer bar, a 400-cubic-inch V8 throwing off 350 horsepower, and shitty brakes for a muscle car. It didn't matter. I wasn't going to slow down until I got there.
The top was down, and the wind tore at my face, bringing tears to my eyes. At least I told myself it was the wind.
I stayed on the highway, ignoring the Card Sound bridge, and slid onto a gravel road just before the turnpike entrance south of Homestead. The engine was roaring, the tires kicking up a tornado of dust as I pulled into Bernhardt Farms just after seven o'clock.
As soon as the engine died, I heard the sweeping whoosh of the irrigation towers in the field behind the farmhouse. But no other sound. The house was dark. A Land Rover and two Jeep
Wranglers were parked in the driveway. So was Chrissy's Mustang convertible, the hood still warm.
The front door of the house was cracked open, and I headed inside. Down a darkened corridor, past the kitchen, through the living room, down another corridor. A light shone through an open doorway from a room at the rear of the house, the side facing the mango fields. I walked toward the light and I heard her voice.
