The testimony of his partner, Maguire, was almost identical, although I remembered not to ask him any open-ended questions. Evola dwelled on how many times Angel had been told that she didn’t have to answer questions and that she had a right to an attorney.
Evola was building toward introducing the taped statement, and I could hear the murmur of interest in the courtroom as he called Herbert Ames, the county evidence technician who had run the video camera that night.
I had never seen Ames before. Evola had kept making excuses so I couldn’t get the opportunity.
Now I could see why he had kept him hidden away. Herbert Ames did not have the look of a tiger. He resembled a lamb. I damn near began to salivate.
Ames was a gawky man in an ill-fitting winter suit. His eyes, already widened by fear, seemed even larger through his thick glasses. His sleeves and trousers were too short for his long arms and legs. His response to the oath was barely audible.
Evola merely asked his name, his occupation, and whether he had taken the tape to be placed in evidence against Angel Harwell. That was it, nothing more. Evola treated Ames as no more than a functionary called to satisfy evidenciary procedure. He did it a bit too quickly to be convincing.
I walked over to the far side of the courtroom so the television camera could get a better angle. Nothing might happen, but if something did, it could be the kind of dramatic spot that would play well on the nation’s news programs.
“I understand they call you Dirty Herbert, is that true?”
“Objection!” Evola screamed.
Before I could reply, the judge barked in a low, dangerous voice, “Sustained.”
But sustained or not, the question had had the desired effect.
He seemed to shrink back in the witness chair. I took a few steps closer.
“Herbert, have you ever used the county camera for any work not connected with official business? You know, home movies, girls, that kind of thing?”
Evola’s objection was followed by the judge’s growling admonishment to stick to the matter at hand.
Poor Herbert. His lower lip had developed a slight twitch. “That night when you taped Miss Harwell, who called you to come into the police station?”
He hesitated for a moment. “I’m not sure. I think it was Detective Maguire.”
“About what time was that, roughly?”
“It was late.”
“How late?”
His eyes darted over to the prosecutor as if seeking a clue as to what he should say. Then he looked again at me. “I was in bed. Sleeping,” he added.
“What time was it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Didn’t you look at the clock when the call woke you?”
“I probably did. Yeah, I guess I did.”
“And what time was it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Tell us where the big hand was, Herbert.”
The laughter from the crowd was mixed with Evola’s objection and another warning from the judge.
Two red spots of embarrassed color blossomed on Ames’s white cheeks. “The time was just past three o’clock, I think.”
“And you got dressed and drove over there, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“How long did that take?”
“Not long. A half-hour maybe.”
“Did you set up the camera when you got there?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you tape the statement from Miss Harwell as soon as that was done?”
“A few minutes later, I guess. Not long.”
I walked two steps closer. He watched with apprehension, the way a bird watches an approaching snake.
“How many statements did you tape that night?”
“Just Miss Harwell’s.”
“One tape only?”
His eyes bobbed around for a minute as if seeking an escape route.
“Two tapes,” he said in a near whisper.
“Pardon me?”
“Two tapes,” he repeated, a bit louder. “We took two statements from her.”
“What happened, Herbert? Trouble with your camera? Or did you maybe botch the first take?”
“No.” He seemed indignant at the mere suggestion.
“Did you tape them one right after another?”
He shook his head. “No. There was a break between them. Maybe a half an hour, maybe longer.”
“What happened during that break?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.” He sounded very relieved at being able to make that answer.
“Why weren’t you there?”
“They asked me to step out of the room. You know, have a cigarette or something.”
“Who asked you?”
He paused, took a breath, and then answered. “Mr. Evola.”
“What did he say?”
“Objection,” Evola said. “This has no bearing on —”
“Overruled,” the judge said. “Go on.”
“Well, what did he say, Herbert?”
“He wanted to talk to Miss Harwell some more, he said. Just him and the detectives.”
“Morgan and Maguire?”
“Yes. So I went out in the hall and had a cigarette. You aren’t supposed to smoke there but no one was around so I thought it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“And when they called you back in they made the second tape, is that right?”
“Yes.”
I walked a bit closer. “Herbert, what happened to the first tape you made? That first statement Miss Harwell gave in front of your camera?”
“I erased it.”
“Is that usual?”
“No. We usually keep them, at least until after a trial, if there is one.”
“Why didn’t you keep this one?”
He looked away from me. “Because we made the second one.” His voice was so low it was almost inaudible.
“That wasn’t the reason, Herbert, and you know it. Why did you erase the first tape?”
“Mr. Evola told me to do it.” He spoke so quickly the words ran together.
“Did he say why?”
Herbert Ames looked over at the judge. “He said he didn’t want some smartass lawyer getting his hands on it.”
“Why was that?”
He half-smiled. “Oh, on that first one she denied everything. You know, she said she was innocent.”
“And that’s when they asked you to step out of the room?”
“Yeah.”
I just stood there, for effect. In the old courtrooms the wall clocks used to tick, at times a very dramatic sound. This clock was electric, just a low buzz, but the effect was the same.
When I thought I had milked the moment for everything I could get I turned to Evola, who sat grim-faced at the counsel table.
“Have you no shame?” I snapped, knowing my outraged face was the only thing the camera at the back of the courtroom could catch.
What I provoked was another sharp warning from the judge, but it was well worth it.
Evola made a speech, denying any wrongdoing. Then he played the tape on the screen set up for that purpose.
Then it was my turn.
*
MY line of attack was simple enough. I would show that Angel had been treated in the past for emotional illness and was fragile at best. I would show that she finally cracked under police pressure and after six steady hours of questioning gave a statement in a desperate attempt to end the torment.
I had already set up the time and circumstances through Evola’s witnesses. Herbert Ames, a gift from the gods, had established the suspicion that perhaps Evola and company were not completely trustworthy. Now I had to show that Angel was not firing on all pistons that night and that the police had taken advantage of her weak emotional condition and the horror of seeing her bloody father.
A confession, or even a questionable statement, must be given voluntarily if it is to be admitted into evidence. Anything les
s leads back to the rack and thumbscrews.
I was surprised that Evola let the psychologist who had given Angel the tests get off so lightly. Evola hit on Angel’s high intelligence but not much else. A faint warning signal began ringing in my mind.
Dr. Monroe Gishman was an international authority on brainwashing techniques. He was a consultant to our State Department and to Amnesty International. As they say, he wrote the book on the subject. Not a best seller on the New York Times list, but it earned the doctor a nice annual income on sales to universities.
Dr. Gishman was my witness and Dr. Gishman didn’t come cheap. First, there was his fee. It probably could have ransomed a hundred political captives held throughout the world. And there were his expenses. Dr. Gishman did not go tourist.
I think it was the amount of money wasted that bothered me the most.
I called Dr. Gishman and began the questions to qualify him as an expert on brainwashing.
Evola objected. I had expected that. I even had a number of leading cases supporting my view to argue to the judge.
Leading cases or not, Judge Brown ruled against me, saying that so far the evidence did not establish a case for brainwashing, at least not the kind where an expert like Dr. Gishman was required.
I didn’t think Dr. Gishman was all that upset by the ruling. He had been paid in full. He grinned at me and waved as he made his way out of the courtroom.
But losing a battle did not mean losing the war.
“I call Dr. Henry Foreman,” I announced.
There was a stir among the spectators as Dr. Foreman made his way to the stand.
He came forward, exuding serene self-confidence. Tall, gray, and wise, Dr. Foreman radiated a calm stability.
I led him through the qualifications. Evola objected, but this time he lost. Dr. Foreman would be permitted to testify as to Angel’s background and her state of mind on the night her father died.
Like those other expert witnesses, Maguire and Morgan, Dr. Foreman possessed the quick mind of a courtroom tiger.
Actually, he was so good I had very little to do.
In a calm, authoritative voice, Dr. Foreman took all of us back to that night. He described what it was like for Angel, a frightened, shocked girl whose emotional flaws worked against her, flaws that made her do things that would have otherwise been unthinkable for one with such a fine mind.
Hell, he convinced me. But I wasn’t the important one. I watched Judge Brown. Again, the judicial mask was firmly in place, although at times I thought I saw sympathy.
Finally, I was satisfied. I turned the doctor over to Evola.
Evola got up. He had my medical reports in hand.
He smiled, the full smile, at Dr. Foreman.
“Sir, this morning the attorney for Miss Harwell gave me a number of reports, which he said represented the past treatment afforded his client for, well, emotional or mental reasons. Let me show you them.”
He handed the papers to Dr. Foreman, who briefly thumbed through them.
“Do you recognize them, sir?”
“I do.”
“And, as you testified, I trust these were the reports of past treatment that you relied on, in part, in making your assessment of Miss Harwell’s mental state.”
“Yes. They seem to be the same reports.”
“When you studied them, did you find anything odd about them, Doctor?”
“Odd? In what way?”
Evola smiled, even wider. “Like missing pages, for instance?” I was waiting for Foreman to knock him into next week, but that didn’t happen.
“I would estimate that perhaps a third to a half of the pages are missing,” he said.
“Is that odd, do you think?”
“Very.”
The word was like a spear through my heart. I knew what was coming.
“Did you delete the pages, Doctor?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
“Could it have been the treatment sources?”
Foreman nodded. “Possibly.”
“Someone else?”
“That’s possible too. I have no way of knowing, to be frank.”
“We appreciate your honesty, Doctor. Could it even have been Mr. Sloan?”
“I doubt that.”
“But, could it have been?”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
Evola dropped the package of reports on the floor, as if they were no more than garbage, then he looked up at the judge.
“If the court please, this witness testified that his assessment was done, in part, on the basis of past medical history. I have no reason to doubt the doctor’s honesty. However, someone has doctored the records, no pun intended. I submit that since that is the case, this witness’s testimony must be stricken, since it is predicated on a false assumption. I make that motion, now.”
“If the court please,” I said, getting to my feet, “there is no basis for —”
“Did you alter or make deletions from these records, Mr. Sloan?” the judge asked in an almost friendly tone. That was my first indication that all was not well.
“No sir, I did not!”
“But somebody did, would you agree to that?”
“Your honor, why that was done I have no idea, however —”
“But it was done, you agree?”
“Yes. But —”
The judge’s face was friendly, but his eyes were hostile.
“Like you, Mr. Sloan, I have no idea who altered those records. Or why. Apparently, no one does. But they were altered. And, Doctor Foreman’s testimony was indeed based in part upon those records. Therefore, I find his testimony, albeit offered with the best of intentions, as faulty as the data upon which it was based. The prosecutor’s motion to strike the doctor’s testimony is granted.”
I argued long and hard. I put on the best show I could and still stay out of jail. It didn’t do any good.
“Do you have any other witnesses to offer, Mr. Sloan,” the judge asked after I had exhausted myself in a fruitless effort.
“No.”
“Mr. Evola?”
“I have a rebuttal witness,” he said.
If he had jumped up stark naked, I couldn’t have been more surprised.
“The people would like to call Doctor Evelen Skomski to the stand.”
It was like the slow opening of a nightmare.
Dr. Skomski was a bit chunky but otherwise an attractive young woman who worked as an emergency-room physician at the local hospital. The police had taken Angel there for an examination to make sure the blood all over her wasn’t from any wound on her body.
The doctor, who responded to Evola’s questions about training, had taken some psychiatric courses in order to better handle the crazies brought in to her emergency room.
Did she talk to Angel?
She did.
Was Angel Harwell hurt or injured in any way?
She wasn’t.
Was she incoherent or did she manifest any sign of emotional or mental illness that night?
She did not.
Did she answer all questions in a logical and normal way?
She did.
Was she mentally competent?
I objected, of course, saying that the doctor wasn’t qualified to make that diagnosis. It didn’t do any good. The judge took the answer.
Angel, said the doctor, was cool, calm, and knew exactly what was going on.
Evola smiled to the doctor, to the judge, and then to the television camera. Then he turned the doctor over to me.
It was like being thrown a snake. What the hell was I supposed to do with it?
“Doctor, when did you first know you might become a witness in this matter?”
“That night. The night I examined her. Mr. Evola talked to me about being a witness.”
I raised my hands as if to heaven. “That figures,” I said. I hoped my tone implied bribes, corruption, and perversion.
; Okay, it was a cheap shot. I admit it. And worse, it didn’t work.
Judge Brown let things calm down a bit before he spoke. His was the deep sepulchrul tone of a hangman. He looked directly out at the camera.
“I have given careful consideration to all the evidence. I find that the statement given by the defendant, Angel Harwell, was voluntarily made.”
He managed a frosty smile. “That does not, of course, bar you from raising the question before the jury at trial, Mr. Sloan.”
The clerk cracked the gavel and Brown hurried from the bench before I could even object.
We, Angel and myself, were in a great deal of trouble. Very serious trouble.
*
“GET rid of this goddamned drunk.”
Good old Nate Golden. That was his rather loud advice to Robin and Angel after the judge’s decision. He was playing the same song. But his words seemed to echo in my mind. Maybe he was right.
But I had no time to reflect.
I worked through most of the night preparing an emergency appeal to Michigan’s Court of Appeals. Donna came in, at three times her usual pay, and typed up what was necessary.
Although I had had no sleep, I shaved and showered, changed my clothes, and headed for Detroit with my paperwork.
A panel was sitting on other matters and a few phone calls established their jurisdiction to hear the appeal.
Three judges, and I knew them all. I felt pretty good. One was a friend from a long time ago, a nice even-tempered man who I considered a very good lawyer. The other two I knew, but not well. They had been trial judges and I had had cases before them. If they weren’t friends, at least they weren’t enemies.
It was an emergency appeal. There would be no argument, just a behind-closed-doors meeting of the three judges to decide if my plea had merit.
So I waited.
Unless you are a drinker there isn’t much you can do in downtown Detroit on a weekday.
There are no movies open, at least not the kind any sensible person would risk going to. The big stores are now just a memory.
There is the river, so I took a walk. It is nice there but the homeless were out in force, with staring eyes and outstretched hands. And always, downtown, there is an underlying feeling of danger.
The mayor goes about in a bomb-and bulletproof car that could survive an atomic hit. He travels with a small army of policemen who have machine-guns with extra clips. He says the city is absolutely safe. Some people suspect he may occasionally stretch the truth. Whether he does or doesn’t, the feeling of danger is there.
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