Ellen made a great show of writing the phrase down. It was always dramatic to painstakingly make notes if you wanted the jury to pay particular attention. For all I knew, Ellen might have been jotting down a list of groceries to pick up for supper.
The witness continued, “Up until December of 2001, we kept a box of numbered passes on the counter that separated the nursing station from the bank of elevators that ran along the west side of our wing.”
I tried to picture the layout. I could, of course, ask to see Ellen’s exhibit again, but that wasn’t the same as being able to see what the woman was describing from my own memory. I forced myself to listen carefully, remembering how my mind had wandered before.
“How did that pass system work exactly?” Ellen prodded.
“Well, when a visitor came onto the floor—usually just off the elevator—they reached into the box and pulled out a pass. The passes were on a sort of string, and it went around the neck.” She made a motion with her hand. “You know,” she said, “like the ones they use at conventions.”
“I see,” Ellen said. “And was there any written record kept of the pass-holders?”
The woman looked a little sheepish. “Well,” she answered, “to tell the truth, no. At first we had a book—you know, we used those log books, and when visitors came in, we asked them to write down the number of the pass they’d taken and their name, but sometimes they forgot.”
“Will you tell the court what happened to those log books?”
The woman looked surprised, as if this were the first question she’d failed to anticipate. “I—I don’t know,” she said. “I guess they’ve been filed away in storage or something. All I remember is that one day they just weren’t out anymore.”
My turn.
“Are you saying visitors came and went at the hospital without staff knowing who they were?” I began.
“Well, we knew the regulars,” the woman answered defensively.
“After six years, Madame, I don’t suppose you would remember who any of those visitors might have been?”
She stared at me. “You were one,” she answered.
Or at least that’s what I thought she answered. “What did you say, Madame? Who did ... ?” I felt my heart begin to pound. I glanced at the jury. They sat motionless, waiting for me to say something more. McKenzie was staring. Ellen, whose back was to me, sat immobile.
“Are you having trouble hearing, Mr. Portal?” the judge asked, not succeeding in masking his impatience.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, confused. “Might I ask the witness to repeat her answer?”
Pay attention, Ellis. Pay attention.
“You asked whether I remembered who the volunteer visitors were six years ago, and I answered that I remembered a few, but not every one. Sometimes people look familiar—like you. But the only one I remember for sure is the patient’s husband, Justice Stoughton-Melville.”
“Good,” I said, as if a golden opportunity was presenting itself to my client. “He came regularly to see his wife?”
“No,” the witness said a little regretfully.
I heard one of the jurors sigh. I hoped that Nicky was behind me taking notes again and that he was writing down which juror.
“Can you tell the court why Justice Stoughton-Melville might have been severely limited in his ability to visit his beloved wife?”
The witness smiled. “He had to live in Ottawa because of his duties on the Supreme Court,” she said. “But I remember him well because it was a big occasion when he could come. He had a driver and a bodyguard. Sometimes a secretary was with them, too. And I remember I saw him by himself in the lobby the night Mrs. Stoughton-Melville died. I was going to tell him how sorry I was that she was doing so poorly, but the elevator door closed before I could. He seemed really sad. He wasn’t in his wife’s room when I got there a few minutes later. I never saw him again until the next morning. Then I told him how sorry I was that his wife had died in the night.”
“When you saw him that next morning, Madame, what was his reaction to the mention of his wife’s death?”
“He was devastated,” the woman said quickly and firmly. “He acted like he had lost his best friend.”
Chapter 14
“You’re looking good up there.”
“If you say so, Aliana.” Exhausted after the long day of cross-examination, I wasn’t up to dealing with the press, especially my private reporter. Prior to 9/11, it had been easy to sneak out of the courthouse and avoid them, but now, getting out was as carefully monitored as getting in. There were only three doors through which one could exit, and only one person at a time through each door. Reporters and TV interviewers waited outside like so many vultures. Not that Aliana needed any assistance in capturing her prey.
She grabbed one of the banker’s boxes that I had to carry back to the office and slid it onto the little cart Nicky and I used. Why couldn’t she leave me alone, as the other spectators had, including Anne? That one would disappear when I needed to know how the tests we’d taken for little Sal had come out.
“Nicky’s gone?”
“I thought he deserved a decent evening, so I sent him on his way,” I told her. It was none of her business that Nicky had to lie low because of Stow’s command.
“Ellis, winning this case is a no-brainer,” she insisted, and tagged along to my car. She heaved the banker’s box into the trunk like a weightlifter. The same could not be said of me.
“You’re as sharp as ever,” she persisted. “And a lot cooler.”
“Thanks for the help, Aliana. Bye.” I rushed to the driver’s side. Before I could stop her she had slipped into the front seat, showing quite a bit of leg. She had the slim thighs and shapely calves of a much younger woman. Probably from running up and down the courthouse steps chasing interviewees like me.
“Ellis,” she said, “why don’t we relax somewhere and just have a little chat?”
“Look, Aliana, I’m not in a position to ‘chat’ with the media. I think you should get out of the car.”
That was too harsh, and I instantly regretted my meanness. I owed Aliana more than I could repay. If it hadn’t been for her reporting, there was a good chance I would have been forgotten—just one more loser who couldn’t hack it. But she’d been there for me when I’d been down and she’d lifted me up by her attention and, above all, by her excellent writing. Nevertheless, she was a pain in the butt.
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got time to answer a few questions, but I don’t want to compromise myself by ...”
“By being seen alone with me? Don’t be ridiculous. This is a public parking space.”
So I gave her what I’d hoped would be a short interview, careful to say nothing quotable and not mentioning Stow at all.
But nothing is ever short when Aliana goes into reportorial mode. It was past midnight by the time I had gotten rid of her. “By the way,” she said as a sort of parting shot, “your friend Queenie Johnson is up against the wall. The city’s cracking down on her clinic. Budget cuts or something. I hear she’s got to be out of there by the end of the week.” She flounced away. “Bye.”
I guess I had it coming. I grabbed something to eat, then drove to the clinic. I saw that the light in Queenie’s office was still on. I stopped, ready to park and go up to check on her, but then I thought better of it. Would she be humiliated by this turn of events? Would she resent my interference? I drove away.
The hell with it. It was the middle of the night, and Queenie might be angry, but I stopped the car after a few blocks. I had to know what Queenie was thinking, what she planned to do next.
By the time I got back to the intersection, I was too late. No light shone from the office. The door was locked tight. I saw with poignant dismay a neatly handwritten sign that read, “Thanks for coming to this clinic. It’s closed now, but you can find another location to help you by calling the city health department at 647-555-1212.” I recognized the large, almost childlike handwriti
ng.
She looks up at me, and I see the embarrassment—no, the fear in her face. “I don’t like people to know I can’t do this, ” she says.
I shake my head. “There’s nothing to be afraid of—ashamed of. ”I put the pencil between her fingers and cover her hand with my own. Slowly, I guide her as the pencil slides across the page. “There. This is your name, ” I tell her, “and before the hour is up, you’ll be able to write it on your own. ”
“Doubt it, ” she answers, pulling away. But I can see that she’s eager to learn. I put the pencil between her fingers again. I cover her hand with mine.
I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, before it occurred to me that during the hours in which I’d let Aliana stroke my ego, I could have been helping Queenie deal with her crisis. I had betrayed her.
When I got home, despite the hour, I called her at her house. She didn’t answer. She didn’t answer the next morning, either.
Ellen was the first person I encountered in court that day.
“What’s the matter with you? You look lousy. You’re not sick, are you? I’m not going up against you if you’re not well. I’ll ask McKenzie to adjourn.”
“Take it easy, little one. I’m fine. Bring’em on.”
Ellen frowned, cocked her head, studied my face. I wished I could reach over and tousle her black curls, as I had done a thousand times over the years. “Thanks for your concern, sweetie,” I said, and I winked. She crossed her eyes and grimaced.
Her officer-in-charge caught this exchange and laughed, which must have embarrassed Ellen because she was exceptionally fierce that day, beginning with a painstaking examination of her police fingerprint specialist.
“Five years ago, you were called to Riverside Hospital to investigate a break-in on the third floor in an area colloquially referred to as ‘the drug vault.’ Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the expert answered.
“Tell us if you saw anything unusual there. Take your time. We’re here to listen.”
I rose. “Your Honor,” I objected, “I don’t think Counsel needs to coach the witness.”
“He’s right, Ms. Portal,” McKenzie warned. “Just ask the questions.”
Maybe Ellen scowled. I could only see her back. But her voice sounded gruffer when she carried on. “Tell us what you saw that day.”
“May I use my notes?”
I had no objection. The expert thumbed through a small black book. He glanced at a page for a few seconds before he said, “On the night of December 28, I was dispatched to Riverside to check on a reported break-and-enter in the secure area of the third floor, a large walk-in closet commonly called ‘the drug vault.’ When I arrived on the scene, I found no damage to the closet or the lock. But I did find that several shelves of the vault were in disarray.”
“Disarray?”
“Yes. Like somebody had broken open a glass case and extracted a tray of syringes.”
“Tray?” Ellen asked. “How did you know it was a tray?”
“It was a prepackaged type of drug. I’d seen packaging like it before. The doses are prepared at the pharm lab ahead of time and packaged a couple dozen to the tray. The whole setup is disposable.”
“You say you’ve seen such packaging before?” Ellen prompted.
“Yes.” The officer turned and spoke directly to the jury. Expert police officers often got away with a tactic like that. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t object. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “I get called in on a lot of drug thefts at hospitals. This type of setup is common when a large number of patients receive a standard dose of medication at the same time.”
“Can you give us an example of the administration of drugs under such circumstances?” Ellen queried.
“Yes. Sometimes at mental health centers and also at seniors’ homes, trays of prepackaged injections are passed out to nurses to give to patients to facilitate falling asleep.”
“Are you aware of such a procedure at Riverside Hospital, Officer?”
“Not personally, ma’am, no,” the expert answered.
Ellen jotted something down. Several members of the jury watched her, as though wishing they could read what she had written. I wished the same.
“Officer,” Ellen resumed, “this missing tray of syringes, was it eventually found intact?”
“No.”
“Some syringes had been removed?”
The witness gave the matter a moment’s thought. “I don’t know about them being removed as such,” he said. “The seal on the tray may have broken when the thief took it out of the cabinet. At any rate, I found three full syringes on the floor of the vault.”
“How could you tell they were from the tray that was stolen?”
“Because all the trays were numbered and so were all the syringes, and the numbers were keyed to each other.”
“And three syringes from the stolen tray had fallen to the floor?”
I was watching Ellen rise almost imperceptibly onto her toes and back down when I thought about that haunting image again. The image of the three syringes left on the floor of the closet. Two dozen minus three? That left twenty-one syringes in my mind’s eye that insinuated themselves without my bidding.
But I had never been near the drug vault. If only I could get into Riverside! I didn’t even have a clear idea of where that closet was despite the testimony. But now I would get a chance to examine the schematics that Ellen began to introduce. “Your Honor,” she said, “this is a schematic of the drug vault on the third floor of Riverside Hospital. May I enter it as an exhibit, then show it to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury?”
The court clerk took the large piece of poster board from Ellen’s outstretched hands, pasted onto it a small label and gave the label a good smack with a big rubber stamp. Then she wrestled with the board until she could maneuver it backward over her head and into the waiting hands of the judge.
McKenzie studied the diagram for a few minutes. No emotion registered on his calm face as he studied the picture.
“Proceed.”
I moved away from the defense counsel table, closer to the witness. As I did so, I caught a glimpse back into the body of the court. One of the reporters in the first row of the spectators’ benches was peering at the diagram through opera glasses.
I moved closer still, not caring whether I obstructed the journalist’s sight line, but careful to avoid blocking the view of the jurors or of Stow. I put on my reading glasses and studied the Crown’s schematic.
There was the square representing the drug vault. I saw that it lay before a double door through which was an elevator and, farther down the hall and around the corner, the door to the stairwell that I had used to climb to Harpur’s room. It was a long hallway. If the thief had indeed been Stow, as Ellen was attempting to prove, it would have taken him some time to go through the doors, past the elevator and up the three flights to Harpur’s room carrying a stolen tray of syringes.
Of course, there were other staircases. I thought about the very courthouse in which we now found ourselves, a building with which I was intimately familiar. There was an elevator, a central escalator, a central stairwell and four additional stairwells, one in each corner. The hospital was a larger building. It must have at least as many staircases as the courthouse. So, if Stow had indeed taken the elevator from the lobby to the drug vault as the evidence seemed to suggest, then he had a choice of routes from there to Harpur’s room.
“Now, Officer,” Ellen said, holding up a red pen, “I want you to mark an X on each and every spot on this schematic that corresponds to where you found fingerprints.”
I moved away as the witness stepped down, level with the jury box. He took the pen from Ellen’s hand and peered at the schematic myopically. He lifted the pen. He made three careful X’s, and then, without a word, he climbed back up onto the witness stand.
“Okay,” Ellen said, studying the position of the dramatic red X’s. “Okay.” She walked away from t
he schematic. Toward it. Away again.
Meryl Streep at work.
McKenzie watched Ellen intently. Like every judge in the land, he prided himself on his impartiality, but it seemed to me that his favoritism in this trial leaned toward the Crown.
“Will you please tell the jury where these marked locations were?” Ellen said.
“Yes,” the witness answered. “The first X, the one on the right side of the drawing, represents a location on a door leading from the drug vault to the central area of the floor near the elevators. The mark beside that indicates the location of fingerprints on the exterior door of the elevator. The remaining X marks three prints very close together inside the vault.”
“Did you follow standard procedure in obtaining these prints?” Ellen asked.
The witness seemed to give careful thought to his next words. “Ordinarily,” he began, “I would not have bothered to fingerprint doors and elevators, because areas like that have so much traffic that one person’s prints are quickly wiped off by the prints of another. Besides, with hundreds of possible prints on every square inch of such a surface, there’s not much chance of a match. And unless a culprit is a repeat offender who has been printed before, there’s nothing to match the new prints to.”
“What was different in this case?” Ellen asked. “You said that ordinarily you wouldn’t have checked doors and elevators for prints.”
“Here we had three good prints on the wall, door and cabinet in the drug vault. Very clear prints. Once we got them—immediately on our arrival on the scene—we proceeded to dust public areas in the hope of determining how the culprit might have escaped, what route he might have taken out of the hospital. We had no luck. Merely finding matching prints in the public areas told us nothing we could use to apprehend the thief.” He paused as if awaiting instructions from Ellen. The Crown witnesses were as groomed as thoroughbreds, as though they had gone through their paces ahead of time.
“Go on, then, sir,” Ellen said. “Tell us whether you confined yourself to the fingerprint dusting you conducted immediately after the break-in.”
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