by David Ellis
“You didn’t secure the office?”
Gillis smiles. “In hindsight, I wish I had. It wasn’t a crime scene initially. A lot of people work there. I wasn’t ready to tell those people not to come into the office when I didn’t even know the autopsy findings. It was rather unusual.”
“Understood.” Ben doesn’t gain anything here by beating up the witness. That’s not the point. “So any prints that may have existed were probably wiped clean by the crew that services the building on a daily basis.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bennett stops, hands on his hips. For a moment I’m not sure whether he forgot his next line of questioning—he works without notes—but it turns out he was making a decision. He walks over to the defense table and opens a file resting on the corner.
“Detective, in the course of investigating the death of Mr. Garrison, you searched my client’s office, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you found a letter in his top drawer.”
Erica Johannsen gets to her feet. “Your Honor, I was under the impression that if we were going to discuss the letter—”
“I’m not introducing it into evidence, Your Honor,” Ben interrupts. “I just have some questions about it. At which point, I may have established the basis for admissibility. Which I can’t do anyway, not during the prosecution’s case-in-chief.”
“It’s also beyond the scope of direct,” says Johannsen. The cross-examination is supposed to be limited to the topics discussed in the direct examination.
“I could always do this in the defense’s case,” Ben answers. “I could re-call the detective. But this is a bench trial, Your Honor. In the interests of judicial economy, I suggest we cover everything now.”
The judge seems concerned. She raises a fist to her mouth and works her jaw. She really is a gorgeous woman, this woman who probably thinks I committed murder.
Ben takes advantage of the silence. “If the objection is relevance, Your Honor, I can assure you the relevance will be clear. The admissibility of this letter is not an issue.”
“I guess I’m a little surprised that you want to discuss this letter,” says the judge. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t. Proceed. Ms. Johannsen, you can treat your redirect as a cross-examination on this subject.”
I look at Erica Johannsen, who, like any lawyer, doesn’t enjoy losing an argument. She is attentive but she does not appear particularly distressed. I know that the county attorney has made the decision not to pursue the blackmail theory, and now I know why—because of the person it implicates, someone near and dear to the county attorney. And I know that Dan Morphew dropped off the case as lead prosecutor because he refused to go along with the restriction. But I wonder how much of this Erica Johannsen knows. Did she believe what she told the judge before the trial started—that they weren’t going to introduce the blackmail note because they couldn’t tie it into me—or was she fronting for the county attorney? Did they choose her because she’s less experienced and wouldn’t question the direction from overhead, wouldn’t know what they were doing when they told her to ignore the blackmail? Or did they choose her because she’s willing to go along with the dirty political side of this case?
Does she know what Bennett’s about to do?
“Thanks, Judge.” Bennett brings a copy of the blackmail letter to the detective, after handing copies to the prosecutor and judge. “I’ve marked this document Defense Exhibit number one for identification. Detective, is this a copy of the letter you found in Mr. Soliday’s desk?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Please read the contents into the record.”
Detective Gillis slowly reads the words of the letter in open court, the first public display of the blackmail letter.
I guess I’m the only one left who knows the secret that nobody knows. I think $250,000 should cover it. A month should be enough time. I wouldn’t presume your income source, but I imagine if anyone could find a way to tap into the campaign fund without anyone noticing, you would. Or I suppose I could always just talk to the senator. Is that what you want? One month. Don’t attempt to contact me about this. I will initiate all communications.
An audible response from the gallery. This is juicy stuff, whether they understand the context or not. It’s about to get juicier.
“The copy you found at my client’s office,” says Ben. “Is this the only copy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who wrote this document?”
“If I were to bet—”
“Don’t bet. Tell me whether you know for certain.”
“For certain, no, I do not.”
“Do you know who sent this letter?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did Mr. Soliday receive it?”
“I assume in the mail.” The witness notes Ben’s glare. “I can’t say for certain.”
“This letter isn’t addressed to anyone, is it?”
“It doesn’t say ‘Dear Jon Soliday,’ if that’s what you mean.”
“What I mean is that you don’t know who this was written to.”
“I guess I can’t tell with absolute certainty, but I can certainly read between the lines.”
“So,” says Ben, “you don’t know for certain who wrote this, who mailed it, how many copies exist, or who it was addressed to, isn’t that correct, Detective?”
“There are only two people who have access to the senator’s campaign fund,” says Gillis. “So it’s pretty clear it was written to the defendant.”
“The senator’s campaign fund,” says Bennett. He walks still closer to the witness. “Does this letter say the senator’s campaign fund? Or does it say the campaign fund?”
The judge looks down at her copy of the letter, slowly nodding.
The detective rereads it, too. “Obviously,” he says in a quieter voice, “it only says the campaign fund.”
“So this could be any campaign fund.”
“Well—theoretically, I suppose.”
“Theoretically?” Ben waves his arms and stares at the witness in wonderment. “Detective, are you aware that there are hundreds of races being voted on in the November 2000 general election? President, U.S. Senate, Congress, as well as dozens and dozens of state and local races?”
“Well, now hold on, Counselor.” The detective holds out his hand. “We’re talking about two hundred fifty thousand dollars in a campaign fund. That should rule out some of those campaigns. Let’s also keep in mind the next sentence in the note: ‘Or I suppose I could always just talk to the senator.’ That tends to narrow the field, wouldn’t you say?”
Ben nods. “Would it rule out the campaign fund of Attorney General Langdon Trotter?”
More stirring in the courtroom, enough to prompt the judge to call for order. Judge Bridges, an elected official herself, adjusts in her seat. Erica Johannsen starts to scribble on some paper—I still can’t read how much she knows about the politics in her own office concerning this case.
Of all people, Detective Gillis seems the least affected by the mention of the Attorney General. “I guess it wouldn’t, not completely.”
“He’s running for governor. I assume you know that, Detective?”
“Of course.”
“And I assume you can tell the court how much money is in his campaign fund.”
“That I cannot do.”
“No?” Bennett slowly moves forward now, toward the witness. “Why, Detective, I’m sure when you were in the initial stages of your investigation, you wanted to keep an open mind about suspects. True?”
“That’s true. Any reasonable suspects.”
“Well, Detective, don’t tell me that you just leaped to the conclusion that this unnamed campaign fund must automatically be Senator Grant Tully’s. Tell me that you at least checked into Attorney General Trotter’s fund.”
The detective seems to be coloring slightly now, probably the most you’ll get from him in terms of embarrassment
. “Based on the fact that your client was in possession of the letter and has access to a campaign fund, and his boss goes by the title of senator—well, yes, I took a leap of logic.”
“Who told you not to look at Langdon Trotter?” Ben asks. “Was it the county attorney, Elliot Raycroft, his political ally?”
“Objection—”
“That question is stricken,” says the judge, but her words are not delivered harshly.
“Someone told you not to look at Langdon Trotter,” says Ben.
“Not true,” says the witness. “That’s just not true. We focused on the person who made sense, and the campaign fund he had access to.”
“That was quite an open mind you were keeping there, Detective.”
“That comment is stricken, Mr. Carey. Please move on.”
“You wanted to investigate Langdon Trotter, didn’t you, Detective?”
“Well, Counselor, no, I—”
“Someone told you to stop, right, Detective?”
“No, Counselor.” If anything, Detective Gillis seems amused by Bennett. His confidence makes the intended impression, I fear, raising his credibility with the judge and disarming us. “There’s no conspiracy, I promise you. Your guy had the letter. Your guy works for the ‘senator.’ Your guy can access a large campaign fund. It’s true, I can’t tell you who sent the letter to him or if there’s another copy, but that’s just because your client wouldn’t tell me.”
This was to be the end of Ben’s line of questioning. But this is a terrible way to finish. Ben senses this, too. He is pacing a moment, trying to come up with something off the cuff. Finally he returns to the defense table to confer with me. He’s asking me if there’s anything else I can think of, but what he’s really doing is trying to buy time, put some space between a pretty good answer from Gillis. Finally, Ben looks up and says he’s done.
The prosecutor stands again. “Detective Gillis, how much money is in the campaign fund of State Senator Grant Tully?”
“Millions,” he answers. “I would have brought the precise number with me but I didn’t realize we’d be discussing—”
“And this ‘secret that nobody knows,’ Detective. You see that in the letter?”
“I do.”
“Did you ask the defendant what that secret might be?”
“I asked him that, yes.”
“Did he tell you?”
“Objection!” Ben leaps to his feet. “The defendant has a Fifth Amendment right to silence that cannot be used against him.”
“Sustained,” says the judge, her eyebrows raised at the prosecutor.
“Did you ask Senator Tully if he knew of any secret?”
“I did.”
“What did he say?”
Another hearsay objection Bennett Carey does not make.
“He said he didn’t know of any secret,” says Gillis.
“And that’s pretty much the point of this letter, isn’t it, Detective? It’s a secret that the senator doesn’t know, a threat to tell him?”
“That’s—”
“Objection,” says Ben. “That calls for speculation.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge says. “And I understand the point, Ms. Johannsen.”
“Detective,” the prosecutor continues, “did you ever find any amounts withdrawn from Senator Tully’s campaign fund in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars? Or any large amounts like that, paid to Dale Garrison or to cash?”
“No, I didn’t,” says Gillis. “Nor did I find that kind of money deposited in any account of Mr. Garrison’s.”
“No, you didn’t. Instead you found Mr. Garrison dead, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. Beats the hell out of paying a quarter of a million bucks.”
The judge looks at Bennett, who doesn’t object to the commentary. That comment works for us, too, as long as it’s Lang Trotter and not me who did the killing.
The prosecutor takes her seat. Bennett stands again. “Detective, did you ever ask Langdon Trotter what the ‘secret that nobody knows’ is?”
“I never spoke to him, no.”
“You are still investigating this case, Detective, right?”
“I—. Well, technically, the file has not been closed.”
“Are you going to talk to Langdon Trotter and ask him that question?”
The detective sighs audibly. “I couldn’t answer that question at this point.”
Bennett shakes his head and sits back down.
“Ms. Johannsen,” says the judge, “is the case-in-chief completed?”
“The People rest, Your Honor.”
“I’ll hear Mr. Carey’s motion tomorrow morning,” says the judge, before adjourning for the day.
We all stand as the judge steps down from the bench. I grab Bennett’s arm. “She practically invited you,” I say, referring to the judge’s mention of our motion for a directed verdict. That’s the motion the defense makes at the close of the prosecution’s case, arguing that the evidence is so lacking that the judge should acquit me without my putting on a defense. This is what I need, to win this case before there’s any further mention of Lyle Cosgrove, any possible discovery of 1979.
Bennett is solemn, surprisingly so after a successful cross-examination. He doesn’t respond until the shuffling and chatter in the courtroom reaches its peak. “It’s standard,” he says. “She knows I’ll move, that’s all.” He leans into me. “We’re not going to get the case tossed. Be ready for that. So I’ll ask you again. You still want to testify?”
Bennett and I have batted the idea around plenty, debated it for hours. Despite all of our theories about Lang Trotter, we could put on no defense at all and argue that the evidence does not beat reasonable doubt.
But I have the urge of any innocent defendant. I want to say my piece. I want to deny this. Regardless of legal strategy, regardless of the discipline of the judge, there’s something about not speaking up in your own defense that will raise eyebrows. I won’t let this trial end with people thinking I was hiding.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I still want to testify.”
Bennett turns to me, places a hand on my arm. “Grant Tully can fight his own battles, Jon. Do whatever you do for yourself.”
Our new defense, implicating Lang Trotter, is not perfect. We won’t be able to prove that Trotter made Cosgrove work for him. We won’t be able to prove that Dale ever contacted Trotter about the Ace. There is probably a whole lot else we can’t prove. Bennett correctly senses that one of the reasons I like the argument is that it attacks Grant’s opponent, gives him a fighting chance in the election.
“I want to testify,” I say again.
“You know we’re going to talk about everything, then. Everything. It’s the only way we can explain it.”
“I know that.” Ben and I have had this conversation numerous times, including last night and this morning. “Unless you think we win right now,” I add. “I mean, now their case is done. We’ve heard everything. Do you think we can win, right now? Rest our case and roll the dice? Do we have reasonable doubt?”
Bennett Carey swallows hard. He breathes in and out, his eyes blinking rapidly, while he takes in the entire trial to date. “I don’t think so,” he says.
“I don’t, either,” I agree. “So let’s put our game face on. We’ve got a long night.”
“We tell everything,” says Ben.
“Yeah,” I say. “We tell everything. And I mean everything, Ben.”
He doesn’t catch my meaning.
“I’m not telling the story I told in 1979. I’m telling the truth as I remember it.”
“Now, Jon—”
“I’m not seventeen anymore,” I say. “And I’m not going to act like I am. I’m telling the truth tomorrow, Ben. And what happens, happens.”
Bennett takes this pronouncement less as my lawyer and more as my friend. He purses his lips and nods in admiration. I don’t need that. A grown man shouldn’t be congratulated for telling t
he truth. It’s well past time things were settled. It’s time to do it right.
52
FOR THE FIRST time today, close to seven o’clock in the evening, I read the Daily Watch. The headline covers the debate last night between Trotter and Tully. The top line reads CANDIDATES SQUARE OFF, with pictures of each of the candidates in action. Then the story splits into two, covering each candidate’s position separately. The story on Langdon Trotter is entitled A CONSERVATIVE VISION. The one on Grant Tully says TULLY DEFENDS PLAN FOR TAX HIKE. That tells me enough right there, before I go to the coverage inside, which includes an overnight tracking poll that now puts Grant Tully a firm twenty-one points behind the Attorney General. He lost four points in the debate. He got clobbered for telling the truth.
“If we can, we get the senator and you tomorrow, we get both of you on and off the same day.” Ben has a mouthful of popcorn, sitting in his chair in the conference room at the law firm. “The judge gave us the whole day tomorrow. We throw everything at the prosecution in one day and give them little time to sort it out. Then maybe we’ll rest and they’re stuck.”
“That seems unfair,” I say. “To the prosecution. Not that I’m complaining.”
“Oh, Erica’ll complain like crazy. But we don’t have to give her notice of this stuff. It’s not like we’re adding new witnesses or making an alibi. That would require notice. Besides, they heard me today talk about Lang Trotter. They know we’re pointing at him.”
My mouth opens, a nervous yawn. I stretch my arms to shake the trembles. “I can’t believe we’re really going to do this,” I say. “Grant’s going to take a beating.”
“I’ve gone over his testimony a few times,” Ben answers. “He’s ready. We’ve got it down pretty well. And Lang Trotter’s going to take the beating,” he adds. “If we do it right.”
Ben’s cell phone rings. “Hey, Cal,” he says. He listens for a moment, his eyes widening, before he covers the mouthpiece. “They found ten thousand in cash in Lyle’s safe-deposit box,” he says. “He purchased the box a week before the murder.”
“Trotter was paying him,” I say. “He hid the money by putting it there instead of a checking account. We have to subpoena Trotter’s bank records, his campaign money, everything.”
