Our mayor is a Jew and a damn smart one. He came up through Yale and Wharton and worked for a stint at Goldman before returning to Chicago and buying a seat on the Exchange here. He amassed a fortune, sold his seat, and turned to politics to bleed off the incredible energy he's known to generate. He is a suave man in his Savile Row suits and shirts and neckties; he is understated in mood and manner and will not countenance drama in the mayor's office. He wears his white hair parted on the side and his black eyebrows give him a conflicted look as if he exists somewhere between young and old. It is a look many many his age--fifties--have, and, like everything else he does, he wears it well.
Amy Tanenbaum, he tells the jury from the jury stand, was a late-in-life child who grew up with the "only child" syndrome because of the ten years between her and her nearest sibling. By the time she reached high school her older brothers and sisters--two of each--were gone and either settled down with children of their own or pursuing medicine or Ph.D. Programs.
She was a charming girl, he says, an astute observer of people and the degree of sincerity with which they communicated, and so, the mayor assures the jury, the man who murdered her was not someone with whom she would venture far from the stands, as in going down the sidelines and into the dark to the restrooms. She just wouldn't have done that.
"So what are you telling us, Mr. Mayor?"
He hand-brushes his dense hair.
"What I'm saying is, Amy was surprised in the restroom. She had no idea her assailant was waiting there."
"So it's very likely the man who murdered her was not someone she knew."
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"So we can rule out her friends as potential suspects?"
"Yes. My point, exactly. She took great care in choosing who she let come near."
"Were you familiar with Amy's circle of friends?"
"Very. We hosted a sleep-over just about every weekend. Our pool is heated and covered, there's a pool table in the game room, the refrigerators and pantries are always well-stocked with teenager food--we've done everything possible to encourage Amy to bring kids home with her. So, yes, I would say I knew them all. More than most parents, I would venture."
"Was she friends with the defendant, Jana Emerich?"
"Never heard his name before his arrest. Never saw him at our house. He was never there."
"Had you ever seen him before?"
"Never."
"Have you spoken with her friends about Mr. Emerich?"
"Yes."
"What have you learned?"
"Objection," I say, "hearsay."
"This is preliminary, counsel," says Judge Lancer-Burgess. "I'll allow it, but only so far, Mr. Dickinson."
"Please answer," SA Dickinson tells the witness. He takes a sip of water from his glass on the lectern.
"I have learned that Amy never spoke of the boy, was never seen with him, and wouldn't have had any idea who he was."
"It's true he was a newcomer at the school?"
"He started Wendover in September with the new semester. Before that, I believe he was in the Los Angeles area."
"Mr. Mayor, shifting gears now, are you acquainted with the detectives who have taken the lead on this case: Detective Ngo and Detective Valencia?"
"Yes. I have spoken with them numerous times."
"And you have asked them to find your daughter's killer?"
"No more so than any other homicide file on their desk. But I have asked, yes."
"At any time have these two detectives exhibited any doubt as to the identity of Amy's killer?"
"Never. They have been certain all along that Jana Emerich is the man who killed my Amy."
He then goes on to establish what the mayor knows about the investigation, the normal departmental procedures that were followed, and the like. When it comes my turn to examine, I know better. Leave the family members alone. The jury will filter out what is useful and what is not. Their bullshit sifters are always at work.
So I have no questions for His Honor.
At which point, the state rests the prosecution's case against Jana Emerich.
There follows the usual motion for a directed verdict, made by me, as is the usual procedure in criminal and civil cases at the close of the prosecution's and plaintiff's cases. These motions have never been known to be allowed, at least not by me, but I plunge ahead anyway, out of the hearing of the jury, with what will amount to my closing argument to the jury. It is a time to hone my words and my logic and get my ducks in line for the time when we argue to the jury.
My motion for directed verdict is denied.
The defense case must now begin.
43
Tim O'Donnell--Uncle Tim--arrives at court wearing gray Dockers, a white shirt with a wide tie from the Seventies, and a blue blazer that is frayed at the wrists and becoming threadbare at the elbows. He looks hungover and probably is with his venous red sclera and two-day growth of facial hair. The look isn't anything like what I asked for. But like so many things that happen in courtrooms, it is what it is. So I call him to the stand and he is sworn and takes his seat.
He is restless and drums his fingers on the shelf at the front of the witness stand. I catch his eye and give him the briefest head shake. He looks at me with a question mark on his face, clearly without a hint of what I'm driving at.
Anyway.
So we launch right into our dialogue.
"Please state your name."
"Timothy J. O'Donnell."
"What is your business, occupation, or profession?"
"I’m a plumber."
"Where do you work?"
"Out of the back of my Ford van.”
"So you're self-employed?"
“No, I work for someone.”
I pause in my questions and appear to be reading through my notes. What I'm actually doing is giving him a chance to relax and acclimate to his surroundings. I don't want what he's about to tell the jury to be tinged with fear or trembling. I want him rock solid.
"Your nephew is Jana Emerich, correct?"
"Jana is my sister's boy. That makes me his uncle."
"How long have you known Jana?"
"Really known him only since last summer when my sister and him moved back here from L.A."
"They had been living in Los Angeles?"
"Santa Monica, to be exact."
"How old is Jana?"
"Seventeen. Eighteen this coming summer. July twenty."
"How close are you to Jana?"
"Well, he eats my food and sleeps under my roof. That's pretty damn close where I come from."
"Is there an emotional connection?"
"I like the boy a lot. He helps me on weekend emergency calls."
"Plumbing emergencies?"
"Yeah. Water heaters, overflowing toilets, clogged sewers, burst pipes. The usual."
"He goes with you in the van?”
"Sure, and he goes to the van and grabs things when I'm on my back under a sink. That kind of help."
"Do you pay him to help you?"
"Room and board."
"Does he have any source of income?"
"His mother is on Social Security Disability as of a month ago. Jana's now getting benefits because of her."
"How much?"
"Objection. Relevance."
He's right. I'm only relaxing Uncle Tim, getting him into the flow, letting the jury see him for the decent man he really is.
"It is rather tenuous, counsel. If you don't have a particular objective in mind with this line of questioning, please move on."
"Mr. O'Donnell, do you recall the night of the football game when Amy Tanenbaum was murdered?"
"It was October thirty-first. I remember."
"Do you recall what you were doing that night?"
"Thursday night? Probably watching Thursday Night Football. It was the Bears playing."
"You're a Bears fan?"
"Isn't everyone?"
A smile from the jury.
They just might be warming to him.
"Where was Jana that day, after school?"
"He came home from school about three-thirty. It was cold outside and my van cab was a mess. I had him clean out the Ford."
"Why was the cab of the Ford a mess?"
"Because it was the end of the week. Or almost. Soft drink empties, fries on the floor, packages and wrappers. I hate a dirty truck, so Jana keeps it clean."
"Room and board?"
"Exactly."
"Do you recall what time it was when he cleaned the cab of the Ford?"
"Well, he would've changed clothes so I expect he started in at four o'clock."
"So he was outside?"
"He was in the garage. The trash barrel's in there too. Pick up's on Friday. When he finished, he rolled the barrel out to the curb. We put it out on Thursday night."
"You saw him roll it out?"
"Not so much as I heard it. Plastic wheels make a racket on the concrete driveway."
"What happened next?"
"He came back in the house and sat down on the couch. He wasn't wearing a coat and I chewed him out about that. It's flu season and I don't want him coming down sick and missing school. I'm supposed to be his overseer, you know."
"So he sat down on the couch about what? Five o'clock?"
"Give or take twenty minutes. Something like that."
"What happened next?"
"He went upstairs and took a shower. I told him he smelled bad. Teenage boys."
"I thought teenage boys his age kept themselves very clean and smelling good in case they met someone."
"Not this one. He had to be told."
"So what happened?"
"I heard the shower pipes upstairs. They pound in the wall. Air in the pipes."
"What time did the shower noise stop?"
"Five-fifteen, five-thirty."
"What were you doing?"
"Watching ESPN and clipping my toenails. I had my work boots off because they hurt my feet when my toenails get too long. Should I say that here?"
"Sure. We want to know what happened and that's part of it. What happened once the shower ended?"
"He came downstairs. He was wearing baggies and a Chargers sweatshirt. He knew I hated it, so he wore it to piss me off. Sorry."
"Chargers football team?"
"Yep."
"And you're a Bears fan?"
"Who isn't?" he asks again with a short laugh as when you're poked in the ribs unexpectedly.
"What happened next?"
"I made some money that day, so I had him call for Chinese food. He ordered Beef Teriyaki and I ordered Kung Pao Chicken. It came about forty minutes later."
"So now we're talking maybe six-thirty?"
"Yep. So we eat and I grab a shower. By this time, he's inside his room with the iPod blasting. I can hear it through the walls even from downstairs."
"Did you see him later that night?"
"No. I watched the game until I fell asleep in my chair then I hit the hay. But I think he made a sandwich, probably about nine. Left his stuff all over the counter, as usual.“
"Was Jana in his room all that night?"
"Sure."
"How can you be sure if you didn't see him again after your shower?"
"Because I had told him no football at the high school that night. It was a school night and I wanted him to study for his math mid-term next day."
"But you didn't see him again?"
"No. But he didn't leave. I'm certain of it."
We then go into the arrest the next morning, the move-out of the defendant to my house, the coming back and a brief explanation for that, and then I turn him over for cross-examination. With all of my witnesses I instruct them to listen to the questions on cross and answer only what is asked. They are specifically instructed not to embellish and not to explain. I tell them that if explanation is called for we'll get it done on re-direct examination when I'm controlling things.
"Mr. O'Donnell," says SA Dickinson, "I'm the attorney for the state. My job is to put your nephew in prison. Do you understand my role?"
"Yes."
"My job is also to bring charges against witnesses who commit perjury. Do you know what perjury is?"
"I grew up on Perry Mason. I know perjury."
"Have you committed perjury here today by telling this jury you're certain that Jana was in his room all that night of the football game?"
"No. I told the truth, sir."
"How can you be sure he was in his room when you didn't see him again? I mean, couldn't he have snuck out of the house while you were in the shower?"
"He could, but he didn't."
"How can you be sure of that?"
"I know my nephew. He's a good boy. He does whatever I say."
"Yet you didn't actually see him?"
"No."
"Or hear him?"
"Heard his music."
"But you didn't hear him?"
"No."
"So we could say you're really only guessing he was in his room all night?"
The witness turns to me. I am busy with my head down. I can't be seen telegraphing an answer to his questions. Especially not this one.
"I didn't see him. I didn't hear him. But I knew he followed my orders and my orders were to stay home and study."
"Did you speak to the police when they came for him the next morning? The police report indicates you were very uncooperative."
"Who the hell's gonna cooperate when their family is getting arrested? I didn't jump in and help them take him away, hell no!"
"You swore at the police?"
"Sure did. They put the cuffs on way too tight. I thought he was gonna cry."
"Isn't it true you told the police you didn't know for certain that Jana was in his room all night?"
"I told them he would've had to have wings to get out without me seeing."
"And you also told them you weren't certain he was there?"
"As certain as I could be. I'm not running a jail, sir."
"So you weren't certain?"
"Did I do a head count like on California Avenue?"
"Yes."
"No. Like I said, my house isn't some jail."
"I am left with the impression that you don't really know where your nephew was the night Amy Tanenbaum was murdered. Is my impression accurate?"
"I don't know nothing about your impression. I don't even know what the hell you're talking about, your impression."
He's riled and I decide not to re-direct when the State's Attorney breaks it off. Sometimes it's best to leave an agitated witness alone. Emotion too often brings out the truth. The last thing I need right now.
So the witness is excused and we all have the same impression.
He didn't know for sure on October 31 and he doesn't know for sure now.
44
It is eleven a.m. when Father Bjorn takes the stand. He has come to court wearing a black suit and white shirt and white collar. He is a diminutive man in stature though a giant in accomplishment and community regard. Everyone loves Father Bjorn, including, evidently, the mayor himself, who has stayed to watch our defense case and who gives a nice smile to his friend the priest.
I ask him questions about his education, his training, and his work history. He entered the priesthood at a very early age and has maintained a steadfast love of the Lord and Church ever since. Except, he says, for one time when his faith was weak. He was in his late twenties and he just lost his parents in a car wreck.
"How did that loss affect you?" I ask him.
"It devastated me. I began feeling as if God had turned his back on me. There was no real connection there and I became rootless."
"How did you meet Jana's mother?"
"She was a long-time congregant of our parish. She came in for counseling when her fiancé of two years abruptly left her for another man."
"So she was vulnerable?"
It is a sore point with him. It is probably the only time in
his life this man has ever taken advantage of another person and he isn't proud of it.
"She was vulnerable and I was lonely. We talked several times and prayed for her. I heard her confession. On perhaps her fourth visit to my office it happened. I crossed a line and she didn't resist. Quite the opposite. We were extremely attracted to each other."
"What happened?"
"We began a sexual relationship that lasted six months. Then she informed me that she was pregnant. I don't have to tell you the Church's position on abortion. So, there we were. I couldn't leave the priesthood and I couldn't even think of terminating the pregnancy. She was a devout Catholic and wouldn't think of it either. So we made the best of a dire situation. I had some money saved and after Jana was born I helped her move to California and get set up there. Then the years passed and my son grew up without a father."
"But she did marry at some point?"
"She did. But she would tell me when we spoke each Christmas that the new husband was anything but a father. He wouldn't countenance even throwing a ball around with my son. I was in no position to criticize him."
"Because you were never a father to him yourself?"
"Exactly. The pot calling the kettle black."
"Did you ever see your son before he moved back to Chicago last summer?"
“No.”
"What kind of boy is Jana?"
"Objection! Foundation."
"Sustained."
"Your Honor," I begin, "he's the boy's father. He's known him since a short time, it’s true, but it’s his son and he is an expert judge of character.”
"You haven't laid a foundation for how he might know about the boy's character at this point, counsel. The objection is sustained."
"Father Bjorn, how many times have you seen Jana since he moved here?"
"Four. Twice in my office, once at the movies and once at jail. Plus, in court, but those weren't visits."
"During that time have you been able to form an opinion as to your son's character?"
"I have. He's--"
"Objection! Foundation."
The judge nods and gives me a fierce look.
"Counsel, I am not going to allow his opinion about his son's character. There just isn't foundation enough for that."
Meaning, the priest doesn't know his own son well enough to comment on his character. Which was my whole point in putting the priest on the stand in the first place: to anoint the boy with the priest's blessing in court. That has failed.
Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) Page 20
