“It wasn’t a psych report. You think the PD won’t know that?”
“It’s a hearing, not a trial. There’s all sorts of leeway here, Matthews. Calm down.”
“You or Mahoney should have asked me for a psych report.”
“With all the time we had,” LaMoia said sarcastically, annoyed with her now. “Mahoney’s going on vacation next week, and I wanted her to handle it. Besides, defense agreed to the scheduling, and that means they had as little time to prepare as we did. ‘When the shoe fits …’ I’m not saying it’s perfect, but you play the hand that’s dealt you.”
“Do not start quoting country music cliches, or I’m out of here.” She sat back and stared at the ceiling, wondering how LaMoia could take the wind out of her so effortlessly. When he got a few too many beers in him or, on rare occasion, submitted to the pressures of the job and lost his cool, he had a tendency to start spouting sidesplitting one-liners like, “I’ve got tears in my ears from lying on my back and crying over you”-a personal favorite of hers. She heard a little Kenny Rogers heading her way and ducked to avoid it.
“So I’m here,” she said, “to support a psych evaluation that isn’t a psych evaluation.”
“But the point is, you’re here,” LaMoia said, realizing the worst was over. “See? There’s a bright side to everything.”
The hearing ran like a scaled-down trial; it was Mahoney’s job to make a case against Neal, and she went about the task in workmanlike fashion, offering Neal’s vehicle as the murder weapon-hairs, blood, and tissue had been collected from the undercarriage of the Corolla. A small amount of this organic evidence had been subjected to DNA testing and had been matched to Mary-Ann Walker. There was more to come, the lab tech announced from the witness stand. Mahoney hurried her presentation, apparently knowing that the court, too, regarded such hearings as pro forma and did not want to belabor her points, thereby annoying an overtaxed judge prior to the actual trial.
Matthews’s evaluation was regarded as icing on the evidentiary cake-a way to incorporate possible motives for the crime and to subtly bias the judge against the defendant at the earliest possible moment.
The public defender, a slightly overweight second-generation Indonesian man in his late twenties named Norman Seppamosa, with thick glasses and a pug nose, seemed outgunned and overwhelmed until he surprised everyone in the courtroom by requesting to cross-examine Matthews, a request immediately granted. He stood from his chair at the defendant’s table-an act of grandstanding normally not seen in such a hearing, as there was no jury to impress, and ran through a litany of questions that established Matthews’s credentials.
Daphne Matthews saw Ferrell Walker directly behind Mahoney, occupying a seat in the last row. He nodded hello to her.
As Seppamosa got started, Mahoney said, “Your Honor, I think we’re aware of Ms. Matthews’s credentials and qualifications.”
The judge, an African American woman in her mid-forties and an outspoken liberal, clicked her tongue disapprovingly at Mahoney.
Matthews found herself distracted by Walker’s presence.
“The reason I ask these questions, Your Honor,” Seppamosa explained, “is merely to establish that we, and the court, should certainly accept the credibility of such an experienced and well-established expert witness.”
Matthews felt her internal early-warning radar flash an alert and saw a similar concern sweep the patronizing smirk from Mahoney’s face as well.
With an unwanted heat swarming up her spine and across the flesh of her back, Matthews had but a few precious seconds to prepare herself for a round of aggressive questioning. Having sat through nearly half an hour of unchallenged testimony, she had arrived in the witness chair believing Seppamosa would merely take furious notes, lifting his head occasionally as he had been doing all along, and await the calling of the next witness.
With the man standing at the end of the table glaring at her, with him sweating so profusely as to stain the underarms of his suit jacket, with him addressing the court and lauding her expertise and reliability, she knew she had trouble. He had been lying in wait, nothing less.
The judge sternly reminded Mahoney that if she had an objection, she would be well advised to address the court formally, not in unannounced outbursts. “This is not a revival meeting, Ms. Mahoney.” This reprimand indicated an erosion of support that clearly wounded Mahoney and drove her back to her yellow notepad to where Matthews couldn’t tell if she was listening or not. If Seppamosa was coming after Matthews, then she believed it was to get some, or all, of her testimony tossed. Exactly what testimony remained to be seen.
“I see in the investigating officer’s report that you were present at Mr. Neal’s apartment on March twenty-eighth of this year.”
“That’s correct,” Matthews said, checking a calendar offered by the bailiff.
“In your expert opinion, Dr. Matthews, at that time did Langford Neal display any hesitation or reluctance in granting his permission for police to search his nineteen ninety-two Toyota Corolla?”
“He did not.”
“And in your expert opinion, Dr. Matthews, given that the state has made a case that evidence collected from that vehicle suggests the vehicle’s possible involvement in the crime, is this behavior-this willingness to share such evidence with police-consistent with what you’d expect in your vast and well-documented experience of a guilty party? Yes, or no?”
“No.”
“Is it consistent with what you’d expect of an innocent party?”
Matthews hesitated, but realized her hesitation hurt their case more than quick, efficient answers. “Surrendering such evidence would be more typical of an innocent party, yes, but not reserved to-”
He interrupted her. “Because basically Mr. Neal was handing over the smoking gun,” Seppamosa said. “Was he not?”
Mahoney reminded the court there was no pistol or firearm associated with the Mary-Ann Walker homicide. The bench reminded Mahoney to object formally or face a court fine.
Matthews was instructed that she did not need to answer the question.
“Ms. Matthews,” Seppamosa said, suddenly dropping her title, an omission she took seriously, “because the state has failed to produce any witnesses, other than oceanographers, as concerns the timing of this event, and seeing as how counsel is basing a good deal of their suspicions of my client on what they call this ‘inaccurate window of time,’ I’d like to question you about the Q amp;A session-should I call it an interrogation? — of my client, Mr. Langford Neal. You were in attendance, were you not?”
“I believe copies of the investigating officer’s report of that interview have already been put into evidence by Ms. Mahoney,” Matthews said.
She was directed to answer the question.
“Yes, I was in attendance.”
“So it says here,” Seppamosa said.
“Then maybe you don’t need my help,” Matthews said, winning a suppressed grin from Mahoney, “or shall I read it for you?” Seppamosa clearly intended to play hardball. The psychologist understood the importance of staking out her own territory and showing her willingness to engage. She sent the message that she would not roll over for him, and the attorney looked over at her with a renewed appreciation following the comment.
“Not the entire document,” he said, a smug expression winning his face. “I would, however, appreciate if you read for the court page seven of the transcript, lines eleven through eighteen.
I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the section. This would be the defendant, Langford Neal, speaking to you and to Sergeant John LaMoia, Crimes Against Persons, the lead investigator on the case.”
Point, counterpoint-he’d turned her small joke around to sting her. She was now to read some part of the Neal interview into the court record, while simultaneously indelibly searing it in the judge’s mind. Mahoney thumbed a document with the dexterity of a chief librarian. Seppamosa handed Matthews a copy. She read the lines and had no
idea where he was going with this: Seppamosa seemed to have missed the point of the expert testimony; reading this line would only support the strength of Mahoney’s case against Neal. Matthews cleared her throat away from the microphone and then read: NEAL: Maybe it was the phone ringing that woke me up in the first place. And I do remember what time it was. All twos flashing at me. Two twenty-two. The clock by the phone on her side of the bed. I remember that. Two, two, two. Flashing away.
“And to your recollection, Ms. Matthews, is that verbatim?”
“To my recollection, yes it is.”
“This then is the contradiction to which Ms. Mahoney referred in her questioning of the oceanography expert, a Dr.
Bryon Rutledge.”
“It would be inappropriate of me to answer for either Dr.
Rutledge or Ms. Mahoney.”
“This is your understanding of the conflict, is it not?”
“It is. The body had to have gone off the bridge before midnight. Therefore Mr. Neal could not have seen her on a fire escape two hours past midnight. That’s the kind of inconsistency that wins an investigator’s attention.”
“Indeed.”
Seppamosa returned to the defense table, foraged inside his salesman-sized briefcase, and came out with a bedside digital clock in hand. He then had Matthews read from a police inventory that accounted for all items in plain sight as documented.
This, based on a court-ordered search of Neal’s apartment. She read the make and model of Neal’s bedside clock, and the court confirmed that Seppamosa now showed Matthews the exact same model of clock.
Matthews did not see what was coming, but knew without a doubt that she’d been led into an ambush. She searched her thoughts in order to attempt to anticipate the attorney’s take on the bedside clock but still had no idea where it was leading. She glanced out into the gallery, only to see that both Mahoney and LaMoia looked equally puzzled and on guard. To anticipate the question was to be prepared for a clever response. Failing this, she felt set up and ready to play the scapegoat.
Seppamosa plugged the clock into a floor receptacle alongside the stenographer, and it occurred to Matthews that he’d practiced this at least once-he knew where the power was; he knew what he was doing. He fiddled with the clock and turned it to face her.
“For the benefit of the court,” he said, making sure both the judge and Mahoney were shown the face of the digital clock, “would you please read the time of day represented on the clock?”
“Two twenty-two,” Matthews said. “I can’t tell if it’s A.M. or P.M.”
Seppamosa said cheerfully, “It’s A.M. There’s a little light that glows indicating P.M. If the court wishes-”
The judge cut him off, insisting the court did not wish.
Seppamosa noted for the sake of the record that Matthews had correctly identified the time of day as represented on the clock. He then dropped the bomb that Matthews felt in the center of her chest as a current of electricity. “And is the number represented on the clock steady or flashing, Ms. Matthews?”
“It’s steady,” she reported, not only reading on the page in front of her but hearing aloud in her memory Neal’s statement of “all twos flashing at me … flashing away.”
“For the benefit of the court, I am now unplugging the clock.” Seppamosa quickly replugged the clock, then aimed its face at Matthews. “And now? The time and the quality of the numerals?”
“Twelve o’clock-one, two, zero, zero.”
“And are the numerals steady or flashing?”
LaMoia came out of his seat and headed for the courtroom’s back door, practically at a run.
“Flashing.” Her heart sank, for now she knew exactly where he was heading.
“Flashing, as in Mr. Neal’s statement to you and Sergeant LaMoia.”
“Flashing, yes.”
“What time does the clock say now?” He showed her the face again.
“Twelve-oh-one.”
“One minute past twelve, if it please the court.”
The judge bid him to continue, not quite following the line of presentation.
“Dr. Matthews, do you recall the window of time that Mary-Ann Walker’s body had to have gone off the bridge, this, according to testimony provided by the state’s expert witness, Dr.
Rutledge?”
Matthews hesitated. She’d just stated this herself.
Seppamosa said, “Your Honor, I’m happy to have the court stenographer reread the-”
“Between eleven-fifteen P.M. and twelve A.M.,” Matthews said, seeing no point to stretching this out even longer. Rule number one in court: Keep it quick when you’re losing.
“And to simplify that testimony, this was determined by the direction of tidal flow, was it not, and the distance the body had reached prior to retrieval?”
“Something like that.”
“Your Honor, if it please the court, I could reread-”
But the judge was not in a pleasing mood. “The significance of this presentation, Mr. Seppamosa?”
“Is in the nature of the numerals, Your Honor. Flashing.
Which is exactly as the defendant, Mr. Neal, reported initially to police. The numbers of such clocks flash only when there’s been a loss of power and the battery backup is insufficient. The clock resets to twelve midnight, and then begins to keep time again.”
Retrieving a sheet of paper from his table, Seppamosa crossed the room toward the witness chair. “Ms. Matthews, I’m going to ask you to read one more item for the benefit of the court.”
Mahoney stood up and properly objected this time, suggesting that Seppamosa was badgering the witness in asking her to read documents that did not pertain to her expertise in any regard.
Seppamosa defended his choice of Matthews because she was a respected member of the police community and could be trusted to tell the truth. He then offered to subpoena a variety of expert witnesses, if the court would prefer. “Clock manufac-turers, power utility representatives …”
The judge heatedly declined the offer, clearly rebuffing the man in the process, but Seppamosa was not to be deterred-he was a man with a mission, more alive and cheerful than any PD Matthews had seen stand before the court.
Matthews was directed by the judge to read the letterhead off the sheet of paper supplied to her. “The letterhead is for Puget Sound Energy. It appears to be a Web page printed or faxed to Mr. Seppamosa.”
“The highlighted text, please,” Seppamosa said, practically crowing by this point.
She read, “… an area that included all of Ballard, Wallingford, Greenlake, and Phinney Ridge experienced a power interruption at eight fifty-nine P.M. on March twenty-second. This interruption lasted an average of three minutes, with the maximum lost time in Phinney Ridge estimated at seven minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”
Seppamosa spoke loudly, luxuriating in his Perry Mason moment. “I submit to the court, Your Honor, that this power outage switched off Mr. Neal’s bedside clock at exactly eight fifty-nine.
Subsequent to that, the power remained off an additional three to five minutes. Somewhere around nine-oh-four the power came back on-while Mr. Neal and Ms. Walker were still at Mr. Neal’s mother’s house having dinner-returning power to, and resetting the clock, which now began to track time as if nine-oh-four were actually midnight. Mr. Neal did hear Ms. Walker on the phone. He did witness Ms. Walker out on the balcony.
Mr. Neal did see the clock flashing-flashing, as it is reported in the statement he signed for the police, the very same statement they are claiming condemns him by invalidating his reporting the correct time of night-flashing the numbers two-two-two. Two hours and twenty-two minutes after the reinstatement of power by PSE at nine-oh-four, or, eleven twenty-six P.M., Your Honor. The very discrepancy the state is attempting to use to suggest guilt on the part of my client is in fact the discrepancy that proves beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Neal’s original statement to the police was factual, entirely factual, and does nothing wh
atsoever to suggest my client in any way lied at any time to authorities. Nor has he at any time contradicted the window of time for this crime put forth by the state’s very own expert witnesses.”
The judge took this all in and directed her attention to the prosecutor’s table. “Ms. Mahoney?”
“The state requests a continuance to review the material that has come to light.”
“Continuance nothing, Ms. Mahoney,” an annoyed judge declared. “You’ve insufficient evidence, Ms. Mahoney. If the state wishes to try Mr. Neal, you’ll need to start again.”
She lowered the gavel lightly and released Neal on his own recognizance.
Matthews heard a commotion at the back of the room. She looked up to see Ferrell Walker leaving as fast as he could.
Three Blocks North of Safety
With Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” running in her head, Matthews abandoned the idea of a hotel room for a second night and returned to her houseboat, angry over losing ground at the probable cause hearing, angry at LaMoia for not anticipating the contradictory evidence put into play with the flashing clock, angry at herself for allowing Seppamosa to manipulate her and the facts to his client’s advantage. She wanted a drink. She deserved the comfort of her own home-she was sick and tired of being told what to do.
She climbed the ladderlike stairs to her tiny bedroom, weary from a long afternoon of meetings.
Meetings begot meetings-a tried and true axiom of police work. She wasn’t looking forward to the following day. She poured herself an expensive glass of a near-perfect wine-again the Archery Summit Pinot-drew a hot bath, and settled into the idea of spending a mindless, somewhat inebriated night in front of the television. But as preparations for the bath continued, she thought about Margaret out on the streets and found it impossible to enjoy herself. She thought about Nathan Prair and the fact that he had yet to submit the report LaMoia had demanded be delivered-a report Matthews hoped would clear up whatever relationship had existed prior to the young woman’s murder.
As she undressed in her bedroom, paranoia crept in, despite the fact that she’d covered every inch of glass in the house, whether by window blind or thumbtacked towel. Down to her bra, she couldn’t bring herself to disrobe any further. Still partly clothed, she wrapped herself up in a robe and headed back down to the houseboat’s tiny bathroom, where, with the door locked, she undressed. She caught herself folding clothes she knew were headed for the laundry and recognized the action as a warning sign-hairline fractures in her sanity. To make matters worse, she overreacted, knocking the stack of dirty clothes into the sink and stirring them up into a tangled ball.
The Art of Deception b-8 Page 17
