“And how did you respond?”
“First I phoned the apartment. The phone was busy, and the operator confirmed that it was off the hook. Which suggested Mr. Briar was right, there might be some kind of mishap. So I went with him to 777 Park and broke into the apartment.”
“How did you break in?”
“I used a police department crowbar and sledgehammer on the front door.”
“Before you broke the door,” diAngeli said, “did you notice signs of an earlier break-in?”
“At that door? No.”
“When did you enter the apartment?”
“At one-thirty P.M., approximately.”
“Would you describe what you found?”
“John Briar was lying on the floor of his bedroom, naked except for an adult diaper and a robe. No visible wounds, but there was no pulse; the body was cold.”
“And did you find anyone else in the apartment?”
“Amalia Briar was lying in her bedroom—faceup—no visible wounds, but she was also dead.”
“And did you find any person alive in the apartment?”
“There was a man in the kitchen—alive.”
“Did he identify himself?”
“He didn’t need to. I recognized him—it was Mickey Williams.”
A stir passed through the courtroom.
“Do you mean Mickey Williams the ex-running back for the Houston Oilers?”
Sergeant Bailey nodded. “Yes.”
“What was he doing in the kitchen?”
“He was sitting there. Eating spaghetti from a pot.”
“Did he act surprised to see you?”
“He showed no reaction to anything. It was like he was in a trance.”
Dotson Elihu jumped to his feet. “Objection. Conclusion.”
“Sustained,” Judge Bernheim said. “Jury will disregard witness’s last remark.”
Dotson Elihu was holding a sheaf of papers. “Sergeant Bailey—is this your report on the discovery of John and Amalia Briar’s bodies?”
The officer examined the papers. “It is.”
“You just testified that you found Amalia Briar faceup. But on page two of that report you say that you discovered her body facedown on the bed.”
The officer leafed again through the pages. She looked back at Elihu, her expression wary.
“So which is the truth? Facedown or faceup?”
“Faceup.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then why do you say facedown in the report?”
“I made a mistake.”
“You made a mistake? Why didn’t you correct the mistake?”
“I did. But sometimes the computer loses information.”
“Then your final, considered testimony, under oath, is that you discovered Amalia Briar lying how—facedown or faceup?”
“Faceup.” Officer Bailey’s voice had risen slightly.
“And did you examine the front door of the apartment for signs of a break-in before you broke in yourself?”
“Naturally.” The witness’s voice was inching into irritation now. “And I observed that there were no signs of a break-in.”
“How long did you examine the door?”
Sergeant Bailey didn’t hesitate. “Thirty seconds.”
Elihu went to the defense table and reached into a battered briefcase. He crossed to the jury box, winding a white plastic kitchen timer. He set the timer on the rail. It had the lopsided tick of a juvenile’s homemade bomb and it seemed to tick much longer than half a minute.
When the timer finally jangled, the witness gave a little start.
“That’s thirty seconds. Is that how long you took?”
Thirty seconds was obviously an overestimate and Elihu had trapped her; but this lady did not retreat. “Approximately.”
“Did you ask the crime scene photographer to photograph the door before you broke in?”
“There was no crime scene crew present. I didn’t know for a fact that the apartment was a crime scene till I found the bodies.”
“Are you saying there are no photographs of the door as it was before you destroyed it?”
“To my knowledge there are no such photographs.”
“The People call Lieutenant Vincent Cardozo.”
Cardozo took the stand, swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but.
Tess diAngeli rose from the prosecution table. She walked him through his record and career: eighteen years with the NYPD, twelve years a detective, eight years a lieutenant, seven years at the Twenty-second Precinct. Twice wounded in the line of duty. Two distinguished service citations.
“How soon after the discovery of the Briars’ bodies did you arrive at their apartment?”
“Twelve minutes.”
“Could you describe the state of the apartment as you found it?”
“Aside from the front door, which was broken in, most of the rooms were fairly neat. John Briar’s bedroom was not neat. Mr. Briar was lying dead on the floor. He’d pulled the bedclothes down with him. A lamp was on the floor, broken. Articles were knocked off the tabletop.”
“Based on your years of experience as a detective, would you say these were signs of a struggle?”
“Absolutely. No mistaking it.”
“Do the police possess an inventory of the Briars’ apartment?”
“We were given one by the estate’s lawyer.”
“Was anything of value missing from the apartment? Any jewelry, any artwork? Rare books? Anything of that sort?”
“Nothing was missing.”
A movement at the defense table caught Cardozo’s eye. The defendant and his lawyer, heads bent together, were reviewing some kind of checklist. Cardozo had never seen Corey Lyle in the flesh before, but he recognized him from photos: calm, centered, smiling a smile that suggested either complete innocence of the charges or complete indifference to them.
Cardozo had met Dotson Elihu a dozen times over the last decade, but he was intrigued to see him at the defense table today. Elihu had represented Lyle five years ago, when the government had failed to sustain an indictment on charges of conspiring to blow up the White Plains post office; he had represented Mickey Williams two years ago. Mickey was now the state’s chief witness against Corey Lyle—and Elihu was again defending Lyle. Whatever happened to conflict of interest?
“How many people were in the apartment when you arrived?”
“Aside from the two victims, there was Sergeant Bailey. And a sergeant at the front door. And three sergeants inside. And a civilian in the kitchen.”
“Who was the civilian?”
“Mickey Williams—the ex-running back.”
“What was Mr. Williams doing in the kitchen?”
“Sitting. Eating spaghetti.”
“Did he tell you at that time if he had witnessed the murders?”
“Witnessed was not the word he used. But based on his statements to me, he witnessed the murders. Decidedly.”
Dotson Elihu crossed slowly to the witness box. “Lieutenant Cardozo—would you describe the state of Amalia Briar’s room when you found her dead body?”
“Nothing upset, nothing obviously out of place. Except for the phone on the floor.”
“Would you say the scene was like or unlike the scene in John Briar’s bedroom?”
“Very unlike. At first glance, you’d think Amalia Briar died peacefully in her sleep.”
DiAngeli leaped up. “Objection. Not responsive.”
“Overruled.”
Elihu smiled. “Lieutenant, did the police dust the premises for fingerprints?”
“Yes, we did.”
“How many prints did the police find in the apartment?”
“Usable prints? Over a hundred.”
“How many of these could the police identify?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Which leaves sixty-nine unidentified?”
“That’s right.”
“So there could have been as many as sixty-nine as yet unidentified people who left their prints in the apartment?”
“No, there were nine sets of duplicates.”
“Then sixty as yet unidentified people could have left prints?”
“That would have been the maximum.” Cardozo held up both hands, blunt fingers outstretched. “But a lot of people have ten prints.”
Elihu tugged at his ear, playing it slow-witted, letting it show that he was playing. “Then an absolute minimum of six unidentified people left prints?”
“Theoretically, yes.”
“When the police first searched the Briar residence, was there any evidence that an intruder had broken in and robbed the apartment?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it a fact that Amalia Briar for tax reasons did not insure her jewelry?” Elihu casually waved a sheet of official-looking paper. “Isn’t it a fact that a missing diamond-and-emerald bracelet valued at eighty thousand dollars did not show up on the insurance inventory?”
Cardozo shook his head. “No record of any such bracelet has come to my attention.”
Elihu strolled away from the stand. “You say two murder weapons were found? Could you describe them?”
“They were goose-down pillows.”
“Were you able to recover prints from either of the pillows?”
“We recovered prints from both pillows.”
“Whose prints?”
“Mickey Williams’s.”
“So did you arrest Mickey Williams?”
Cardozo glanced toward Tess. She gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. “No. I did not.”
Elihu seemed puzzled. “In the light of Mickey Williams’s presence at the scene and his prints on the murder weapons—why on earth didn’t you arrest him? Wasn’t he the first person you suspected of the murders?”
DiAngeli jumped up. “Objection.”
“Overruled. Suspicion is part of this witness’s job and he may testify as to his state of mind in this regard.”
“I was under the impression,” DiAngeli said, “that this was cross-examination.”
Judge Bernheim shot the prosecutor a dead-eyed stare. “Your impression is correct and I’ve overruled you. Lieutenant Cardozo may respond.”
“If you’re asking, do I recall my state of mind? …” Cardozo pressed his fingers into a pyramid. “It crossed my mind that here were two dead bodies in a locked apartment, here was Mickey Williams sitting in the apartment, there was a good chance he knew what had happened.”
“It didn’t cross your mind there was an even better chance he had caused it to happen?”
“We didn’t have the print results at that time, but yes—it crossed my mind.”
“It crossed your mind, but you still did not arrest him?”
“I did not.”
“Then what did you do? Allow him to walk away?”
“As it happened, Mr. Williams chose to come to the precinct with us.”
“Mickey Williams went with you voluntarily?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you telling this court that you found Mickey Williams sitting at a murder scene, you invited him to a tête-à-tête at the precinct, and you never once considered the possibility of charging him, not even after his prints were identified on both murder weapons, not even on suspicion?”
“We charged and arraigned him. Charges were later dropped.”
“Why?”
“There are two aspects to the crime.” Cardozo held up two fingers. “Opportunity, which Mickey Williams clearly had. And motive, which it developed he did not.”
“When did you determine that Mickey Williams had no motive?”
“Soon after our arrival at the precinct.”
“But you questioned him over several days?”
“Yes.” Cardozo glanced again at the prosecutor. “As a material witness.”
ELEVEN
1:10 P.M.
IN THE JURY ROOM, a stocky, dark-haired man whistled for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury—and alternates—as your foreperson, I have a suggestion.” A crooked front tooth made him look oddly innocent, almost likable. “Why don’t we all take seats, and go around the table and officially introduce ourselves? My name’s Ben Esposito. In real life I’m assistant director of the Department of Fraud for the U.S. Post Office.”
“Don’t tell me they commit fraud in the U.S. Post Office,” a heavyset black man said. He was dressed like a partner in a law firm.
“Not with me on the job they don’t.” Ben smiled. “And what’s your name, friend?”
“I’m P. C. Cabot. My real name’s Paul, but people call me P.C. because those are my initials, and I’m an MTA motorman on the A line. PCC happens to be the initials of one of the best streetcars ever designed. Naturally, they stopped building them.”
“Don’t drink on the job, fella,” Ben said. “I ride the A line to work.”
The next juror moving clockwise was a small, dapper Chinese. “I’m Seymour Shen. I run a small chain of organic food stores.”
And then Donna. “Hi, guys. My name is Donna Scomoda. I do voice-overs for TV commercials.”
Next came a bald white juror. “Abe da Silva … I’m employed by the Center for Strategic and International Studies—which is better known by its acronym SIS—where I’m senior adviser.”
“What the hell does SIS do?” asked a slender, aquiline-featured black woman four seats down.
“I often wonder myself,” Abe said.
“Seriously. These million-dollar think tanks are sort of an unelected government.”
“Introductions first,” Ben said. “Coffee klatch later.”
Next came the woman who had given Anne the betting sheet. “My name is Lara Duggan. I’m director of new faces for the Mystique Model Management Agency.”
“Channel seven did an exposé on one of those agencies,” Abe said.
“Yeah, that was us. Our fifteen minutes.”
“My name’s Shoshana Beaupre.” A tall, serious-faced African-American juror smiled gravely. “I teach at a private school in Manhattan—St. Andrew’s.”
“What do you teach?” Abe said.
“Everything—with an emphasis on math.”
Next came a willowy black juror with a profile off a Roman coin. “I’m Gloria Weston—I’m a full-time spokesperson and community activist for the East New York Coalition.”
“What the hell do they do?” Ben asked.
“To put it in three little words, we right wrongs.”
“Oh, yeah? And who pays?”
“A mix of private and city funds. Why, you want to see our balance sheet?”
“And be an accessory after the fact?” Ben grinned to show he was just joking. Gloria did not smile.
“My name is Ramon Culpeper.” The young man was crisp as a male model in his madras jacket. “I run a franchise of mystic and spiritual shops. The Healing Crystal. We specialize in ayurvedic medicine and toiletries; crystals; books; meditation classes.”
“Did you bring any samples?” Donna Scomoda said.
Ramon winked. “See me afterward.”
“You’re very big in minority neighborhoods,” Gloria said.
“Hispanic neighborhoods,” Ramon said.
Anne’s turn. “I’m Kyra Talbot. I’m photography editor for Savoir magazine.”
“My name is Paco Velez—I’m retired.” A beat of silence passed. And another. He was a tall man with a widow’s peak and dark glasses, and he obviously intended to say no more.
An overweight juror spoke up. “Hi, folks. I’m Thelma del Rio. Till last year I was a hospital dietitian; I now work for American Cyanamid, in new products. I just want to say that being here with all of you today is one of the proudest moments of my life—the realization of a ten-year dream, and a seven-year lawsuit. I’ll bet I’m the only person in this room who had to sue to get onto this jury.”
The jurors laughed.
Thelma explained: “Ne
w York State said I didn’t have to serve on a jury because I’m two hundred fifty pounds overweight. As far as I’m concerned, that was the same as saying to hell with building access ramps for the disabled. So on the advice of my therapist I did what any red-blooded obsessive-compulsive American would do—I initiated class action.”
“On the advice of your physical therapist?” Paco Velez asked.
“I’m not talking about my psychotherapist, honey. She’s suing me.”
More laughter.
The bailiff rapped on the door and announced that the jurors would be having their lunches at Eugene’s Patio, a restaurant two blocks from the courthouse specializing in burgers and Italian-American cuisine.
“The People call Harkness Lamont.”
A man who must have been six-foot-four strode into the courtroom. Behind him, on a cleaning woman’s squealing trolley, a guard pushed a three-foot TV.
The witness took the oath. Tess diAngeli asked him to describe his work.
“I’m an assistant D.A. with the Manhattan District Attorney’s office.” He spoke with a nasal Bostonian accent.
“Two years ago, on September twentieth, in connection with the murders of John and Amalia Briar, did you interrogate Mickey Williams?”
“I interrogated Mickey Williams on that date, in that connection, yes.”
“Would you view the following videotape and tell the court if this is an accurate record of your interview with him?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Elihu pushed himself to his feet. “As my colleague well knows, the defense intends to call Mickey Williams as a witness. Ms. diAngeli never informed us that she intended to use this tape as part of her case.”
For an instant diAngeli stood openmouthed. “The defense was given the entire tape three months ago.”
“That is not the issue, Your Honor.” Elihu shook his head angrily. “We object to the showing of this tape unless Mr. Williams is available for cross-examination. And he isn’t.”
Judge Bernheim seemed perplexed. “But, Mr. Elihu, didn’t you just say you’re going to call Mr. Williams as a defense witness?”
VC04 - Jury Double Page 9
