“We’ve subpoenaed him, Your Honor, but he hasn’t answered the subpoena.”
“Will counsel please approach the bench?”
Judge Bernheim and the lawyers had a whispered sidebar conference. In her seat next to Anne, Thelma del Rio craned forward in her chair and followed the dispute with absorbed attention.
Judge Bernheim’s hands finally made an abrupt slicing motion. “I’ll allow the tape to be shown.”
The bailiff lowered the window shades. The prosecutor’s assistant worked the controls on a VCR.
Dotson Elihu dropped into his seat, glowering. Corey Lyle touched the lawyer’s hand and whispered something.
A picture came up on the TV screen: a man sat at a table in what could have been a motel room, staring at the camera. He had California-boy hair, glossy and bowl-cut. He needed a shave, and something in his manner suggested he had been sitting there for a week. He wrenched a cigarette loose from a crumpled pack of Marlboros, fumbled it to his lips, struck a kitchen match.
The assistant flicked a remote at the screen and the image froze at the instant when flame touched cigarette. Nicotine had left deep yellow patches on the man’s fingers.
“Mr. Lamont,” Tess diAngeli said, “can you identify the man on that TV screen?”
“That’s Mickey Williams.”
The man broke into movement, dropping the match into an ashtray piled high with butts. In his white but-toned-to-the-neck golf shirt, he looked like an athlete who had lost a little of his shape but none of his muscle.
“Were you acquainted with John and Amalia Briar?” an off-camera voice asked.
The figure on the screen froze again.
“Mr. Lamont,” Tess diAngeli said, “is that your voice?”
The witness nodded. “That is my voice. Yes, ma’am.”
“We were all members of Corey Lyle’s group.” On the TV, Mickey Williams spoke with a sweet, boyish lilt. “I used to pray with John Briar. When we weren’t praying together, we were playing together.”
“Did you know his wife, Amalia?” On the tape, Lamont’s voice had a higher, more adenoidal quality than it did on the stand. It could almost have been a different man speaking.
“I met her two or three times.”
“Do you recall the last time you saw them?”
“Yes.” The eyes darted to the right. “I went to their apartment Friday before Labor Day.”
“Were they alive at this time?”
“They were alive when I arrived.”
“What did you do to John Briar?”
“I suffocated him with a pillow.”
A rustle, like wind in a forest, swept the courtroom. Spectators craned to get better sight lines on the TV.
“When did you do this?” the voice asked.
“Early Saturday morning.”
“And what did you do to Amalia Briar?”
“I suffocated her with a pillow.”
“When did you suffocate Amalia Briar?”
“I suffocated her fifty-three hours after I suffocated John Briar.”
“Did you perform these acts of your own free will?”
“I can’t answer that. I have no idea what free will is. I can’t say as I’ve experienced free will in the last thirty years.”
“Were you ordered to perform these acts by some other person?”
Mickey Williams raised his eyes to the camera: cow-brown eyes, glowing but dead. “Corey Lyle ordered me to kill the Briars.”
Dotson Elihu’s fist hit the table. “Objection!”
“Stop the tape,” Judge Bernheim said wearily.
On the TV screen, Mickey Williams froze in the act of lighting another Marlboro.
“Your Honor,” Dotson Elihu shouted, “it’s intolerable that such testimony should be sneaked in by the back door!” He wheeled, red-faced, and screamed at diAngeli. “Dr. Corey Lyle has the same right as any American—the right to confront his accusers! They shall not hide from cross-examination behind an electronic wall of tape!” And back to the judge. “Your Honor, I demand that you declare a mistrial!”
“Mr. Elihu, Mr. Elihu …” Judge Bernheim’s hands made calming, easy-there, boy motions. She beckoned both attorneys to the bench.
On Madison Avenue, behind iron gates, students thronged the courtyard of the private school, shouting, pushing, leaping, squeezing every ounce of freedom they could out of afternoon recess.
Sergeant Britta Bailey watched and shuddered. Children were such animals. It chilled her to see how they formed cliques, how they ganged up on the weakest and ugliest. Their weapons were subtle: the jostle, the push, the turned back. Nothing that a teacher would notice. Instinctive little acts of disdain sure to embitter the victim.
Britta Bailey knew. She’d gone through it herself—almost fifteen years ago, but when she heard school kids shouting it seemed like the day before yesterday.
Her eyes kept coming back to one child in particular—an eleven-year-old boy with a deep summer tan that strikingly set off his blond hair and brown eyes. He was bouncing a ball off the wall, quick and sure of himself. There was something almost insolent about his grace and coordination, his indifference to his schoolmates.
Sergeant Bailey approached the boy. “Hi … what’s your name?”
The boy caught the ball and turned. “Toby Talbot, ma’am.”
“Toby, my name’s Britta Bailey. I need a favor. There’s a blue Pontiac parked on Madison Avenue. There’s a man in the front seat. I’m going to walk away. I want you to turn around and just happen to look in that direction. See if you can get a good look at him without letting him know you’re looking. I’ll be waiting over there, inside that door, and you come tell me if you’ve ever seen him before, okay? You got the drill?”
“Yes, ma’am—I’ve got it.”
Officer Bailey crossed the cobblestoned court and pushed through the glass-paned door. Her footsteps echoed up to nineteenth-century moldings. She watched through the window.
The boy was bouncing his rubber ball off the ivied wall again. But now that he knew he was being watched, his movements were tight and self-conscious. He fumbled a catch and the ball got away from him. He headed it off at the iron fence.
His gaze came up and he looked out through the spear-pointed pickets. On the avenue, traffic lumbered past—taxis and buses and upscale delivery trucks.
On the east side of Madison, a blue Pontiac had double-parked, motor idling. In the driver’s seat, a man sat peering through the zoom viewfinder of a camera. He had the look of an overage skinhead. Hair shaved to the skull. Thick neck and shoulders. Noodle-veined temples.
The boy looked over at the man. The boy’s expression was puzzled. But interested.
Sergeant Bailey wondered how much the kid needed spelled out for him—that the man was a pervert, that he was watching schoolkids, photographing them, that he was watching Toby.
The man lowered the camera. He let a beat pass, then waved. A very slow, very visible, very comic wave.
Britta Bailey’s stomach turned over.
The boy glanced bashfully away. He hurried into the lobby.
“Recognize him?” Bailey asked.
“No, ma’am.” The boy shook his head. “Ma’am, would you tell me something? Is he doing anything wrong?”
“We don’t know, Toby. But I’m going to find out right now.”
Wood tapped sharply on glass. The man turned.
A nightstick knocked on his passenger window. “Sir.”
There was a way of saying sir that showed absolutely no respect, and this freckle-faced policewoman had mastered it. She motioned him to roll the window down.
“Yes, Officer?” He smiled up at her.
“You’re double-parked.” She had a cold, unwavering gaze and a voice just a little too high and tight, to match.
He kept the smile. “That’s right.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m a magazine photographer.” He held up the camera, bristling w
ith high-tech add-ons. “I’m doing a spread on education.”
“You were here yesterday.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“Let me see your registration and I.D.”
He set down the camera and leaned across the seat and pushed the door open. The air-conditioning lowered the policewoman’s guard, drew her closer. She placed a foot up on the car frame. It was a male gesture, and it needed more weight. It needed a boot, not that black lace-up go-to-funerals shoe she was wearing.
A bell sounded, and the schoolchildren began filing back into the building. He took out his wallet. He flipped through charge cards, dawdling until the yard was empty.
Her eyes were pale and watchful and nervous. “Would you hurry it up?”
“Sorry.” He twisted in the seat, storing torque in his right shoulder. He held out the wallet. “You know, I really didn’t plan on this.”
“Mm-hmm.” She reached for the wallet. When she saw that he was wearing surgical gloves, her eyes jumped to his face. Big mistake.
He exploded into movement. His right hand clamped onto her left. Wristbone snapped. He yanked hard and fast, sliding backward on the seat. There was a split second’s astonishment in her eyes, and she came flying full length into the car. His left hand grabbed her head and drove it into the open glove compartment. A tooth bounced off the accelerator pedal.
Holding her down with his right hand, he pulled the door shut. His eyes scanned the sidewalk for passersby. All clear for a half block in either direction.
She was whimpering like a little dog. Her neck strained against the pressure of his hand and arm.
“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to take a little drive.” He gave her five inches, just enough leeway to slam her face into the leather seat. He pressed down with his full body weight, both hands around her neck.
When he released her, she rolled partway off the seat. He pushed her down into the space between the seat and the dashboard.
He twisted the key in the ignition. With a glance over his shoulder, he angled into the traffic.
TWELVE
3:20 P.M.
“ON OCTOBER THIRD …” TESS diAngeli said, “did you interrogate the accused, Corey Lyle, with regard to the murders of John and Amalia Briar?”
“I did,” Assistant District Attorney Lamont said.
“Would you view the following videotape,” diAngeli said, “and tell the court if it’s an accurate record of that interview?”
“Objection.” Dotson Elihu rose to his feet, sighing. “The videotape contains statements made by Dr. Lyle in the absence of a lawyer. Since Dr. Lyle did not waive his right to counsel, the tape is inadmissible.”
Judge Bernheim turned to the witness. “Did you advise the accused of his right to counsel?”
“I did, Your Honor.”
“And did he request counsel?”
“He waived counsel,” Lamont said. “It’s on the tape.”
“The tape may be shown from the point where the accused is advised of his right to counsel.”
The prosecutor’s assistant ran the videotape fast-forward. The image of Corey Lyle, staring out of the TV screen, hardly moved. But a curtain in the window behind him flapped as though amphetamined poltergeists were ripping it apart.
Checking the sound on earphones, the assistant located the frame he wanted and slowed the tape. The window curtain floated in a lazy breeze and the off-camera voice of Harkness Lamont said, “You’re aware your statements could be used in a court of law.”
“I’m hoping they will be,” Corey Lyle’s image said, “if they can help Mickey.” Even on the TV the voice possessed astonishing resonance, as though it were speaking in an empty church.
“Do you wish to have counsel? You’re entitled to it.”
“Why would I wish that?”
“Several of your statements could be used against you.”
Corey Lyle’s image shaped a smile utterly without malice or irony. “I don’t think that need worry us, do you?”
“It’s my duty to advise you of your rights. If you want to continue this discussion, just the two of us, that’s okay.”
“At the moment my rights aren’t an issue. It’s Mickey that concerns me.”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
The prosecutor’s assistant stopped the tape.
“That is clearly not a Miranda warning.” Dotson Elihu heaved himself to his feet. “And my client clearly did not waive his right to counsel.”
“I’m going to rule that it is a Miranda,” Judge Bernheim said, “and your client waived. Overruled.”
Elihu shot the jury an astonished look.
The assistant started the tape again and the off-screen voice asked, “Why’s it your worry if Mickey’s in a jam?”
“In any legal sense, Mickey is innocent of the murders. He misapprehended the doctrine of our group and acted on that misapprehension. I taught him the doctrine. I’d say that puts a certain responsibility on my shoulders, wouldn’t you?”
“Two people are dead. Somebody’s responsible.”
“Then I’m responsible.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me.”
“Your Honor,” Dotson Elihu cried, “I object to these out-of-context excerpts. They amount to compelling the defendant’s testimony.”
On the screen, all movement drained from the image.
“Must I remind you, Mr. Elihu,” Judge Bernheim said, “the constitutional prohibition against self-incrimination does not apply to documents. A tape is a document. The People can give us these statements from the tape. If you feel your client’s statements have been unfairly excerpted, you may later introduce the complete tape and set the record straight.”
A juror muttered in front of Anne, “Oy!”
“The People may proceed,” Judge Bernheim said.
The prosecutor’s assistant again aimed the remote at the TV screen.
“Were there ever occasions when Mickey Williams acted without your advice or approval?”
“Mickey never did anything without seeking my advice. He’s not a developed intellect. He prefers to obey an authority.”
“And are you that authority?”
“At present, pretty much.”
The image lurched, as though there had been some kind of electronic deletion.
“Did you speak to Mickey Williams on Friday of Labor Day weekend?”
The image nodded. “I asked him to go to the Briars’ apartment and keep an eye on them.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. You preceded Mickey to the apartment and let him in. You then left the apartment.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you speak to Mickey Williams again that weekend?”
“We spoke on the phone early Saturday morning.”
“Who phoned who?”
“Mickey phoned me.”
“Why?”
“To tell me that John Briar was dead.”
“Did this news surprise you?”
“I’d been expecting it for some time.”
“In other words, you had advance knowledge this event was going to occur?”
“That’s correct, but not in the sense you think.”
“You seem to be saying that you were involved.”
“That’s also correct, but in a way that would be hard for me to explain to you.”
“Look, are you sure you don’t want a lawyer?”
The prosecutor’s assistant aimed the remote. The image froze, then vanished, leaving the TV screen with a hard, rubbery glare. The assistant removed the tape.
“Your Honor.” Dotson Elihu stood. “I respectfully request that you declare a mistrial.”
Judge Bernheim stared at him. “On what grounds, Mr. Elihu?”
“That was the Miranda warning. Right there where the People turned off the tape. Everything preceding it is inadmissible.”
“I disagree with you, Mr. Elihu. By my count that was the second Mi
randa.”
After the day’s testimony, four guards herded the jurors down through the basement and out to a bus that took them to their hotel. The World-Wide Inn was a glass-sheathed skyscraper at the edge of lower Manhattan’s business district. Polished brass doors swung open onto a pink-and-gold lobby. The man at the desk had a list of room assignments, and Anne found she was sharing 1818 with Shoshana Beaupre, the schoolteacher.
As they stepped into the elevator, Shoshana asked, “Do you smoke?”
“I haven’t for years.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“Good.” Shoshana had cheerful mink-brown eyes, and her lace blouse and calf-length floral skirt gave an impression of carefully understated neatness. “We’re going to be friends.”
Anne had no sensation of rising. The floor indicator stopped at 18. They followed the guard down a gray-carpeted hallway. He slid a card-key into the lock of 1818. The tiny room had two beds and a very low ceiling and a mirrored wall that made it seem six people had crowded in. Outside the window, skyscrapers reflected the cold pink beginnings of autumn sunset.
“Home,” Shoshana said. “Do you believe it?”
“It’s a little cramped,” Anne said.
Shoshana made a quick check of the accommodations. “I think it’s their way of telling us to reach a fast verdict.”
“If I can help you in any way …” The guard set their luggage on the baggage rack and handed Anne the electronic card-key. “Just ask.”
“I know you didn’t expect to be taken up on that,” Shoshana said, “but how about seeing if you can get that TV to work?”
The guard shook his head. “You’re sequestered. No TV, no phone.”
Shoshana frowned. “What if there’s an emergency?”
“Then you get in touch with me.” He winked.
Shoshana’s silence let the suggestion glide to a crash landing. The guard tipped an imaginary hat and backed out of the door.
“I have a feeling he likes you,” Anne said.
Shoshana clicked the bolt on the door. “And I have a feeling he’s an orbiting spy satellite.”
Anne began unpacking. “Do you want the right or left half of the closet?”
“If it’s the same to you, I’ll take the left.” Shoshana shook a gym bag empty over one of the beds. Newspapers and magazines tumbled out. “Look what I sneaked past the gestapo.” She held up a copy of the latest Savoir. “This is where you work, isn’t it?”
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