“I assume there is some relevance?” says the judge.
“Absolutely,” says Tannery. “If you’ll just allow me a few more questions . . .”
With the jury out of the box, on an offer of proof, there is little harm to be done, so Coats permits Tannery to go on an evidential safari. It is little wonder the prosecution gave up so easily on the theory of a love tryst. Intimation of racial bias would be far more damaging. From a tactical point, it is also better because it doesn’t sully the reputation of the victim.
“These documents, these copies, what did you do with them?”
“I turned them over to some people.”
“The people from your organization?”
She nods, then remembers about the court reporter and gives an audible “Yes.”
“And what did they do with them?”
“They turned them over to the newspapers. The campus newspaper was the first, but then there were demonstrations, and the major press got involved. I believe the Trib picked it up, and then it went national. The wires got the story. The Associated Press.” She says this with a smile.
“And what happened?”
“There was a mighty furor,” she says. Her voice rises an octave in indignation. “All hell came down. On the university. On Crone. He was called in by the administration. There were meetings of the academic senate. There was an investigation, a lot of questions. In the end, the research stopped.”
Harry looks at me, trepidation in his eyes, an expression of I told you so from the lips up. Harry is thinking what I am: mother and daughter, history repeating itself, only Mom had the good grace and foresight to copy the papers from Crone’s office instead of taking them.
“Did Doctor Crone ever find out that you were responsible for obtaining these documents and releasing them to the press?”
“Not that I know of. I don’t think he did.”
“So it was never made public? At least not until today?”
“That’s right.”
“And you were never arrested?”
“How do you mean?”
“For taking Dr. Crone’s papers?”
“Oh. No.”
Tannery shifts gears, shuffles papers at the podium. “Now, can you tell the court, did you subsequently, years later, have occasion to tell your daughter about this episode in your life, the fact that you had taken documents from one of your professors while in college?”
“I did.”
“And when did that conversation take place?”
“About two years ago.” There is a certain intent look in her eyes now as she stares at me from the stand. Message to Crone.
“And how did this conversation come about?”
“Kalista had just completed her doctoral thesis. She was looking forward to employment opportunities, some field of research. That’s where her strength lay. She had an excellent academic record. There were a number of offers, and one in particular that caught my eye. It was from the Genetics Center.”
“That’s the research institute directed by the defendant, David Crone?”
“That’s correct.”
“And how did you come to realize that the center had made an offer of employment to your daughter?”
“She showed me the letter. His name was very prominent on the letterhead. He had signed the letter soliciting Kali to apply. She told me that she’d actually met him at the university, when he was recruiting. I thought it couldn’t possibly be the same man. But his curriculum vitae was included in the literature that came to the house. It mentioned his time on the faculty at Michigan. It was him. I couldn’t believe it. Of course, it didn’t say anything about his earlier research into racial genetics. He needed money, and he wasn’t going to get it . . .”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Just answer the question,” says Coats.
“But you told your daughter about the defendant’s history in this area? The fact that he’d been involved in controversial research regarding racial genetics in the past?”
“I did.”
“When you talk about controversy,” says Tannery, “let’s get into some of the specifics. What exactly was Dr. Crone working on back then?”
“Objection, Your Honor. This is irrelevant.”
“Overruled. You can answer the question.”
“He was working on racial graying.”
“And what is that?”
“He was researching racial markers, enzymes that distinguish one racial group from another, with the goal of finding ways to neutralize them, to blur them. He wanted to create a kind of genetic melting pot in which there would ultimately be no racial distinctions, no unique characteristics of race.”
“And you considered this to be unethical?”
“Absolutely. He was playing God, or getting ready to. It was clear that he was leaning toward the elimination of minority characteristics.”
“And you stopped him?”
“Yes, I did. Fortunately for us,” she says, “the science of genetics was not as advanced back then. We were able to find out what he was working on and expose it.”
“And you told this to your daughter?”
“I did.”
“What else did you tell her?”
“I told her about the demonstrations back in the seventies. About Crone’s published studies, and how they were discredited.”
“Did you tell her that you were in large part responsible for uncovering the information that led to this?”
“I did.”
“And what was her reaction?”
“Objection.”
The witness sits upright in the chair and looks at me. There is a long sigh, as if she didn’t hear the objection.
“She was proud of me. She said I did the right thing.”
“Objection. Move to strike.”
“Sustained.” The judge admonishes her that she is not to answer the question when there is an objection.
The witness looks at him but doesn’t indicate one way or the other whether or not she accepts his instruction. Coats presses the issue, and finally Tanya Jordan acknowledges that she understands.
Hearsay is the law’s final insult in a murder trial. The victim’s voice is silenced forever. Now the rules of evidence, with narrow exception, erase every comment she made before death. This is sufficiently broad to include Kalista Jordan’s feelings regarding the incidents related to her by her mother.
Tannery asks the judge for a moment. He confers with the cop back at the counsel table. The problem here is that they have run into a wall. The witness cannot relate to the jury things told to her by her now-dead daughter. Tanya Jordan can only testify as to her part of any conversation, and the jury, without more, cannot fill in the gaps with guesses. If it comes down to that, it is likely that the judge will not allow her to testify at all.
The prosecutor comes back to the podium. “Let me ask you, did you discuss with your daughter this employment opportunity? The job with the Genetics Center?”
“I did.”
“And can you tell the court what you told your daughter in this regard?”
“I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to take the job.”
“And why not?”
“Because of Dr. Crone’s history.”
“You mean his perceived racial attitudes?”
“Objection. There has been no testimony as to his attitudes, only his work.”
“Sustained. Rephrase the question.”
“Is it fair to say that you didn’t want your daughter to take the job with Dr. Crone because of your knowledge regarding the history of his work in racial genetics?”
“Yes.”
Tannery smiles at my having made the point, one that he is likely to expand upon for the jury.
“But she took the job anyway?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Why? The unasked question lingers in the air like the acrid smell of smoke from a spent fire. Tannery can’t pose it because it would c
all for hearsay, but the jury will no doubt conjure it in their silent thoughts.
“But so that we’re clear, you didn’t want her to take this job?”
“No.”
“And the reason?”
“Dr. Crone’s history. What I considered, my view, my opinion that he had been involved in what I considered racist genetic studies.”
The witness is a quick study. I object, but this time the judge overrules me.
I can object to a statement of fact, but not to her considered opinions, especially when they relate to the witness’s motives.
“I didn’t think Kalista should get involved with someone who had that kind of a history.” The witness drives the point home.
There are a dozen avenues of attack on cross: What makes Tanya Jordan an expert on racial genetics? How can she be so sure Crone’s research wasn’t legitimate? How is it possible to pursue science if certain topics are taboo? All these are poison. Tannery would watch with glee as I got tangled in each of them. The witness has already characterized Crone’s earlier work as “racist.” There was enough of a sting to these charges at the time to draw controversy, to bring an abrupt end to his research back then. To parse words with the dead victim’s mother, an African-American, over what constitutes racism is not a dispute I am likely to win. One thing is sure: If the issue becomes racism, the verdict will no longer be in doubt.
Tannery moves closer to the question.
“Did you have reason to believe that Dr. Crone was involved in racially related research at the time he was recruiting your daughter?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Is it fair to say that you were concerned about this?”
“I was concerned. Yes.”
“And did you come to learn later that this was in fact the case?”
“I did. I received a message from Kalista that she wanted to turn over documents that she had taken to her people.”
“Objection, your Honor. Hearsay.”
“ ‘Her people.’ Those are the words she used?” says Tannery.
“Sustained,” says Coats.
“She used those words? She wanted to turn these documents over to her people?”
“That’s exactly what she told me.”
The judge is now pounding his gavel. “The question and the answer will be stricken. The witness is instructed not to answer a question when there is an objection pending. Do you understand?” Coats points his gavel at her like a gun, then aims it at Tannery.
“And you, sir. You know better than that. The only reason I am not imposing sanctions is that the jury’s not in the box. Try that when they are, and you’d better bring your toothbrush. You’re gonna be spending the night in the bucket.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. I got carried away.”
“Yes. You’re going be carried away by my bailiff, you keep that up.”
Tannery feigns a little mock humility. Eyes downcast, feet shuffling, body English substituting for an apology. He shuffles through a few papers, then picks up without missing a beat.
“Let me ask you,” he says. “This information concerning the nature of Dr. Crone’s current research, were you able to obtain information regarding this matter from another source? A source other than your daughter?”
Coats is looking at him over the top of his glasses, ready to swat him with his wooden hammer.
“Yes.”
“And what was that source?”
“Another employee at the center.”
Tannery turns to look at me as he poses the final question. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I can feel it coming; lawyer’s coup de grâce.
“And can you tell the court the name of that employee?”
“His name is William Epperson.”
chapter
thirteen
crone is waiting for us at the jail. Harry called ahead to make sure the guards would deliver him to one of the attorney-client consulting cubicles over the dayroom where “the Professor” has been pumping iron and putting miles on the treadmill while we’ve been in court.
The news that Epperson served as a source of information for Kalista’s mother hit us out of the blue. Harry has tried and gotten nowhere with Epperson. Now we are faced with the prospect of hostile testimony, what we have feared from the former basketball star from the inception.
“What did Crone say when you gave him the news?”
“If he was surprised, he didn’t voice it,” says Harry.
“You think he knew?”
“If he didn’t, he’s the coolest character since James Dean. Didn’t seem to phase him in the least. Said he had absolute confidence in us.” Harry looks at me with a crooked grin.
“Maybe he didn’t know what else to say.”
“He could have shown a little fear,” says Harry. “That would be a nice change.”
“So the man’s got ice in his veins.”
“He’s a fucking snow cone. Which leaves us right where we started. Kalista Jordan being dead, anything she told her mother we can keep out. That’s hearsay,” says Harry. “But Epperson’s another matter. He’s alive and available. If Tannery puts him up on the stand and Epperson testifies that Crone was mixing some genetic stew with the entrails of wombats to come up with a new formula for African IQ, our closing argument is gonna resonate like the Nazi national anthem. It wouldn’t be a long leap for the jury to conclude that Kalista was killed because Crone found out she was about to go public on some hair-raising racial experiments. You’re going to find yourself defending the angel of death,” he tells me.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say. “Why would he hire her in the first place if he was working on something that was racially charged? Why take the chance?”
“Who’s he going to hire?” says Harry. “There’s not a lot of skinheads running around with Ph.D.s in whatever it was.”
“Molecular electronics,” I tell him.
“Whatever. Crone needed qualified researchers to get funding. And the presence of a minority or two didn’t hurt. He knew how to play the game. Maybe he didn’t have a choice. You have to remember Crone had to get the funding, the corporate grant, from that company.”
“Cybergenomics.”
“That’s the one. If he had to take Epperson to obtain a research grant, it could be he was induced to hire Kalista Jordan for the same reason. They knew each other before they went to work there. Epperson was still with the company when Kalista was hired. He didn’t come on board at the center until after,” says Harry. “What if they were working together to get information on Crone? If Kalista’s mother is telling the truth and she fired up her daughter with tales of activism from the days of yore, the daughter could have gone to Epperson, enlisted his help.”
“And you think they were out to set him up?”
“If the mother is to be believed. And if Epperson comes through for him on the stand, Tannery’s got a good chance of selling it to the jury.”
I think about this for a moment. “There’s something wrong, which doesn’t fit.”
“What is it?” says Harry.
“Why would a corporation like Cybergenomics touch anything like that? I mean if Crone was engaged in research with a social and political downside why would they get involved, sully their corporate image? I can’t imagine there would be that much money involved in it.”
Harry mulls this over for a moment, deep in thought as we walk through the courthouse lobby. “What if . . .” He’s thinking out loud. “What if their funding was for something else? What if Crone was working on the racial stuff on the side? Something the company didn’t know about? If news of it got out, think what would happen to his funding.”
“Dry up overnight,” I say.
“It could be worse than that,” says Harry. “If Crone was diverting funds for something else, playing hide-and-seek with grant money, you’re talking some nasty criminal shit. Now there’s something to kill for.”
Harry and I suffer the same tho
ught instantly. We utter the words in unison: “A financial audit.”
We turn to look at each other, stopped dead in our tracks. Anybody watching us from the top of the escalator, looking down, might half expect by body language alone to see some luminescent green light flicker on behind our eyes.
“Was there one?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
Then I remember I had some of the documents, working papers on the early grant request for the Huntington’s study on the children.
“That would give us something to start with. The project number and the name they used for the principal research. It was on the grant request.”
“What do we know about the funding?” I ask Harry.
“Squat,” he says. Suddenly the sickening thought: We’ve been looking in all the wrong places.
I think maybe I might have filed the grant request in one of the cabinets back in the office, but then I realize where I left them. They were copies only, and when we finished with them I left them with Doris Boyd.
I tell Harry I’ll call her in the morning. He can stop by and pick them up. “That’ll give you a start, anyway. Tell us where to begin looking.”
“If that’s it,” says Harry, “Crone would be under a legal hammer.”
“Like a moth under a mallet.”
“He could have been personally liable for the funds,” says Harry.
“That’s if they were feeling charitable. Didn’t nail him criminally for diversion, embezzlement,” I say.
“That wouldn’t look too good on his resume next time he goes out fund hunting. And it’s tough to get a grant when you’re in the joint,” says Harry. Though I suspect Harry has known a few clients who have done it.
“You think this is what Jordan and Epperson were doing, chasing the money trail?”
“I don’t know.” Harry doesn’t want to think about it. “Maybe we’re just worried about nothing,” he says. “I mean, we can’t connect all the dots.”
“Let’s just hope Tannery can’t. I don’t need any more surprises. Find out everything you can about any audits. Track the trail of the grant money, especially anything coming in from Cybergenomics.”
Harry makes notes as we walk, then clicks the top of his pen and sticks it back in his vest pocket. “If there’s anything there, I hope you have an answer for them.”
The Jury Page 18
