If there is a silver lining to any of this, it is that his thoughts of divorce to save the family from financial ruin are at an end.
The priest has traveled with us from the funeral mass at the old mission a few miles in from the coast. I am told he is a longtime family friend. He opens his prayer book and begins the intonation from the head of the casket, sprinkling it with holy water from a gold canister held by an altar boy who has accompanied him for this task.
Deliver her, O Lord, from death eternal in that awful day, when the heavens and the earth shall be moved: when thou shalt come to judge the world . . .
All heads are downcast, except for some of the children, who seem to look on wide-eyed.
Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her.
Deliver us . . .
Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.
Our Father, who art in heaven . . .
As the priest recites the Lord’s Prayer he circles the bier with its undersized coffin one last time, sprinkling it with holy water. The collective voices rise in volume and confidence, until in unison they become a single Amen.
The gathering begins to break up, mourners dispersing, many of them making their way toward Doris to offer their final condolences.
At that moment, I notice that Frank is no longer standing behind her. I look for a moment. He has disappeared. Then I see him. He has made his way around the row of chairs, his lumbering body moving as if in pain like a wounded bear. He moves to the head of casket, leans over and reaches out with his left hand. I think for a moment that he merely touched it, a final farewell.
The priest consoles him, a few words. He takes Frank’s large hand in both of his. From the look on his face, it is not clear whether Frank has even heard him. He seems in a daze. It isn’t until the priest steps aside that I notice that Frank has placed something on his daughter’s coffin. There on top is a single long-stemmed pink rose.
———
The cops are still trying to put the pieces together. The media is calling Epperson’s death suspicious, an “apparent” suicide.
They have somehow sniffed out that Epperson was scheduled to appear in court behind closed doors. They are now fueling suspicion that Epperson was about to identify the killer when he himself was killed. Speculation is running high that the dead man knew more than authorities are willing to say about Kalista Jordan’s murder.
Harry and I, Tannery and the investigating detectives huddle this morning in Judge Coats’s chambers to gather the facts. Tannery’s face reveals that from the state’s perspective it is not good.
He has already delivered something to the judge in a sealed manila envelope. Printed on the front in large red block letters the words:
SDPD
POLICE EVIDENCE
Coats opens the envelope in front of us, removing the contents, what appears to be two printed pages, eight and a half by eleven. Coats holds them at an angle, reading.
The judge finishes one page, reads the other, only a few lines at the top, then places them facedown on the desk.
“Where did you find these?”
“They were in the victim’s printer, at his apartment,” says Tannery. “We dusted the pages for prints.”
“And?” says Coats.
“Nothing. The original document was in his computer.”
The judge would not have touched any of this, an open homicide investigation, suicide or not, except that the matter now threatens to wind up in the middle of a murder trial over which he is presiding.
“You haven’t shown this to Mr. Madriani, I take it?”
Tannery shakes his head.
“I think he should see it, don’t you?”
“I would question its admissibility,” says Tannery. “It’s not signed.”
“That may go more to the weight of the evidence,” says the judge.
“Your Honor . . .” Tannery is not happy.
“Is there a legal reason we should not share this with counsel for the defense?” asks Coats.
“No,” says Tannery.
The judge hands me the document. Harry reads over my shoulder. For two days it has been rumored that there was a suicide note. Until now, we had not seen it. It is dated the third. I look at the calendar on the judge’s desk; the previous Thursday, the day Epperson died.
It is neatly typed, a few misspelled words. I quickly flip to the second page without reading all of it. Harry reaches over as if he isn’t finished. I want to check for a signature. Tannery is right. It is unsigned, but Epperson’s name is typed neatly in the center of the next page.
I flip back to the first page, and there in the center, two graphs down, is the bombshell, almost buried in the middle of a sentence, a confession by Epperson that he could no longer live with himself after having killed Kalista Jordan.
“Shit.” Harry says it out loud. The judge doesn’t bother to chastise him; I suspect because he is thinking the same thing.
“It’s a little too neat, Your Honor. The night before he’s to testify he hangs himself. It should not be allowed in.”
“What do you mean by ‘too neat’?” I ask.
“What he means is a tensioning tool, and cable ties, just like the ones in evidence, were found on the table by the computer in Epperson’s apartment.” The answer doesn’t come from Tannery, but from behind us. Jimmy de Angelo, the homicide dick in Kalista Jordan’s case, is seated on the judge’s tufted leather sofa, squeaking every time he moves.
Harry’s eyes get big as saucers. He turns to look at de Angelo. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. Defense lawyer’s wet dream,” says de Angelo. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble. There was just a little too much at the scene,” he says.
“That may be your argument,” says Harry.
“Where were you last night?” de Angelo asks him.
“I was busy with my partner working.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Enough,” says Coats.
“I would ask Mr. Madriani whether his client knows anything about this. But I don’t think there’s a need, seeing as he would be aware of the requirement that he disclose it. There is no attorney-client privilege for a felony in progress.”
He would ask, but he won’t, since he just has.
“Your Honor, my client knows nothing.”
“Yes, and if he did he wouldn’t tell you,” says de Angelo.
“It’s possible Mr. Epperson didn’t want any questions about the authenticity of the note,” I tell the judge. “So he left physical evidence along with it.” I’m referring to the cable ties and the tensioning tool.
“Then why didn’t he sign the note?” asks Tannery. “That would have been pretty good authentication. Could it be that whoever killed him couldn’t get him to cooperate?”
“You have evidence that it was murder?” I ask.
Tannery doesn’t respond.
“You say the note was still in the printer?”
De Angelo nods.
“There’s your answer.”
“Why didn’t he take it out?” asks de Angelo.
“We can debate why he did or didn’t do a lot of things,” says Harry. “A man about to string himself up is not always rational.”
“What about fingerprints?” I ask. “Did you find anybody else’s on the computer?”
“No.” De Angelo says it flatly, grudging response. “But anybody could have known about the tensioning tool. It’s in evidence. Been in all the papers, along with the cable ties.”
“Then Mr. Tannery can argue it to the jury,” I tell him. “The fact remains that without some perpetrator, a face and a name to hang on it, and somebody to tie that person to my client, Dr. Crone is going to walk and the state knows it. He was conveniently in jail at the time of Mr. Epperson’s death. Unless they can tie Epperson’s death to my client, that suicide note cries reasonable doubt.”
“What about
the physical evidence at the scene?” asks the judge. “The area around the cross?”
“We found some tire marks that didn’t match the victim’s van,” says de Angelo. “We’re still trying to make a match. Checking them against tire impressions from some suspects.”
“What suspects?” asks Harry.
“Persons of interest” is all de Angelo will say. My guess is they are checking out anybody and everybody who’s had contact with Crone in the last months, jail inmates who have been released who rubbed shoulders with him inside, and people from the Genetics Center. The cops will be spending their nights wheeling every vehicle they can find through plaster of paris trying to make a match they can somehow tie to Crone.
“Have you checked the gardeners, the groundskeepers at the museum?” I ask.
De Angelo looks at me, not certain what I’m talking about.
“They probably drive the service roads in the park all the time. Have you checked their tires?”
“Not yet,” he says. “I’ll make a note.” He doesn’t write it down.
Coats wants to know if they have another witness for their offer of proof, somebody to verify Tanya Jordan’s testimony.
Tannery tells him he doesn’t.
Coats can give them a day, maybe two. My guess is Epperson was their case. Without a witness to verify the racial evidence, they have no motive for the killing. They have already given up on the twisted-romance theory, and now they are faced with a suicide note-cum-confession from Epperson.
“Your Honor.” De Angelo wades in. “This is screwy,” he says. “That this man would take his life like this.”
“Maybe he was afraid he couldn’t hold up under questioning,” I tell Coats. “He had an appointment in court, day of reckoning. Nothing strange about that.”
Coats considers his options. A long sigh.
“We have a problem,” he says. “I don’t like it, but if you can’t come up with another witness, evidence to corroborate, I’ll have to strike the woman’s testimony.”
Tannery starts to say something, but the judge holds up his hand. “No other choice,” he says. “It’s all hearsay. And I’m not sure it makes a lot of difference at this point.”
“What do you mean?” asks Tannery.
“I mean you’re holding a confession there. Unless you have some basis to show that it’s not what it purports to be, I can’t keep it out.” By this time Epperson’s suicide note has made the rounds back into Tannery’s hands. He holds it like some burning ember.
“I want a copy of that,” I tell him. “And I would like an order from the court that the state keep us informed of their investigation as it progresses. I’d like to know what other evidence they found at the scene. For example, fingerprints on the van? I saw them dusting it at the scene.”
The judge looks at de Angelo.
“We found the victim’s prints, and two other employees’ from the center where he worked. We’re checking them out,” he says.
“Names?” I pull out a pen, holding a yellow legal pad.
De Angelo doesn’t want to give them up, but the judge tells him to disclose. He pulls out a little notebook from his inside coat pocket, then flips a few pages.
“A Cynthia Gamin, and Harold Michaels. Said they used the van last week. It checks out, but we’re checking their personal vehicles anyway,” he says, “to see if the extra tire impressions at the scene match up.”
“And you will keep us informed?” I say.
De Angelo gives me a pain-in-the-ass look. It’s nice when you have the cops working for you.
“Your Honor, you’re telling me the note is coming in, is that right?” Tannery had expected it, but he wants to make sure there’s no chance of turning Coats around on this before he leaves. “I’m going to have to take it up the line.” He’s talking about his boss, D.A. Jim Tate, and his number two, Edelstein, who is about to retire, and whose job Tannery is in line to take.
“You take it where you have to,” says Coats. “That’s what I’m telling you. You can argue all the fine points. That it wasn’t signed. You can argue the physical evidence found in the apartment and at the scene, so long as you disclose it to opposing counsel in advance. I’ll give you all the latitude I can on that,” he says. “But unless you have something more than what I’ve heard here today, there’s more than a good chance that statement is going to come in. And so that you all know, I sequestered the jury this morning, as soon as the news broke on Mr. Epperson.”
“You didn’t tell us . . .” Harry starts to get into it with him.
I nudge him with an elbow. When things are going your way, you don’t complain. Harry is worried that the jury will blame the defendant for the fact that they are now locked up.
“There wasn’t time. I didn’t think you would object, especially with all the speculation,” says Coats. “I thought it best that they not be reading the papers and looking at the tube.”
“But I can’t keep the jury out of the box much longer. You’ve got two days.” He looks at his calendar. “We meet back here eight o’clock Wednesday morning. I’ll expect a full report on everything you have in the Epperson thing at that time. Do you understand?”
Tannery nods, but he’s not happy about it.
The judge starts to hand the manila evidence envelope back to the prosecutor. “I know,” he says. “These things happen. It’s a tough way to lose a case.
“And you, Mr. Madriani. I hope for your client’s sake when we get back together there’s no evidence that he was involved in this thing.”
chapter
sixteen
every shred of evidence they have found so far is consistent with a suicide, including the bruise on the back of Epperson’s neck that formed a deep Y. This we have learned from the coroner’s report, a copy of which was given to us this morning.
“What a rope does with the force of gravity,” says Harry. “But he didn’t die painlessly. Spinal cord wasn’t snapped. The coroner confirms that he strangled, probably hung from the rope for several minutes before he went unconscious.”
“Tannery is not going to be able to do much with that,” I tell him. “It would defy the norm if Epperson snapped his neck on the first try. A good hanging is an art form. Most suicide victims strangle themselves walking on air having second thoughts and trying to get back to where they started.”
“Either that or they jump from such heights that they lose their heads,” says Harry. He’s talking about decapitation. “Any way you take it, it’s a messy way to go,” he says. “All in all, pills are much better.”
He flips through the final few pages of the report, which I have already read. “I agree,” he says. “There isn’t much in here that’s gonna help the prosecution.”
“Let’s hope they didn’t find anything more at the scene, or in Epperson’s apartment,” I say.
“You really think he did himself?”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t know. Could be somebody suicided him.”
I look at Harry, waiting for his list of candidates. It is short.
“Tash. Who else? He’s close to Crone. The two are joined at the hip on this project. And it keeps comin’ back to that,” says Harry. “Maybe it had to do with the racial thing. Maybe it had to do with something else. But if you want my opinion, somebody wanted to shut Epperson up.”
“So you think Tannery has the better argument?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s one thing to think Crone may have had a hand in it. Trying to prove it is another. On the Kalista Jordan thing, I think we may have been delivered by the gods. We should consider ourselves fortunate,” says Harry. “Cut our losses and keep our distance.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean we shouldn’t be giving Crone blank checks on further defense commitments. There’s no statute of limitations, and no double jeopardy on Epperson. We rub Tannery’s nose in it on Jordan, force him to dismiss, and one thing is certain, he’s not li
kely to stop turning over rocks trying to put it to Crone on Epperson. And maybe, just maybe, he can make a case.”
“So you think Crone did it?”
“I don’t think we should be blind to the possibility,” says Harry. “Think about it. What were he and Tash doing with all those numbers? The meetings at the jail?”
“Genetic codes,” I tell him.
“I agree they were codes. Maybe genetic, maybe not. Were you able to understand them?”
I shake my head.
“That makes two of us. The guard outside the door makes three. Can you think of a better way to pass messages?” he says.
I don’t answer him, because the thought has crossed my mind and Harry knows it.
“Bet you dollars to doughnuts those papers with all their numbers got shredded as soon as Tash got back to his office and deciphered them.”
I don’t say anything.
He glances at me over the top of his coffee mug, shod feet propped up against the edge of my desk as he sits huddled in one of the client chairs across from me.
“Maybe we should ask Tash for a copy of one of those papers,” he says. “Probably wouldn’t do any good,” he says. “We know what Crone and Tash would say. It’s confidential. Trade secrets.” Harry gives me one of those squinting sideways looks, planting the seeds. He can sense he has set off the little neurons in my brain. He has me thinking in his direction.
“How else could Crone talk to him? He had to tell him that it was getting dicey. That Epperson was about to spill his guts about what was going on, the racial stuff.”
“Let’s assume, just for purposes of argument, that this happened. Communication by numbers,” I tell him. “You’ve seen Tash. Soaking wet maybe he weighs a hundred and fifty pounds. Even if Epperson had a heart problem, he was more than a match for Tash.”
This slows Harry down for a second or two. “You meet a lot of people in jail,” says Harry. “And Crone’s made a lot of friends. Maybe one of them got out. Crone tells Tash to get in touch. You know the cost of a killing these days. One of the few things not touched by inflation,” says Harry. “Some four-time loser might do it for a few coins and a smile from the professor.”
The Jury Page 22
