[Jessie Black 01.0] Burnout

by Larry A Winters

  She leaned forward. She had the most magnificent cleavage he had ever seen outside of a dirty magazine. “A Cosmopolitan would be nice.”

  Hours later, his friends had gone home—Jason McKinney favoring him with a wink and a thumbs-up that Amber thankfully could not see—and the second floor of Dean’s was practically deserted. He had no desire to leave—he was having the best time of his life. With Amber as his enthusiastic audience, he had recalled all the glories of his career at the DA’s office, and had found that he didn’t even have to embellish them much to make them interesting. Amber hung on his every word, probed him with questions, and—best of all—touched his hand or his thigh when he made her laugh.

  Now they sat, drinks empty, ignoring the stares of the busboy wiping down the other tables. It was time to leave. Elliot had grown quiet as he debated the best way to ask for Amber’s phone number.

  “Where do you live?” she said.

  He told her.

  She smiled. “Maybe we could go back there, have some coffee?”

  “Uh ... yeah, definitely. We ... definitely.”

  23

  Judge Spatt’s chambers were dark and moody, like him. Jessie and Goldhammer sat in leather chairs facing the judge’s massive cherry wood desk. There were no windows, and the walls were bare except for a few dusty photographs and ancient-looking diplomas.

  Spatt regarded them with an irritated grimace. If the deep creases in his face reflected his current mood, then maybe he had already begun to regret his decision to grant Frank Ramsey a new trial. Good. This was only a pre-trial hearing. If the judge was exasperated now, he’d be yanking his hair out by the time a jury was impaneled, and with luck, some of that frustration would be directed at the defendant.

  This morning, Goldhammer bore the brunt of it. The judge’s withering gaze settled on him.

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Goldhammer. You’re asking me to ignore the clear holdings of the Pennsylvania Supreme Court and—like some kind of rogue judge—invent my own law instead, just so you can make a woman who’s been raped, stabbed, and left for dead look like a chump?”

  Goldhammer swallowed. “I’d like to remind Your Honor of some words of wisdom spoken during the PCRA hearing. I believe Your Honor told Ms. Black that when a lawyer uses the word ‘clear,’ the reality is usually anything but.”

  The judge absorbed his own words and brooded.

  “The law covering the admissibility of this type of evidence is not clear,” Goldhammer said. “It is self-contradictory, illogical, outdated—”

  “Your Honor,” Jessie said, “in Commonwealth v. Simmons, the Pennsylvania Supreme Court held—” She shuffled through the Westlaw printouts in her lap until she found the highlighted paragraph she was looking for, then read it to the judge: “Appellant’s expert would have testified generally about the reliability of eyewitness identification. Such testimony would have given an unwarranted appearance of authority as to the subject of credibility, a subject which an ordinary juror can assess. Moreover, appellant was free to and did attack the witnesses’ credibility and point out inconsistencies of all the eyewitnesses at trial through cross-examination and in his closing argument. Thus, the trial court properly excluded appellant’s proposed expert testimony.” She returned the decision to its place in her folder. “That sounds pretty clear to me. Allowing Dr. Moscow to testify would be directly opposite to the law of this jurisdiction.”

  Goldhammer was shaking his head. “No, Your Honor.”

  “No?” Spatt’s bushy eyebrows jumped to his forehead.

  “Dr. Moscow does not intend to testify about things the jurors already know. As I detailed in my brief and as she states in the attached affidavit, Dr. Moscow intends to offer testimony regarding specific problems with eyewitness identifications and memory. She intends to instruct the jury on subjects such as unconscious transfer, weapon focus, exposure duration, overestimation of time, and the relationship between confidence and accuracy. Subjects which are not—to use the language of Simmons—the kind that an ordinary juror can assess without the guidance of expert testimony.”

  “That argument has been rejected by Pennsylvania courts,” Jessie said.

  Goldhammer’s marshmallow face softened further. “Your Honor, the Commonwealth’s entire case against Mr. Ramsey rests on one eyewitness identification. Dr. Moscow intends to introduce data that supports arguments that might otherwise strike the jury as contrary to common sense. A ruling that precludes that testimony would prevent Mr. Ramsey from putting on an effective defense.”

  “Your Honor,” Jessie said, “the jury is certainly capable of deciding for itself whether or not Kristen Dillard’s testimony is credible.”

  “I agree,” Goldhammer said. “Dr. Moscow does not intend to encroach on the traditional role of the jury. But Dr. Moscow’s testimony, carefully limited to a discussion of the factors that can affect identifications and memory, will aid the jurors in deciding the ultimate issues of fact.”

  Judge Spatt leaned back in his chair. She could hear movement outside his chambers, but in here it was silent as a tomb. Finally, the judge cleared his throat. “Mr. Goldhammer, just about every court in Pennsylvania that’s considered this issue has refused to allow expert testimony on these subjects. I’ve done a careful reading of the briefs and of the relevant cases.”

  Goldhammer pursed his lips in frustration. Jessie exhaled her pent-up breath. The tension drained from her neck, her shoulders.

  “But I’ve determined that all those cases are bunk.”

  Jessie looked up. Her chest tightened as she realized that Spatt had made this decision before the courthouse had even opened its doors. This whole conference had been nothing but a cat-and-mouse game, a bit of entertainment for the judge as he made the lawyers squirm.

  “These cases are based on obsolete principles,” the judge continued, “and backed by an insipid reasoning all too typical of my supposedly distinguished brethren. My guess is that law clerks wrote them, idiots who spent more time playing video games than paying attention to the narrowing interstice between science and justice. I’m not persuaded.”

  Jessie could barely speak. “Your Honor— You’ll be reversed on appeal.”

  “I’m trembling in my robe.” He sighed theatrically. “Ms. Black, your motion to exclude the testimony of Dr. Katherine Moscow is denied.”

  The judge stood. Goldhammer popped up quickly, and Jessie followed suit. This conference was over. Jessie waited until they were in the hallway before she allowed herself to consider the consequences of this latest setback. With Kate Moscow in the trial, she would need more evidence incriminating Ramsey, evidence that would corroborate Kristen’s identification and render Moscow’s pseudo-science irrelevant. And she would need it soon.

  24

  The campus of the Rushford Foundation sprawled across twenty acres of land in West Conshohocken, fifteen minutes outside of Philly. Mark Leary experienced a sense of déjà vu as he strolled across the concrete-paved courtyard, his shoes crunching a thin blanket of icy snow. When he’d first visited the state-of-the-art biomedical research facility during his investigation of the Dillard killings over a year ago, he’d thought the place looked like something out of a science fiction movie. This time, knowing what to expect, it just looked like a more sophisticated version of the police department lab. He could see Dr. Randolph Tiano waiting in the lobby of the main building, watching him through floor-to-ceiling windows. Leary waved. Tiano waved back.

  Leary had first interviewed Tiano, one of the researchers who had worked closely with Kristen Dillard’s father, over a year ago. That meeting had pretty much been a dead end in his investigation. Other than a bunch of notes about the work Tiano and his colleagues did studying a disease called amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—Lou Gehrig’s Disease—he hadn’t learned much, and certainly nothing relevant to the rapes and murders at the Dillard house. As far as Leary could tell, Ramsey had selected the Dillards at random, and he did not expect to
learn anything today that would change his assessment. Still, he had promised Jessie he would look into everything again, just in case.

  Tiano shook his hand in the warm lobby. The man looked reserved, almost glum.

  “Welcome back, Detective.” He led Leary down one of the corridors connecting the main building’s various offices and labs. “I read in the paper about Frank Ramsey’s new trial. The legal system in this country is absurd if you ask me.”

  “No argument here.” In Leary’s experience, the 9-mm semi-automatic nestled in his shoulder holster was significantly more reliable than a legal brief, no matter how expertly wielded.

  Tiano took an abrupt right turn. They entered a different office than the one Leary remembered. Tiano offered Leary a seat, then he closed the door and walked around an expansive oak desk to sit and face him. Bookshelves built into two of the walls held thick medical treatises, while a third wall displayed Tiano’s impressive array of diplomas, certifications, and awards. Behind the desk, plush drapes hung on either side of a huge window overlooking a man-made lake, where a thin layer of snow stretched over the frozen water, pure white and unmolested.

  “They upgraded you,” Leary said, looking around.

  “Yes.” Tiano slipped a card from a silver holder and passed it across the desk to Leary. “New business cards, too.”

  “Director,” Leary read. “Congratulations.”

  Tiano shrugged. “Ed Urlyapov resigned three months ago. Couldn’t take the pressure anymore. Lucky me, I got his job.”

  Leary nodded. “Lucky you.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I had a weekend off.”

  “Sounds stressful. Is something big happening? A breakthrough?”

  Tiano snorted. “Michael Rushford’s dying, that’s what’s happening. He built this place expecting a miracle, and we haven’t been able to deliver. Now he’s cracking the whip.”

  Leary recalled that the Foundation had been established and funded by Michael Rushford, a successful Philadelphia-area businessman stricken with the disease. “I’m sure the death of Bob Dillard set you back,” he said, guiding the conversation from pleasantries to the matter at hand.

  “I told you, Bob was one of the smartest guys here. When he died....” Tiano threw up his hands. “The Foundation never recovered.”

  “I know I asked you this question during our first interview, Dr. Tiano, but is there any chance that Bob met Frank Ramsey prior to the attack on his family?”

  “I don’t see how their paths could have crossed. Bob was a scientist, and a workaholic.”

  “Ramsey was a fireman. Were there any fires at the facility, any emergency that would have resulted in a call to the fire department?”

  Tiano shook his head.

  “How about human test subjects? Could Ramsey have participated in some kind of clinical experiment?”

  Again, Tiano shook his head. “None of our studies has progressed beyond animal testing.”

  “What kind of work was Bob doing? Don’t take this the wrong way, but did he have access to any drugs that he might have been selling for their street value?”

  Tiano laughed. “Bob? A drug dealer? If you didn’t have something interesting to tell him about progressive neurodegenerative disease, Bob wouldn’t spare you a hello in the hallway. He certainly wouldn’t have spared the time necessary to conduct a criminal enterprise.”

  Leary did not bother taking notes. He had heard all of this before. For the sake of diligence, he said, “What was Bob researching at the time of his murder?”

  “He was working mostly with C1-esterase inhibitors and clioquinol, and he had a growing interest in the possibilities presented by embryonic stem cells.”

  Leary was about to move on when the reference to stem cells caught him off guard. He did not recall anyone mentioning stem cell research before. “Isn’t that kind of stem cell research illegal in the U.S.?”

  “Yes,” Tiano said, shifting in his chair, “but studies in China have demonstrated that human embryonic stem cells can become motor neurons. A very exciting development. ALS operates by attacking motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord. If stem cells can replace those motor neurons and form the appropriate connections, it’s possible that they could improve muscle function and possibly alter the onset and progression of the disease. Bob was reading everything about it that he could get his hands on.”

  “What if he was doing more than reading?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You said he took his work home with him. Is it possible he worked with embryonic stem cells at home?”

  Tiano’s chair squeaked as he shifted his weight. “Are you suggesting that the attack on Bob’s family was somehow related to stem cell research?”

  Leary kept his expression neutral. He did not believe for a second that the Dillard murders had anything to do with stem cells, but the detective in him couldn’t let this line of questioning drop, not after observing Tiano’s nervous body language. “We are following every lead,” he said.

  “But that’s just silly, isn’t it? Frank Ramsey is a serial killer, not an anti-stem cell activist. Unless ... you’re no longer sure Ramsey did it?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then why ask these questions?”

  “The motive for one crime is often found in a different crime. A drug deal motivates a burglary to steal the money or the drugs or both. A rape motivates the murder of the rapist by the victim’s husband or brother. I agree that even if Bob Dillard was involved in illegal stem cell research, it’s probably not related to his murder. But I’d prefer to know all of the facts so I can come to my own conclusion.”

  Tiano ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Well, I can assure you that the Foundation has never stepped beyond the bounds of the law.”

  “I appreciate that, but you still haven’t answered my question.”

  Tiano leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Michael Rushford is a very wealthy man. He’s also very desperate. Is it possible that he helped Bob set up some kind of secondary laboratory somewhere to secretly study the use of stem cells in the treatment of ALS? Sure. Anything is possible. Does that answer your question?”

  Leary nodded slowly. His instinct was that this hypothetical was as close to a confession as he was going to get from Tiano, and for a detail that was most likely irrelevant to his case, it was enough. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I think you should leave now. If you want to continue this conversation, then I’m going to have to invite the Foundation’s attorneys to participate.”

  Leary laughed. “And here I was under the impression that you shared my low opinion of lawyers.” He stood up and fixed his jacket. “Relax, Dr. Tiano. I’m not investigating the Foundation.”

  Tiano’s posture remained tense. “I have an appointment in a few minutes, Detective Leary. If you have any other questions, you have my number.”

  “And you have mine.” Leary handed Tiano a business card with his cell phone number written on the back.

  Tiano opened the door and they headed into the hallway. He escorted Leary to the building’s exit and opened the door. A cold breeze swept in from the parking lot. “Good luck with your investigation,” Tiano said. “Bob and I weren’t friends exactly.”

  “Workaholics can be difficult to get close to.” Leary thought of Jessie Black.

  “Exactly. But I liked and respected him.”

  Leary braced himself for the cold. “Thanks for your help.”

  25

  Motion practice and pretrial hearings led to three straight days of jury selection. Arriving at home, Jessie could feel exhaustion dragging at every fiber of her being, and the actual trial had not even started yet. When she found the man waiting in front of the door to her apartment building, dressed in a long coat over jeans and a sweater, a suspiciously large duffel bag resting on the icy steps near his ankle, she was almost too weary to be surprised.

  “Jack,” she said.

  “How did
jury selection go?”

  Jessie stopped and stared at him. “Haven’t we done this already? You surprise me at my apartment, I tell you there can’t be anything between us, and you go home? Do we really need to do it again?”

  “This time it’s going to be slightly different,” he said. “I surprise you at your apartment, as a friend. An ashamed, apologetic friend, who knows he fucked up last time, and wants to make it right. The part about me going home still happens, but first we have a nice time. As friends.”

  She looked at the duffel bag, doubtful. “Really? Because it looks like you’re planning a sleepover.”

  A grin broke across his face and he lifted the duffel bag and shook it. She heard metal objects clang inside. “Pots and pans.”

  She fished her key from the pocket of her coat. “You brought a bag of kitchenware to my apartment?” Still smiling, he stepped out of her way as she fit the key in the lock. His mood was as infectious as it always seemed to be, and soon she was smiling with him. She looked down at his bag and wrinkled her nose in mock distaste. “Pots and pans—they make sort of a sexist gift, don’t you think?”

  Jack laughed. “I’m not giving them to you. They cost me a fortune at Williams-Sonoma.”

  Heat from the entryway greeted them when she opened the door. The surprise of Jack’s appearance was wearing off, and in its place, her exhaustion was returning. After spending a whole morning and afternoon in court questioning strangers and arguing with Goldhammer and Judge Spatt, she had been looking forward to collapsing in front of the TV. But if Jack had really come to atone for his previous romantic ambush and be her friend, she couldn’t just turn him away. Did he even have any other friends?

  He stepped across the threshold after her, waited patiently with his heavy bag as she checked her mail slot.

  “There’s food in here, too,” he said, hefting the bag. “Marinara sauce, cheese, chicken cutlets, some other stuff. The eggs I kept here.” He opened his coat, revealed a carton of six eggs protruding from the inside pocket. “For safe keeping.”