[Jessie Black 01.0] Burnout

by Larry A Winters

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  40

  The courtroom hushed as Kate Moscow took the stand. She settled into the wooden seat and leaned back, looking as comfortable in front of the packed courtroom as she would in her own office. Before she even spoke, the jurors leaned toward her, mesmerized. Her posture—spine as straight as a ruler, shoulders rolled back—might have made a different witness look arrogant or prissy, but it made Kate Moscow look regal. For the first time, Jessie became conscious of the purpose behind the traditional design of the courtroom. Without the added effect of his higher altitude—the judge’s bench rose a foot higher than any other seat in the room—Spatt would have looked small and insignificant next to her.

  “Stand and place your right hand on the Bible.”

  Moscow pressed her hand to the book and tilted her chin up.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  She looked toward the jurors, already establishing a bond with them, when she answered. “I do.”

  Goldhammer began his direct examination by establishing Moscow’s credentials for the benefit of the jury. He asked her about her education, beginning with her prestigious private high school—she graduated as valedictorian—and ending with her doctorate from Columbia University in New York. Next he elicited testimony about her experience as a professor and researcher, the journal articles and textbook she had authored, her memberships in professional organizations, and the awards she had received. By the time he had finished laying the foundation for her expert testimony, everyone in the courtroom was suitably impressed.

  Elliot would need to hammer home during cross that she was a hired gun, doing this not for justice, but for a sizable paycheck.

  “You said your specialty is memory,” Goldhammer said. “Seems like a simple thing. You see something, you remember it. How does one devote a whole career to its study?”

  She addressed her answer not to him, but to the jury. “First of all, memory is far from simple. No one knows for certain how it works, but scientists generally agree that memories are created by neurons forming connections in the brain. Long-term memories, which range from incidents that occurred as recently as a few minutes ago to experiences that happened fifty, sixty years in the past, are stored in these connections. In a lifetime, the brain can accumulate as many as a quadrillion—that’s one million billion—separate memory impressions. So no, I would not call memory a simple concept. One could devote several lifetimes to its study and only begin to understand it.”

  Goldhammer laughed sheepishly, playing the layman to Moscow’s expert, standing in for the jurors as the regular guy trying to understand the science. “Okay. But you claim to understand it.”

  “I have conducted research that has illuminated certain aspects of memory. Long-term memory as it relates to eyewitness identification, for example, is an aspect of memory that I understand very well. The point I was making is that many common assumptions about memory are based on oversimplifications and lack of knowledge.”

  “So let me ask you a hypothetical question. Assume a young woman watched a masked man stab her father to death. She then watched him rape and kill her mother. Finally, the man raped and stabbed the young woman, but she survived. During this ordeal, she had one small window of opportunity to see the man’s face. Perhaps ten seconds, perhaps as long as a minute. In your expert opinion, is it possible that this young woman could later identify the wrong man as her attacker?”

  “Not only possible,” Moscow said. “Likely.”

  “How can that be?” Goldhammer made a face at the jury. “We see someone, we remember. Especially someone hurting us.”

  Moscow shook her head. “That’s simply not the case. Contrary to popular belief, violent events actually decrease, rather than increase, memory accuracy. The relationship between stress and memory is known as the Yerkes-Dodson law. When a person is terrified, her ability to form memories stutters. It hiccups.”

  Several of the jurors were nodding, although Jessie suspected that more than a few of them were completely baffled by the testimony. The danger was that because Moscow was such an impressive figure, the jurors might simply let her do their thinking for them—a possibility Goldhammer was no doubt counting on.

  “Well,” he said, “if it’s so hard for people to form accurate memories in moments of trauma, why are some eyewitness-victims so confident about their identifications? Isn’t confidence a sign of accuracy?”

  “Absolutely not. My studies have proven that confidence has surprisingly little correlation with accuracy. People get attached to their memories, even when those memories are distorted or invented.”

  “Distorted or invented? Does that happen?”

  Moscow smiled patiently. “More often than you would think, Mr. Goldhammer. For example, in the case of an eyewitness-victim of a violent crime, a false identification may be caused by unconscious transference.”

  Goldhammer’s face scrunched as if he were hearing all of this information for the first time and struggling to comprehend it, just like the jurors were. Of course, this was an act—an attorney of Goldhammer’s caliber would not only have rehearsed this testimony with Moscow several times, but would also have acquainted himself with the studies of other leaders in her field, reading their papers, maybe even attending a lecture. Jessie had no doubt that by this point, Goldhammer could offer his own lecture on the subject. “Could you explain what you mean by that term?” he said.

  “Certainly.” Again, Moscow addressed the jury. Her tone was friendly but authoritative. “Unconscious transference describes an inaccurate identification caused when the brain substitutes one person—a person the witness saw in situation A—with a different person—seen in situation B. This phenomenon is commonly manifested in the form of photo-biased lineups.”

  “And what are those, Dr. Moscow?”

  “As part of the usual procedure followed by police investigating crimes involving an eyewitness, the first thing the police will do is show the witness a photo array,” she said. “Next, they take the witness to an in-person lineup. In almost every case, the photo array and the lineup have one man in common—the man whom the police suspect of the crime and hope the witness will identify. The problem is that, during the in-person lineup, the opportunity for unconscious transference is enormous. The witness recognizes one of the men and identifies him. But where does she recognize him from? The crime or the photo array? The problem is exacerbated by the fact that most people assume, when they are shown a lineup, that one of the men in the lineup must be guilty.”

  “Why would a victim assume that?”

  “Think about it. Why would the police show her these people if they did not believe one of them was her attacker? Instead of asking herself the proper question, which is Was one of these men my attacker?, the victim asks herself, Which one of these men was my attacker? And because she already assumes that one of the men is her attacker, she picks the one who most closely resembles him in her memory.”

  Goldhammer next lead Moscow through a series of questions concerning other factors that negatively affect eyewitness identifications. Moscow described an experiment on weapon focus conducted at Oklahoma State University. Forty-nine percent of the test subjects correctly identified a person who held a harmless object in his hand. When that object was replaced with a weapon, the number of correct identifications plummeted to only thirty-three percent.

  “Would a large knife have this effect?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Let’s return to my hypothetical.” He took a breath—a pause that alerted the jury that something important was about to happen. “Dr. Moscow, in your opinion, how reliable is the eyewitness identification that I described to you?”

  “The situation you described is fraught with factors negatively affecting memory. I would approach the identification as extremely dubious.”

  Goldhammer smiled.

  Elliot ros
e from his chair to begin his cross-examination, but Judge Spatt waved his hand. “I think I’ve had enough for one day. We’ll pick up again tomorrow morning with the Commonwealth’s cross-examination.”

  Jessie cursed silently. Now was the worst time to stop for the day, as the break would give the jurors a whole night to think about Moscow’s testimony before hearing the other side. But there was nothing she could do. The jurors were already filing out of their box, and Spatt was collecting his things.

  But there was a silver lining. The early break would give Elliot more time to write his brief, and it would give Jessie a chance to meet Leary’s surprise witness before the girl spoke to anyone else in the DA’s office.

  41

  Woody parked the Lexus in front of a convenience store. He was tempted to enter the store and buy a soda, but his better judgment cautioned against making an appearance on the store’s security camera, however innocent. So far he had remained in the background, practically invisible, and he preferred to keep it that way.

  He climbed out of the car, closed the door, locked it and engaged the alarm. The Pugh house was eleven blocks away, a long, cold walk. A wicked breeze slashed through his clothing, made his legs burn inside his jeans and chafed his ears. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat up to his chin. By the time he reached the house, he was freezing and questioning whether parking his car so far from the house had really been a necessary precaution.

  It was, he decided. This was a lucky break—learning about Rachel Pugh before she’d even been officially processed by the police department—but luck could be fickle. His brother’s life was proof of that. Woody expected to find the Pugh family alone, with no police protection, but he couldn’t be sure that Detective Leary had not sent an off-duty friend to the house as an off-the-books safety measure while the DA’s office decided how to handle her. He also couldn’t be sure that Jessie Black had not taken her own actions to ensure the girl’s security—though how she would have had time, he couldn’t imagine. When Woody had raced here from the courthouse, the Ice Princess had still been on the stand, and all of Jessie’s attention had been on her.

  All the same, he would have liked to peek through the windows to make sure no guards were in the house, and to see if either of the girl’s parents was home. But Andorra seemed like the kind of place that might have a neighborhood watch, and the chance that a nosy neighbor might witness him snooping made him sacrifice any extra information he might glean. If the girl’s parents were home, he would deal with them. Cops too, if it came to that. He hoped it wouldn’t.

  He rang the bell. After several seconds of silence, he heard footsteps pound down a staircase inside the house. He felt himself studied through the peephole and forced a friendly smile. He lifted a police detective ID—counterfeit but of high quality—and held it near his face. The badge reflected the late afternoon sunlight.

  The door opened.

  “Rachel Pugh?” he asked the girl in the doorway.

  She nodded but continued to block the entrance.

  “My name is Detective Butler. You can call me Woody.”

  “Where’s Detective Leary?”

  “He’s discussing your statement with the DA. He sent me here to ask you some follow-up questions.” Woody showed her his phone. “I’m going to call him in a few minutes. You can talk to him, if you’d like.”

  She tucked her long, brown hair behind her left shoulder, then stepped backward, inviting him into the house. He entered quickly and closed the door behind him. He did not hear anyone else in the house. Certainly if anyone from the DA’s office or police department were here, he would have been confronted by now. His luck was holding.

  “Are your parents home?”

  “Just my brother.”

  He nodded. That seemed strange—what kind of parents would leave their daughter home alone when they’d just learned she’d been a witness in a murder investigation?—but he didn’t have precious seconds to waste contemplating typical middle class stupidity.

  “Is there somewhere we can sit down?” As he followed her deeper into the house, he looked for signs of the brother. He had not had any time to get information on her family and had no idea if there was a harmless four-year-old or a hulking high school football player in the house. The latter could be a problem.

  He kept his eyes open for toys or trophies. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Tim.” She led him to the kitchen, gestured to a seat at the table. “You want anything? A soda?”

  “No thanks.” He could not afford to leave his fingerprints or saliva behind. “Where is Tim?”

  “In his crib upstairs. Sleeping for once, thank God.”

  An infant? Good, except that it meant the mother couldn’t be far. “I thought your mom would be home,” he said, trying to sound casual.

  Rachel Pugh shrugged. “She had a thing, won’t be home from work for another few hours. I have to stay here. I can’t go to the police station, because of Tim. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Sure, that’s fine. I just have a few questions.”

  She sat down across from him with a can of Diet Coke. She popped the tab, took a sip. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for you to call instead of driving all the way over here?”

  “You told Detective Leary that you saw Frank Ramsey near the Dillard house on the night of the murders, correct?”

  “Yeah, didn’t you read my statement? I saw him run out from behind the house. I saw his face when he ran under a street-lamp.”

  “I read the statement.” Woody nodded, giving this information a chance to settle in his mind. He had hoped to hear something different—something less incriminating—but in his gut he had known the moment he’d learned about her that killing her would probably be necessary. “What made you decide to come forward now?”

  For a moment, staring at her can of soda, she looked like she wished she hadn’t. “I guess I couldn’t live with the secret any longer.”

  Living with secrets was a survival skill. Too bad this girl would not survive long enough to learn that lesson.

  Upstairs, Tim began to cry.

  Rachel Pugh groaned. “Ugh. Do you mind waiting down here a second?” She pushed her chair back from the table and headed for the entryway, where stairs led to the second floor of the house. Woody waited at the table until he heard a stair creak under her weight. Then he stood up.

  The upper hallway was dark. Halfway between the landing and the room at the end of the hall, sunlight shone into the hallway through an open doorway, casting a happy glow against the otherwise gloomy carpet and wallpaper. Woody could hear the girl cooing to her brother, trying to calm him down. The baby had stopped crying and was now giggling and shrieking with delight.

  Could a child that young see and remember his face? He’d have to ask the Ice Princess when he got the chance. For now, he’d err on the safe side, and take care of the kid’s sister in a different room.

  “Shhhhh. Shhhhh. Go back to sleep, Timmy. Shhhhh.”

  Woody crept from the landing to the hallway. He retrieved a razor from his inside coat pocket. Pressing his back to the wall outside Tim’s bedroom, he waited, motionless, controlling his breathing.

  Finally, the kid shut up.

  He heard Rachel Pugh’s footsteps as the girl backed quietly out of the bedroom. When she entered the hallway, she was still walking backwards. Their eyes met immediately. A half-second later, her gaze shifted to the razor.

  “Don’t scream. You’ll wake up Timmy.”

  Because she looked inclined to scream anyway, he grabbed her with his free hand and rushed her down the hallway to the room at the end, closing the door behind them with the heel of his shoe. The door rattled in its frame. Tim started crying again.

  Woody grabbed the girl’s right hand and placed the razor, handle first, on her palm. She stared at it. The blade trembled.

  “Sit on the bed. Slit your wrists.”

  Her eyes, not comprehending, return
ed to his. “What?”

  “Sit on the bed. Slit your wrists.”

  “You’re not a cop.” She glanced at the door behind him as if she might try to get past him. Before she could do anything that would make his chore more difficult, he shoved her with his open hand. She stumbled backward. The backs of her legs touched the mattress and she sat down hard on the edge of the queen-size bed. He began to notice the rest of the room. Posters of male teens had been taped to the walls. Photos of groups of smiling girls had been tacked to a cork board over a small white desk. Makeup and cheap jewelry lay strewn across the top of a dresser. This was her room. Perfect.

  “I’ll tell them I didn’t see anything.”

  “Too late.”

  “Please, I swear. I won’t testify. I’ll tell them I made a mistake.”

  He glanced at the Hello Kitty clock on her nightstand. Her mother would be returning soon. “Deep, across the veins. Do it right the first time.”

  She was crying now. Her hands were shaking. Behind him, Tim was wailing. He realized his idea was not going to work. The girl was not going to do his job for him. He was going to have to do it himself.

  Woody had never killed a person before.

  Once, as a C.O. at Huntington, he had slammed a rowdy inmate’s head against a wall and cracked the man’s skull, causing a hemorrhage that resulted in his death an hour later, but that had been an accident.

  He did not want to kill her. He despised murderers.

  But he had no choice. He needed to do this. For Michael.

  She held the razor in front of her, trying to wield it in her own defense. Woody disarmed her. He replaced the razor in his coat pocket.

  “I swear to God!” She scrambled backward onto the bed, pressed herself against the headboard. “I’ll tell them I lied, for Kristen. I’ll explain!”

  Through the door, he heard Tim bawling.

  “It’s too late.”