The nurse’s nostrils flared. “George, please escort this man off the premises.”
George began to rise from his chair behind the desk. Before he could, a man emerged from a door behind him. He wore a white coat. Leary recognized him as Brian Schafer, Kristen’s doctor.
“Doctor, I need to see Kristen Dillard. Please take me to her.”
George and the nurse turned to Schafer with expressions of frustration. He waved a hand at them. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of this.”
“Fine with me.” The nurse stalked off. George went back to his newspaper.
The doctor led Leary through the door behind George’s desk. The brown carpet of the lobby continued down a dimly lit hallway. The doctor opened a door on their right.
“Dr. Schafer—“ Leary’s frustration mounted as Schafer took a seat behind his desk and gestured for Leary to sit as well. The office had no windows and smelled like old books. Cheap fluorescent lights hummed from the ceiling. “I really need to talk to Kristen Dillard now.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
Schafer hesitated, then said, “She was medicated. She had to be subdued.”
“What?”
He fiddled with a ballpoint pen on his ink blotter. “Kristen is not supposed to have access to the news, but there is a TV room she is allowed to use during certain times. Sometimes a show she is permitted to watch will be preempted by a news event. It’s difficult to control—”
“What happened?”
“I wasn’t present, but I’m told she saw a report of a young woman’s death—”
Leary cursed under his breath. “And?”
“She became upset,” Schafer said. “That can happen sometimes. She threw things, disturbed the other patients.”
“So you decided to drug her? There wasn’t a less extreme solution?”
The doctor shrugged. “Kristen has had violent episodes in the past, as you know. Usually directed toward herself. I believe these episodes are motivated by survivor’s guilt—subconsciously, she hates herself for not dying when—”
“I’m not interested in psychiatric diagnoses. She’s completely unconscious?”
“Dead to the world. If you return in the morning—”
Leary ran a hand through his damp hair. “Do you keep records of her phone calls? Her visitors?”
“Of course.”
“May I see them?”
Schafer sighed, walked to a file cabinet against the wall to his left, and opened one of the drawers. He removed a file, opened it on his desk. “May I ask what you’re looking for?”
“Contact with a person named Rachel Pugh.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.” He flipped through pages in the file, many of which consisted of handwritten notes. “No Pugh in her visitor log.” He flipped more pages, leaned closer to study another list. “Do you know the phone number this Pugh person would have called from?”
Leary pulled a pad from the pocket of his suit jacket, found Pugh’s number, and read it to him. “Check this one, too.” He read the doctor Rachel’s work number, the number she’d originally contacted him from.
“Nope. Neither one. What is this about, Detective? Perhaps if you were less cryptic, I could be of more assistance.”
“Is there any other way—” An idea struck him. “Kristen spent time at the DA’s office, preparing to take the stand. And then she went to the courthouse to offer her testimony.”
“Well, yes.”
“Does someone accompany her on these outings?”
“Of course. One of my interns, Susan McDavid.”
“Is she here now?”
Schafer frowned. He picked up his phone, dialed a number, and hung up. “I just paged her.”
Seconds later, there was a knock at the door. A young woman stepped into the room, looking nervous.
“Susan, this is Mark Leary of the Philadelphia Police Department.”
She smiled awkwardly. “Hi.”
Leary stood up, shook her hand. “You went with Kristen Dillard to the DA’s office and the courthouse?”
Susan nodded. “I drove her. I sat in the gallery when she took the stand.” The woman shuddered. “What a terrible story.”
“Did she ever leave your sight?”
“No. Not really.”
“What do you mean, not really?” Seeing the woman’s back straighten, Leary softened his tone. “I just need to know if it’s possible she met with someone during one of her trips.”
Susan’s eyes shifted to Schafer and she swallowed. “A few times, she asked for a moment alone. Outside.”
“You agreed?” Schafer’s face turned red.
“She was never out of my sight for more than five minutes. She always came right back.”
“Did you ever see her talking to another girl of about her age, with brown hair?”
Susan nodded. “Once. When I asked her about it, she told me they were childhood friends.”
Leary shook his head and laughed grimly.
Jessie was right. He’d been conned by a couple of teenage girls.
45
Kate Moscow returned to her seat behind the witness stand. If she felt any nervousness about her imminent cross-examination, she hid it completely behind her usual icy facade. When Elliot informed Judge Spatt that Jessie would question the witness, a bemused smile touched Moscow’s lips, as if she welcomed the news. Jessie suspected that she did. Although she had not mentioned it to Elliot the night before, Jessie believed that Moscow’s egotism included an overdeveloped competitiveness—directed especially toward other professional women. Their exchange outside had been Moscow’s attempt to intimidate her, to establish her superiority. This morning was a chance to do it again, but only if Jessie let her.
As Jessie rose from her seat at the prosecution table, she intended to make sure that did not happen.
Crossing an expert witness was not rocket science. There were traditional points of attack—bias, lack of qualifications, inadequate preparation, contradiction by other authorities. But knowing the strategies and employing them were two different skills. Francis Wellman had named his famous book The Art of Cross-Examination for a reason. Anyone could ask a witness questions. The artistry was in turning those questions into weapons.
“Good morning, Dr. Moscow.”
Moscow crossed her arms across her chest and presented a guarded smile. “Good morning.”
“In how many trials have you testified on the subject of memory?”
“This trial makes ninety-six.”
“Are you paid to testify?”
“Of course.” Moscow didn’t blink, though she surely knew where this line of questioning would lead. “My time is valuable. I’m compensated for my preparation, my travel expenses—”
“And your testimony.”
“Yes.” Her voice was confident and she sounded utterly sure of herself.
“How much are you being paid for your appearance at this trial?”
“Total? About thirty thousand dollars.”
Jessie tried not to let her surprise show, but the truth was most experts hemmed and hawed at this point, unwilling to give a direct answer to the question. Moscow was so arrogant she actually smiled at the jury when she said the number. But Jessie did not see any of them smile back. “Thirty thousand dollars for two days of testimony,” she said. “That’s a lot of money.” Several jurors nodded. Good.
Moscow’s gaze was on the jury as well. Her poise did not slip, but she said, “As I mentioned, that number includes travel—”
“You traveled from Manhattan, correct?” Jessie cut off her retreat.
“Yes. I am a professor at NYU—”
“How did you travel here? By car?”
“I took the train.”
“Amtrak?”
“Yes.”
“How much did the train tickets cost?”
Goldhammer rose from his chair. “Is this relevant, Your Honor?”
“Goes t
o bias,” Jessie said.
Spatt twirled his hand, urging Moscow to answer the question.
“A round trip fare on the Acela is about two-hundred dollars,” Moscow said.
“And you’re staying at a hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Is that part of your travel expenses?”
Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but still she maintained her composure. “I understand where you’re going with this, so I’ll save us all some time. My travel expenses are not a significant portion of my overall fees.”
“So the cost of your preparation and testimony is about thirty thousand, give or take a thousand or so in expenses.”
“Yes.”
“You have expensive opinions, Dr. Moscow.”
“I’m the best in my field.”
“That field is the science of memory?”
“Yes.”
“In your ninety-six trials, did you ever testify for the prosecution?”
“No.”
“So you are always hired by the defense?”
“Yes.”
“Did you always charge the same amount for your testimony?”
“No. The amount has varied.”
“It’s increased, correct?”
Moscow paused. Her eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“In fact, every time your testimony results in a criminal defendant’s acquittal, your services become more valuable, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained,” Spatt said. “You’re straying a little far from the path, aren’t you, Ms. Black?”
“I withdraw the question, Your Honor. Dr. Moscow, would you agree that psychology is an inexact science about which reasonable professionals might disagree?”
Her pleasant expression broke. “Psychology is no less exact than any other science.” Finally, it seemed that Jessie had hit a nerve.
“So you do not agree?”
“No.”
Jessie walked to the prosecution table, retrieved a thick, leather bound book, and placed it on the witness stand in front of Moscow. Moscow’s eyes narrowed as she studied the cover. “You do not agree with Alan Wahl, M.D., PhD, who calls psychology a science of fraud, a fusion of manipulation and imagination, and identifies it as one of the most dangerous developments of the twentieth century?”
“Wahl was writing about psychotherapy, not psychology in general.”
“Shall I read you the exact quote?”
Moscow answered her through gritted teeth, knowing the distinction would be meaningless to the jury. “No.”
“In your opinion, psychology is as exact a science as, say, chemistry, correct?”
“Mine is.”
“Because you’re the best in your field.”
“Yes.”
Jessie took Wahl’s book and returned it to the table. With his hand near the edge of the table, Elliot flashed her a surreptitious thumbs-up. She couldn’t risk smiling with the jury’s eyes on her. She picked up some papers—the transcript of Moscow’s direct testimony—and returned to the center of the courtroom. A glance at the jurors confirmed what she had guessed. She had their full attention.
“Dr. Moscow, yesterday, when you explained the concept of memory to the jury, you spoke about neurons and connections in the brain. Is it accurate to say that in the field of psychology there is general agreement about that theory?”
Moscow shifted in her chair. “There are multiple theories, actually.”
“So the experts in your field don’t agree about how memory works?”
“As I said—”
“Are there psychologists who disagree with your explanation of memory?”
“It’s not my explanation—”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, there are some psychologists who disagree with other parts of your testimony as well, aren’t there? Psychologists who do not subscribe to your negative opinion of eyewitness identification?”
“There are some. Not many.”
“Is Daniel Erlinger one of them?”
“Daniel has criticized my work, yes, but—”
“Isn’t Dr. Erlinger a professor of psychology at Harvard University?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well-respected in his field?”
“I suppose—”
“You suppose? I was under the impression that Daniel Erlinger was considered one of the foremost experts on repressed memory in the world.”
“Some consider him that.”
“Do you?”
“Daniel and I have our differences of opinion.”
“And your opinion is all that you offered during your testimony, correct? Not an unbiased, objective overview of the multiple theories that you now admit exist?”
“I shared with the jury what I believe is the correct theory.”
Jessie returned again to the prosecution table. This time she exchanged the transcript of Moscow’s testimony for the transcript of the testimony of Kristen Dillard.
“Dr. Moscow, during your direct testimony, you described in some detail your theory of unconscious transference. Can you tell the jury, as you sit there, exactly what parts of Kristen Dillard’s testimony described real memories, and what parts were, as you said, distorted or invented memories?”
“I—”
Jessie dropped the transcript in front of her. “Feel free to look over the transcript. I’ll give you a few minutes, if you’d like.”
“Ms. Dillard’s memory of her attacker’s face may have been altered during her encounters with the police—”
“Yes, I understand what may have happened, Doctor. I’m asking if you can point out to me, in your capacity as an expert, exactly which parts of Kristen’s memory are distorted or invented?”
Moscow flipped through the transcript. Jessie had intentionally printed the pages in a shrunken font. Before Moscow could focus on any one line, Jessie said, “I’m asking you a yes or no question. Can you tell me which parts are real and which are not?”
Moscow held up the transcript. “Based on this?”
“Well, have you ever met with Kristen Dillard in person?”
“No.”
“You’ve never talked to her, questioned her on her memories, explored the night of the attack with her?”
“No.”
Jessie took the transcript from her. Instead of marking it, she had memorized the locations of the passages she needed. Now, speaking clearly and loudly for the jury, she read one. “He threw me on the bed. He yanked my pants down and turned me on my stomach. Is that memory real, distorted, or invented?”
Moscow shook her head. Jessie was fairly sure, based on her reading of past trial transcripts, that no one had taken this tact with her before. It was risky—there was a chance that she could answer that the memory was distorted—but Jessie felt she could take the risk here. She believed that Kristen’s testimony had been so compelling that the jurors would reject a direct assault on her specific words. Moscow seemed to sense this, too. For once, the expert did not have an answer prepared. “You can’t just read random—”
“Real, distorted, or invented?”
“I don’t know.”
“I saw him from behind and to the side. I saw his hair, his right ear, both of his eyes. I got a very good look at him. Real, distorted, or invented?”
“That memory may have been distorted.”
“I know that it may have been. I’m asking if you can tell me whether or not it was?”
“No, I can’t tell you for certain.”
“In other words, you are in no stronger a position than the jury to assess the credibility of Kristen Dillard’s testimony, are you?”
Kate Moscow opened her mouth to answer. No words came out. Apparently, she no longer knew what to say.
Goldhammer jumped up in her defense. “Objection!” He spread his hands, pasted an incredulous look on his puffy face. “This line of questioning is argumentative, it’s badgering, it call
s for a legal conclusion, it’s improper impeachment, it’s inflammatory—”
Spatt began to laugh. He covered his mouth. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”
“Your Honor—”
“That’s alright,” Jessie said. “I’m finished.” She smiled at Moscow, who glared back at her with barely concealed rage. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Moscow.”
Goldhammer shuffled through papers at the defense table. Ramsey leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Goldhammer shook his head, patted his client’s arm. He looked calm, but Jessie could read the defense attorney well enough by now to see some panic under the surface.
“That,” Elliot whispered when she sat down, “was awesome.”
46
The deputy medical examiner lifted the sheet from the girl’s body, and then paused, noticing Leary’s discomfort. “Sorry, Detective.”
“No.” Leary pulled the sheet back, forced himself to look. The refrigerated body barely resembled the girl he had met at Starbucks the day before. He covered his mouth with his hand, not remembering that he was wearing gloves. The smell of the Latex surprised him and he gagged. Dr. Martin put a hand on his arm, concerned. Leary shrugged him off. “I’m okay, Tim.”
“This isn’t the first body you and I have looked at together. What’s wrong?”
Leary grimaced. It was true that he and Martin had spent countless hours together staring at bodies in this morgue, but Leary had never gotten used to the odors, the chill. Tiles covered the floor and ran halfway up the walls to facilitate the cleaning of various bodily fluids. Stainless steel tables and operating room sinks gleamed under the overhead lights. There were no windows—the morgue and adjacent autopsy room were located in the basement, ignored by the patients, doctors, and most of the staff of the hospital above them. The room reeked of chemicals and human remains, and made him uneasy.
“Just tell me if I was right.”
Martin clucked, an annoying habit he had, and traced Rachel Pugh’s bruised throat with a gloved finger. “You were. Manner of death was definitely homicide.”
Leary felt his guts twist.
“Cause of death was a transected spinal cord,” Martin said. “The killer broke her neck.”
“I thought she was thrown down the stairs.”
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