Due Justice
Page 17
Those failed searches had been excessive. Whatever the guy hoped to find must be either a paper document or computer data. Otherwise, each search was way too through.
And whatever he was searching for hadn’t been found.
He’d kill Carly, but until he found what he wanted. I hoped.
I needed a fresh approach.
Spent the evening pouring over the court file in the Jones v. General Medics case. Complaint, answer and other papers yielded nothing. Expert deposition transcripts were dry as flour.
One surprise: Dr. Morgan was listed as a witness for Grover’s side.
Scoured the file, but Dr. Morgan’s deposition transcript wasn’t there. We don’t lose things once they’re placed in our court files. So where was it?
There were several notices scheduling his testimony, but no proof that the deposition had taken place or the transcript filed. Odd.
Dr. Morgan had been named as an expert early in the case. The notices for his deposition were repeatedly filed as the case continued plodding forward on the docket. Decidedly odd. Too much paper for too little result.
The last notice scheduled his deposition two days before he died. Odder still.
“Okay, Willa,” I said aloud. “Think this through.”
My grandmother taught me that talking to oneself was not a sign of insanity, as long as we don’t answer. So I guess I’m insane.
I replied, “Only two choices, right? Either Morgan testified two days before he died and explained his theories, in which case why kill him? Or, he was never deposed. And, in that case, how did Grover explain the failure to produce him? Why didn’t O’Connell filed a motion to strike his name from the list if he couldn’t be produced for deposition?”
This time, I had no answers. Just questions. As well as a sore back and tired eyes.
I stood and stretched like Harry and Bess do every time they get up. Tried the downward dog, which I’ve never been as good at as they are, but it gets the kinks out. They do a whole-body-shake afterward, but there I draw the line.
Needed to move.
Trotted to the courthouse library to get the kinks out of my legs.
Using the online computer services so kindly supported by our tax dollars, I pulled up all of the newspaper articles relating to breast implants in the past five years. The computer listed 1,765 articles. Too many to read quickly.
Narrowed the date range. Articles published after the largest manufacturer’s bankruptcy and before Dr. Morgan died. 432. Still, too many to read closely.
Excluded articles about the bankruptcy. Risky. Produced 142 articles. Better.
Reprinted in the local papers were stories from The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post and the major wire services. Printed the list.
After eliminating the duplicates, sixty-eight recent newspaper articles remained.
Sent all of them to the printer, leaned back, propped my feet on the desk, and read each one as they rolled slow and hot off the laser.
Some articles simply weren’t helpful. They covered individual cases or ongoing medical studies. I scanned them quickly and moved them to one side.
None dealt with MedPro. Somewhat surprising since it was a small but significant player in the local and national market.
Only a few concerned Dr. Morgan and his death. Three were obituaries.
I rubbed the back of my neck and looked at my watch. It was 11:30. No wonder I was exhausted. I signed off the computer, gathered my research, returned to chambers and called my husband.
“Yes, I’m sure I haven’t been abducted by aliens,” I responded to his testy question. He disconnected. “Unfortunately,” I whispered into the empty air.
Less than fifteen minutes later, home, dogs greeted, husband placated.
George handed me a Sapphire and tonic with a twist. He brought a small Glen Fiddich and joined me in the den.
I sprawled out, feet up, held the frosty glass against my forehead while I relayed the day’s events. George paced. Harry and Bess were unconcerned.
He didn’t approve of my plan.
Nor had I expected he would.
We argued a while.
George thought it was Ben Hathaway’s job to catch killers, not mine.
Ordinarily, I agreed. I’m liberal enough to believe that some innocent people are wrongfully convicted, although the odds are overwhelmingly against it.
This was Carly, though. I had to be certain Hathaway caught the right killer.
George said Hathaway could handle it; I wasn’t willing to take the risk.
Minds were not changed by increasing the argument’s heat.
“I give up,” George said, throwing both hands in the air for emphasis. Harry and Bess followed him into the bedroom. Before he closed the door, he said, “Don’t stay up all night.”
“Love you,” I replied, but I doubt he heard.
Mixed another drink; pulled the newspaper articles out again and set to work.
By 3:00 a.m., I had sorted, diagramed, and thoroughly digested each. Made pages of notes on a fresh yellow pad. Compared them to my other facts.
So what?
Gin, effort, exhaustion, and the late hour pulled my eyelids toward closure. I pinched both eyes open and held them open by thumb and forefinger above and below. Eyeballs dry. Gritty.
Ran the facts through my head while staring at my tiny notes. Tried to find connections. Failed. Again. Again. Again.
“The hell with it,” I said. Time to give up. I was getting nowhere. Again.
Trudged wearily to bed. Tossed and turned and thought about what I’d read. Bedside clock glowed brilliantly; 5:30 a.m. before my brain simply shut down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Tampa, Florida
Friday 7:00 a.m.
January 22, 1999
WHEN THE ALARM WENT off at 7:00, I cursed my promise to keep Grover’s case moving quickly. Promise in haste, repent at leisure, I guess.
We began trial again promptly at 9:00.
Grover looked like he had spent a later night than I had. O’Connell and his associate didn’t look well-rested either.
I remembered too well the years I’d spent preparing long into the night for trials, and attributed the defense team’s weariness to that preparation.
Grover’s ego would never have allowed all-night grunt work. What was his excuse?
Throughout the morning, I found myself studying him, seeking evidence of stress or mental strain caused by anticipation of his arrest for murder. Saw none, unfortunately.
The afternoon session was filled with video depositions, always a boring part of any trial. Rulings were made in advance to avoid interruptions. Lights lowered, courtroom quiet, testimony long and complicated. Always a lethal combination if the goal was to keep the jury awake.
Plaintiffs’ national experts; doctors making a killing by testifying around the country in breast implant cases. It was rumored that some of them charged as much as $25,000 just to review a patient’s medical records, $10,000 for a deposition and $50,000 to testify in court, which they would rarely consent to do.
One of last night’s articles said that many experts made a more prosperous living as professional witnesses than they’d ever earned practicing medicine. The legitimate medical community was appalled, of course, but the experts were doing nothing illegal, or even novel. As Sheldon Warwick had said at George’s party, product liability lawsuits were a growth business.
This afternoon’s witnesses were experts on the surgical techniques for implanting and explanting the breast prostheses. Their testimony consisted of diagrams and charts and videos of actual surgeries, which left most of us squeamish.
I nodded off a couple of times. Maybe no one noticed. I’m fairly sure I didn’t snore. But I sat up straighter in my chair and tried to pay attention. It wasn’t easy.
Grover’s final video of the day was the deposition testimony of an expert immunologist, a doctor specializing in the human immune s
ystem.
Grover questioned him for almost an hour before he reached the finish line. “Implants cause the immune system of an implanted woman to turn on itself and destroy her own cells? Is that what happens?”
The doctor said, “It’s like AIDS. Debilitating. Progressive. Degenerative.”
Grover said, “And like AIDS, doctor, breast implants kill?”
The doctor said, “Absolutely.”
Worthington glowered at the testimony in the dark because we already knew his cross examination didn’t dent the doctor’s confidence.
The videos finally ended. The jury seemed more sleepy and bewildered than impressed.
I dismissed the jury and then the parties and returned to my chambers at 4:35, hoping to sneak out before the CJ arrived for the meeting he’d insisted my secretary put on the calendar.
Like a high school principal, he had been the victim of this dodge before; he’d arrived early and waited. I pretended to be pleasantly surprised to see him; he feigned joy at the prospect; he entered my chambers.
Before I joined him, I raised my voice and said, “Hold my calls, Margaret,” which was our code for “come in and rescue me in ten minutes.”
CJ said, “Wilhelmina, you know I think the world of you and your husband.”
He knew, and I knew, he thought no such thing and, even if he did, what was the point? I smiled and nodded and waited for the punch line.
“Wilhelmina, I’m concerned about you. You were absent last week after you were, as I understand it, attacked by a mugger. Today, you look exhausted. You have some control over your schedule. You need to pace yourself.” He sounded genuine, but that tic at the corner of his left eye proved the effort stressed him out some.
Nice backhanded way to say I looked like hell.
Quite sure we hadn’t gotten to the point of his visit yet, I said, “I appreciate your concern, Oz.”
CJ cleared his throat and finally spit it out, like a wad of phlegm.
“I’ve been asked to tell you that your conduct is being perceived, by some, as well, not what we’d hoped for.” Another throat clearing thing. “It’s true you have a lifetime appointment, but you can be, uh, impeached.”
My temperature shot up ten degrees. Nostrils flared.
He noticed. Rushed on. “It doesn’t happen often, but it has happened before.”
Hard words, “I see.”
CJ’s voice squeaked, like the wad of phlegm had settled against his vocal cords and pressed his wind. “I suggest you leave the homicide investigations to Ben Hathaway, particularly when the deceased is someone as disreputable as Michael Morgan.”
He could barely eek out the name. Swallowed. Sweat dotted his forehead.
Now, he had my full attention. My ears burned like hotspots. Eyes narrowed. Brows dipped toward my nose. Fists clinched under the desk where CJ couldn’t see them; where I couldn’t use them to throttle the little shit.
He stood as if about to bolt. “I doubt there’s a person worth knowing in Tampa who’s sorry to see Morgan dead. You want to be careful who you make your enemies, Willa. People in this town have long memories.”
My breaths slammed full and hurt my chest. Fists opened, closed; again, harder. I might actually do something here I’d regret later. Grace under pressure, Wilhelmina. Mom’s voice played in my head, but it didn’t lower my temperature.
Ever since I’d mistakenly taken his parking place my first day on the job, the revered first spot next to the door reserved for the Big Guy, the CJ, Oz himself, he’d been on my case. His reaction was more than a little bit strange for such a minor infraction. He gave me the worst case assignments, the smallest chambers, the most meager courtroom redecorating budget possible. At meetings, he ignored my suggestions and just generally made it known, without saying so, that I was far from his favorite. Okay. I’d come to actually treasure all of that because it meant he left me alone.
But this was the first time he’d ever said anything overtly threatening to me. It was so out of character, so inappropriate and so unjudicial, that I wasn’t totally sure I’d heard him correctly. I was tired. I was stressed. My visceral response seemed extreme. Could I have misunderstood?
“Are you threatening me, CJ? And if you are, are you threatening me or is this a message from someone else?” I asked him coldly.
He’d reached the door. Had his hand on the knob. But he watched me like a sniper. “Don’t take that tone with me, Wilhelmina. I’m trying to give you some good advice. If you don’t want to take it, the risk is yours.”
He slammed the door on his way out. Hard enough to knock one of the ancient framed photographs off the wall. It hit the floor, landed on a weak corner, and burst apart, sending glass shards everywhere.
Too bad it wasn’t the little dweeb’s head that shattered.
Margret rushed in. The alarm on her face was almost comical. “What happened?”
“Old glass, I guess. Do we have a broom? I’ll take care of it,” I said.
She replied, “That’s ridiculous. Go get coffee. Leave it to me.”
When I returned, all traces of the broken glass were gone. The spot where the old photo once hung showed the most god-awful green blank spot. The thing was almost as big as CJ. If it had landed on his head, he might literally have shattered, just as I’d wished.
The silly thought cheered me up. Along with the Cuban Coffee, good cheer cleared my head. But the situation was as murky as ever.
“Why did CJ give me that warning?” I asked myself aloud.
Heeding Grandma’s warning about answers, I skipped speculation and went right ahead with questions.
“Does he think I’ve disgraced his precious court? Does he hold me somehow responsible for Junior’s recent loss of face? Does someone who once contributed heavily to his reelection campaigns ask him for the favor?”
He has aspirations to higher office. Maybe it’s a black mark against him if he can’t keep his junior justices in line, and he won’t be considered for the Court of Appeals?
If so, that would be most unfortunate.
The only chance I had of getting rid of him was the Peter Principle: get him kicked upstairs.
It was quite a while before I figured out the real reason for his warning, and it was I who had to be hit over the head with it even then.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tampa, Florida
Friday 5:30 p.m.
January 22, 1999
A FINE SNIT IS a terrible thing to waste.
I picked up the telephone and called Ben Hathaway.
He was as cool to me as I was to him. I asked him what news he had of Carly and he told me that an ongoing police investigation was none of my business.
“If you want me to keep out of it, you’ll tell me what you found, if you found anything,” I snapped back.
“You’ll keep out of it if I tell you to keep out of it, federal judge or not!” and he slammed down the phone.
I slammed down my receiver immediately afterwards. What a shame he couldn’t hear it.
Now what?
“Go home, Willa. You’re exhausted. You’re fighting with everyone. That’s not like you. Go home.”
My face frowned quickly of its own accord. Grandma never said whether it was insane to answer questions never asked aloud. Yet the truth was obvious not only to CJ. As much as it pained me to agree with him on anything, I was exhausted.
On the way home, I concluded Hathaway must have nothing to report. If he’d found Carly or knew where she was, he would have been only too happy to tell me.
In fact, she’d be in custody if he’d found her.
Small comfort. I’d grown weary of not knowing what the hell was going on.
I wasn’t conscious of it, but somehow, Greta decided it would be a good idea to drive by Michael Morgan’s house instead of going immediately home. I found myself driving west on Kennedy to Westshore, turning south and into the Beach Park subdivision, scouting the address imprinted on my memory.
Like me, Morgan’s killer must have been cursing his luck; like so many homes in Florida, Morgan’s had no attached garage. The west side of the house was exposed and visible.
Anyone could have seen a black car in the driveway, just as the witness told the police.
Greta pulled up the length of the driveway to the back of the carport. No matter. Exposed and visible.
Tried the side entry door; discovered it unlocked.
It took me about two seconds to decide.
Greta is distinctive, and someone would notice. But I was already here and Morgan was already dead and I was already obstructing justice as well as in trouble with the CJ.
What more could I risk?
So I went in through the side door.
Opened directly into the kitchen. I ducked under the crime lab’s yellow plastic tape to enter.
Morgan’s kitchen held an oak drop-leaf table set parallel to the door, maybe forty-two inches round when the leaves were up, and two matching oak chairs. Splattered blood and grey matter marred the wall behind the chair facing the door. The chair was snugged against the wall now and from the mess, seemed to have been in that position at the time of death.
The opposite chair, closest to the door, was tucked close to the table. Unoccupied at the time of the murder? Or replaced afterward?
Had the killer stood right inside this side door and pulled the trigger?
Or had they been seated across from each other at the table when he did it?
No doubt blood spatter experts would determine the answer. But my experience said it could have gone either way.
The door jamb didn’t appear tampered or damaged. Nor did the door. Locks not forced either open or closed, I’d say. Black fingerprinting dust all over the knob now, but not before the murder. No obvious finger prints lifted. The killer wore gloves? Suggested premeditation. Or maybe wiped in cleanup if the murder had been more spontaneous?
The dining room stood north of the kitchen and contained formal furniture. Chair seats had been slashed, but the china cabinet seemed undamaged. Doors open, but dishes remained in place. Had the room and its contents been dusted for prints? Had the evidence vacuum been run over the floors? Nothing seemed particularly clean. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if the Tampa police had an evidence vacuum.