Blood in the Lake

by Anne L. Simon

  “Ah, yes. Green’s Word Memory.” A drip of sarcasm. “Even if the defendant was cooperative and forthcoming, was he necessarily accurate? He reported on events occurring many months ago, correct? Events occurring when he was, as you say, seriously impaired.”

  Tom had checked off all the bullet points I had noted for him to use.

  “I do a great deal of interviewing in my scientific work. I believe Mr. Richard had accurate recall.”

  “You believe.” Tom allowed another hint of sarcasm into his response, but just a hint. He knew Judge Bonin had no use for theatrics. From anyone but himself, that is.

  “In your report, Doctor, you state that the defendant was probably first exposed to alcohol in utero, then consumed alcohol starting at age eight, and consumed alcohol for substantial periods of time throughout his life. How did you come by this information, sir?”

  “The information was provided to me by the defendant and by his attorney.”

  “Were you able to verify the information from any direct or impartial sources?”

  “No sir. I was not.”

  “Not even from his family?”

  “No. I did not have the benefit of talking with his family. I understand his mother is not competent and his sister—well, I guess you need to ask Ms. Bernard about her client’s sister. Let me just say I have not spoken with her.”

  “How about from friends? From records of hospitalizations, alcohol or drug treatment?”

  Tom came up with that question. I hadn’t thought of it.

  “No, sir.”

  “Let me ask you this. You have just told me the only information you have about the defendant’s drug use comes from him or his attorney. Does any of this information indicate to you that someone forced the defendant to drink alcohol at the time of the events in question?”

  “No, sir.”

  “To sniff cocaine?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So, he chose to drink and he chose to take drugs. Right?”

  “Not entirely. When he drank at an early age, he was no doubt influenced by his environment. And once he used alcohol as a coping mechanism, the use of alcohol and of illegal drugs increased.”

  “Should we perhaps say if he used alcohol at an early age, since we have no independent verification of that information?”

  The doctor smiled at this reply. “Perhaps, sir.”

  A glance at the judge’s relaxed expression told me Tom was pulling this off. He was good. I felt pride just being with him.

  “If you are able to do so in a few words, Doctor, could you tell me the opinion on this subject you believe would be valuable for the jury to hear—the opinion you plan to give at trial.”

  Dr. Martino took a deep breath. To have any chance of being accepted by Judge Bonin, his opinion needed to be concise yet clear. Could Dr. Martino do that?

  “It is my opinion the defendant suffered from an addiction to alcohol and cocaine. Chronic cocaine use produces marked violence, impulsivity, unpredictability, and grossly impaired judgment. Addiction is a chronic relapsing disorder characterized by compulsive intake followed by loss of control and impairment in social and occupational function. Mr. Richard’s addictions had advanced to severe dependence. Chronic use of alcohol and drugs in combination produce the substance of which I spoke earlier, cocaethylene, and this substance causes additional impairment.”

  Tom smiled. Too long.

  “We are in Iberia Parish, in south Louisiana, doctor. Do you think the good jurors of this parish do not know the effects of alcohol and drug use? That they need an expert on the subject?”

  Judge Bonin didn’t bother to hide his smile, and I couldn’t hide mine. Sarah’s out-of-state expert had just been home-towned.

  “I do not believe the average lay person knows the seriousness of the effects of alcohol and drug dependence, nor of the additional effects of the drugs in combination.”

  Still absorbing the humor in Tom’s remark, the judge wasn’t paying attention. Tom went into summary and conclusion.

  “Dr. Martino, based upon unverified facts and no medical training, it is your opinion that Remuald Richard’s use of alcohol and cocaine, which was not forced on him by anyone, caused a severe and grossly abnormal behavioral state that should mitigate or lessen his responsibility for the crime he committed. Is that your opinion?”

  “No, sir. I know only in extreme cases does alcohol and drug abuse affect criminal intent. This is not one of those cases. My opinion is to be presented in the mitigation phase of a trial.”

  “Ah, I see. So, what you’re saying is that because the defendant used alcohol and drugs, the jurors should cut him some slack?”

  Sarah Bernard sprang to her feet.

  “I have been very patient, your honor. I understand Mr. Barnett’s duty to probe the qualifications of Dr. Martino, but the prosecutor has now strayed into disagreeing with his opinion. The weight of the opinion will be for the jury to determine.”

  “Your honor,” Tom responded, “Daubert tells us that someone who gives an opinion to the jury needs more than an education in his field. Daubert requires the court to keep from the jury an expert opinion if the expert had insufficient facts on which to base his opinion, or if the expert has misapplied the facts. I submit that a pharmacologist may be qualified to discuss the effect of each drug, but not a new compound formed by the two in combination—a compound not yet tested by reliable scientific methods subject to peer review. I submit further that the doctor’s opinion is based on insufficient, tainted, self-serving facts coming only from the defendant himself.”

  Judge Bonin leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers.

  “Counselors, I have read Dr. Martino’s vita as well as his reports, and your briefs, which are both excellent, by the way. I have heard your examination and cross-examination. I am prepared to rule.” He took a sip of water from the paper cup at his right hand. “I will exclude from the jury the testimony of Dr. Martino. I will prepare written reasons for my ruling if the defense requests. We will now be in recess.” The judge smiled. “No, after a full day of these motions, I am ready for adjournment.” He turned and left the courtroom through the back door.

  “Good job, Tom,” I whispered. I turned and saw Mr. Strait stand up in the back row. He raised his thumb to Tom.

  “You nailed the weakness, Mandy. All the facts on which this doctor based his opinion came from the defendant himself. I’d say we’re a pretty good team.”

  Once again, the compliment and the smile gave me a flush. At the other counsel table, defeat had drained the usual animation from Sarah’s face. She even looked close to her age.

  “Family meeting next, Mandy. Let’s go give them an update on today’s events.”

  “No, Tom. Not me. I’ll leave you to handle my family.”

  “Mandy, right now is my chance to get Sarah to consider a deal. She has a social worker and a psychologist, but she’s seen her best expert witness go down the drain. It’s too late to find another. And she has no one to cry for the jurors. If I had a green light, I could explore—”

  I may have been in the middle of a swoon over this guy but I still had some reason left.

  “No, Tom.”

  “Please?”

  This time his smile didn’t work.

  “No. You know what I think. Your mission with my family is doomed. There’s no way Ti Pierre will go for less than the death penalty, and Bub and Mazie will be with him. Even ‘Tienne and J. Allen, who probably wouldn’t vote for death if they were on a jury, will want to leave the decision to those twelve good citizens of the parish. Mom, Aunt Tut and Dora will stand alone. You’re just going to tick everybody off.”

  And tick me off, as well. Didn’t Tom see he was asking me to get in the middle? I stood up, ready to head out before I had a chance to say anything I might regret.

  “I’ll be having dinner with Mom and Dad tonight.”

  Tom put his hand on my arm. “Easy there. I’ll be only a half hour o
r so. I know there’s little chance they’ll go for the plea, but I have to try, and I have to leave the door open in case they change their minds once the trial begins. Wait for me in the office. Please.”

  I did. The whole time fuming at myself for being spineless. Was I losing my principles because of my feelings? Damn.

  A half hour later, Tom came back.

  “You called it, Mandy. Your Mom made her pitch. Your Aunt Tut and Dora joined her. Dora is afraid down the road it might turn out Remmy was innocent. I assured them we know for sure he’s guilty, but I didn’t want to argue against myself by calling him a monster. Then came Ti Pierre, and I was cooked. Your uncles went with him.” Tom packed his papers into the big red file. “Full speed ahead. No turning aside.”

  My cell phone jangled. The display read MOM.

  “Mandy.” Mom had her high squeaky voice again, the one she gets under stress. I felt a stab in my gut. “Get on home as soon as you can.”

  “What is it, Mom?”

  I could barely hear her answer. “Taddy thinks he saw the man watching him.”

  Mom stopped talking, her words stuck in her throat.

  Cousin Dud

  “TOM.” MY VOICE was as thin as my mom’s. “Taddy saw the man...”

  Tom read my distress. He dropped his papers on the desk and pulled his car keys out of his pocket. “Come on. I’m driving you home. I’ll call the sheriff’s office on the way.”

  He took my arm, transmitting to me the strength I needed to walk to the back stairs and down to the parking lot. His touch erased the worries about our relationship that had plagued me for the last hour. Dad was already home when we got there. Detective Aymond and FBI Agent Robert Taylor pulled up ten minutes later.

  “But where’s Detective Washington?” Mom asked. She figured they’d be questioning Taddy and knew he felt more comfortable talking to Deuce.

  “Out of town for a few days, ma’am.” A crisp response from Agent Taylor.

  “‘On leave’ is what’s written on the board,” said Detective Buddy Aymond with a knowing look I couldn’t interpret. I never knew what that guy was thinking.

  Tom had dialed Deuce’s direct number right after he called dispatch, but his call had gone straight to voicemail. Out of the office for two weeks. If you need immediate assistance, contact the sheriff’s switchboard.

  My best guess? As good as his word, Deuce had turned his attention to cracking the case of his informant’s death, to the exclusion of everything else. On leave meant Sheriff Landry had not agreed to let Deuce pursue the investigation on company time. A Lafayette case, he probably said. Deuce was out there walking the wire without a net.

  “You’ll tell Deuce about this development, right?” I asked Buddy. “This is important.”

  I didn’t want to say in front of Mom what I now believed: the two cases—the death of PawPaw and that of the informant—were connected.

  “Already done, Mandy.”

  I’d called it correctly. Deuce was on his own time, but Buddy had stayed on the home-front to keep preparations for the trial of Remmy Richard simmering. Deuce and Buddy may not have been physically together on these assignments, but they were in contact and in tune. Since the guy who killed his informant had threatened Taddy, I liked having Deuce on my priority.

  Agent Taylor spoke to my parents with a cool professional tone. Additional manpower had been assigned to keep Taddy in sight. A dragnet for the man had been set up in the neighboring parishes. Not totally reassuring. His quick glance to Buddy Aymond betrayed his concern; he no longer believed Taddy to be safe.

  Taddy tried to give Agent Taylor a slightly better description of his stalker, but all he could add to his prior report was clothing: jeans and a dark ball cap.

  With the looks and gestures a family develops over the years, I let my Dad know I had something I wanted to discuss with Agent Taylor and Buddy without my little brother in the room. I think Dad told Taddy he needed a hand for a chore, but I don’t quite remember. When the pair vanished into the kitchen, Mom had the first question for Agent Taylor.

  “Tell, me, are you going to question Taddy some more? Please say no.”

  “Not today, ma’am.”

  “Thank God.”

  Agent Taylor had picked up the family signals. He turned to me and asked if I had something on my mind.

  “I haven’t told you what’s nagging at me right now, but I may have seen the guy we’re talking about.”

  Tom just about jumped from his chair. “What? What are you saying, Mandy? You never told me about seeing him.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure it was him.”

  “When? Where? You’re supposed to come across with information like that,” he snapped. Ouch.

  “I think I’ve seen a small white pickup truck hanging around a couple times.”

  Buddy interrupted with a dismissive snicker. “Look, Mandy. We got five thousand white trucks riding around in Iberia Parish.”

  “I know. And that’s why I haven’t spoken before. I didn’t want to seem paranoid.”

  Agent Taylor now. “Go ahead, Mandy. Where? When? What caught your eye about this truck in particular?”

  “The first time was before PawPaw went missing, actually the Sunday before, at the lake, when I went over to call Taddy in for supper. The day the storm was coming and those pelicans flew in from the Gulf. I noticed a white pickup truck parked on the shell turn-around across the lake and a guy leaning on the front bumper smoking a joint. That same afternoon, Taddy told us he’d seen a man on the Alexanders’ dock even though PawPaw was certain the house was empty and the Alexanders had gone north. It occurred to me then to wonder if maybe Taddy had seen the same person I did, but it was just a passing thought.”

  Mom had a hand over her face. I hated to have to scare her like this.

  Agent Taylor prodded. “Continue, Ms. Aguillard, if you will. Any other times?”

  “Tom, remember the day you buried Taddy’s Great Egret? I think that Sunday afternoon the pickup truck was in the same place, across the lake on the shell turn-around.”

  “You never said—”

  “Yeah, I know. I wasn’t sure. I only thought so later on.”

  I didn’t confess the whole of it. For me, troublesome dreams always followed emotional days, whether good emotions or bad. Come morning, I’d never be quite sure whether an image from my dream was an actual scene coming back into memory, or just meaningless mental garbage best tossed away as soon as possible.

  “But I’m quite sure about the truck following us the day Deuce and I went to interview Mrs. Falgout. Deuce treated it all as a joke. He yanked his unit off the road and into a driveway. A minute later the truck came back and zoomed on by. Just someone with nothing better to do than following what he heard on police radio, Deuce said. No matter, we couldn’t see in the window anyway.”

  The pad Buddy had in his hand dropped onto the table. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. Not much. I’m sorry. But I thought I should tell you.”

  “You should. Thank you,” said Agent Taylor.

  “And remember, Uncle J. Allen saw someone coming out of the Jefferson House drive way before...”

  “Yeah. We got that one. Ok. First the man. Tell us, Ms. Aguillard, what do you recall about him?”

  “The only time I got any look at him was from PawPaw’s dock, and that was from way away. White man, thin, youngish, shrimpers’ boots. By his movements, he seemed to be smoking weed like a pro, rolling the joint with one hand. The other times he was in the truck and I couldn’t see him well at all. White, thin face—couldn’t say much more than that.”

  “OK. What about the truck? Can you give a description?”

  “A small truck. Not new. I didn’t see a brand, and I looked. No ram’s head hood ornament, big H or Toyota swirls. Made me wonder if someone took the insignia off. When the truck followed us, Deuce and me, we tried to get the plate number but couldn’t read through the dirt. Funny, though, there wasn’t any di
rt on the truck itself, just on the license and the side window. Maybe Deuce can do better. Sorry, guys.”

  I was looking at two worried faces—Mom’s and Tom’s—and I didn’t feel so good myself. Agent Taylor wore his professional mask. Buddy looked disgusted with my pitiful contribution to their investigation.

  Agent Taylor turned down Mom’s invitation to join us for a gumbo supper. He had work to do, he said, but he appreciated the offer. Tom stayed for dinner but not dessert. He said he needed to return to the office. He forgot my car was still at the courthouse, but I didn’t mention it. I’d ask Mom to give me a ride to work in the morning.

  * * *

  With just ten days until 350 people would report for jury selection, Tom cleared his calendar. The other assistant district attorneys had taken over his routine duties now so he could work without distractions. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, I spent long hours at the office doing research and preparing exhibits. Taddy’s safety never left my thoughts. I kept my cell phone in view all day, every day, and frequently checked in with my mom. She had set aside all her usual routines to bird-dog Taddy.

  Everywhere I went I looked hard at each white pickup I saw. God, there were a lot of them, but now not a one seemed interested in me. I felt just a hint of what it might have been like to have been a European Jew before the Second World War. You never knew who might be the enemy, or what they might do to you if they were.

  Tom kept total focus on the trial, and his requests to me came faster and louder. He ordered me to prepare poster-sized exhibits: a map showing the route PawPaw probably took the last morning of his life; several blown-up photographs of PawPaw’s recovered body; a silhouette drawing with blood-red marks indicating the location of the fatal stab wounds. Without waiting the hour for Kinko’s to create the exhibits, he ordered me to check and see if they were ready.

  “Sure, Tom.” I wasn’t about to admit that just looking at those pictures roiled my gut. Or that his tone of voice tempted me to snap a salute and answer aye, aye, sir.