“I understood that she was interested in dating him, but that he wasn’t interested.”
“Did you ever meet Susan Reinert?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you ever meet Sue Myers?”
“Yes, I believe I met her once.”
“During the school year of 1978 to 1979, were you studying at that time?”
“Yes, I was a graduate student at Harvard University.”
“Now, on the Thanksgiving weekend of 1978, did you receive a visit from Mister Bradfield while living in Cambridge?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to refer you to the spring of 1979: did you visit the city of Philadelphia?”
“I was down twice.”
“Did you see Mister Bradfield on that first occasion?”
“Yes.”
“When was the second visit?”
“I came down after the end of the school term that semester. Sometime at the end of May.”
“How did you register at the hotel on that occasion?”
“Mister and Mrs. Bradfield.”
“And who made the reservation for that particular room?”
“Mister Bradfield did.”
“Could you tell the jury why you used the name Mister and Mrs. Bradfield, as opposed to your own name?”
“Well, it was a center city hotel that was somewhat seedy but inexpensive, and I felt slightly more comfortable staying at a place identified as a couple. Instead of a single woman staying alone.”
“How long did you stay at the hotel?”
“Something like three weeks, but I might be slightly off on that.”
“When did you leave the hotel?”
“It was on a Tuesday morning. I’m sure you could fill me in on the date.”
“Was this when you drove to New Mexico with Mister Bradfields car to meet him there in Santa Fe?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Did he mention to you a man by the name of Jay C. Smith?”
“Yes, I knew the name.”
“Did he ever mention any threats that Mister Smith may have made against Susan Reinert?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw Mister Bradfield prior to his leaving for the shore on Friday, June twenty-second, 1979? Do you remember?”
“No, I don’t.”
“The testimony up until this time has been that Mister Bradfield was in Cape May for the entire weekend. What were you doing over the weekend when Mister Bradfield was away?”
“I was looking at architecture in Philadelphia. Getting to know the city.”
“And had you done that prior to that weekend while you were living in that hotel?”
“Yes. That was one of the main purposes for my being in Philadelphia.”
“Did you do anything with anybody, or do anything in terms of registering, to verify your whereabouts for that weekend?”
“Aside from the hotel, I can’t think of anything offhand.”
After she testified that a change in plans had necessitated her driving his VW Beetle with their belongings, Guida asked her, “Were you in any way upset that you had to drive alone across the country while your friend, Mister Bradfield, flew?”
“Well, it would have been nicer to have him in the car, but I wasn’t worried about the drive across the country alone.”
“When you arrived in New Mexico, what was your living arrangement?”
“I stayed in the same room as he did.”
“Now, you indicated that in 1979 you had this romantic relationship with Mister Bradfield. Does that romantic interest continue today?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Pass the witness.”
Bill Costopoulos began by asking about the present relationship: “Because of your romantic interest that has continued until this day with Mister Bradfield, is it fair to say that you communicate with him now that he’s in prison?”
“Yes.”
“And how frequently do you communicate?”
“I see him probably twice a month and talk maybe twice a month with him on the telephone.”
“Have you always kept him advised of the investigation that was going on in this matter?”
“Meaning?”
“When the police would come to talk to you, would you report that to him?”
It was one of the few times she hesitated. She said, “I would say he probably … I probably talked to him about it, yes.”
“And in fact you’d tell him exactly what you were being asked about, wouldn’t you?”
“There’s a possibility. I don’t remember specifically trying to tell him everything I’d been asked about.”
“Do you remember resisting any cooperation with law enforcement after the weekend in question?”
“Resisting?”
“Not cooperating?”
“Not by my definition,” she said.
With this, Rachel leaned forward in her witness chair and folded her tiny hands and stared Bill Costopoulos right in the eye and answered questions as precisely as anything manufactured by IBM.
“Not by your definition,” he said. “Well, when they would come to talk to you, would you talk to them?”
“No, not without my lawyer’s permission and my lawyer’s presence.”
“And was it Bradfield’s suggestion that you have a lawyer present when you were questioned?”
“No, it was my lawyer’s.”
“When was the last time you talked to Bradfield before coming here today?”
“I spoke with him on the telephone last night.” Then she paused and said, “Or the night before.”
“Did you tell him you were under subpoena?”
“Oh, yes. He knew that.”
“When did you first learn that Bradfield was having a romantic relationship with Susan Reinert?”
The witness leaned forward a little more and the tone in her voice could have chilled a martini. She paused and said, “I don’t believe he was having a romantic relationship with Susan Reinert.”
“You don’t believe that to this day?”
“That’s correct.”
“When did you find out that he was having a romantic relationship with Sue Myers?”
“Since I’ve known him, he hasn’t had a romantic relationship with Sue Myers.”
“All right, just so I’m clear, we’re not having a definition problem about a romantic relationship, are we?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Did he ever tell you that he was the named beneficiary to the tune of seven hundred and thirty thousand dollars in life insurance?”
“No.”
“He never told you that?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Did he tell you that he was the designated beneficiary of her estate by a will executed May fourth, 1979?”
“No.”
“Did you ever learn of those possible facts?”
“Well, I learned of those possible facts, as you put it, after the death of Susan Reinert.”
“Did Bradfield tell you after her death that he was shocked that Reinert would name him as beneficiary in that insurance policy?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Now when you say you were looking at architecture for the three weeks before the weekend in question, what is it that you would do?”
“Wander around in Philadelphia, go to see specific buildings, go to see neighborhoods in general.”
“Do you recall where you were on June twenty-second, 1979, in the evening hours?”
“June twenty-second was a Friday, I understand, from what Mister Guida has said?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You don’t know. When was the first time you were asked that question by the authorities?”
“Probably the first time I spoke to them.”
“Do you recall when that was?”
“No.”
“The fact is, is it not, that on that Monday,
June twenty-fifth, when the two of you were supposed to go to Santa Fe together, that was the day that he told you to drive because he was flying?”
“On that Monday?”
“Yes.”
“That probably was the day that the plans were eventually clear that he would fly and I would drive.”
“How far is Santa Fe?”
“Approximately two thousand miles.”
“So, when he told you to drive two thousand miles in his car with his belongings, you really didn’t even question that, did you?”
“Question it in what way?”
“Would you consider your act of driving that car two thousand miles an act of obedience?”
“I consider it an act of common sense.”
“Would you consider it an act of loyalty?”
“No. We had to have the belongings and the car taken to New Mexico.
“How did you learn of Reinerts death?”
“When I was driving across the country, I spoke with him on the phone.”
“When did he tell you about the children?”
“I don’t remember if he had anything to say about them, or not.”
“Did you ever ask him what he might know about her death and their disappearance?”
“No, I did not.”
“When the two of you left Santa Fe to go to Boston there was a certain typewriter that he left in your custody and control, wasn’t there?”
“That’s correct.”
“The authorities were interested in that typewriter, weren’t they?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“You refused to give it to them for a long period of time, didn’t you?”
“No, that’s not precisely correct.”
“What is precisely correct?”
“There was, I believe, an FBI agent who came and asked for it. My lawyer in Philadelphia and I didn’t think that I should give up something without a subpoena or warrant of some sort. I told him to contact my lawyer, that I wasn’t going to give it to them. And I contacted my lawyer for instructions.”
“And he told you to give it to them?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you of course had talked to Bradfield before you gave it to them, didn’t you?”
“I don’t recall whether I did or not.”
“The typewriter that you gave them had a ball on it, didn’t it?”
“An element, yes.”
“Did you give them the same element that was on the typewriter when Bradfield left it in your custody and control?”
“Yes, as far as I know.”
“As far as you know?”
“I turned over the typewriter, as it existed, to them.”
“What else did they ask you to give them?”
“What else? It seems to me that they never actually took the typewriter, but took the ribbon and the element, what you are calling the ball, from the typewriter. If my memory is correct.”
“Directing your attention to Thanksgiving, 1978, he made some long-distance calls from where you were staying in Massachusetts. You are not aware by chance that he called Susan Reinerts mother’s house in Ridgway, Pennsylvania, from where the two of you were staying that Thanksgiving, are you?”
“Not currently.”
“After Susan Reinert was murdered, did you and Bill Bradfield develop a code system for communications?”
“No.”
“What was the purpose of the Ezra Pound book?”
“I don’t know what the purpose of the Ezra Pound book was.”
“When did you receive immunity from the government?”
“I really don’t recall the date. It was after that summer.”
“Do you understand what immunity is?”
“I believe my lawyer explained it to me.”
“Were you given immunity to the point where anything you said could not be used against you even if you had a role in the murder? Or was your immunity limited to anything you said, presupposing that you didn’t have anything to do with the murder?”
“I really don’t remember at this time.”
“You’ve had how many years of schooling?”
“At that time?”
“Today.”
Rachel paused, unclasped her hands, and glanced at the watery April sunbeams streaming through the skylight. Anybody else would probably have said, I have such and such degrees, but she answered the question precisely as it had been asked. The computer clicked a few times and then flashed the answer.
“Nineteen and a half,” she said.
“And it was only after you got immunity that you gave any statements whatsoever, isn’t that right?”
“I believe that’s correct. Yes.”
“When Bill Bradfield made a claim on the insurance policies and the estate of Susan Reinert, your relationship was a romantic one, correct?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And it was a romantic one on the weekend in question, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“And it’s a romantic one today?”
“That’s correct.”
“Is it your testimony that there were no letters in your possession from Bill Bradfield while you were in Boston? In code?”
“Yes, there were no letters in code.”
“Was there anything in code in your possession from William Bradfield while you were in Boston at Harvard?”
“No.”
“What is cryptology?”
“Cryptology? That’s the study of codes.”
“Did you study codes?”
“No, I haven’t studied codes.”
“Was there a letter from Bradfield to you congratulating you for becoming an expert in cryptology?”
“No.”
“Was there a letter while you were in Boston, in code, instructing you to destroy, burn and scatter the ashes of the typewriter ball that was in your custody and control?”
“No.”
“Do you understand enough about immunity that if you testify untruthfully under oath that you can be charged with perjury?”
“Yes, I understand that.”
“When you were living in New Mexico did William Sidney Bradfield tell you that the newspapers in Philadelphia would draw a correlation between the murder of Reinert and Jay C. Smith?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Costopoulos got up and took a report to the witness box for Rachel to read. He stayed there, clearly intending to intimidate her. Guida did not request that he move away from this witness.
When she’d finished reading the report, she said calmly, “Well, it doesn’t refresh my memory.”
“My question is, did you ever tell Trooper Holtz that Bradfield told you that the newspapers would draw a correlation between the murder of Reinert and Jay C. Smith?”
“I don’t remember.”
And from this moment, witness and lawyer had a little power struggle that Guida did not interrupt, and during which Rachel didn’t even blink.
“And of course if Bradfield told you that, you wouldn’t remember asking him what he meant, would you?”
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“You don’t remember where you were Friday night, June twenty-second, 1979?”
“That’s correct.”
“Or Saturday, June twenty-third, 1979? You don’t remember?”
“Other than in Philadelphia, no.”
“And of course you don’t remember anything other than being in Philadelphia on Sunday, June twenty-fourth, 1979, do you?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you don’t remember your whereabouts or your activities that Monday, June twenty-fifth, 1979?”
“Aside from being in Philadelphia, no.”
“You don’t remember whether you left the residence of Bradfield and Pappas when the authorities came down to Santa Fe in the early summer of 1979, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You don’t r
emember any coding system, and in fact you deny any coding system between you and Bradfield, don’t you?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you don’t remember that in Thanksgiving of 1978, Bradfield called Reinert’s mother’s house from where the two of you were staying, do you?”
“I don’t remember. That’s correct.”
“Knowing Bradfield romantically for the years that you’ve known him, is there anything you can remember that would help the prosecution in their effort to learn anything about the murder of Susan Reinert and the disappearance of her two children?”
“I don’t have anything to add.”
“I have no further questions,” Bill Costopoulos said, and sat down.
Bill Costopoulos hadn’t intimidated Rachel. The hound of the Baskervilles couldn’t have intimidated Rachel.
When that study in black and white and gray strode across the courtroom, a single word came to mind: resolute. She had the self-righteous cast of a true believer. But a true believer risks sounding less like Joan of Arc and more like Lucrezia Borgia.
Along with the “my danger conspiracy” letter to V in cipher was the following deciphered message on the reverse side, also explained to the jury by an FBI cryptanalyst.
Miss you Hon. Love you terribly. Love you so much. Hurt for you. Hope I can see you soon, but lawyer says going up there now could be grounds for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution. Lawyers warn there will be FBI plant near you soon. Car bugged. Chris has been subpoenaed for grand jury. He will say nothing much. He must maintain this all the way up through possible (probable) trial. Hand on Bible et cetera or be in perjury five to ten years.
If you’re in same position, you know practically nothing about case and nothing at all about Smith P of D. You must maintain this all the way up through trial hand on Bible forever. Did we mention Smith to Pappas? Try to remember. We can’t be inconsistent about what we told them. Perhaps you could write them and warn them. Will be visited by FBI. If they haven’t yet. Ask them exactly what they remember about what we said. Love you. Remember that we made it. Love you. Wish I were lying next to you and holding you.
Destroy this and ashes. Congratulations you’re on way to becoming expert cryptologist. Can you take some more rules? Hope so. Lawyers assure us we are dealing with the best FBI has. So we better be fairly sophisticated, okay?
When coding, use last number then first and so forth back and forth. Destroy messages after receiving them. Destroy them without being observed. Don’t let anyone know you’re receiving or destroying code. Repeat. Destroy completely. If ashes are left, destroy them also. Grind them underfoot or something.
Echoes in the Darkness Page 39
