by David Ellis
So they run through the search of my house. Nothing anywhere, basement, garage, nada. Paul seems to be getting under Cummings’s skin a little, the cop having to admit over and over that he found nothing, coupled with Paul’s incredulous inflection and his frequent glances at the jurors to see if they share in his bewilderment.
“Frankly,” Cummings says, “I wouldn’t expect the defendant to be dumb enough to bring a dead body to his house.”
Paul seems to light up at this comment. “Okay then, let’s talk about anyplace, Detective. Anytime. Anywhere.” Paul throws his hands into the air. “Dr. Reinardt’s house. The woods. Marty’s house. Marty’s car. You name it, Detective. You tell us. I’m giving you the chance to name anyplace in the world. You tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury: Can you identify for us, sir, any evidence that Marty and Dr. Reinardt were together anyplace, anytime, on November eighteenth or any time thereafter? Can you do that for the jury?”
Cummings works his mouth, ending in a scowl. “We don’t know where he took him.”
63
THE COURTROOM, IT SEEMS, IS A SECOND HOME FOR Paul Riley, a home he’s lived in a long time; he knows where the floorboards creak, where the drafts are. He uses the space to maximum advantage, moving about, seemingly lost in thought, when he wants points to sink in for the jury, approaching the witness when he’s cornering him on something, all the while setting the pace, controlling the reactions. He has managed to dance around circumstances relating to the doctor’s death without, to my knowledge, causing offense to the jury; if anything, he’s starting to charm them. He is for the most part courteous, able to rebuke the witness without getting testy, but always aware of the right moment to raise his voice or his hands or change expressions, and drawing the jury into his changed mood. I’ve picked up on a tool he uses to emphasize a point: He refers to the jury in his questions when he really wants them to pay attention. Tell the jury, Detective, he’ll say, and it’s always a strong moment.
I’ve also noticed that Paul plays to the jury. At the hearing to suppress my confession—where there was only a judge, and it was a legal issue—Paul was much more subdued, his questions less speechy and more businesslike. In this setting, with laypersons who have seen plenty of courtroom drama on television, Paul relies considerably more on mannerisms and facial expressions and tone inflections. It’s getting a little late in the afternoon now, a time when the jurors are starting to stretch a little and checking their watches, but Paul has done well to keep them relatively entertained. He has scored on the easy things—most notably the lack of physical evidence putting me at the scene—but he did better than I would have expected on the kidnapping angle, too. It actually sounded kind of believable.
“Let’s talk about the conversation you had with Marty Kalish the day you arrested him,” says Paul. “The day, as you put it, he confessed.”
“Fine.”
“When you had this conversation with Marty, who else was in the room?”
“It was me, Lieutenant Walter Denno, and the defendant.”
“Now, during this interview, did you tell Marty that you suspected he was having an affair with Mrs. Reinardt?”
“I asked him that.”
“And he said no. But you thought he was her lover, didn’t you?”
“I thought it was possible. That’s all.”
This is consistent with what Cummings said at the suppression hearing, that he didn’t know whether Rachel had a guy on the side, and even if she did, whether that guy was me. Paul is probing this for the Miranda issue. Maybe, in his zeal to impress the jury, Cummings will go overboard and say he really thought I was the guy. In doing so, he might make it appear that he suspected me, and therefore should have read me my rights.
“I should add,” says Cummings, “that we now believe there was no such affair.”
Paul thanks Cummings for the clarification. “But at the time you questioned Marty, you certainly did believe that Mrs. Reinardt was having an affair.”
“We suspected it.”
“Okay,” Paul says. “Well, since you were wondering about Mrs. Reinardt’s extramarital love life, I take it that you were investigating Mrs. Reinardt’s potential involvement in her husband’s disappearance.”
“Yes.”
“Simply put, Mrs. Reinardt was a suspect.”
“We were considering her potential involvement.”
“And a lover of hers, if there was one, would be a suspect, too. Obviously.”
“Yes.”
“And it was frustrating, wasn’t it, that you couldn’t identify this so-called mystery lover of Mrs. Reinardt’s?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that.”
“At the time you talked at the station with Marty, it had been sixteen days since Dr. Reinardt disappeared?”
“That’s right.”
“More than two weeks.”
“That’s right.”
“All right,” says Paul, “fine.” What is left unsaid for the time being, but will be played up in closing arguments, is that the cops were looking at sixteen days of futility and dead-end roads right and left when they came upon me, the scapegoat.
“Now, at some point during the interview with Marty—closer to the end, I believe—you began to talk to Marty about the abusive nature of the Reinardts’ marriage.”
“That came up.”
“You told him how, from your investigation, you believed that Dr. Reinardt had been beating his wife for months.”
“Yes.”
“You told Marty that Mrs. Reinardt had been subjected to physical abuse.”
“Right.”
“Physical abuse in the form of repeated whips on the back with a leather belt.”
“That’s right.” Some of the jurors recoil. Actually, Cummings is being generous with Paul here. We didn’t actually go into the detail of the abuse at the interrogation, and shit, I’d heard about it already anyway. Paul’s making it sound like they were educating me on the sordid details, and in the process turning me into a blithering idiot prone to say something dumb.
“You also told Marty about the sexual abuse Mrs. Reinardt had endured.”
“Yes.”
“And during this part of the interview, Marty seemed upset, didn’t he?”
“I suppose he did.”
“These things you were telling Marty, they seemed to bother him, didn’t they?”
“Sure.”
There. Paul has set the framework for the reason I said, I’m not sorry he’s dead. Because I was so gosh-darned upset at what a cruel bastard the good doctor was.
Paul takes a step away from the lectern and inches forward. “Now, you testified earlier that Marty said, ‘I’m not sorry I killed him.’”
“That’s what he said.”
“That’s what you said, earlier today.”
“That’s what I said, and it’s the truth. He said it twice.”
“He said it twice,” Paul repeats. He looks at the jury. “He said it twice. Did he say it in a clear voice?”
“Yes. Clear enough.”
“Clear enough for you to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“But—wasn’t Lieutenant Walter Denno just outside the room at this time?”
“He was in the adjoining room.”
“That adjoining room—you can see into the interview room from there?”
“Right.”
“And you can hear into the interview room, too?”
“I wouldn’t say everything,” Cummings says. Again, well coached. At the hearing on the confession, Lieutenant Denno testified that he didn’t personally hear me confess to Cummings. He said he was in the viewing room, but he didn’t hear it. I’ve always kind of wondered why he said that, why he didn’t just back up his detective.
“But certainly,” says Paul, “from that room, you could hear anything that is said in a clear voice.”
“Not if it’s said quietly.”
“Oh. Well, tell us, wh
ere was Marty at the time he supposedly confessed?”
Cummings is still a moment. “He was sitting in the chair.”
“The chair,” Paul repeats. “He was in the chair when he . . .confessed.”
“Yes.” Cummings is studying Paul now.
“And you’re saying he confessed in a clear voice.”
“Clear enough, I said.”
“You’re quite sure you could hear him.”
“Yes.”
“Was his hand over his mouth?”
“No.”
“Was his mouth obstructed in any way, shape, or form?”
“No.”
“Where were you sitting?”
Cummings’s eyes dart about. “Across from him.”
Fuck, I can still smell Cummings’s breath as he stood over me. I don’t know why he’d lie about this. He should just admit he was standing right over me. That would explain why he, and nobody else, heard me confess. But he doesn’t want to admit that he was in my face. I guess it makes it seem like he was intimidating me.
“So he was speaking across the table from you.”
“Yes.”
“And he confessed in a loud enough voice for you to hear?”
“Yes.”
“But not loud enough for Lieutenant Denno, in the adjoining room, to hear.”
“I assume,” Cummings says. “I can’t speak for Lieutenant Denno.”
“Fair enough,” Paul says. “But to your knowledge, isn’t it true that you are only the only one who heard Marty supposedly confess?”
“He was mumbling.”
Jesus, Cummings is making this much tougher than it has to be.
“He was mumbling? Didn’t you just tell us that he confessed in a clear voice?”
“I said clear enough,” Cummings snaps.
“Oh, I see,” Paul says sarcastically. “He spoke just clear enough so you could hear him, but he mumbled just enough that Lieutenant Denno, watching and listening in the viewing room, couldn’t hear him. That’s what you’re saying.”
I notice Gretchen Flaherty’s feet shuffle as she starts to stand. Roger Ogren puts a hand on hers, and she settles back in.
“He spoke at a level I could hear,” says Cummings. “It wasn’t that loud. If the guys outside couldn’t hear, I can’t speak to that.”
“Isn’t it true, Detective, that at the time Marty Kalish gave this so-called confession, you were standing directly over him, with your hand cupped around his face?”
Cummings sits up in his chair. “That’s not true.”
It’s not true, but it’s what I told Paul. Cummings could fit that part.
“And isn’t it true that you put your hands around Marty’s throat?”
“No, sir.” Cummings shakes his head vehemently. “Not true.”
“And you told Marty that if he didn’t say something quick, that you were going to haul Rachel Reinardt into the station and arrest her.”
“That is absolutely false, Mr. Riley.”
“Isn’t it true that you were standing over Marty?”
“No, sir.”
“And you were telling him over and over again about the abuse Rachel endured? The rape she endured!”
“I mentioned it, but it wasn’t like you’re saying.”
Paul walks toward Cummings. “And isn’t it true that when Marty gave this so-called confession, you were face-to-face with Marty?”
“No!”
“And that’s why Lieutenant Denno didn’t hear what Marty was saying. Because you were in his face, grabbing on to him!”
“No. None of that is true.”
Paul turns away from Cummings, toward the jury.
“No, sir,” Cummings repeats.
“Well, regardless of how you tell the story,” Paul says to the jury, calmer now but still with an edge, “you were the only person who heard this—this confession.”
Cummings runs his fingers over his thin hair on top. “That’s correct, Mr. Riley.”
Paul nods solemnly. “It’s standard policy in your department to tape-record confessions, isn’t it?”
“Where feasible,” says Cummings. “It wasn’t in this case.”
“No?” says Paul. “Wasn’t there a tape recorder in the room?”
“There was,” says Cummings. “But the point is, we weren’t expecting the confession. We were just talking, so there was no need to use it.”
“And you told us, Detective, that Marty confessed of his own free will.”
“That’s right.”
“Without the tape recorder on.”
“That’s right.”
“But after he supposedly confessed—after he had done so, as you say, in a voluntary manner—at that point, you didn’t tape-record his confession, did you?”
“I tried to,” says Cummings. “But he clammed up.”
“Wait a minute.” Paul raises his hands, shakes his head violently. “One second, he confesses voluntarily. The next second, you reach for the tape player, and suddenly Marty won’t confess?”
That’s actually the truth. There was something so final about that tape recorder. Thank God for that moment of clarity.
“Counselor, I can’t explain why he stopped talking. But he did.”
“So when you tell this jury that Marty Kalish confessed to murder”—now Paul turns back to Cummings and jabs a finger—“we have to take your word for it.”
“It is the absolute truth.”
“According to you.”
“Yes, according to me.”
“And only you.”
“I guess so.”
Paul pauses on that, then turns on his heels and moves to the left before squaring off. He nods absently. “All right. You arrested Mrs. Reinardt for the murder of her husband, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You did so several weeks after Marty’s arrest, correct?”
“Correct.”
“But as we’ve established, even before Marty’s arrest, you’d begun to suspect her.”
“Right.”
“One reason you suspected her, back then, was the rumors that she was having an affair.”
“True.”
“Another reason was the news that she’d endured all that abuse.”
“Also true.”
“Because these things gave her a possible motive to want to kill her husband.”
“Potentially, yes.”
Paul turns slightly toward the jury, raising a finger. “Tell me if this was another reason. You learned that on November eighteenth, the Reinardts’ gun was downstairs, in the very den where these events transpired, stored in an oak cabinet. But you later learned that this gun was typically kept upstairs, in a nightstand by the Reinardts’ bed. And you wondered, how did that gun get moved? Wasn’t that another reason, Detective, to suspect Mrs. Reinardt?”
Many a juror is scribbling now.
“That was something we wondered about, yes.”
“The fact that someone had moved the gun.”
“Right.”
Paul is planning to play this both ways, in closing argument. First, the evidence he just discussed is evidence of Rachel’s guilt. Second, he will make the point that no additional evidence had surfaced from the time they originally suspected Rachel to the point they arrested her. So if the evidence wasn’t sufficient before, why did they arrest her later? Because, Paul will say, weeks had passed since my arrest and my phony “confession,” and they couldn’t make one piece of evidence stick against me. So they hauled her in and gave her the choice: Tell us something bad about Marty and walk free, or risk the electric chair. They forced her to come to court and lie to save her own skin.
Paul turns to the judge. “Your Honor, I don’t think I have any further—” He snaps his fingers. “Actually, there is one more thing I’d like to ask the detective. Just one more thing.” He strolls toward the jury box. “While we’re talking about the gun.”
Cummings inhales. He knows he’s almost finis
hed. I happen to think he held up pretty well. Paul worked him over, but there was a lot to work with.
“Detective, you know that test you guys perform?” Paul waves his hand. “You know, that test where you look for the presence of gunpowder residue on a hand? To tell if that person has recently fired a weapon?”
“I know it,” says Cummings. “But that test’s no good if you’re looking at a hand sixteen days after it held the gun. No way residue stays on that long.”
“I see.” Paul stuffs his hands in his pockets as he inches toward Cummings. “Well, then how about less than one hour after?” Paul and his prey lock eyes; Cummings loses a little color as he watches Paul’s hand leave its pocket and wave expressively. “Or even several hours after, but still the same night? The test is still helpful at that point, isn’t it?”
“It could be,” Cummings says sheepishly.
Paul smiles. “You see where I’m going, Detective. I’m talking about Rachel Reinardt. The only person who we all agree was in that house that night. You never, ever tested Rachel Reinardt to see if she fired a gun on November eighteenth, did you?”
Cummings’s face transforms during Paul’s lengthy question from embarrassment to annoyance to bemusement, so that when he says, “You’re correct,” he’s almost smiling.
Paul lets out a sigh and, as he walks back toward the defense table—actually, he’s just walking along the jury box—he shakes his head with disgust.
The gavel bangs, and the first day of my trial is over. We stand as the jury files out the door they came in through. Some of them are mumbling to one another as they leave, despite the judge’s instruction not to discuss this case. I see now why Paul wanted to finish his cross-examination this afternoon. The jurors will hit their pillows tonight with the image of Cummings standing over me, the teary-eyed suspect. His hands around my throat. Rachel’s untested hand the night of the murder.
The lawyers stand at attention until the jury is gone. Judge Mack begins his slow, almost painful descent from the bench. Behind me, I hear voices, the shuffling of feet, the clicking of briefcases.
Paul pulls his papers together and drops them into a folder. I touch his arm.
“That was great, Paul,” I say to him. “Really. Thank you.”
“It went well,” he says modestly, as he places the folder into his briefcase. He takes in the compliment before adding, “It’s a little too early to get excited.” Then he looks back at me, the guy who needs the reassurance. “But—it went well.”
