At the very comer of Dr. Sawyer’s right eye, a drop of moisture escaped and slowly made its way down the side of his face. But his jaw remained rigid, and he made no move to wipe the solitary tear away. It was actually quite sad, Ann thought. He was a father, just a parent concerned for his child.
“I’m very…cognizant of the law,” Dr. Sawyer said, his voice straining with emotion.
In the next instant the doctor completely lost his composure. Ann had never seen a man shift gears so quickly. One moment he’d been crying and the next his eyes were bulging, his face flushed. As she was about to remove her hands from the glass, he leaped to his feet and tried to slap her in the face, but Ann quickly stepped back before he made contact.
“My son is a decent young man.” He fixed Ann with a hot stare of contempt. “And you…you’re a conniving tramp, a cheap slut. You sicken me. I bet your husband left you because he didn’t want to be married to a whore. How many young boys have you seduced?”
Ann gasped, seizing Reed’s arm. “Let’s get out of here, Tommy. You were right. Come on, let’s go.”
It all happened in a flash. Reed sprang out of his seat and almost leaped over the doctor’s desk. He grabbed the man’s shirt and yanked him forward, pulling back his fist and belting him. Dr. Sawyer didn’t even struggle or attempt to fight back. Ann jumped on Tommy’s back and tried to pull him off, get him to stop. “Please, Tommy, don’t—”
Reed climbed right over the desk, sending the letter opener and paperweight flying through the air, stepping on and smashing the glass in one of the picture frames. Once he was over the desk, he started shouting, “You fucking prick. After all this woman has been through, you have the gall to say that filth.” His fist went back again, poised and ready. “You want to slap someone,” he said, growling, “slap me. I’ll bust you for assaulting a police officer.”
“Tommy, no,” Ann said, trying to grab his arms. “He didn’t hurt me. Please, stop, it isn’t worth it.”
Dr. Sawyer was sitting on the floor behind his desk, a thin stream of blood running from his nose and dripping onto his white dress shirt. When Tommy stepped back, panting and out of breath, the doctor took off his broken glasses and calmly put them into the pocket of his shirt. Holding onto the edge of the desk, he pulled himself to a standing position. Once he was on his feet, he reached for the heavy crystal clock.
“The clock. Tommy,” Ann yelled, certain the doctor was going to smash Tommy over the head with it.
In a movement so fast it blurred before Ann’s eyes. Reed made a fist with both hands and slammed it down on the doctor’s hand before his fingers closed on the clock. Something cracked. Just then the young nurse opened the door.
“Is something wrong, Doctor? I heard…”
Dr. Sawyer brought his hand up to his chest. Two fingers were bent at odd angles and covered with blood. “No, Sheila,” he said flatly. “These people are just leaving. You can show them to the door.” He looked away from the woman and sat back down behind his desk, his face flushed and gleaming with perspiration. But he didn’t grimace and he didn’t cry out in pain.
“But, Doctor,” the woman said, “your hand. My God, your hand…and your nose is bleeding too.”
“That will be all. Sheila,” he said, removing a starched white handkerchief and dabbing his bloody nose. He turned to Reed. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
“Fuck you,” Reed said, ready to jump the man again and beat him to a bloody pulp. “Fuck you…fuck your son and fuck your attorney.”
They were all crowded at the door, trying to walk through at the same time, Ann pulling Reed by an arm. Finally the nurse gingerly stepped past them and Ann placed her hand on the detective’s back, trying to push him forward before they ended up in a fistfight.
“Before you go, I have one more question,” Dr. Sawyer said. “Do you have any idea what a surgeon’s hand is worth in a court of law?”
What a fiasco, Ann thought as she rushed to Department 17, where the Delvecchio trial was in progress. Glen had said the state would conclude its case today, and Ann wanted to hear his closing statement.
Slipping into the court, she took a seat in the back row even though there were few spectators. Judge Robert Goldstein was presiding. His hair was thinning and his face haggard, but at thirty-nine he was only recently appointed and was one of the youngest judges in the county.
Randy Delvecchio was represented by Winston Cataloni of the public defender’s office. Cataloni was short and squat, his suit worn, and he was shuffling papers frantically on the counsel table, as if he was having trouble keeping track of the proceedings. Ann couldn’t help but think that Delvecchio would be convicted on the basis of his legal representation alone. Cataloni was a known alcoholic. Supposedly he was on the wagon, but from the way he was acting, Ann thought he might be tossing them down again.
Walking back from the witness stand, Hopkins spotted Ann and flashed a confident smile. “This will be people’s exhibit A,” he said, a large plastic evidence bag in his hand. He handed it to the bailiff, then turned back to the witness. Ray Hernandez, the D.A.‘s investigator, was testifying. A dark and distinguished man in his fifties, Hernandez had joined the D.A.‘s office after twenty years with the sheriff’s department, ten of them as a homicide detective.
“So,” Hopkins said, standing in front of the witness box, “you found this overcoat in the defendant’s possession. What made you suspect it was taken during the course of these crimes?”
Hernandez moved closer to the microphone. “It wasn’t in his possession exactly,” he said, a stickler for details. “He was wearing it when we found him. On the label was a Rotary pin with the number twenty-five on it. Estelle Summer listed this as property taken from her home during the assault. It belonged to her deceased husband.”
“All right,” Hopkins said thoughtfully, glancing at the jury. “Tell us, please, what else you found in the defendant’s possession.” As soon as he finished speaking, he walked back to the counsel table.
“We found a woman’s ring, a wedding ring.”
Glen snatched another plastic evidence sack off the counsel table, this one smaller, and carried it to Ray Hernandez. “Is this the ring you found?”
“Yes,” Hernandez said after peering through the plastic. “It was hidden in the defendant’s bedroom, in a bureau drawer where he kept his underwear.”
“And who does this ring belong to?” Glen asked.
“It’s Madeline Alderson’s wedding ring.”
“Mrs. Alderson identified it as such?”
“Yes, she did,” Hernandez said. “She said the rapist took it off her finger before he fled.”
“The people submit this as exhibit B, Your Honor,” Hopkins said, taking his seat.
“Mr. Cataloni,” Goldstein said, passing the ball to the defense.
Cataloni looked over at his client, up at the judge, and then back to his notes. “Isn’t it true. Investigator Hernandez, that the defendant would never have been arrested had it not been for this anonymous phone call?”
“Yes, that’s true,” Hernandez said.
“Tell us about that phone call again.”
Hernandez appeared to be annoyed, knowing this was the weak link in the case. “An unknown caller contacted our office and told us that Mr. Delvecchio was a possible suspect in these crimes, that he’d been bragging about them on the street.”
Cataloni rubbed his forehead and glanced at the jury. “By bragging, do you mean he was talking about how he raped these defenseless women and then stole their property?”
“More or less,” Hernandez said, no longer recalling the exact words the caller had spoken. The actual recipient of the phone call had previously testified, another D.A.‘s investigator. Hernandez was only testifying to the property recovered during the search, but Cataloni wanted to nail this point home again.
“And this was the impetus for obtaining a search warrant for my client’s residence, then proceeding to execut
e that warrant?” While Hernandez glared at him without answering, Cataloni shuffled to the box and continued speaking. “All this you did on mere hearsay? Information obtained from a person who refused to give you a name, who even to this day has as yet to come forward?”
Hernandez’s back stiffened defensively. “A lot of information comes to us through informants. We would be remiss, Counselor, if we didn’t follow through on this type of lead.”
“No further questions,” Cataloni tossed out as he walked back to the table.
Goldstein fixed his gaze on Hopkins. “The state rests. Your Honor,” Hopkins said.
Goldstein leaned back in his chair. “You may present your closing statements, Mr. Hopkins.”
Hopkins sprang to his feet, and walked quickly to the jury box. “I don’t need to reiterate the seriousness of these crimes and the heinous acts committed against these three women,” he said clearly, holding on to the wooden railing and searching every face. “You’ve heard Madeline Alderson’s testimony and Lucinda Wall’s testimony of the nightmare they suffered at the hands of the defendant. Estelle Summer cannot confront her attacker at this trial, because she is no longer alive to do so. But she’s here,” Hopkins said, raising his eyebrows and letting the implication sink in. “She may not be here in the flesh, but she’s here in other ways. You must accept her sworn statements, as testified to previously in this courtroom. No, it wasn’t her voice relating these facts, nor can you see her pain, but don’t forget that she positively identified this man from a photo lineup, that he was arrested in her husband’s overcoat, taken from her home during the crime.
“Mr. Cataloni will soon be telling you that she was old and sick, that her death was not directly related to the defendant’s actions, but you and I know that’s not true.” Glen stopped, his face twisting in anguish. “Estelle Summer died because of this man,” he said, spinning around and pointing an accusing finger at Randy Delvecchio, “and for no other reason. She died in abject terror and humiliation. She died in fear that she would never obtain justice. But I’m confident,” he said, slowly pacing back and forth in front of the jury box, an earnest look on his face, “I’m confident that you will not let this decent woman die unavenged.”
Hopkins turned sideways and linked eyes with Ann before continuing. “The evidence speaks for itself. The defendant possessed property taken from Estelle Summer’s home, property that he had no legal right to possess, as well as property taken from Madeline Alderson. This is not speculation, ladies and gentlemen. This is fact. You will be told by Mr. Cataloni that we have not provided definitive proof, that even though his client possessed these items, they do not prove within a reasonable doubt that he committed the crimes. The defense will spin all kinds of tales explaining how Mr. Delvecchio came to possess these items, attempting to plant seeds of doubt in your minds.”
Hopkins dropped his head, and the courtroom fell silent. Then he looked back up and his voice boomed. “But I have faith in you, faith in your ability to administer justice, in your ability to see the truth.”
Ann smiled to herself. He was reining them in, praising them, emphasizing the importance of what they were doing. In addition, he was enlisting their support for the victims, telling them that they were the ones who would be responsible for a horrid miscarriage of justice if they returned a verdict other than guilty.
“These are the points to remember,” he said, circling a finger in the air as he continued to pace. “The defendant has no alibi for the dates in question. The defendant was identified from a lineup by all three victims. The defendant was in possession of property taken from the victims.” He stopped and faced them. “We have clearly established these facts. And these facts prove without a doubt that the defendant is guilty.”
Ann waited until Glen took his seat and Goldstein called a recess. Then she stood and tilted her head toward the back of the courtroom, indicating that she’d be waiting outside for him. Delvecchio’s back had been turned during the proceedings, but Ann was concerned that he would turn around now and see her. She didn’t want him to spot her conferring with the district attorney. They might need her to extract more information from him on the homicides.
When Glen burst through the double doors a few minutes later, he was smiling. “What do you think?”
Ann glanced up and down the hall. Seeing the corridor empty, she quickly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I think you’re brilliant.”
“I don’t feel brilliant,” he said humbly. “I wasn’t that happy with my closing statement, but I didn’t want to get too detailed. Give them too much and they get confused.”
She started to tell him about the incident with Sawyer’s father, but then hesitated. Goldstein had called recess for only ten minutes, and they didn’t have much time to talk. “How long will the defense take to present their case?”
“I think it will go to the jury next week,” Hopkins said, obviously relieved to see the end in sight. “Cataloni doesn’t have any witnesses other than a few relatives for character. I doubt he’d put a loser like Delvecchio on the stand.”
Ann thought of the public defender and wondered if he was drinking. If he was, and it later came out that Delvecchio had incompetent counsel, the case could be overturned on appeal. Hearing about the Simmons case was enough, she thought. They certainly didn’t want to lose this one. “Think Cataloni’s back on the booze?”
“Of course not,” Glen snapped, seizing her arm. “Don’t say a word. Please, Ann, that’s all I need.”
Ann slapped his arm away like a rattlesnake. As soon as she did, she felt foolish. “I’m sorry,” she said self-consciously. “I’m still trying to get over last night. If you don’t jump at me. Glen, I’ll be okay, but when—”
“I didn’t jump at you,” he protested. “All I did was put my hand on your arm.” Seeing the fear on her face, though, he stepped closer, his voice soft and consoling. “Look, forgive me if I seem insensitive. Believe me, I’m worried sick about you. I know how terrifying it must have been for you last night. I’m just so caught up in this case right now I’m not thinking straight.”
“It was nothing,” she told him, turning to walk away.
His voice pulled her back. “What about lunch? We’ll be breaking at one o’clock. We could go across the street to Marie Callender’s.”
“I can’t,” Ann said, having no appetite. Besides, she thought he’d asked only to be kind. He was pressed for time, probably eager to get back to his office. Attorneys were always frantic when they were in trial. “I’m going to order something in and try to play catch-up.”
“Are we going out tomorrow night?”
“As far as I know,” she said, staring out the window on the other side of the corridor. How did she know she’d even be alive by this time tomorrow? Even though it was only noon, Ann felt the night ahead all around her.
“I want Delvecchio,” Glen said, the intensity of his voice startling Ann out of her thoughts. “He’s a predator, just like Sawyer. But at least you’re not seventy years old, Ann. These women were defenseless old ladies. They never had a chance.”
Staring into his eyes, Ann knew he was right. She was young and strong compared to these women. She knew how to handle a gun, had even been trained in self-defense. “Look, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, a weak smile on her face.
“Everything’s going to be all right, Ann,” he told her. “He knows you have a gun. He won’t come back.”
With Glen watching her, she headed off down the hall, her arms locked around her body, leaning forward as if walking into a fierce wind. Yes, her attacker knew she had a gun, and in most instances this would be a great deterrent. But the attacker also knew something Glen didn’t know: he knew Ann had been unable to pull the trigger.
Chapter 13
Tommy Reed was poring over a computer printout of missing persons, trying not to think of his blowup that morning. Going to see Dr. Sawyer had clearly been a mistake. As soon as the brass got
wind of the incident. Reed would be called on the carpet, maybe even suspended as a disciplinary measure.
Damn, he said, slamming his fist on his desk, feeling as angry as he had a few hours ago. Why had he allowed an egotistical asshole like Dr. Sawyer to get to him? Sure, the doctor had taken a swing at Ann and insulted her, but they could have just walked away. But no, he chastised himself, he’d acted like a punchy, gung-ho rookie and jumped the man.
Suddenly the right word appeared in his mind: guilt. He was feeling guilty. Guilty that he hadn’t been able to protect Ann from being shot. Guilty that she’d been attacked again in her home when he’d guaranteed her Sawyer would get nowhere near her house.
“How’s it coming?” Noah Abrams said, striding into the detective bay in his shirtsleeves, sporting a tie with a bright blue ‘57 Chevy on it.
“Oh,” Reed said, looking up, and then squinting at his tie. “Is that a car on your tie?”
“Yeah,” Abrams said. “Isn’t it great?” He leaned over Reed’s shoulder and said, “Are those the missing person reports? Is there anything in there?”
Reed slowly shook his head. “All I’ve got right now is a bunch of names and dates. Nothing in Ventura County is recent enough.”
“What do you mean?” Noah said, checking his in basket and then plunking down in the chair next to Reed, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
“If Ann really saw fingers in the Henderson house, don’t you think the murder took place right before she saw them, not six months or a year ago?”
“Dunno,” Noah said, noting the dark circles under the other man’s eyes, the unhealthy pallor of his skin. This case was getting to him, Noah thought. “Lab says that was only pickle juice and ordinary sour pickles. They didn’t find any traces of formaldehyde or any other preserving solution. Guess you might be right.”
First Offense Page 19
