Final Juror (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 5)

by Ray Flynt

  “I bet you could tell a few stories.”

  Frank smiled. “My favorite was the guy who asked, ‘Is George Washington buried here?’ When I replied that he’s buried at Mount Vernon, the man pointed and said, ‘Is that the hill over there?’”

  They both laughed.

  Brad glanced at his watch. “We should head back up.”

  Brad held the door open for Frank, and they climbed the white marble stairs together to join their fellow jurors for the parade back into the courtroom. When they reached the second floor, Brad patted him on the back saying, “Keep up with your drawing.”

  “These days I’m pretty much limited to cartoons for my HOA, reminding people to pick up their dog’s poop, keep it under 15 mph in the development, and observe the no-parking zones.” He laughed.

  At that moment the tipstaff signaled for the juror at the head of the line to enter the courtroom. Brad was glad Frank still had an outlet for his talent and looked forward to what other images he might see for the remainder of the trial.

  Asher resumed his questioning by probing Dr. Sharma on what might have caused Genevieve Nesbit’s alcohol levels to be near the legal level of intoxication at the time of her death.

  There were no firm answers and lots of speculation. It took thirty questions to establish that the only physical evidence they had on alcohol consumption was the purchase receipt for one glass of Chardonnay at Porcini’s Bistro. Brad knew it would have taken at least four glasses of wine to cause Genevieve’s blood alcohol level.

  Because the body had not been found until four days after the time of her suspected death, it was impossible to determine what additional alcohol she may have consumed after her dinner at the restaurant, or whether she might have started drinking even earlier on the day she died. Nor was the maid, Carmelita Diaz, available to discuss what empty bottles she may have discarded or how many glasses she’d cleaned when she showed up for work on that Monday morning. Asher kept driving home that point. Brad suspected the attorney wanted to equate the missing Carmelita Diaz with the two-word phrase reasonable doubt.

  After Asher had droned on for about an hour, a juror raised her hand to request a comfort break, and the judge declared a ten-minute recess. When they returned, Brad noted that half of the spectators in the normally packed courtroom had left.

  The clock at the rear of the courtroom showed 4:22 p.m. when Judge Whitaker called on Diane Cunningham to ask if she had any questions for the witness on re-direct.

  Cunningham rose from her seat. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  There were audible sighs from Brad’s fellow jurors.

  Cunningham approached the witness. “Dr. Sharma, you aren’t the only person in the coroner’s office who investigates cases of homicide?”

  “No. There are several of us.”

  “Did you review and discuss your findings with the coroner?”

  “Yes, I did so as part of our office protocols.”

  “And did the coroner sign off on your conclusion that Genevieve Nesbit’s death occurred within two to three hours of ingesting her meal at Porcini’s Bistro on March 4th of this year?”

  “He did.”

  Cunningham turned to the judge. “No further questions Your Honor.”

  Whitaker glanced at the defense table as if to gauge whether Asher had any more questions, before he announced, “We will recess for the day, and court will resume at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will be meeting with attorneys in this case at 2 p.m. tomorrow afternoon to discuss motions that have been filed, so we will plan to recess tomorrow afternoon by 2 p.m. I trust no one will object to an early start to your weekend.”

  That good news sent most of the jurors out with smiles on their faces.

  14

  I’d nearly finished putting on my mascara that Thursday morning when I heard the sound of an incoming text message from Oliver Reynolds. I first met Oliver when we worked together in the Juvenile Probation office in Bucks County, before he moved on to a similar job in the Chester County Juvenile Probation office. We became reacquainted a little over a year ago when he sought our help in locating a client who’d run away from a juvenile correction facility and had been drawn into an illegal porn operation.

  We’ve dated casually since then, getting together every week or two, depending on our busy schedules. Oliver’s a few years younger than me, but unlike my ex-husband, who often acted like a boy trapped in a man’s body, Oliver keeps a healthy balance between being goal driven and knowing when to let loose. It’s one of the things I like about him, along with his trim physique and red hair. I also admire his pursuit of a law degree while working full time.

  His text read: Dinner? My place. 7 p.m.

  The fact that Oliver knows how to whip together a great meal is a plus.

  We often get together at his place. It makes it more convenient, since Oliver can’t drive. He’s been blind from birth.

  I was already skittish about relationships following my divorce. Oliver’s blindness seemed an impediment that I’ve had difficulty getting past so that we can take our relationship to the next level. It’s all me, and I know it. I’ve never imagined myself to be so shallow that I couldn’t see past his disability to consider a longer-term commitment.

  Actually, Oliver hasn’t spoken of marriage, but he often talks of the future—five, ten years down the road—and references “we.”

  Anyway, it’s my issue. Think about that tomorrow, Scarlet.

  I texted him back: Sure.

  He promptly replied with a smiley face.

  I hesitated, but then typed: What’s for dinner?

  Not sure. My mind is on dessert! ;-)

  Playfulness is one of the things I like about him.

  I arrived at the office shortly after 9 a.m. and found the report I’d left for Brad back on my side of the partners’ desk. He’d penned “Good job!” on the sticky note and written a couple of ideas at the bottom of the report.

  Brad recommended finding out if there’d been any mischief with the jury in the second trial of Hugo Pancavetti. I recalled that the jury that ultimately convicted Pancavetti had been sequestered, but I could check to see if there’d been any drama. And I was reminded to arrange a visit with Pancavetti. Maybe Nick would know what Federal prison facility held him; if I was lucky, perhaps it’d be in Hawaii. After all, Brad’s budget for this case knew no end.

  Brad also suggested contacting other members of Rachel’s family. I recalled her mentioning grandparents and an Aunt Kay, but I’d need more details. I called Rachel’s number.

  “Hello, Rachel,” I said when she’d answered, “it’s Sharon Porter. Do you have time to talk?”

  She hesitated before saying, “Sure.”

  “It’ll only take a couple minutes,” I assured her. “I’d like to reach out to your family members who might have a better recollection of the events at the time of your dad’s death. You had mentioned grandparents.”

  “I’m afraid they’re all gone. I never knew my dad’s parents. My mom’s father died when I was in high school, and Grandma two years ago.” Rachel continued, “Her death was hard on my mom; they’d been close.”

  “Aunts and uncles?” I asked.

  “My dad was an only child. My mom had one sister, my Aunt Kay.”

  “Do you think I could see her?”

  “I don’t know why not. She lives in Fort Washington. With her… I don’t know what you’d call him… they’re not married,” Rachel added in a judgmental note. “I’ll give you her number.”

  I copied the phone number, and then I remembered an earlier conversation with Rachel. “When you first met with Brad and me, you told us that you used to make a pest of yourself at family gatherings getting everyone’s opinions about what happened to your dad. What family were you talking about?”

  Rachel laughed. “Mostly cousins, I guess. Kay had six children by her first two husbands. She’s eight years older than my mom, and my cousins are between six and fourteen
years older than me.”

  “I’ll give your aunt a call,” I said, “but would you mind giving her a heads up that she’ll be hearing from me? It will make it less awkward.”

  “Sure, as soon as we end this call.” After a pause, Rachel asked, “Are you making any progress?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to get her hopes up. “I’ve barely scratched the surface. Please understand that this is going to take time.”

  “Oh, I do,” Rachel said, but with a twinge of disappointment in her voice.

  I decided to wait at least a half hour after we hung up before calling Rachel’s Aunt Kay. While waiting, I composed an e-mail to Nick Argostino to see if he might know what Federal correctional facility held Hugo Pancavetti.

  With the benefit of my new library card, I was able to sign on to the library’s information portal and search news accounts of Hugo Pancavetti’s second trial. I’d heard that second trials almost always result in a conviction, and his was no exception. Prosecutors have a better idea of the reliability of their witnesses on the second go and can fill in holes that might have become apparent the first time. They can even speak to jurors willing to talk with them from the first trial to hear a critique of their strategy—determine what worked, what didn’t.

  In the articles I found, there were frequent mentions of the sequestered jury, and except for one juror being excused due to a burst appendix, the jury for the second trial remained alive and free of the drama that had marked the first one.

  I silently thanked the librarian who had suggested signing up for a card.

  My phone rang, and I expected it was Nick with word on Pancavetti’s humble digs. Instead, I heard a woman’s voice, “Sharon Porter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rachel told me you were going to call, but I’ve got to leave for the hairdresser in a minute, so I thought I’d call you. Rachel gave me your number.” There was a brassy tone to the woman’s voice.

  “You must be her Aunt Kay?”

  “Yes. I’ll be available to chat about one-thirty today. Just wanted you to know.”

  “Could I visit you in person?” I asked.

  “The place is messy, but okay.” This lady didn’t mince words.

  “You’re in Fort Washington?”

  During the next minute I learned her last name was Strahan, she furnished me her address, instructed me to use my GPS, and shared her cell phone number.

  “Great,” I said, wrapping up the call, “See you at 1:30 p.m.”

  Before departing I received an e-mail from Nick Argostino informing me that Hugo Pancavetti was incarcerated at FCI Beckley, a medium security facility in Beckley, West Virginia. So much for my dreams of enjoying an authentic luau. I searched the Internet and found a 23-page PDF of rules and regulations regarding visits to Federal inmates. Visitation was limited to Saturday, Sunday, Monday and holidays, which seemed odd. No matter what, I wasn’t about to sacrifice my Thanksgiving for a trip to “Wild, Wonderful, West Virginia.”

  Based on my understanding, I could make a request to Pancavetti to be added to his approved list of non-family visitors, or I could contact the warden’s office to request a special visitation, which is what I decided to do. I phoned and had to leave a detailed message explaining who I was and my reason for seeking a visit. A response was promised within 48 hours.

  Under overcast skies I made my way toward Fort Washington and my meeting with Kay Strahan. My nose kept running, and I reached for tissues in the box on the passenger seat.

  Damn this cold.

  Leaves on the trees were mostly history, and passing showers promised to knock the remaining ones off by the end of the day. Occasionally a tree with brilliant burgundy hues stuck out in the middle of the landscape and brought a smile to my face. I loved fall with its cooler temperatures and the anticipation of the upcoming holidays. The radio station I listened to kept reminding listeners that they’d be broadcasting holiday tunes 24/7 in just eight more days.

  I took an off ramp from the Pennsylvania Turnpike at exit 339, paid the toll, and quickly found Camp Hill Road less than a mile away. Kay’s home was situated on a tree-lined street where most of the homes dated from the sixties. I pulled into her drive at 1:24 p.m., and since there was an SUV parked there and only a screen door visible at the entry, I figured that Kay was home.

  As I approached the front door, a red-headed woman loomed in the doorway. Unlike Oliver’s ginger-colored hair, her hair looked the color of Bozo the Clown’s and had been teased within an inch of its life. Kay told me she’d had an appointment with the hairdresser. I wanted to suggest she get her money back. Her brassy voice called out, “I’m Kay. Meet me around back.”

  I traveled around the side of the house and quickly spotted a three-seasons room with jalousie windows. Kay held the door open for me.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said, “we’ll meet out here. I told you earlier the house is a mess. I think we should be warm enough.”

  The room faced west, and the sun peeked through the clouds, warming the space. A couple of the windows had been cranked open, and a gentle breeze helped chase a dank odor from the room. I settled into a cushioned rattan couch. “This will be fine. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  Kay sat in a straight-backed chair opposite me. Once I got past her hair, I saw a trim woman of about sixty years who wore a mint-colored smock over gray slacks.

  “I’m more curious than anything,” she began. “Rachel told me you’re looking into her father’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a bit of a shock. I mean, I know the police were involved back then, but we never got any answers.” Kay added, “I watch that show on TV, you know,” she snapped her fingers next to her face as if trying to summon the name, “the one that focuses on the first 48 hours after a crime is committed.”

  “You mean First 48?”

  She rasped a giggle. “Yeah, that’s it. We didn’t know this stuff back when Martin was killed. We just kept expecting the police to solve the case any day. Maggie did, too.”

  I’d seen her name in the accident report at Nick’s office, but it occurred to me that was the first time I’d heard Rachel’s mother’s name spoken; in my mind, she’d just been Rachel’s mother.

  “But as the weeks turned to months…” Kay’s voice trailed off. “Maggie called a couple of times and spoke to a detective, but there was never any progress.”

  “Was that Alfred Miles?”

  “Could be. Doesn’t ring a bell. I’m not sure if I ever knew his name.” She shrugged.

  I launched into an explanation of my visit, telling her that Rachel would like to have answers after all these years, and that I was working with Brad Frame to take another look at the case.

  Her eyes widened when I mentioned Brad’s name. She’d obviously heard of him.

  “Frame, huh? I hope Rachel doesn’t squander all the money her mother left her.”

  “Was it quite a bit?” I asked.

  “Well… I haven’t heard the details. I know Martin left her half-a-million, in addition to having mortgage insurance, so the house was free and clear. I just assumed Maggie had the same kind of policy. You know.”

  I leaned in, trying on my best give-me-the-dirt expression.

  Kay stared back at me and smiled. “I’m surprised that Maggie didn’t sell the house, take Martin’s insurance money and head for a beach somewhere. I sure would have. I don’t know why she stayed there,” adding, “Out of sentiment?”

  I thought about the Tetlow home, which was modest at best. I hadn’t had the benefit of seeing the furnishings, but the walls looked like they hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since several years before Martin Tetlow’s death.

  “Did you and your sister talk about who might have been responsible for her husband’s death?”

  “I can’t say as we ever had a direct conversation about it. Maggie used to mutter about that damn jury.”

  “Mutter?”

  “Bl
aming the court. She talked about suing the Feds. ‘Good luck with that,’ I told her.”

  “What about closer to home? Did Martin have any trouble at work? Any enemies?” I made air quotes with my fingers to punctuate the last word.

  Kay shook her head. “Martin was a sweetheart. I wish I’d been so lucky with my first two husbands.” She rubbed her hand over her mouth. “I don’t know. Maybe that bitch that lived next door.”

  I’d just settled back comfortably in my chair when her comment brought me to the edge of my seat.

  “Next door?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Maggie didn’t trust her. I never met the woman, but Maggie thought she was spying on her.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “What makes you think that?” I said, doubt in my voice.

  “We were visiting in her kitchen once, and Maggie was standing at the sink when all of a sudden she reached over and pulled the curtain shut. ‘Did you see her?’ she asked. ‘See who? I said.’” Kay shrugged. “I mean, there I was minding my own business, sitting at the table drinking a cup of coffee. I saw Maggie peek through the curtains and then she said, ‘Never mind.’ Then she sat next to me at the kitchen table and sipped her coffee like nothing had happened.”

  I heard a car door slam.

  Recalling my visit to the Tetlow’s Manayunk home, I pictured the kitchen at the rear. The window above the sink faced the driveway. I remembered my encounter with the neighbor raking leaves, and his comments about his wife keeping an eye on him from a nearby window. I needed to ask Rachel what she might know about Kay’s theory that the woman next door had been spying on her mother.

  “Hello,” a voice called from inside the house, and then a young man, no more than thirty, entered the porch. He looked like he’d come from a metal rock band rehearsal, complete with studded jeans, and black leather jacket with a miniature skull as a zipper pull. His eyes ping-ponged between me and Kay. I was in the process of doing the math and concluded that this must be her youngest son, when he bent down and gave Kay an open-mouthed, tongue-to-tonsils kiss that made me blush.