Final Juror (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 5)

by Ray Flynt

  Brad had the impression that Cordes wanted to say more, but, as custom dictated for cross-examination, he kept his answer brief.

  “Of the several hundred homicide cases that you’ve investigated in your career, how many of those have had two,” Asher waggled two fingers in front of the witness, “count ‘em, two anonymous tips?”

  Cordes shrugged his shoulders. “We receive tips all the time.”

  Asher stood directly in front of the witness box. “Those calls are recorded, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your system captures the numbers where the calls originate?”

  “Yes.”

  “If necessary, you could follow up and reach the persons who call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Therefore, your department does not presume to offer anonymity to those who call with tips?”

  “No.”

  Asher glanced at the jury. “Back to my original question, in how many cases over the course of your career have you had two anonymous tips?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps a couple.”

  “A couple? Does that mean two?”

  “Two or three.”

  “But earlier you said ‘perhaps,’ so maybe you really mean just this one case?”

  “Objection,” Cunningham shouted as she stood. “Counsel is badgering the witness.”

  “Sustained. Mr. Asher, time to move on.”

  Asher nodded deferentially toward the judge, then turned back and eyed the jury. Brad thought Asher might be trying to assess if they understood the point he’d been trying to make, or if he’d gone too far in questioning the police detective. Over the next few minutes, the defense attorney asked a few perfunctory questions before concluding his cross-examination.

  Cunningham had no re-direct, and the judge declared a fifteen-minute afternoon break.

  Brad headed for the sunshine.

  When court resumed nineteen minutes later, Cunningham called the dispatcher from the Academy Taxi Company as her next witness.

  Mary Rose Ferrara had a round face and shoulder-length streaked hair. Brad guessed her age at forty. He imagined her working in a drab windowless office, wearing faded jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. Brad felt the prosecutor’s office had told her to dress presentably, but in her pink floral outfit she looked like she’d just left the communion rail at St. Timothy’s.

  Cunningham asked fewer than a dozen questions to confirm details on the taxi call log for the evening of March 4th. In a nasal voice that sounded more “Joisey” than Philly, Ms. Ferrara testified that she had received a request for a cab to be sent to One Feldman Circle at 8:10 p.m. that night. She then radioed Jimmy Oduya, and asked him to make the pick-up. The driver called at 8:21 p.m. to announce his arrival, and a few minutes later reported that he was en route to the airport.

  When Cunningham completed her questioning the judge called on Shane Asher for cross-examination.

  “No questions, Your Honor.”

  Ms. Ferrara left the witness stand grinning like a dental patient who’d been told she had no cavities.

  “The Commonwealth calls Jomo Oduya.” Cunningham spoke with a seriousness that suggested star witness.

  He entered via the same door as all of the witnesses, and moved toward the judge’s bench, looking apprehensive in the unfamiliar surroundings.

  “Please, over here,” Whitaker encouraged him, pointing toward the witness stand. “The clerk will please swear in the witness.”

  Oduya’s dark skin stood out against his short-sleeved linen shirt, and his black hair was close-cropped.

  Cunningham approached and said, “Mr. Oduya, I understand that you like to be called Jimmy?”

  The witness smiled broadly. “Yes. All my friends call me Jimmy,” he said, in an English accent steeped in British colonial origins.

  After establishing that he worked as a driver for the Academy Taxi Company, Cunningham asked, “How long have you been a taxi driver?”

  “Nine years,” he said softly, adding, “six here, three in Nairobi.”

  He’s from Kenya, Brad thought, which explained the accent.

  “Please pull the microphone a little closer,” Cunningham requested. “Do you recall making a trip to One Feldman Circle on the evening of March 4th this year?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember the person you picked up at that address?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Do you remember what the person was wearing?

  “A tan trench coat.”

  Brad found that detail interesting. Cordes had testified that they had photographs of Nesbit entering the security checkpoint at the Philadelphia airport, and wondered if they would show him similarly attired.

  “What else do you remember?”

  “No luggage. That is unusual, especially for the airport.”

  “Was there anything else unusual about your passenger that evening?”

  “He gave a large tip.”

  Cunningham gestured toward the jury. “Please describe for the jurors what you mean by a large tip.”

  “The fare was about $50. He gave me $100, and told me keep the change.”

  Brad recalled the generous tip Nesbit had left on the bill at Porcini’s Bistro.

  “Mr. Oduya… Jimmy, do you see in this courtroom the person that you drove to the airport on March 4th of this year?”

  The witness looked past Cunningham and almost immediately focused his attention on the defense table. He pointed at the defendant and said, “Yes. That is him.”

  The moment caused a bit of a stir among the spectators, prompting a gaveled rebuke from Whitaker.

  “For the record,” Cunningham announced, “the witness pointed at the defendant, David Nesbit.

  After a few more questions, she relinquished the floor to Shane Asher’s cross-examination.

  Asher began his questions while still seated at the defense table. “It was dark when you arrived at One Feldman Place that night, was it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “You pulled your car into the driveway opposite the front door?”

  “Yes.”

  Asher then took the witness through a series of questions designed to demonstrate exactly where Oduya was in relation to the person exiting the Nesbit home and getting into his car. It turned out that man approached the taxi from behind him, over his right shoulder, since he’d parked the cab so that the trunk was closest to the door.

  “The light was lit next to the front door, was it not?”

  The witness hesitated before saying, “Yes,” but the look on his face suggested that lighting was a detail on which he had not focused.

  Asher pressed on. “Given your location in relation to the person exiting the home, the porch light would have been in your eyes if you had turned to look at the person?”

  “I guess so.”

  A smile crept onto Asher’s face. If the witness was in doubt, Brad thought, the defense attorney had accomplished his job.

  “Did you get out of the car to help the man with his luggage?”

  “No. He didn’t have any luggage.”

  “You’re saying that when a man emerged from the house, your focus was on whether he had luggage and not on his face?”

  “Y… yes,” the cab driver stammered.

  “Mr. Oduya, are you a citizen of the United States?”

  “Objection,” Cunningham said as she stood. “Beyond the scope of direct examination.”

  “If the court please,” Asher began, “the witness testified to having worked at least three years in Nairobi.”

  “Overruled.” Whitaker turned to Oduya. “You may answer.”

  The cab driver glanced at Cunningham, before saying, “No.”

  “You have your immigration papers, right—a green card?”

  At that moment, the court reporter erupted in a sneeze that brought proceedings to a halt, followed by a few chuckles from the spectators.

  A second sneeze quickly followed, and then she b
egan a hacking cough.

  Asher glanced at Cunningham, and then turned toward the judge asking, “A break?”

  The court clerk poured a glass of water, and offered it to the court reporter, who still sputtered with coughs. A few sips of water had done little to quiet her hacking.

  Judge Whitaker stared down at the scene, and announced, “We’ll take a short recess.”

  As the jury re-entered the courtroom twenty minutes later, Brad noticed that a man had taken the place of the court reporter at the stenography machine.

  The crier intoned, “All rise,” and Whitaker took his place on the bench.

  “Mr. Asher, you may recall your witness.”

  “Jomo Oduya to the stand, please.” Asher gestured toward the Sheriff’s deputy who normally staked out a position next to the door where witnesses were admitted.

  The deputy stood, opened the door, and stepped out in to the hallway. He returned moments later and approached Shane Asher, where they engaged in whispered conversation.

  Asher turned to the judge. “Your Honor, may counsel approach the bench?”

  Whitaker signaled them forward.

  Brad wondered what had happened, and saw a few of his fellow jurors shaking their heads.

  After a brief conference, the attorneys returned to their seats.

  The judge faced the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We seem to have lost a witness.”

  20

  My sniffles came back within two hours of my return to Philadelphia, confirming my suspicions of an allergy versus a cold. I prayed for a hard frost. Soon!

  I arrived in Bryn Mawr ahead of the late-afternoon traffic rush. Before crashing at my apartment, I dropped by the office to check messages and leave a few notes for Brad.

  I found no e-mails of any importance for the agency.

  There were three phone “messages,” including a hang-up, an irritating screech from a misdirected fax, and a request from an attorney in Sullivan County looking for help finding a client who had skipped out on bail. I penned a note for Brad and placed it on his side of the partners’ desk. He would make the call on whether to take the case.

  I tried to call Oliver to finalize our plans for Thanksgiving. He’d mentioned that a few of his friends were going to meet up in Atlantic City over the long weekend, and wondered if I wanted to go along. I didn’t envision much progress on Rachel’s case over the holiday, so I’d said yes.

  I planned to pick Oliver up and bring him to my apartment after work on Wednesday. We’d find a nice restaurant for turkey-day dinner, and then I could drive us to New Jersey on Friday to meet his friends. My call to Oliver went into voice mail, and I had to leave a message.

  Just as I finished, my phone chirped, and I saw that it was an incoming call from Nick Argostino. “Hey Nick,” I answered.

  “Sorry I haven’t had a chance to get back to you before this,” Nick began. “I asked Austin… you met him when you were here the other day… to research your question about Norman Kinkade. I had to light a fire under his ass. These guys don’t jump for me quite as fast as they used to since I’ve mellowed in my old age.”

  I laughed.

  “It isn’t funny.”

  “If you say so,” I deadpanned.

  “To answer your question,” Nick continued, “they cleared Kinkade’s case; it had no connection to him being a part of that jury—although they looked at that angle initially.”

  I was curious about the details. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “In two words: Drug wars. Kinkade was an innocent bystander gunned down in a case of mistaken identity. Apparently the gunman wanted to kill a rival dealer who lived on the opposite side of the street, but had the address mixed up. The intended victim—the guy across the street—was killed two months later. After the second shooting, detectives got the license plate number of the car from an eyewitness, found the gun, and ballistics matched the bullet in Kinkade’s case.”

  “Wow. That guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Yup. But he lived there; what could he do?”

  I digested what Nick had just told me. Maybe Pancavetti had been telling me the truth. If so, I’d have to find Tetlow’s killer closer to home.

  I realized I’d been silent when I heard Nick say, “I hope this helps.”

  “Oh sure, Nick. Thanks. Working a seventeen-year-old case is tough.”

  “I hate cold cases.” Shifting gears, Nick asked, “What do you hear from your boss?”

  “Not much. He’s still tied up with jury duty.”

  “Lucky stiff.” Nick snickered.

  “I heard a news report about that trial today. Seems like the defendant was paying for an apartment for his mistress.”

  Nick whistled.

  “Yeah. KYW kept repeating the story. I heard it a couple times on my trip back.”

  As I spoke with Nick, I thought I heard a car crossing the cobblestone driveway outside the office. I was about to stand and investigate when Brad walked through the door. “Hey, stranger,” I said.

  “Huh?” Nick said, unaware I hadn’t been talking to him.

  I handed my phone to Brad, and mouthed the words, “It’s Nick.”

  Brad exchanged small talk for the next few minutes. He asked about Ruth and their son, Randy, expressed interest in getting together for dinner before the holidays, and thanked him for helping me with my investigation.

  Brad turned to me, silently asking if I needed to speak with Nick further. I shook my head. He wrapped up the call, then handed me my phone.

  “Welcome back,” I said, as Brad settled into his chair on the other side of the desk.

  He sighed. “Long day… and we actually got out a little early.”

  I shared the fact that I’d been on the road, but that I’d heard numerous reports on KYW. “You know,” I said, “about mistresses and rented apartments.” I flashed him an anything-you-want-to-talk-about grin.

  “I can’t really discuss it.” But then he added, “You might want to watch the news tonight for the latest development.”

  Brad had definitely piqued my curiosity.

  “How’s the Tetlow case coming?”

  As Brad sifted through the mail and a few notes I’d left him, I filled him in on my meeting with Pancavetti. Then I shared the latest update from Nick. I half expected him to tick off a do this/call there/verify that checklist for me, but instead he asked, “What are you planning next?”

  It felt exhilarating that he trusted me. I didn’t want to screw up, and put more pressure on myself as a result.

  “I need to meet with Rachel. You saw my notes about the meeting with her aunt?”

  Brad nodded.

  “Oliver thinks I should delve into the issue of money,” I explained. “I’d like to find out more about family finances after Martin’s death.”

  Brad stood. “You’re doing a good job. If I don’t talk with you before then, enjoy the long Thanksgiving weekend.”

  He looked tired. His eyes had a faraway look. While I had no complaints about his interaction with me, I could tell his mind was focused on the trial.

  I visited the KYW website to check out the “latest development” Brad referenced. It didn’t take long to locate, because it was one of their top headlines: “Key Witness in Nesbit Case Skips.”

  I clicked on the link.

  Taxi driver Jimmy Oduya, who challenged David Nesbit’s alibi when he claimed to have driven Nesbit to the airport around 8:30 p.m. on the night of his wife’s murder, is missing.

  Under questioning by defense attorney Shane Asher, Oduya, a native of Kenya, was asked whether he had immigration papers to document that he lived in this country legally. Before he could answer, the court had to take an unexpected break after the court reporter experienced a coughing spell.

  When court resumed, and Oduya was recalled to the stand, he could not be found.

  The trial dismissed early for the day, and lawyers in the case were
meeting with Judge Whitaker, presumably to consider the impact of this latest development on the trial.

  Observers speculated that Asher might request a mistrial, since he’d been unable to finish cross-examining the taxi driver.

  The story went on to summarize the details of Genevieve Nesbit’s murder, and her husband’s arrest.

  Wow! It was easy to understand why Brad appeared so whipped. He might not even know that a mistrial is under consideration.

  I checked my watch and saw that it was after 5 p.m. I decided to call Rachel to discuss our next steps.

  She answered promptly.

  “Hi, Rachel. It’s Sharon. I called to share a few updates.”

  She’d already heard her aunt’s version of our meeting, and I filled Rachel in on my meeting with Pancavetti. I asked if we might be able to meet in person, saying that I had questions about her mother’s finances and insurance.

  “Mom didn’t have much insurance, just a $25,000 policy, much of which went for her funeral,” Rachel explained.

  “I was thinking about the insurance your dad left.”

  “Oh… right. Of course. I have all her records. They’re in a storage facility near here.”

  “Any chance I could take a peek at them?” I asked.

  “Actually, the lawyer might have a few things,” Rachel corrected. “That’d be the recent stuff, but sure. You want to meet at lunchtime tomorrow? I can suggest a place that’s close to the storage locker.”

  “That’ll work.”

  We arranged to meet at Pachanga Grill, a Mexican restaurant in Odenton, Maryland, at noon on Tuesday. The location was easy to find, and it took me a little over two hours to get there from Bryn Mawr. If I keep racking up all this business mileage for my vehicle, I’ll have extra cash for Christmas shopping.

  The restaurant was situated in a small strip mall that contained a pizza place, workout center, second-hand store, and veterinarian’s office.

  I arrived ten minutes early, explained there’d be two of us, and was escorted to a table near the front. Noticing that all the tables by the window were crammed close together, I asked, “You have a place that would be a little more private?”