by Ray Flynt
The greeter smiled. “Follow me.”
She led me toward a hallway at the rear and a table for two adjacent to the counter where plates of food were retrieved from the kitchen.
“This will be perfect.” I sat facing the front door, so that I could watch for Rachel’s arrival.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Rachel entered wearing the same tan, gray and green camouflage as she had during our first meeting in Brad’s office. This time her uniform bore sergeant’s stripes. I waved. She approached and sat opposite me.
I pointed at her rank insignia. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
“Thanks. It happened a little quicker than I expected.” Rachel looked at her watch. “We don’t have to rush, but I need to be back for a meeting at one-thirty. I want to allow enough time to show you that storage locker. It’s just a couple blocks from here.”
I’d had a chance to study the menu before her arrival, and Rachel announced she was a regular customer. We summoned a waiter, quickly placed our order, and he brought a glass of iced tea for each of us.
“I understand you met Zack?” Rachel rolled her eyes.
“Charming man,” I said, tongue-in-cheek.
Rachel shook her head. “I will never understand my aunt’s taste in men.” She dug into the chips and salsa at our table.
“Speaking of your aunt, Kay told me that your mom received a $500,000 life insurance payout.”
“I never knew the details. Mom assured me that Dad left enough for my college education. I went to LaSalle for two years in computer science. Unlike a lot of my friends, I’m not burdened with student loan debt.”
“What made you join the Army?”
Rachel blushed, and I knew the answer before she gave it. “There was this guy from high school. He joined the Army, was relocated to Fort Meade, and convinced me that my computer training would be a perfect fit for assignments here.”
“The two of you still together?”
She shook her head. “We broke up about a year ago. No regrets.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I can’t discuss the specifics, but you do know that the US Cyber Command is headquartered at Meade?”
I smiled, and nodded like I’d known it all along.
The waiter arrived with our meals, steak fajita salad for me and chicken enchiladas for Rachel.
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to find who murdered my dad?”
“I’m not giving up yet.” I stabbed a piece of meat from my salad. “I’d hoped to make a mob connection to his death. But after my meeting with Hugo Pancavetti, I have doubts.”
Rachel stared at her plate, and shoved the black beans around with her fork.
“I’ll be honest. I think I have to look closer to home.”
Rachel looked worried. “What do you mean?”
“Your aunt didn’t have nice things to say about your mom’s next-door neighbors.”
“Sandy and Herb?” Rachel looked shocked. “Why would they want to kill Dad?”
“I’m not saying they did. According to Kay, your mother thought the woman next door was spying on her and even called her a bitch.”
“I never heard her say that.” Defensiveness had crept into Rachel’s voice. “They were always nice to me… well, Sandy chased me out of their yard a few times when I was little, but I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”
“I’d also like to track down people who might have worked with your dad at the GE plant in Valley Forge. Maybe a rivalry at work turned deadly. Do you know anybody who could help me?”
Rachel frowned. “I’m sorry, I can’t think of anyone. I… wait.” She held her index finger aloft. “There was a guy—I think he might have been trying to make the moves on Mom,” Rachel laughed. “He stopped by a few times.”
“How long after your dad died?”
Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know. Not right after… it could have been a year. I remember he would bring me stuff whenever he visited.” Rachel’s face brightened. “He gave me a Hercules coloring book. That movie didn’t come out until ‘97, two years after Dad died. Anyway, I asked Mom who he was, and she said that he used to work with Dad.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“I’ve been trying to… his name rhymed. Maybe if I stop thinking, it’ll come to me.”
“Yeah, funny how that works.”
The waiter re-filled our iced tea glasses, and I asked for the check.
“I know you don’t have much time, and I’d still like to see your mom’s financial records.”
“I don’t understand how that will help,” Rachel said.
“It may not. But if I can figure out the state of your family’s finances at the time of your father’s death, maybe there’ll be a clue that will send me in the right direction. It’s called forensic accounting.”
“Drew,” Rachel blurted. “Drew Decker. That’s the name of the guy who worked with Dad.”
“Great.” I copied his name into my notebook. “I’ll try to track him down. I could start by calling the GE plant and see if he might still be working there.”
“Dad would turn fifty this year if he’d lived.”
I nodded, understanding her meaning that a colleague of his would still be in his prime employment years.
I paid our check, and we walked together to the parking lot.
Rachel pointed toward a nearby traffic light. “We’re just going a couple blocks. Ride with me. I have the access code for the self-storage facility. We can throw the financial papers in the back of my truck, and then I’ll drop you back here.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said, as I jumped into her pickup truck.
A few minutes later I was gaping into a 5’ by 10’ storage unit filled with boxes and sundry crap, including a tricycle, dress form, metal shelving, toolboxes, and a lawnmower. I glanced at Rachel with an expression that I hoped screamed, “Seriously?”
“It’s not that bad,” Rachel said.
Easy for you to say.
Rachel pointed at a stack of banker’s boxes. “All the financial stuff is in those.”
I counted seven boxes. I’d expected one—two at the most. I felt my plans for the Thanksgiving weekend give way like quicksand under my feet.
I wonder how badly Oliver wants to travel to Atlantic City?
21
Brad filled a cup from the water cooler, and took a sip.
The day could hardly have been worse, he thought, as he sat cooped up with other jurors in the small conference room just down the hall from Courtroom A.
Evie filed her nails. Jerry held court with a couple of the other jurors, while Chet read a magazine. With four-thirty approaching, everyone kept checking their watches in anticipation of going home. At the opposite end of the table sat Elaine, reminding him of a modern-day Madame Defarge; she never missed a crochet stitch.
During their “normal” breaks, Brad had been in the habit of walking outside to stretch, breathe fresh air, and try to mentally separate the wheat from the chaff in the testimony he’d just heard. This, however, was the third time that day the jury had been hustled out of the courtroom while the judge conferred with the attorneys in a sidebar.
“We’ll need a few minutes outside the hearing of the jurors,” Judge Whitaker would say, apologetically. But a few minutes quickly turned to twenty.
Brad laced his fingers behind his head, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair.
He heard a woman’s voice asking, “Having a bad day?”
I must look like crap.
He forced a smile. Then he opened his eyes and found himself staring at the beneficent face of Helen, a juror whose name he’d heard, but with whom he hadn’t yet spoken. Her rosy skin and gray curls suggested a grandmotherly aura. He doubted she was much over fifty.
“It’ll be over soon,” she said.
“I’ll drink to that.” He raised his cup of water in a mock toast. She’d already ma
de him feel better.
“I’m Helen,” she said, and confided in a whisper, “I know who you are.”
Brad leaned toward her. “Tell me about yourself.”
She gave him a broad smile.
Their conversation made the time pass pleasantly. Brad learned that Helen had retired early from teaching ninth grade math, and now worked part-time for her cousin’s accounting firm. A grown daughter lived in Ohio, and she had two grandchildren. Her job offered freedom and extra cash to visit them, and she planned to hop a flight to Cincinnati late-afternoon the following day for her Thanksgiving holiday. “I hope we get out early tomorrow as promised,” she said. “All my travel plans depend on it.”
A tipstaff rapped on the door before entering their conference room.
“The judge would like to see you in the courtroom,” she announced.
As they filed into the jury box, Brad noticed that the spectators’ gallery was only a third of what it had been. Of course, a few die-hard reporters, along with David Nesbit’s parents, and Francine and Eric Holt remained.
Whitaker was already on the bench, and addressed the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for our delays today, but we’ve been engaged in important discussions aimed at ensuring a fair trial. Normally, we’d recess for the day about now, but Ms. Cunningham informs me that she has one additional witness—who is on his way to the courthouse as we speak—and we would like to extend our session today.”
Brad heard a few groans from fellow jurors, though he didn’t think they were loud enough for the judge to hear.
“Counsel has assured me that once testimony begins, it can be wrapped up within ninety minutes.” The judge shot the attorneys an it-better-damned-well-be look, which Brad appreciated.
“What I would like to do is give you another short break so that you can notify family members that you’ll be home later than expected, or update your transportation plans,” Whitaker explained. “I’ve also asked my secretary to arrange for a few snacks to help everyone carry on for a little longer. However, I don’t want to proceed without your consent. If staying later would present a hardship for anyone, please raise your hand.”
The judge paused, looked with anticipation toward the jury box, and no one raised a hand.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Let me also add that by extending our session this evening, we will not have a court session tomorrow—an early start on your Thanksgiving break.”
Brad glanced over at Helen, who was all smiles at this news, assured that she’d make her flight on time.
“Court is in recess until 5:10 p.m.” Whitaker glanced at the attorneys, and added, “Promptly.”
Jurors returned to the conference room to find an ice-filled tub of assorted sodas, teas, and bottled water, along with pretzels and chips.
Brad grabbed a bag of barbecue potato chips and stepped into the hall. He descended one flight and walked outside, onto the grass not far from the main sidewalk. He hoped no other jurors would intrude on his solitude. Brad savored the feel of the sun on his back. While munching his chips, he wondered who the final witness of the day might be, and reflected on the testimony they’d heard during the course of the day.
Cunningham had offered a parade of witnesses—all supporting players to testimony that had preceded them. For example, a toxicologist confirmed Genevieve Nesbit’s blood alcohol level, but also reported the presence in her system of Effexor, an anti-anxiety medication, and Lisinopril, for high blood pressure. During cross-examination, Asher drew out the fact that Genevieve should not have been drinking alcohol in combination with the anti-anxiety drug.
A technician certified that he had tested the settings for the time stamp on the receipt issued at Porcini’s Bistro and found it to be accurate.
A TSA representative presented video of David Nesbit’s passage through Terminal A security—wearing a tan trench coat—at 8:58 p.m. on the night of the murder.
Enrique, a waiter from Porcini’s Bistro remembered David and Genevieve’s visit, citing the generous tip as the reason he remembered them—but he couldn’t recall whether Genevieve had consumed all of her meal. Asher then asked if Genevieve had appeared inebriated during the meal. On that point, Enrique was certain she had not.
Cunningham saved the dull bank witnesses for after lunch—when it was so easy to nod off. Forty minutes’ worth of minutia later, the jury learned that Genevieve and David Nesbit had joint, as well as separate, checking accounts. Their cash assets totaled $300K, while mutual funds, CDs, and IRAs accounted for another $6 million. Debts, including credit cards and mortgages on two vacation homes were $652K, secured by real estate valued at more than $4 million. Cunningham seemed intent on demonstrating that the wealth had originated from Genevieve, but under cross-examination Asher confirmed that without any of his wife’s resources David Nesbit’s net worth exceeded $850K. The mostly middle-class jurors would hardly think of him as poor.
Nathan Bowen, the manager of the apartment complex where David Nesbit had allegedly secreted a young woman, testified about the lease arrangement. He reported that a man identifying himself as Nesbit had contacted him and paid a security deposit and two months’ rent, and that subsequent payments had been on time. When asked to describe the woman who’d occupied the apartment, he said, “Petite, short-haired blonde, blue eyes, late 20s or early 30s.”
Cunningham then called a computer tech who analyzed David Nesbit’s computer—ostensibly to confirm that the PayPal rent payments were made from his computer. Then she asked about porn sites Nesbit might have frequented. Asher objected, but Whitaker allowed the question. The courtroom came to life, and Brad witnessed several of the older male spectators cupping a hand to their ears in order to hear that BuxomBrunettes and ChestnutBeauties were Nesbit’s most frequented sites.
During cross, Asher tried to refocus the tech’s testimony onto finances, and extracted the fact that he had found numerous yellow Post-It Notes under the computer’s keyboard, which detailed web addresses and passwords, including Nesbit’s PayPal password.
When court resumed after the break, Diane Cunningham called Holden Reed to the stand.
The line, “You never get a second chance to make a good first impression,” came to Brad’s mind, as the witness stumbled into the room wearing an Argyle sweater, corduroys, and tortoise shell glasses. Brad grinned as he recalled a recent discussion he’d had with Sharon about the distinctions between geeks, nerds and dorks. Brad guessed the man’s age as mid-20s, and suspected he must be another computer analyst.
Holden Reed leaned forward while sitting on the edge of his chair in the witness box. He pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, while his eyes wandered in the direction of the elaborate chandeliers in the courtroom. They seemed to hold his gaze, almost as if he were counting the number of light bulbs.
After he was sworn in, Cunningham approached and asked her first question. “Mr. Reed, what do you do for a living?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m a registered nurse at Central Dermatology Associates in Haverford.”
“And where do you live?”
“In the Briarwood Apartments, unit 303, in Haverford.”
“Is that unit on the third floor?”
“Yes.”
“Where, in relation to your unit, is #302?”
“Directly across the hall.”
“Your door faced the door to that unit?”
“Yes.”
“Approximately how wide was the hallway between your two doors?”
“Oh, I don’t know… maybe six feet.”
“Mr. Reed, I would like to show you a floor plan depicting the third floor of your apartment building and ask you if it is an accurate representation.” Cunningham handed the witness a piece of paper, and Brad couldn’t help but notice that the witness squinted as he studied it.
After Holden Reed declared the drawing to be accurate, Cunningham had it admitted as evidence, and soon the floor plan flashed on the video monitor
in front of the jury.
Brad saw that there were only four apartments on the floor. An elevator shaft separated units 301 from 302, while a stairwell buffered unit 303 from 304. The scale indicated that the width of the hallway between Mr. Reed’s unit and the opposite one was indeed six feet.
“During the period from October of last year until March of this year,” Cunningham continued, “did you meet the tenant who lived in unit 302?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Could you describe her for the jury?”
“She’s hot.”
Spoken like a testosterone-laden, American male, Brad thought, as ripples of laughter subsided—at the behest of Whitaker’s gavel.
Reed blushed, and Cunningham tried to keep a straight face as she asked, “Could you be more specific, please, in describing her?”
“She was short and thin, maybe 5’ 2” tall, with blue eyes and short blonde hair.” Reed drew his hand above his ears as a further demonstration of her hair length.
“Please describe the first time you met her.”
“We rode up together in the elevator and then she got off on my floor and headed toward the door across the hall from me.”
“Do you remember when that was?”
“Last December, maybe.” Reed shrugged. “I can’t be more specific. I already had a wreath up on my door, and recall thinking I could invite her to a Christmas party I was planning a few weeks later.”
“Did you have a conversation with her?”
“Just brief. I introduced myself as Holden, and she said her name was Heather.”
“Did she say her last name?”
“No. Neither of us did.”
“Did you invite her to your party?”
Reed shook his head.
“Mr. Reed, you need to verbalize your response for the benefit of the court reporter," Cunningham chastened.
“Sorry. No. But by then I saw her wedding ring.”
“How do you know that the woman, who identified herself as Heather, lived in the apartment across the hall from you?”
“Uh, well, like she used a key to get in, and I think she said, ‘I’m home.’”
