by Ray Flynt
Asher muted the sound, but the 60-second video kept playing on a continuous loop as Asher posed his question.
“Detective, do you recall the events depicted in the video?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Your Honor, the defense would like to admit this video into evidence.”
Before the judge could comment, Cunningham was on her feet. “Objection. Irrelevant.”
“Overruled,” Whitaker said. “The video will be admitted.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Detective, is that video an accurate depiction of how you like to make an arrest in a criminal case?”
“No. It is not.”
“How so?”
“I’d prefer a much less chaotic scene. We’d have been done twenty minutes earlier, but when I saw the TV cameras, helicopter, and the neighbors crowding on the lawn, I called for back-up.”
Brad turned his attention to the video as it neared the end of its loop. He spotted a short blonde-haired woman in the middle of the onlookers. As the helicopter flew overhead, she looked up, and Brad saw the birthmark under the right side of her chin.
Oh my God! Heather Sanders—or who called herself that—a woman the police hadn’t been able to find.
Brad looked down his row of jurors to see if anyone else might have noticed the mystery woman. They all seemed focused on Cordes’ testimony, which Brad had to admit he had all but tuned out following this new revelation. What does it mean? Who is she?
Next to him, Frank penned an image of the TV monitor with a good likeness of David Nesbit being perp-walked toward the waiting police car.
By the time Brad tuned back into the testimony, Cordes was blaming an unnamed local “pol” for leaking information of Nesbit’s arrest to the media.
“Detective, you previously reported on your conversation with David Nesbit that when he arrived at the Philadelphia Airport on the night of March 4th he checked his luggage, and then worked on his laptop at a Wi-Fi café. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Aside from securing video of his movements in the airport terminal, did you attempt to visit any of those Wi-Fi hotspots to see if anyone recognized Mr. Nesbit from that evening?”
“No, I did not.”
“Your Honor, I have no further questions of this witness,” Asher announced.
“Cross-examine, Ms. Cunningham,” Whitaker said.
Cunningham stood and walked over to the witness box. “Detective, during your search of the Nesbit home did you find any narcotic pain medicine?”
Cordes reached for his inside coat pocket. “If I might refer to my notes?”
“Of course,” Cunningham said.
Detective Cordes pulled out the small loose-leaf notebook jurors had seen him consult earlier. After searching through it, he said, “We found a prescription for acetaminophen with codeine.”
“Was that prescribed for David or Genevieve Nesbit?”
“David Nesbit.”
“I have no further questions for this witness.” Cunningham sat.
“Your Honor,” Asher began, “may counsel approach?”
Whitaker motioned Cunningham and Asher to the far side of the bench and clicked off his microphone. Brad could see Asher speak first, while Cunningham’s face reddened. When she spoke, he could make out “strenuous objection.”
Whitaker pivoted in his chair and addressed the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, we need to resolve a couple of issues in chambers, so I’m going to declare a fifteen-minute recess.”
Brad decided to take a stroll around the grounds of the courthouse. The process usually helped clear his head, but that afternoon he couldn’t escape the image of Heather Sanford—alleged mistress—standing in Nesbit’s front yard on the day he was arrested.
He couldn’t ignore what he’d seen, in spite of the fact that her presence in the video wasn’t established during formal testimony. In Brad’s mind, she was the 800-pound gorilla in the room. He’d seen short blonde hair and a birthmark on her chin and jumped to the only logical conclusion. What if I’m wrong? Hell, what if I’m right? She looked familiar and that gnawed at him as well.
When court resumed, Asher called Roberta Peshey to the stand.
Entering through the side door of the courtroom, Peshey immediately established herself as an unforgettable witness, with hair braided in hues of blue, orange and green, multiple star-shaped studs on the crest of each ear, a double nose ring and a crystal piercing on her lower lip. Brad noticed several of his fellow jurors watch her entry with bemusement.
After she’d been sworn, Asher approached the witness box. “Ms. Peshey, please tell the jury where you were employed on Sunday, March 4th of this year.”
In a nasal voice, she said, “I was a barista at Wi-Fi Express at the Philadelphia Airport.”
“You were located in Terminal A, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Peshey, do you recall being approached by my investigator a couple of months ago?”
She bobbed her head. “I do.”
“Did he show you a photograph of a man and ask if you recognized him?”
“He sure did.”
“And did you recognize the man?”
“Yeah, I was surprised that I did, but he stood out.”
“How so?”
“He ordered an odd drink, and left a $3 tip on a $6 order.”
“What was the drink?”
“Hot chocolate with cinnamon and raspberry syrup.”
“Do you remember what date it was when you saw the man?”
“Yeah, March 4th… my last day working there.”
“Ms. Peshey, do you see that same man in this courtroom?”
She looked toward the defense table. “Yeah. He had more hair back then. That’s him over there.”
“For the record, let it be noted that the witness has identified the defendant, David Nesbit,” said Asher.
“One more question,” Asher said. “Do you recall what time you saw Mr. Nesbit on the evening of March 4th?”
“I worked noon to eight that day, and he was still sitting there when I left. He’d been there at least an hour.”
“Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor.”
The witness stood to exit. “Please wait, Ms. Peshey,” the judge said. “The prosecutor may want to ask you questions.”
Cunningham stood and approached the witness, a document in hand.
“Ms. Peshey, I’d like to show you a document and ask if you recognize it.” Cunningham handed the paper to the witness.
Peshey looked dejected as she said, “Yeah, that’s my time sheet for the last week of February to the beginning of March.”
“And is that your signature on the time card?”
“Yes.”
“Your Honor, we would like to admit this into evidence and show the jury.”
After the usual calls for any objections, the document materialized on the monitor.
Brad focused, as he presumed other jurors would too, on the information for March 4th. It showed Peshey had clocked out at 7 p.m.
“Ms. Peshey, this document clearly shows that you clocked out at 7 p.m. on March 4th. Is that correct?”
“Yes… but…,” Peshey sputtered.
“No further questions, Your Honor.” Cunningham returned to her seat.
Whitaker peered at Asher over the top of his glasses. “Perhaps you’d care to ask a re-direct?”
“Yes. Thank you, Your Honor.” Asher stood at the defense table. “Ms. Peshey, can you explain for the jury the discrepancy between your testimony that you worked until 8 p.m. but punched out at 7 p.m.?”
“Yes.” Peshey sounded determined. “The owner wouldn’t let any of us work more than forty hours a week—he didn’t want to pay overtime. So the manager told me to clock out at 7, and said she’d make it up to me.”
“No additional questions,” Asher announced.
After Roberta Peshey left the stand, Whitaker turned to the jury. “Ladies and Gent
lemen, that’s all of the witnesses that we have today. After conferring with counsel, I can tell you that we expect to conclude with witnesses tomorrow morning, after which the attorneys will make their closing arguments. I expect that you’ll begin your deliberations by tomorrow afternoon. You are reminded not to discuss the case or to form opinions until all of the evidence has been presented. Court will resume at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning.”
Brad was already beginning to feel the weight of their decision-making process. He expected a restless night as he contemplated how the woman he’d seen in the video fit into the overall picture of the case.
24
I drove Oliver to the Chester County juvenile probation office in West Chester, PA first thing Monday morning. We’d enjoyed a great holiday weekend together, and our parting kiss foreshadowed more good times ahead.
I returned to the Frame Detective headquarters to map out my day. I sent Brad a text message about a promising development in the Tetlow case, and I added that I hoped to have more information later that day.
I planned to visit Sandy and Herb, the Tetlow’s neighbors in Manayunk, but decided I’d wait until early afternoon and drop in unannounced.
In the meantime, I used a service Brad subscribes to in order to locate people, and input the name of Drew Decker—Martin Tetlow’s colleague from his time at the GE plant. I searched for “Andrew” as well as “Drew” and received three matches. The first, a twenty-two-year-old, I discounted as being too young. The others were 50 and 54 respectively and lived in Roxborough and Valley Forge. I decided to try the Roxborough number first since it was closer to Manayunk.
A woman’s voice answered. I said, “Hi. Is this Mrs. Decker?”
“Yes,” she said like I was an unwanted sales call.
“My name is Sharon Porter, and I’m trying to reach a Drew Decker that worked with Martin Tetlow at the General Electric plant about seventeen years ago.”
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number. My husband’s been a school teacher all his life.”
“I’m very sorry to bother you,” I apologized and hung up.
Then I tried the other number and reached voice mail: “Hi, this is Drew. Sorry, I can’t take your call. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back.”
I left my name, referenced Martin Tetlow and GE, and provided my cell number.
For lunch, I fixed myself a salad with balsamic vinaigrette and convinced myself that I was on target in my post-Thanksgiving/pre-Christmas dieting mode. It might only last three days, but every bit helps.
I made a U-turn on Lyceum and parked in front of the Tetlow home. The “For Sale” sign remained on the lawn, even though I knew Rachel already had a sales contract.
All looked quiet at the neighbors’ house, and I hoped I hadn’t come on a wild goose chase. The morning had been overcast, but the sun now shone on Rachel’s old neighborhood.
I walked to the Charitys’ front door and rang the bell. It worked. I could hear the chimes echoing through their front hall.
Nearly a minute had passed before I tried the bell a second time.
I’d lost hope that anyone was home when I heard the click of the deadbolt lock.
As the door opened, the woman behind the screen door stared at me in bewilderment. Her hair looked recently permed, and she wore a charcoal dress.
“Hi,” I began. “I’m a friend of Rachel Tetlow from next door. I dropped by last week and met Herb. I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”
The woman froze in place. “I’m sorry,” she finally said, “what did you say your name is?”
I realized I hadn’t. “It’s Sharon Porter.”
She pushed the screen door in my direction and muttered, “Come in.”
She directed me to the living room where we sat in neighboring chairs. Up close, I could see that her eyes were red and puffy.
“It’s Sandy, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Have you been crying? If this is a bad time, I could come back.”
“No,” she said, but the blubbering contradicted her.
I paused to allow her to compose herself.
In a half-whisper she said, “I buried Herb this morning.”
“I’m so sorry, Sandy.” I pictured the wheezing overweight man I’d seen a week earlier raking leaves in their backyard and begging me for a forbidden cigarette. I reached over and patted her arm.
“He died on Thanksgiving morning.” Her words poured out. “There was nothing I could do. I got up early to put the turkey in the oven, and Herb told me he wanted to sleep in. When I went back to wake him later that morning, I found him unresponsive. He already felt cold.”
My mission suddenly felt ill-timed.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked. “You shouldn’t be alone now. Is there someone who can stay with you?”
“My daughter will be here in a bit,” Sandy said.
I decided I would remain and provide what comfort I could until her daughter arrived. I’d gauge whether to ask about $500 checks after I assessed her mood.
“Let me fix you a cup of tea.” I stood and aimed for the kitchen.
“You don’t have to,” she mumbled, but the expression on her face told me that she appreciated the gesture.
I put the tea kettle on high, and rummaged through the cupboards to find cups and tea bags—Earl Grey. I even found a few shortbread cookies. Minutes later I returned to the living room with a cup of tea for each of us.
Sandy dabbed her eyes with a tissue. She accepted the tea with thanks.
“You mentioned Rachel,” Sandy said. “How’s she doing?”
“Doing well. You know she’s in the Army, down at Fort Meade, in Maryland.”
Sandy nodded that she did.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” My words sounded inadequate. “I just met Herb last week while I was visiting next door. He seemed like a nice man.”
She grunted. “He let himself go… put on weight. I warned him. And that damned smoking of his…”
Her thought trailed off, and we sat in silence.
I decided to tiptoe into my issue. “I’ve been helping Rachel with financial records following her mother’s death.”
Sandy’s tea cup rattled, and she appeared to tense as if she knew what might be coming.
What the hell. Time to take the plunge.
“I found a bunch of checks Maggie had made out to Cassandra Charity—I guess that’s you—for $500. I wondered what those were for?”
Sandy put her tea cup on the table next to her. She avoided my gaze, and at one point closed her eyes.
Finally, she said, “I guess you could say we had a little business deal?”
“Rachel never mentioned anything about you and her mother being in business together.”
Sandy shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. I had information.”
I couldn’t quite grasp what she was telling me. “She paid you for information?”
Sandy sighed. “I guess it doesn’t make any difference anymore.” In a firm voice, she said, “I saw what she did on the morning her husband died.”
I felt my eyes widen. I hadn’t seen that coming.
“I was up early that morning,” Sandy explained. “Herb had already left for work—or so I thought. While I was in the bathroom, I heard a clang of metal, like a tool dropped on pavement. I looked out the window and spotted the Tetlow’s car parked out at their curb, with Herb crouched next to it. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it was light enough that I could make him out. Then I saw Maggie shimmy out from underneath the car. Herb helped her to her feet. Then he got in our car and drove off, and Maggie went in the back door of their house.
“Later, when I heard about the accident I knew what they—she—had done.”
“All those years you were blackmailing her to keep her secret?”
Sandy winced. “I wouldn’t call it that. She paid me for valuable information to remain secret.”
The district attorney’s of
fice might have a different take on that.
I thought about the short leash on which Sandy had kept her husband. “What about Herb? Were you blackmailing him too?”
Sandy snorted. “I never said a word to him. Maggie might have—we never spoke about it.” After a pause, she added, “Maggie’s the one that done the deed. She knew all about cars. She and Martin met in the motor pool at Fort Dix. My husband barely knew how to fill up a gas tank. I’m sure Herb was only there to offer moral support.” A quizzical expression crossed her face. “Can you call it ‘moral’ when you’re about to kill a person?”
“Were they having an affair?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Sandy shook her head. “They weren’t after I had my little discussion with her. Herb had a wandering eye. I made it clear to Maggie not to let it wander in her direction.”
“Did you ask Maggie why she’d wanted to kill her husband?”
“Not in so many words. I think she got tired of him. For a few years before his death, I’d heard increasing complaints about Martin from Maggie. A woman can sense when another woman is falling out of love.”
“Mom?” a voice shouted through the front screen door.
“That’s my daughter,” Sandy said to me, then called out, “Come on in, Julie, I’m in the front room.”
I stood to leave. Sandy introduced me to her daughter.
“My condolences, again, Mrs. Charity.” To Julie I said, “I’m glad you’re here to look after her.”
I was in a state of disbelief at this latest turn of events. I only had one thing left to figure out: How was I going to break the news to Rachel that her mother was a killer?
25
If Brad didn’t already appreciate the significance of the day ahead, the presence of media vans lining East Main and Swede Streets brought its importance home. He spotted all of the major local stations—their satellite dishes stretching toward the morning sun. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see Nancy Grace doing a “live shot” on the courthouse lawn.
