The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, for the record, my name is Eddie Flynn and I have the honor of representing the defendant in this case, Leonard Howell. You’ve listened to Miss King, and she has been fair in outlining her role, and your role in this case. But I’m here to tell you about what’s not fair. It’s not fair that Leonard Howell is sitting in this court as a defendant. He should be sitting here watching whoever kidnapped his daughter receive a lengthy prison sentence. That would be fair. That would be just. Leonard Howell loved and adored his daughter. He sits here today as a man broken by grief. Broken by the loss of his child. You cannot ease that suffering. But you can give him half of what justice demands. You can acquit him. The evidence in this case, which Miss King briefly mentioned, is at best circumstantial, and at worst it is entirely false.

  “Leonard Howell got a separate call from the kidnapper after they had contacted the FBI. He told my client that if he wanted his daughter returned alive he was to bring ten million dollars to a drop-off point. He was warned, if he told the police or the FBI about the real ransom drop, his daughter would be murdered. What would you do in that situation?”

  I wasn’t allowed to ask the jury anything, but this was rhetorical. For as long as I could, I stayed quiet, and let the jury ask themselves that question. I had to put them in Howell’s shoes. That’s the secret to winning a jury. Really, a jury trial was a psychological game. The prosecution wanted to put the victim right alongside the jury. And every defense attorney knew they had to take the jury out of the stand, and put them in the defendant’s chair. Perspective was everything.

  Judge Schultz saw through my play, but instead of calling me on it she cleared her throat and I took that as my cue to get going again.

  “My client went to the ransom drop with two men. Peter McAuley and Marlon Black. His longtime friends and employees. At the location of the ransom drop were two telephone numbers. My client called them both. The first was answered by an FBI agent who picked up the call from a burner cell phone in his ransom location. The second call set off the explosive device in my client’s home. That night, my client’s wife and other members of his staff were in that house. He would not willingly put them in danger. Then, Leonard Howell was struck on the head from behind. When he woke up, the ransom, the note with the phone numbers on it, and his friends, were all gone.”

  I paused again. Let the jury roll this around in their minds. Let them get a feel for it.

  “Miss King is right to say that it is your job to evaluate and weigh up this evidence. Because each piece taken individually, or the entirety of it taken as a whole, proves nothing. You will hear the prosecution theory that Leonard Howell was attempting to defraud his insurance company out of the ransom, and that the kidnapping had been set up by the defendant purely for the money.

  “There’s one problem with this theory; it doesn’t make any sense.”

  I strode forward, slowly, closing in on the jury with what I hoped was the truth.

  “Those of you who have children, those of you who have a loved one, those of you who know what it is to hold a child in your arms – ask yourself this question; would you kill that child for money?”

  A shorter pause this time, because it was an easy question. With each moment I felt more jurors were psychologically moving toward the defendant. They were looking over my shoulder, imagining they were in that chair.

  “In fact, is there any amount of money in the world which would make you harm a child? No. No parent could do that. None of us could even conceive of it. The prosecution will not be able to persuade you that Leonard Howell could do it, they will not be able to persuade you that he was motivated by money to do it. You know why they can’t persuade you? Because I know, looking at each of you, that nothing could persuade you to harm your own child. And Leonard Howell is just like you. So, at every stage in this trial ask yourself – could this man kill his own child? I think you all already know the answer.”

  I backed up, turned and walked away to the sound of King raising an objection. The judge agreed that my last statement should be disregarded by the jury.

  “Mr Flynn, I know you have a great deal of experience in the Manhattan district courts, but we do things differently here,” said Judge Schultz. “In your last comment you invited the jury to prejudge this matter. Let me be clear that I will not stand for that kind of behavior from counsel.”

  I nodded, apologized. She turned to the jury and said, “You must ignore counsel’s last remark. Do not prejudge any aspect of this case. First, listen to the testimony, understand all of the evidence. The time for evaluating and judging comes at the end of this trial, when you retire to consider your verdict. Not before. Are we clear?”

  The jury nodded. King was pissed at me but refused to show it. The trouble with asking a jury to disregard anything, is that they’re only given that instruction after the horse has leapt out of the barn and is galloping halfway down the lane.

  I finished my summary, sat down and made a note, which I passed to Howell. He read it, slid it back across the table to me.

  The prosecutor bent low over her desk, whispering to her assistants.

  I’d already guessed her play. With an opening statement like that, King’s first job was to ruin the defendant’s credibility – make him look like a liar. Originally King was going to call Agent Lynch as the first witness, I’d seen her witness list and Lynch was a good call to start with – he could lay out most of the story for the jury right away, but she needed to ruin Howell first.

  The note I’d written for Howell said:

  Don’t react. The DA is gonna change up the witnesses. Better to get the worst over quickly.

  Howell nodded. I patted him on the back, whispered to him to keep calm.

  A male Assistant DA left the courtroom, presumably with a fresh running order for the prosecution case. He would gather the witnesses, give them the new list, get them coffee, tell whoever needed to know that they probably wouldn’t be needed until after lunch.

  Michelle King got to her feet and called her first witness. One of her best witnesses – somebody who knew Howell, who could paint him in a bad light for the jury. At least I’d worked it out, and I’d told Howell in advance.

  The Silk Hammer was gearing up to hit Lenny with their best shot.

  “Your Honor, the People call Susan Howell.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The morning after the fire, Susan Howell remained in critical condition. Hospital staff had not permitted Howell to see her. He was told to wait. Instead, he came back to his smoldering home, where he was arrested not long after his return. The speed of her recovery increased after Howell didn’t make bail. I’d checked with my client, and with the visitors log in Rikers Island – Susan Howell had not visited, had not called. Neither of them had exchanged a single word since the fire.

  During one of our many legal visits in Rikers, about three months ago, we’d talked about Susan.

  “The police arrested her, interviewed her and released her without charge three days after the fire. I’ve got her statement here,” I said.

  I slid the statement across the steel table in the legal visits room. He scanned it, pushed it back toward me.

  “I’m not a naïve man. She was with me for the money. Always had been. She’s beautiful, and she made me feel great. I thought she’d make a great mom for Caroline, but she took no interest in my daughter after we got married. When things got tough, financially, I could tell she was looking for a way out. Her eye started to wander, know what I mean.”

  My mind flitted back to the moment I met Susan Howell for the first time, and seeing her stroke Marlon’s back. A touch that lingered too long.

  “She’s divorcing me,” he said. From the breast pocket of his prison jumpsuit, he removed a folded-up letter. He slid it across the table. It was from Gore & Penning, one of the top divorce firms in the city. Both of those guys were Rottweilers. They’d torn apart half a dozen celebrities in recent years, and crippled
some of New York’s wealthiest men with alimony settlements that would take them the rest of their lives to pay off. The letter offered a settlement – 85 per cent of the assets in exchange for a quick, low-profile divorce.

  “We’ll put that on the back burner for now,” I said.

  “I honestly don’t care, Eddie,” said Howell.

  Before he sank any lower, I changed the subject. I needed to get him thinking. Then at least he might start fighting and that would keep him alive.

  “This is tough but I need you to hear this. The prosecution is claiming Caroline was murdered in the basement. They have a blood pattern analyst who says the west wall of the basement is stained with her blood. He says it’s likely to be arterial spray. Somebody cleaned up the wall, but the staining remained visible with the application of luminol. And they found a kitchen knife, hidden in a box that was destroyed in the fire. The knife has your fingerprints on it. The photos of Caroline that came with the ransom demands could’ve been taken in your basement.”

  “I’ve no idea about any of that. You saw how dark it was outside – it’s not supposed to be like that. We had fairy lights in the trees, spots and light features in the garden furniture. The power supply went through a meter box in the garage. I checked the lights, can’t remember when, two, three days before the fire and saw the cable had burned through. I never got around to changing it. Could be somebody hurt her in the basement, then carried her out in the dark.”

  “From the time Caroline went missing, at any stage were you in the basement?”

  “I can’t say for sure. She never liked it down there. I used to do a little carpentry when she was younger. She would come down and watch me, but insisted I kept the basement door open.”

  “Was the basement kept locked?”

  “No. It was always open,” he said, and his eyes lost focus. I could almost see them shifting into darkness.

  “Did the DNA test confirm the blood in the basement and the blood on my glasses belonged to Caroline?” he said.

  “Yeah, it did.”

  He was no longer with me. His mind had shifted. I needed to bring him back.

  “Susan has an alibi for the day Caroline disappeared. There was no physical evidence linking her to the basement, the fire, or Caroline’s body. Reading between the lines, I get the impression the cops think she was in on it with you, but that they’ll never prove a case against her. If they charged both of you, you would’ve been tried alongside her. Their lack of evidence against Susan could actually work in your favor if they had made the case you both conspired in the kidnapping and murder. They probably thought Susan could be put to better use a prosecution witness than a defendant. So apart from her confirming her alibi in this statement, what else could she say that might hurt us?”

  “I have no idea,” said Howell.

  “And how come you haven’t spoken to her since the fire?”

  His eyes fixed on me.

  “Looking at her, talking to her, even being in the same room as her, would only remind me of all the times she’d let Caroline down. Caroline’s mom didn’t bond too well with her. Post-natal depression, I guess. I thought Susan would’ve done a better job, but she messed up just as bad. They felt like small things at the time, and I didn’t pay them any heed. Now … now that she’s gone, they hurt. Every time she dismissed Caroline when she tried to talk to her new mom, every missed appointment, recital, cheerleader rehearsal, it’s just too much now …”

  He stopped talking, closed his trembling lips and fought down the pain.

  “I hate her for that. I think my daughter hated her, and now I do too. And she choked in front of Valter. We almost didn’t get the money.”

  “What about the explosive device in the basement?” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “Forensics said it was a pager, linked to a small blasting cap. Your cell phone registered a call to that number to trigger the device. It looks like you cleared everyone out of the house so you could destroy the crime scene. The basement was soaked in gasoline. When you were in the marines, did you ever learn how to set up a remote trigger like that?”

  “No. But I saw plenty of them. Once you call the pager, the vibration completes a circuit and triggers the blast. I’ve never made one.”

  “What about the gasoline?”

  “We had some in the garage. Couple of twenty-liter cans. Susan regularly ran out – she would never remember to fill up at the gas station.”

  I nodded, put down my pen and leant back my chair.

  “You think Susan will back you up?” I said.

  “I think so. She won’t mention the ransom. No way. If she tells the cops she knew about it, she might get some kind of deal from them but the insurance company will come after her for the money. Other than that, I’m praying she’ll tell the truth.”

  In the witness stand, Susan Howell looked every inch a scorned wife. Black pantsuit, white blouse, handkerchief already in her hand and her eyes, although still large and bright, were full of malevolence for Howell.

  “How long have you and the defendant been married?” asked King.

  “Five years now,” she said. Her voice was different than I’d remembered it. In the courtroom it sounded softer, more demure.

  “Is it a good marriage?”

  “I thought so. We were very much in love. But the last year has been difficult.”

  “How has it been difficult?”

  “Well, Lenny’s business took a downturn. There were some contracts which didn’t get renewed and we’ve been struggling financially. That adds pressure to any relationship.”

  King nodded at Susan Howell, then looked at her desk and turned over a page, read it, and laced her fingers together across her stomach. Any jury can understand that financial worries cause difficulties in marriage. She wanted the jury to identify with Susan, make them feel like she was one of them.

  “And how did you both deal with the financial problems?”

  “He became withdrawn, and devoted more and more time to the business. We had to make sacrifices – so the condo in Florida was sold, some of the cars. It didn’t help. Eventually we were struggling to pay some of our staff, and Lenny decided to put the house up for sale before we got into serious trouble with the mortgage company.”

  “Have you any idea of the kind of debts that you both faced?”

  “Yes. When we counted up the figures, it worked out at approximately ten million dollars.”

  Two male jurors blew air through their lips, with a pained expression. That was the kind of debt that could make people desperate and King was playing on it. She spent around ten minutes with Susan, breaking down that figure, cementing it into a detailed reality. By the time she’d finished this line of questioning several jurors were shaking their heads, or underlining figures in their notepads. This was the only real motive that the prosecution had, and they needed to play on it – hype it up any way they could.

  “Was there any hope of turning the business around to satisfy some of these debts?”

  “Not that I was aware of. I think Lenny managed to persuade two of the smaller insurance companies to come back with their kidnap and ransom work, but apart from one major client and the two he got back, Lenny had lost around forty per cent of his business.”

  “I want to move on now, Mrs Howell, and talk about the day Caroline Howell disappeared. That was July second. Where were you on that date?”

  “In Hawaii, on vacation with some girlfriends.”

  “Did you speak to your husband that day?”

  “I got a call from Lenny around seven a.m. That would make it around one p.m. in New York. I was still asleep when he called and left a message. I got up, had a shower and picked up his message at breakfast. He sounded agitated. So I called him back. He said he was in the office, in the middle of something and he would call me back. The girls and I went out hiking and then hit the spa. So it was later that evening when he called to ask if Caroline had been in touch wit
h me that day. I told him she hadn’t and he hung up. Later I found out she was missing and I got a flight home the next day.”

  “Why was your husband angry?”

  “Objection, Your Honor, leading,” I said.

  A nod from the judge, “Sustained.”

  The prosecutor didn’t argue. She focused on her witness and moved on quickly.

  “How did your husband seem to you, when you spoke on the phone that day?”

  “Unusual. I can normally tell when something is bothering him. He was short with me, and he didn’t say goodbye at the end of the call, like he normally does. I thought he was anxious and pissed about something.”

  “Did you talk again, before you got home?”

  “Yes. I called him from the airport. He just said, ‘Get home.’ That was it.”

  “What happened when you returned home after your flight?”

  “I saw the police cars outside the house. Seeing that brought it all into perspective. At first I’d thought she must’ve met a boy and run off for a few days. Seventeen-year-old kids rebel – in one way or another. I did. But the police cars made me fearful. When I walked into the house I needed to get a stiff drink, to calm myself down, right away. I just didn’t want to deal with something like that. I had my own problems – the mortgage, the creditors …”

  I watched King nodding along to the answer, but I could tell that inside she was seething. Three of the women on the jury had taken a dislike to Mrs Howell. You could see it on their faces. Their chins were tucked in against their necks, eyebrows raised, heads turned to the side – it was a look which screamed “I don’t believe you just said that.” Here was a woman who could only see the disappearance and murder of her stepdaughter in terms of how that affected her, how that made her feel. As if it was selfish of the daughter to do such a thing.

  “But you remained strong, for your husband?” said King.

  “Objection, leading.”