“Ms. Black told you to trust your own common sense. I agree. And your common sense will tell you that the prosecution does not have enough evidence to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Ramsey committed the crimes of which he is accused.”
Warren took the pad. This is not a debate. My Homicide Unit, my decision.
Jessie nodded, trying not to let them distract her. “Were Frank Ramsey’s fingerprints found at the house?” Goldhammer asked the jury. “The police will admit to you that they were not. Were his fingerprints found on the murder weapon? No, nor was the murder weapon itself ever found, even when the police searched Frank Ramsey’s house and vehicle. But most importantly, how about this eyewitness Ms. Black told you about?”
In front of the jury box, Goldhammer spread his arms theatrically. “Did Kristen Dillard see Frank Ramsey’s face while he was allegedly raping and stabbing her? The prosecutor just admitted to you that she did not. Could not. Because the man who assaulted Kristen Dillard was wearing a ski mask. Ms. Dillard herself will admit that the only glimpse she got of her attacker’s face occurred after he had finished raping and stabbing her. As he was turning away from her. When he was walking out of the room. When she was bleeding and on the verge of losing consciousness. That’s when she claims he took off his mask. That’s when she claims—for a matter of seconds—to have seen the face of my client. Now, I ask you, does that sound like a solid eyewitness identification? Does that satisfy your common sense? Is that enough evidence to condemn Frank Ramsey to multiple murder convictions?”
I can help, Elliot wrote.
She quickly scrawled, Why don’t you start by listening and taking notes?
“I beseech you to remember your duty in this trial—your duty to hold the prosecution to the high standard that our country demands. If the prosecution cannot prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt, then you must—must, as a matter of law—find Frank Ramsey not guilty.”
Goldhammer, chest puffed with satisfaction, strutted back to his seat at the defense table. Judge Spatt aimed a suspicious eye at the prosecution table, where the lawyers must have appeared to him to be multiplying. With a withering stare and a dry tone, he said, “Why wasn’t I invited to the party?”
Warren jumped up. “Your Honor, I apologize for the intrusion. A decision was made at the last moment that Elliot Williams would act as second-chair for the Commonwealth. I wanted to get him here in time to listen to Mr. Goldhammer’s statement.”
Spatt smirked. “Didn’t look to me like he was listening.”
Jessie, feeling the scrutinizing eyes of the jurors shift in her direction, pasted a pleasant expression on her face that she hoped projected a dull, business-as-usual impression, even though what was happening was anything but.
“Always a pleasure to see you in my courtroom, Warren.” Even with a total absence of sarcasm in his voice, Spatt managed to launch his words like poisoned arrows from the bench. “It’s a pity your administrative responsibilities afford you so little time to try actual cases. In fact, when was the last case you tried?”
Warren’s cheeks reddened. “A few years ago, Judge.”
“Yes, at least.” Turning to the jury, he said, “Mr. Elliot Williams, another lawyer from the District Attorney’s office, will be assisting Ms. Black during the trial.”
Elliot stood up, gave the jury a smile and—Jessie clenched her teeth—waved at them. Across the aisle, Goldhammer could not suppress a chuckle.
Warren patted Jessie’s shoulder—a gesture of encouragement or apology, she didn’t know—and fled from the courtroom.
“May we continue?” Spatt drawled.
Jessie breathed slowly, and deeply, and rose from her chair with a smile. “Yes, Your Honor.”
30
Michael Rushford had told Leary that only the top people at the Rushford Foundation had known about the briefcase—and the important materials inside—that had been lost because of Bob Dillard’s murder. It took Leary a day and a half to track down the topmost person he could think of: Eduard Urlyapov, the former director of the Rushford Foundation who, according to Randy Tiano, had retired due to stress.
According to the one-page bio Leary had printed off the Foundation’s Web site during his first investigation of the Dillard murders, Urlyapov was a biochemist who had studied at Moscow State University and later at the Shemykin Institute of Bioorganic Chemistry in Pushchino, Russia. At the time that Rushford recruited him to run the Foundation, Urlyapov had been in London researching the engineering of non-viral transporters for specific targeting to motor and sensory neurons.
What any of that meant, Leary had no idea. During his initial investigation, he’d only skimmed the scientific language. Now, even after doing some research, the words still conveyed no meaning to him.
Tiano had told him that Urlyapov retired three months ago. With some more digging, Leary learned that after leaving his post at the Foundation, Urlyapov had made plans to leave the United States. Making phone calls from his desk at the Roundhouse, Leary discovered the rental of a flat in London, the purchase of airline tickets, and preliminary negotiations for the sale of Urlyapov’s house in Bala Cynwyd. But Urlyapov had never left. Sixty-seven years old, he had suffered a stroke that put him in the hospital about a week ago. He was still there, convalescing.
Leary decided to visit.
Liver spots dotted Urlyapov’s head, bald except for a few white strands on the top. He had the appearance of a large man who had suffered a sudden loss of weight, his loose, pale skin hanging in flaps from his arms and neck. When he saw Leary in his doorway, he struggled to a sitting position. His teeth were brown and spaced too far apart; his breath whistled between them.
It seemed that this investigation was taking Leary from one deathbed to the next.
“Dr. Urlyapov?”
“You’re pronouncing it wrong,” the old man corrected. His rasping voice and Russian accent forced Leary to lean forward and struggle to understand. Urlyapov sighed. “Just call me Ed.”
Leary smiled. “Okay, Ed. My name is Mark Leary. I’m a homicide detective with the Philadelphia Police Department. We spoke briefly about two years ago.”
“Yes. I remember. A phone call.”
“I was investigating the murder of Dr. Robert Dillard.”
“Bob, yes. And I told you everything I know.”
Leary scraped a plastic chair over the linoleum floor and sat down close to the bed. “Are you sure? We didn’t talk for long. According to my notes, our conversation lasted about five minutes. You passed me off to Dr. Tiano.”
“He was closer to Bob than I was.”
“Is there anything you might have forgotten to tell me? Something about the nature of Bob Dillard’s work?”
A shadow seemed to pass over Urlyapov’s face, although the sun outside the grimy hospital window had not moved. His eyelids fluttered. “Show me your badge.”
Leary, startled, did as the old man asked. Urlyapov twisted on his side to squint at Leary’s identification in a ray of sunlight. “I can’t tell if this is real.” Urlyapov’s eyes moved from the ID to the gun peeking out from Leary’s jacket. “Did Rushford send you? Make it quick.”
“Make what quick?” Leary took back his ID, and saw that Urlyapov’s gaze remained fixed on his gun. “You think Michael Rushford would send someone here to kill you?” Was the old man suffering from delusions or paranoia? Suddenly tempted to examine the old man’s medical chart, Leary refrained. Instead, he closed his jacket over his holster and made eye-contact with the man. Trying to impart steadiness. Trust. If Urlyapov was impaired by some mental condition, he’d find out soon enough.
But if he wasn’t....
“Ed, why do you think Rushford wants to hurt you?”
“I’ve tried to get out of this hospital so many times. Knew this day would come. Easy target.”
“Did you leave the Foundation because you feared for your life?”
“Of course. Michael had Bob killed. Only a matter
of time before me.”
“You believe that Michael Rushford is responsible for Bob Dillard’s murder?” The accusation made no sense. Why would Rushford murder a man who was working night and day to save his life? The urge to check the medical chart tugged at Leary again. Urlyapov was paranoid—what other explanation could there be?
Urlyapov coughed. “Bob’s research threatened the whole Foundation. Illegal.”
“Because it involved stem cells?”
Urlyapov nodded.
“But that research was Rushford’s best chance at finding a treatment,” Leary said, “maybe a cure. The intruder in Bob Dillard’s house attacked the whole family. He raped Dillard’s wife and daughter. Stabbed them savagely. Those actions indicate a crime of passion or the acting out of a psychotic fantasy, not a murder for hire.”
“In Russia, KGB often disguised political assassinations. Same way.”
Now they were talking about the KGB?
“No fingerprints,” Urlyapov continued. “No weapon.”
Leary felt his skepticism weaken. Urlyapov had a point. The absence of physical evidence was more consistent with a professional hit than with the actions of a psychopath. But the Dillards were only the last of a series of rape-murders committed by the so-called Family Man, and physical evidence had been found at none of the other scenes either. No killer-for-hire, no matter how intent on covering his tracks, would risk additional violent crimes solely to create the illusion of a serial killer. The chance of being surprised in the act or otherwise caught outweighed any benefit that killing the other families might bring.
Leary shook his head. “Ed, you’re letting your fears get the best of you. How long have you been at this hospital?” He already knew the answer—almost a week. “If someone wanted you dead, you would be dead by now.”
Urlyapov’s hand brushed at Leary’s arm. Leary recoiled automatically from his touch—skin as brittle as paper. “Maybe they have other uses for me,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
The old man fell silent. His watery gaze shifted to the window. “Detective, if I’m found dead in here, remember this talk.”
Leary nodded. He didn’t think he could forget this conversation even if he wanted to. The old Russian was obviously paranoid—perhaps he’d had some personal experience with the KGB of which he’d ominously spoken—and despite his better judgment, some of Urlyapov’s fear was transferring to Leary, spooking him.
“I should be going,” Leary said. “Thanks for talking to me.”
Urlyapov only nodded.
In the hallway, Leary found the nearest nurse’s station and showed the woman behind it his ID. “I have some questions about the patient in room 401.”
“Dr. Urlyapov?” The nurse—a large black woman—pronounced her patient’s name in flawless Russian. “He’s doing well, considering his age and the severity of the stroke.”
“What about his psychological problems? His paranoia?”
His questions met a puzzled expression. “Dr. Urlyapov? He’s sharp as a tack.”
Leary felt a burst of heat bloom in his stomach. “Are you sure?”
The nurse nodded vigorously. In the next moment, her eyes shifted from Leary to a man approaching the counter. The man said, “Could you point me toward 401?”
The nurse’s eyes shot back to Leary, who shook his head as imperceptibly as he could—don’t involve me.
There was nothing outwardly unusual about the man—he was tall and broad-shouldered, with a short haircut and a neatly trimmed goatee—but something about him sent warning bells ringing in Leary’s mind. Maybe it was the timing—seeing this man appear immediately after listening to Urlyapov voice his suspicions about Rushford. Or maybe it was the way the man asked for Urlyapov’s room without trying to pronounce his name, like a friend or a family member would. But mostly it was because, just standing next to him at the nurse’s station, Leary sensed tightly coiled energy and something else. Malevolence.
The nurse pointed down the hall. “That way.”
“Thanks.”
Leary waited ten seconds, then turned and followed the man toward Urlyapov’s room. Walking, he reached under his jacket and flicked off the safety on his 9-mm. Just in case.
He stopped inches from the open doorway. Purely by luck, a glass cabinet door reflected a view of the bed. Without exposing himself, Leary watched the reflection. The man took Leary’s place in the chair he had dragged close to the bed. Rather than attack Urlyapov—as Leary half-expected him to do—the man took Urlyapov’s hand in his own and patted it in a familiar way. The old man leaned forward. Although Leary could not read his facial expression in the glass, his body language did not suggest fright.
Leary exhaled his pent-up breath. Touched his gun and switched the safety back on. The old man’s conspiracy theories had infected him. Now he was the one acting paranoid.
Still, the nurse had assured him that Urlyapov’s mental state was fine. He could not ignore the information the man had given him.
He could no longer consider Frank Ramsey his only suspect.
31
The next morning, Jessie woke up in her bed, Jack beside her. He was smiling, and in one hand, he held a key. “Good morning.”
“What’s that?”
“What does it look like?” He pressed it into her hand. “I was hoping to give this to you over breakfast, but I’ve never been good at delayed satisfaction.”
She looked at his naked body, on top of the covers, and remembered the previous night. “Yeah, I noticed.” She looked at the key, then at him.
“I’d really like to take our relationship to the next level,” he said.
“What level is that?”
“You know—exclusivity.”
“You think I’m dating other people?” She laughed, then abruptly stopped laughing. “Have you been dating other people?”
“No. I was taught to always aim for the top. If you reject me, I’ll work my way down.”
“Well, thanks.”
He cleared his throat with theatrical volume. “Can I have something in return?”
“I’ll have to visit a locksmith.” In truth, she intended to postpone that trip. She didn’t like the idea of anyone—even Jack—having a key to her home.
“I was talking about a kiss.”
“Oh.” She kissed him, then glanced past his face at the clock on the nightstand. “I’m going to be late for court.”
“I’ll take a ride with you,” he said.
In the lobby of the CJC, lawyers, witnesses, cops, and reporters milled in long lines to the metal detectors. Through the windows, the day looked gray and dreary.
Jessie turned to Jack. “I’ll see you later?”
“Definitely. Good luck in there.”
He leaned toward her and puckered his lips.
She flinched. “Jack, that’s not funny.” She felt the burn of anger as she quickly looked around, assessing the situation. “What’s wrong with you? You could cost me my job.”
He pouted and leaned closer. “Just a quick—”
Jessie heard a gasp and yanked her face away from his. Kristen Dillard stood with one of her minders from the institution. Kristen gaped at them, then turned and ran.
“Shit.”
The woman accompanying Kristen looked too startled to respond. Jessie closed the gap between them, leaving Jack behind. “What is Kristen doing here? She’s not testifying today.”
“She asked to come. Dr. Schafer thought allowing her to observe the trial would have therapeutic benefits.”
“Witnesses aren’t permitted to watch the trial before they testify.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize.”
“Wait here.”
Jessie caught up with Kristen at the guard desk. She stopped the girl before she could walk away. “Kristen, wait. Let’s talk.”
“Talk? I saw you with him. You were practically kissing.”
Tears brimmed in the seventeen-year-old’s eyes, and
the sight stung Jessie more than she’d realized it would. What had she been thinking, letting Jack come here with her today? “He doesn’t represent Ramsey anymore. He’s not even a defense attorney now.” The words sounded false as they tumbled from her lips. Jack had represented Ramsey at his first trial, and had been responsible—even if only indirectly—for the success of Ramsey’s PCRA petition. In Kristen’s eyes, Jack was the enemy. And Jessie must be something even worse—a betrayer.
“Don’t you remember what he told the jury?” the girl said. “He said Ramsey was innocent. He said I must have made a mistake.”
“I know,” Jessie said. “And I can’t imagine what it felt like for you to hear that. I’m so sorry.”
Kristen shook her head, disgusted. “Fuck you. I’m never coming to this place again. I hate it here.”
“Kristen, I can’t convict Ramsey without you. You know that.”
“What’s the difference? He’ll just find another way to get out of it anyway.”
People were turning to stare at them. Jack, mercifully, had disappeared. “That’s not true,” Jessie said. “He’ll have exhausted his remedies.”
“He won’t be able to appeal if he loses this trial?”
Jessie exhaled through clenched teeth. Defending the criminal justice system to a crime victim was almost as difficult as defending defense attorneys. “If he loses this trial, he is entitled to appeal—”
“I can’t believe this! It never ends!”
Kristen turned, fled through the glass doors. It angered Jessie that the girl had been allowed to come here, but the anger she felt toward the hospital staff paled next to the guilt she felt at having been caught with Jack.
Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1 Page 15
