“Detective,” I say, “I would like to discuss the sneakers. Those that allegedly belong to Joseph Gianforte and purportedly contain trace evidence of the victim’s blood. Can you tell me precisely how and when the victim’s blood came to be on those sneakers?”
“I assume when he struck her.”
“You assume. Do you, in fact, have any physical evidence that shows that Joseph Gianforte struck the victim at all?”
“You mean aside from the dead body?”
“Detective, the body of the victim is evidence only that someone struck her. It is not at all evidence that Joseph Gianforte struck her. So I ask you again, did you, during the course of the extensive investigation you described during direct, discover any physical evidence whatsoever that indicates that Joseph Gianforte struck the victim?”
“Nothing other than the circumstantial evidence I mentioned earlier.”
“Ahhh, the circumstantial evidence. Well, let’s consider that. Is it possible that the victim’s blood could have ended up on those sneakers by some way other than Joseph Gianforte’s striking the victim?”
“Anything is possible.”
It is the testifying officer’s fallback position. It infers that what I am asking skirts on the edge of the realm of possibilities. In other words, yes, what you are asking is possible, just as it is possible that aliens in UFOs really abduct people for their experiments and then return them to the earth. Just as it is possible that hired mediums such as television’s John Edward really communicate with the dead. Just as it is possible that the Bush administration really believed there to be weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.
“You testified,” I say, “during direct examination that Palani Kanno gave you a statement. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“And in that statement, Palani Kanno admitted to engaging in an argument with the victim on the beach. Is that correct?”
“Yes. It is.”
“And he also admitted to engaging in a physical altercation with the victim on the beach, did he not?”
“He did.”
“And he admitted to striking the victim, didn’t he?”
“He said that it was in self-defense, yes.”
“Did he tell you whether his striking the victim caused her to bleed?”
“He said it did not.”
“You also testified during direct that you were contacted by witnesses, honeymooners I believe you said, in connection with this case. Is that correct, Detective?”
“That is correct.”
“And those honeymooners told you that they observed the victim alive on the beach after Palani Kanno left her there to go to the Waikiki Winds hotel, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Would you please remind the jury what else the honeymooners told you?”
Tatupu knows what I am searching for and doesn’t want to give it to me. But he has to, or else it will appear as if he is trying to conceal it. His concealing it would work better for me because it would allow me to drag it out of him in front of the jury. But he’s too smart for that.
“The honeymooners told me that they observed Miss Douglas weeping, and that she appeared slightly injured. She was bleeding from a cut on her face.”
“She was bleeding. So is it possible, Detective, that Joseph Gianforte came across the victim subsequent to Palani Kanno’s striking her, but before she was struck with the death blow, and that was how and when those sneakers came to have on them traces of the victim’s blood?”
“As I said before, anything is possible.”
“Is it possible then, Detective, that Joseph Gianforte discarded the sneakers simply because they were soaking wet from the surf and covered with sand?”
“Objection,” says Dapper Don. “Calls for speculation.”
“Withdrawn, Your Honor,” I say. “The detective would only have told me that anything is possible anyhow.”
“Objection!” cries Dapper Don again.
“Sustained,” says Narita. “Further commentary will not be tolerated, Mr. Corvelli.”
I ignore the judge and return my attention to the witness. “Detective, would you remind the jury where the sneakers were found in relation to the victim’s body?”
“In some greenery, maybe ten yards from the deceased.”
“During direct examination, you inferred that the fact that Joseph Gianforte’s sneakers were found with traces of the victim’s blood on them near the scene of the crime increased the likelihood that he was the perpetrator, did you not?”
“I did.”
“And, Detective, you stated that perpetrators routinely hide items that might link them to their crimes, is that correct?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“And you stated, Detective, that it is the traces of blood found on the sneakers that link these sneakers to this crime, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Considering the proximity of the spot where these sneakers were found to the victim’s dead body, would you say that these sneakers were well hidden?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Would you please remind the jury how far the ocean is from where the victim’s body was discovered?”
“Just a few feet.”
“Then let me ask you this, Detective. Assuming Joseph Gianforte owned these sneakers and assuming he committed the crime in question, why would he have tossed the sneakers with the blood still on them only ten yards away from the victim’s body, instead of simply washing them off a few feet away in the surf?”
Tatupu eyes Watanabe, but Dapper Don can offer no help. We wait while the detective thinks.
“It was very dark,” Tatupu says. “He probably didn’t see the blood.”
“I see,” I say. “But, Detective, you made it clear to this jury that Joseph Gianforte discarded these sneakers and hid them in the plants because they linked him to the crime by virtue of the fact that they were spattered with the victim’s blood. So, Detective, if he didn’t see the blood on them, why would he have discarded them at all?”
I do not ask the judge to compel the witness to respond. I let the question hang in the air. The longer the silence the better.
I have just two more questions for Detective Tatupu. Two questions I have committed myself to asking, the consequences for doing so be damned.
“Detective,” I say, “are you familiar with the name Victor Trozzo?”
Tatupu looks around, thinking over the question, swirling the name around in his head like a connoisseur tasting a fine wine. He doesn’t know where I am heading, and this troubles him. But there is only one answer he can give.
“No, I am not.”
“Detective, are you familiar with the name Paolo Nicoletti?”
This time his answer comes quicker. “No, I am not.”
“Maybe you should be, Detective. Your Honor, I have no further questions at this time, but I reserve the right to recall this witness during the defendant’s case-in-chief.”
I turn and face my counsel table. Jake is awake and nodding his approval with his head. Joey stares at me, his eyes wide, frozen in a look that conveys an unequivocal fear. I have seen the look of fear in those eyes before, fear from the grim specter of life imprisonment. But that look of fear pales in comparison to the look of fear he wears now, at the mere mention of his uncle’s name.
CHAPTER 38
The repercussions of my actions at trial are fast and furious. I am hating myself. I should have known better. Lex Luthor went after Lois Lane. The Joker went after Vicki Vale. The Green Goblin went after Mary Jane Watson. And Paolo “Small Paul” Nicoletti took no time at all in going after Nikki Kapua.
I spin my Jeep onto the gravel driveway, jump out, and run for the red front door. It is locked tight. I pound on it. I pound on it almost as hard as my heart pounds in my chest.
“Nikki, it’s me!” I shout as loud as I can.
I hear the locks turn, then the door opens slowly. The whites of her e
yes are caught in red spiderwebs; tears like waterfalls stream down her cheeks.
I enter the cottage and close the door behind me. I try to kiss the tears away, but there are far too many for that.
Nikki is shaking. I try to steady her and lead her to her room. The light is off and the shades are drawn. I can barely see her as she sits on the bed.
“Tell me everything,” I say.
She tries to catch her breath and takes my hand in hers, forcing the words from her throat.
“I was walking home from Longs Drug Store; there was something I needed to pick up. There were footsteps coming from behind me. They were moving fast, much faster than mine. I got scared and picked up my pace. But so did the man behind me. He grabbed me. I tried to scream, but he covered my mouth and dragged me behind some bushes.”
Rage and fear and every terrible emotion imaginable are building up inside me. I feel around for love and sympathy, but they’ve been smothered by my hate.
“It was dark. I tried to bite his fingers, but I couldn’t even open my mouth. And then, he started talking in my ear.”
“What did he say, Nikki?”
“He said, ‘Your boyfriend and his friends have been poking their noses into things they have no business poking their noses into.’ He said, ‘It stops tonight, or I’ll have your pretty little head.’ He said, ‘Tell your boyfriend not to mention my name anymore, not to even think it, or I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear, you little hula whore.’ ”
The image of Shannon Douglas involuntarily fills my mind. Then the image of her grows darker. The bloodied face transforms. The image of Shannon is replaced by an image of Nikki, bloodied and frozen in the same gruesome pose.
“Did you see his face, Nikki?”
“No. No, I didn’t. It was dark, and he held me facing the opposite way.”
“How about his voice? Did you recognize his voice?”
“Yes, I definitely did.”
“Whose voice was it, Nikki?”
“Kevin, it was the man from the aquarium.”
Earlier, after I received the urgent call from Nikki, I telephoned Flan and told him to put a tail on Nicoletti. He was unsuccessful at tracking him down the previous night, and no one at the Pacific Edgewater was of any particular help. It’s as if everyone knows just by looking at him just how dangerous Nicoletti really is.
The moniker Small Paul is like labeling Archie Bunker “Mr. Tolerance,” or Edith “Mrs. Intellect,” or Meathead “Conservative Mike,” or . . . You get the point: I like All in the Family, and Paolo Nicoletti is one big son of a bitch.
As Nikki rests on the bed, my cell phone chirps, and I pull it from my pocket. The caller ID reads FLAN.
“Speak.”
“Kev, Trozzo has checked out of the Pacific Edgewater.” I knew that the mention of his names at trial would prompt Nicoletti to make a move. I just didn’t anticipate his making a move against Nikki. After I finished my cross-examination of Detective Tatupu, I had Jake stonewall the Gianfortes, so that I could leave the courthouse without speaking to them about why I mentioned Nicoletti’s name at trial. Still, I had little doubt that someone would mention it to Nicoletti himself.
For a few days I won’t have to mention Nicoletti at trial, while Dapper Don Watanabe parades his witnesses during the remainder of the prosecution’s case-in-chief. Then it will be my turn. It will be my turn to offer proof of Joey’s innocence by offering proof of Paolo Nicoletti’s guilt.
“Keep looking, Flan,” I say, before snapping the cell phone shut.
Nikki refuses to call the police. And she is adamant that I not do so on her behalf. She fears it will bring attention to her brother and his illicit business, and she will not risk his arrest and conviction. She will not make any move that may land Alika in a mainland prison, where she will never lay eyes upon him again. After a half hour of argument, I lay down my arms and drop the subject.
“We’re not safe here,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “We are. Come with me.”
She stands and takes my hand. We exit her room and walk across the small foyer that leads to Alika’s bedroom door. She opens the door and steps into the room, leaving me in the frame. The room is illuminated only by moonlight, but I can see that the room is in shambles. Clothes and ashtrays and empty beer cans are strewn about like at a frat house during Oktoberfest.
On her knees, from underneath the unmade bed, Nikki withdraws an old Adidas shoe box. She slowly lifts the lid and reaches in. She pulls out a matte black .40-caliber Smith & Wesson pistol.
“Is it loaded?” I ask.
She nods.
“Is it registered?” I ask, considering the Hawaii Penal Code.
She gives me a look. Ask a stupid question . . .
She hands me the pistol, and together we return to her room. We sit in the darkness with few words between us. Few words and a loaded gun. After forty-five minutes, she lies down and quickly falls asleep.
I place the gun on the nightstand and lie down next to my girl.
But I don’t sleep a wink all fucking night.
The sun rises, as it tends to do, and we replace the pistol under Alika’s bed. I insist that Nikki come with me to Honolulu, so we leave together in my Jeep. I drop her off at Ala Moana Center and instruct her to mill around the crowds. I give her some money and beg that she stay there until the time comes for her to take the bus to work.
I arrive at the courthouse just in time to watch Alison Kelly take the stand. There are no surprises during direct examination, as Dapper Don takes her through the history and methodology of lip-print identification. The fiery redhead testifies as expected as to the similarities discovered between the lip print found in the lifeguard station and the sample taken from the defendant.
Exhausted from lack of sleep and smothered in fear, I listen to her testimony in a daze. Fortunately, the questions I will need to ask her on cross-examination are printed neatly in order and clasped together in a bright green binder. For now, we can only put into question Alison Kelly’s methodology and the practice’s acceptance within the scientific community. During our case-in-chief, we will put our expert on the stand. But it would be foolish to rest Joey’s fate on the jury’s believing that he wasn’t on Waikiki Beach that night. He most certainly was, and there is no way around that. The only viable argument is that he was there, but left her alive and in one piece. That someone else then came along and struck her dead.
“Mr. Corvelli,” says Narita from the bench. “Your witness.”
I slowly pick myself up from the chair.
“Son,” says Jake, stepping over to my side. “Let me handle the cross-examination.”
For the first time since I met him, Jake is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He looks downright handsome in a freshly ironed beige linen suit.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure, son,” he says, taking the green binder from my hand.
“Go get her, tiger,” I say, grateful, as exhausted as I am, to be sitting back down in my seat. Jake is as skillful and confident at the podium as the great Milt Cashman himself. He deftly crosses Alison Kelly on every point Watanabe covered, moving seamlessly from my binder to his own notes like an artist switching colors at his canvas. I’ll be damned if Jake Harper isn’t the most talented cross-examiner I ever laid eyes on.
And I’ll be damned if Jake doesn’t use his last question on cross to ask Alison Kelly for a date.
CHAPTER 39
“And she said yes!”
“That’s so sweet,” Nikki says to me, rubbing suntan lotion on my back.
The first week of trial is finally over, and the weekend is here. After Jake set his date with Alison Kelly for next Saturday night, Dapper Don Watanabe called the county’s chief medical examiner to the stand. Dr. Derek Noonan testified as to the cause and time of Shannon’s death, and the likely height and strength of the criminal perpetrator. Jake did another outstanding cross-examination, kicking hell out of Noonan’s concl
usions like a professional wrestler on ’roids. Unfortunately, by having the medical examiner testify on Friday, Dapper Don ensured that the jurors will spend their weekend with the image of Shannon’s bludgeoned head etched into each of their minds.
Flan is still scouring Oahu for Nicoletti. The airlines have no record of his leaving the island, but he could be using yet another name. Investigators, now on my payroll in New Jersey, are gathering as much information as is available about Nicoletti for use in our case-in-chief. It is certainly a working weekend. But not for me.
Nikki and I are basking in the warm Hawaiian sun on Kailua Beach. We rented a tandem kayak to paddle out to Flat Island, but that was when we were feeling more ambitious. We lie instead on our towels, our eyes closed and arms intertwined, listening to the waves pound the windward shore.
Unlike on the sands of Waikiki, no crowds are here. Just a few avid parasailors and sailboarders taking advantage of the wind. The courthouse is but a forty-minute drive from here, but right now, it seems a hundred thousand miles away.
“The trial should be over by the end of next week,” I say. “So if you can take the time off from work, we can fly into Lihue the following Monday.”
“I’m so excited,” she says. “I miss the feel of old Hawaii, the beauty of Kauai.”
“We can stay as long as you’d like.”
Jake promised me he’d make my court appearances while I was gone. Now that I’ve seen him in action, I have every intention of taking him up on his kind offer.
“I know some remote places on Kauai,” Nikki teases, “where we can swim naked and make love under spectacular natural waterfalls.”
“Sounds even better than the helicopter tours.”
With the grace of a salamander, Nikki slithers on top of me.
“Have you been watching the news lately?” she asks.
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