MD07 - Perfect Alibi

by Sheldon Siegel

  “I’m not an eavesdropper, Mr. McNulty.”

  “Of course not, but did you hear them arguing?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Teenage stuff.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Objection,” I say. “Hearsay. This line of questioning is also an impermissible attempt to bring in evidence of Bobby’s character.”

  “Overruled. Please answer the question, Mrs. Osborne.”

  “Judge Fairchild thought Bobby was spending too much time with his girlfriend.”

  “How did Bobby react?”

  “He was very upset. He left the house and slammed the door behind him.”

  “Do you recall whether he said anything else to his father?”

  I’m on my feet again. “Objection,” I say. “Hearsay.”

  “Overruled.”

  She clutches her reading glasses tightly. “He told him he was going to make him pay.”

  “Those were his exact words?”

  “Yes.”

  “No further questions.”

  I’m in a delicate spot. I need to discredit her testimony without coming off as a jerk. I address her from my seat. “Mrs. Osborne,” I say, “how long have you lived on Belvedere Street?”

  “Forty-seven years.”

  “You mentioned Judge Fairchild’s sons have been helpful neighbors.”

  “Yes, they have.”

  “Have they ever given you any trouble?”

  “Not really. They play their music a little too loud sometimes.”

  “Where were you when you heard the conversation between Bobby and his father?”

  “In my kitchen. My window looks directly into Judge Fairchild’s kitchen.”

  “How close is your window to the judge’s?”

  “About ten feet.”

  “Was your window open?”

  “No.”

  “Was his?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Was your TV on?”

  “Yes. I was watching Mornings on Two.”

  “I see. Were you eating breakfast?”

  “I was having coffee.”

  “Mrs. Osborne,” I say, “I apologize for asking about a personal matter, but I couldn’t help noticing that you’re wearing a hearing aid today.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Does it work pretty well?”

  “I think so. My daughter says it might need to be adjusted a little.”

  She’s incapable of lying. “Was the TV pretty loud?”

  “Loud enough.”

  “Was it hard to hear Judge Fairchild and Bobby?”

  “They were pretty loud, too.”

  “Louder than your TV?”

  “Loud enough for me to hear them.”

  “Mrs. Osborne,” I say, “I mean no disrespect, but is it possible that you may have misheard the judge and his son?”

  She invokes the tone of someone who sent countless ill-behaved children to the principal’s office. “I know what I heard, Mr. Daley.”

  I take a chance. “Do you think Bobby would have hurt his father?”

  “Objection,” McNulty says. “Calls for speculation.”

  “Overruled.”

  I didn’t think Judge McDaniel would give me that one.

  Evelyn Osborne fingers the gold chain that holds her reading glasses. “I don’t think so, Mr. Daley. Bobby’s a good boy who did very well in school.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Osborne. No further questions.”

  Rosie leans over and whispers, “You did everything you could, Mike. If you had pushed any harder, she would have given you a detention.”

  # # #

  Treadwell is up next. Sporting a charcoal going-to-court suit, he’s sitting in the witness box with his hands clasped in front of him. "I was walking my dog on Belvedere when I saw Bobby Fairchild running down Grattan at twelve ten on Saturday morning,” he says.

  McNulty is addressing his former colleague from the prosecution table. “You’re sure it was the defendant?” he asks.

  “Yes. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”

  “No further questions.”

  I’m on my feet right away. A retired teacher was entitled to kid gloves. A former prosecutor isn’t. I approach the witness box and gesture toward an enlarged satellite photo of the area surrounding Jack Fairchild’s house. “Mr. Treadwell,” I say, “could you please show us where you were standing when you saw somebody running down Grattan Street?”

  He points to a spot near the corner of Belvedere and Grattan, across the street from the Fairchild house. “Right here,” he says.

  “That was about a hundred feet away from where the individual was running?”

  “I’d say a little less.”

  “It was pretty dark, wasn’t it?”

  “There are streetlights.”

  “And foggy?”

  “A little.”

  “And cold?”

  “Chilly.”

  “And you were probably walking pretty quickly, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your dog on a leash?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you needed to keep an eye on him, right?”

  “He’s very smart.”

  Just like his master. “Were you wearing an iPod or other electronic device?”

  “No.”

  Too bad. “Do you recall what kind of clothes this person was wearing?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “How about shoes?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “A hat?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you see any blood on his clothes?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Was he running toward you or away from you?”

  “Away.”

  “Then how were you able to see his face?”

  “I saw him from the side.”

  “Was he running fast?”

  “I’d say a medium jog.”

  “So you probably saw him for just a second, right?”

  “I’d say a couple of seconds.”

  “Did you call out to him?”

  “No. I was busy.”

  “Walking your dog.”

  “Correct.”

  “You weren’t concerned that your neighbor’s son was out after midnight?”

  “It happened very quickly. I didn’t have time to react.”

  “So,” I say, “from a distance of a hundred feet on a cold and foggy night while you were walking your dog, you were able to positively identify Bobby Fairchild from behind even though he was running away from you and you saw him for just a second or two?”

  “Yes, Mr. Daley.”

  You’re full of crap. “Did you see where he came from?”

  “No.”

  “Was he inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I change course. “What did you do prior to your retirement, Mr. Treadwell?”

  “I was a felony prosecutor with the San Francisco District Attorney’s Office.”

  Impressive. “You worked on some cases with Mr. McNulty, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact you trained him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re friends, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Friends try to help each other, don’t they?”

  He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t lie to help a former colleague, Mr. Daley.”

  “But you might be inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Objection,” McNulty says. “Argumentative.”

  “Withdrawn. No further questions, Your Honor.”

  The judge turns to McNulty. “Any other witnesses?”

  “Just one, Your Honor. The People call Inspector Roosevelt Johnson.”

  44/ HOW MANY HOMICIDES HAVE YOU INVESTIGATED?

  Wednesday, June 22, 11:48 a.m.


  McNulty is standing at the lectern. "Inspector Johnson,” he begins, “how long have you been with the San Francisco Police Department?”

  Roosevelt taps the microphone. “Forty-eight years.”

  “How many homicides have you investigated during that time?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “we will stipulate as to Inspector Johnson’s experience.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Daley.”

  “Inspector,” McNulty continues, “are you heading the investigation of the murder of Judge Jack Fairchild?”

  “Alleged murder,” I interject.

  “Alleged murder,” McNulty mutters.

  “Yes,” Roosevelt says.

  “When did you arrive at the scene?”

  “Two twenty-eight on Saturday morning.” McNulty is deferential as he leads Roosevelt through a crisp minute-by-minute description of what transpired in the wee hours, making compelling use of the graphic crime scene photos. By the time they’re finished, there is little room to challenge the procedures used to secure the crime scene or the chain of custody of the evidence.

  “When did you first talk to the defendant?” McNulty asks.

  “As soon as I arrived. He was very upset.”

  “That shouldn’t have been surprising in the circumstances.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “When did you first consider the possibility that the defendant could have been involved in his father’s death?”

  “At first I thought it might have been a botched robbery. I also thought it was possible the judge might have been killed by somebody who had a grudge. That sort of thing is all too common nowadays. The longer that I spoke to the defendant, the more suspicious I became. He had difficulty describing where he had been on Friday night. Then the physical evidence started pointing in his direction.”

  “What physical evidence was that?” McNulty asks.

  “Among other things, the defendant was holding a bloody hammer when the first officer arrived on the scene.”

  It takes Roosevelt and McNulty just a few minutes to go through a carefully rehearsed description of the physical evidence. Finally, McNulty walks back to the evidence cart and picks up four sealed plastic bags. “Can you identify these items?” he asks.

  “They’re the defendant’s shirt, pants, socks, and tennis shoes. They found in the washer in the room where the body was found. Through DNA testing, we were able to identify traces of Judge Fairchild’s blood in the clothing.”

  They’ll be making CSI: San Francisco soon.

  “Who put these items in the washer?” McNulty asks.

  “The defendant.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He admitted it.”

  “Did the defendant say when he put the items into the washer?”

  “He said he did it while he was waiting for the police to arrive.”

  “Did it strike you as odd that the defendant was worried about washing his bloody clothing while his father lay dying a few feet away?”

  “Objection,” I say. “Calls for speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  McNulty keeps pushing. “Inspector,” he says, “did the defendant tell you why he decided to launder his clothing?”

  “He said he didn’t want to wear clothing covered with his father’s blood. I believe the defendant was trying to hide his bloody clothing before the police arrived.”

  “Move to strike,” I say. “Inspector Johnson’s opinions—however well-informed—are not evidence.”

  “Sustained. Anything else, Mr. McNulty?”

  “Just one more thing, Your Honor.” McNulty walks back to the evidence cart and picks up a small plastic evidence bag. “Inspector,” he says, “where did you find the contents of this bag?”

  “A few feet from Judge Fairchild’s body on the floor of the laundry room.”

  Rosie leans over and whispers, “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  McNulty holds up the baggie. “Would you please tell us what’s inside this bag?”

  “Two grams of marijuana.”

  What the hell? “Objection,” I say. “This evidence did not appear in any police report. Furthermore, we were not given an opportunity to examine it or conduct our own tests to confirm the nature of this substance.”

  McNulty can’t contain a smile as he responds in a patronizing tone. “Your Honor,” he says, “the rules of criminal procedure require us to make evidence available to the defense only if it would tend to exonerate the defendant. I can assure you this does not.”

  That’s for sure. “Your Honor,” I say, “we strenuously object to the introduction of this evidence. This is without foundation and highly inflammatory.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Your Honor—"

  “I’ve ruled, Mr. Daley. Anything else for this witness, Mr. McNulty?”

  “One final question, Your Honor.” He turns back to Roosevelt and lays it on the line. “Inspector,” he says, “would you please summarize what happened at Judge Fairchild’s house late last Friday night and early Saturday morning?”

  “Certainly, Mr. McNulty.” Roosevelt clears his throat and addresses Judge McDaniel. "The defendant went to dinner and a movie with his girlfriend. Then they went over to Judge Fairchild’s house to pick up the defendant’s car. It also appears the defendant was going to pick up some marijuana to share with his girlfriend.”

  Bobby leans over and whispers, “Not true.”

  “Quiet,” I whisper. “The judge is watching. Let me handle it on cross-exam.”

  Roosevelt is still talking. “I believe the defendant was looking for his stash in the laundry room when his father came home. The defendant spilled some of the marijuana onto the floor. He and his father argued. The defendant grabbed a nearby hammer and hit his father, killing him on the spot. The defendant vandalized the foyer in an attempt to make it look like a botched robbery. He placed his clothes in the washer. He changed clothes and went out to the car, where his girlfriend was waiting for him. He drove her home, knowing she could provide an alibi.”

  At least he didn’t implicate Grace.

  “A seemingly perfect alibi,” McNulty says.

  “Not quite,” Roosevelt says. “Mr. Treadwell saw him running down the street. We found traces of his father’s blood in his laundered clothes. We found the marijuana in the laundry room. The staged vandalism of the foyer was little more than a clumsy attempt at a cover-up.” Roosevelt invokes a fatherly tone. "I’ve been doing this for a long time. The sad reality was obvious: Bobby Fairchild killed his father.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Cross-exam, Mr. Daley?”

  I need to talk to Bobby. “Your Honor,” I say, “we request a brief recess to consult with our client.”

  Judge McDaniel looks at her watch. “We’ll pick up with Inspector Johnson’s cross-exam after lunch,” she says.

  45/ IT WASN’T MINE

  Wednesday, June 22, 12:04 p.m.

  “It wasn’t mine,” Bobby insists. His face is ashen, but his tone is adamant. He’s staring at an uneaten turkey sandwich on the metal table inside the windowless holding pen behind Judge McDaniel’s courtroom.

  “Whose dope was it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did it get inside the laundry room?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “We can’t afford any more surprises, Bobby.”

  “What are they trying to prove?” he asks.

  Rosie answers him. “It’s about appearances,” she says. “We’re trying to portray you as an honor student who has been unjustly accused. They’re implying you’re a doper who got into a fight with your father about drugs. It’s an attempt to undercut our argument that you’re a Boy Scout who is heading for an Ivy League school. It also suggests a motive.”

  “But it isn’t true,” Bobby pleads.

  “It still looks terribl
e,” I say, “It’s also a distraction. By itself, the dope may have nothing to do with this case. Even so, we’re going to have to deal with it.”

  “It wasn’t mine,” he repeats.

  “What about your friends?” I ask. And your girlfriend?

  “No.”

  Julie had been listening in simmering silence. “Are we done with the inquisition now?” she snaps. She’s desperate to believe her son.

  “It’s on the record,” I say. “It’s going to be in the papers. It would help if we had an explanation.”

  “We do. It wasn’t Bobby’s. End of story.”

  “We can’t put Bobby on the stand to testify that it wasn’t his.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Because McNulty will eat him for lunch. “You never put a defendant on the stand unless you’re desperate.”

  “Why don’t you believe my son?”

  Because there are holes in his story. “It’s our job to be skeptical,” I say. "It would be very helpful if we could figure out how the dope got there.”

  “Put me on the stand,” Julie says. “I’ll say it was mine.”

  Gimme a break. “That isn’t true.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you were making it up to try to protect him. It will destroy your credibility—and his.”

  A sarcastic sneer crosses her face. “I love it when you lawyers try to take the moral high ground. What would you suggest?”

  I can’t imagine how she thinks it’s helpful to excoriate us in front of our client. “We can ask for a continuance to try to figure out how it got there.”

  “That’s out of the question.”

  “Unless you can tell us where the dope came from, our only option is to go after Inspector Johnson on cross-exam.”

  “That won’t be enough.”

  “Then you can hire another lawyer.”

  Before she can respond, she’s interrupted by the piercing sound of Bobby’s voice. “Stop it,” he shouts. “Stop it right now.”

  The cramped room goes silent as we turn to face him.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your little pissing contest,” he says, “but my ass is on the line. I think my opinion should count for something.”