MD07 - Perfect Alibi
Page 20
Julie and I glare at each other for an instant. “It does,” I say to Bobby.
“Then here’s how it’s going to come down. First, we aren’t going to ask for a continuance. Second, you’re going to do whatever you can on cross-exam. Third, I’m not going to hire another lawyer. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not the next day.”
“Bobby—" Julie says.
“I’ve made up my mind, Mother. Maybe now we can get back to work.”
Julie stares at the floor.
Rosie chooses her words with care. “Bobby,” she says, “do you have any idea how that dope found its way into your father’s house?”
“No.”
“What about Sean?” she asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“As far as I know, he’s clean.”
It’s a more equivocal answer than I had expected. I decide to play a hunch. "Are you protecting him?”
Julie answers for him. “No, he isn’t.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
Her eyes fill with anger.
Bobby places his hands on the table in front of him. “No,” he says softly. "I’m not protecting Sean.”
“This isn’t a time to be a hero.”
“I’m not.”
Julie interjects again. “Are we done?”
“We’ll meet you back in court at one o’clock,” I say. “I want to talk to Grace.”
# # #
Grace’s dark brown eyes are on fire, her voice full of exasperation. "Now they’re saying Bobby’s a pothead?”
“That’s the gist of it,” I reply.
We’re meeting in the moldy file room in the basement of the Hall where one of Rosie’s high school classmates works. Grace and Sylvia have been cooling their heels down here, away from the prying eyes of the media. Grace has been passing the time in our inelegant command center, skipping between CNN and the local news websites on her laptop. Sylvia is reading the online version of the Chronicle.
Our daughter’s expression transforms into a pronounced scowl. “It isn’t true,” she says.
“Has Bobby ever offered you anything?” I ask.
She’s becoming more agitated. “No.”
“Ever been to a party where people offered you drugs or alcohol?”
She shakes her head a little too emphatically. “No.”
“Grace?”
She waits a beat. “A couple of times.”
No surprise. “Ever tried anything?”
Another hesitation. “Once or twice. Everybody does it, Dad.”
“That doesn’t make it right.” I realize I sound just like my parents as I say it.
Grace fires right back. “As if you never did anything when you were in high school.”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“It does if you’re going to judge me.”
“I’m allowed to judge you. I’m your father.”
“You set a great example. Don’t blame me for doing the same stuff you did.”
“I’m not blaming anybody.”
“Yes, you are.”
Yes, I am. “There are consequences, Grace.”
“Don’t lecture me. We’ve been inundated with anti-drug programs since second grade. We understand the issues a lot better than you did.”
That much is true. “You’re only sixteen.”
“That’s old enough to make my own decisions. It isn’t as if I’m going to develop a drug problem. I’m an athlete. I have too much respect for my body and myself.”
“Don’t be naïve, Grace.”
“Don’t be judgmental, Dad.”
My throat is burning. “This isn’t just about drugs or booze,” I say. “You could get into serious trouble if you hang out with the wrong people.”
“Come on, Dad.”
It feels as if I’m reciting from one of those canned public service announcements on TV. “Have you ever been to a party where somebody called the cops?”
“Once. Nobody got arrested. Besides, it has nothing to do with Bobby’s case.”
Rosie can’t hold back any longer. “Do you know what can happen if you get drunk at a party?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t do it.”
“It happens all the time. You or your friends could get in a car. You could end up in jail. You could get hurt—or worse.”
“That isn’t going to happen, Mother.”
“That’s what everybody says—until it happens to them.”
“I have better judgment.”
“Like showing up an hour after curfew on Friday night?”
Grace is indignant. “We weren’t drinking. We just lost track of the time.”
“That isn’t the point, Grace.”
“What is your point, Mother?”
“You’re old enough to understand the ramifications of your actions for yourself and the people around you—including your father and me. With privileges come responsibilities.”
“Come on, Mother.”
“You’re smart enough to get it, Grace. If you or your friends do something stupid, it could ruin your life.”
Grace glares at her for a long moment. “Are you done now?” she asks.
Rosie can’t mask her frustration. “We’ll finish this conversation later. We’re due back in court.”
# # #
“Can we talk to you for a minute, Mike?” Julie’s tone is uncharacteristically subdued as she and Sean approach me in the hallway outside Judge McDaniel’s courtroom.
“Sure,” I say. I lead them into the nearby stairwell.
“Sean has something to tell you,” Julie says.
Bobby’s brother swallows hard. “That dope was mine,” he whispers.
My anger is tempered by the fact that this information can only help us. “It would have made things easier if you had told us about it a couple of days ago,” I say.
“I know. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I’m sorry.”
“How did it get on the floor?”
“I spilled it.”
“When?”
“Right before I left for Kerry’s house on Friday night. Am I going to get in trouble?”
“Only if you’ve withheld any other information.”
“Possession is illegal.”
“It’s a tiny amount. You’re a juvenile. You have no prior record. If you agree to testify, I’ll get it cleared up.”
“Will it help Bobby?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in.”
Good. “For now, I’m going to have you sign a sworn statement saying it was yours. We’ll have to leave it up to the DA as to whether she wants to bring charges. My guess is she has more important things on her plate than prosecuting a fifteen-year-old for having a little stash in his house.”
“Okay.”
“Were you anywhere near your father’s house later on Friday night?”
“No, Mike. I swear to God.”
I’m inclined to believe him—for now. “You should stay away from that stuff,” I tell him. “It isn’t good for you.”
“I know.”
“Sean?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
46/ DID YOU CONSIDER ANY OTHER SUSPECTS?
Wednesday, June 22, 1:08 p.m.
“Inspector Johnson,” I begin, “you testifed earlier that you found traces of marijuana on the floor of Judge Fairchild’s laundry room.”
“Correct.”
I button my jacket and take my place directly in front of him. It’s time to go toe-to-toe. “Did you find Bobby Fairchild’s fingerprints on the marijuana?”
“You can’t lift prints off organic material.”
“How about DNA?”
“No.”
“Did you try?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It would have been very difficult to extract a usable sample.”
“And you may not have liked the results.”
“Objection,” McNul
ty says. “Argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
I keep pushing. “Did you find any marijuana on Bobby’s person?”
“No.”
“In his clothing? In his room? In his car?”
“No.”
“Did you find traces of marijuana anywhere else inside Judge Fairchild’s house?”
“No.”
“Did you administer a drug test to Bobby Fairchild?”
“He was given a screening after he was arrested.”
“Did you find any traces of marijuana in his system?”
“No.”
“Inspector,” I say, “do you have any evidence the marijuana belonged to Bobby?”
“Objection,” McNulty says. “Asked and answered.”
“Overruled.” Judge McDaniel casts a pointed look at McNulty as if to say, If you’re going to insinuate marijuana possession, you’d better be able to prove it.
Roosevelt shoots a scornful glance at McNulty. “No,” he says softly.
Good. “Did you find any evidence Bobby had any contact with this marijuana?”
“No.”
“In fact, you have no idea whose it was or how it got into the laundry room, do you?”
“Objection,” McNulty says. “Argumentative.”
The judge holds up a hand. “We get the message, Mr. Daley. The objection is sustained.”
Good enough. “Your Honor,” I say, “at this time we would like to introduce a sworn statement signed by Sean Fairchild, who is Bobby Fairchild’s younger brother.”
McNulty is back up. “We had no notice of this, Your Honor.”
“It just came to our attention during the lunch break,” I say.
“What’s the nature of this statement?”
I’m glad you asked. “Sean has admitted that the marijuana found in the laundry room belonged to him. He spilled it as he was leaving the house at eight o’clock on Friday night. Although he understands that he may be charged with a misdemeanor for possession of a controlled substance, he has courageously stepped forward to tell the truth.”
“Has he been advised by counsel of the consequences of this admission?”
“Yes.”
“Objection,” McNulty says. “There is no foundation for any of this. In addition, Sean Fairchild isn’t on any witness list. We’ve had no chance to interview him and we will have no opportunity to cross-examine him.”
“Overruled,” the judge says. “I will allow the statement to be entered into evidence.”
McNulty sits in stone-cold silence as I read Sean’s statement onto the record. A moment later, I pick up again with Roosevelt. “Inspector,” I say, “given Sean Fairchild’s statement, are you now prepared to change your conclusion that Bobby Fairchild got into an argument with his father about the marijuana that was found in the laundry room?”
“I’m prepared to consider it.”
It’s as much as I’ll get. “Inspector,” I say, “are you aware that the Medical Examiner concluded that Judge Fairchild died between eleven forty-five p.m. on Friday night and twelve thirty a.m. on Saturday morning?”
“Yes.”
“Are you also aware that a witness named Keith Treadwell purported to have seen Bobby Fairchild outside his father’s house at twelve ten a.m.?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you believe Judge Fairchild was killed sometime before twelve ten?”
“Based upon the evidence available to me at this time, that would appear likely.”
It may seem like a small point, but I just shaved twenty minutes off Bobby’s window of opportunity. Now I need to keep chipping away. “Inspector,” I continue, "you testifed that you believe Bobby killed his father, took off his bloody clothes, put them in the washer, changed into clean clothes, vandalized the hallway to make it look like a robbery, and then ran outside to his car, correct?”
“Yes.”
“How long do you figure it took him to do all of that?”
McNulty’s up. “Objection,” he says. “Speculation.”
“Overruled.”
“It probably happened very fast,” Roosevelt says.
“A minute? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”
“I’d guess two or three minutes.”
“I might have guessed longer. For purposes of discussion, let’s say it took three minutes.”
“It may have been less.”
“And it may have been more. If it was three minutes, and Bobby really was seen outside at ten after twelve, the process must have started no later than seven minutes after twelve, right?”
“So it would appear.”
“Which means Bobby must have entered the house no later than twelve-oh-seven, right?”
“Based upon the information available to us at this time, that appears to be correct.”
“Realistically, he probably entered the house at least a few minutes earlier, right?”
“Objection,” McNulty says. “Speculation.”
“Sustained.”
“Inspector,” I say, “have you located any witnesses who saw Bobby enter his father’s house on Friday night or Saturday morning?”
“No.”
“So you have no proof that he was inside his father’s house between eleven forty-five p.m. and twelve thirty a.m., do you?”
“Objection,” McNulty says. “Asked and answered.”
“Sustained.”
“Inspector,” I continue, “if we assume Bobby entered the house at twelve-oh-seven, it would follow that you believe he must have killed his father immediately thereafter, right?”
“So it would appear.”
I just took another three precious minutes off the clock.
McNulty stands. “Your Honor,” he says, “this line of questioning is pure speculation.”
No it isn’t. “Your Honor,” I say, “on direct exam, Inspector Johnson testifed as to the timing of Judge Fairchild’s death. We have the right to question him about his conclusions.”
“I’ll give you a little leeway, Mr. Daley.”
I still have a little more work to do. “Inspector,” I continue, “did you interview a private investigator named Kaela Joy Gullion?”
“Yes.”
“Did she inform you that she was keeping Judge Fairchild under surveillance on Friday night?”
“Yes.”
We’ll get into the reason she was tailing him a little later. “Did she explain that she followed Judge Fairchild to his house?”
“Yes.”
“According to her eyewitness account, what time did he pull into his garage?”
“Midnight.”
“I trust he was very much alive at that time?”
“Of course.”
“Did you find her statement to be credible?”
“We have found no evidence to the contrary.”
That takes fifteen minutes off the front end. “That means you believe Judge Fairchild must have been killed sometime between midnight and twelve-oh-seven a.m., right?”
“Based upon the evidence available to me at this time, that appears to be likely.”
Dr. Beckert’s forty-five minute window of opportunity is down to seven minutes. "Inspector,” I say, “do you have any physical evidence placing Bobby inside his father’s house between midnight and twelve-oh-seven a.m.?”
“We found the defendant’s fingerprints inside.”
“But we’ve already established that the fingerprints you found could have been weeks or even months old. Do you have an eyewitness account or any forensic evidence conclusively placing Bobby inside his father’s house during that seven-minute window?”
“We only have circumstantial evidence.”
“So,” I say, “if we can demonstrate that he wasn’t inside his father’s house during that seven-minute window, you would agree he couldn’t have killed his father, right?”
“I’ll need to look at the rest of the evidence before I can make any final judgments.”
I expected him to hedge. “Likewise,” I say, “if we can demonstrate that Bobby wasn’t inside his father’s house at all on Friday night or Saturday morning, you’d have to agree that he couldn’t have killed his father, right?”
“Yes.”
He couldn’t disagree with that one. “Inspector,” I say, “you interviewed the defendant’s girlfriend, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And she told you she was with the defendant on Friday night, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“In fact she told you she and the defendant returned to the defendant’s car around twelve fifteen, didn’t she? And he drove her home to Marin County, didn’t he? And they arrived at her house around one o’clock on Saturday morning, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t return to his father’s house until two o’clock on Saturday morning, right?”
“That appears to be correct.”
“If he killed his father between eleven forty-five and twelve thirty, doesn’t that mean he must have been wearing the bloody clothes when he took his girlfriend home?”
“We believe he put the bloody clothes in the washer before he drove her home.”
“In other words, he changed clothes?”
“Correct.”
“Did you question his girlfriend about it?”
“Yes.”
“Did she confirm that Bobby had changed clothes?”
“No.”
“Do you have any reason to doubt her veracity?”
“We believe she was lying to protect her boyfriend.”
“Do you have any specific forensic evidence to prove that assertion?”
“No.”
“So that’s speculation on your part, isn’t it?”
“My conclusion is based on the evidence available to us at this time.”
“Not to mention the fact that it certainly helps your case to call the defendant’s girlfriend a liar, doesn’t it?”
“Objection,” McNulty says. “Argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
I’ll deal with it when Grace is on the stand. For now, I simply want to lock Roosevelt into a time frame. “Inspector,” I say, “just so we’re clear, is it your belief that Bobby killed his father between twelve o’clock and twelve-oh-seven, quickly changed clothes, and drove his girlfriend home?”
“That explanation would fit the evidence, Mr. Daley.”