“The jailhouse informant’s testimony isn’t evidence?” the judge asks.
“It is, Judge, but c’mon. The unreliability of jailhouse snitch testimony is well documented. He got a sweetheart deal in exchange for making up these ridiculous claims against my client. I mean, Judge, really.” Brody takes a step toward the bench. “Can any of us say that a man should be convicted of two counts of first-degree murder based on no eyewitnesses, no physical evidence, no forensic evidence, no confession—nothing more than the word of a convicted felon looking to cut a deal? And keep in mind, Judge, that it’s our theory that Chief James coerced the snitch into testifying. But now I can’t cross-examine him on that issue, either. For the same reason the knife shouldn’t be considered against my client, neither should the testimony of Dio Cornwall, the snitch.”
“My God,” I whisper to myself. He’s making this sound credible. And the judge—he looks like he’s actually considering this. How could this—this couldn’t possibly—
No. No, no, no.
“Mr. Akers,” says the judge, “I agree with the defense on the murder weapon. The prosecution cannot introduce evidence that the murder weapon was found at the defendant’s house. And the testimony of the jailhouse informant is not exactly something you base an entire case around, now, is it?”
The judge puts out a hand. He seems troubled by this, too, as if he doesn’t want to toss the charges and is looking for help. “But…aside from the knife, there was the defendant’s confession to Chief James. Obviously, the chief can’t tell us about that now. Is there—I don’t suppose anyone else was present at that confession who could testify about it?”
“I…” Sebastian Akers shrugs and shakes his head absently.
“My memory, Mr. Akers, is that the chief was going to testify that he was alone with Noah Walker during the alleged confession.”
“That may be—it—but Judge, it would be grossly unfair to the administration of justice for Noah Walker to profit by murdering the star witness—”
“Mr. Akers,” the judge booms. “I know you have your suspicions about Mr. Walker’s involvement in the chief’s death. But it’s been six days and you haven’t arrested him, much less sought an indictment. Do you, or do you not, have evidence—evidence—that Noah Walker killed Chief James?”
Akers raises his hands helplessly. “As far as I know, the investigation is still in its infancy—”
“I will take that as a no.” Now the judge shakes his head. “So I will ask you again, Counsel, am I correct that Chief James was the only one who could testify to Mr. Walker’s confession?”
“Judge, I would have to—”
“Mr. Akers, you know your case. Don’t stonewall me. Was Chief James the only person present with Noah Walker when he confessed to the murder?”
Sebastian Akers flips through some papers, stalling for time, but he knows the answer as surely as Noah’s lawyer does, as surely as I do. The chief was alone with Noah during the confession.
A single thread in the weave has been pulled by the defense, and the entire fabric of the prosecution’s case has come apart. Without Uncle Lang to testify, the State can’t tie the murder weapon to Noah’s house. The State can’t say that Noah confessed to a decorated veteran of the Southampton Town Police Department. All Akers can say is that a jailhouse snitch claimed to hear a confession—if the judge doesn’t toss out that testimony, too.
The case is over. I can’t believe this. The case is over. He killed my uncle and is going to walk away from two other murders because of it.
And I passed on the chance to put a bullet between his eyes.
“We’re going to take a thirty-minute recess,” says the judge. “Mr. Akers, I’d advise you to use that half hour well. If you can’t think of some reason between now and then, this case is over.”
24
I PUSH Sebastian Akers into the witness room adjacent to the courtroom and close the door. “This can’t happen,” I say.
“Detective, I know you’re upset, but right now I have to—”
“There’s a police report,” I say. “Lang filled out a report when Noah confessed. Can’t you introduce that as evidence?”
Akers, on the verge of coming unglued, lets out a pained sigh. “A police report is hearsay. You can’t use it unless the defense can cross-examine the cop who wrote it.”
“And Noah killed that cop,” I protest.
“But we can’t prove that, Detective! You know as well as I do that we haven’t been able to come up with a hint of physical evidence. His motive is all we have.”
I look up at the ceiling, searching for answers in the peeling white paint.
“He told me Noah confessed,” I say. “Lang told me.”
“Well, sure!” Akers waves his hand, exasperated. “He probably told a lot of people. Hell, he told newspaper reporters. But guess what that is?”
I drop my head. “Hearsay.”
“Hearsay. Inadmissible in a court of law.”
A long moment passes. I steady myself by placing my hands on the small table. But I sense something in the silence. I look up at Akers, who is studying me carefully.
“Unless,” he says.
I straighten up. “Unless what?”
“There are exceptions to every rule,” he says carefully. “Including the rule against hearsay.”
He gives me a long hard look. Sebastian Akers is a very ambitious man. Undoubtedly, he considers this high-profile case a launching pad for bigger and better things. Or, conversely, a crash landing if he blows it. And five minutes ago, standing before the judge, Akers was on the verge of seeing his case implode before a national audience.
And I was on the verge of watching the man who killed my uncle, and three other people, skip out of court a free man.
“Tell me about the exceptions,” I say.
Akers watches me very carefully, wondering if we’re on the same page. I’m wondering that myself.
“One exception in particular,” he says. “It has to do with when the chief told you about the confession. If he just mentioned it to you casually later that day or something like that, we’re out of luck.”
“But,” I say.
“But if he told you just after the confession happened—let’s say, if he walked out of the jail cell, stunned that Noah had confessed, and told you at just that moment, still in a state of excitement and shock—the law considers that statement to be sufficiently reliable to be admissible. It’s called an excited utterance.”
I sit down in the chair. “An excited utterance.”
“Right. If he said it while he was still in the moment.”
“Still in a state of excitement and surprise.”
“That’s right, Detective.”
Akers’s eyes are wide and intense. He’s holding his breath.
“Whether Noah Walker gets justice, or whether he laughs his way out of court, and probably kills again,” he says to me evenly, “is riding on your answer.”
It’s not the only thing riding on my answer. My sworn oath as a police officer is, too. Because I remember now. I remember when Lang told me about Noah’s confession. It was on his back porch in the early afternoon; he told me Noah had confessed to him that morning, hours earlier.
I clear my throat, adrenaline buzzing through me. “So if I testify that the chief told me about Noah’s confession immediately after it happened—”
“While he was still in a state of excitement…”
Time passes. Memories flood through my mind. My stomach churns like the gears of a locomotive. What does it mean to be a cop? Is it about rules, or is it about justice? In the end, what do I stand for?
What would my uncle do for me, if our roles were reversed?
Finally, Sebastian Akers takes the seat across from me. “We only have a few minutes,” he says. “So, Detective Murphy, I have a question for you.”
My eyes rise up to meet his.
“When was it, exactly, that the chief told you that N
oah Walker confessed?”
A hush falls over the courtroom as Judge Barnett resumes his seat on the bench. There are even more sheriff’s deputies present now than earlier, ready to calm the crowd should it be necessary. The energy in the room is suffocating. Or maybe that’s just the shortness of breath I’m experiencing, seated in the front row of the courtroom.
The judge looks over his glasses at the prosecution. “Mr. Akers, does the prosecution have any additional evidence to present?” he asks.
The room goes still. Sebastian Akers rises slowly and buttons his coat. He turns and looks in my direction but does not make eye contact.
“The State calls Detective Jenna Murphy,” he says.
25
THE JUDGE gavels the courtroom to order after the lunch break. The morning was spent arguing over the admissibility of my testimony, a bunch of lawyer-speak about the rules of evidence that nobody else in the courtroom understood.
Then I testified for an hour. I told the truth—that my uncle told me that Noah had confessed to him—and then I told a lie. I lied about when he told me. Does it really matter if he told me immediately after the confession or several hours later?
That’s what I’ve been telling myself over and over, anyway, that a handful of hours should not be the difference between a killer going to prison and his walking free to kill again.
Joshua Brody gets to his feet eagerly for cross-examination. My adrenaline starts to pump. I know what’s coming, and it’s something I have to willingly accept, the price I have to pay for testifying.
“Detective Murphy,” says Brody, “you once worked for the New York City Police Department, correct?”
He’s not wasting any time. “Yes. I resigned about a year ago.”
“At the time you resigned, you were under investigation by the Internal Affairs Division, isn’t that true?”
“Yes,” I say, the heat rising to my face.
“You were under investigation for skimming money and drugs during the arrest of a drug dealer, true?”
“I was investigated for it. But I was never charged.”
“You were never charged because you resigned from the force,” he says. “The department couldn’t discipline someone who no longer worked for them.”
“I was never charged,” I reply evenly, “because I did nothing wrong.”
“Oh, I see.” Brody looks away from me toward the jury, then turns his stare back to me. “You just coincidentally decided that it was a good time to move on, at the same time that you were under investigation.”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I say. “And I would add—”
“There’s no need to add,” he says, patting the air. “You answered my—”
“I would add that the district attorney’s office was free to charge me, whether I worked for the NYPD or not. But they didn’t.”
There is so much more I could say, everything that happened that led up to that bogus charge. But I don’t have the energy to fight.
Brody smirks. He’s gotten all he can here.
“Detective, you weren’t present for this alleged…‘conversation’ between Chief James and Noah Walker.”
“Correct. I was down the hall from the jail cell.”
“You have no firsthand knowledge of what was said between them.”
“Firsthand? No.”
“You took the chief’s word for it.”
“Yes.”
“And this jury,” says Brody, gesturing toward the jury box, “they have to take not only the chief’s word for it, but yours as well.”
“I’m not sure I take your point, Counselor.”
“This jury has to believe that you’re telling the truth about what the chief said, and that the chief told the truth about what my client said.”
I nod. “I suppose that’s right.”
“They have to believe you, who resigned while under investigation for being a dirty cop—”
“Objection,” says Sebastian Akers, jumping to his feet.
“Sustained.”
Brody doesn’t break stride. “—and they have to believe the chief, whom they don’t get to hear from at all.”
I pause a beat, anger surging to the surface. “That’s right, they don’t get to hear from the chief, Mr. Brody. Because your client killed him before he could testify.”
I brace myself for an objection, for Brody to go crazy, for the judge to excuse the jury and give me a thorough dressing-down.
But to my surprise, Brody doesn’t object.
“My client hasn’t been arrested for that murder, has he?”
“Not yet.”
“As far as you know, there is no physical evidence implicating my client?”
“Not yet.”
“Very good, Detective.” I have no idea why he’s letting my statement slide. Presumably, he’s calculated that every juror—every human being in the Hamptons—has heard about the chief’s murder, and most believe that Noah killed him. He must figure it’s easier to acknowledge it, so he can make his points about the lack of any arrest or evidence thus far.
Or does he have some other reason?
“Can you tell the jury what happened to you the day after this alleged confession?”
“The…following day?”
“Yes, Detective,” he says, approaching me, a spark in his eyes. “Isn’t it true that the following day, you were suspended for one month from active duty?”
The spectators react sufficiently for the judge to call for silence.
“Yes, I guess that was the following day, now that you mention it.”
“Why were you suspended?”
Because I doubted the guilt of Noah Walker. Because I thought the murder of the prostitute might be connected to the Ocean Drive murders. But I can’t say that. It would be a gift-wrapped present to the defense. And it’s not what Lang said in the report he wrote up. That would be the last thing he’d write down.
“Insubordination,” I say. “I let our personal relationship intrude on our professional relationship. I was disrespectful and I was wrong.”
“You were disrespectful to him?”
“I was,” I answer, feeling a lump in my throat, recalling the moment.
“You and your uncle, you were upset with each other?”
I feel the first hints of emotion creeping in. I’m not going to break down in front of this jury.
“He was certainly upset with me,” I say. “And he was right to be.”
“You feel…I can see that you feel guilty about that.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
“Looking back, it bothers you, doesn’t it? That just before his death, you were disrespectful to your uncle.”
I know what my answer should be. It should be Yes, but that doesn’t mean I would lie for him. But that is precisely what I’m doing here today.
“It bothers me,” I answer.
“You wish you could make it up to him.”
Again, I don’t answer. He doesn’t wait very long.
“You think my client killed your uncle, correct?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“But you’d agree with me that, with the full resources of the STPD on the case for almost a week, there’s been no proof thus far to back up your suspicion.”
“Not yet.”
“So this case here,” he says, pointing to the floor, “this case might be your only chance to get Noah Walker.”
“Objection,” says Akers, but the judge overrules him.
“And with the chief unable to testify about this supposed confession from my client, and with the judge on the verge of dismissing the charges against my client, you now suddenly come forth to claim that the chief told you about this confession immediately”—he snaps his finger—“immediately after it happened.”
I don’t reply. My eyes move along the floor, then upward to the defense attorney.
“What a convenient and unexpected coincidence!” Brody says, waving his hands.
I look at Noah Walker, his chin resting on his fists. He watches me intently, his eyebrows pitched, as if—as if he pities me.
“No further questions,” says Brody.
26
NOAH WALKER places his head gently against the bars of his holding cell, barely touching Paige Sulzman’s head on the other side. His hands come through the bars and interlock with hers.
“I don’t like you coming here,” he says. “I don’t like you seeing me like this.”
“I know, baby. Good thing I’m stubborn.”
“It’s not a good idea. How would John—”
“John’s in Europe. Copenhagen, this week, I think. I told you. He’ll be gone for another two weeks.”
Despite his protests, Noah looks forward to the fifteen-minute visits Paige is allowed every night in lockup. Riverhead is a dank, dark, miserable cesspool, purgatory for the accused in Suffolk County, short on hope and long on desperation and bitterness. Paige, with her freshly cut hair and generous smile, her sympathetic eyes and gentle demeanor, is like a rose sprouting in a swamp of manure.
“You could use a shave and a haircut,” she says, trying to keep it light.
He acknowledges the attempt at humor, but it’s hard to find anything funny right now. The trial is at its apex. Difficult decisions need to be made.
“Your lawyer did a good job today.” The hope in Paige’s expression, the tears shimmering in her eyes, reveal her lack of objectivity, but Noah doesn’t totally disagree.
“Yeah, he did. But still, babe. The jury heard a cop say I confessed to the murders. What’s the jury supposed to think when they hear I confessed?”
“That she made it up,” Paige replies. “That she’s trying to make it up to her uncle out of guilt. I thought that came through very clearly.”
“Yeah, I know.” He doesn’t sound like he’s convinced, because he’s not. Yes, his lawyer did a good job cross-examining Detective Murphy, but the jurors seemed to like her regardless, and their opinions are the only ones that matter.
The Murder House Page 8
