Reilly’s back was to the wall. To counter, he tried to show that Norman had used these words on more than one occasion. He knew he was stepping out of bounds because the other occasion was off-limits. Reilly tried to go there anyway. It almost resulted in a mistrial. Reilly was nearly found in contempt and jailed by Judge Brooks.
Instead, in yet another unprecedented move in this case, Brooks came up with a creative alternative, splitting the baby down the middle and barely avoiding having to declare a mistrial.
Apparently feeling compelled to let the jury see the pattern of Norman’s remarks, Brooks ruled that the jury would be permitted to see a note left behind at one of the other murders of which Norman also stands accused. At the same time, however, a confidential source advises this reporter that Brooks ruled outside the presence of the jury and the courtroom gallery that a second piece of evidence, a DVD left behind with the note, would not be allowed to go to the jury, or otherwise be publicly revealed. This reporter intends to diligently pursue the mysterious DVD.
To show the jury Norman’s pattern of harmful remarks without allowing the jury to tie the pattern of Norman’s words to any of the other murders, Brooks has also sequestered the jury for the remainder of the trial.
Brooks then recessed the trial for the remainder of the day to arrange and implement the sequestration. Trial will resume tomorrow with Klein putting on the defense’s case, which figures to be nothing if not filled with high drama.
Right now, it’s too close to call, but it could all change tomorrow.
* * *
KLEIN WAS INTRIGUED BY Santana’s latest coverage. Who in the hell is the supposed confidential source who told her about the DVD? Only four people heard that ruling: Brooks, Reilly, the court reporter, and me. Is Santana just dramatizing what the gallery heard and could then surmise? And why didn’t she report anything on my obvious annihilation of Randall when I had him on cross? What’s with her?
CHAPTER 105
Wednesday, August 5, 1:30 p.m.
“HEY THERE, MS. FANCY LeBeau, remember me, Frank Lotello?”
“Of course, Detective, how could I forget you? Here to see Pete?”
“I am.”
“Oh well, you know, a girl could hope. Just a moment, Detective. I’ll see if I can find him for you.” She disappeared through the door into the hallway behind her desk.
LeBeau returned a couple of minutes later. “Please follow me, Detective.”
Anywhere. C’mon, Frank, who you kidding? Cut it out. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Mr. Foster, this is Detective Lotello. Detective, this is Peter Foster, our executive director.” LeBeau departed. Gone … but not forgotten.
“How do you do, Detective? To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
Unexpected? Really? Ms. LeBeau undoubtedly told you I had been here. And would be returning. “I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Foster.”
“Happy to oblige. Would you like something to drink?”
“No thanks. Time’s short, Mr. Foster. I’d like to come right to the point. Did you know Senator Jane Wells?” Now, that I believe he may not have been expecting.
“Senator Wells? Uh, sure. Slightly. As a lobbyist, it’s my job to know all the folks up on the Hill. Didn’t know her well, but I believe I did meet her on a couple of occasions.”
Lying to me right out of the blocks. “I’m not talking professionally, Mr. Foster. Did you and the senator have a personal relationship?” Lotello looked straight into Foster’s eyes. If I didn’t already have it, that got his attention.
“Detective, I’m a married man. What in the world are you suggesting?”
“I don’t care about your ethics, Mr. Foster. Or your relationship with your wife. I’m not a whistle-blower. What I want to know about is your relationship with Wells. If all you’re trying to hide is some cheating on your wife, you won’t have to worry about me. All I want is to find out what you know about the senator’s death. Period. But lie to me again and I may become your worst nightmare.”
Foster hesitated. “Detective. Please. In a weak moment, I may have stepped out on my wife. It goes with the turf. Part of the job. Entertaining members of Congress. Not proud of it, but I don’t know anything about the senator’s death. I can’t afford a scandal. It would cost me my job. And my family. Is that what you’re after?”
“I told you. I don’t care anything about your personal conduct. Or your ethics. That’s between you and your wife. Again: all I care about is what you know about the senator’s death.” Rolling the dice here a bit. Not sure where this is going. Which is why I’m not recording any of this yet. “You’ve already lied to me once, telling me you didn’t really know Wells. Now you’ve lied to me again, telling me you don’t know anything about her death. That’s two strikes against you, Foster. You don’t get a third. Lie to me again, I’ll cuff and haul you downtown right now. Then the chips fall where they may. That’ll be on you. Quit fucking with me. Tell me what you know or saw on February fifth. The night Wells was murdered.”
Foster was not much of a poker player. At least not under these circumstances. When he wasn’t holding any cards. Has to be wondering where I got my information.
“What is it you want? Are you trying to pin Wells’s murder on me? If you are, that’s crap.”
Need to ease up just a bit or I’m going to scare him into clamming up. Even if he has nothing more to hide than his philandering. “Look, Foster, I know you were with Wells on the evening of February third, forty-eight hours before she was shot. And you were supposed to hook up with her again on February fifth, the very night she was killed.
“As you said yourself, you had a lot to lose. Maybe even enough to murder her in a weak moment. Especially if she was starting to give you a hard time.”
Foster cracked. “Okay. I was with her on the night of February third. And I was supposed to be with her again on the night of February fifth. My wife was visiting friends in New York. However, as I approached Wells’s townhouse on the fifth, I saw a person moving away from her front door. Headed down the interior path toward the next group of townhouses. The group that included mine. Around three to four hundred feet beyond Wells’s townhouse. I barely avoided being seen by ducking behind some bushes. The person looked around and then left.
“I was pissed. I thought Wells was casting me aside. I waited until the person left and went to her front door. I knocked. No one answered. I rang the doorbell. Still no answer. That was it. At that point I figured it was time for me to get the hell out of there. I’m not sure why, but something told me to clean my fingerprints off the doorbell. Maybe it was because the door looked like someone had tried to kick it in. Or maybe had kicked it in. In any event, after I cleaned off the doorbell, I went back to my townhouse, had a couple of stiff drinks, and fell asleep. The next day, the murder was all over the news. I was scared shitless.”
“Let me see if I understand. You were mad at Wells because you thought she was cheating on you. While you were cheating on your wife. Did it occur to you to tell the police what you had seen that night after you learned Wells had been murdered?”
“How could I do that? How could I explain to my wife why I had seen what I had?”
“Couldn’t you have said you were out for a walk? You live right there in the same complex.”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly. I panicked. I just wanted it all to go away.”
“What a man. First you run around on your wife. Then, because things might get a little awkward, you sit on the fact that you saw someone coming out of Wells’s townhouse the night she was murdered. That you know the person being tried for Wells’s murder might not have had anything to do with it. That he might just be some poor slob you’ve left dangling in the wind.”
“What are you talking about? Hasn’t the guy being tried confessed? Several times. What’s the difference what I saw? What good would it have done him for me to put myself in a hard place?”
“By the way, did you happen to
notice if the person you saw was wearing gloves?”
“I don’t recall seeing any.”
“Okay, Foster. I’m going to show you what police refer to as a ‘six-pack.’ Pictures of six different people. I want to know if you can identify any of these people as the person you saw leaving Wells’s townhouse on the night in question. February fifth. Ready?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Not unless you’d rather continue this exercise as a guest of the District of Columbia at police headquarters. Wednesday dinners are particularly scrumptious. We’ll definitely be there in time for you to get your order in.”
“Okay, okay. Go ahead. Show me the pictures.”
Lotello opened the six-pack on Foster’s desk: photographs of Robert Grant, James Ayres, Cliff Norman, Blaine Hollister, Tommy Thomas, and Rachel Santana. “Are any of these six people the person you saw leaving Wells’s townhouse that night?”
Foster touched one of the photos. “I don’t know his name, but that’s the person I saw leaving.”
“You’re sure?”
“Believe me, I wish it were none of these people. But you’ve got me scared to hold out on you any longer.” Foster touched the same photo once more. “This guy’s the one I saw leaving Wells’s place that night.”
“And you don’t know him? Or his name?”
“No. I’ve never seen him before. Or since. Not until you showed me his picture right now.”
“Do you recognize any of the other five people?”
“Three of them.”
“Which ones?”
He touched three of the photos. “These.”
“Let’s be clear. You don’t recognize either of these other two?” This time Lotello tapped the photos of the other two people. The two Foster didn’t indicate.
“Right.”
“Okay. Who are the three you do recognize?”
“The woman. That’s Rachel Santana. A political reporter here in town.”
“You know her?”
“A little. Enough to say hello. We cover the same territory. She interviewed me once. That’s all.”
“Next?”
“James Ayres. He was Wells’s chief of staff. He sat in on a couple of business meetings I had with her. I’ve had no other dealings with him.”
“Next?”
“The one in the upper left. He’s a limo driver here in town. He used to drive me around on occasion. I think his name’s … uh, sorry, I don’t remember it.”
“Robert Grant?”
“That’s it. Robert Grant. Nice guy.”
“He doesn’t still drive for you?”
“No.”
“Any reason why not?”
“I don’t need a driver that much. I think he became busier with other clients.”
“Did you know he was Wells’s driver at the time of her death?”
“No.”
“You don’t recognize either of the remaining two?”
“I don’t believe so. Wait a minute.” Foster pointed to one of the photos. “I think I’ve seen this guy around. But I’m not sure. And I don’t know his name.”
“Does your work ever bring you in contact with the CRP, the Committee to Reelect the President?”
“Yeah. That’s it. I met him once or twice. Weird guy. Same first and last name. Didn’t much care for him. Creepy.”
“And you’re sure he was not the person you saw leaving Wells’s townhouse?”
“Not at all.”
“Not at all what? You’re not sure? Or he wasn’t the guy?”
“He wasn’t the guy.”
“And that’s it? That’s all you know about any of these six people?”
“That’s it.”
“I think you’re lying to me again.”
“I’m not. I swear I’m not. I’ve told you all I know about these people.”
“I don’t believe you, Foster.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This picture,” Lotello said, tapping one of the photos. “One last chance. Who’s this?”
“Jesus, what are you doing to me, Lotello? Okay. This is the guy accused of murdering Wells. Norman something or other.”
“Cliff Norman?”
“Yeah. Cliff Norman. That’s it.”
“Let me ask you one more time about this other photo,” Lotello said, pointing again to one of the other photos Foster had fingered. “This is the man you saw at Wells’s townhouse, right?”
“Yes.”
“Not Norman?”
“Not Norman.”
“Do you know the name of this man you saw that night?”
“No.”
“Does the name Blaine Hollister mean anything to you?”
“Maybe. I think he’s a wealthy businessman. Dabbles in politics every now and again.”
“You’re really a piece of work, Foster. You recognize all six photos. You’ve seen Norman’s picture plastered all over the newspapers. You knew Norman was not the person you saw leaving Wells’s townhouse. And still you didn’t come forward. Not only to cover your ass with your wife, but also because you didn’t want to have to identify the man you did see that night, Blaine Hollister. Who probably donates lots of money to a number of your clients.”
Foster didn’t respond. The look on his face did it for him.
“Okay. Here’s the deal. We’re gonna go through all this one more time. This time I’m gonna record the conversation. First, your acknowledgment that I have your permission to record it. Then I’ll record your statement about what you saw on the night in question. And who you do and don’t recognize in the six-pack. Play it straight and I’ll do my best to keep you out of this. I’m not sure I can. But I’ll try.”
Twenty minutes later, Lotello had his recording and was out the door. Norman may be sick, but it’s pretty clear he didn’t kill anyone. Unless of course he, too, was at Wells’s townhouse that night. I don’t want Norman going down on my watch if he’s not the killer.
Lotello knew he ought to go straight to Klein with what he’d just learned. If I do, Klein will understandably try to get the charges against Norman immediately kicked on the grounds of reasonable doubt. Even if Norman might still be guilty. Everyone else who might actually be guilty will run for cover before I can work this all out. Once and for all. I hate playing God here, Beth. I may get in big trouble for what I’m doing. But I’m sure—pretty sure—I can get Norman off before the jury possibly finds him guilty. If it turns out that’s what I have to do. I just need a little more time.
CHAPTER 106
Thursday, August 6, 8:30–10:15 a.m.
BROOKS TRIED TO KEEP the mood light. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I trust and hope your unanticipated vacation in the District of Columbia is going smoothly so far. Even if it is not your destination resort of first choice. I promise to move things along as quickly as possible so we can end this disruption and return you to your lives and your families.
“Ms. Klein. Are you ready to call your first witness?”
“I am. The defense calls Rachel Santana to the stand.” Klein had hoped Reilly would call Santana in his case-in-chief so Klein would have the greater latitude available in cross-examination. Now, she would have to hope that Brooks would allow her to treat Santana as a hostile witness if Santana proved uncooperative.
After establishing Santana’s occupation as a journalist and the Associated Press and The Washington Post as her present and immediate prior employers, Klein continued. “Ms. Santana, you’ve been covering the Cliff Norman story since his first arrest. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Your Honor, I have here several copies of proposed Defense Exhibit One for you, Mr. Reilly, and the witness. I would like Exhibit One admitted into evidence and I would like to examine the witness on it.”
“Do you have any objections, Mr. Reilly?”
“I do, Your Honor. I have no idea at present for what purpose Ms. Klein wishes to introduce Exh
ibit One, a newspaper story written by Ms. Santana, into evidence. Or what its relevance is. Might we ask Ms. Klein to provide an offer of proof?”
“I would prefer to examine the witness on Exhibit One before making any offer of proof.”
Brooks turned to the witness. “Ms. Santana, did you write this story?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Very well, Ms. Klein, I’ll reserve judgment as to whether Exhibit One will be admitted into evidence until I hear your examination of Ms. Santana. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am permitting Ms. Klein to examine the witness, but please keep in mind that I am not yet ruling whether Exhibit One will be admitted into evidence. I will make that determination after we hear the examination. You may proceed, Ms. Klein.”
“Ms. Santana. You wrote Exhibit One when you were employed by The Washington Post. At a time prior to the murder of Senator Wells. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why was Mr. Norman arrested at about this time? The time you authored Exhibit One.”
“Objection, no firsthand knowledge. Hearsay. Lack of foundation.”
“Overruled. The witness is simply being asked for her state-of-mind understanding of why Mr. Norman was arrested on January twenty-third. Prior to Senator Wells’s murder on February fifth. State of mind is an exception to the rule against hearsay. It doesn’t mean her understanding is correct. The witness will answer the question.”
Klein smiled to herself. Dodged that bullet. Brooks could have gone either way. I think Brooks wants to see where this is going. Reilly is pissed. But helpless. The jury will now hear from a lay witness what amounts to thirdhand medical testimony that Norman was conducting himself in a manner perceived by expert authorities as mentally unbalanced.
Santana had forgotten the question. Klein repeated it.
Santana then answered: “Mr. Norman was perceived by expert authorities as acting sufficiently unbalanced to warrant taking him into custody for medical observation.”
“Thank you, Ms. Santana. I would like to again direct your attention to Exhibit One. You provide extensive background information on Mr. Norman in Exhibit One. Correct?”
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