# # #
Charlie arrived at the courthouse early, secured her phone and laptop in a locker, and moved to the bank of elevators. Waiting and jockeying for position were courthouse staff, jurors, police officers, and attorneys. Charlie remembered the stairwell and walked up the two flights. As she stepped into the corridor, she spotted Goulet at a bench chatting with the man she’d seen him with the week before. Based on his briefcase and appearance, Goulet’s companion was probably an attorney. The two men didn’t look her way, and Charlie quickly moved in the opposite direction toward Courtroom Five, but before entering the hallway for the jury room, she sat at a bench and pulled out her thermos. Pretending to drink, she peered over the cup for a better look at the ghost’s companion. The young African-American man wore designer glasses. His patterned socks peeked between the pants of a well-cut suit and tan dress shoes. His neatly trimmed beard merged into a fresh haircut. He was definitely an attorney, albeit a young, well-dressed one.
Charlie contemplated returning to her locker for her phone to alert Don that the ghost was on-site, but then the elevator doors opened, and a dozen people exited. The two men glanced up from their conversation and moved further down the corridor away from the elevators. Charlie watched the fashion juror step out, hesitate, and stare at the backs of Goulet and the lawyer before turning toward the jury room. Charlie quickly recapped her thermos and hurried into the hallway. She nodded to a few of the other jurors and turned to greet the young woman as she entered behind her.
“How are you doing this morning?” Charlie asked. “You look fabulous as always.”
“Thank you. I’m so tired today. I can’t wait for this trial to be over. I’ve got things to do with my life besides being here.” She pouted.
“I know what you mean.”
The morning session continued the testimony introduced on Friday—explaining the boring intricacies of government procurement. Charlie’s head swam with the jargon of contracting: RFPs, purchasing protocols, indemnifications, bidding rules, awards cycles, option years, and waiver of subrogation. Next to her Richard Fletcher snored softly, and the fashionista had begun a quick repair to her nails with a file. Charlie glanced at the gallery. The ghost hadn’t appeared in the courtroom, but Judy sat in the third row, leaning forward, and listening with rapt attention. This bureaucratic gobbledygook was just the kind of nerdy stuff she loved.
Charlie stifled a yawn and peeked at the door as it opened. The ghost stepped into the courtroom and sat in the last row. Charlie shifted in her chair in an attempt to get Judy’s attention, but Judy was transfixed by the witness from the city’s Department of General Services. It was another ten long minutes before Spivak stopped his questioning and turned toward the defense attorney. Bateman appeared to have just awakened from a nap. With the gratitude of the jury, he conducted a brief cross-examination of the witness.
When the judge announced a twenty-minute break, Judy finally looked up, and Charlie signaled with a slight tilt of her head toward the rear of the courtroom. Judy looked back just as Goulet rose and headed for the exit. She nodded and followed.
# # #
When the trial resumed, Goulet returned to the courtroom, but not Judy. The ghost moved to the third row of the gallery, and gave a not-so-quick glance toward the jury box. His eyes connected with Charlie’s for only a second. But she sensed her seat mates also staring in his direction. Spivak turned the questioning duties over to his colleague, Karen Gleason, who called one of the key witnesses in the trial, the city manager who the prosecution alleged had taken a bribe from Canova.
Adrienne Raab had not been in the courtroom for the earlier testimony, but now–sitting between two men in the first row of the gallery–she handed her purse to one of them as she walked to the stand. Her other companion had the telltale signs of being an attorney. Raab was a cool customer. Her salt-and-pepper hair was elegantly coifed, and she wore a muted-green pantsuit with brown heels and a tan blouse. She confidently raised her hand to be sworn in.
Gleason took her time moving papers around on the table. She looked up once at Raab, then continued making three piles and squaring them up neatly. Canova attempted eye contact with Raab, but she kept her eyes on the far wall of the courtroom, seeming quite content to wait. Finally, Gleason stood.
“Your Honor, I wish to treat this witness as hostile.”
“You may proceed, Ms. Gleason.”
Gleason began her questioning with a single sheet of paper in hand. “Would you state your full name?”
“Adrienne L. Raab.”
“Where do you live?”
“I live in Detroit.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“For whom do you work?”
“I work for the city of Detroit.”
“What is your position?”
“I’m a Supervisory Procurement Officer in the Department of General Services.”
The questioning went on like that for five minutes with the back-and-forth rhythm of straightforward questions and to-the-point responses. Gleason slowly and deliberately shuffled through papers, and finally substituted the single sheet for a set of documents. Charlie was aware of this slow-pace ploy used by some lawyers to keep a witness anxious, but it wasn’t working on Raab. She remained composed, sitting stone still, eyes fixed on the rear of the room.
While everyone waited for Gleason, the door opened noisily and the bailiff, clerk, most of the jury, and a few people in the gallery took note of Don entering. He looked over at Charlie, scanned the courtroom, and took a seat in the row behind Caspar, who seemed preoccupied with the contents of a folder.
“Ms. Raab,” Gleason finally said. “Do you know the defendant, Mr. Francis Canova?”
“I’ve met him.”
“Where did you meet Mr. Canova?”
“He manages several city-owned parking facilities. The city hosts a holiday event for our key vendors and contractors. I believe I met him there.”
“Have you ever accepted money from Mr. Canova?”
“No.”
“I have a series of questions for you about May 19, 2005.”
“Okay.”
“Where were you on the afternoon of that day?”
“What day of the week was it?”
“Thursday.”
“I would have been at work.”
“Didn’t you leave work sometime during the afternoon?”
“I may have left to get lunch.”
“Did you visit Chene Park that afternoon?”
“I might have if the weather was nice. Sometimes I take a lunch and sit near the water.”
“This would have been after lunchtime, Ms. Raab. Around 2 p.m. Do you eat lunch that late?”
“Sometimes. Depends on the day.”
Gleason stared at Raab a moment, then flipped the page on the legal pad she was using for her questions.
“Approach, Your Honor?”
With the judge’s permission, Gleason moved toward the witness box and leaned toward Raab.
“Did you meet Mr. Canova on May 19, 2005, at Chene Park?”
“As I’ve said. I don’t really know Mr. Canova. So, no I didn’t meet him that day.”
“Have you ever had a phone conversation with Mr. Canova?”
“It’s possible we’ve spoken by phone. I sometimes have to resolve issues with vendors.”
“What about emails? Have you communicated with Mr. Canova by email?”
“Possibly.”
“What about that day?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Well let me refresh your memory,” Gleason said, whipping out a page from those in her hands, and thrusting it at the witness.
Raab looked at the paper. For the first time, her composure slipped. She lifted her eyes to Gleason’s smug face.
Bateman interjected. “Your Honor. What is the exhibit Ms. Gleason is using?”
The judge looked at Gleason, who responded: “Exhibit 24-A. I may also b
e using Exhibits 24-B and 24-C with this witness, Your Honor.”
Bateman grabbed the huge binder of exhibits on the table, and thumbed through it until he found the documents. He pushed the binder toward Canova and pointed to the item. The two men leaned toward each other and whispered.
“May I continue Your Honor?”
Harrington-Smoot glanced at Bateman. “You may, Ms. Gleason.”
“Have you seen this email before?” the prosecutor asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
“What’s the date of the email?”
“May 18, 2005.”
“Is it addressed to your business email?”
“Yes.”
“And what does the subject line read?”
“Deadline.” Raab gave a quick glance toward her companions in the gallery.
“Please read the body of the email, Ms. Raab,” Gleason persisted.
“I’m concerned about my license renewal. When is the deadline?” Raab read.
“How is the email signed?”
“FC.”
“And from what address did this email originate?”
“Chief at Fleetstar dot com.”
“Please read the reply in this email thread, Ms. Raab.”
Raab looked directly at Gleason, and without looking at the paper again said: “CP. Tomorrow at 2 p.m.”
“Did you send this email?”
“I don’t recall.”
“What does CP mean?”
“I have no idea.”
“Could it mean Chene Park?”
“Like I said, I have no idea what CP means. I don’t recall this email.”
Gleason moved again to the prosecutor’s table and retrieved another document. She made a show of taking a pen and circling several places on the page. The tension in the courtroom was as acute as when Canova’s driver had deteriorated to profanity. Charlie shot a glance at the visitors’ area. Goulet looked intently at the witness. Don looked intently at Goulet.
Gleason completed her paper theatrics and turned to face the witness.
“Ms. Raab, what is your office phone number?”
“The General Services telephone number is 313-555-0101. My extension is 3105.”
“Do you have a mobile number?”
“Yes.”
“What is that number?”
Raab hesitated. “I don’t feel comfortable providing my private number in open court.”
Gleason didn’t miss a beat. She asked permission to approach the witness.
“Okay. Would you write your mobile number on this.” She walked to the witness box with a slip of note paper.
Raab wrote something on the small square, and returned it to Gleason. The prosecutor smiled, gave the paper to the court reporter, and waited for its return. Gleason placed the hand-written note in front of Spivak and retrieved the document she’d marked. Gleason fixed her gaze on the jury as she walked unhurriedly to the witness box and extended the new document. Raab’s face went pale.
“Your Honor, this is a portion of exhibit 16-C,” Gleason said.
Bateman turned several pages in his exhibit book, pushed it toward Canova, and slumped in his chair.
“Ms. Raab. This is a phone record for Frank Canova’s cell phone. Do you recognize the number which I’ve circled on this sheet?”
Raab glared at the female prosecutor, but didn’t answer.
“Ms. Raab. Do you recognize the number circled on Mr. Canova’s phone record as the one you just provided to the court clerk?”
Raab stared down at her lap, still not responding.
“Your Honor, would you direct the witness to answer the question?”
Raab lifted her head toward the judge. The magistrate removed her glasses, cleared her throat, and peered down at the witness. “Ms. Raab, you are required to answer the question. Do you need the question repeated?”
Raab shook her head. She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it may incriminate me.”
Gleason’s next twenty questions were met with Raab’s repetitive invoking of the Fifth Amendment. It became a bizarre and hypnotic dance between prosecutor and witness, each performing their moves as rehearsed.
Raab had regathered her composure. She waited patiently for the prosecutor to jostle papers, move back and forth between the attorney table and witness box, and recite her questions. Raab then spoke the rote reply guaranteed her by the Constitution.
The judge banged her gavel. “Okay, let’s take a lunch break. Ms. Raab, we’ll see you back here after lunch.” The judge looked at the jurors. “Only sixty minutes today, folks. Let’s reconvene at one-thirty.”
Charlie pretended to adjust her shirt sleeve in her jacket, letting those jurors in her row slide by, so she could side-eye the courtroom. She watched Goulet move quickly to the exit, and acknowledged Don’s nod as he trailed. Charlie slowly looped her arms into her backpack straps, and watched Ms. Raab and the men who had accompanied her to court pause in a dejected huddle near the door.
Charlie bypassed the jury room and made a beeline to her phone. She dialed Judy’s cell number as she walked away from the courthouse and toward Greektown.
“Hi. Where are you?”
“I came back to the office. You on your lunch break?”
“I am.”
“Did Don make it to the courtroom?”
“Yes, and he took off after the ghost.”
“Great. Charlie, that trial is fascinating.”
“You are such a nerd. Even the judge looked like she wanted to fall asleep during that procurement testimony. You missed a bit of drama when the next witness testified.”
“Drat! Who was it?”
“The woman from the city who allegedly took a bribe from Canova. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”
“You expect Don back in the courtroom this afternoon?”
“I’m not sure. But in case I don’t see him, and you hear from him, tell him I want to meet at the office again tonight. I should be there by 6 p.m.”
“What about Gil?”
“Tell him the same thing.”
Charlie continued along St. Antoine Street toward the Greektown Casino. There wasn’t a lot of green space in the court area of Downtown Detroit. She passed the Wayne County Jail and the Juvenile Detention Facility and veered into the casino where she knew she could find a seat in the food court. She purchased a banana, and found a corner table where she had a view of a bank of slot machines and one of the hallways. She poured coffee from her thermos and retrieved the egg salad sandwich on whole grain bread she’d packed for lunch. She laid everything out on a paper towel and admired the shades of brown and yellow.
Pulling a book from her backpack, she immediately transformed the bells, buzzers, shouts, cash-out coins, music, and Wheel of Fortune chants into background noise. She finished a chapter of the book, the sandwich, and took a last swallow of coffee, then checked her watch. She still had twenty minutes. She tried Don on his cell, but he didn’t pick up. Charlie had almost finished her banana when she saw someone she recognized walking through the casino floor. Mr. Fletcher, flanked by two other jurors on the Canova trial, didn’t look her way as they passed the food court but Charlie instinctively lifted the book to cover her face. She checked her watch again. Only fifteen minutes to get back.
Charlie grabbed her backpack, threw away her lunch trash, and exited the casino through the valet parking exit. A block away from Frank Murphy Hall of Justice, Charlie saw the three jurors up ahead. They were in the midst of an intense conversation on the sidewalk across from the courthouse. Charlie had heard the woman mention that she worked at Blue Cross Blue Shield. The bearded white guy mainly kept to himself, but he was one of the regular smokers in the courtyard. He shoved a finger against Fletcher’s chest a couple of times as he made a point. Fletcher stood his ground and talked back. The Blue Cross lady glanced Charlie’s way, spotted her, and said something to the two men. They
all stopped talking and turned to look at her. Fletcher threw up a hand in a wave, and Charlie waved back.
# # #
The prosecution’s examination of Adrienne Raab picked up again. Neither Don nor the ghost had returned to the courtroom, and Charlie adjusted herself in the seat to get ready for the continuation of the Fifth Amendment pas de deux. Ten minutes into the questioning, Karen Gleason shifted gears into territory Raab was willing to talk about.
“Ms. Raab, you indicated earlier that you’re married.”
“That’s right.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Eighteen years.”
“Are you familiar with the Alpine Motel?”
Raab froze. Her face took on a look of total panic. She looked at Gleason, toward her companions in the courtroom, and then toward the judge. Allan Bateman leaned toward Canova, whispering, and the defendant shrugged his shoulders.
“I object, Your Honor. What relevance does this question have to this trial?” Bateman asked.
“Your Honor, I intend to show the relevance very shortly,” Gleason said.
“Since you’ve declared Ms. Raab a hostile witness, I’ll give you a bit of leeway, Ms. Gleason, but connect the dots on this very quickly,” Judge Harrington-Smoot warned.
Gleason continued. “Have you ever visited the Alpine Motel?”
Raab looked like a trapped animal. Her lips quivered, baring her teeth, and her eyes were wide and unblinking. She clutched the ledge of the witness box with both hands squeezing so tightly her fingers were discolored.
“I . . . I don’t know what you mean,” Raab stuttered.
“Do you know Kenneth Smith?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Mr. Smith is the General Manager for Canova Enterprises. Does that improve your recollection?”
Raab fought to regain her professional demeanor. She tried to make eye contact with her friends in the gallery, but they were engaged in a whispered conversation.
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me.”
Allan Bateman stood at his table. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”
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