From the hall, a tall man in a dark suit, burgundy tie, and polished black shoes entered the courtroom and walked up to the witness stand. His bearing and clothing shouted “federal agent.” The ghost’s shoulders shifted, and he sat upright on full alert. Charlie could almost see a wave of anxiety flow from the crown of his head.
“Mr. Paulsen, what is your occupation?”
“I’m a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Were you the agent-in-charge during the surveillance of a meeting last January between Francis Canova and a manager in the city’s Department of Purchasing Services?”
“Yes.”
Goulet quietly got up from his seat and moved toward the exit. He had to pass a row with two other black-suited men who almost certainly worked for the FBI. Both men looked at the ghost as he passed, but he impeded the view of his face by adjusting his scarf around his neck. Charlie saw Don look back and stand. He had to wait for a lady to move her bag before he could exit his row, and his face flushed with impatience. As he moved to the door, Don also received the FBI once-over.
“Mr. Paulsen, I’d like you to walk the jury through the video you and your agents captured on the evening of Tuesday, January 18, 2005.”
“Okay.”
The monitor showed a nighttime meeting, shot through a restaurant window, of a man easily identified as Canova and an overweight man in a Columbo-like beige raincoat. The video had no sound. The man nervously downed a glass of what looked like wine. Canova sipped at his wine, and ten minutes into the tape a waiter brought a plate of food, which Canova ate with relish.
“This is at nineteen-hundred hours on the eighteenth.” The agent caught himself. “That’s 7 p.m.,” he said in the direction of the jury. “Canova is the man on the left; Robert Widdon is the man on the right. Widdon is the executive charged with the oversight of Detroit’s vendor licenses. He reports to Adrienne Raab. We were tipped off to this meeting by an anonymous call, and we obtained a court order to surveil Mr. Widdon and wire the restaurant.”
With no warning, the audio on the tape sounded loudly, and the agent fumbled with the remote to decrease the volume. The jury continued watching the restaurant scene, and the sound was surprisingly clear.
You should have ordered some food. I know the rules about gifts from vendors. But there’s no rule about eating, is there?
Canova had a cackling laugh, which Charlie found repulsive. He took a huge gulp of wine, and wiped his napkin roughly across his mouth.
I’m not hungry. I just want to take care of the matter we discussed and get out of here.
Canova stared at Widdon, and the man seemed to shrink under his gaze.
Okay, okay. People don’t know how to conduct business anymore.
Charlie leaned forward to see when Canova pulled what looked like a menu from the condiments rack and handed it to Widdon. The man began to protest until Canova pointed to the menu.
Open it!
Widdon’s eyes grew wide as he emptied the contents of the menu, and shoved his hand inside his rumpled coat. Just as suddenly as it began the sound dropped out again.
“Okay, we lost audio again at this point,” the special agent explained unnecessarily. “But Mr. Widdon can be seen here removing an envelope from the menu, and he puts it into his jacket pocket.”
Widdon hurriedly stood and looked around the restaurant before bolting for the door. Canova pushed his plate away and drained the wine in his glass. He refilled his glass from the bottle on the table and took a cell phone from his pocket.
“Okay. Our audio is still defective at the beginning of this phone call, but the sound returns in a moment,” the agent said.
. . . don’t know. He’s a pussy.
He wouldn’t even eat, and he downed that expensive wine like he was tasting gasoline.
Don’t send me these peons anymore. Next time I only want to deal with the head lady.
Yeah. Five grand. Yeah, I’m gonna finish my wine and then go on home. I’ll see you in the morning.
“That’s the end of our surveillance tape,” the agent said, punching a button on the remote to close the video.
“Agent Paulsen, what is in the envelope that Mr. Widdon received?” Thompson asked
“We believe it to be cash.”
“Who is Mr. Canova speaking to on the phone in the video?”
“We’ve identified the person as Harvey Rush, Mr. Canova’s accountant.”
“Thank you, Agent Paulsen. I have no further questions,” the young prosecutor said.
“Cross-examination, Mr. Bateman?” the judge asked.
“Yes. I have a few questions.” Bateman stood at the defense table. “Agent Paulsen, did you follow Mr. Widdon after he left the restaurant?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. That information is part of an on-going investigation.”
“You insinuated that Mr. Canova passed an envelope of cash to Mr. Widdon. Do you have proof that money exchanged hands?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Not to me,” Bateman said dramatically.
The agent smirked and leaned back in his seat.
“Agent Paulsen, do you know the name of the person Mr. Canova alluded to in the phone call as ‘the head lady’?”
“We have reasons to believe it is Ms. Raab in the city’s Department of General Services.”
“What reasons are those?”
“We have additional surveillance evidence.”
“Are we going to see any of that evidence?”
“No. Because it’s part of another ongoing investigation.”
“But that evidence won’t be presented in court today. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“So it can’t be considered in this case,” Bateman said, looking directly at the jury. “No further questions of this witness, Your Honor.”
The judge stared at Thompson. Spivak and Gleason also stared at their new colleague, but he remained motionless, staring down at his legal pad.
“Do you wish to redirect, Mr. Thompson?” the judge asked impatiently.
Thompson signaled “no” with a head shake, and began to stand, but Spivak leaped from his chair. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”
“Approach,” the judge said.
Charlie watched the defense and prosecuting attorneys gather in front of the bench. The judge activated the white noise in the courtroom, cloaking the conversation, and leaned toward the group. They conferred for only a few minutes, with Spivak doing most of the talking. The judge directed a comment toward Thompson, whose shoulders slumped. Then Harrington-Smoot said something to Bateman, who nodded his agreement. The judge silenced the white noise and the attorneys returned to their respective tables. Bateman whispered something to Canova. At the prosecutor’s table, Spivak remained standing while Gleason and Thompson sat.
“We have another question, Your Honor.”
“Proceed, Mr. Spivak.”
“Mr. Paulsen, isn’t it a matter of record that a grand jury has voted to indict Mr. Widdon on charges of bribery and conspiracy?”
“And collusion. Yes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Paulsen. Now we have no further questions,” Spivak stated with a glower for his colleague. “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
The judge looked over her glasses at the defense table. “Mr. Bateman, are you ready to begin?”
Bateman stood. “Your Honor, may we have a half-hour recess before we begin?”
“I don’t see any reason why not,” Judge Harrington-Smoot said. “We’ll take our morning break now. Twenty minutes.”
# # #
A substantial break meant the smokers could head downstairs to the patio and others to their communications devices, so the jury room was sparsely occupied. Charlie watched Mrs. Andrews work away on her afghan, her needles clicking in the quiet of the room. Clint was showing the fashion girl, Trina Bradley, pictures of his gig last year in Brazil. The foreperson sat at
the head of the table reading. Charlie had learned his name was Mr. Naidu by peeking at the jury sign-in sheet he signed each morning. The alternate juror sat slumped in one of the comfy chairs. He always seemed to be sleeping when they weren’t in the courtroom, and Charlie had seen him yawn a couple of times during the video viewing.
Charlie walked over to the window seat with her thermos and poured a cup. She peered down into the courtyard where Fletcher, Lucy the insurance lady, Mr. P. the reader of thrillers, and the redheaded courier were in conversation. None of them appeared to be smoking. Charlie moved back to the conference table. She looked at the sleeping alternate, but decided he wouldn’t appreciate being awakened to receive a business card. So she sat down next to Mr. Naidu.
“Hi. I’d like to give you one of my cards. Since this is our last week together, I thought I’d better let people know about my services.”
Naidu smiled, looked at the card, and smiled again. He put the card in his breast pocket. “Thank you, Ms. Mack.”
“Do you enjoy being the foreman?”
“I am used to having responsibilities.”
“So you must be the boss of a company?”
“No. Nothing like that. I am a counselor to my family, and I’m on the board of the community center in my neighborhood.”
“I see. I can tell you take your jury job very seriously.”
“Yes. But not everyone does. This is not a place for jokes and frivolity.”
“I think people are just bored.”
“A man’s life and livelihood are at stake. That is very serious.”
“People just stopped doing the right thing,” Mrs. Andrews announced, obviously overhearing their conversation. She sat at one of the side chairs behind the conference table. “I taught school for thirty years, and I tell you people have changed.”
Charlie sat in the chair next to Andrews to admire her work. “That’s a beautiful pattern. You really know what you’re doing.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to practice since I retired.”
Charlie scanned the table. The other jurors seemed preoccupied, either with conversation or some other activity. She leaned in closer to Mrs. Andrews.
“I have a question for you. It may seem odd.”
“That’s okay.”
“Has anyone from the outside approached you wanting to talk about this case?”
Andrews looked up quickly from her knitting and then returned to it with only two seconds of break in her rhythm. “Yep.”
Charlie lowered her voice. “Did anybody offer you money to vote a certain way?”
Andrews didn’t break from her handiwork this time. She joined Charlie in whispering. “I told that guy he was a crook, and he didn’t have enough money in this world to buy my integrity. He pretended he was only making a joke, but I know he meant it.”
Charlie wanted to ask another question, but she noticed the fashionable Trina squinting her heavily mascaraed eyes their way.
“Like I said before,” Andrews said. “People have changed.”
Chapter 12
Tuesday
The Mustang was parked in a stall at the self-serve car wash. Gil always carried rags, a small bottle of pine cleaner, a scrub brush, tire polish, and a small pail in his trunk—for emergencies. Jason had already done a good job of flushing the floor mats and cleaning the seat. Now he was following Gil’s directions on how much disinfectant to put in the pail for the final wipe down.
“Might as well clean the outside since we’re here,” Gil said.
They circled the vehicle like doctors in an operating suite—washing, drying, polishing, pointing to missed spots, and finally sharing a satisfied smile at their handiwork.
“She’s looking good,” Jason said.
“Okay, now let’s do yours,” Gil offered.
Jason’s silver 2006 Acura had been a high school graduation gift from his parents. The car didn’t need much attention on the outside. They soaped and rinsed it, then moved it next to Gil’s Mustang in the adjacent lot to dry it and do some inside detailing.
“I’m sure you have other things to do,” Jason said as he wiped his mats and dashboard with Gil’s pine cleaner.
Gil squatted to spray foam on the front tire. “Washing the car helps to clear my mind. I’ve had some great epiphanies that way.”
“My mother always said she wished I’d spent as much time cleaning my room as I did the family cars.” Jason laughed.
“You and your mother seem to have a pretty good relationship.”
“Yep. She’s cool.”
“Does she know you’re gay?” Gil didn’t look up from the tire. He let the void that followed his question reach its natural conclusion.
“Once when I was a kid, we talked about me liking one of the boys in my school. She’s never asked me about it since, but I think she knows.”
Gil moved to squat at the back tire. “Hey, throw me the scrub brush, will you?”
Jason came to the rear of the car holding the brush and pail.
“What do you think?” Gil asked, gesturing with both hands to present the tire.
“Looks good, man.”
“The secret to a nice-looking tire is to put a splash of furniture polish in the water. It’s a trick I learned from my uncle. He sells cars.”
“Cool.” Jason shoved his hands into his pockets. So, are you gay?”
“Nope.”
“But you think it’s okay that I am?”
Gil pondered what he should say: It’s not my business. Who am I to judge? I have friends who are gay. He finally decided on: “We love who we love.”
“I don’t think the feelings I have are about love. You know?”
“They will be one day.”
# # #
The rest of the morning and afternoon in the courtroom progressed with benign boredom. Between the dull testimony and Ms. Andrews’ revelation, Charlie had a hard time concentrating.
Bateman introduced a series of witnesses from Canova’s operation to refute the evidence provided by the defendant’s former accountant and chauffeur. Spivak was back in action as the lead prosecutor, and in cross-examination he punched away at the defense witnesses, but didn’t land any blows.
Goulet and Don hadn’t returned to the courtroom, and at lunchtime Charlie walked to a nearby Starbucks to call the office. Judy hadn’t heard from Don, but she’d made good progress on digging up information about the newbie prosecutor, Earl Thompson.
“He just moved to Detroit last year. He worked for a firm in Baltimore for five years after graduating from law school in DC.”
“Did you find out anything about his friends, his habits, that sort of thing?”
“I’ve been scanning the newspapers and press services, and I picked up a few things but I’ll keep looking. I’ve ordered a credit report and criminal report through our usual provider, and I’m waiting on that.”
“Great, keep it up.”
“Also, I heard from Gil. He’s in Kalamazoo and will call when he’s on his way back.”
“Fine. Meanwhile, the candy worked like a charm. I have more juror names for you to check out.”
Chapter 13
Tuesday
For the remainder of the afternoon, Allan Bateman’s defense strategy was to show that his client was a philanthropist using his cash-driven business to support many worthwhile causes. Much of that altruism, argued Bateman, involved giving away gobs of cash in a manner that might have the appearance of payoffs. Three witnesses swore that they were the recipients of Canova’s generosity.
The trial was adjourned for the day at four, and the ghost had not showed up again. Charlie retrieved her belongings and walked away from the main door of the courthouse before she stopped in the doorway of a building to check her phone messages. Mandy had called suggesting they eat out for dinner. Judy’s message, ten minutes ago, was to let her know Gil was in the office and had things to report. There was no message from Don.
Charlie pulled up the
collar of her coat and started walking again. She stopped short when she recognized Don’s unoccupied car at a parking meter across the street. She tried his cell phone, and when he didn’t answer, walked over to the Buick. It was locked and undisturbed. She started walking again, and had gone a half-block when she sensed someone behind her. She spun, ready to defend herself.
“Whoa, Mack. It’s just me.”
“Don, where the hell did you come from?”
“You should see your face. You look ready to take me out.”
“You know better than to sneak up on me,” Charlie shot back, not smiling.
“Sorry. I understand why you’re mad.”
Charlie trembled, trying to shake off the memory of waking up bound and gagged, lying in an overgrown lot after being knocked unconscious and left for dead. It was a recurring memory, thankfully coming up less often these days.
“I saw your car. Where were you?”
“I was in a bush in the back of the Murphy building.”
“What?”
“I’ve been following Goulet. When he left the courtroom, he drove to a house where I think he lives. He was there for hours, and I was bored as shit. Then at three-thirty, he comes running out of the house, and I followed him back here. I had to look for him for a minute, but I finally saw him through a door that leads out onto some kind of courtyard. He looked like he was waiting for someone, and I didn’t want to get caught hanging around, so I found a spot on the side of the building where I could see into the yard.”
“I’m surprised you weren’t nabbed by security.”
“Yeah, well, security ain’t what it used to be. Especially at closing time.”
“Did he meet with Thompson? Judy’s dug up a few things about him.”
“No. I didn’t see him. I did see the guy he met with at the casino.”
“Which one?”
“The black guy. What’s his name?”
“Fletcher.”
“Right. Him. There was also a good-looking younger girl, not the one I saw at the casino, and another guy—red hair with beady eyes.”
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