# # #
At the lunch break, Charlie walked several blocks away from the courthouse, sat on the curb, and called the office. Judy put her on speakerphone.
“What went on today?” Gil asked excitedly.
“What do you mean?”
“The prosecutor’s office is all abuzz about the rogue jury in Courtroom Five.”
“The judge admonished all of us for talking about the case. She was pissed. Everyone was shaken up, except Goulet who seemed happy enough.”
“Did you speak with the judge?” Judy asked.
“I never got a chance to talk to the judge. The jury foreman and I tried to see her, but we were stonewalled. I think the court clerk is also in cahoots with Goulet. After the judge chastised us, I wasn’t sure how to come forward, short of doing that scene from And Justice for All where Al Pacino stands and screams that everybody’s out of order. I’m sorry for going on and on, but I’m so frustrated.”
“Earl Thompson has been fired,” Gil announced.
“What?”
“I’ve been on the phone all day with my friend in the prosecutor’s office. Thompson hasn’t shown up for work for two days. Nobody’s seen him.”
“What do you think, Acosta? Did they kill him?” Don asked.
“Killed him, drove him out of town, stashed him away somewhere. I’m telling you, these guys may be amateurs, but that’s what makes them so dangerous.”
“Getting Thompson out of the way certainly takes care of one of their loose ends,” Charlie said. “Don, what did the FBI say about Goulet?”
“They didn’t seem at all interested at first. I told them we had information from Homeland Security that laid it all out, and then they started to warm up. They said they’d pick him up.”
“Did they say when?”
“You know how the Fibbers work. They never tell you what you want to know.”
“So, two out of three of our tactical moves are complete,” Gil said. “You still plan to speak with the judge?”
“I’m not sure, Gil. We didn’t have a contingency for someone preempting my accusations by distracting the judge with a lesser infraction.”
“Maybe you do just scream out of order,” Gil said. “With everything else that’s happened, that’ll get you a mistrial.”
Charlie chuckled. “Yes. Plus, I’ll be tackled by that muscle-bound bailiff, and we’ll never have another client again. Look, with the FBI onto Goulet, Thompson out of the picture, and the jury properly warned by the judge, maybe I can just sit tight. I’ll call again during the afternoon break.”
# # #
Mr. Naidu wasn’t in the jury room when Charlie returned. A few people sat at the table reading or eating, including Mr. Fletcher. Following the judge’s admonishment this morning, nobody was in conversation. Charlie wondered how the judge had become aware of the inappropriate chatter. She moved to the window seat to eat her lunch. She’d finished her sandwich and was sipping coffee when Clint came up to her.
“Got any more of that?” Clint said, nodding at the thermos.
“You’re starting to like the hot caffeine, huh?” Charlie asked with a smile.
“It’s been a long two weeks.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that point.”
“The judge was pretty stern this morning.”
“Yep,” Charlie said, pouring coffee into Clint’s waiting cup.
“Did you hear about Mrs. Andrews?”
“Yes. I was very sorry to hear about her accident.”
Clint had a strained look on his face and started biting his lip. He leaned toward Charlie to say something when the clerk entered the jury room. She was followed by a red-faced, slump-shouldered Mr. Naidu. Naidu moved to one of the side chairs behind the table.
“I have an announcement. Mr. Naidu will no longer be your jury foreman. Since we’re so late in the trial, the judge has selected a replacement, and that is Mr. Fletcher.”
Now Charlie was really intrigued. How the heck does this move fit into the scheme?
Fletcher had been sitting at the table, unusually quiet. He looked up now with a smile as if expecting some applause. One or two people made positive sounds, but the rest just started packing up their lunch remnants and reading material. Charlie tried several times to catch Mr. Naidu’s eye, but he wouldn’t look at her. The jurors formed two lines and moved solemnly into the courtroom.
Goulet was gone, but Charlie spotted a man and a woman who stood out as FBI agents. Charlie rose, along with the others in the courtroom, as Judge Harrington-Smoot entered and took her seat. The judge announced the defense would wrap up their case that afternoon, and, if time allowed, both the defense and prosecution attorneys would make closing arguments.
Bateman rose from the defense table and called his own client to the witness stand. The move was greeted by a few gasps in the gallery. Prosecutors Spivak and Gleason had a hurried conversation. Gleason began sifting through the documents in her briefcase.
The well-dressed Canova had sat silently at the defense table for the past week and a half, and had not seemed much of an imposing figure. Watching him now as he walked with catlike grace and confidence to the witness box, he exuded the coiled danger that men with power sometimes possessed. Canova’s gray tailored suit was one a corporate president might have in his wardrobe. When the equally dapper Allan Bateman stood to question Canova, Charlie thought that rather than a conspiracy trial, she could easily be witnessing a conversation between two Detroit Club acquaintances.
“Please state your name for the record,” Bateman began.
“Francis Canova.”
“Mr. Canova, do you reside in Detroit?”
“I own a home in Indian Village, but my primary residence is in Huntington Woods.”
“Are you married, Mr. Canova?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve heard the testimony of a dozen prosecution witnesses, and I’m going to ask you to clarify and give context to that testimony. Are you able to do that?”
“Yes. To the best of my recollection.”
The phrase “to the best of my recollection” became the underpinning of Canova’s testimony. He didn’t recall sitting next to the city’s licensing official on a park bench last spring or having an email conversation with her. He certainly didn’t remember giving anything to the manager at the videotaped lunch meeting the FBI had shown to the jury. He also didn’t remember giving his accountant any directive that might induce the man to play fast and loose with the company’s tax returns. Canova was, however, able to recount what a nice guy he was in giving thousands of dollars in cash to friends, acquaintances, and sometimes strangers who needed a helping hand. He also recalled his humble beginnings as a son born into poverty in an immigrant family that worked hard to make the American dream their reality.
For Charlie, what Canova did or didn’t recall became a nonfactor. With every answer his conceit and callousness betrayed his words. Charlie began thinking Canova was better suited to the former Detroit House of Correction than the Detroit Club.
Chapter 21
Thursday
It was time to get a head start on the final report for the Ferry case. Organizing his paperwork chronologically made it clear to Gil this had been a high-touch case, and the Ferrys had been demanding clients from the very beginning.
Charlie had met with the Ferrys for the first time in late August when the second wave of reporting about the fraternity rape case at West Valley University made the Detroit papers. Since then, she’d met with the parents two more times, and Jason twice. She’d interviewed a half-dozen people, including Detective Holt with the Kalamazoo police force, the new chief of campus security, and the lead prosecutor in the U.S. District Attorney’s office. Gil had already matched that number of meetings with the Ferrys, Jason, and Detective Holt. He’d also added meetings with Maya and her friends. Now, in addition to his other work, he’d made a promise to Mrs. Ferry to support Jason in coming out to his father. It w
as a duty that clearly skirted the line between professional courtesy and personal favor.
Gil had left a message for the boy last night, and was relieved when he hadn’t called back. He wouldn’t have had the energy for a discussion requiring his full emotional presence. But he was surprised he still hadn’t heard from Jason, and it was almost three o’clock. He dialed his number, left another message, and then dived into the writing of the final report.
# # #
Canova didn’t complete his testimony until almost 4 p.m. The judge scanned the jury box and recognized the glazed eyes and weary postures. She banged her gavel.
“Counselors, I don’t think it’s feasible to get to closing arguments this afternoon. Our jury has not had a break since lunch, and they appear to be worn out. If you have no objections, we’ll hold on closing arguments until tomorrow morning.”
Neither Spivak nor Bateman objected to the schedule change. The judge turned to the jury. “You are dismissed for the day. Let’s reconvene tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.”
The once jovial goodbyes and casual conversations among the jurors at the end of the day were nonexistent. Most hurried into the jury room to retrieve their coats and then fled down the narrow hallway that fed into the second-floor corridor.
Charlie took her time putting on her coat and adjusting her scarf. She was looking forward to the walk to the office garage so she could gather her thoughts and reenergize. When she stepped into the corridor, the court clerk stood there, stone-faced.
“Judge Smoot would like to see you,” the clerk said.
“Oh, I . . . that’s okay. I don’t need to see her anymore.”
“But she needs to see you,” the clerk responded, handing her a slip of paper. “That’s her office number. It’s on the third floor.”
Charlie tried to read the clerk’s expression, hoping it would reveal what trouble she might be in, but the woman was Mount Rushmore.
“Okay. Should I go now?”
“She’s waiting. You can take the escalator up to three.”
Charlie felt the clerk’s eyes on her as she rode up the stairs. She checked the piece of paper, looking at office numbers as she walked, stopping at the door with the right number and the judge’s nameplate. Charlie knocked, heard a shouted “come in,” and entered to find the judge at a large round table directly across from her desk. Also seated at the table were Clint, one of the FBI agents that had been in the courtroom, and the always-sleeping, but now very alert, alternate juror whose name she had never learned.
# # #
Gil was busy organizing his report, feeding headings and subheadings into a table of contents template when his office phone rang.
“Judy, do you mind getting that? I’m right in the middle of something,” Gil shouted.
Judy walked up to his desk and stared at the notebooks, newspaper articles, typewritten pages, phone messages, and photos strewn on the desk.
“It’s Jason Ferry. Do you want to speak with him?”
“Damn. He would call now. Yes, I want to speak with him. I wonder why he didn’t call on the mobile?”
“He said he did, but you didn’t pick up.”
“What? Where is my phone?”
Gil patted his jeans pocket, then reached into the pocket of his jacket hanging over the chair.
“Could it be in there?” Judy asked, pointing to the mound on his desk.
Gil used his palm to pat the layers of paper, then lifted a notebook to retrieve his phone. He looked up at Judy, who had her arms crossed.
“You need help with anything?”
“No. I wish. I have to do this myself.”
“Okay. Jason’s holding on line two.”
A minute later, Gil was standing at Judy’s desk.
“Jason’s coming by. He’s in town to see his parents, but I promised his mother I’d speak with him, so . . .”
“So he’s coming to get some advice from his new best friend,” Judy teased.
Gil ran his fingers through his hair. “How do I get into these things?”
“You get into them because you’re a nice guy, and you care about people.”
“He’ll be here in a half-hour. I was hoping to use the conference room. Do you know how long they’ll be in there?”
Judy and Gil stared through the glass wall of the conference room where Don and one of the freelancers stood over surveillance photos and phone records. Tamela assisted. They hovered over the table like it was a buffet.
“I don’t know. But they’ve got even more of a paper jungle than you do. So, you better meet Jason somewhere else.”
“I wanted to be nearby in case Charlie called. You haven’t heard from her?”
“No. But it’s almost five, so she should be calling soon.”
“Okay, we’ll figure it out when Jason gets here.”
# # #
Clint’s eyes bulged like a rabbit’s, and he gripped the arms of his chair as Charlie sat next to him. She thought for a moment he was going to reach out to hold her hand. The alternate juror gave her a pleasant smile, the FBI agent stared at her stoically, and the judge cleared her throat.
“Ms. Mack, Mr. Lakeside, thank you for staying to meet with me tonight. Tomorrow I will declare a mistrial in the Francis Canova case. We’re aware of the attempted jury tampering, and the FBI is investigating further conspiracy charges against Mr. Canova. Mr. Lakeside, thank you for coming forward last week with your suspicions. Ms. Mack, I know from the FBI and the Wayne County Prosecutor’s office that you, or rather your agency, provided information to them about Mr. Canova and some of his associates. Although I’m sure you’re aware your behavior as a sitting member of a jury was unorthodox, we believe the information you uncovered will be very helpful to the FBI investigation.”
Charlie felt heat climbing up her neck. She couldn’t maintain eye contact with the judge, and she joined Clint in gripping the chair. She knew she’d been skating on thin ice with her unauthorized investigation, and now she was appropriately chastened by the judge’s remarks.
“Your Honor, may I ask a question?”
“Of course, Ms. Mack.”
“If you’ve known for a week about the jury tampering, why have you waited to declare a mistrial?”
“That’s a very good question. I’ll let Agent Percy answer.”
Charlie turned toward the FBI agent, but the response came instead from the alternate juror.
“I’ve been embedded in the jury to keep an eye on the actions of the jurors. We have an ongoing investigation, and I wanted to be sure about each juror’s involvement before we shut down the trial.”
“What kind of investigation?” Charlie asked.
“This isn’t the first time Mr. Canova has been suspected of jury tampering. Nine months ago, a trial on the same conspiracy charges resulted in a hung jury. We suspected an insider was involved in the tampering, so this trial was a way to spring a trap.”
“Earl Thompson.”
“That’s correct,” Judge Smoot said.
Clint looked as if he wanted to ask a question, but thought better of it.
“What about Goulet?” Charlie asked.
“Who?” Clint asked.
“That’s where your interference caused us problems, Ms. Mack.” The stoic FBI agent spoke up. “Mr. Goulet—he no longer goes by that name by the way—works for us. He has for many years.”
“But he’s doing Canova’s dirty work,” Charlie protested. “He’s been the one meeting with the jurors.”
“He was maintaining his cover within the Canova enterprise,” Agent Percy said. “I had him testing different jurors. He helped me figure out who could be turned, and who couldn’t. I was always listening to the side conversations in the halls and in the jury room.”
“We all thought you were asleep.”
Percy smiled.
“Could you tell us which jurors were involved?” Clint asked.
“Who do you think?” Percy asked.
“Mr. Fletch
er, the redheaded guy, the bald guy who always sat in the corner, and Trina,” Clint said with more than a hint of sadness. “She tried to get me to take some money. I told my father, and he said I should speak to the judge.”
“So the corrupted jurors are: Richard Fletcher, Pizzemente, Kelly, Trina Bradley, Lucy...the lady who works for the insurance company?” Charlie summed up.
“Lucille Murphy,” Agent Percy said. “Very good, Ms. Mack. I see you really put some effort into your very unsanctioned investigation. I watched you working the jury room and taking notes.”
“Mr. Naidu?” Clint asked.
“No. He’s a straight shooter.”
“Then why did you remove him as foreman and give it to Fletcher?” Charlie asked Judge Smoot. “I’ve never seen a man so dejected. Mr. Naidu was proud to be on jury duty and very proud to serve as the foreman.”
“I know. I saw his dejection, too. It was something we had to do to keep Fletcher and the others in tow after my warning to the jury,” Judge Smoot explained. “Canova had gotten wind that somebody was snooping about the jury tampering.”
“That was probably you,” the agent said, looking at Charlie. “Canova was getting antsy, so we came up with the idea of a slap on the wrist about jury chatter. That way Canova could feel secure that his plan wasn’t blown, and he was still in a position to buy the not guilty votes.”
“What about Mrs. Andrews?” Clint asked. “She couldn’t have been involved.”
“No,” Percy said and shook his head for emphasis.
“Wait a minute,” Charlie said. “Wasn’t Goulet the one who ordered her hit-and-run?”
“He wasn’t involved in that,” the agent said. “Some of Mr. Canova’s other operatives took that upon themselves. Mrs. Andrews identified the vehicle involved.”
“You mean somebody tried to kill her?” Clint’s face was drained of blood.
“Was it a Mercedes?”
“How do you know that, Ms. Mack?” the judge asked. “I only have that information because Mrs. Andrews called me from the hospital to report someone had tried to run her over. She thought it had to do with the trial.”
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