by Rick Bowers
“I suppose you placing a plastic bag over his head is standard procedure.”
Right on cue, Demario rushed into Phase Two: “You insult me, and police everywhere, with your baseless statement.” He snarled like a narcotics dog who’d cornered a drug dealer with pockets full of coke. “I followed the rules and regulations when questioning the suspect and leading the investigation. Like I do in all my cases.”
“You never bend the rules to put a bad guy away?”
“Don’t you accuse me of being a bad cop. Police officers are a thin blue line between the decent people and the monsters.”
Prosecutor Ward twitched in his Brooks Brothers suit and stood to object. “Your Honor, Defense Council is badgering the witness.”
“Ms. Tobias.” The judge studied her with a don’t-defy-me stare. “What part of ‘tread carefully’ didn’t you hear?”
Laura continued to rattle Demario without accusing him. “What are expedited cases? Have you been to the Bottoms Up? Did you know Miss Lambert? Why not pursue other suspects?”
“Nash killed her. It was obvious from the get-go. Hell, a retard could see it.”
Ward the Wizard clearly wished he had a magic spell to shut up his witness.
Demario tightened his fists. His brain was as hot as a five-alarm arson fire. This bitch lawyer was making him out to be a thug. I wish I had my fucking nightstick, he thought. I’d pummel the bitch to a bloody pulp. Like that spic kid in the projects last week. No. No. No. Got to keep control. She’s playing me.
Demario took a deep breath. “Let me spell it out. Number One: Nash was screwing her—no, he was romantically involved with her. Number Two: Nash was furious at her stripping and pill-popping. Number Three: Nash knew she hung out at the bridge—sorry. Poor choice of words. He knew she frequented that bridge. So, he got his tire iron, and he got his rope and went there to make her pay. And he confessed. What more do you want?”
“You cleared his mental block for him.”
“Objection.”
“Withdrawn.”
Right on cue, Demario hit the next phase. “Look, I risk my life on the streets every day. I’m the only one standing between you and the monsters.”
“Your Honor,” Ward objected, “this is getting out of hand.”
“I agree. Ms. Tobias, get back to the facts. Or sit down.”
Demario was proving himself to be the narcissist she’d pegged him for. Now that he was in his most fired-up stage, it was time to apply shock therapy. She had been holding back one piece of research for this moment.
“Chief Detective Demario. Do I have this right? As a corporal in the U.S. Army, you served as a battlefield interrogator?”
“Yes.” Demario inhaled and exhaled. He firmed his posture and calmed his voice. “My job was to extract information from Iraqi prisoners, to extract intel to save our soldiers’ lives.”
“Did you use enhanced interrogation techniques? Waterboarding? Light deprivation?”
“I was operating on the field of battle. I was interrogating enemy combatants.”
“So, you used enhanced interrogation techniques?”
“I got results. I got the truth. Those methods were approved at the time. Came right out of the interrogation handbook.”
“Given your expertise, you’ve also trained police cadets in interrogation techniques?”
“Yes. I trained police cadets in standard police interrogation methods.”
“And you’ve written about your training methods in the New Police Academy magazine?”
“Um… well… I believe I wrote one article…”
Laura held up a copy of the magazine and flipped to a two-page spread entitled, “Extracting Truth.” She asked Demario to read a portion—highlighted in yellow—of his own work.
“‘Police officers can learn a great deal from military interrogation methods—both physical and psychological.’” Demario sneered at his own prose. “‘These techniques should be used to elicit confessions from uncooperative criminal suspects. The modern police officer must realize that he is at war with the criminal element, and enhanced interrogation is a vital weapon in the fight for the streets. The police are the only ones standing between the public and the monsters.’”
Laura sneered at his sneer, then smiled as he twitched. “Does this include slamming phone books over the heads of suspects? Dropping plastic bags over the heads of suspects? Pointing a pistol at suspects?”
“Objection!” Ward howled. “Argumentative!”
“No,” Striker said. “Given the witness’ own words, I’ll allow it.”
Demario straightened in his chair, eyes blazing like hellfire. “All I can say is it works.”
70
Erie County Medical Examiner Marvin Warrington served as the perfect setup man for the prosecution. Each time the ME cited a medical phrase to describe the crime, Prosecutor Ward turned to the jury and repeated the term. The Wizard had a way of questioning a witness and testifying at the same time.
“Contusions caused by blunt force. Death caused by a severed vertebra.”
Ward then distributed gruesome crime scene photos to the jury that added emotional fire to the scientific jargon. “Please examine the marks on the thorax… I call your attention to the cranial contusion… you can see the mark from where the hangman yanked the knot.”
Laura was glued to each word of the ME’s testimony, even though she knew that she would not cross-examine him. The night before, Martha had asked to handle the cross on Warrington, and—after an hour of back and forth—Laura had agreed. The fact was that Laura had gained a cautious degree of respect for her senior colleague. She was beginning to see the strengths of her well-dressed rival. Martha had made a real difference during jury selection, while offering a steady stream of useful insights and advice in the testimony phase. On top of that, Martha was in good standing with the judge. She could use that to gain the leeway she’d need to undercut the ME’s testimony.
“Thank you, Dr. Warrington.” Prosecutor Ward turned away from the stand and retreated to the prosecution table. “Your witness.”
Martha rose from her chair, strode to the witness stand, and smiled up at the judge. “Good morning, Your Honor. I’ll be handling cross for the defense.”
“Good morning, Counselor. Good to see you. Please, proceed.”
Martha loosened her eye-lock on the judge and moved her gaze to the witness. “Good morning, Dr. Warrington.” She widened her smile and sweetened her voice. “Just a few questions, sir.”
“Morning.” Warrington, a thin, wiry man who came across as the nervous type, shifted in the witness chair and straightened his tie. “Go ahead.”
“Now, Dr. Warrington.” Martha turned her back on him to face the jury. “In the simplest possible terms, can you explain the cause of death? For the benefit of those of us who do not have your impressive and extensive medical and scientific expertise?”
“Certainly.” The ME tried to look around Martha at the jury but just managed to look awkward instead. “The victim suffered a fractured cervical vertebra, due to the rapid speed of the fall, and the long distance of the drop.” The ME placed his right forefinger to the front of his own throat. “The rope left a deep, distinct, inverted-V-shaped furrow on the victim’s throat that matched the braid pattern of a rope.”
Martha turned to face the witness. “So, to put it in layman’s terms, Dr. Warrington, the victim suffered a broken neck.”
“Well. Yes. To put in layman’s terms. Yes. The impact of the drop broke her neck.”
“Is this common in hanging deaths?
“No. Not at all.” Warrington adjusted his wire-framed glasses and flexed the shoulders of his oversized suit coat. “The vast majority of hanging deaths result from constriction of the airways and compression of the arteries.”
“Constriction of the airw
ays.” Martha again turned to face the jury, while repeating each word a second time. “Again, to put it in layman’s terms, Doctor. Most of the time, the victim strangles to death?”
“Well, in essence, that is true. The fall interrupts the supply of blood to the brain and restricts the breathing process. As you put it, the victim strangles to death. Within a matter of minutes.”
“And as you pointed out, Doctor, death by strangulation is far more common in hanging cases than death by a broken neck. In fact, had you ever seen a hanging death that caused a broken neck prior to this case?”
“Well, no. As a matter of fact, I had not. This case has been a first. I hope it’s the last.” Warrington smiled at the jury. Grim, serious faces stared back at him.
“Hmmm. You have never seen a hanging death caused by a broken neck like this before? In all your years of experience? Why do you suppose that is, Doctor?”
“All hanging deaths are rare. This kind of hanging is very rare. This hanging was meticulously planned and flawlessly executed. It resembled a judicial hanging. Very rare. Very rare, indeed.”
“A judicial hanging? You mean an execution?”
“Yes.”
“Like executions centuries ago?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the skill of the hangman?”
“Yes. The killer knew the speed of the fall and the length of the drop would create adequate torque to fracture the vertebra.”
Martha looked to the ceiling. “The precision of the technique was exceptional?”
“Yes.”
“The choice of the rope and precision of the knot also suggest that?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Warrington, based on your testimony, the average person could not have committed this cold and calculated crime. This act was committed by a person with a great deal of knowledge, expertise, and preparation. This act was committed by an expert.”
“I suppose.”
“Wouldn’t it have taken an expert to choose the ideal rope?”
“Yes.”
“To tie the perfect knot?”
“Yes.”
“To set the right fall?”
“Yes.”
“To calculate the torque?”
“True.”
“Can we also conclude that there is nothing in the experience of the average person that would prepare them to perpetrate such a calculated act?”
“I suppose.”
“It seems to follow that the average person would have no idea how to carry out such a precise undertaking?”
“True.”
“Not the average schoolteacher?”
“Of course not.” Warrington chuckled at the suggestion. “Certainly not.”
“Or the average chef?”
“Of course not.”
“Or the average automobile mechanic?”
“Well. I suppose not. That is true, but—”
“Thank you, Dr. Warrington. I agree. There is nothing in the experience of the average automobile mechanic that would prepare him to carry out such an act. Not an automobile mechanic like the defendant, Edward Nash.”
Ward flew to his feet. “Objection! Objection! Counsel is testifying.”
“Withdrawn,” Martha said. “No more questions.”
71
Laura waited to leave the courtroom to give the herd time to migrate out. Her goal was to get to her car without being besieged by reporters. Or being encircled by rowdy protestors, clamoring for a guilty verdict. She got up from the defense table, dropped her legal pad into her briefcase, and started down the center aisle of the empty courtroom. She pushed through the twin oak doors, emerged into the narrow hallway, and headed toward the staircase that wound down to the exit. Ten or twelve feet from the stairs, she stopped in her tracks, her path blocked by a glowering, middle-aged man and a dour, middle-aged woman. Laura recognized the couple as Erin Lambert’s parents.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lambert.” Feeling ambushed, she struggled to find the right words. “How are you?”
Those were not the right words.
“How are we?” Paul Lambert hissed like a snake coiling for the strike. The six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound man in the crisp flannel shirt and blue jeans glared at her with eyes that told her to go fuck herself. “We’re reliving a nightmare. We’re reentering hell. Why are you bringing this all back? Why are you defending this monster? Why doesn’t this state have capital punishment? He should be dead. Like our little girl. Why does she rot in the grave, while he gets a new trial?”
“Please. Just stop this insanity,” Josie Lambert piled on. The petite woman in the white, cotton dress stood one step behind her husband. “Don’t destroy us all over again. Don’t send this killer back into the world. Don’t put another family through the pain that we’ve been through. I want my little girl back. How can you do this to us?”
Laura held up two palms. “Hold on.” She looked over her shoulder and spotted a court bailiff stationed at the courtroom door. Laura caught his eye and, with a toss of her head, signaled him to come over. She turned to face the irate couple. “We can’t have this conversation.” She took a long backward stride. “I’m sorry. This is not going to happen. It’s inappropriate.”
The Lamberts took a step closer to her, eyeing the bailiff, hustling in their direction.
At that moment, the transcript from the sentencing phase of the first trial flashed through Laura’s mind. Paul Lambert had been the first to take the stand to put a human face to the case by delivering a family impact statement. In tears, he’d explained to the judge how he’d been devastated by the loss of his beautiful, young daughter. Erin had been pulling her life together before she was “strung up by that self-made executioner.” Paul Lambert pleaded with the judge to impose the maximum sentence on Nash, whom he called, “a cold-blooded murderer with the mind of a jackal and conscience of a snake.” The victim’s father had seen “evil in Nash’s eyes” when Eddie visited their home a couple weeks before the murder. At that time, Mr. Lambert thanked Eddie for looking out for his little girl—encouraging her to give up drugs and quit the strip club—but, in between sips of beer, he could see the evil lurking inside Eddie. “Now, I will live the rest of my life knowing that I did not do enough to save my little girl from this cold-blooded killer.” The grieving father concluded his remarks to the original jury with the lament, “With her gone, my life is over, too. My wife’s life is over. We exist to keep the memory of our little girl alive. Period.”
Josie Lambert’s testimony had reflected the same searing pain, with less anger. “I see a mother and daughter walking down the street, and I fall to the sidewalk in tears,” she said in the penalty phase. “I see a young woman coming out of the hair salon with a cut like Erin’s, and I have to stop myself from calling out her name. I miss her sweet smile. I miss her mischievous laugh. I miss having her in my life.”
Laura could not imagine their pain. The loss was unfathomable. Of course, they wanted justice. All the defense research had shown the Lamberts to be good, decent people who did their best to raise their daughter right and rescue her when she veered off-track. Paul Lambert was a longtime and highly decorated military man, now working as a foreman at the regional recycling plant. Josie Lambert was a registered nurse at the Eden Community Clinic and had even walked Eddie through his check-ups. “I kept the man healthy, so he could murder my daughter,” she had sobbed to the first trial judge. It was no surprise that their loss still hurt all these years later. That kind of pain never went away. Still, Laura couldn’t let herself get drawn into a conversation about it.
Placing himself in Laura’s path, Paul Lambert went on. “You can’t ignore us forever,” he snarled at her, grabbing his wife by the arm and yanking her toward the stairs. He looked back and yelled, “You’ll hear from our attorney!”
Laura exhaled. She
gave the bailiff the all-clear. He stopped in his tracks and headed back to his post. Laura stood alone in the empty hallway for a long moment, trying to make sense of the encounter.
One of the most profound changes in the criminal justice system, she knew, had been the escalating participation of victims and victims’ families in trials. Responding to the understandable pleas of the victims’ rights lobby, all fifty states had passed laws allowing “victim impact statements” at sentencing.
Laura supported the victims’ rights movement—until it infringed upon the rights of the accused. Although she sympathized with the Lamberts, her preparation for the new trial had shown that they could pose a threat to her client. After their daughter’s death, the grieving couple had turned to a victims’ rights advocate to navigate the complex terrain of the police investigation and trial. The Lamberts also hired a local attorney to handle inquiries from the police and medical examiner, and to make sure the prosecutor “dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s.” The Lamberts even tapped a public relations professional to craft their victim impact statements.
Laura hoped that this time, it would not come to that.
***
Laura was still reeling from the encounter when she climbed into the Mustang. Paul Lambert’s words reverberated inside her. “We’re reliving a nightmare.” Josie Lambert’s words made her eyes tear up. “I miss my little girl.” Laura was searching for her car keys when her phone buzzed. It was Nick, and this time, she wanted to talk to him.
“Nick. Hi.”
“Just checking in. You okay?”
“Your timing is impeccable.”
“What’s wrong?”
Laura filled him in on the clash with the victim’s parents.
“I can’t imagine their pain,” she told him through tears. “To lose a daughter is beyond horrible. To lose a daughter in such a violent way is unbearable. I hate putting them through this all over again. They’ve suffered enough.”
The line was silent for a long moment.
“Laura.” Nick spoke softly. “You can’t take the responsibility for their loss. You have to keep your eyes on the prize. The life of an innocent man is in your hands. Only you can set this right. Just keep pushing forward. You’re doing the right thing. You’re the difference between justice and injustice.”
