by Rick Bowers
“Invincible.”
“Free to run wild. The ‘super-cops’ turned the Vigilance Network into their own criminal network. They operated protection rackets for drug traffickers. They charged the biggest drug dealers a ‘tax,’ and in exchange, shielded them from arrest. They even harassed their competing dealers. In one case, the cops supplied a major trafficker with guns, bulletproof vests, and police radios.”
“Oh, my God.” Laura cringed. “Total abandon.”
“Vigilance officers carried spare weapons in their ‘war chests’ to plant at crime scenes. New recruits were required to plant a weapon on a suspect as a show of loyalty. The top cops even doled out awards and plaques for recruits who framed civilians, coached false witnesses, planted evidence, stole drugs, and covered up their tracks.”
“No doubt, Detective Demario was front and center,” Laura said. “He had to be a ringleader.”
“Demario lorded over a supporting cast of dirty detectives and crooked uniforms. He distributed the shakedown loot up and down the network. The corruption thrived because honest officers, prosecutors, and judges looked the other way. No one raised a red flag, because the cops in question were arresting bad guys and reducing crime. As whispers of the scam spread, law-abiding officers transferred out of the region, while corrupt ones moved in. The whole thing just fed on itself. It grew into a monster.”
“When did the investigation start?”
“The state police and FBI launched the investigation two years ago. No one outside a trusted core knew about it. The secrecy was needed to keep from tipping off the bad guys.”
“What’s next?”
“The shit will hit the fan in two or three weeks. There will be an announcement at a joint state police and FBI press conference. The state and feds plan to indict up to eight cops and two prosecutors right out of the box. Demario and company have no clue of the hell that’s about to rain down on them.”
“What then?”
“At that point, the state attorneys will have to determine how many cases were tainted. Prison doors will swing open for hundreds—maybe thousands—of convicts who were denied their rights. I guess you Innocence Project types will be busy.”
76
The expert psychiatric witness is an essential actor in the modern courtroom drama. The clash between prosecution and defense expert psychiatrists is a common inflection point in each trial. As New York v. Nash II resumed, the battle of the shrinks took center stage.
Deputy State’s Attorney Bart Ward nodded from the podium to consulting prison psychiatrist Edward J. Peters.
“Now, Dr. Peters, do I have this right? You are both a medical doctor and a psychiatrist?”
“Objection.” Laura rolled her eyes toward the high ceiling. “All psychiatrists are medical doctors. It’s a prerequisite.”
“Sustained,” Striker ruled. “You know better, Mr. Ward.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Ward glanced at a paper on the lectern. “Let me ask this, Dr. Peters. You are a graduate of the respected Commonwealth Medical School?”
“Yes.”
“Objection.” Laura rose halfway to her feet. “Calls for supposition.”
Striker appeared annoyed as he turned to Ward. “Get on with it, Mr. Prosecutor.”
“Your Honor, I’m trying to establish the high level of credibility of this witness.”
“Make it fast.”
“Dr. Peters, did you receive an award from your medical school’s alumni association?”
“Yes. I was honored with the Herald R. Knight Community Service Award for my work in both the prison and a community clinic. I work at the prison two days a week, and the clinic three days a week. It’s not lucrative work, but it is rewarding.”
“Very admirable, Dr. Peters. In fact, wouldn’t you agree that your appearance here is a form of community service? I mean, you’re not an overpaid expert witness who goes from trial to trial, charging exorbitant fees to testify for the highest bidder. You’re a community servant, doing your duty.”
“I suppose.” Peters shrugged. “We all have a responsibility to give back.”
“Now, Dr. Peters. Did you have an occasion to conduct an extensive examination of the defendant?”
“Yes. I examined Mr. Nash on twenty-four separate occasions, over a two-year period. I spoke with the patient at length in my role as a certified psychotherapist, and I administered a battery of tests that revealed certain traits.”
“Traits?” Ward eyed the jurors as Dr. Peters continued.
“Mr. Nash exhibits a rare form of antisocial personality disorder that blends the traits of a psychopath with those of a sociopath. He exhibits the cunning manipulation of the psychopath, and the moral detachment of the sociopath. Nash is prone to grandiose acts of violence that are brutal, sadistic, and symbolic.”
Ward looked from juror to juror, while repeating the words for emphasis. “Brutal. Sadistic. Symbolic.” The prosecutor turned back to the witness. “Dr. Peters, would hanging a person qualify as brutal, sadistic, and symbolic?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions.”
77
Laura laid her notes on the lectern. She hid her elation behind a poker face. The prison shrink had opened himself up to a decimating cross. She planned to impeach his credibility, undercut his diagnosis, scorch his veracity, and—with any luck—make him cry. Given his self-importance, and lack of experience as an expert witness, she wanted to watch him squirm. Juries never believed squirmers.
“Dr. Peters, you testified that your diagnosis of the defendant was based on twenty-four separate sessions.”
“Yes. Twenty-four is the standard for an assessment in such a complex case. Anything less would not provide the requisite data and insight on which to base a diagnosis. Twenty-four two-hour sessions over a two-year period were required at a minimum.”
“Sufficient? Do you mean that anything less would be insufficient?”
“Yes.”
“Anything less could lead to an incorrect diagnosis? An invalid result?”
Laura watched as Peters’ expression turned grim. His internal danger alarm was sounding. He stuttered. “Umm… well, yes, it could.”
“Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”
“You may.”
Laura carried a folder to the stand, withdrew a sheet of paper, and handed it to the witness. “Dr. Peters, this is a list of dates of your sessions with Nash. Prepared by you. Signed by you.”
“Yes. Twenty-four dates.”
She took back the list and handed him a spreadsheet. “This is your daily sign-in log from the prison’s mental health wing.”
“It is.”
“Prepared by you?”
“Yes.”
“Signed by you?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, tell me this: Why are eight dates cited in the exam list not listed in your daily sign-in log?”
Peters fumbled with the spreadsheet. He put one leg over the other. Then, there it was: He squirmed.
Laura had him. “The dates of eight sessions are not reflected in your sign-in log, because you were not at the prison on those days. You were a hundred miles away at the community clinic. The clinic where you work on your days out of the prison. We have those records, too.”
“I can’t explain it,” Peters stammered. “There must be a mistake.”
Ward rose to object but stopped halfway. He knew he had no grounds.
Laura smelled the kill. “You couldn’t examine Mr. Nash on those eight days, because you weren’t there. Meaning that the maximum number of sessions you could have conducted with Mr. Nash was sixteen.”
Peters’ face was ashen. “I guess that’s the case.”
“You guess?”
Peters glared at her. “Yes. That is the case.”
“Yet, moments ago, you testified that a minimum of twenty-four examinations are needed to establish a credible diagnosis. Less than twenty-four would lead to an invalid diagnosis. Your words, Doctor.”
Peters’ hands began to shake. His neck twitched. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran into his eyes. He took out a tissue and wiped the fogged lenses of his Clark Kent glasses.
“Well. Hold on. Let me see. I’m sure I can explain it.” His voice wavered. “Wait a minute,” he muttered. “Maybe this explains it. Umm. Yeah. Okay. Sixteen. Sixteen sessions. That’s all it took. The case wasn’t that complex. Yeah. These kinds of cases can be straightforward. This one was very straightforward. The man was a psychopath and a sociopath at the same time. I knew it right away.”
“Except you testified that the case was ‘complex.’” Laura knew she was stretching it when she turned to Striker. “Your Honor. You may wish to explain perjury law to the witness.”
Striker smirked, but Peters didn’t see him. He looked at Laura, as if pleading for mercy.
She struck again. “Isn’t it true that the twenty-four sessions are the minimum proscribed by medical guidelines?”
“Yes. I dropped the ball. I apologize to the court.”
“So, your diagnosis is invalid. Your own words, sir.”
“Well. Yes.”
Laura smiled. She needed him to lighten up. “I see. Thank you for being truthful. Let’s take a breather. Would you like a glass of water?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The bailiff brought it, and Peters gulped it down. His crimson face lightened in color.
“Is that better?” Laura asked with feigned compassion. “Are you more relaxed now?”
“Yes. Much better. Thank you.”
Laura changed course. “Let’s turn back to your impeccable credentials. Let’s talk about your recent community service award. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“You made a speech at the award ceremony. You received a standing ovation.”
“Yes. I was honored. It was too much. I mean, I’m no public speaker but—”
“You’re too modest. I’m sure you deserved it.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you know the speech was recorded?”
“No. I wasn’t aware.”
“I have a word-for-word transcript.”
“You do?”
Laura handed him the transcript and asked him to read the highlighted paragraph.
The waver returned to his voice as he read. “As psychiatrists, we have a profound obligation to exceed standard guidelines when diagnosing patients for serious mental disorders. These cases are never straightforward. A shortcut can lead to untrustworthy findings. The human mind is a complex organ, and our diagnoses are just approximations—oftentimes, we just don’t know. The consequences for the people we are supposed to help can be dire.”
78
Defense psychiatric expert Charlotte Meyers spoke with quiet confidence. Her credentials from Harvard and BU were as impressive as her clear, understandable explanation of the psychiatric facts. She also drove the final sword into Peters’ testimony.
“Mr. Nash is neither a psychopath nor a sociopath, let alone a combination of the two. Combination psychopath-sociopaths do not exist, except in the mind of the prison psychiatrist who spoke today. The two medical terms have distinct meanings. There is no such case in professional literature. There is no such case in the history of psychiatry.”
A juror scanned the gallery, but Dr. Peters had left the building.
“I base my findings on my own assessment of Mr. Nash.” Dr. Meyers made eye contact with each juror before continuing, “I can assure you that his responses and test results were one-hundred-percent consistent with a normal person faced with a difficult situation. He is in control of his faculties and shows empathy to his family, friends, lawyers, and fellow inmates. He does not harbor excessive bitterness or show any violent tendencies toward others. In my opinion, Mr. Nash’s mental health is quite good, considering he’s serving life without parole for a crime he did not commit.”
Laura approached the witness. “Dr. Meyers, please explain the slide on the monitor.”
The image on the flat screen showed a human brain with yellow markings around an almond-shaped area in the center.
“The slide shows the brain of a person diagnosed with severe antisocial personality disorder. The yellow area shows significant volume reduction in the part of the brain called the ‘amygdala.’”
“This condition in common in people with antisocial personality disorder?”
“Yes.”
“And this slide?”
The imaged switched to a new brain scan, this time with a larger area in yellow.
“This image shows the brain of a normal adult. The yellow markings show a full-sized, healthy amygdala.”
“This is common for normal individuals?”
“Yes.”
“And this slide?”
“This is a slide showing the brain of Edward Thomas Nash.”
“The defendant?”
“Yes.”
“Your assessment?”
“Edward Thomas Nash has a perfectly healthy human brain.”
***
After the trial adjourned for the day, Laura returned to the office to meet with Charles and Lou. There had to be a way to locate the bloodstained towel.
“It’s in here somewhere,” Laura said. She spread her hands over pages of the original investigative file on the conference table.
“Check this out.” Charles held up a transcript of the Eden police dispatcher calling in the troops after the discovery of Erin’s body.
He read:
“DISPATCH: All units respond to sighting of a female body at the West End Pedestrian Bridge on Utility Road F. Be warned, people. Bring your puke sacks. The victim is hanging from the bridge. Repeat—hanging victim at West End Pedestrian Bridge. Proceed with caution.
“EDEN UNIT SIX: Eden Six to Dispatch. Did you say, ‘hanging victim?’
“DISPATCH: Confirmed. Hanging. Female victim.
“EDEN UNIT TWO: Eden Two responding. Two miles out.
“DISPATCH: Confirmed.
“EDEN UNIT FOUR: Eden Four responding. Four miles out.
“DISPATCH: Confirmed.
“EDEN UNIT SEVEN: Eden Seven responding. Five miles out.
“DISPATCH: Confirmed.
“GENESEE UNIT ONE: Genie One here.
“DISPATCH: Come in, Genie One.
“GENESEE ONE: Approaching scene. Shit. There is a girl hanging from that bridge. Holy shit. Will secure the scene and preserve evidence.
“DISPATCH: Genie One, listen up. Eden has jurisdiction. Repeat. Eden has jurisdiction. Hands off the scene. Our units are en route.
“GENESEE ONE: We have jurisdiction. This is on our side of the boundary line. Securing evidence. Repeat. Securing evidence now.”
Charles slapped down the transcript. “There it is. The Genesee Police Department were the first to respond, and they considered it their crime scene.”
Lou picked up the narrative. “The Genesee cops mistakenly believed they had jurisdiction. That bridge is right on the line between Eden and Genesee. The Genesee first responder began collecting evidence before the Eden cops arrived!”
Charles slammed his hand on the table. “I think we know what happened to that bloodstained towel.”
79
The normally immaculate prosecutor wore a wrinkled suit. His tie was spattered with wine drippings. Puffed-up flesh formed purple mountains around his bloodshot eyes. Sharp, horizontal creases furrowed his forehead, and his hair was a mess. Bart Ward looked like a tired man—tired of faltering witnesses, sketchy evidence, and mounting signs of police and prosecutor misconduct.
Bart Ward was tired of the anger on the judge’s face, and the doubt in the jurors’ eyes. The defense, it seemed to him, was closing in on reasonable doubt. This is not going well. The retrial of Eddie Nash was becoming a showcase of police and prosecution misstatements, mishaps, and misdeeds. The headlines were gnawing at his reputation and disrupting his sleep. The defense had even cast doubt on the urine traces recovered from the victim’s body. Laura had the samples tested with more advanced techniques, which showed the DNA was not Nash’s. Ward was on the ropes. It was time to distance himself from lying cops and crooked prosecutors. He had played no role in the original investigation and trial. Why should he—with his stellar reputation on the line, and his bosses in Albany on his back— pay the price for these two-bit ham-and-eggers?
So, the seasoned prosecutor invited the green defense attorney to meet him in the private attorney room on the third floor of the old courthouse after the trial adjourned for the day.
Ward looked across the walnut conference table to his young adversary. The Wizard sighed like a war-weary soldier. “This case is keeping me up at night.”
Laura feigned disbelief. “You? I’ve been working on it for months. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since spring.” What is he doing? What is he up to?
“First, Laura.” Ward hit her with his tired-as-an-old-dog blue eyes. “May I call you Laura?”
She nodded.
“Laura. Let me compliment you on the way you’ve handled yourself, both in and out of court. You are a formidable adversary—unstoppable with Martha at your side. You’ve brought out certain irregularities in the original trial that are—I must confess—rather troubling.”
“‘Rather troubling,’” Laura repeated. “Your talent for understatement remains stellar.”
