Silenced Witness

by Larry A Winters

  Silenced Witness

  A Jessie Black Legal Thriller

  Larry A. Winters

  Copyright © 2019 by Larry A. Winters

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Newsletter Signup

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Books by Larry A. Winters

  About the Author

  Grave Testimony, the exciting prequel to the bestselling Jessie Black Legal Thriller series, is FREE for a limited time. Click here to tell me where to send your FREE copy of Grave Testimony:

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  —Larry A. Winters

  1

  Most of the time, Jessie Black loved her job as a homicide prosecutor, but this was not one of those times.

  She stood in the courthouse hallway with Mark Leary. “Jessie?” he said. “You okay?”

  It was more than just professional concern. He was a detective for the DA’s office, but he was also her fiancé. “I’m fine. It’s just … you know….”

  “I know.” He pushed a manila folder into her hands. She looked into his blue eyes, then down at the plain, businesslike folder. When she opened it, her stomach roiled. He kissed her on the cheek, as discreetly as possible. “Look at the bright side—winning the trial will open up your schedule to plan our wedding.”

  She knew he was joking—trying to lighten her mood—and tried to smile. But she couldn’t quite do it. She closed the folder. “Thanks, Leary. This will help.”

  Inside the courtroom, the gallery was mostly empty. A few spectators, no one from the press as far as she could tell, no idle lawyers looking for a show. The sad truth was that a murder trial of this type was common to the point of routine. When a woman of a certain age is killed, it is almost always the husband.

  In this case, the husband was a man named Mahesh Hatwal. He drove his wife to Pennypack Park, a municipal park in the Bustleton neighborhood of Northeast Philly, where he smashed the back of her skull with a brick and left her to die near a jogging path. He called the police himself a few hours later to report her missing.

  Motive? Unknown. Jessie had once prosecuted a man who’d killed his wife because he could no longer tolerate the sound of her chewing.

  Hatwal’s defense attorney, August Callahan, gave her a curt nod as she walked past him to take her place at the prosecution table. Other members of the courtroom staff filed in. The judge’s clerk arranged her files. The court reporter sat in front of her equipment. Sheriff’s deputies found their positions along the walls.

  Common, to the point of routine.

  I don’t want to do this.

  Judge Imelda Russo entered the courtroom from the door behind the bench. She gave an instruction, and a sheriff’s deputy led the jury into the room.

  Another sheriff’s deputy escorted the defendant into the room. Mahesh Hatwal was tall and pot-bellied, a man in his mid-forties whose hair was beginning to gray. He did not look like a murderer. But Jessie had stared at the photos in the ME’s report long enough that she could not look at him without also seeing, in her mind’s eye, the cratered skull of his wife.

  Hatwal met his attorney with a tired and weary expression. The two men shook hands and Hatwal sat down. Callahan leaned toward him to whisper something in his ear. Jessie did not know if they were discussing defense strategy, or if Callahan was mumbling nonsense as a performance for the jury. It did not matter much.

  Finally, Judge Russo ordered the witness to resume her place at the witness stand.

  Jessie felt sick to her stomach. I don’t want to do this.

  Laurel Bier was sixteen years old. She had a pretty face—maybe even a beautiful one—but it was obscured by thick glasses and a rash of pimples. She walked with the slightly hunched gait of a teenager trying to reduce her profile, trying to be invisible. She was smart but very unpopular, bullied at school. Jessie knew this from the research Leary had provided. She would outgrow this awkward phase, but—

  Jessie mentally shut down that train of thought. Empathy would not help her today.

  “Is the Commonwealth ready to begin its cross-examination?” Judge Russo said.

  “Yes, thank you, Your Honor.”

  The courtroom quieted as Jessie approached the witness stand. The sounds of people shifting in their seats, wooden benches creaking, and the rustling of paper faded behind her.

  “Ms. Bier, before the recess, you testified that you were at the defendant’s house on the afternoon of March 12, and that the defendant was in the house from the time you arrived at 4:00 PM until about 6:00 PM, when you left to go home. Is that an accurate summary of your testimony?”

  Bier avoided Jessie’s attempt to make eye contact. “Yes.”

  Jessie waited for the girl to say more, but she stuck with her one-word answer.

  “You testified that you were tutoring the defendant’s son at that time, Sundar Hatwal.” Jessie glanced into the gallery. The defendant’s teenage son sat in the first row, directly behind the defense table. Unlike Bier, Sundar Hatwal was popular—a handsome, confident athlete. His gaze locked on Bier.

  He lost his mother. Now he might lose his father. Again, Jessie forced herself to cut off these thoughts.

  “Yes,” Bier said.

  “What subject were you tutoring Sundar in?”

  Callahan half rose from his chair, an objection probably on the tip of his tongue, then apparently changed his mind and sat back down. He could have objected to her question on relevancy grounds, but he was smart enough to hold back so that he would not look to the jury like he was trying to hide something.

  “Trigonometry,” Bier said.

  “Trigonometry,” Jessie repeated. “A tough subject. You’re a good student, though. Consistently on the honor roll.”

  Bier remained silent.

  “I’m confused about something, though,” Jessie said. “You never tutored Sundar
before that night, did you?”

  Bier hesitated. “No.”

  “Or after that night?”

  Bier hesitated again. “That was the only time.”

  “Kind of convenient. The only time you ever tutored Sundar was at the exact time of his mother’s murder, when you could be an alibi witness for his father?”

  This time Callahan did rise and address the judge. “Objection, Your Honor!”

  “Sustained,” Judge Russo said. She shot Jessie a warning look.

  “I’ll move on, Your Honor.” To Bier, she said, “Can you describe the defendant’s house?”

  This time, Laurel Bier did not hesitate. In short, precise sentences, she described the layout and furnishings of the Hatwals’ colonial style house in the Bustleton neighborhood of Philadelphia. Jessie could tell it was coached and rehearsed, but her timid delivery made it sound at least plausibly genuine.

  Jessie let her recite the full description before she abruptly changed course. “Are you in love with the defendant’s son, Sundar Hatwal?”

  The girl’s face lit up bright red. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her eyes, wide, looked toward the gallery, then quickly away.

  “Do you need me to repeat the question?” Jessie said.

  Callahan was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor!”

  “Goes to bias,” Jessie said to the judge. “The witness has a personal motive to mislead the jury, and I’d like to establish it.”

  “Overruled,” Judge Russo said. Her gaze lighted on the witness stand, and Jessie saw concern in the judge’s wizened features. “Please answer the question, Ms. Bier.”

  “No,” Bier said. “That’s crazy. I barely know him. We’re friends at school. Just friends.”

  Jessie crossed the room to the prosecution table and picked up a small stack of papers, including the folder Leary had given her in the hallway. With the papers in her hands, she returned to the witness stand. “If I were to call some of your friends and classmates to the stand, what do you think they would say under oath?”

  Callahan stood again. “Your honor, I have to object again. Ms. Black is badgering the witness.”

  “I’m going to give the Commonwealth some leeway here, given the importance of Ms. Bier’s testimony as an eyewitness establishing your client’s alibi. Ms. Bier, please answer the question.”

  The sight of tears gathering in the girl’s eyes caused Jessie’s heart to clench.

  “I guess they might say I have a crush on him,” Bier said. She looked like she wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear.

  “You weren’t really at the defendant’s house on March 12 between 4:00 PM and 6:00 PM, were you?”

  “I was!”

  “Sundar asked you to lie today to help save his father, didn’t he?”

  Callahan started to object, but Bier answered before he could. “I’m telling the truth!”

  Jessie sighed inwardly. She had hoped Bier would take this opportunity to recant her testimony and end the cross-examination.

  “I came to the house to tutor Sundar. I saw his dad there. So he couldn’t have killed Mrs. Hatwal. Because he was at the house—”

  Jessie pulled Leary’s manila folder to the top of her pile and opened it. “At this time, the Commonwealth would like to introduce a document into evidence.” She placed a slip of paper on the witness stand in front of Laurel Bier. She handed photocopies to the judge and Callahan.

  “What the hell is this?” Callahan said under his breath.

  Jessie ignored him. To Bier, she said, “Do you recognize this deposit receipt?”

  In a shaky voice, Bier said, “Yes.”

  “Can you tell the Court what it is?”

  “It’s a receipt from Arianne Fashion. A … store. It’s a receipt for a deposit I made.”

  “What was the deposit for?” Jessie said.

  The girl did not speak. She was shaking.

  “I can call the store owner to the stand if I have to,” Jessie said. In a softer voice, she said, “I’m hoping we can avoid that.”

  “It’s for a prom dress.”

  “Who is your date to the prom?”

  “Sundar.”

  “Sundar Hatwal, the defendants son?”

  “Yes.” The girl’s voice broke, the word coming out in two anguished syllables.

  Even though the courtroom was sparsely occupied, the commotion that arose at this testimony was loud enough to warrant a gavel pounding from Judge Russo.

  Jessie knew she’d just won the case, but she took no pleasure in it.

  2

  “Another one for the Bingo card,” Toby Novak said.

  From the passenger seat, homicide detective Emily Graham watched Novak turn their unmarked Ford Police Interceptor north on Chestnut. She wondered if she was witnessing early onset dementia in her aging partner. “Bingo card?”

  “It’s a game Guillermo López used to play. My partner before you. He came up with the idea of making a cardboard Bingo card. He filled the boxes with all the crazy shit cops see during their careers—stuff they see if they’re unlucky, anyway. And he would mark them off when we saw them. He said if he managed to score a Bingo before retirement, he was going to award himself a giant trophy at his retirement party.”

  Graham watched the city flow past the windshield. At 10:17 PM on a Wednesday, the city was relatively quiet. She watched a man walking his dog, a man and a woman walking together with clasped hands, a college-age kid lugging a big backpack. None of them knew a murder had just been committed.

  “I guess this one would definitely fill a Bingo square,” Graham said.

  “A victim with his penis chopped off?” Novak said. “Probably the center square.”

  Gallows humor, Graham thought. Every cop’s coping mechanism. She said, “Hopefully it won’t be too gruesome. I didn’t bring any barf bags.”

  “I’ve never seen you need one. Me, on the other hand…. My stomach ain’t what it used to be.” He patted his belly, which spilled over the waistline of his pants and seemed to strain his seatbelt.

  “Did he win?” Graham said.

  “Huh?”

  “López. Did he score a Bingo and get his big trophy?”

  Novak glanced at her for a second before returning his attention to the road. “You know, I actually don’t remember. Scary, isn’t it? How we forget things? I always thought I would remember every moment of the job.”

  “He did have a retirement party,” Graham said. “I remember being there. I don’t remember a trophy, though.”

  “Speaking of retirement parties….”

  Graham forced herself not to groan. She knew Novak was counting on her to throw him a decent retirement party. And as his partner, doing so was her sacred duty. The problem was that party-planning was far from Graham’s strong-suit. “I’m still working on it, Toby.”

  “Yeah?” His sidelong glance did not convey confidence.

  She forced a more upbeat tone. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be epic.”

  Novak smiled. “Epic. I like that.”

  “Don’t forget, I have a bachelorette party to plan, too. It’s a lot on my plate.”

  “I hear ya,” Novak said. “Just don’t get the strippers confused, okay? I don’t want some dude dressed as a fireman in a jockstrap jumping out of my cake while Jessie Black gets the buxom babes.”

  That brought a smile to Graham’s face. “Toby, there are not going to be any naked firemen, buxom babes, or strippers of any kind at any party planned by me.”

  “I’m just messing with you.” He navigated north and east, heading out of Center City and into the Northern Liberties neighborhood. They passed boutique shops, trendy restaurants, an art gallery. “Did you know Forbes ranked Northern Liberties as one of America’s best hipster neighborhoods?”

  “You read Forbes?” Graham said.

  “No. Brooks told me when we were heading out of the Roundhouse.”

  “Do you know what a hipster is?”

  Novak gl
anced at her with a sheepish expression. “Something with hats?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly right, Toby.” Graham smiled and they drove in silence. The Northern Liberties neighborhood had once been a manufacturing and warehouse district. Now, post-gentrification, it was home to artists and young professionals, with some aging holdovers who probably found their new neighbors inscrutable. Novak turned the car onto a residential street. Row houses lined both sides. Old and sturdy looking, originally built in the early 1900s, Graham supposed. Factory workers’ homes.

  “Truth is, I don’t really care that much about my retirement party,” Novak said.

  Graham quirked an eyebrow at that. “Really? Could have fooled me. Your acting skills have really improved recently.”

  He shot her another sidelong look. “Funny. But I’m serious. I don’t care about the party. I just wish I could go out with a win. You know what I mean? I don’t want to be remembered as the old guy who always bored people by talking about his grandson. Before the department puts me out to pasture, I’d like to do something….” He seemed to struggle for the right word, then grinned. “Epic.”

  “Well, this case certainly has potential.”

  They passed a convenience store. Novak made another turn. “This must be the place.”

  Graham felt her pulse kick up a notch. It was another street lined with row houses, but here, a multicolored strobe effect from the flashing lights of police vehicles made the stately brick edifices look garish. The victim’s house was about halfway down the block, and was already swarmed. In addition to three police cruisers, Graham recognized a van used by the crime scene unit and a personal car—an Infiniti—she believed belonged to an assistant medical examiner named Omar Mandalia. No sign of the press, but she knew the news vans and helicopters would be here soon enough.