“Okay,” the magistrate judge, Boggs, said. “Let’s get rolling. Mr. Hazenberg, I understand the Commonwealth has charged you with first-degree murder, along with several lesser included charges.” He read these off in a tired voice. Then he checked the courthouse calendar and set a date for the first court hearing—a date Jessie couldn’t help but notice was uncomfortably close to her wedding. “Now,” Boggs said, “let’s talk bail.”
“Your Honor,” Jessie said, “the Commonwealth strongly opposes bail in this case. The crime with which Mr. Hazenberg has been accused is particularly gruesome and vicious. Moreover, he is wealthy, an architect with a six figure income, a wife who also works, and no children to support. We believe he has the money and the means to flee, and ample motive to do so as well, given the weight of the evidence against him and the likelihood that he will be convicted.”
Kristina rose to address the magistrate judge. “Your Honor, I have to disagree with Ms. Black. My client is not a flight risk. On the contrary, he is a productive citizen of Philadelphia with a home, a wife, and a career here. He has no criminal record—or any record with the police. Not even a traffic stop. He maintains his innocence and is eager to prove it at trial and clear his name.”
Jessie heard a murmur of surprise from the gallery. Kristina turned to flash them a winning smile before she continued to address the judge. “Mr. Hazenberg is not going to flee. But it would be an injustice for him to remain in jail before the Commonwealth has even tried to meet its burden of proving him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt—a burden they will never meet.”
“Let’s not get overly theatrical, Ms. Nolan. You can argue your client’s innocence at trial.” Boggs sat back in his chair and seemed to mull over the arguments. Then he leaned forward again.
“Mr. Hazenberg,” Boggs said, “there are factors to be considered, and an objective review of those factors compels me to conclude that bail is not appropriate here. If you are indeed innocent of the horrific crimes with which you have been accused, then I wish you luck in demonstrating that in court. But until that time, you will remain behind bars where we can ensure that you will be present at trial and do no harm to the public.”
Hazenberg nodded pleasantly, as if the judge had not just denied his freedom.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Jessie said.
Jessie started to gather her papers. When she turned, she almost bumped into a person behind her. It was a new prosecutor from the Homicide Unit named Julie Wetzel.
“Do you have a hearing here?” Jessie said, confused.
Across the aisle, Kristina Nolan watched them with a knowing look.
“Warren sent me,” Wetzel said, leaning closer. “Jessie, we’ve got a problem.”
15
Following Julie Wetzel down the DA’s office hallway, Jessie could hear raised voices before the conference room door even came into sight. Wetzel glanced back at her with a look on her face that said she’d rather be anywhere else right now.
They reached the conference room door. The voices were audible through the solid wood—angry voices. Wetzel offered a weak smile. Then she quickly slipped away.
Jessie took a breath, braced herself, and opened the door. Four heads turned to look at her.
Warren sat at the head of the rectangular conference table. Leary sat on the side to Warren’s left. Emily Graham and Toby Novak sat to his right.
Leary cleared his throat and looked down at a pad of paper. Graham and Novak just stared at her, as if shellshocked.
“Come in,” Warren said. “Close the door.”
Jessie did as he said, taking the seat at the other end of the table, across from Warren. She recognized some of the documents she saw scattered across the table—crime scene photos, police reports.
The Hazenberg case.
“Let’s walk through this again now that Jessie’s here,” Warren said.
“Again?” Toby Novak looked visibly frustrated.
“Yes, Detective Novak. Again.” Warren’s tone was cold. Novak didn’t argue this time. He grunted and leaned forward in his chair.
“Emily and I got to the crime scene. It was … unpleasant, as we all know. I needed to step outside for a few minutes. Get some fresh air. Happens sometimes.”
“We’ve all been there,” Leary said. Warren shot him a look, and he closed his mouth.
“Right,” Novak said. “So Emily and I took a walk. Just as far as a few houses down the street. There was a sewer grate, and something about it caught my attention. I looked and there was a glove. It had something on it, looked like blood. I picked it up and bagged it, following procedure.”
“Then what happened?” Warren said, although obviously he already knew. He glanced at Jessie with a weary expression.
“That’s when a uniformed officer called out to us,” Novak said. He lifted a small notepad from the table and flipped a few pages. “Officer Siever. He said he needed us right away. We went with him back to the crime scene area.”
“And where was the glove at this time?” Warren said.
Why was Warren focused on the glove? Jessie felt her heart sink as she realized where this story must be headed.
“In an evidence bag in my pocket.”
“What happened next?”
“Officer Siever took us to a squad car. There was a woman in the back seat. She had come to the crime scene a few minutes earlier, while Emily and I were walking. Her name was Maxine Hazenberg. She told us she knew who killed the victim, Kent Edley. She said it was her husband, Oscar Hazenberg. We asked her how she knew that, and she said Oscar Hazenberg told her himself.”
“And during this conversation….” Warren said.
“The glove was in an evidence bag in my pocket.”
“The crime scene unit was right there inside the house, correct?”
“I guess so.”
“Gary Danziger and three of his people?”
“Yes.”
“A few steps away.”
Novak closed his eyes. He was silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. Then he opened his eyes again and said, “I wasn’t thinking about the glove, Warren. There was a woman at the crime scene telling us she knew who the killer was. My attention was on her.”
“What happened next?”
“We took Maxine Hazenberg to the Roundhouse to question her in more detail and get a statement.”
“And the glove?”
Novak sighed. “Still in the evidence bag in my pocket.”
“You’re sure?” Warren said.
Novak nodded. “Yes.”
“You were at the Roundhouse—police headquarters—but you still didn’t check in the evidence? You left it in your pocket?”
The skin of Novak’s neck was reddening and his nostrils flared as he breathed, but he managed to keep his voice under control. “I didn’t remember I had it. I was absorbed in Maxine Hazenberg’s story. I forgot about the glove.”
“And when did you finally remember the glove?” Warren said.
“Not until the next morning,”
“The next morning,” Warren repeated.
“Yes. The next morning,” Novak admitted with a defeated expression.
“You had the glove in the interview room with Maxine Hazenberg?”
“Yes.”
“And then you had it in your personal vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“And then you had it in your home?”
“I did.”
“And it was there all night while you slept, and then the next day … what? You remembered it while you were eating corn flakes?”
Novak’s eyes seemed to darken. “Fuck you, Warren.”
The room went silent. Jessie could practically hear her own heartbeat. Graham placed a hand on Novak’s arm—whether as a warning or a show of solidarity, Jessie didn’t know.
“Sorry,” Novak said. “That was inappropriate.”
“Apology accepted. What happened next?”
“In the show
er, I suddenly remembered the glove. I ran to my closet, found my suit from the day before, and pulled out the evidence bag. I immediately drove it to police headquarters and checked it into evidence.”
“Between the time you found the glove, and the time you checked it into evidence, how many hours would you say that was?”
“I don’t know. Nine or ten hours? But I never took it out of the evidence bag the whole time.”
Warren’s gaze swung to Jessie. “FYI, the DNA results just came back on that glove. The blood on the outside is a match to the victim. And a single strand of hair, found on the inside of the glove, matches Oscar Hazenberg. That glove could win this trial. If it’s admissible.”
Jessie let out a long breath. The police and prosecutors were required to track and authenticate the movement of every piece of evidence from its initial collection to its presentation at trial, to ensure that it was actually the same item, and that it could not have been tampered with. This “chain of custody” usually extended from the crime scene, to the CSU lab, to a secure evidence locker, to the courtroom, with each link in the chain carefully documented and signed off on. If a defense attorney could show problems with the chain of custody—so-called “broken links” that created doubts about identity, contamination, or other potential issues—the evidence could become inadmissible. Banned from the trial.
She had learned early in her career that police work could be messy. There was a lot of room for human error, a lot of well-meaning but imperfect people trying their best in a system with literally thousands of rules and potential pitfalls. She felt terrible for Novak. On the eve of his retirement, he had made a mistake that might prevent the DA’s Office from introducing extremely compelling evidence against Hazenberg at trial. He might have even lost them a guilty verdict. He knew it, too. Everyone at the table knew it.
“Guess who filed a motion to preclude the glove and all evidence arising from the glove about thirty minutes ago?” Warren said.
That explained why one-half of the Nolan legal team had skipped the preliminary arraignment. Hal had been a busy beaver, furiously drafting and delivering a motion to preclude evidence.
Warren turned to Graham. “Did you know about this, Detective Graham? Did you keep this from us in some misguided effort to protect your partner?”
“Um….” Graham’s usual straightforward demeanor faltered as she visibly struggled to come up with an answer.
Novak leaned forward before she could speak. “It’s my fault. Don’t blame Emily.”
“It’s not about blame,” Warren said. But it was. Everyone at the table knew that, too.
“The real question is how Hal Nolan found out about this before we did?” Jessie said.
“Apparently a janitor at the Roundhouse is a friend of his,” Leary said. “A guy named Louis Mulford.”
“You’re joking,” Warren said.
Leary shook his head. “I guess he’s been feeding the Nolans tips for a while now, in exchange for a ‘finder’s fee.’”
“That explains how they wedged themselves into the Hazenberg case to begin with,” Graham said bitterly.
“A janitor.” Warren looked half-outraged and half-amused by the idea.
“So the Nolans found out early,” Jessie said. “It doesn’t really matter. It would have come out eventually anyway. We have a duty to disclose it.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t have to get the jump on us,” Warren said.
“I’m sure this will be Mulford’s final day of employment,” Leary said, “if that’s any consolation.”
Warren scowled at him. “It’s not. We have a major chain of custody problem. We have to assume the worst—that the jury will never be allowed to learn about the glove. And that’s a big deal, because the glove is our only evidence directly tying Hazenberg to the crime. We have the glove and the confession he made to his wife—which also will be kept from the jury because of spousal privilege. Two smoking guns and the Pennsylvania Rules of Evidence prevent us from using either one.”
The gloom around the table was palpable. Novak brought his hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. Leary leaned back, looking at the ceiling. Graham started to gather her things.
“Maybe not,” Jessie said.
Their heads turned toward her again.
“I can try to get the evidence in. Obviously, the law seems against us, but it’s not black and white. There’s a chance.”
“Are you kidding?” Graham said. “You’re going to fight the motion to preclude the glove?”
“And the confession to his wife, too,” Jessie said. “Why not? Maybe I can convince the judge.”
Warren nodded. “It’s a long shot, but why not try? At the same time, we need to bolster our case with new evidence. Leary, Graham, Novak—clear your desks. This is your only job now.”
16
“I thought I was such hot stuff when I found that glove,” Novak said. He sat beside Graham and stared gloomily out the passenger-side window as she drove.
“You are hot stuff,” she said.
He cast a doubtful look her way, then lapsed into silence.
They were headed back to Edley’s neighborhood. On the night of the murder and the morning that followed, uniformed officers had canvassed the area looking for witnesses and clues. Graham had spent hours today studying their reports until her eyes couldn’t focus, and had noted people warranting a follow-up. The first such person was Edley’s neighbor to the left, Abraham Raney. According to the files, Raney was in his seventies—apparently a holdover from the neighborhood’s pre-hipster era.
She parked at the curb in front of his house and opened her door. “Come on. It’s going to take some world-class detective work to turn this around. Let’s do it.”
“Yeah,” Novak muttered.
They climbed out of the car and Graham started toward the house. Novak seemed rooted in place by the car. She turned. “Toby?”
At first, she thought he was staring at Kent Edley’s house. It no longer bore the signs of a police investigation, since the yellow tape and patrol cars had long since been pulled from the scene, but the building still seemed to emanate an atmosphere of tragedy. Then she followed his line of sight and realized his gaze was fixed on a spot further down the street—a spot where she knew there was a sewer grate.
“Let it go, Toby. You don’t have time to beat yourself up. We need to find more evidence so that what happened won’t matter.”
He looked at her. “‘What happened?’ Just say it, Emily. My screw-up. The stupid mistake of an old man that tanked one of the most important homicide cases of the last ten years.”
“Nothing has tanked yet.” Graham resisted the urge to grind her teeth. She understood Novak’s shame—even felt it, too, even though she had done nothing wrong. But Warren had been clear. Their only job right now was to find more evidence that would convince a jury that Hazenberg killed his wife’s lover. They weren’t going to accomplish that by standing outside feeling sorry for themselves. “I’m going in to talk to this guy,” she said. “Come with me if you want.”
Graham crossed the street and knocked on the front door of the row house. She heard shuffling noises inside, and a moment later a man opened the door. His back was bent under a severe curve—almost a humpback—so that she mostly saw the white tufts at the top of his head. But his eyes, when he twisted to peer up at her, looked alert.
“You’re the police detective?”
“Yes. My name is Detective Emily Graham.” As Novak appeared beside her, she added, “This is my partner, Detective Tobias Novak. I assume you are Abraham Raney?”
The old man nodded and gestured them inside his house. “I already talked to a cop. Young guy, kid in a uniform. I told him everything I know, which is not much.”
He led them to a cozy living room and indicated a couch. Graham sat down, taking in the surroundings. On the outside, the row house had not looked all that different than Kent Edley’s. But the difference on the inside was night and d
ay. While Edley’s house was expensively furnished in a modern style, Graham guessed the last time anyone had brought new furniture through Raney’s door had been at least three decades ago. He seemed to live alone, and Graham pegged him as a widower.
“We’d like to go over your statements one more time,” she said. “Can you tell us about that night?”
“Just what I told the other cop. I was home, but I didn’t see or hear anything.”
Graham studied the man’s face and mannerisms. He had to be lying. The space between his house and Edley’s was negligible, and according to the assistant ME, Edley had been screaming so loudly, he’d damaged his vocal cords.
Afraid to get involved, probably. It happened sometimes, especially with older witnesses. “Did you know Kent Edley well?” she said.
“A little bit. Like you know any neighbor. But we weren’t friends. Pretty big age gap, in case you didn’t notice.”
Graham tilted her chin at Novak. “Toby and I are friends despite his advanced years.” She smiled, hoping to lighten the mood and get him talking.
Raney let out a raspy laugh and his shoulders seemed to relax. “Detective Novak here is a spring chicken compared to me.”
“Is there anything you can tell us about Kent?” Graham said. “Hobbies he was into? Activities he liked to do? That sort of thing?”
Raney shook his head. “I really didn’t know the man at all.”
“What about his relationship with Maxine Hazenberg?” Novak said. He pulled up a photo on his phone. “This woman?”
Raney waved away the phone. “I know who she is. Saw her picture on TV after her husband was arrested.”
“Did you ever see her with Kent?” Novak said. “Maybe coming home after a date, anything like that?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. Would that be important?”
“It could be,” Novak said. “I’d just like to know about their relationship.”
The old man laughed as if Novak had made a joke.
“Is that humorous for some reason?” Graham said.
“Just that you think they had some kind of relationship. I didn’t know Kent, but it was pretty clear he was what my generation called a ‘ladies’ man.’ He had women coming in and out of that house all the time—and all of them beautiful, too. I might have seen Maxine Hazenberg, but I can’t even be sure. She would’ve been one out of tens, maybe hundreds of women over the past few years.”
Silenced Witness Page 7
