Corrupt practices, p.27
Corrupt Practices, page 27
I pull the collar of my jacket around my neck and head down the street. How could it be so cold in May? I reach the corner and stop short. The entrance to the alley is a hundred feet up the street where the beating took place. With my first step, my teeth start chattering. I force myself to walk. The buildings fronting Melrose Avenue border the alley on the right; an ivy-covered Cyclone fence separates the homes on the left, the ivy an excellent hiding place for vermin. The area often attracts the homeless, and I look to see if anyone’s lurking or sleeping against a building, but it’s pitch black, except for a bare incandescent bulb halfway down the alley over the back door to The Barrista. In the daytime, the shop never seemed this far from the side street, but now that light seems miles away. I take a deep breath and walk toward the light, gingerly navigating past the pots piled outside the ceramics studio next door to Deanna’s shop. The asphalt is full of potholes and slick from the drizzle. I slip, stumble into a rut, and twist my ankle. Why aren’t I one of those handy men who always have a Swiss Army knife strapped to their belts and a powerful mini-flashlight hooked to their key-chains? Luckily, when I test the ankle, I can walk. When I reach The Barrista, I start to knock, but stop myself and try the doorknob. The door opens. The overhead fluorescent lamps are off. The only light comes from the bulb over the alley door. I take a step inside. I don’t see anyone. I’m about to call out when my left foot slides on something wet and tacky, and I think that maybe someone spilled a syrupy caramel concoction on the concrete floor and the clean-up crew missed it, and I lose my balance and almost do a split and fall hard on one knee, sending a jolt of pain up my femur. I’m about to curse when I realize that I’ve slipped on a pool of blood and am kneeling over the lifeless body of Deanna Poulos.
With quivering fingers, I search for her carotid artery, hoping to find a pulse. Nothing. Only the instinct for self-preservation prevents me from shrieking in horror and despair. I stand, warily make my way across room, and feel for the light switch. Is the assailant still here? No, because then I’d already be dead. I turn on the lights and look for Grace Trimble’s body. Nothing. Just Deanna on the other side of the room. I lock the door separating the storeroom from the rest of the shop and call 911. Then I go back to her.
She’s lying in a fetal position. She has multiple gunshot wounds to the chest. Her black T-shirt is heavy with blood. Her head is turned slightly upward in my direction. Her eyes are open, her mouth an oval void, the last vestige of surprise and pain. There’s something else in her expression, or more accurately, the artifact of an expression—the look of someone who’s been betrayed.
If I hadn’t pursued the Assembly, Deanna would still be alive. In the cold language of the law, my actions are the proximate cause of her death. I know I shouldn’t touch her again, but I reach out and stroke her hair.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, tears flowing down my face.
After a lengthy interview with the cops—which, when they notice my blood-streaked jeans, becomes for a harrowing forty minutes an interrogation into whether I had a motive to kill Deanna—I somehow manage to drive home.
Sleep is out of the question. I go to the pantry and pull out a bottle of mastika she gave me one Christmas long ago, 90 proof. It’s unopened because I promised her we’d drink it together when one of us had something big in life to celebrate. I uncork the bottle, pour myself a shot, chug it down, and then pour myself another. I find my one Metallica CD and put it in the player, not because I like the group, but because Deanna did. I keep replaying that night six months into our legal careers when she barged into my office and ordered me to draft jury instructions on a dog-shit case of hers. Who was this brash girl to tell me what to do? After we finished at two o’clock in the morning, we collapsed onto my office sofa (who seduced whom?) and made love for the first time. Though we later called it sport-fucking, it was making love, because sexual intimacy leaves an indelible mark no matter how vehemently one denies its meaning.
I down a third drink and for some reason think of my mother. When I was a toddler, she read Shakespeare to me at bedtime. Like everything else she did, the reading was calculated to advance my career as an actor. She wanted to instill in me a sense of the dramatic and a feel for the rhythms of speech. She favored Jaques’s famous monologue from As You Like It, the one that begins with the line, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” No wonder—Harriet Stern was the archetypal stage mother, so what could resonate more strongly for her than a speech equating life with acting? But life’s not a play or a movie. It’s a dark cybergame rife with ominous repetition and fragmentary success and taunting moments of self-delusion when you think you’ve conquered the world only to find that you’ve bumbled into a fatal trap. It’s a place where you rescue a beautiful princess only to discover that she’s something else entirely. It’s a series of street battles with multidimensional ghouls that blend chameleonlike into a prefabricated landscape, all bent on destroying you for no discernible reason. And the worst thing is that when you die, you’re not just an avatar whose pixels gently flicker out. You can’t push the reset button and start over at Level One. No one beats the game.
Thirty-six hours after I found Deanna’s body, we’re back in court. Judge Schadlow gave me all of one day to mourn Deanna’s death. After saying how sorry she was, how terrific a lawyer Deanna was—Schadlow had worked with her on that case five years ago—she ruled that we’ve lost enough time already because I deferred my opening statement. It’s not fair to the jury, she said.
Now, Manny Mason and I are in the courtroom an hour early, fighting a legal battle against Lou Frantz outside the jury’s presence. Frantz seems to view Deanna’s murder as nothing but a legal problem. He’s brought a motion in limine—a motion at the threshold—to prevent me from using the murder as evidence that Rich Baxter was killed as well. Manny and I were up all night drafting the opposition papers. The legal issues are beyond Jonathan and Kathleen, and I refused Lovely’s offer of help.
I intended to argue the motion, but I’ve been so distraught over Deanna’s death that Manny insisted that he handle the hearing. This time, I agreed. Though he, too, is heartbroken over losing Deanna, he wasn’t the one who found her body. And because the admissibility of this evidence is purely a legal question, he’ll do a good job. These are the kinds of issues that law professors thrive on.
“I’ve read the motion and the opposition,” Schadlow says. “And I’m inclined to agree with the plaintiff. The fact of Ms. Poulos’s tragic death is irrelevant and inflammatory. And based on hearsay. It has nothing to do with Richard Baxter or this elusive Grace Trimble.”
“Ms. Poulos’s death couldn’t be more relevant,” Manny says, for once speaking with passion in his voice. “Richard Baxter always maintained that he was set up, that he was in danger. He’s dead, and now Deanna Poulos is dead because someone is gunning for Grace Trimble. Alternatively, Grace Trimble is behind the embezzlement scheme and murdered Deanna Poulos and framed Rich. Trimble is a highly unstable individual. Either way, Ms. Poulos death throws doubt on the plaintiff’s entire theory.”
“It does nothing of the sort,” Frantz says. “We don’t know if Grace Trimble actually intended to show up at the coffee house night before last. We don’t even know that Grace Trimble really called Deanna Poulos. All we have is Mr. Stern’s word that he got this phone call.”
“I resent the implications of that statement,” Manny says. “Mr. Stern will—”
“I’ll submit a sworn declaration that I received the call from Ms. Poulos,” I say in a shaky voice.
“Your Honor, the police believe that Ms. Poulos’s death resulted from a burglary gone wrong,” Frantz says. “There’s been a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood.”
“What Mr. Frantz says goes to the weight of the evidence, not its relevance,” Manny says. “Deanna Poulos’s death—”
The judge holds up her hand. “I’ve heard enough, Mr. Mason. The plaintiff’s motion is granted. The defense will not refer to Ms. Poulos’s death in front of the jury. I’ll see you back here at nine o’clock.” She leaves the bench.
Manny shakes his head. I glare at the judge’s back. By forbidding me to utter Deanna’s name in court, it’s as if the judge has dishonored her memory, has expunged it from the record. As soon as Frantz walks out, Manny slams his notebook down on the table, the reverberation so loud that the clerk comes out to check on us.
I spend the next hour preparing for the upcoming cross-examination of Frantz’s witnesses, praying that the antianxiety pills can do double duty by staving off both the stage fright and the unremitting grief. At a quarter of nine, Raymond Baxter arrives. “Damn shame about your friend,” he says. “Seemed like a good person.” He emits a raspy whistle that comes from deep in his throat, an unnerving geriatric harmonics.
“She was a wonderful person,” I say. “She and Rich were great friends.”
He clears his throat and says, “You were good the other day. Cross-examining that FBI agent, I mean.”
I nod and go back to my examination outlines. I’ve been waiting for this—Frantz intends to call McCarthy and the county medical examiner who concluded that Rich committed suicide. Our entire defense hinges on my performance today.
The Christopher McCarthy I’ve come to know isn’t on the witness stand, isn’t anywhere near the courthouse. There’s none of the “sorry I won’t see you in the hereafter, sinner” condescension that has always defined him. There are no opaque sunglasses. Now, he’s a successful CEO with a warm smile and a sparkle in his eye. He’s the former radio personality who could captivate his listeners with nothing more than the rich timbre of his voice. He’s the pious devotee who responds to Rich’s apostasy with the wounded look of a man whose closest friend has betrayed him.
In response to Frantz’s softball questioning, he describes how Rich, while a partner at Macklin & Cherry, earned the trust of the Assembly. He testifies that Rich eventually left the firm to live his life in the service of the celestial host, gaining unprecedented access to the Assembly’s bank accounts. Apparently on the verge of tears, he describes how shocked he was to learn that Rich betrayed the Assembly to pursue illicit pleasures.
“During the examination of Special Agent Holcomb, counsel for defendants mentioned that you also were a signatory to Assembly accounts,” Frantz says. “Do you remember that?”
“Oh yes.”
“Mr. McCarthy, were you in any way involved with diverting Assembly funds?”
“Absolutely not. In fact, we subjected our financial records to the scrutiny of the US government. That’s an extraordinary thing for us to do, considering the religious oppression that we’ve suffered at the hands of that very government. But we wanted to get to the truth, wanted to see justice done.”
“How do you respond to Mr. Stern’s suggestion that a woman named Grace Trimble was involved in stealing Assembly money?”
“Oh, it’s likely that Mr. Stern is right about that. Grace Trimble is a troubled individual who dislikes the Assembly because she was excommunicated for behavior that violated our tenets. She holds a grudge. She’s also a brilliant lawyer. But that doesn’t mean Rich Baxter wasn’t involved. Just the opposite. I think it’s likely that Baxter and Trimble were in this together. They were former law colleagues and carried on a longtime romantic relationship.” It’s a well-rehearsed answer that obliterates my earlier attempt to exonerate Rich by blaming Grace.
“And where is Grace Trimble now, to your knowledge?”
“She’s disappeared. Wanted by the police.”
“No further questions,” Franz says.
I stand up to cross-examine, my options now limited. I hoped that McCarthy’s arrogance would hang him, but it didn’t happen. I can’t probe into the Assembly’s secrets like I did at the deposition, because they’re irrelevant to whether Rich embezzled. I can’t ask him if he was a signatory to The Emery Group’s account or question him about the payment to Delwyn Bennett, because he’d deny everything, and there would be no way to expose his perjury—the evidence that Ed Diamond got from his shady source was not only illegally obtained, it’s rank hearsay. So I decide to test Judge Schadlow’s patience.
“Mr. McCarthy, you mentioned on direct that Grace Trimble has disappeared. Is that because a woman named Deanna Poulos was found—?”
“Objection!” McCarthy says. “Violates the court’s order on the motion in limine.”
“May we have a sidebar?” I say.
Schadlow motions us over to the side of the bench out of the jury’s hearing. She’s glaring at me. When the court reporter joins us, she says, “How dare you, Mr. Stern? Tell me why I shouldn’t sanction you?”
“I’m aware of your order, Your Honor, but Mr. Frantz opened the subject up on direct by asking the witness about Grace Trimble’s current whereabouts.”
She blinks for a moment. This obviously hadn’t occurred to her. “My order stands. You shall not mention Deanna Poulos’s murder. It’s irrelevant and unduly prejudicial. If you try this again, I’ll sanction you.”
I stare at her. She knows I’m right, but she’s stubborn, another common weakness in new judges.
“Step back, counsel,” she says.
After her ruling, all I can do is ask McCarthy a few more innocuous questions in a tone that signals moral outrage. When he leaves the witness stand, he smirks at me, making sure that the jury can’t see it.
During our ten-minute recess, Manny, Kathleen, and Jonathan wait with me out in the hall, doing a piss-poor job of trying not to act glum. Lovely stays in the courtroom organizing exhibits for the next witness.
After the jurors file in and the judge retakes the bench, Frantz says, “The plaintiff calls Dr. Arun Vakil.”
Vakil is a handsome, athletically built man in his early thirties. Frantz immediately gets him to testify to his background. His family emigrated from India when he was ten years old. He got his Bachelor of Science degree in biology and chemistry from the University of Michigan and his medical degree from Baylor University in Texas, after which he served a four-year residency in pathology at the UC Irvine Medical Center. He’s a board-certified pathologist in anatomic, clinical, and forensic pathology. As an assistant medical examiner for the county since 2005, he’s performed hundreds of autopsies.
“What is your opinion as to the cause of Richard Baxter’s death?” Frantz asks.
“It’s my opinion that Richard Baxter committed suicide.”
“Please tell us why you came to that conclusion, Dr. Vakil.”
Vakil’s testimony parrots his autopsy report. Rich was found hanging in a holding cell. A ligature, fashioned from a silk necktie, was wrapped around his neck. He was partially suspended from a low hanging sprinkler pipe attached to the ceiling—partially suspended, because his toes were touching the ground. The cause of death resulted from Rich’s body weight tightening the ligature around the jugular vein and carotid artery and cutting off the blood flow to the brain. The body was found facing away from the door. There was no evidence of a struggle, no defensive wounds. And there was no ligature furrow.
Raymond Baxter’s breathing becomes audible, more labored than ever. Lovely leans over and asks if he needs a break, but he shakes his head.
“What’s a ligature furrow?” Frantz asks.
“It’s a mark left by the ligature—the cloth or cord or rope that causes strangulation.”
“What was the significance of the absence of a ligature furrow on Richard Baxter’s neck?”
“It leads me to believe he committed suicide. It’s common in cases of suicide that a soft ligature—like the silk tie used here—won’t leave a mark. In a homicide case involving strangulation, the victim usually struggles. When that happens, the force needed to subdue the victim creates a ligature furrow in the large majority of cases.”
“Now, Dr. Vakil, isn’t it possible that someone forced Rich Baxter in the noose and up onto that pipe?”
“Murder by hanging is highly unusual. You have to be exceptionally powerful to lift an adult male up into a noose, especially if the victim struggles. In this case, the decedent died in a crowded jail. There wouldn’t be much time to accomplish murder by hanging without being seen.”
“Your report says that Mr. Baxter had evidence of hemorrhaging at the back at the skull. Why was that?”
“I believe that the cell door hit the back of his head when the marshals came in. As I said, the decedent’s body was facing away from the door, with the back of the head closer to the door than the rest of the body. There was a tilt of the body because the decedent’s feet were touching the ground. It was as if the body was reclining.”
“Were there any other factors that you considered in reaching your opinion?”
“Yes, his life circumstances and mental state. He’d been a very successful, very financially secure man. Now he was facing many years in prison. He was disgraced in his community. And he was found in the possession of methamphetamine—crystal meth—a drug that can cause depression and suicidal thoughts.”
“No further questions,” Frantz says.
I pour myself a glass of water, slipping slowly from the glass to mask my elation. Neither Frantz nor Vakil have realized that the report failed to consider Rich’s fractured hyoid bone. I glance at Lovely. She, too, is trying not to smile.
I go to the lectern and say, “Dr. Vakil, would you agree that there are a lot of physically powerful men incarcerated in the Metropolitan Detention Center?”
“I don’t know for a fact, but I assume so. It’s a crowded jail.”
“Richard Baxter was just a bit under five feet eight inches in height and, at the time of his death, weighed one hundred and thirty-three pounds?”
