Break and Enter (2 page)

Thus neither parent of the defendant had appeared at the trial once, which the jury had probably already noted without sympathy. The fact was that the parents had given up long ago. Dr. Robinson made immense, unnecessary sums as a surgeon and used some of this money to indulge his avid desire for fly-fishing in remote regions of Canada, South America, and northern India. He was rarely home. His wife had suffered the unfortunate fate of raising four sons in isolation and wealth, and with minimal interest by their father. The sons went to the best of schools, and thus any tendency toward cunning was strengthened by a superior education. Complicating matters were their natural physical strength and courage (all of them ran on the large side, with the wide-jawed handsomeness of their father) and their proximity to all manner of disconnected males floating around the quasi-rural landscape: drug dealers, motorcycle gang members, gas station attendants, semi-pro mechanics, volunteer firemen, small-time organized-crime members, and out-of-work truck drivers. They were used to doing whatever they pleased and as boys ran amok over their parents’ property in packs with their friends, occasionally setting fires, motorbiking across what once had been a rolled croquet lawn, torturing small and lost animals, holding deafening parties in the barn at the edge of the property, and, as they got older, manufacturing drugs in one of the outlying buildings, hiding stolen cars, and keeping small harems of disaffected local young women of little self-esteem or prospect. Each son knew that he would inherit at age thirty the principal of a trust that each year grew in magnitude—an arrangement their parents were wholly unable to avert, due to the trust details drafted by the long-dead grandfather—and thus there was no incentive for the boys to work toward anything.

William Robinson, the youngest son, had deviated from the pattern set by his older brothers to the extent that he actually pursued the semblance of an acceptable life. Propelled by the sums at his disposal and a restless intelligence, he progressed through college and into graduate school with little apparent trouble. But the stress of straddling too many worlds had finally broken him, or perhaps—Peter didn’t know, didn’t care, ultimately—Robinson had glimpsed the immense lovelessness within the center of his family.

“Ready, Counselor?” Judge Scarletti pulled the microphone to his mouth. Peter nodded and skimmed his notes. Someone had refilled the water pitcher on his table. Judy Warren’s family came in and huddled together in the chairs behind the prosecution’s desk. The women held one another’s hands, fingered handkerchiefs. The men, unable to grieve openly, stared hatefully at the defendant, then assumed a look of strained dignity. Peter had seen it more times than he knew, and yet always he worried that he would fail them. Rightly or wrongly, he’d become dependent on those tears of gratitude that came with a verdict of guilty; it couldn’t bring people back to life, but it did deliver a form of catharsis to the decedent’s family. Now the defense counsel came in, then a few straggling spectators, the jolly retired men in cardigans who drifted from one trial to another for daily entertainment. For them, the drama was entirely academic, and they clicked their dentures happily at any mention of blood and whispered loudly as they questioned legal strategy. Then a stray law student, as Peter had been almost a decade prior—alone, quietly watching from the back, yet eagerly attentive, fitting the thick law books to courtroom reality. And now the jury filed in and found their numbered seats. Last, the brother Peter had encountered outside the courtroom entered, looked around angrily, and took a seat in the back. They all knew what was coming next.

As the prosecuting attorney, Peter had already presented nearly his entire case and was now about to conclude with the examination of his final witness, the detective who had questioned Robinson after he was arrested. On the cross-examination, Morgan would do as much as he could to destroy this testimony. But Morgan’s problem was that Robinson had confessed to the crime—or, at least, to a version of the crime. There had been no violation of the defendant’s rights, perhaps because he was a white, college-educated male from the upper class, and so the confession was ruled as admissible evidence in a pretrial hearing. But there were certain minor inaccuracies in the confession, due perhaps to Robinson’s excitable sense of irony and manipulation when talking with police officers. Forced into a corner by overwhelming evidence, Morgan had sought the bold stroke of genius and only come up with the improbable: In his opening statements he promised to create an alternative scenario of events in order to prove that Robinson could not
have committed the crime,
even though he had confessed to it.
The strategy was as absurd as it was dramatic.

The court officer swore in Detective Ralph N. Nelson, using a Bible with an uncracked spine and the courtroom number scrawled irreverently on the closed edges of its pages. Peter and Nelson understood each other perfectly—or as best they could given their different lives. Nelson was about fifty, black, and had been a cop almost as long as Peter had been alive, testifying in hundreds of cases. He’d been through the Rizzo, Green, and Goode administrations. Peter hadn’t even pretended to instruct him prior to testimony; he would just lead the detective to all the right places and let him do the rest. Nelson was a piano of a man, and his size lent him the air not of unassailable strength but of titanic weariness, a superhuman burden of the knowledge of the ways human beings brutalized one another. Nelson settled in the witness chair, gave his badge number, and lifted his bloodshot eyes in patient expectation.

Peter moved quickly through procedural questions. Defendant taken in for questioning. Unmarked squad car. Was he handcuffed? No. Where did you go? Room C, police headquarters, Eighth and Race Streets. Nelson sat completely still. His eyes barely moved, blinked occasionally; his voice bore the weight of cigarettes, radio crackle, methodical note-taking in the homicide division office, a three-year-old Buick, two slug scars in the lower back, a heavy-assed wife whom he loved loyally and deeply, season tickets to the Eagles, and a baby granddaughter born with spina bifida.

“Did you read the defendant his rights?” Peter asked.

“Yes. I told the defendant, ‘You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to a lawyer. If you cannot afford a lawyer, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania will provide you one at its expense. Anything you say can and will be used against you.’ ”

“From what did you read this?”

Nelson held up the card.

“It’s a police form. Standard form seventy-five dash miscellaneous three.”

“What did you do next?”

“On the other side of the card are questions, which I then read to the defendant: ‘Do you understand that you have the right to remain silent?’ And the defendant said yes. ‘Do you understand you have the right to a lawyer?’ And the defendant said yes. ‘You sure you understand that you can have a lawyer here if you want?’ ‘Yes, you motherfucker.’ ‘Do you understand …’”

Morgan sat at his table, intently listening, waiting to leap up with an objection, picking at lint, collecting paper clips in a pile, and watching his case die. Peter had selected this jury to believe a man such as Nelson. And listening to his words be repeated, Robinson kept his head bowed and smiled to himself, gripping the table with both hands as if he were about to fall backward.

“Was any force used in this interview?” Peter asked when the detective was finished. He would steal some of Morgan’s standard questions, undermining the cross-examination that would follow.

“No.”

“Was the defendant drunk?”

“No.”

“Eyes glazed? Speech slurred?”

“No.”

“Any sign of using narcotics?”

“No.”

“Was the defendant ill?”

“No.”

“Deprived of sleep?”

“No.”

“Deprived of water?”

“No.”

“Was he verbally abused, shouted at?”

“No.”

“Did he appear to be oriented as to time, place, identity, and situation?”

“Yes, he appeared to be oriented as to the time. The place. His identity. And to the situation and gravity of being questioned by two detectives, Counselor.”

He appreciated Nelson’s tight, corrective testimony. It was a rare thing; most witnesses and even an occasional policeman slopped around within the vagaries of memory.

“And you took a statement?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have that statement here with you today?”

“That is correct.”

“Please describe the manner in which the statement was taken.”

“I asked him questions and I typed each answer as he said it.”

“Are you a good typist?”

“About ninety-five words a minute.”

The detective smiled thinly, perhaps embarrassed about his secretarial prowess. Peter knew how to redeem him.

“Learned to type in the Army, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So the statement is a fair and accurate transcription of your conversation?”

“That is correct.”

“Why wasn’t the confession videotaped?”

“We were waiting to use the camera, but he started talking before we even got into the room and had the camera set up, and he just kept going, so I started typing as fast as I could.”

“Is there anything particularly unusual about that procedure?”

“No. We’ve used typed confessions a long time.” The detective allowed himself a tired opinion. “They work.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “Did the defendant sign the statement?”

“Yes. He signed every page.”

“Did the defendant read the statement first?”

“Yes.”

“Can the defendant read?” A dumb question in light of Robinson’s education, but necessary.

“I had him read the first couple of paragraphs aloud.”

“I would like this marked Commonwealth’s exhibit.”

“Does counsel for the defense have a copy?” the judge asked.

Morgan searched his papers. “Uh, I had this a minute ago …” Morgan, a man who possessed an excited explosion of wiry black hair that lifted off his head, was as disorganized as he was righteous. Waiting, Peter put his hand in his pocket and felt the slip of paper with Janice’s number. Where in hell
was
she? Maybe the number was good for only a little while.

“With the court’s indulgence, Your Honor, while he’s looking for his copy, I’d like to take a quick break.”

Judge Scarletti sighed; another delay in a career of delays. He glanced at his watch.

“I have no problem with that, Your Honor,” Morgan said, the epitome of strategic graciousness.

“Gentlemen,” the judge said, smiling wearily, “just remember that you are younger than I am. I’m due to retire in a few years and I’d love to see the end of this trial.” He looked at Peter. “Ten minutes, Mr. Scattergood.”

HE SLIPPED INTO A PHONE BOOTH
at the end of the hall and dialed the number on the paper.

“Hello?” came her voice.

“Hi, it’s me.” He stared at the slip in his hand.

“I called the courtroom during the lunch recess. They said you’d be back soon.”

“What’s this number?”

“Just where I am right now.”

He ignored her answer. A good prosecutor got his information sideways when necessary. He wasn’t sure anymore what a good husband did.

“What’s up? How’s the new place?” Too upbeat; she’d slaughter him.

“I’ve been busy. Adjusting, you know.”

“Good. You okay?”

“I’m
fine,
Peter. You don’t have to worry about me.”

He did worry about her, but he also worried about what he heard in her voice, which said,
Keep your distance.

“There wasn’t any mail for you, but when I get some, what—”

“It’s already being forwarded to me at work.”

“Not to the apartment?”

“No.”

She was slipping away quickly, changing patterns, leaving him confused.

“Can we talk tonight?”

“I’d rather not, Peter. You know that.”

“I’m just hanging in space, Janice.”

She didn’t reply.

“Will you be at this number tonight?”

There was a long pause, and he knew she was considering the effect of her answer.

“For a while. Bye.”

Down the hall, he saw Berger schmoozing with a couple of detectives.

“Hey!” he called, seeking relief.

Berger, a small stick of a man with the temperamental energy of a squirrel, hurried over.

“You talking to Janice? You have that look.”

The call had made things worse. “Nobody else.”

Berger’s eyes bulged at this information, as they bulged at everything.

“You on for racquetball tomorrow night?” Peter asked.

“I have to depose this woman out in Harrisburg. Your basic hospital bedside deposition—saw the murder in Philly, got scared, moved to Harrisburg, and her bad heart caught up with her. My train’s at five-thirty tomorrow.”

Peter shook his head. “You just can’t take my serve.”

“What are you on?” Berger asked, indicating the courtroom.

“Robinson.”

“Yeah. Nice guy, my kind of guy. How’s Morgan doing?”

“He’s nervous in there.”

“Get him to jump up. Scarletti hates it when they jump up.”

BACK IN THE COURTROOM,
he started with Nelson again.

“Okay, the next question,” the detective replied into his microphone, reading from his statement sheet, dipping his head slightly toward the
microphone, readying himself. “Question: ‘After pushing Judy Warren onto the couch, what did you do next?’

“Answer: ‘I told her I knew she was giving it out on the side. She said I was insecure, that I had to be kidding. I’m not insecure. I’m amazingly secure, more than practically anybody. Most guys who say they’re insecure are trying to make you think they’re actually secure enough to admit their insecurity. Reverse psychology. You could even argue that because I’m pointing that out to you that I am in fact doing the same thing, just with another layer of subterfuge.’