Key Witness (74 page)

Wyatt looked up. “Did you also tell that to the grand jury?”

Dwayne thought for a moment. “Part of it. I don’t think I mentioned the part about her telling him she wanted to get a room and him saying he wouldn’t.”

Wyatt picked up another file, flipped it open, turned to a previously marked page. “There was seventeen stab wounds. Three in the left breast, four in the right breast, nine in the neck, one across the vagina.” He looked up, chagrined. “Sorry. We just covered that material, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Dwayne answered disdainfully, “and I told you where I’d said it.”

Wyatt looked at the page again. “Actually, you didn’t say that.”

“What?” Dwayne said, caught off balance.

“That’s part of the official police, report I was reading from.” He walked over to the prosecution table and set both files down in front of Abramowitz, side by side, pointing to the sections in question. Leaving them with her for the moment, he walked back toward the witness. “Doesn’t it strike you odd,” he asked Dwayne, “how uncannily similar your testimony is to confidential police reports?”

“That’s got nothing to do with me,” Dwayne answered, his anger showing. “I’m telling you what he told me. I’m not the one on trial here.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Marvin. “He is.” He forced a grimacing smile, his lips tight against his teeth.

Wyatt knew what the smile was supposed to be telling him: “Fuck you, Jack. You’re not going to break me down.”

But he was. He picked up another file. “Let’s try this one. ‘Her head was lying faceup in a pool of her blood, which had stained her hair and the back of her blouse.’ ” He looked up. “That’s a simple one, isn’t it? Which victim was that again?”

Dwayne thought for a minute. “I think that was number five. I don’t know why, but my memory’s a little hazy on the number.”

“He’s human after all!” Wyatt observed caustically, looking at the jury. Flipping a page, he read again: “ ‘She was wearing a knee brace on her left knee. Under the brace, there was a fresh scar, as if she had been operated on recently.’ ” He looked questioningly at the witness.

Dwayne sat stone-faced. “Grand jury. It wasn’t mentioned here.”

Wyatt nodded. Snapping his fingers, he said, “I meant to ask you something at the beginning of this session and I completely forgot—you were shown your grand jury testimony before you came in here to testify, isn’t that true?”

“Yes.”

“So those last two statements I read to you, for instance—the blood on the victim’s head, and the knee brace and scar. That was grand jury testimony, not trial testimony. Agreed?”

“Yes,” Dwayne answered.

Wyatt frowned. “I’ve got a problem here. Maybe you can help me out. I can’t find those statements in your grand jury testimony.” He flipped through a bunch of pages. “Nope. Not here.”

Abramowitz was on her feet immediately. “If we can take a short recess, Your Honor, I’m sure we can assist defense counsel in finding the references in question.”

Before Grant could respond, Wyatt said, “Don’t bother. They aren’t there.”

“You made them up?” Grant asked.

“No, I didn’t make them up,” Wyatt responded. “But they aren’t in this witness’s grand jury testimony. And they aren’t in the official police reports that have been entered into the computer, either,” he added.

“Then if you didn’t make them up, where are they?” Judge Grant demanded.

“Here,” Wyatt said, holding up a sheaf of papers. “In Detective Marlow’s
handwritten
notes. Remember how Marlow testified, Your Honor, about how he didn’t transfer everything from his notes to the official computer reports because it took too long, or the material wasn’t relevant to the investigation? Here are two examples of that.”

He walked to the bench and handed the notes up to Grant. Abramowitz scurried over to join them. “I’ve researched that matter thoroughly, Your Honor,” Wyatt said. “There’s something very interesting about this witness’s testimony, both in here and earlier, at the grand jury proceedings. Everything he has said corresponds to data that has been entered into the police department’s computer files. Conversely, he has not given one instance, not one single fact or allegation, that wasn’t in those files but is in the handwritten notes of the various detectives who have worked on these murders. That’s over fifteen detectives, by the way.”

Abramowitz was livid. “This is unconscionable, Your Honor. He’s still trying to ride that dead horse of the witness having access to the police files. It’s been proven conclusively that he could not have. This is not allowed under cross. It’s a smoke screen, a desperate diversion from a lawyer who doesn’t have a shred of a case and is trying it with smoke and mirrors.”

“This isn’t smoke and mirrors. Your Honor,” Wyatt rebutted. “This is strong evidence of collusion.”

Grant pondered the situation for a moment. “This is serious,” he told Abramowitz. “Don’t think it isn’t. But I agree with you that cross-examination is not the proper forum for this. Introduce this in your case in chief,” he told Wyatt. He handed the pages back. “I’ll be happy to hear it then.”

Wyatt walked back to the lectern. Whether he’d use it in his own presentation wasn’t the point, he thought with satisfaction. He had introduced a major element of doubt into the credibility of the state’s key witness.

He faced Dwayne again. “How long have you known Deputy Sheriff Doris Blake?” he asked.

Dwayne started to say “I don’t … ,” realized he would be caught in another lie, recovered nicely. “About six years,” he said evenly.

“You met her at Durban, while you were a prisoner there and she was a guard?”

“That’s right.”

“And then you renewed your relationship when you were temporarily transferred down here and you discovered she was a deputy sheriff in the jail division?”

“We don’t have a relationship,” Dwayne said flatly. “I know her. She knows me. End of discussion.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Then why, out of over a hundred deputies who work in the jail, was she the one who arranged for you to sleep in the infirmary, when you had been assigned elsewhere?”

Dwayne thought for a moment. “She knew I was down here to help out the district attorney on this other case. I think maybe the sheriff gave her that order.”

“Think again,” Wyatt said. “The sheriff didn’t know anything about it, did he? In fact, when he found out about it, he blew up, didn’t he? And even before that, District Attorney Pagano changed your situation, didn’t he?”

Dwayne blinked, but didn’t answer.

“The fact is, you and Lieutenant Blake had a relationship … call it a friendship if you want, but it was more than just knowing who the other one was, years ago. And when you came down here you renewed your friendship, and she did you some favors, isn’t that right?”

Dwayne looked down at the floor, looked up at the ceiling, twisted his neck to get a kink out, then answered. “Okay, so she did me a favor? What’s the big deal?”

“You tell me.”

“There was none.”

“She didn’t happen to feed you any information about the Alley Slasher murders, did she? Being a corrections officer, she could have gotten her hands on that information pretty easily, I’ll bet.”

“Objection!” Abramowitz called out. “That issue has already been resolved.”

“Not to my satisfaction it hasn’t,” Wyatt returned.

“Sustained,” Grant called out. “There is no factual evidence that has been shown to this court that the officer in question had access to the files relating to the Alley Slasher murders.”

Wyatt bore in on Dwayne. “The fact that you, a prisoner who is currently serving time in the toughest penitentiary in the state, and a female corrections officer who worked up there and is working down here now, the fact that the two of you are sexual partners, that isn’t a big deal?”

The courtroom exploded. Abramowitz leaped to her feet as if a mortar shell had been detonated under her. “This is truly outrageous, Your Honor,” she protested vehemently. “This is an outrageous, horrendous accusation which has absolutely nothing to do with this case. It is a pathetic smear tactic designed to throw tar all over the facts. You’re despicable!” she screamed at Wyatt. “I object to this scurrilous reviling of the witness, Your Honor, and I object to this entire line of questioning!”

Grant was hammering his gavel like it was a jackhammer. “Both of you stop this behavior this minute,” he warned them. “Or I’ll hold you both in contempt.”

Dwayne stared at Wyatt, his pale snake eyes hooded almost to closure. “I’ll answer his question. If you ever saw Doris Blake,” he said coldly, “you’d know what a stupid question that is. I have never had any kind of sex with her.”

Abramowitz’s redirect was short. It dealt with only one issue.

“Has anyone from any law-enforcement agency, or any other outside agent, given you any information files or otherwise, about the murders the defendant is on trial for?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Everything you know about this case you learned from conversation with the defendant.”

“Yes.”

“Marvin White confessed to you that he is the Alley Slasher murderer.”

“Yes.”

She turned to Judge Grant. “We have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor.” She gathered up her material from the podium. “And pending rebuttal, the prosecution rests.”

T
HE TRIAL RAN ON
a four-day week, Friday being the court’s dark day. Wyatt spent all of Friday prepping his two key witnesses, Agnes Carpenter in the morning, Leticia Pope after lunch. Josephine sat in on the sessions, taking notes. From time to time Walcott popped in and observed for a while, occasionally scribbling a note on a piece of scratch paper and handing it to Josephine, for Wyatt to look at when he had the time. Other than that he remained in the background, nodding occasionally in approval at a question asked or clarification made.

Mrs. Carpenter, dressed as if she were going to a reception for the Queen Mother, was quite calm and composed, given the circumstances. Weeks before, she had given Wyatt her own detective’s report about her husband’s whereabouts on the night she claimed Marvin had stayed over, to bolster her story that she’d been alone, rather than with Dr. Carpenter. Now, sitting in the run-down offices, they went over her statement incident by incident, line by line. Her answers matched up to the letter—she was a strong, credible witness who was going to provide a rock-solid alibi for Marvin.

“Does your husband know you’re going to be testifying?” Wyatt asked with concern.

“No,” she answered firmly, “and he isn’t going to until after the fact. He’ll be served the divorce papers on the very morning I testify,” she told Wyatt with relish. “My only regret is that I won’t be there to see the look on his two-timing face.”

Dexter, appropriately attired for the weather in a Shaquille O’Neal tank top, baggy shorts, and hundred-dollar high-top Reeboks, brought Leticia in after lunch. He frowned as he checked out Wyatt’s work digs. “I’ve been in shooting galleries looked better than this, Mr. Matthews,” he said with obvious disappointment. “What’s an ace like you doing working in some crap-hole like this? Don’t you have some fancy uptown office?”

Wyatt laughed out loud. Status and symbols of status were all important to these kids. “My uptown office is for the clients who can pay the big bucks, no offense meant to your friend Marvin. And don’t worry—I’m as good a lawyer working out of this office as I am working out of that one.”

Dexter nodded. “Well, if I ever get into trouble and I hire you to get me off, we’re meeting in that fancy uptown office, you hear?”

“Our office doesn’t do drug cases. I’ve given you my advice before, Dexter. Get out of the trade. You’re going to take a fall sooner or later, and you’ve got too much going for that.”

“I’m going to, I promise, Mr. Matthews,” Dexter swore earnestly. “By the end of the summer.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m going to college in the fall,” he told Wyatt with pride.

“Well, good for you,” Wyatt congratulated him, although he knew the assertion was either bullshit or a pipe dream.

Wyatt went all afternoon and into the evening with Leticia. Going over her story dozens of times, from every angle he could think of. Grilling her hard, bucking her up, not letting her stray off the point. He cross-examined her as he guessed Abramowitz would, yelling at her, belittling her, jumping on every minute discrepancy in her testimony.

“I’ll be protecting you,” he told her, trying to reassure her as they sat in the gloomy, cheerless space. “All you have to do is tell the truth and not let her scare you.”

“She ain’t gonna scare you, is she?” Dexter, who was there the entire time, butted in. “You gonna get right
in
her face, she disrespects you, ain’t you, girl?” he browbeat her.

“Back off, Dexter,” Wyatt told him. “She has to do this herself.”

“Nobody gonna scare me,” Leticia told him in her quiet, high voice. She wasn’t at all assertive saying it.

Walcott joined them for the last hour of their session, nodding in silent agreement at Wyatt’s handling of his witness. “This is my boss,” Wyatt said magnanimously, introducing him to Dexter and Leticia.

“I’m not his boss,” Walcott told him, disclaiming proprietorship. “I feel very lucky to have him working on this case,” he told the two young people. “And so should your friend Marvin.”

“He is,” Dexter sang out. “Marvin knows.”

Finally, after seven hours of working with Leticia, Wyatt couldn’t think of anything more for them to do. They were the last ones left in the building—everyone else was long gone for the day. “We’ll talk again the night before you testify,” he told the girl. “Get plenty of rest, and stay out of trouble.”

“Me and my guys, we’re sticking to her like Super-glue,” Dexter promised him.

“Good. See you in a few days.”

He bought Josephine dinner at a nearby red-checkered-tablecloth Italian restaurant. They ate Caesar salads and lasagna and split a bottle of Chianti, polishing off the meal with made-on-the-premises cheesecake and espresso. “What’re you doing this weekend?” he asked her as he walked her to her car.

“I’m at your beck and call.”