Key Witness (78 page)

Jonas looked at him with dismay. “Very much so.”

“Would you consider that sufficient grounds for dismissal of Lieutenant Blake?”

“Unquestionably.”

“If it turned out they had had a relationship, would that, in your opinion, be grounds for bringing charges against her?”

The room was still, waiting for Jonas’s answer. “Yes,” he said. “I would recommend dismissal and an investigation if such allegations were substantiated.” He looked toward the jurors. “The public has to trust their officials. That’s essential for the system to work. I’m proud of the work I do, and of the men and women who work with me. When a trust is violated, it rubs off on every man and woman working in law enforcement. And when that trust is eroded, the system breaks down. Which is why we try to keep our guard up to see to it that doesn’t happen.”

Windsor cross-examined Jonas. Abramowitz barely kept track of the questions and answers. Her associate was circumspect in his interrogation.

“These stories about Lieutenant Blake and Dwayne Thompson. They were only rumors, that is correct? There was never any physical proof.”

“No.”

“So it could have been malicious gossip. Factions who didn’t like Lieutenant Blake trying to make her look bad.”

“No.” Jonas was firm. “No one wished Doris Blake ill. She was sometimes the object of pity or jokes, but no one wanted to hurt her.”

“Were there ever any rumors that Lieutenant Blake had assisted Dwayne Thompson in obtaining a computer?”

“No, none.”

“She never was around when he was using one?”

“I don’t know. She could have been in a room when he was using one. But as far as helping him obtain a computer for illegal reasons, the answer is no. Once Dwayne Thompson was pulled off the computers at Durban, he never got his hands on one again.”

“C
ALL DORIS BLAKE TO
the stand.”

Blake was wearing an off-white linen suit that stretched snugly over her large frame; given her size and girth, it was relatively flattering. In defiance of her height she wore heels, her legs sheathed in pale white tights. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she had an ample amount of makeup on.

Someone with taste had taken her shopping, Wyatt thought as he walked from the defense table to the lectern. And a professional had done her makeup. He had called her as a witness, but the prosecution was going to do whatever it could to make her look as presentable as she could be.

“This witness is here under subpoena, Your Honor,” he told the court for the record. “She resisted all entreaties to appear voluntarily, so I wish to have her declared a hostile witness.”

“So ordered,” Grant said.

Wyatt smiled at her. “Good afternoon, Ms. Blake. It’s nice to see you again.”

She stared daggers at him.

“Or would you prefer Lieutenant?” he asked cheerfully.

“I would prefer Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant it is, then.” He arranged his papers in front of him. Looking up again, he asked his first question. “Do you know Dwayne Thompson, inmate #3694, serving a sentence at Durban State Penitentiary, the state’s maximum-security penitentiary, who is temporarily incarcerated in the county jail of which you are a deputy?”

“Yes.” Her eyes bore in on him.

“Did you know him at Durban, while you were a guard there?”

“Yes.”

“And you renewed your relationship when he was brought down here.”

“I have no relationship with Dwayne Thompson,” she stated firmly. “Or any other prisoner.”

“You have seen him in the county jail.”

“Yes.”

“On several occasions.”

“I have not seen him on several occasions.”

“More than one.”

“Yes.”

“More than three?”

She hesitated. “Yes. I can’t help seeing him. He’s an inmate, I’m a guard. That’s my job, watching them.”

“Let me rephrase my earlier question,” he said calmly. “Do you have a personal relationship with Dwayne Thompson, Durban State Penitentiary inmate #3694?”

“No.”

“None whatsoever. It’s strictly business.”

“Strictly.”

“Then why did you
personally
arrange for Dwayne Thompson to sleep in the jail infirmary? Which is not only uncommon, it’s unheard of.”

She rearranged the folds of her skirt. “I thought I was acting on Sheriff Lowenthal’s orders.”

“Sheriff Lowenthal told you to transfer Dwayne Thompson, a man serving a lengthy sentence in the state’s toughest prison, where only hard-core, repeat offenders are sent, into a section of the jail that is unguarded at night? Is that what you’re telling this court?”

A second rearrangement, then a smoothing of folds. “Not directly, no,” she admitted.

“You arranged for that transfer on your own, without receiving orders from higher authority. Didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Sitting erect, she continued, “It was a mistake. I thought that was what Sheriff Lowenthal wanted. When I found out it wasn’t, Thompson was transferred into the general population, and subsequently into protective housing.”

“But
you
didn’t transfer him out of the infirmary. In fact, you didn’t know it had happened until you went down there to see him one morning and were told by another deputy that Thompson was no longer there at night. In an unguarded part of the jail,” he added emphatically.

“No. I did not arrange for the transfer.” She spat the words at him like BBs.

“In fact, you were upset when you found out about it, weren’t you?”

“Of course not. Why would I be upset?”

“Because you couldn’t see him clandestinely anymore.”

“Objection!” Abramowitz sang out. “The witness has already stated under oath that she was not seeing Thompson, clandestinely or any other way.”

Grant pondered for a moment. “Sustained,” he said with some reluctance.

“Witnesses have said she did, Your Honor,” Wyatt protested. Putting up a hand like a traffic cop, he went on, “But that’s okay. I’ll pursue another line of questioning.” Turning back to Blake, he asked her, “Did you ever see Dwayne Thompson in the infirmary at night? After lights out?”

“No, never.”

“We have had a witness on the stand who swore you did.”

“He’s lying.”

“That he heard the sounds commonly associated with a man and woman making love, and shortly after saw you emerge from the infirmary.”

Her large face went blotchy florid. “That’s a lie!”

“How many times have you and Dwayne Thompson had sexual intercourse, Ms. Blake?” he asked forcefully. “Half a dozen? A dozen? A hundred?”

“Objection!” from Abramowitz.

“Sustained. The witness has stated she has not had sex with Dwayne Thompson, Mr. Matthews. That’s enough of this.”

“Well, if that’s true, Your Honor, then someone is lying. Either Ms. Blake or Nurse Hopkins.”

“That’s a decision the jury has to make, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Your Honor. It absolutely is.” He rummaged through his papers on the lectern until he found what looked to be a receipt. “Do you own a computer, Lieutenant Blake?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

He looked at the receipt. “You spent a lot of money on your computer, Lieutenant. You must be good on it.”

“Not really. I know how to work the programs I need.”

“Do you ever bring it to work, to the jail?”

She took a moment to reply. “Yes.”

“You use it in your office?”

“Yes.”

“Anywhere else?”

“No, not that I remember.”

“You didn’t use it in the jail’s law library? While you were going to law school at night?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I did use it there.”

“On several occasions?”

“Some.”

“But until I jogged your memory you’d forgotten you had used it there even once.”

“I forgot. Those were the two places I used it—my office and the law library.”

“When was the last time you brought your personal computer to the jail, Ms. Blake?”

“I …” She thought for a moment. “I can’t remember.”

“Did you bring it to the jail after Dwayne Thompson had been transferred there?”

Again: “I don’t remember.”

“
Don’t,
Ms. Blake?” he asked. “Or don’t
want
to.”

“I don’t remember,” she told him, her anger starting to show.

“But you might have.”

“I don’t think I did. I didn’t have any reason to bring it by that time.”

“Because you were using it to study for your bar examination, and by the time Thompson was sent down to the jail you had already taken the bar?”

“Yes,” she answered. “That’s the reason I didn’t bring it to work.”

“That’s the bar exam you took in the spring? The one you told me you passed on your first try? With a seventy-six, which is a very high score.” He looked at the jury. “Passing your bar examine with a score of seventy-six puts you in the top twenty-five percent of those taking the test. It’s a real accomplishment.”

Pridefully, she answered, “Yes.” Then the implications of his question hit her. “I mean no,” she said, quickly revising her answer.

“You said yes.”

“I meant no.” She was getting flustered; her body language was giving her away.

“Yes or no. Which is it?”

“No. I said no.”

“You didn’t take the bar exam this past spring?”

“Yes, I did take it.”

“You just said no.”

“The no is, I never told you I passed it.”

Wyatt threw up his hands in astonishment. “Then how did I know your score, if you didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t know my score,” she said.

“Excuse me?” He gave the jury a “Can you believe this?” look. “You told me your score on several occasions, Lieutenant, and I told my boss. And other people as well, including some of your former law professors.”

She shook her head vigorously. “The bar exam scores won’t be posted for some weeks,” she said. “There’s no way I could have known my score, or even if I passed.”

He cocked his head, eyeballing her across ten feet. “So now I’m lying, too?”

“I’m not saying you’re lying, Mr. Matthews,” she said cautiously. “I think you misunderstood me.”

“How so, Ms. Blake?” he asked, his voice dripping sarcasm.

“I told you I
thought
I did well on the exams, and
might
have done as high as seventy-six,” she offered guilelessly.

“Gee. That sure wasn’t the way I heard it.”

“I’m sorry if I somehow misled you.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” he barked at her. “Like you’ve been misleading me and everyone in the world about your sexual relationship with Dwayne Thompson, and how you helped him fabricate evidence against Marvin White!”

“Objection!”

“Sustained!”

Abramowitz watched Wyatt’s examination of Blake with loathing. Of course this bitch fucked Thompson. Her lies about that oozed right out of her pores. But who gives a shit about who fucks who? Passing information, that’s all Abramowitz gave a damn about.

She replaced Wyatt at the lectern. “We’ll keep this short,” she told Blake, forcing a smile.
But not sweet.
“Did you ever give any records of any kind, directly or indirectly, to Dwayne Thompson?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Did you give records of any kind to any prisoner, or to anyone who wasn’t allowed access to them?”

“No, I didn’t,” Blake swore, the look on her face that of a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar, the mother calling from another room—she hadn’t actually taken the cookie out, but her chubby fingers, closed around the prize, reluctantly open and withdraw, empty. “I never took any records out. I swear it.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “I’m a dedicated officer,” she said, looking like she was actually going to break down right there on the stand. “I’d kill myself before I’d do something like that.”

Wyatt, listening to this predictable, self-pitying exchange with half an ear, passed a note to Josephine. “Issue a subpoena to seize her computer.” She read it, nodded, and quietly left the courtroom.

Abramowitz gathered up her slim set of notes. “No more questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

T
HE DAILY END-OF-THE-DAY
summing-up and plotting out the next day’s work took place in Wyatt’s cramped, gothic-feeling office. The Hunchback of Notre Dame would feel at home here, he thought—but he had come to like it here. He wasn’t so romantic about the situation to want to work out of these kinds of digs for the rest of his life; but for now, with this case, this was the right place to be. These were underdog offices. You didn’t entertain here, you didn’t impress, you didn’t schmooze. You brought your lunch pail to work and you did your job.

The meeting was him and Walcott. Darryl had stopped by as well; he came to the trial a couple times a week, whenever his busy schedule permitted, to lend weight to Wyatt, silently cheer him on. Once in a while he would pass a note along about some aspect of how Wyatt was conducting himself, but pretty much he was there to be a body for the cause.

The three men—in shirtsleeves, ties askew—sucked long-necked Buds. The ancient window air conditioner was fighting a losing battle with the brutal heat and humidity. Wyatt pressed the cold, beaded bottle to the back of his neck.

Josephine would be here in a minute. She was triple-verifying last-minute details about tomorrow’s witness, Agnes Carpenter, and taking care of tonight’s creature comforts for her. Up until now, the defense had been serving up appetizers. With Agnes Carpenter, however, Wyatt was beginning the main course, shifting into high gear. Attacking the opposition’s credibility and punching holes in their witnesses was good, and important. But showing how ridiculous they were was not the same as offering proof—concrete, physical proof the jury could see, touch, take a bite out of—that what Pagano and his gang had accused Marvin of doing was physically impossible. No matter how anyone framed it, he could not have been in two places at the same time. When he presented these two women, Agnes and Leticia Pope, that would be the match that lit the dynamite.

“You could see Blake’s nose getting longer every time she opened her mouth,” Walcott said derisively.

“Do you think the jury saw it as clearly as we do?” Wyatt asked. He knew things the jury didn’t, which meant his feelings about her were colored by that knowledge. All of theirs were.