Premeditated Murder (17 page)

(
Boston Post,
April 14, page 1)

POSTMORTEM EXAMINATION: HELENE GHAZI

External:
The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished twenty-year-old female approximately 64 inches long and weighing approximately 120 pounds …

Injuries:
Gunshot wound to the neck, entering 1.5 cm to the left of midline at the posterior cervical vertebral column, traversing the trachea from left to right, perforating the common carotid arteries, and exiting at the midline …

Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest …

Internal:
The gastrointestinal system, hepatobiliary system, and hemolymphatic system are free of anomaly. The urinary bladder contains 6 ml. of clear urine. The female genitals and reproductive organs and system are unremarkable and show no signs of lesions or injuries.

Opinion:
Death is attributed to gunshot wound of the neck and multiple gunshot wounds to the chest …

POSTMORTEM EXAMINATION: MARIANNE DUHAMEL

External:
The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished twenty-one-year-old female approximately 68 inches long and weighing approximately 145 pounds …

Injuries:
Gunshot wound to the head, entering the right temporal lobe … resulting in extensive cerebrocranial injury …

Multiple gunshot wounds to the chest …

Internal:
The gastrointestinal system, hepatobiliary system, and hemolymphatic system are free of anomaly. The urinary bladder contains 11 ml. of clear urine.

Opinion:
Death is attributed to gunshot wound of the head and multiple gunshot wounds to the chest …

(Excerpts of the Autopsy Reports of Helene Ghazi and Marianne Duhamel, Trial Exhibits 45 and 46)

April 15—Holyoke, Massachusetts

SOMEWHERE, A DUCK WAS LYING BACK IN BED, smoking a cigarette.

Zack was in Florida, probably on some sandy white beach, drinking daiquiris with dozens of gorgeous women in bikinis. Cal was in the nuthouse, not nutty enough for them to get an insanity verdict, but just nutty enough not to be of any help at all. Last night, a reporter had called asking for Terry's comment on a rumor that the Commonwealth was going to try to exhume one of the victims' bodies because there was speculation that she was pregnant when Cal shot her. And if that wasn't bad enough, it was now already ten minutes past the headache that Terry had gotten when he found out that Dr. Deborah Lanouche had been delayed by traffic.

Dr. Lanouche was the woman who was supposed to translate the audiotape that the investigator had given to them. She had been referred to Terry by the head of the Department of Arabic Studies at Northeastern University. Her credentials made her a perfect candidate for translating the tape and for testifying as an expert witness, if that was necessary. Terry hadn't even laid eyes on the woman, and she was already pissing him off.

It had nothing to do with the fact that she spoke Arabic fluently, or that she was late. It had to do with the fact that all expert witnesses had signed a secret pledge at some point in their lives, guaranteeing first that they would act like the most arrogant people on earth, and second, that when testifying at trials, they would work their asses off to try to prove to juries that they were smarter than the lawyers, instead of just doing what they were paid to do. Terry took comfort in the fact that she was probably old and ugly.

About fifteen minutes after she was supposed to, Dr. Lanouche came into the Arabic Studies office. She was neither old nor ugly. Terry didn't exactly know what she was. But she still pissed him off.

She was wearing some long, shapeless, dresslike thing that completely hid her body from him, which was somewhat annoying, although the embroidery on it was nice, if you went for that kind of thing. The laugh lines around her eyes and mouth and her tanned skin and jet- black hair might have been attractive to someone who was into older women, but then again, it was hard to know exactly how old she was, which was also annoying. And her nose was a little thin. She introduced herself to him, speaking in perfect English with the slightest of accents. She apologized for being late and brought him into her office. It was a small room with a smallish desk covered with a computer and several stacks of papers, a large bookcase overflowing with books about the Middle East, and photographs all over the walls of smiling young children from third-world countries.

After being in her presence for all of about forty-five seconds, Terry was getting the sense that this was a good and intelligent person, someone that he might enjoy getting to know.

Of course, that, too, was kind of annoying.

“So, Mr. Tallach,” she said, as they sat down across the desk from each other, “I am intrigued by the idea of translating your tape for you, but I have to confess a small concern on my part.” Oh, brother. Here we go.
I am very important, and you are not very important, so I don't think I will be able to spend my invaluable time on your not very invaluable problem.
“As I'm sure you must know, especially since the tragedy of September 11, people of Arabic descent and people of the Islamic faith have suffered terrible persecution, especially in this country. I don't think it is overstating it to say that so much suspicion has arisen that in certain parts of the country, there is a witch-hunt mentality running in the streets.”

“Are you talking about racial profiling?” Terry asked. He had a hard time quarreling with anyone who gave extra security attention to Arabs since 9/11. The hijackers weren't exactly the most racially diverse group of psychos he'd ever seen. Last time he checked, he hadn't seen many Eskimos on the list.

“I'm talking about people losing friends, and sometimes even losing jobs because other people start rumors that are unfounded. And about children getting picked on and beaten up by other children just because they have Arabic-sounding names. That kind of thing.” She paused for a moment. “That's why I need to know a little background about the tape you'd like me to translate before I can feel comfortable getting involved.”

So that was different. Still kind of annoying, but at least different.

“Okay. This is going to be interesting,” Terry said. “As I mentioned on the phone, I'm representing the guy who's been accused of murdering those six UMass students. The reason I've come to you is because he says he killed some of the people who are speaking on this tape because they were terrorists. So that might make you not want to do this.” And that would be the ball game.
Thanks for coming, now kindly take your whack-job tape to someone else.

But no. The doctor merely sat quietly and waited for him to continue. Good for her. “But right now,” he continued, “what I know about these people is pretty pathetic. They went to UMass. They lived in Northampton. At least some of them spoke Arabic. Big deal.”

Terry stood and took a closer look at the picture of identical twin sisters with the darkest eyes he'd ever seen. They were about Justin's age, and were smiling like crazy. One of them was missing a tooth. “So I'm hoping to get a translation of this tape, because it contains phone conversations between the people who were killed and whoever they were talking to on the phone. All of the conversations are in Arabic—at least I think it's Arabic.”

Lanouche smiled but said nothing. This was odd. What was going to happen if he had actually found an expert who wasn't an asshole? It was probably one of the signs that the world was ending. “I guess what I'm saying is that for all I know, this tape isn't going to prove jack about terrorism. So that might make you
want
to do this. It might show that my client was nuts for thinking that they were terrorists. They might have been on the phone with crazy Uncle Louie, talking about last year's Super Bowl. Who knows?” He sat down again. She was still smiling at him. She had a nice smile.

“And does it make any difference to you whether these tapes prove jack about anything at all?” He could tell that she loved saying “jack.” Hearing her say the word with her perfect English and her slight accent was kind of nice, too. She wasn't mocking him. It seemed like she was just happy to take a new English phrase out for a spin.

“Actually, no,” Terry said. “All I want to do is find out as much as I can about the people who were killed. We kind of know what happened, and we know why my client says he killed them. But we don't have any idea whether he knew what he was doing when he killed these people.”

“I see,” she said. “I don't completely understand why it matters, though. Is it legally acceptable to kill another person even if you are correct in your belief that the person is a terrorist?”

Damn good question. “That's, uh, that's something we're working on right now,” Terry said.

Dr. Lanouche nodded. “I think that if I were to make a guess, I would say that your client's situation is desperate, perhaps even hopeless. Right now, you are focusing on a tape which might not be audible, and which probably contains nothing useful for your client.” Terry didn't respond. This woman was smart. She knew Cal was screwed. “Yet you have come to ask me to translate this tape. You work hard for your clients,” she said. It wasn't a question. Then she took a deep breath and let it out. “Is it possible that if I translate this tape, I might be called as a witness in the case?” This wasn't good. She didn't seem like a chicken. What was she afraid of?

“Actually, it's very unlikely,” Terry said. “I don't think this tape would be admissible evidence. But I can't say it's impossible.”

She smiled again, this time a little sadly, leaned her elbows on the desk, folded her hands together, and rested her chin on them. “I need to tell you a few things, then,” she said, “before we go any further. May I?”

“Of course,” Terry said.

“I am fluent in both Arabic and English, as well as French and German,” she said. “I am a very good translator, and I think that I would be a very good witness.” She shrugged. When had she stopped being annoying? “And yet, I think that if I were to testify on your client's behalf, I might be questioned about other things. Such as the fact that I am a politically active lesbian. Or the fact that I spent a night in jail after being arrested for civil disobedience in connection with an effort to make a very well-known local university divest itself of holdings in apartheid South Africa.” It would have been more fun if they were having this conversation at a party, because this was a pretty damn interesting woman. A strange woman, but interesting. “I am also what many would call a bleeding-heart liberal. I care a great deal about things in the world, and I have a great many opinions about them. I am not afraid to speak my mind, and I have, on many occasions. I thought you should know this so that if it were a problem for you and your client, you could get someone else to translate the tape.”

“I appreciate your telling me this,” Terry said, “but believe me—this case has so many problems that if all we had to worry about was your sex life, we'd be thrilled.” She raised an eyebrow. “Sorry. Not that way,” he continued. “Somehow I get the feeling that if you ever did get to testify, the D.A. would be the one who'd be sorry, not me.”

The smile again. “That's very kind of you,” Dr. Lanouche said, standing up and extending her hand. “In that case, I would be very pleased to translate the tape for you. I admire people who work hard in the face of difficult circumstances.”

“Thank you,” Terry said, shaking her hand and then handing her the tape. “That's very kind of
you
.”

As he turned to go, she said, “Mr. Tallach, was I right about my guess? That right now, your client”—she spoke gently—“doesn't have jack?” She was serious. And not annoying at all.

“That would be a very good guess,” he said.

Washington, D.C.

VERONICA GRAHAM WAS LYING.

“Naturally, I'm extremely upset about this,” she said, taking another sip of her coffee. Every single strand of her thick white hair was in place. Her tanned face was smooth and perfectly made up. Her gray suit was immaculate. She looked Matt square in the eye and never seemed to blink. Her voice didn't waver in the least. She was about as extremely upset as a bowl of oatmeal.

“I understand,” said Sammy quietly. The three of them were having a private lunch at the White House residence. The press had been told that it was a chance for the new President and his wife to reach out to the former President's widow. Matt had decided to leave out the fact that they would be talking with her about the unethical, and possibly criminal, activities of her deceased husband.

“And I'm sure you realize how upsetting it is for me, too,” he said. Unlike Veronica, Matt wasn't lying. He wished he could be as unaffected by this mess as the former first lady. But he was climbing the walls. Every day for the past two weeks, he had continued to perform the duties of the Office of the President as if nothing had changed. But during the night, he could do nothing but talk to Sammy about the Cullhane memos. Who ordered them? Were they ever used? If so, what for? Who could they trust to find out?