Three To Get Deadly (29 page)

"You will hear Mrs. Corrigan describe her long-ago relationship with the defendant," Abe Socolow said. "Yes, they had a physical relationship when she was barely out of her teens, and he already a practicing physician." Socolow shook his head knowingly. How loathsome this defendant must be. Cradle robber.

Several jurors leaned forward. Eating it up. Socolow continued, "The affair ended, and as frequently happens, their paths crossed again. The defendant tried to talk Mrs. Corrigan into leaving her husband, tried to rekindle the flame that still burned within him, but not her. She would have none of it. But his obsession, his lust, his depravity, overcame his reason …"

Judge Crane looked toward me expectantly. I could object here but I didn't. Socolow was arguing his case, not presenting a sterile preview of the expected evidence. The judge shrugged. If I wanted to behave like a potted plant, no problem for the court. But I had a reason. If the judge let me get the tape into evidence, Socolow had just dug himself into a hole.

It takes two. Or three in Melanie Corrigan's case. I would use Socolow's own words against him in closing argument.

"First, he worked his way into Mrs. Corrigan's confidence," Socolow continued. "As occurs in marriages, the Corrigans had problems. We all do. Mr. Corrigan was often away on business. She was lonely. She confided in the defendant, sought his guidance as a professional and a friend, not knowing the evil within him."

A bit melodramatic for my tastes. But no one was dozing. I could hear the gentle whir of the television camera placed at an angle behind the bar. The still camera from the newspaper clicked incessantly, despite the muffler designed to quiet it. The newsboys were scratching their notepads, soaking up the sexy stuff.

"And what did the defendant do? Suggest to Philip Corrigan that he spend more time with his wife? No! Recommend counseling? No! This defendant, who pretended to be a family friend, who pretended to mend and to cure, this Great Pretender, whispered to Melanie Corrigan time and again that she should kill her husband.
Murder
him!"

He let it hang there, knowing the silence burned his words into them. No one even coughed. It was as if jurors, spectators, and clerks all held their breaths, afraid to exhale.

"Murder him," Socolow repeated, softer this time. Juror number three, a middle-aged secretary, gasped. If Socolow had paused two more beats, she might have suffocated.

"He showed her how to do it. With a dangerous drug. An anesthetic that paralyzes the muscles and leads to a horrible, painful death as the lungs stop working. Naturally, she was shocked. So shocked that she couldn't believe he was serious. When he finally dropped the subject, she thought it was just a sick joke, a game. But then her husband died after routine surgery performed by this defendant."

For the first time, Socolow acknowledged Roger Stanton's presence, pointing at him. The jurors' eyes followed Socolow's bony finger.

"Died after routine back surgery," Socolow said again, drawing the jurors into a cadence of repeated phrases. "Mrs. Corrigan was grief stricken. And suspicious. She sued the defendant for malpractice. The civil jury did not have the facts you will have, and he was exonerated. Still, she persisted. The defendant made advances toward her. She pretended to be interested, went to his home, and discovered the drug and the implements, the hypodermics, which you will see in evidence. You will hear testimony that a puncture on Mr. Corrigan's buttocks matches perfectly the twenty-gauge hypodermic found in the defendant's possession. You will hear evidence that this defendant surreptitiously entered Philip Corrigan's hospital room barely an hour before he died. You will hear from expert witnesses that tissue samples from Mr. Corrigan's brain and liver contain concentrations of the drug's components …"

It was a fine performance. Except for reading the indictment, Abe Socolow never mentioned Roger Stanton by name, never called him
doctor
. The state's trick is to dehumanize. My job is to breathe life into the
man
who sits next to me, an innocent caught in a web of incompetence and deceit.

When Abe sat down, I walked to a comfortable spot six feet in front of the jury box. I put on a friendly smile and told them about the state's burden of proof, the burden to demonstrate
beyond a reasonable doubt
that Dr. Roger Stanton intentionally killed Philip Corrigan. I mentioned Charles W. Riggs, M.D., and two jurors nodded, recognizing the name. How he would testify that Philip Corrigan died of natural causes. And I characterized the entire state's case as
circumstantial evidence
, spitting out the words as if describing a particularly odious disease.

I talked about Roger Stanton, the doctor, the man. I talked about the long years of education and training, of good service to the community. Told them they'd hear character witnesses say they could believe Roger Stanton under oath. Other doctors, community leaders. I promised they'd hear from Dr. Stanton himself.

"You will hear a different story than Mr. Socolow tells," I said. "Not of a man spurned by a beautiful young woman. But of an ambitious, restless woman bored with her husband, a woman seeking excitement elsewhere. A woman who stood to inherit a fortune if her husband died, but would receive nothing if they divorced. You will see Mr. Corrigan's will and his antenuptial contract with this woman."

The reporters kept scribbling; the jurors kept listening. But that was about as far as I could go to toss another suspect at them. Until the judge ruled on the videotape, I was hamstrung. Still, I could put Melanie Corrigan's integrity at issue.

"You heard Mr. Socolow describe his case. He spent most of his time talking about the testimony of Melanie Corrigan. Why? She
is
the state's case. It is your job to evaluate the credibility of the state's witnesses. If you don't believe Melanie Corrigan, the state's case crumbles."

"Objection! Argumentative." Socolow stood and leaned forward toward the bench, his lean frame a javelin stuck in the ground.

Judge Crane paused and tapped a pencil against his forehead. In heavily publicized trials, he relied on signals from the press gallery to determine objections. Helen Buchman, a veteran
Herald
reporter, was the dean of the courthouse crew. But she kept a poker face this time, and the judge fended for himself. "You had considerable latitude in your opening, Mr. Socolow. Denied."

Socolow pouted and sat down. Emboldened by the ruling, I decided to finish with a flourish. "Yes, Mr. Socolow told you all about Melanie Corrigan and what she will
say
. But what evidence doesn't he have. Eyewitnesses to this alleged crime? None. Fingerprints? None. Confession? None. Just one woman's story and a prosecutor's case built on supposition, conjecture, fantasy, and whim …"

"Your Honor!" Socolow was halfway across the courtroom.

"Is that an objection?" Judge Crane asked.

"Yes. Improper opening."

"Granted. The jury will disregard the last statement of the defense. Mr. Lassiter, you are familiar, are you not, with the bounds of opening—"

A shout from the gallery interrupted the judge. Then a banging door. Then a woman's voice, loud: "Your grimy hands off me! I ain't walking through no gamma rays. You wanna, strip-search me, fuzz-nuts, see if you're man enough. I'm with Jacob Lassiter."

Judge Crane banged his gavel and said, "Mr. Lassiter, is that lady associated with your office?"

The bailiff had her by the arm. I approached the bench. "That's no lady," I whispered to the judge. "That's my granny."

The judge looked skeptical. "Madam, are you related to Mr. Lassiter?"

"Is a frog's ass waterproof?" Granny replied, loud enough to call the hogs home.

The judge called a five-minute recess. They always last twenty. Granny Lassiter shook loose from the bailiff and smoothed her ruffled feathers. She wore a yellow print sundress, deck shoes, and a heavy Navy peacoat, a gift from a grateful sailor who once tended Harry Truman's place in Key West.

"I brought you a thermos of hot conch chowder," she told me. "Know how damned cold they keep these government buildings and don't want you getting the grippe. Hope I didn't interrupt anything important."

"Your timing was impeccable," I said. "The judge was chastising me. Why the big fuss?"

Granny balled a fist at the bailiff. "They wanted me to walk through some damn machine, see if I was carrying hand grenades. Told 'em to shove off. Might affect my unborn children, deplete the ozone layer, and curdle your chowder. You still like a dash of sherry in it?"

I allowed as how I did.

She pulled out a flask and shook in three drops that wouldn't wet the whistle of a priest receiving communion. Then she tipped the flask to her lips, drained it, glared at Roger Stanton, and asked, "You kill that rich son-of-a-bitch who built condos in estuaries?"

"No, ma'am," Roger Stanton said.

"Why not?" she demanded. "No balls?"

The state called its first witness, and Abe Socolow stayed in his chair. Jennifer Logan, pale and frail, stood to ask Deputy Sheriff Jack Roundtree what he found in the home of Roger Stanton. Clever strategy. Letting the young assistant handle the preliminary witnesses. Keep Socolow from exhausting the jury with his hundred-kilowatt intensity.

The courtroom was packed. Granny Lassiter sat in the front row, doing her best not to hiss Socolow and cheer me when we emerged from the judge's chambers. I could use the moral support. Judge Crane had granted Socolow's motion
in limine:
the videotape would not be admitted into evidence. In his usual laconic fashion, the judge had merely said, "Mrs. Corrigan is not on trial here. Her escapades are not relevant to the issue of the defendant's guilt."

I had paced in his small chambers, musty with stacks of casebooks. I tossed my arms, argued, and made my objections for the record. The judge was unmoved. Socolow's face flickered with a vulture's smile.

Now Jennifer Logan peered at Deputy Roundtree from behind horn-rimmed glasses and asked about the black valise, the two hypodermics, and the vial of clear liquid. All were found in Roger Stanton's study. In a desk drawer just where the affidavit of Melanie Corrigan said they would be.

My cross-examination was short.

"Deputy Roundtree, did Dr. Stanton offer any resistance to your serving the warrant?"

"No."

"Was he polite?"

"Yes."

"When you pulled the valise from the drawer, what did he say?"

"Something like, 'What the hell?'"

"Anything else?"

"Best I remember, 'I can't believe she'd do this.' Something like that."

"Did he say who the
she
was?"

"Not that I recall."

* * *

Jennifer Logan called the lab technician who had tested the liquid in the vial. She asked for his findings. "Sucks," he said.

She reddened. "Beg your pardon?"

"Sucks. Succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant used in surgery. Sodium pentothal puts the patient to sleep, succinylcholine relaxes the muscles and helps the anesthesiologist intubate the patient, get the tube down the trachea. The lungs stop working, the patient breathes on a respirator."

"And if there's no respirator?"

"The patient dies."

"A strong drug?"

"Very strong. Sort of synthetic curare. You know, the poison the Indians in South America make from plants. They dip their arrows in it. Ugly way to die."

"Your witness," Jennifer Logan said.

"No questions," I said, visions of poison-tipped arrows sailing across my mind.

* * *

"The state calls Dr. Hilton MacKenzie," Abe Socolow announced. The jurors straightened, Abe's appearance signifying an important witness.

Dr. MacKenzie was tall and ramrod straight with fine features and a forelock of straight black hair that fell into his eyes. He was not yet forty and gave the impression that he grew up with all the advantages of money, family, and education. He had a habit of jutting his fine patrician chin toward the heavens, looking down over his reading glasses, and speaking in a tone most of us reserve for pets not yet housebroken. He lacked nothing except humility.

Socolow ran through his credentials. Penn undergraduate, Harvard Medical School, internship at New York Hospital, residency at Mass General, fellowships in pathology, the whole bit. Into public service as an assistant ME in Miami, then chief canoemaker. My terminology, not his. I would ask him on cross who trained him. Charles W. Riggs, of course. Let their witness polish my witness's silverware.

"Dr. MacKenzie," Abe Socolow said, his voice heavy with respect, "let me show you what has been marked Plaintiff's Exhibit C for identification and ask you to identify it."

MacKenzie removed his reading glasses from a breast pocket, ceremoniously put them on, and studied the document. "It's our toxicology report on certain brain and liver samples from Philip Corrigan's body."

"Objection," I said, popping up, reminding the jury of my presence. "Improper predicate. No showing of chain of custody of the alleged samples."

Socolow looked perplexed. He asked if we could approach the bench. Judge Crane leaned to one side, away from the jury, and we huddled there, exchanging whispers.

"Judge," Socolow said, "I'd assumed Jake would stipulate to chain of custody to save one of his witnesses some embarrassment. These samples were in the possession of Dr. Charles Riggs, and my sense of propriety does not allow me to say on the record where he got them."

Judge Crane looked my way. I looked back. "This is a capital case, Judge, and I'm not going to stipulate to the kind of sandwiches you serve the jury. Doc Riggs will understand."