The Fens Page 19
“He’s afraid we’re going to find the weapon.”
“Which means it’s hidden somewhere accessible.”
“We checked his property with a fine-tooth comb.”
“We searched the buildings, and the gardens, but we didn’t check the woods.”
That evening Kevin assembles another search team and we get a warrant. It doesn’t allow us to go back in the house, but it authorizes us to check the grounds. Officers fan out with metal detectors. Canine cops bring in dogs. City engineers set up a pump to drain the lake.
As they scour every inch of those woods, I go home, prepare for the next day, keeping one eye on the phone. It doesn’t ring. I fall asleep somewhere between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. and wake up at 5:00 to the sound of my cell. I wipe the drool off my chin and check the screen. My heart sinks when I see Stan’s name.
“If you lose this case, it’s on you,” he says.
“I know.”
“The entire city will want your head on a platter. I told you, if you charge Moe Morrissey with a crime, you’d better be able to prove it.”
I don’t remember the warning but point taken.
“You know, if you lose, I’ll have to fire you.”
“Thanks for the pep talk. I appreciate the support.”
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. To give myself a treat, I find the free gel sample I got at the Saks cosmetics counter last month.
As I’m soaping up, Ty opens the bathroom door. “You have a visitor.”
Ty’s abrupt manner tells me it’s not family, which means it can only be one person. I wrap myself in a towel, secure it by folding it under my armpit, and walk to the door. Clearly Ty didn’t invite our visitor in for coffee; Kevin is waiting at the threshold to the apartment, holding his hands behind his back.
“I got something for you.”
Kevin reveals a brown paper sack; he unfurls it and pulls out a plastic evidence bag. Inside is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen: a black semiautomatic .357 Magnum, caked in mud, smelling like swamp water. My fear of firearms is cured.
I’m so excited that I grab the bag and plant a kiss on Kevin’s cheek. My hands are a little wet and the plastic almost slips through my fingers. I fumble with the bag, almost drop the weapon. I manage to save the gun, but my towel comes loose. I try to grab it but it falls to the floor, exposing me in the most embarrassing way. And at that exact moment, Ty walks in the room.
Chapter Fifty-Two
I walk into the courtroom slowly, carrying the brown paper bag as though it were a diamond tiara atop a purple velvet pillow. The press corps smiles, speculating, drawing their own conclusions about what I’m holding. Anthony pretends not to notice. Moe hasn’t been brought up from the lockup yet and the jury box is empty.
At my request, the court officer ushers me and Anthony into the judge’s chambers. We take seats in front of his desk.
I hold the evidence bag in my lap. “I’ll cut to the chase. We found the proverbial smoking gun.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Anthony says.
I unfurl the top of the bag and let Anthony peek inside.
“Big deal, it’s another gun.”
“Ballistics test results were conducted this morning. We can prove this is the murder weapon.”
Anthony clears his throat.
The judge asks the million-dollar question: “How are you going to tie it to the defendant?”
I fight the urge to smirk. “We found it on his property.”
“Objection,” Anthony says.
“Grounds?” Judge Levine says.
“It’s prejudicial.”
“Everything we present is prejudicial, that’s the whole point,” I say.
Anthony’s voice is strained. “Someone could have planted it.”
“You can argue that to the jury,” I say.
Anthony keeps pressing. “It’s a violation of the discovery rules. It should be suppressed.”
“We didn’t have it. And the reason we didn’t have it is because your client hid it from us.”
Judge Levine puts up his hand. He’s heard enough. “I’m going to allow it. Go downstairs and talk with your client. See how much time you need to prepare for cross-examination.”
Anthony goes downstairs to deliver the bad news to Moe. I find Kevin in the hallway. We walk in awkward silence to a conference room; neither of us wants to relive towelgate.
Kevin closes the door, raises his hand. “High five.”
“Not yet. You know I’m superstitious.”
We prep for Kevin’s testimony about finding the gun, until the court officer calls us back into the courtroom.
“I don’t want to keep the jury waiting any longer,” the judge says. “Let’s bring up the defendant and then break for the day so I can release the jurors.”
The court officer goes down to get Moe and Anthony. He returns a few minutes later—alone. “We have a problem. Moe is down in the lockup, and he’s refusing to come to the courtroom.”
“Tell him it’s not an invitation, it’s an order,” Judge Levine says.
“I think you oughta come down and see him for yourself.”
Judge Levine gets off the bench and we all trudge down three flights of stairs to the holding cells. I’ve been here a couple of times to talk to witnesses, but usually I have the prisoners brought to me. In a communal cell are a half dozen men, all of whom look and smell like they could use a shower.
Moe is in his own cell, seated on the floor, head in hands. He looks disoriented. Anthony is standing over him.
“He just collapsed. He was sitting on the bench, eating a bologna sandwich, and then he dropped to the floor,” Anthony says. “Moe, it’s me, Anthony. Can you tell the judge what’s going on?”
“Why is everything blurry?” Moe says.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.
“Do you hear that?” Moe says. “There’s a buzzing noise. Like a bee.”
“I think we should call 911,” Anthony says.
“The room is spinning,” Moe says.
“He’s not injured,” I say.
“He might need medical assistance,” Judge Levine says.
The judge tells the court officer to unlock the cell and to help Moe to his feet. Moe stays on the ground, lets out a whimper.
“He’s in distress,” Anthony says.
Moe doesn’t budge, mutters something about having a headache, feeling weak.
“I was afraid of this,” Anthony says.
“Afraid of what? He was fine a couple of hours ago,” I say.
“He’s been putting up a good front, but he’s been suffering. The symptoms have been intensifying.”
I think I know where this is going, but ask the question. “Symptoms of what?”
Anthony crosses his arms, takes a beat. “Repetitive head trauma.”
Even Judge Levine is skeptical. “That’s for football players and boxers.”
“New research is emerging,” Anthony says. “Baseball players can get it too. Especially pitchers. He’s been hit on the head by speeding balls more than a few times. You can check the video of his games.”
“What do you suggest we do?” the judge says.
“I have no choice, I’m filing an insanity defense.”
“Convenient,” I say. “The defendant creates an illness at the exact moment his case falls apart.”
“Not true,” Anthony says. “He says he’s been experiencing blurred vision, poor balance, and, most importantly, impaired judgment for months, if not years. The symptoms have been getting worse since that blow to the head on opening day.”
“The symptoms didn’t starting showing up until he hired you as a lawyer,” I say. “And they got worse after we found the murder weapon in his backyard.”
“I’m not going to deprive a defendant his right to offer a defense,” Judge Levine says. “This works out well for both of you. I’ll give you a couple of days to prepare for both the gun evidence and the insanity d
efense.”
The gun evidence will be moot if Moe prevails on his insanity claim. The focus won’t be on guilt or innocence, the issue will be whether Moe is insane. And if the jury gives him a verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity, he won’t be the only one with mental health issues.
Chapter Fifty-Three
There’s no debating that chronic traumatic encephalopathy is serious. Athletes, particularly professional football players, are at risk for it. It can be debilitating and there is no known cure. Moe Morrissey does not suffer from it.
I should have seen this charade coming. As my case has grown stronger, Moe has been building his counterattack. His so-called blurred vision, problems with balance, alleged confusion. The dropped water glass was a nice touch. Anthony probably coached him, helped him lay the pipe, gave him the tools to carry it out. They chose the perfect mental defect. CTE often doesn’t show up on scans, so the diagnosis is based on a report of symptoms. The condition can’t be verified until after the patient dies, at the autopsy.
Any juror who has been in Moe’s corner, searching for a reason to acquit, now has something to hold on to. And even if they don’t buy it as an insanity defense, Anthony will give them an alternative—diminished capacity, which will lessen both the degree of murder and the length of the sentence.
I spend hours in my office, studying up on the medical aspects of the defense, becoming a quasi expert on the brain, but what I really need is something to prove Moe is malingering. His wife’s not going to out him as a liar, and neither is Rebecca, so I have to figure out how to communicate that to the jury.
As I start to pack up for the night, I get a call from my brother Charlie. He hasn’t spoken to me since the night Joy was born. No doubt he’s still angry with me for putting everyone in danger—and I can’t blame him. Once again, my job put my loved ones in jeopardy.
“Is everything okay?” I say.
“Missy and I are worried about Mom. She’s not making rational decisions. We have to do something.”
“She never listens to me.”
“She will if you tell her Will has a police record.”
“I checked, he’s never been arrested.”
“Probably because his victims are too embarrassed to press charges.”
“You don’t know there are victims.”
“There’s no way she’s the first woman he’s taken advantage of. Just lie to her, tell her Will has been charged with fraud before. She’ll do anything to avoid a scandal.”
“After my trial is over.”
“Please don’t let work take priority. You owe me one. And don’t forget—the baptism is Sunday.”
“You still want me to be the godmother?”
“Yes, of course, but promise you won’t take her on a police ride-along until her sixteenth birthday.”
“Promise.”
“Call Mom.” Charlie hangs up.
Charlie is right. I do owe him. I owe everyone. Besides, I’m worried about my mother too. I stop by the house on my way home from work. Our housekeeper lets me in.
“Is my mother home?”
“She’s upstairs.”
“Is Will Dorset with her?”
The housekeeper shakes her head and whispers, “He just left.”
“Who is it? Who’s there?” My mother’s voice floats down two flights of stairs. “Will, is that you?”
“It’s just me, Mother.”
I find her upstairs in the library. She tilts her head but doesn’t look up when I give her an obligatory kiss on the cheek.
“If you’re here about Will, don’t bother.”
I select a wine from the silver tray. I know I shouldn’t, but I need fortification. Before I pour myself a glass, I reconsider and put the bottle down.
My mother is quiet, thumbing through the latest issue of Town & Country, sipping a clear cocktail, probably straight gin, and definitely not her first for the evening.
“Fix me another, please.”
“You haven’t finished the one in your hand.”
“Before you take my inventory, you might want to clean up your own side of the street.”
She’s drunk, quoting AA. This is testing my patience, but I’m here to help not judge.
“We’re all worried about you,” I say.
“I can stop drinking anytime I want.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. You’ve taken up with a deadbeat.”
“The same could be said of you. At least my deadbeat has a Harvard degree and a membership to the Union Club.”
She’s hoping that her insult will shut me up, but I know her games, and I’m not going to let her throw me. I came here on a mission, and I’m going to finish.
“He’s run through all his money, and soon he’ll run through all of yours.”
“Darling, I know all about Will’s financial situation.”
That’s a surprise. “Then why are you with him?”
She smiles, takes a sip of her cocktail.
“You’re doing this to get to Daddy. Aren’t you?”
“It’ll get his attention. You’ll see.”
I knew she had a plan. She’s clever, even when intoxicated. If this is a ploy to get my father back, then I’m all for it.
“Please don’t take Will to the baptism. Let it be Charlie and Missy’s day,” I say on my way out the door.
When I arrive home, Ty is in the living room, watching TV. There’s been so much tension between us lately—first because of the Mike Chase leak, and then because of the lightbulb and Missy. Tonight, however, I’m glad to see him.
“They’ve got all kinds of medical experts on CNN, talking about repetitive brain injury,” he says.
I take a seat next to him and click off the television.
“I’m thinking about talking to my father about Will Dorset. It’s getting out of hand. I’m afraid my mother is going to get hurt.”
“He probably already knows. He hired a private eye to investigate me, and he did the same to Missy. My guess is he’s fully investigated Dorset.”
“She’s only doing it to make him jealous.”
Ty rubs my back, gives me a kiss. “Every couple’s got their games.”
I bury my head in his chest and well up with tears. I’ve put Ty through the wringer. He’s not a cynic, at least he wasn’t a cynic until he met me.
Chapter Fifty-Four
When court resumes, Moe agrees to come upstairs and join his lawyer at the defense table. He was probably getting tired of being alone in the dank cell. Plus, this way he can put on more of a show. He sits, slumped in his chair, and looks around the courtroom as though in a daze.
I try to ignore him, but everyone else seems more interested in Moe than my witnesses. When I call Kevin to the stand, I’m able to win back the attention of about half of the jurors—mostly the women. Kevin’s wearing the tie I gave him last Christmas, and it brings out the blue in his eyes.
He testifies about the search of Moe’s property, draining the lake, and finding the gun. The evidence goes in smoothly, but Anthony manages to do some damage on cross-examination.
“Anyone could have tossed the gun in that lake,” Anthony says. “Especially if they wanted to frame Moe. Right?”
“I suppose.”
“It could have been planted there last month, or last week.”
“It could have.”
“You didn’t find any fingerprints on it.”
“It was caked in mud.”
“No DNA was recovered.”
“We didn’t expect to find anything of forensic value. The gun was dragged from the bottom of a lake.”
“You can’t prove my client even had knowledge that the weapon was there.”
“It was on his property.”
“It wasn’t registered in his name.”
“It wasn’t registered in anyone’s name. In my experience, people don’t commit murder with a gun that can be traced back to them.”
After the medical
examiner testifies, I rest my case. Anthony kicks off the defense with a highlight reel of Moe on the mound. The video serves two purposes: it reminds the jury that Moe is a superstar, and it shows Moe getting hit on the side of the head with a baseball—twice. The first time was about a year before the murder; a fastball knocked him over when it whizzed into the side of his head. The second time was on the day Rudy went missing; I witnessed that one in person.
I can’t cross-examine a videotape, so I remain seated. Anthony moves on to his first witness: Dr. Jane Davidson. I had to tell him about Jane as part of the discovery process. I knew he’d use her to muddy up my victim, make Rudy out to be a cheater and a drug user, but I didn’t have a choice. Jane testifies that she’s suffered as a result of her involvement with Rudy. She lost her medical license and was humiliated in the press, and her husband filed for divorce. I don’t ask any questions on cross, and she seems grateful when the judge excuses her. I’m glad Rebecca wasn’t here to hear her testimony.
The next defense witness is Jeffrey Messinger, Harvard-educated psychiatrist. The defense goes on the offense.
“People with brain injuries of this nature often don’t recognize, or admit to the symptoms, until they’ve developed into advanced stages. Then, it’s usually too late,” Dr. Messinger says.
“And it can only be diagnosed postmortem?” Anthony says.
Messinger nods. “Currently, degenerative brain disease, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, can only be definitively diagnosed as part of an autopsy.”
“Is there a link between chronic traumatic encephalopathy and sports?”
“Yes.”
“Violent, uncontrollable behavior and lack of impulsivity control can be among the symptoms,” Anthony says. “Right?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes the behavior mirrors that of schizophrenia.”
“It can.”
“And if my client suffers from the condition, it would be impossible for him to comport his behavior in accordance with the law.”
“Objection!” I say. “Calls for speculation.”
“Overruled,” Judge Levine says.
“I believe he would have difficulty understanding the wrongfulness of his actions and being able to comport himself in accordance with the law,” Dr. Messinger says.