Line of Vision Page 31

  We plow through the mob that awaits us outside the courtroom and make it to the elevator. Several questions are thrown my way, but I just stare at Paul’s feet in front of me, my attorneys and I shuffling along in tiny steps like some demented caterpillar. We take the elevator down to the underground parking lot and walk briskly to Mandy’s Jeep. The lot is poorly lit and smells of gasoline. The only sound is the echo of our heels on the concrete.

  I will congratulate Paul several more times today, tonight. I will silently beg him to do the same thing to every other witness who takes the stand.

  I sit in the car as Mandy drives us off, and there are moments in the drive back to the law firm that my heart leaps, that I envision things I have not allowed myself to consider. I feel hope, for the first time that I can remember. The first sense that, yes, I might be acquitted. I might actually walk away from this. It’s too early to get excited, Paul said, and he’s right. But I am hopeful now. And with this first touch of optimism comes a horrifying feeling, a dread that slows my heart, puts a lump in my throat, fills my mouth with a damp, bitter taste.

  I realize how much, just how desperately, I want to be free.

  64

  LATE NIGHT. MY SPIRITS ARE CHARGED NOW THAT the trial has started, now that I am finally rolling down a hill, however unknown the destination. I have to say I’m more optimistic than I’ve been, with Paul’s job on Cummings today. But whether it’s hope or fear, there is no chance I will be sleeping anytime soon.

  Late-night television, for those unacquainted, brings little more than B movies, infomercials, syndicated shows from the sixties mostly, and an occasional good sex movie on one of the cable channels. After these two-plus months, if I have to watch another washed-up television personality from a twenty-year-old sitcom perform sit-ups on the latest abcruncher that folds neatly under my bed, I think I might just save everyone the trouble and put a gun in my mouth.

  It’s half past one, I’m trying to keep my mind off the case and on the intriguing saga of a man who fell into a vat of toxic waste, came out of it with superhuman powers, and now fights crime and occasionally gets the girl, when the phone jars me out of my stupor.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” It’s Tommy, whispering.

  “What’re you still doing up?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Yeah? Lovestruck, are you?” Tommy and I have been talking about every other night lately, and he’s been telling me about this girl, Bonnie Porter, who’s been “bugging” him at school.

  But Tommy doesn’t reply with his usual denial, gross or sick. He doesn’t speak at all.

  “What’s up, little man?”

  His breathing is audible. “Are you going to jail?”

  Oh, God. Jamie told him. We decided last week that he should know, that he should be prepared for the possibility so that my departure—if I have one—wouldn’t be that abrupt. I figured she’d give me a heads-up first.

  “I hope not, Tom.”

  “Mom says the police said you did something wrong. But you didn’t.”

  “That’s right, Tom. They say I did, but I didn’t. I didn’t.”

  “What did they say you did?”

  So. Jamie hasn’t gone into details. How to handle.

  “Man to man, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You won’t tell Jeannie?”

  “No.”

  “They think I killed someone, Tommy. But I didn’t. I just have to convince them.”

  “Who got killed?” Cops and robbers. Good guys and bad.

  “Some guy. But I didn’t do it.”

  “You should tell them that.”

  This little kid can really reach me. Just tell them, and they’ll believe you, because nobody’s supposed to tell lies in an eight-year-old’s world. How I wish Tommy could stay in that place. I scold myself now for the friendship, the new relationship I have formed with Tommy. I take this little boy, let him know I’m someone he can trust, a man he can talk to, and then head to jail the rest of my life. God, I have set this kid up for a big-time fall. What am I doing?

  “I will, Tom,” I say. “I’ll tell them that.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah. I promise.”

  “Are you gonna come visit soon?”

  I close my eyes. The tears squeeze out, down my face. I’ll try, I tell him.

  65

  I ENTER THE COURTROOM ON THE SECOND DAY OF my trial stirred but not shaken. The kinks are out now, and day two brings less of the nerves and more of the electricity. Roger Ogren and Gretchen Flaherty are already in the courtroom; they appear to hardly notice us as we take our seats. There will be no more greetings or handshakes between the two sides. The war has started, shots have been fired.

  Mandy has commented on the difference between lawyers in civil and criminal cases, the way they treat each other. On the civil side, once the hearing or deposition is over, the game face disappears. Lawyers will jaw for a while, converse about all sorts of topics, their golf game, family, upcoming trials, maybe even some off-the-record comments about their own clients. But prosecutors, many of them take their job more personally. They look at the defense lawyers as people who are trying to help criminals avoid the law. They don’t buy into the whole system so much, that everyone is entitled to a defense, blah blah blah. Some of Mandy’s old buddies at the county prosecutor could hardly look at the defense attorneys.

  I glance at the prosecutors more than once as we settle in. I study Ogren’s face, looking for any trace of despair, recognition that his case isn’t going so well. But to my disappointment, he is all professional now, sticking a finger down on the table as he makes a point to Gretchen Flaherty, looking all confident and self-righteous. His choice of tie is much better today, too, brown with flecks of red and black, to match his charcoal suit.

  The judge takes his seat at the bench moments later. He talks to the attorneys, any last-minute things we need to wrap up? Then he tells the bailiff to bring in the jury.

  The sixteen citizens, twelve of whom will decide my fate, enter the courtroom much more purposefully today, less taken with the audience and their celebrity. A few pass a glance in my direction, but most just eyeball their seats as they file in. This is no longer just a show, just an idea to them. They are dirty now. They have heard evidence, they have begun to evaluate the case. I realize, with a shot of pain to my stomach, that some of them have probably already made up their minds about whether I’m guilty.

  Gretchen Flaherty does a quick redirect on Cummings. The lack of physical evidence was consistent with the manner in which they believe I committed the crime, fully dressed in winter garb to avoid leaving clues, ample time to clean myself and my car up. And oh yes, I confessed in a clear but quiet voice. Paul waves off the invitation to recross Cummings, as if everything he’s said in the previous thirty minutes was meaningless.

  Roger Ogren steps up to the lectern. “The People call Angela Siedlecki.”

  This is the neighbor who heard shots fired at the Reinardts’ on November eighteenth. Paul says the main reason she’s testifying is to confirm the firing of the gun and the timing of the events. Aside from this person, Rachel is the only person who can testify about that. Shows you how much confidence Roger Ogren has in Rachel.

  Mrs. Siedlecki is a squat, overweight, middle-aged woman with brittle grayish hair, thick eyebrows, and a droopy chin. She takes the stand and looks around with wonder in her wide eyes. First time testifying? Wanna trade places?

  Roger Ogren runs through her background. She married a Polish guy who owns a string of dry cleaners. She has lived next door to the Reinardts since they moved in three years ago.

  “I’d like to turn your attention to the evening of November eighteenth of last year.”

  “Yes.” She nods.

  “Can you tell us what you recall about that night?”

  “I was watching TV. I don’t remember what anymore. I heard some noise outs
ide.”

  “Describe what you heard.”

  “I heard glass shattering. I heard it twice. And I heard two loud pops.”

  “Do you recall what time it was when you heard these noises?”

  “Not to the minute. But it was after the half-hour break of the show, y’know, when there are more commercials. It was probably five or ten minutes after that. So, maybe nine thirty-five, nine-forty.” She snaps a finger. “It was—wait—it was a movie. . . .”

  “That’s fine, ma’am. What did you do upon hearing the noises?”

  “Well, I listened for a moment. I wasn’t really sure what it was I heard. They weren’t the kinds of sounds you normally hear. So I called the police. Just to be safe.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I looked out the window. There wasn’t much to see. All I could see was the side of the house. The Reinardts have trees and shrubs all along the backyard, so it’s hard to see much.” She shrugs. “Everything seemed okay. I just waited for the police.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Siedlecki.”

  The jury’s eyes turn to the defense table now, and there is a slight elevation in their attention as Paul rises. After Paul’s cross of Cummings, it is clear to all—most notably to Paul himself—that he is the superior trial lawyer in the room.

  My attorney walks over to the lectern and gives a polite nod. “Mrs. Siedlecki, good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Ma’am, you said you heard two pops.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you heard glass shattering.”

  “Yes. Twice.”

  “Isn’t it true that you heard the pop sounds first, then the glass shattering?”

  Ogren stands uncertainly. “Objection. He’s mischaracterizing the testimony. She never said that. She said just the opposite.”

  “I’m not characterizing anything,” Paul says with a look of confusion. “I am cross-examining the witness. And I’d appreciate it if she answered, not Mr. Ogren.”

  “Proceed, Mr. Riley.”

  “Mrs. Siedlecki? Didn’t you hear the pops first, then the glass shattering?”

  Her brow wrinkles. “Well now, I think the glass shattered first.”

  “You think. So your memory isn’t clear.”

  “I—think the glass shattered . . . first?”

  “But you’re not really sure, are you, Mrs. Siedlecki?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Not positive?”

  Mrs. Siedlecki considers that one, the ultimate commitment by a witness. I’m guessing she’d like to say yes, but there’s something about that word—“positive”—that sends a hint of doubt into her watery eyes and curls her lips into her mouth. This woman strikes me as someone with a compromising personality, someone who likes to avoid the corners, so I’m surprised when she finally says, “I’m pretty close to positive, I guess.”

  “It was windy that night, wasn’t it, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Very windy.”

  “Enough so that you could hear it whipping up from inside your house, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your television set was on, you said.”

  “Yes,” she says. “But—I think I can tell the difference between glass breaking and a gunshot.”

  Paul gives the jury another confused face. “Didn’t you tell the police officer who interviewed you that you heard the pops first, then the glass shatter?”

  “Did I . . .?”

  “I’m asking you, ma’am.” Paul opens up the police report. “Didn’t you say you heard loud pops and glass shatter?”

  She pauses, her eyes on the report in Paul’s hand. “I might have, I guess. They were close together.”

  “The sounds of the popping and the glass shattering came close together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Within the space of, say, a few seconds?”

  Mrs. Siedlecki thinks about this, her lips moving slightly. “Oh, I’d say about thirty, forty-five seconds apart, something like that.”

  “And as you sit here today, your memory is not clear as to which came first.”

  “Well, I always thought it was the glass first. But I’m not exactly sure, now that you mention it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I don’t have any more questions.”

  Ogren stands back up. “You believe, Mrs. Siedlecki, that the glass shattered first, then the pops came.”

  “Well, I—I think so.”

  “Mr. Riley suggested that you told the police officer something different, that the pops came first. But you don’t remember saying that, do you?”

  She gives an exhausted sigh. “I mean—at that point—you know—the police were everywhere—and Derrick was gone—it was—” Her shoulders fall. “I really don’t remember what I said to him.”

  “So you don’t remember saying the pops came first, then the glass shattered.”

  “I don’t remember, no.”

  Ogren sits down, and Paul stands back up.

  “You don’t remember what you told the officer about the sequence of the noises?”

  “I just said that.” Mrs. Siedlecki is a little bewildered about all of this. She didn’t expect to be questioned on this point.

  “Would anything refresh your memory?”

  She shrugs. Roger Ogren’s mouth opens, then he purses his lips.

  “What about the police officer’s notes? Might that help?”

  “Maybe.”

  Ogren is back up. “Your Honor—”

  “Just to refresh her recollection, Judge,” Paul says. The judge waves him on.

  Paul brings the report to Mrs. Siedlecki. “Take your time, please, and after you’ve read it over, let me know.”

  She takes her time, all right, putting on her glasses and peering at the paper. I don’t know what could take her so long. The only sentence that matters is the one that says, Heard shots fired and glass shatter.

  Finally, she hands it back to Paul.

  “Now, Mrs. Siedlecki, do you remember what you told the police officer about the sequence of the noises you heard outside on November eighteenth?”

  “Well, it sounds like I said the shots were fired first.”

  “So it does.”

  “Your Honor,” Ogren says.

  Judge Mack raises a hand, then shifts on an elbow to face the witness. “Ma’am, we’re interested in what your memory is, not what the notes say. You can use the notes to refresh your memory, not to quote them. Does looking at that report help your memory?”

  Mrs. Siedlecki doesn’t know come-here from get-away about her memory right now. “Well, I guess it does.”

  “All right, fine. Mr. Riley, ask about her memory.”

  “Thank you, Judge. Mrs. Siedlecki, let’s put aside the notes now. From your memory now, do you remember what you told the police officer about the sequence of the noises you heard outside on November eighteenth?”

  “I guess I told him that the shots came first.”

  “Then the glass shattering.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s to the best of your memory.”

  “Well, yes, I guess.” She makes a face, but doesn’t say anything. She has no idea whether she’s going from memory or the notes. I’m guessing it’s the latter.

  Paul is ready to end here, but he’s not satisfied with her qualification.

  “You would agree with me, Mrs. Siedlecki, wouldn’t you, that your memory of this event was much better when you spoke to the police officer.”

  “I spoke to the officer that same night.”

  “Exactly. And your memory was much fresher then than it is now.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Siedlecki is all confused, chewing on her lip, as the judge announces a ten-minute recess.

  66

  “THE PEOPLE CALL OFFICER GEORGE FANDREI TO the stand.”

  Officer Fandrei is a young, clean-cut white kid of no more
than twenty-five years. Lean face, tall and narrow, fair-complected, with an unfortunate mustache, thin and curved so that it creeps down each side of his mouth. Your basic suburban cop, decked out in full Highland Woods regalia—a uniform consisting of nothing but the color brown, save for the silver badge.

  Gretchen Flaherty has this guy. She takes him through the basics first, full name, shield number, patrol unit. He’s been on the force a little over two years. Graduated from a local high school, worked a couple of stints as a shopping mall security guard.

  On November 18 of last year, Officer Fandrei responded to a 911 call from the Reinardt residence. Believed to be a domestic disturbance.

  “Why was only one patrol car dispatched?” Gretchen Flaherty asks.

  “Ma’am, this was a domestic disturbance. There was no report of gunshots. Typically, only one car would be dispatched.”

  “Tell us what happened when you arrived at the Reinardts’ address.”

  “Well, I walked up to the door and listened for any sounds. But I didn’t hear anything. So I knocked on the door, several times. When no one responded, I went inside.”

  “Did you announce your office?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How many times?”

  “I think just once. Mighta been twice.”

  “Did you announce it quietly?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Will you say it now at the same level of volume you did that night?”

  Fandrei draws himself up and gives us his best baritone: “PO-LICE!”

  The point here, I guess, is that I still might have been in the house when Fandrei came in. When I heard him belt out his office, as they put it, I hightailed it.

  “Describe what you saw when you went inside.”

  “Well, the first thing I saw was Mrs. Reinardt. She was lying on the floor in the living room. I could see her legs from the entranceway. So I walked in, and there she was. All sprawled out on the carpet. The phone had been pulled off of the little table that it was on. It was lying next to her.”