Double Tap (33 page)

“Do you recognize the videocassette?” This has been handed to the witness.

“Yes. The label shows my initials and the dates that it was recorded.”

“Did you alter the contents of the videotape in any way?”

“I did not.”

“No editing?”

“No.”

“And was that tape in your possession the entire time before it was turned over to the police?”

“It was.”

“Your Honor, I would move the still shots of the individual frames and the photos as well as the videotape be entered into evidence and request that the videotape be played for the jury at this time.” Templeton wants to end the day on a high point so that the jury, having slept on it, will remember this well when it comes to deliberations. This puts me at a disadvantage, since I will have to wait until morning for my cross-examination of Rufus and an attempt to at least take some of the edge off of the stalking charge.

“Any objection to the photographs and the video coming in, Mr. Madriani?” The judge is looking at me.

“No, Your Honor.”

Of course this has all been hammered out in chambers in pretrial motions. Harry and I tried a dozen ways to keep the tape out, all of them swatted down by the court. We have known for more than two months now that this tape would come in. We have viewed it repeatedly for hours in the conference room as well as on DVD on a laptop computer at the jail with Emiliano, trying to figure ways to defend it. The problem is that, without putting Ruiz on the stand, there is no way to explain his reason for following Madelyn Chapman or the fact that he was observed watching her house on three separate occasions, caught on film during two of them and shot with a long, low-light lens in the other.

As one of the bailiffs inserts the cassette into the player, a checkerboard pattern of pixels flashes on the screen. A second later a clear picture of Emiliano, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a leather flight jacket, appears on the screen. In the background, slightly out of focus but easily recognizable, is a shot of Chapman talking to some people on the street in the Village. She is smiling, vital, and animated.

Templeton has Rufus narrate the video as he works through the frames, going back and freezing them periodically to point out locations and clarify dates.

As the video continues, there is the sound of sniffling from the front row. I take a quick glance, but I already know what is happening. Madelyn Chapman’s mother is crying; her only surviving daughter, who is wiping tears from her own eyes with Kleenex, attempts to comfort her.

At one point Templeton freezes the video, adjusts it just a little for clarity, and leaves it up on the screen. In the shot Ruiz is clearly visible standing on the sandstone shelf over the Pacific, his back to the ocean and the view. He is looking south, toward the rear of Chapman’s house, through a pair of binoculars. In the distance is a blond figure. It is Chapman in the yard. She is stooping, clipping flowers or picking them. Behind her, no more than two feet away, is the screened window through which the killer entered her house.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

J
ames Kaprosky is dying. He sits in an armchair next to the fireplace. This evening I visit him at his home out near Escondido.

He has been reading about the trial in the papers and watching all the talk on the cable stations, the kibitzing by lawyers, almost all of them now taking bets that after the verdict Ruiz is going down. The emphasis is on whether or not the jury will give him the death penalty.

“It’s got to be more painful to watch these idiots talk to themselves than the trial,” says Kaprosky. He is hooked up to an oxygen bottle and is sitting in a recliner in front of the fireplace, a blanket over his legs. “If I could get up out of this chair,” he says, “I would come down there. At least give moral support.” With each phrase he struggles to regain his breath.

“No. No. You get better,” I tell him as I sit across from him on the couch, as though Kaprosky’s recovery were a possibility.

He shakes his head. Kaprosky knows he hasn’t got much time.

Jean is in the other room sewing, taking the time to get some chores done while I’m visiting. She has brought coffee and a tray of cookies. I offer to pour some coffee for Jim but he says no.

At times he seems to ramble as his mind wanders through the legal hell that has been his life for the last decade or more.

“I don’t know if you remember,” he says, “a few years ago. Chapman and her company. They were sued for antitrust.” He smiles a little. “One of the few . . . I wasn’t . . . wasn’t involved in.”

I laugh.

“Foolishness. Wasted years.”

“I don’t think I remember the antitrust suit,” I tell him.

“Two private companies,” he says. He coughs. “Tried to trim her wings. Competitors with Isotenics. After government contracts. My program,” he says. “What they took and gave to Chapman. What she called Primis. It was unique,” he says.

“I know.”

“No. No. That’s not what I mean,” he says. “My software was its own operating platform. Didn’t require any . . .” He stops to catch his breath. “No underlying software to operate,” he says.

“I understand.”

The small tank at the side of his chair away from the fireplace is feeding oxygen through a tube under his nose.

“These other companies . . . had special applications . . . designed to run on top of mine. I shared the source code.” He smiles again. “They were small start-ups. A niche market. Here and overseas. I didn’t care. It was specialty software. I thought every little bit . . . adds something of use.” Then he shakes his head. “But Chapman crushed them.” He sits breathing heavily for a moment as he thinks. “She had to control everything. Dominated the market. She kept changing Primis. Every year. Tweaking it. Called it ‘updates.”’ He looks at the ceiling and smiles cynically now. “She was busy . . . developing applications to take over . . . crush them.”

It is painful to listen to him struggle for breath, but it seems that I can’t stop him from talking.

“She hid the changes . . . to Primis. Called them ‘trade secrets.”’ He looks at me. He’s been reading the newspapers about Sims and his motion to quash.

“Cunning woman. Gave away upgrades, free,” he says. “No cost. But when you booted . . . when you booted the new one . . . the old piggyback application . . .”

“Her competitor’s software?”

He nods. “Didn’t work. Guess who had the only software replacements?”

“Isotenics.”

As I say the word he is nodding. “She crippled the industry. Brought it to its knees. Stifled innovation. Made unneeded changes. Primis is a digital Tower of Babel.”

“You mean it’s unstable?”

He smiles and nods as if this thought at least provides a little satisfaction. “Sold it to governments. All over the world,” he says. “All over the world.”

“Maybe I should go. Let me get Jean.”

“No.” He raises a palsied hand in a feeble gesture to stop me from leaving. “Stay.”

“Just a few more minutes. I think you need to rest.”

“Plenty of time. I’ll get a long rest. Your case . . . any chance?” he says.

I take a deep breath, offer up a long sigh. “The truth? It doesn’t look good.” Somehow divulging a confidence to a dead man doesn’t seem to be an ethical violation.

His face is drawn. There are dark hollows and lines etched like canyons under his eyes. The loose flesh drooping from his chin and neck are a measure of the weight he has lost since just our last meeting in the office. I look at James sitting in his chair near the fireplace, with the hiss of the gas logs, a plaid wool blanket to keep him warm, and I know that I will not see him again.

“What happened to the antitrust suit?” I ask.

“Hmm?” Another tired smile crosses his face. “Government stepped in.”

“Ah, of course. National security,” I say.

He shakes his head slowly. “Brought their own suit,” he says. “Took it over.”

He means the antitrust suit. “The government stepped in and took it over?”

He nods. “Convinced the companies.” He is talking about the two competitors. “Wouldn’t be in their interest . . . to continue,” he says. “Year later it was settled. Out of court. The next year . . . Isotenics killed . . . three more companies. Same tactics.” There is a struggling rhythm of death in his words now as he fights for breath.

“I think you should rest,” I tell him.

“No. Need to talk to you. I think I know . . . how they’re doing it.”

“What?”

“Feeding Primis,” he says.

He is talking about the raw data, the input of massive volumes of personal information needed to keep Primis and the supercomputers in Washington humming with private intelligence.

“How?”

“Looking glass,” he says. “Mirror software.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Spyware,” he says. Until this moment I might have thought he was hallucinating. He swallows hard and tries to sit up in his chair.

“No, Jim, sit back. Relax.”

As he tries to lean forward, he stretches the clear plastic tube leading to his nose. I’m afraid he’s going to pull it free, or topple the small oxygen bottle on the floor.

He settles up in his chair. “Man I know”—he tries to catch his breath—“says NSA . . . wrote the stuff. Two years ago. Invisible,” he says. “No way to see it. Plants itself on your machine. Spyware.”

Kaprosky is talking about NSA, the National Security Agency.

“No way to detect it,” he says.

“I don’t understand.”

“What?” Kaprosky looks at me, breathless.

“How would they get it onto your computer?”

He nods and smiles, arches his eyebrows, relieved that I’m at least tracking what he is saying. He laughs to himself. As much breath as he can spare. “Online. Government forms. Spyware. Check it . . . online,” he says. “Mirror software. Called ‘looking glass.”’

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I
n the morning Max Rufus is back on the stand. The judge reminds him that he is already under oath, and Rufus takes his seat.

I offer him a greeting: “Good morning.”

He smiles and nods but doesn’t say anything.

Today Rufus is fitted out in a charcoal pinstriped suit, starched white linen shirt with French cuffs, and gold cuff links. He’s wearing a blue tie with tiny gold stars covering it to pick up the accents.

He leans back in the witness chair and crosses one leg over the other, his right ankle resting on his left knee. His elbows are on the armrests of the chair, the fingers of his hands steepled together just under his chin, the fingertips drumming together nervously.

I stand at the podium looking at him for several seconds as the last few coughs are muffled and people in the audience settle in their seats. Then I start.

“Mr. Rufus, let me ask you . . . Yesterday you indicated that Mr. Ruiz headed up the security detail assigned to provide executive protection to Madelyn Chapman.”

“That’s correct.”

“Can you tell the jury why Ms. Chapman or, for that matter, other personnel at Isotenics found it necessary to retain executive security to protect Ms. Chapman?”

He looks at me, a puzzled expression. “I don’t recall if there was a specific incident that prompted it,” he says. “She had a high public profile because of the company and her responsibilities. It’s not uncommon for people in her position to utilize personal security.”

“Do you know whether prior to or during the time that your company provided executive protection to Ms. Chapman she received any threats, either verbal or written? Threats regarding her personal safety, I mean.”

“Oh, the usual crank letters, I suppose. Many of the people who we provide protection for receive any number of strange pieces of mail. With regard to Ms. Chapman, as I recall, there were no what you would call credible threats.” He smiles at me.

It’s obvious that the witness has gone over this with Templeton in order to prevent us from pumping up the poison pen mail into evidence of a risk from some other quarter.

“Yesterday I believe that you testified that you received a phone call from Madelyn Chapman at one point and that during that phone call she demanded that the executive protection detail assigned to her be terminated and that she—and I believe these are the words that you used—’specifically requested that Mr. Ruiz be removed from the detail immediately.’ Is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And I believe you went on to testify that when you asked her why she wanted this done, she told you, and I quote”—I look down at my notes—”’She said that Mr. Ruiz had become too familiar and that he made inappropriate advances toward her.’ Is that accurate?”

“Well, words to that effect. I can’t recall exactly how she said it, but that’s the gist of it.”

“Is that a fact?”

He looks at me but doesn’t respond.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Rufus, that part of the reason Ms. Chapman called you that day is not because she was angry with Mr. Ruiz but rather she was angry with your firm?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it a fact that Madelyn Chapman called you to complain not about Mr. Ruiz but about the fact that your company had screwed up and placed a security video camera in her office without her knowledge?”

“Well, she . . . It’s true. She did mention that.”

“Isn’t it a fact that Madelyn Chapman screamed at you over the phone, not because of anything that Mr. Ruiz had done, but because she had been compromised by the installation of a security camera in her own office when she was out of town traveling, and that no one had taken the time to tell her about it, so that when she came back, she was surprised to find herself on film?”

“Your Honor, I’m going to object to this.” Templeton is sitting on his box on the chair and raising a hand. “The court refused to allow me to get into that videotape. And now Mr. Madriani—”

“I’m not talking about the contents of the videotape, Your Honor. I’m talking about the existence of a camera the size of a pencil eraser installed in the victim’s office without her knowledge.”

“The witness can answer the question,” says Gilcrest.

“It was a mistake. We blew it,” says Rufus.

“That doesn’t answer my question. Did she or did she not yell at you over the phone because of the installation of that camera in her office without her knowledge?”

“She . . . she . . . she was angry. I will concede that she was upset. I apologized. I told her that if I had known that no one had checked with her beforehand, the camera would never have been installed.”

“So she was operating on the good-faith belief that she had privacy in her own office, when in fact she did not?”

Rufus uncrosses his legs. He offers a dozen expressions on the stand, none of them happy. “It’s true she didn’t know it was there. And she was upset about it, but she also demanded that the security detail be terminated and that Mr. Ruiz be removed.”

“Well, let me ask you a question, Mr. Rufus: If you had hired a company to provide security at your place of business and they came in and installed a camera in your office without your knowledge, and that camera caught you doing something in what you thought was a moment of privacy, would you not be moved in anger—I say in rage—to remove that firm and all of its employees from your presence?”

Right between the eyes. Rufus, sitting on the stand as if he has been poleaxed, is looking at me wide-eyed. He swallows hard. “I don’t know. I suppose.” It’s the only thing he can say. Nothing else would sound reasonable, and anyone who knew Chapman and the fits of imperious anger that could overtake her knows it.

“Let me ask you, isn’t it a fact that Ms. Chapman fired the head of security at Isotenics immediately after her conversation with you on the telephone that day?”

“I’m not sure of the details,” he says.

“Did she or did she not fire the man?”

“He was discharged.”

“And on that very day, is that not correct?”

“I believe so.”

“And was he not terminated because of his failure to notify Ms. Chapman of the existence of that camera in her office?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Would you like me to show you the declaration, signed under penalty of perjury, obtained from the gentleman in question?” This Herman was able to obtain because Chapman’s former head of security no longer works for the company. He is not covered by Sims’s motion to quash and the restraining order compelling us to stay clear of Isotenics and its employees.

“I’ll take your word for it,” says Rufus.

“I’m not the one testifying,” I tell him, “you are. Now, do you want me to repeat the question, or would you like to answer it?”

“I believe he was fired because of the camera.”

I take a deep breath, slow the pace a little, and cast an eye through my notes on the rostrum to make sure I’m not missing anything.

When I look up, Rufus is sweating, beads of perspiration running down his forehead. He mops it with a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket, then wipes his upper lip with the other side.

“Can you tell the jury why Ms. Chapman called you personally to complain about what had happened regarding the camera in her office?”

He looks puzzled, as if he’s trying to locate the hook in the question. “I don’t know. I suppose because I was the head of the firm.”

“Isn’t it true that you were a personal friend of Ms. Chapman’s?”

“I see what you mean. Yes, we were acquainted,” he says.

“Can you tell the jury how long you had known the victim?” I go from
Chapman
to
victim
for the implications it conjures.

“I don’t know. A few years.”

“A shade more than six, to be exact? Would that be about right?”

“I suppose. What difference does it make?”

“Did you know her well?”

“We were social acquaintances. We did business together.”

“Other than providing security services for Isotenics and executive protection for Ms. Chapman, did you have any other business relations with her?”

He shakes his head. “No. That was it.”

“Did you ever travel with Ms. Chapman personally?” I ask.

“I was wondering when that was going to come up,” he says. “Yes, we traveled together once. One time.”

“And when was that?”

“About three years ago. And the press engaged in a lot of gossip that wasn’t true,” he says.

“Where did the two of you go?”

“The two of us didn’t
go
anywhere,” he says. “The fact of the matter is that she was generous enough to allow me to hitch a ride on her company plane because it just so happened that she was vacationing in Italy at the same time that I had a security conference in Rome. When we landed in Italy, we went our separate ways. We ended up spending one day together relaxing just before returning home and the paparazzi with their cameras got ahold of it and made a huge deal out of it. She told me that they hounded her the entire time she was there. Wouldn’t leave her alone. ‘The billionaire software queen.”’

In the piles of documents in the box on the floor at Harry’s feet are old news articles and photographs we have been collecting, mostly items out of the local society section. Several of these show Chapman over the last several years attending galas and charity functions accompanied by a number of different male friends. Several of the photos show her on the arm of Rufus.

Their difference in age and economic and social status causes me to suspect that this was nothing more than a matter of convenience for Chapman. No doubt she would have considered Rufus a safe escort for a high-profile outing in terms of gossip and speculation. That all changed when she spent ten days in a guarded villa near the town of Lucca in Tuscany. With an international software mogul staying in the neighborhood, Roman reporters descended on the place. One of the photos taken with a 900mm lens from bushes on the hillside above the villa, a grainy shot, shows Chapman sunning herself on a chaise near the pool. Next to her, decked out in swim trunks and reading the newspaper, is an austere, dapper-looking gentleman later identified as Maxwell Rufus. The picture set tongues wagging in the local San Diego press, speculation that a match was in the making. Whether it was business or pleasure was never clear. What is certain is that if there was something bubbling, it never brewed. After that, the only times the two of them were ever seen together were in groups with other people—outings similar to the dinner party that Chapman never made the night she was murdered.

I slip copies of the grainy photograph from the Italian press from under a stack of papers on the podium and have the bailiff deliver one to the judge and one to Rufus on the stand. I hand another to Templeton at his table.

I ask Rufus: “Do you recognize this photograph?”

“Yes.” He barely glances it at, then dumps it contemptuously onto the railing along the side of the witness stand.

“Is that Ms. Chapman and yourself in the photograph?”

“Yes.” Rufus isn’t even looking at me now but glancing up at the ceiling instead.

“You say the press came to the wrong conclusions based on that photograph?”

“Yes.”

“That they engaged in a lot of wild speculation that wasn’t true?”

“Absolutely.”

“Your Honor, can I have People’s exhibit twenty-six up on the screen?” This is a copy of the frozen frame from the video taken by Rufus, the picture that Templeton left lingering up on the screen for the jury at the close of the state’s direct examination of Rufus. Harry has had this single frame prepared for mounting on the visualizer so that it leaves enough room for another shot to be placed right next to it—a kind of split screen.

Gilcrest points his gavel at Templeton’s computer wizard, and a second later one of the photographs taken by Rufus during his surveillance of my client pops up on the visualizer, the shot showing Ruiz watching Chapman on the street in La Jolla, where she is talking with friends.

“Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Rufus, that people—that perhaps this jury—looking at the load of photographs that you took of Emiliano Ruiz during your so-called investigation of his activities could jump to similarly erroneous conclusions as the press did with you and the victim while you were vacationing in Italy?”

Suddenly Rufus realizes that I’m not headed where he thought I was going: implications of an affair between him and Chapman. Whether the jury will land there or not is up to them.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“Your Honor, I ask that the photograph resting on the railing next to Mr. Rufus’s arm be marked defendant’s exhibit next in order and that it be introduced into evidence.”

“Any objection, Mr. Templeton?”

“No, Your Honor.”

I have the Italian newspaper photo put up on the visualizer for the jury to see; the other half of my split screen, a demonstration of how people can jump to the wrong conclusion by looking at pictures.

I turn back to the witness. “Did you bother to talk to Mr. Ruiz, to ask him what he was doing when he was watching Madelyn Chapman during the course of your investigation?”

“It wasn’t necessary. I had directed him to stay away from her.” The way Rufus says it makes him sound like a jealous suitor.

“I see. You were conducting an investigation to find out what he was doing, but it wasn’t necessary to talk to him about it? To find out what the real purpose of his activities was?”

“I knew what the purpose of his activities was. He was infatuated,” says Rufus.

“That’s pure speculation on your part. Your Honor, I move that the witness’s answer be stricken from the record and that the jury be instructed to disregard it.”

“So ordered,” says Gilcrest. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement and the witness will confine his testimony to what he knows. Do I make myself clear?” he asks.

Rufus nods.

Gilcrest verbally pulls Rufus up by the tie: “I want to hear an answer when I give a direction.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“You may proceed.” The judge waves me on.

“Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Rufus, that to this day you don’t have any idea what Mr. Ruiz was actually doing when you were photographing him watching Madelyn Chapman?”