Glitsky 02 - Guilt (30 page)

'You remember Chas Brown?' Thieu asked.

Glitsky was about to nod, shake his hand, be polite, but Brown didn't give him the chance. 'What's this I don't get to be a witness? All the time I spend with you guys and what do I get out of it for me, huh?'

Thieu popped in. 'Chas heard about Thomasino's ruling from his friends in the courtroom. He'd been kind of hoping he'd get a couple more days at the Marriot.' The city put its witnesses in various hotels, and Chas had evidently been looking forward to a bit of a longer vacation.

Abe was low affect. 'It wasn't our decision, Chas. We wanted you there, but the Judge ruled against us. We lose.'

'Why? The guy kills one guy, then another guy, then his wife. You're telling me they're not related?'

'No, I think they're related.'

'Then why, man?'

'No proof. No proof there was even a murder.'

'Me saying it? That's not proof?'

Glitsky kept it cool. 'You didn't see it, Chas. You weren't a witness. All the Saigon records, if any, were destroyed.' He shrugged, repeated it. 'We lose.'

'We've been over this,' Thieu said. 'What do you want us to do, Chas? You want another night at the Marriot?' He threw a hopeful glance at Glitsky.

'No, I want… I mean, I told everybody I was going to be in this trial.'

And now, Glitsky thought, even that tiny drop of limelight had evaporated. He imagined it was probably disappointing, but mostly he just wanted Chas to go away. He wasn't needed anymore, and cranked-up 800s in the Hall of Justice were something he could do without.

'And Dooher's going to get off, isn't he?'

'We hope not, Chas. That's why we're having a trial.'

'But they can't hear about the guy he killed over there?'

'No, I'm afraid not.'

'That son of a bitch,' he repeated. 'He never pays for anything, does he?'

In that moment, something shifted for Glitsky. He'd met Brown before, and always he'd been less than completely sober, but never particularly hostile to Dooher. Now, granted, he was cranked up and that could do it, but suddenly there seemed to be a different edge. 'I thought you didn't really have any personal gripe with Dooher,' Glitsky said.

Defiant. 'I don't. Who said I did?'

'You're acting like it, Chas. Nobody said it.'

'I'm not acting like anything. I haven't seen the dude in like ten years.'

This straightened Thieu up. He had interviewed Brown at least five times and had never heard this. 'I thought it had been more like twenty-five, Chas.'

Brown's eyes shined, flashed from Glitsky to Thieu. He backed up a step, put his hands into his jeans pockets. 'Ten, twenty-five, what's the difference?'

'Fifteen years,' Glitsky said.

Brown shrugged. 'So?'

'So which one is it, Chas?' Thieu picked it up. 'Did you see Dooher ten years ago?'

'Maybe. Maybe eleven, I don't know.'

Glitsky. 'What about?'

'I don't know. This same thing.'

The two Inspectors looked at each other. Glitsky nodded and Thieu talked. 'You talked to Mark Dooher about this Saigon murder ten years ago? What about it?'

Brown scratched at his beard, rolled his eyes around, let out a long breath. 'I was having, you know… like I couldn't find much work. I was looking through the paper and saw Dooher at this charity thing, and it said he did a lot of that, so I figured, hey, he's doin' pretty good, maybe he could help out an old buddy.'

'You tried to blackmail him,' Glitsky said.

'First I just asked him if he could spare a little, you know? It wasn't like strong-arm.'

'And what'd he do? Did he pay you?'

Chas was shaking his head. 'He threw me out, the son of a bitch. Said nobody'd believe a low-life like me anyway. He just laughed at me. Didn't give a shit my life was in the toilet.'

'Why didn't you ever mention this before, Chas?' Thieu asked.

'I thought it would make me look bad. I don't know.'

'And you wanted to testify to get back at him?' It made perfect sense to Glitsky. It was all about macho posturing – power and payback.

'Yeah. Show the bastard.' He looked at the faces of the two Inspectors. 'Hey, it don't mean he didn't kill the guy.'

I
don't know about you, but I could use a hug.

Dooher kept reliving the moment, savoring the sweetness of it, the smell of her, the press of her breasts up against him, her arms around him inside the coat of his suit.

They'd stood there, holding fast to one another for a long time – perhaps thirty seconds, forty. He'd started to become aroused, and she felt it, making a small noise deep in her throat, leaning into him. Then pulling back, looking up, inviting the kiss that came – tentative and gentle at first, then open-mouthed, consuming.

Then Wes was outside, saying something to someone in the hall. She crossed over to the window and he sat on the desk.

That night – the defense team was all-but living together- they'd all had dinner at a French restaurant on Clement Street. As was their routine, Farrell drove Dooher home. Both of them were beat after the long day in the courtroom. There would be plenty of time to second-guess jury selection.

Christina hadn't called him, and he hadn't called her.

Then, all day today, the sexual tension, and Farrell seemed to take extra care that Mark and Christina were never alone.

At home after another late dinner and another day of jury selection, Dooher changed into a pair of khakis and a black cotton sweater. Then, barefoot, he wandered downstairs into his library and stood at the window.

Christina was coming up the walk, through the gate into the patio. Except for the kitchen lights, the house was dark. Snooping media types might believe that the house was empty. He opened the door. 'Can you see?'

'Fine.'

They got to the kitchen. She wore the hood up on a heavy ski parka. Flipping the parka back, she blew a strand of hair away from her mouth. 'Okay, I'm nervous.'

He stepped forward and gathered her in. When he released her, there was no kiss. He gave her a wistful half-smile, then retreated to the counters. 'Can I get you a cup of coffee? Some wine? You want to take off your coat?'

She said wine would be good and shrugged out of the parka, draping it over one of the stools. Mark busied himself in the refrigerator, getting out the bottle, opening it, taking down the glasses. Coming over to her, he slid a glass before her and pulled up another stool. He held up his glass and she touched it, a ringing chime. 'Just so you understand, Christina,' he began, 'I didn't plan on this. On yesterday.'

'I didn't either. It's not the kind of thing you plan.'

Mark sipped his wine. 'And now I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how you feel. I don't know anything.'

'Do you know how
you
feel?'

'Not really. Confused, I suppose. Guilty as hell, though in this context that's a poor choice of words. I mean…'

She reached over and covered his hand. 'I know what you mean. You think it's still too soon.'

'I don't know what "too soon" is. But I know what this is, what yesterday was.'

'Me, too.'

He smiled at her. 'I'm not talking about the feeling.'

She squeezed his hand. 'I am.'

He moved his hand away. 'No. It's more than that, and I don't think I can trust it. I don't trust it.'

'What?'

'You and I being thrown together like this, the stress of this situation. You helping to defend me, me dependent on you. It's a false environment.'

'Driving us together through no fault of our own?'

He put his glass down and broke a lopsided grin. 'You're making fun of me.'

She leaned toward him. 'A bit.'

'Okay, but I'm being serious. I think we deserve a better chance than that. Especially, that
you
do.' He sighed. 'I never thought I would love anybody again, and now here it is and the timing's all wrong. Everything's all wrong.'

'Not everything,' she said.

'Almost.'

She was shaking her head. 'You feel like you love me. And I love you. That's not almost everything wrong – that's almost everything right.'

He twirled his wine glass, tiny circles on the counter. 'And if they find me guilty of murder, I don't get out of prison until you're older than I am now.'

'They won't find you guilty. You didn't do it.'

'I would have said they'd never have gotten me to trial because I didn't do it. But guess what?'

She sipped her wine. 'So what are you saying?'

He looked down, sighed again, raised his eyes. 'I'm trying to tell you I love you,' he said, 'and I've got two temptations. The first is to take you upstairs and not think about what any of it means or where it might go.'

'I choose door one,' she said.

He reached over and touched her face. 'And the second is to pretend it isn't here, none of this, to pretend that yesterday was a moment of weakness. But I don't think it was. I think it was real, so real I'm terrified we're going to threaten it.'

'And how would we do that, threaten it?'

He closed his eyes briefly and took a last deep breath. 'By doing anything about it.' He went on: 'Right now we're in a pressure cooker. I think we ought to wait until we're out of it, until we can see where we are.'

'I know where I'll be. I'll be right here.'

'If you are, so will I. So maybe we should acknowledge this – what we have, this connection – and then put it on a shelf until the time is right.'

'And when will that be, Mark?'

'When this is over. When they find me not guilty. It shouldn't be long now, a couple of weeks, a month. After the drama and the prying eyes, then we'll see where we are. But this… I don't trust it. It would be too easy for both of us to get caught up in the romance of it.'

'I don't think so.'

'It's not a matter of thinking, Christina. The reality is persuasive enough. Here I am, the classic tragic figure – innocent man unfairly accused – and you are my savior.' He softened things, covering her hand with his. 'I'm not saying the feeling isn't there. I'm saying maybe it's not
us –
the real people we are – feeling them. It's the roles we're in, and they're temporary. And I can't have us be temporary. I couldn't live with that.'

Her eyes held steadily on him, and suddenly a spark of humor flared. 'The last noble man in America, and I had to go and find him.' She came forward and pressed her lips to his cheek, holding them there. 'You don't trust the
rush,
do you?'

'The rush isn't going away, Christina. If the real stuff is here, the rush will find its way back.'

She kissed him again. 'Okay.' Searching his face. 'In the meantime, I'll be a professional, I won't feed the gossip mills, I won't give them any ammunition. But when this is over, this is fair warning. I'm going to be here. For you.'

The
Chronicle
photographer with the night-vision camera caught them kissing at the front door – nothing passionate, although they did stand together, embracing, for nearly two minutes, saying good night. It was plenty.

The gallery wasn't a presence for Glitsky anymore.

Mark Dooher's fate was going to be determined inside the Bar rail. Glitsky glanced across the courtroom at the defense table and felt his blood quicken with hate. It was a reaction he rarely felt. He had dealt with many despicable people, many of whom had committed heinous crimes, but his own feelings for them had almost never gotten personal.

Dooher was different. Not only had he attacked Glitsky on a variety of grounds, threatening his career and reputation – the reverberations were still echoing – but killing his wife… that struck at the heart of things.

The defendant sat, his expression serene, while on either side of him, his acolytes tried not to appear nervous and angry, though to Glitsky's practiced eye, they were failing. This, he knew, was probably in reaction to the
Chronicle's
story and accompanying picture – Dooher and Christina kissing on his darkened front porch.

Christina's mouth was set, her eyes cast downward. She was pretending to read from a folder in front of her, but she looked up too often to be reading.

Wes Farrell seemed somewhat cooler. He was a pro and knew you didn't show your feelings to the jurors, but Glitsky had overheard him answering one of Dooher's questions at the defense table. The two men didn't seem to be best friends anymore.

In spite of Thomasino's detailed approach to questioning prospective jurors, once he had winnowed out the people who'd known about the case and the other obvious exclusions – victims of other crimes, family members of law-enforcement people – jury selection had gone rapidly. Now it was Thursday of the first week, the lunch recess was behind them, and the show was getting under way.

Amanda had told Glitsky that she didn't subscribe to the belief that there was a fine art to picking members of the jury. In spite of all the fancy theories people had, it was more or less a crap shoot. Evidently Wes Farrell felt the same way. Amanda basically preferred married women to single men for this type of case, and Asians if she could get them, but those seemed to be her only criteria. Farrell liked men who had jobs. But both attorneys seemed inclined, mostly, to keep things moving.

And now the new and improved Amanda Jenkins was facing the panel of twelve. Glitsky tried to take some clues from the jurors' faces, but he didn't know what he might be looking for. None of them particularly avoided his gaze, although none held it either. They were focused on Amanda, not him.

There were seven women and five men. Five of the jurors – two of the men and three of the women – were what Glitsky would call well dressed. Another five had thrown on something at least marginally respectful. Of the remaining two, a younger white man with a half-grown beard and long hair wore a faded Army fatigue shirt, untucked and unbuttoned over a T-shirt. Amanda had let him stay because she guessed he'd be prejudiced against lawyers such as Dooher. It was a surprise when Farrell left him unchallenged.

Another middle-aged, very heavy-set Hispanic man wore jeans and a blue denim shirt that he evidently had gone to work in many times. Farrell had apparently wanted him because he was Catholic, and Amanda told Abe she hadn't objected because she thought he was pretending to be dumber than he was.

There were four Asians (three women and a man), two Hispanics (one and one), three African-Americans (two and one), and three whites (one and two). Glitsky had no idea what the demographics meant, and Amanda, in her no-nonsense style, had set him straight over lunch. 'Nobody has a clue.'

Now she was about to address them, and Glitsky thought that, her softer image notwithstanding, her body language put her at a slight disadvantage. She was holding a yellow legal pad for a prop, standing slightly hip-shot before the jury box.

Amanda made no bones about the fact that she did not like juries, about having to explain every fact or nuance so a moron could understand it, about the cut-throat legal world in which she found herself. Glitsky thought she wore all these feelings on her tailored sleeves, her forced smile betraying all of it. At least it did to Abe. He hoped he was wrong.

Nevertheless, no one was in this room to make friends. He supposed a serious demeanor wasn't the worst handicap a lawyer could have, although all the
successful
trial attorneys he knew allowed a great deal more personality to peek through when they got in front of a jury.

'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Good afternoon.'

She checked her notes – maybe the pad wasn't a prop after all – took a deep breath, and began.

'As Judge Thomasino told you, the prosecution's opening statement is to acquaint you with the evidence in the case, the evidence that the People of the State of California will use to demonstrate the
facts
that we will then assemble to prove, and prove beyond a reasonable doubt, the
truth:
That on June 7th of this year, Mark Dooher' – she turned and pointed for effect -'the defendant here, willfully and with malice aforethought, murdered his wife, Sheila.

'I'm going to be presenting evidence about what happened on that day, a Tuesday. The weather was exceptionally pleasant, sunny with temperatures in the low seventies, and at about four-thirty, the defendant' – throughout the trial, Jenkins would try to depersonalize Dooher by avoiding his name whenever possible – 'called his wife, Sheila Dooher, and suggested that he take off work early and they have a romantic evening together. Sounds nice, doesn't it?'

Glitsky wasn't surprised to hear Farrell's first objection – nearly guttural with some suppressed emotion, but clear enough. His focus, missing this morning, was coming back. Glitsky knew that though the alleged idyll between Dooher and his wife might have sounded nice, it wasn't up to Jenkins to portray it as such.

Thomasino's eyebrows lifted up and down. 'Sustained.'

It didn't slow Jenkins. She took her eyes off the jury to consult her pad, then went right back to it. 'In his own statement to the police, the defendant admitted what happened next. He left his office downtown and, on his way home, made a stop at Dellaroma's Liquor and Delicatessen on Ocean Avenue for a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne and an assortment of meats and vegetables. He went home and he and his wife shared the champagne and the hors d'oeuvres. Then, because she was tired, Mrs Dooher went upstairs for a nap. The defendant went to the driving range.'

Listening to it, Glitsky was confronted again – it happened to varying degrees every time he came to court in other cases – with the chasm of difference between his essentially free-wheeling job of gathering evidence and the court's job of objectively analyzing it. But Jenkins evidently realized how benign it all sounded because she stopped a minute, walked to the prosecution table to break her own rhythm, and took a sip of water.

She turned back to the jury. 'That's what the defendant told the police. What the defendant did
not
tell police was that even then, he was planning to kill his wife.'

'The plan was a simple one.'

'The defendant had long ago obtained – for his own use – a prescription of chloral-hydrate, a strong sedative he said he needed because he had trouble sleeping. Chloral-hydrate is often commonly referred to as "knockout drugs", and that's how the defendant intended to use it. He would puncture some of the gel tabs and slip some of the drug into his wife's champagne. He would help put her to bed. He would go to a nearby driving range to establish an alibi. Then he would return, stab his wife to death in her sleep and make it look like a burglary. He almost got away with it.'

'What the defendant did not know was that his wife was already taking two other powerful drugs – Benadryl for her allergies, and Nardil for depression. When the defendant gave his wife the chloral-hydrate, the dose, combined with the alcohol and these other drugs in her system, was enough to kill her.'

There was an audible stir in the courtroom. This was evidently a surprise to people who'd only read the articles as far as the grisly stabbing. Thomasino gently tapped his gavel and quiet returned.

Jenkins continued. 'If Mrs Dooher had been allowed to remain unmolested as she lay dead in her bed, Mark Dooher would probably not be in this courtroom today, charged with her murder. But Mr Dooher is a lawyer. He is a clever man and-'

Farrell was up out of his seat. 'Your honor…'

Thomasino sustained him again. And this time Jenkins turned to the Judge and apologized to him, then to the jury. She didn't mean to characterize the defendant.

Jenkins was playing well for the jury – friendly, courteous, professional. 'Intending to stab his wife to death, the defendant instead poisoned her to death. Legally, it makes no difference – either killing is murder in the first degree.'

'Factually, it makes all the difference in the world. The defendant's miscalculation got him caught. That's because much of the evidence deliberately planted by the defendant to suggest a burglary, much of the evidence designed to explain Sheila Dooher's violent death at the hands of a knife-wielding attacker, takes on a very different light once we know Sheila Dooher was poisoned to death. It shows the calculated and methodical attempt of a cold-blooded murderer to conceal guilt…

'We're going to show you a knife – a classic "murder weapon", complete with Mark Dooher's fingerprints. You're going to hear from witnesses who help to piece together the real story of what happened on that evening of June 7th. And that is this: that the defendant, having made sure his wife would be sleeping soundly – drugged with chloral-hydrate – left his house by the side door, without activating the alarm system, and reached above the door, unscrewing the porch light so the driveway would be dark upon his return.

'Then he drove to the San Francisco Golf Club,
not
to the Olympic Club which is closer to his house and where he is a member, and bought two large buckets of golf balls. After hitting a few balls, he walked through a break in the fence, went to his car, and drove home.

'We know he drove home because one of the neighbors, Emil Balian, recognized his car with its personalized plates parked on the street down from his house at between eight and nine p.m.'

Yes, Glitsky knew Balian had said that, but he thought that if ever a witness were born to be broken, it was the neighborhood busybody, who'd already changed details in his identification story three times. Glitsky thought that Farrell would destroy him on cross-examination. But, as Drysdale had said, Balian was very nearly the key to the case. Sometimes you had to take what you could get.

'By now it was dark out, and the defendant entered his darkened house. Upstairs, in his bedroom, he plunged a knife into his wife's heart as, he thought, she lay sleeping. He tore her bedclothes and threw blankets around, simulating a struggle. He poured a vial of blood that he had stolen from his doctor's lab around the body. He tore the wedding and engagement rings from Sheila Dooher's hand, and then rifled the bureau in the room, taking other jewelry, including his own Rolex watch. Then he went back to the driving range, climbed back through the fence-'

'It's all a goddamn lie!'

Glitsky was startled nearly out of his seat. Dooher was suddenly on his feet, pointing at Jenkins, who stood open-mouthed, stunned at the outburst. And it wasn't over. 'And you're a goddamn liar!'

Thomasino, who'd been listening intently to Jenkins, reacted as if he'd been jolted by electricity. He reached for his gavel, missed it, and it fell behind the desk, so he had to stand himself. 'Mr Dooher, you sit down! Mr Farrell, you control your client, you hear me? Sit down, I said!'

Glitsky was up and the two bailiffs were moving across to Farrell's table, but Wes held up his hands, motioning them back. 'Come on, Mark, easy…' Christina, too, was up, an arm around Dooher's back, whispering to him.

But Dooher glared at one and all. 'I cannot believe I am hearing so much bull-
shit!
'

Everybody in the courtroom heard him.

Dooher turned to the jury and suddenly his voice was in the normal conversational range. 'None of this happened this way,' he said. 'Not any of it.'

Thomasino had found his gavel and slammed it down again. 'Mr Farrell, I'll gag your client if you don't.'

'Yes, your honor.' A hand on Dooher's arm, pulling him down. Whispering through clenched teeth. 'Mark, sit down. Get a grip, would you?'

Then, Farrell to Thomasino again: 'Your honor, if I could ask for a short recess?'

But Thomasino was shaking his head. 'Not during an opening statement, Mr Farrell. You control your client and let Ms Jenkins finish up, and if there are any more interruptions, I'll hold
you
in contempt. How's that – clear?'

'What the hell was that? What are you trying to do, kill yourself out there?'

Farrell, in their tiny room across the street, was himself now nearly out of control. There was spittle on his lips and he seemed almost struck with palsy – now pacing, now hovering in front of his client. Dooher, again, had hoisted himself up on to the desk. He was swinging his feet, relaxed. Christina stood at the window, arms crossed over her chest.

Thomasino was going to allow Jenkins all the time she needed to wrap up her opening statement, but it turned out that she only made it another ten minutes before
she
asked for a recess. Dooher's interruption had pole-axed her, and what had begun as a reasonably compelling recital of events had degenerated into a disjointed shopping list of purported evidence whose relevance and connection seemed to elude Jenkins herself. She kept referring to her notes, stumbling over her words, until she finally gave it up.

'Wes, relax,' Dooher said, 'it's all right. You're going to have a heart attack.'

'You're goddamn right I'm going to have a heart attack. I deserve a heart attack. What were you doing in there? What was that all about? How could you lose your temper like that?'

Dooher actually broke a grin. 'I didn't.'

'This is funny? There's a joke here maybe I'm missing?'

'I didn't lose my temper, Wes.'