Glitsky 02 - Guilt (32 page)

Farrell was running on pure adrenaline. He'd slept less than five hours, but this was precisely the moment that all the nights of insomnia had been in service of.

He reminded himself that the trial was simpler than life – all he had to do here was refute the prosecution's arguments, and Mark Dooher was going to walk. He could do that in his sleep.

In California, the defense has the option of delivering its opening statement directly following the prosecution's, where it has the general effect of a rebuttal; or it can choose to wait and use its opening statement to introduce its own version of events, its case in chief. Farrell chose the former.

He didn't believe he was going to get surprised by any prosecution witness. He knew the direction he was going to take – deny, deny, deny. And he wanted to prime the jury, at the outset, that there was reason to question every single point Jenkins had raised.

He'd thought it out in detail. He would begin casually, standing beside Dooher at the defense table. He would not consult any notes – his defense was from his heart. He wouldn't use a prepared speech. His body language would scream that the truth was so obvious, and he believed it so passionately, that it spoke for itself. By contrast, Jenkins had stood delivering the rest of her opening statement for the better part of the morning, consulting her legal pad over and over, laboriously spelling out her case in chief.

Farrell sipped from his water glass and stood up.

'You've all heard Ms Jenkins's opening statement. She's given you a version of the events of June 7th that she says she's going to prove beyond a reasonable doubt. There is no way she can do that because those actions of Mr Dooher that she got right did not happen for the reasons she contends, and the rest of them she simply got wrong.

'I'm going to strip this story of Ms Jenkins's sinister interpretation, and give you the facts. On that Tuesday, Mark Dooher purchased champagne and brought it home because he was a loving husband. He made a phone call from his office to his home on the afternoon of June 7th, and asked his wife if she would like him to come home early. He made a date with her, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. After nearly thirty years of marriage, Mark and Sheila Dooher were having a romantic interlude. A date.

'Before he got home,
his wife
took a dose of Benadryl because she suffered from allergies. She
helped herself
to
a glass or two of champagne. Sheila Dooher was forty-seven years old and she was neither senile nor dim-witted. She could make her own decisions, and did, on matters of what she ate and drank. She had been taking the menopause drug, Nardil, for over a year. Many times, in front of many witnesses, she drank alcohol within this timeframe. Several witnesses will testify that Sheila Dooher was skeptical of her doctor's recommendations to avoid certain foods and alcohol. Tragically, it looks like Mrs Dooher was equally careless about mixing drugs.'

Farrell sipped again from his water glass, slowing himself down. Jenkins hadn't objected once; all eyes were glued to him. He was rolling.

'What happened next? The Doohers had a late lunch. Nothing more sinister than that. Sheila Dooher went up to her bedroom to take a nap. She was tired, and she took a sedative, her husband's chloral-hydrate.

'Ms Jenkins has told you that Mark Dooher gave her the chloral-hydrate. Rubbish, absolute rubbish. There is not one witness, not one shred of evidence that even suggests that this is the case. Ms Jenkins says it is so because she needs it to be so to convict Mark Dooher. She cannot prove it because it never happened.'

Jenkins now did get up, objecting that Farrell was being argumentative.

Farrell supposed he was, but knew Jenkins had made the objection, as much as anything, to throw off his rhythm. It wasn't going to work. She was sustained by Thomasino and Farrell moved out from the desk now and went on, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth so the jury could see what a good guy he was – magnanimous at this silly interruption.

It also gave him his third opportunity to repeat the sequence that had led to Sheila's death.

After which: 'And what were Mr Dooher's actions after his wife had gone upstairs? Well, he did not set the burglar alarm in his house. A prosecution witness, Mr Dooher's next-door neighbor Frances Matsun, will tell you he then reached up and appeared to be doing something with the light bulb over the side door. Mr Dooher does not remember this. Perhaps there was a cobweb on it – he doesn't know.'

'Next he drove to the San Francisco Golf Club. Now you'll remember that Ms Jenkins made rather a big issue of the fact that Mr Dooher belongs to the Olympic Club and on this night chose not to go to his own club's driving range, but rather to a public range. It is going to be for you to decide how big an issue this was. But I will tell you that Mr Dooher is a personable man…'

'Objection.'

'Sustained.'

'I'm sorry. Mr Dooher has many business contacts at his club, and he didn't want to have to be…' he paused, smiling now at the jury, including them in the humor '… personally interactive. He wanted to spend the time working on his golf swing without interruption.'

'The golf pro at the driving-range shop will testify that Mr Dooher bought two buckets of balls and sometime later returned with two empty buckets. He will also testify that Mr Dooher and he discussed golf clubs and corrections to his swing and exchanged other pleasantries – in short, that Mr Dooher's actions appeared completely normal.'

Farrell shrugged in tacit apology to the jury for the time this was taking. He was on
their
side and all must agree that this was clearly a waste of everyone's time.

'When he got home, Mr Dooher did the dishes and drank a beer, after which he went upstairs and discovered his wife's body. Horrified, he punched up nine one one. We will play the recording of this call for you and again, you can decide if the voice you hear is believable or not.'

'But we are not finished yet. After the police came to begin their investigation, Mr Dooher cooperated fully with Inspector Glitsky' – and here Farrell stopped and theatrically gestured across the courtroom – 'who is the gentleman sitting there at the prosecution table. He gave a full and voluntary statement and answered every question until Inspector Glitsky had no more to ask.'

Farrell deemed this a reasonable moment to pause. Going back to his table, he took another drink of water, glanced at Dooher and Christina, and turned back to the jury box.

'Now, as to some of the other allegations and alleged evidence the prosecution has put in front of you – the tainted blood sample, the knife with Mr Dooher's fingerprints on it, the surgical glove found at the scene, and so on – we are at a disadvantage. We can't explain everything. That's one of the problems with being innocent – you don't know what happened. You don't know what someone else did.'

'Your honor,' Jenkins said. 'Counsel is arguing again.'

Thomasino scowled, which Farrell took to be a good sign. He had been arguing, no doubt, but Thomasino had allowed himself to get caught up in it, and resented being reminded of his lapse.

Still, he sustained Jenkins's objection and told Farrell to stick to the evidence.

Farrell met some eyes in the panel. 'I'm going to say a few words now about motive. The prosecution has told you that Mr Dooher killed his wife to collect an insurance policy worth one point six million dollars. This is their stated motive – I urge you to remember it.'

Farrell went on to explain that the defense would disclose all financial records of Mr Dooher personally and those of his eminently solvent firm. He was nearly debt-free, his 40IK money, fully vested, amounted to over $800,000, savings accounts held another $100,000. He owned his home nearly outright and it had most recently been appraised for over a million dollars. In short, while one point six million dollars was not chump change, so long as Mr Dooher continued with his regular lifestyle and did not plan to take up cruising the Aegean in a fully crewed luxury yacht, he didn't need any more money.

Farrell spread his hands. 'Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution cannot prove that Mark Dooher had a motive to kill his wife because he had no motive. The prosecution cannot prove he poisoned his wife because he did not. They will not prove he is guilty because he is innocent. It's as simple as that.'

'At the end of this trial, when you see that the prosecution has not proven these baseless accusations, I will ask for the verdict of not guilty to which my client is entitled.'

For lunch, Dooher – mending fences – took them all to Fringale, a tiny bistro a couple of blocks from the courtroom. They were at a table in the back corner and Wes, desultorily picking at a dish of white beans with duck, didn't seem to be responding positively to the gesture.

By contrast, Dooher was in a celebratory mood, enjoying a double order of foie gras with a half-bottle of Pinot Noir all for himself. Hell, he wasn't working – he was spectating.

Christina, oblivious to the attention she was receiving from the other patrons and their waiter (her water glass had been re-filled four times), had forgotten Sam's call and the kiss and was enthusing over Farrell's performance. 'You know, Wes, I believe you could make a living at this.'

'It was a great statement,' Dooher agreed. 'You put all that in your nine nine five.' This was a motion that Farrell had earlier filed under California Penal Code section 995 that there wasn't sufficient evidence to convict Dooher. 'I can't believe Thomasino let this turkey go on.'

Farrell kept his head bowed over his food, his shoulders slumped. Anyone seeing him would have trouble identifying him as the showman who'd worked such wonders in the court less than an hour before. 'It's a long way from over, Mark. You'll notice I did gloss over a few of what, from our perspective, are non-highlights.'

Christina put her fork down. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean the hole in the fence at the driving range, blood missing from Mark's doctor's office, Mark's fingerprints on the murder weapon…'

Dooher was concentrating on his little toast points, spreading his foie gras with perfect evenness. 'You hit all that.' He took a bite, savoring it. 'You said we couldn't know, that was the problem with being innocent. It could have been your finest moment.'

But Christina was staring at Wes, something else eating at her. She'd never heard him use this tone before, and it worried her. He must still be upset about the kiss.

She knew that Wes had been angry yesterday, but Christina had assumed that his fury would blow itself out. But now she wondered if it went deeper. She reached over and touched his hand. 'I want to tell you something,' she said quietly.

He raised his bloodhound's eyes.

'You're still mad at us and you think we've lied to you, but me going over to Mark's, that was an honest mistake. I would not lie to you. Mark wouldn't lie to you.'

Dooher had stopped chewing, listening intently. And now he eyed Farrell levelly. 'If you've got doubts on that, Wes, I want to hear them.'

Gradually, Farrell shook his head. 'I'm just tired,' he said. 'I'm going to sleep all weekend.'

'What the hell is he doing here?' Mark asked.

Christina and Wes were having coffee and Dooher was enjoying a snifter of Calvados when Abe Glitsky entered the restaurant and made his way over to their table.

Nodding all around, friendly as you please, he leaned over Farrell's shoulder. 'Ms Carrera, I'd like to ask you a few questions before court reconvenes. I wonder if you'd stop by my office on the fourth floor after you've finished your lunch.'

'How'd you know we were here?' Dooher asked.

Glitsky favored him with the scar-split smile. 'Spies,' he said. 'They're everywhere.'

Farrell was torn between the impulse to tell Glitsky to shit in his hat and curiosity over what he wanted to talk about with Christina.

He insisted he be present and Glitsky said no.

He then reminded the Lieutenant that he was entitled to all discovery in the case. This didn't rate an answer.

Glitsky simply asked again if Christina would talk to him or not. She told Farrell she wanted to go, she could take care of herself. It would be best to find out what Glitsky had on his mind.

'What's this about, Sergeant?'

'Actually, it's Lieutenant now. I've been promoted.'

'Oh, that's right, I remember. Congratulations.'

Guarded, but curious, she sat kitty-corner from Glitsky at a scarred oak table in one of the interview rooms adjoining the Homicide detail. He left the door open, and let her have the power position at the far end of the table. He took his mini-recorder from his jacket pocket and sat it on the table in front of them.

'This is Lieutenant Abe Glitsky, star number 1144,' he began, 'and I'm speaking with-'

Christina reached over and grabbed the recorder, flicking it off. 'Wait a minute, what are you doing?'

Life was a constant surprise, Glitsky was thinking. Never before had anyone – hardened criminal or anti-social cretin – ever taken his tape recorder and turned it off. He was sure this should be instructive, but didn't know what it meant. 'I thought you invited me up here to have a discussion.'

'That's correct.'

'So what's this?'

'The tape is how we do interrogations.'

'You're interrogating me?'

'You got it right the first time, Ms Carrera. We're having a discussion, but it's pursuant to my investigation of Mark Dooher.'

'Well, I'm not going to answer! I represent the man, Lieutenant. He's my client. Anything between me and Mark is privileged and you ought to know that.'

'Actually, not. You only became a lawyer a couple of weeks ago, isn't that true?' He knew it was true; he didn't have to wait for her reply. 'And even if a case could be made that you had an attorney-client relationship before that – not saying it could – that relationship certainly didn't exist before Mr Dooher got charged with his wife's murder, and that's the time I want to talk about.'

It rocked her. She sat back in her chair and took a breath, studying him. 'What for?'