Glitsky 02 - Guilt (40 page)

Farrell spread his palms. 'I didn't ask anything, your honor. The witness has volunteered this information.'

'It's speculation – move to strike.'

Thomasino raised a calming hand. 'Yes, it is, yes, it is.' He told the jury to disregard this last information, and Glitsky thought they could collectively do that about as easily as they could levitate on cue.

But the moment passed, and Farrell was finishing up. 'And did you see Mr Dooher at any other time during the course of this evening?'

'Sure. When he left.'

'When he'd finished hitting two buckets of golf balls?'

'Objection! Speculation.'

Thomasino sustained her again, but Farrell didn't care. He had gotten in nearly everything he wanted, and was finishing up. 'Did you see Mr Dooher when he left?'

'Yes.'

'And how was he acting then?'

'Like he usually did. Normal. He came in, we talked a couple of minutes about his game. He told me a joke.'

'He told you a joke?'

'Yeah, we talked a couple of minutes and then he asked me how you get a dog to stop humping your leg. That's how I remember I saw him when he was leaving. I was laughing.'

'You were laughing together?'

'It was a good joke.' Browne paused, looked over to the jury, gave them the punch-line. 'You give him a blow job.'

The courtroom went silent for a second, then erupted into nervous laughter. Thomasino hit his gavel a few times, order was restored, and Farrell gave Richie Browne to Amanda Jenkins for cross-examination.

'Mr Browne, I'm particularly interested in this Coke you saw Mr Dooher get in the middle of his round of hitting golf balls. In your interview with Lieutenant Glitsky regarding this night, did you mention this trip to the Coke machine?'

'I guess not. I didn't remember at the time. It came back to me later, that it was that night.'

'And do you remember it now?'

'Yes.'

'So – to be absolutely clear, Mr Browne – is it your testimony now, under oath, that Mr Dooher bought a Coke in the middle of hitting his round of golf balls that night?'

Browne squirmed. 'I think he came and got a Coke.'

'You
think
Mr Dooher came and got a Coke? You're not sure.'

'I'm pretty sure.'

'But not certain?'

Browne was physically reacting to the questioning, sitting back in the witness chair, arms crossed over his chest. 'No, not certain. But I think it was that night.'

'Mr Browne, you're not certain you saw the defendant come in midway through the evening and get a Coke, is that your testimony?'

Farrell took the opening. 'Asked and answered, your honor.'

Thomasino agreed with him.

It was beginning to move quickly with Farrell's defense witnesses. No sooner had Richie Browne passed out into the gallery area than Farrell called Marcela Mendoza, a forty-two-year-old former supervisor of medical technicians at St Mary's Hospital. After establishing her credentials and job duties during the twelve years she'd worked at the hospital, Farrell asked: 'Ms Mendoza, working in the blood unit of the laboratory at the hospital, did you ever experience a situation where blood that had been taken from a patient for tests got lost somehow?'

'Yes.'

'Commonly? Wait, please. Before you answer that, how many blood tests did you do?'

'Well, we did I guess six or seven hundred blood tests every week or so.'

'A hundred a day?'

'Roughly. That's about right.'

'And how often did a sample of blood get mislabeled, or misplaced, or lost, on average, in the twelve years you worked at the hospital?'

'Objection, your honor. The defendant's doctor didn't work at this hospital.'

Glitsky had the impression that Farrell had been hoping that Jenkins would say this very thing. 'Well, your honor, that's exactly the point. We intend to show that the blood could have come from any one of a number of places.'

Thomasino's brows went up and down. 'Overruled. Proceed.'

The question clearly made Ms Mendoza uncomfortable. It wasn't a piece of information the public would feel very good about. In fact, while she'd been working at the hospital, she would not have answered any questions about lost blood – both because she would not have wanted to, and because she would have been ordered not to.

But Farrell's investigator had found her in August and convinced her that her expertise in this area could save the life of an innocent man. 'I'd say we'd lose one or two a week.'

'A
week!'
Farrell, who of course already knew the answer, feigned shock. 'One or two a week?'

'Sometimes more, sometimes less.'

'And this lost blood, where does it go?'

Mendoza allowed herself a small smile. 'If we knew that, Mr Farrell, it wouldn't be lost now, would it?'

All agreement, Farrell stepped closer to her. 'Now in your own personal experience, Ms Mendoza, did you ever have a lab technician drop a vial of blood and not report it?'

'Yes.'

'And why was that?'

'They didn't want to get in trouble, so they said they just never got the blood to do the tests on in the first place.'

'And are you personally familiar with a case like this?'

'Yes.'

'Could you explain it a little more fully?'

'One of my people did exactly what I just described, and I didn't report it, which was why I was let go.'

This wasn't a point to press, and Farrell moved along. 'Ms Mendoza, about how many blood labs are there in the city?'

'Big labs, there's about eight or nine. Smaller labs, doctors' offices, mobile units, blood banks… there are probably hundreds, I don't know exactly.'

'Certainly more than fifty?'

'Yes.'

'And in your experience, was there ever a problem with lost blood at any of these facilities? In transit, to and from doctors' offices, something like that?'

Ms Mendoza didn't like it, but she knew what she knew.'Most of the blood, there's never a problem,' she said.

'I realize that. But sometimes…?'

'Of course. Sure.'

The blood testimony continued to build relentlessly, doubly damning, Glitsky thought, because there really wasn't much Amanda Jenkins could do on cross-examination. Doctors and technicians from County General, St Luke's, the Masonic Blood Bank and several other locations all came to the stand and testified for ten minutes each, all essentially saying the same thing: blood got lost all the time. It was possible – maybe not probable, and perhaps difficult, but certainly possible – for a person to pick up a vial of blood and walk out of a facility with it.

The worst moment from Glitsky's perspective came at the very end of the day when Farrell called a Sergeant Eames from Park station. It was always unnerving when the
defense
called a law-enforcement person to testify. For the past six years, Eames had worked on cases involving voodoo, santeria, and Satanic worship, all of which used blood from a variety of sources in their rituals. Eames was of the opinion that any cop in the city who wanted to get his hands on samples of human blood would have to look no further than the evidence locker of any district station on a typical Saturday night.

Jim Flaherty was alone in his Spartan bedroom. He sat at his desk, intending to put the finishing touches on his yearly Christmas sermon and then – on this blessedly unbooked Thursday evening – he was going to get to sleep before midnight.

But first he'd tune into the ten o'clock news, where he was heartened by the analysis of the events of the trial. Wes Farrell's parade of defense witnesses had demolished any lingering doubt about its outcome. Mark wasn't going to get convicted – the prosecution's case was in rags.

Flaherty told himself that he'd never really entertained the notion that Mark had killed Sheila, but the blood had come close to shaking his faith. Now, though, it looked as though Farrell had put his finger into that potential hole in the dike, and what Mark had contended all along was true. The blood could have come from anywhere and the missing blood from his own doctor's office had been a terrible coincidence.

It was critical that Flaherty be clear on this score. Farrell had asked him to be ready to testify about Mark's character beginning as early as tomorrow.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the sheaf of looseleaf papers.

And there was a knock on his door.

He loathed interruptions in his bedroom – it was the only truly private place he had, the only personal time he ever got. But everyone on the staff here at the rectory knew that and protected his privacy, so this must be important.

Father Herman, his major domo, stood in the hallway in the at-ease position, and behind him, hands clasped in front of him, was Eugene Gorman, pastor of St Emydius. Seeing him, Flaherty's stomach tightened, and he put his hand over it.

Herman was trying to explain that he had asked Father Gorman to wait downstairs and he'd send the Archbishop down to see him in the study, but…

'That's all right, Father. This is an old friend. You want to come in here, Gene? I don't have anything but hard chairs to sit on.'

When the door closed behind them, Flaherty walked across the room and sat on his desk. Gorman stood awkwardly and finally, looking behind him, sat down on the Archbishop's bed. 'I'm sorry to bother you. I wouldn't have if this weren't an emergency.'

'It's all right,' Flaherty began, 'we're-'

But Gorman cut him off. 'I have been examining my conscience now for months, and I don't know what else to do. I need for you to hear my Confession.'

Flaherty cocked his head at the man across from him. He seemed to have aged five years since they'd last spoken in May or June.

The light was dim. A crucifix, the only ornament in the room, hung over Flaherty's bed.

Gorman's eyes were tortured, pleading.

The Archbishop nodded once, boosted himself off the desk, and crossed to the bed. He put his hand behind Gorman's head and stood like that for a moment.

Then he went over to his dresser and picked up his stole – the sacramental cloth. Draping it over his shoulders, he returned to the bed, and sat down next to Gorman, making the sign of the cross.

Gorman began. 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I am living in a state of mortal sin, in despair.'

'God will give you grace, Gene. He won't abandon you.'

But Gorman didn't seem to hear. He continued. 'I am tormented by guilty knowledge and bound by the seal of the confessional. It's destroying me, Jim… I can't function.'

Flaherty began to offer his counsel to Gorman. This was one of the heaviest burdens of the priesthood – penitents had terrible secrets they needed to confess…

Gorman couldn't hold it in any longer. 'This was murder, Jim. Literal murder.'

Entering his apartment after another night on the town, Wes Farrell was confronting another of the deadly sins, pride. The headiness of his success had not obliterated his doubts about his friend nor any moral qualms concerning his strategies at the trial, but he would be damned if he would let any of that nonsense stand in his way now.

Winning was what mattered. Winners had to learn to ignore those small voices of discontent, the traces of timidity, that hampered lesser souls – that were, indeed, the hallmark of lesser souls.

Wasn't it De Gaulle who had said that to govern was to choose? Well, Wes thought that the sentiment translated well into his own situation. He would no longer consider other paths he might have taken, could have taken, that were perhaps more righteous and less ambiguous. No, he
had chosen
to believe Mark Dooher,
chosen
to defend him. And those decisions had elevated him in his community. And that was what mattered.

After a certain point, you just didn't have to think about certain things anymore.

He had been reading about his exploits every day, hearing himself described in the various media as brilliant, dogged, ruthless, even charismatic. He wasn't about to give any of this up by worrying too much about the vehicle that had propelled him to here. It was Faustian, perhaps, but he'd often said he'd sell his soul for this chance.

It might have disappointed him when he'd been younger and more idealistic, but right now all he could think was: I'll take it, I'll take it, I'll take it – and while we're at it, give me more.

The time was 11:15. He was entering his apartment, filled with these thoughts. A dinner at John's Grill had turned into a testimonial from some of the other diners who had recognized him. He was resolving to change his residence in the next couple of months, get himself another house and a house cleaner to go with it, a new car, fix up the office as befitted his station.

The telephone was ringing and he crossed the room, petting an ecstatic Bart, and picked it up.

'Wes. This is Jim Flaherty.'

The usually husky, confident tone was missing. 'Your Excellency, how are you?'

'Well, I'm not too good, to tell you the truth.' A long breath. 'I might as well come right out with it, Wes. I'm afraid I've decided I'm
not
going to be able to testify for you, for Mark, about his character.'

Farrell pulled out a kitchen chair and sat heavily upon it. He had been expecting to call the Archbishop tomorrow and wrap up his defense.

'But just two nights ago…'

'I realize that. I know. But something has come up…'

'What?'

Another pause. 'I'm not at liberty to say.'

'Archbishop, Father, wait a minute. You can't just-'

'Excuse me, Wes. This is a very difficult decision, one of the hardest of my life, but I've made it, and that's all there is to say about it. I'm sorry.'

The line went dead. Farrell lifted the receiver away from his ear and looked at it as though it were alive.
'You're
sorry?'

He put the phone down and stared at his wavy image, reflected in the kitchen window.

Flaherty sat, alone again, on the side of his hard bed. He'd wrestled with it for an hour or more, trying to find some other interpretation for Father Gorman's words. He grudgingly admired Gorman's decision the way he'd come to him for Confession. The strategy was, Flaherty thought, positively Jesuitical. Gorman never said Dooher's name, never even implied whether it was a male or a female who had committed the murder or, for that matter, whether it was one of his parishioners. He didn't, technically, break the seal of the Confession.

But there was small doubt about what he was saying, and none at all about whether it was true.