In the Company of Liars (10 page)

I
work at the city office of Dillon and Becker,” says the witness, Veronica Silvers.

Allison remembers her. This woman worked the reception at Sam's firm in the city.

“Let's turn to Friday, February sixth of this year,” Roger Ogren begins. The day before Sam Dillon was murdered. Allison remembers this day all too well, remembers storming into Sam's office. It's hard, that memory, the state she was in, and now hearing it aired in public.

“I'd say it was late morning,” the witness says. “After eleven.”

Allison wishes she could curl up under the table.

“She walked right past me. She was in a mood. She was looking for Mr. Dillon.”

“Was Sam Dillon in the offices that day?”

No.

“No. He was at the capital. I tried to tell her.”

“What did the defendant say?”

“She didn't seem to believe me. She walked past me and went through the entire suite. She really made quite a scene.”

Allison closes her eyes.

“She walked all the way through the offices, opening doors, calling out his name. I was following her, telling her she had to leave. But she wouldn't, not until she was satisfied that Mr. Dillon was not there. I—was about to call security.”

“And once she was satisfied that Mr. Dillon was not there, what did she do?”

“She left. She didn't say a word. She just walked out, very quickly.”

“Very good, ma'am.”

“And the next thing, she goes down to the capital to find Mr. Dillon.”

Allison's lawyer objects. This is outside this witness's personal knowledge, but really, what's the point? Everyone knows what Allison did next.

“Thank you, ma'am. No more questions.”

A
llison chooses not to even look at Troy Thompson as he takes the witness stand. This was the guy down at Sam's office in the state capital who caught Allison on her way in that Friday, after she had come from Sam's city office. She hardly remembers what he looks like and doesn't want to be reminded of anything that happened that day.

Ogren starts with the basics. Thompson is a full-time legislative research assistant for Dillon & Becker who works exclusively at the office in the state capital. On Fridays, when the receptionist doesn't work, Thompson also keeps an eye on the front door.

Roger Ogren takes a breath. “Mr. Thompson, let me take you back to Friday, February sixth of this year. Do you recall working that day, that afternoon?”

“I remember.”

“Did your office have any visitors that afternoon?”

“Yes. Jessica's mom,” says Thompson. “Mrs. Pagone.”

“We'll stipulate to the identification,” says Ron McGaffrey.

“Thank you, Counsel.” The prosecutor opens a hand to the witness. “Mr. Thompson, what time was this? When the defendant came to the firm.”

“It was, oh, just after lunch. A little after one.”

“And tell us, Mr. Thompson, if you can. How far a drive is it from the city to the state capital?”

“It runs about ninety minutes, if you avoid rush hour.”

Allison sighs. The point here, now clearly made, is that Allison went to Sam's office downtown and then, when he wasn't there, immediately drove straight down to the capital.

And that is exactly how it happened.

“It was just me and Mr. Dillon that day,” the witness says. “Y'know, Fridays, there isn't much happening, and Mr. Dillon had been away most of that week so he was catching up.”

“That's fine, that's fine. And what happened, sir?”

“I—well, the front door to our office opened, so I stuck my head out. I saw Mrs. Pagone. I started to say hi and she said to me—”

“Where is he?” Allison demanded. “Where's Sam Dillon? Don't lie to me, I know he's here.”

“I told her that he was in the back office and I would tell him she was here.”

“How did she respond?”

“She didn't. She just started walking back there. Walking very fast.”

“Can you describe the defendant's appearance, Mr. Thompson?”

“She was—well, out of breath, I'd say. Her face was all red. Her eye makeup was smeared. She was moving very quickly. She looked—really upset, actually.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, I followed her back there—y'know, so I could tell Mr. Dillon. But by the time I got back there, she was slamming the door behind her.”

“She slammed the door,” Ogren repeats. “And so what did you do?”

“I—nothing at first. I didn't want to stand outside the door or anything. I heard some yelling. It was her voice but I don't know what she said, exactly. I wasn't standing right by the door or anything. So—the whole thing was kind of awkward. I walked away and went back to what I had been doing.”

“What happened next, sir?”

Allison peeks at the witness for the first time. His face is colored slightly, his eyes downcast.

“Then I—I probably shouldn't have, but I went back to the door. Y'know, it was like, part concern and part natural curiosity.” He takes a breath. “I stood with my ear next to the door of Mr. Dillon's office and listened.” The witness blushes. No one likes admitting such things.

“What did you hear?”

“I heard Mr. Dillon.”

“What was he saying?”

“He was saying, ‘It isn't going to work out. Mat's a friend. This is crazy. You know that.' That kind of thing. That's the best I remember.”

Allison looks forward, trying to remind herself that the judge may be watching her. The witness, surprisingly, got it almost right. Most witnesses think they recall dialogue verbatim and events with a photographic memory, but it isn't so, there have been studies on such things, and Allison's job, when she was a public defender, often consisted of hammering home minor inconsistencies and elevating them to major discrepancies.

But this man on the witness stand came pretty close. Allison will never forget the words awkwardly spilling
from Sam Dillon's mouth. His slumped posture in his chair behind the desk, a hand on his forehead, his eyes on Allison.

This isn't going to work out. Mat—Mat's a friend. You know this is crazy. It always was.

“Mr. Thompson, you mentioned the name ‘Mat.' ‘Mat's a friend,' you said. Let me ask you, do you happen to know the name of the defendant's ex-husband?”

“His name is Mat,” he answers. “I know him 'cause he's a lobbyist, too.”

“Okay. What did you do next? What happened?”

“I moved away from the door. Because, I mean, it was a personal thing. It was none of my business. What can I say? I eavesdropped. I mean—she seemed so mad, I didn't know. You hear stories, people coming into an office and opening fire or something, irate clients, that sort of thing. But once I realized—it was, like, personal, he was breaking up with her—I moved away.” He raises his hands. “I—didn't even know they were dating.”

Ronald McGaffrey rises.

“I was there like a few seconds and then went back to my office,” the witness concludes.

“Objection,” McGaffrey calls out. “Move to strike any characterization that the decedent was ‘breaking up' with my client or that they were dating.”

“Sustained,” the judge says, without bothering to hear Roger Ogren's response. “That comment is stricken from the record.”

“What happened next, Mr. Thompson?”

“Mrs. Pagone came out about—gosh—maybe a minute later. She walked straight out of the office.”

“Did you speak with Mr. Dillon about it?”

The witness thinks about that a moment, his eyes drifting off. “No. I left about five—maybe a little before five. I went by his office. He was looking out his window. I said I
was leaving. He said, ‘Have a good weekend,' without turning around. That was—” Troy Thompson swallows on that sentence.

“That was the last time you saw Mr. Dillon alive.”

The witness nods.

D
etective Czerwonka,” asks Roger Ogren, “did you in fact speak with the defendant?”

“Yes, we did. This was Wednesday, the eleventh of February.”

“Where did you speak with her?”

“At headquarters. We called her and asked her to come.”

“Did she come with a lawyer?”

“No.”

“Did you advise her of her rights?”

“We did. She waived her right to counsel in writing.”

Roger Ogren admits into evidence Allison's signed waiver.

“What did you ask her?”

“We asked her if she was aware that Sam Dillon was dead. She said that she was. We asked her if she was involved in a romantic relationship with Sam Dillon. She said that she was not.”

Roger Ogren looks at Judge Wilderburth. His Honor must be sure, at this point in the trial, that this was a lie.

“She
denied
being romantically involved with Sam Dillon?”

“Yes. In fact, I asked her that question at both interviews. Wednesday the eleventh and Friday the thirteenth. Both times, she denied being involved with Mr. Dillon.”

“Okay. Let's stay with the eleventh. Did you follow up with her?”

“We asked her if she had gone to Sam Dillon's offices, looking for him, the previous Friday.”

“What did she say?”

“She didn't answer, initially.”

“What did
you
say?”

“I told her that there were witnesses. That people had seen her at both the city and capital offices of Dillon and Becker that day, Friday the sixth. And that she had been seen going into Sam Dillon's office at the capital and slamming the door shut, and she'd been heard yelling at him.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She didn't speak for a while. I would say about five minutes. Then she said, ‘It's complicated.' That's all she said. She got up and left.” The detective shrugs. “We had no basis at that time to hold her.”

“Was there anything about her personal appearance that struck you as significant?”

“Yes,” says Czerwonka, holding up a hand. “She had nails. They weren't particularly long but they were there. But the left-hand index finger—that finger had almost no nail. It was broken down past the fingertip.”

Allison curls her left hand into a fist.

“Were her fingernails painted?”

“Not at that time, no.”

“All right, Detective. What did you do next? After the defendant left the police station after that brief visit.”

“We got a search warrant.”

Roger Ogren shows Detective Czerwonka the search warrant and admits it into evidence.

“You searched the defendant's home?”

“Yes. The following day. The twelfth of February.”

“Can you tell us what you found, Detective?”

“We looked in her jewelry box. I did it myself.”

“What did you find?”

“We found one platinum earring—”

The judge takes notice of this. Chin lifting, mouth parting.

“—with a gold fastener.”

“Pure platinum,” the jeweler told Allison. “A polished finish. The post is fourteen-karat yellow gold. It's our finest.”

They were beautiful. Allison favored platinum, and she wanted to give herself something. Her novel had just been published. Mat had been generous with jewelry over the years, but it was always gold, and no matter how many hints she dropped, he never bought her platinum.

She put them on and looked into the small mirror on the counter. She had never bought herself jewelry before. But something felt right about it. Something about the very fact that she was doing it for herself. She had begun to do such things, as the separation from Mat was becoming more pronounced. It was with a small thrill, mixed with a deepening sadness, that she set down her credit card.

Roger Ogren walks from the evidence table to the witness, holding a bag containing the single earring.

“Is this the earring you found in the defendant's jewelry box, Detective?”

“That's it,” he says with assurance. “It obviously stood out.”

“And why did it stand out?”

“It stood out,” says the detective, “because it is identical to the earring that we found in Sam Dillon's house at the crime scene. It's the second earring of the set.”

Ogren shows the detective the other platinum earring, in a separate evidence bag.