Pop Goes the Weasel (30 page)

ELIZABETH “BOO” CASSADY was in her late thirties, slender and very attractive, with lustrous brown hair that she had worn
long since she was a young girl. She was a regular shopper at Neiman Marcus, Saks, Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s, and various
chic specialty shops around Washington. It showed.

She had gotten the nickname Boo as an infant because she always laughed and laughed whenever she heard the sound of somebody
playing peek-a-boo with her. She soon learned to do it herself, muttering “
boo, boo, boo, boo
.” In school, right through college, she kept the name, friends said, because she could be a little scary at times.

For her important day in court she’d chosen a single-breasted pantsuit, beautifully cut, very soft and flowy. Her outfit was
an eye-pleasing mix of coffee and cashmere cream. She looked like a professional person, and a successful one.

Jules Halpern asked her to state her name and occupation for the record. He was amiable but businesslike, a little cooler
than he had been with other witnesses.

“Dr. Elizabeth Cassady. I’m a psychotherapist,” she replied evenly.

“Dr. Cassady, how do you know Colonel Shafer?”

“He’s a patient of mine, and has been for over a year. He sees me at my office at twelve-oh-eight Woodley Avenue once or twice
a week. We increased the frequency of the sessions recently, after Mr. Shafer’s attempted suicide.”

Halpern nodded. “What time are the sessions?”

“Usually early evening. They can vary according to Mr. Shafer’s work schedule.”

“Dr. Cassady, I direct your attention to the evening of the murder of Detective Hampton. Did Geoffrey Shafer have a therapy
session with you that night?”

“Yes, he did. At nine
P.M
., from nine until ten. I think he may have arrived a little earlier that night. But the session was scheduled for nine.”

“Could he have arrived as early as eight-thirty?”

“No. That isn’t possible. We were talking to each other on cell phones from the time he left his house in Kalorama until he
arrived at my building. He was feeling a great deal of guilt about his latest dark mood’s coming too close to his daughters’
birthday party.”

“I see. Was there any break in your conversation with Colonel Shafer?”

“Yes. But it was a very short one.”

Halpern kept the pace brisk. “How much time passed between the time the two of you stopped talking on the cell phone and his
arrival at your office?”

“Two or three minutes—five at the most. While he parked and came upstairs. No more than that.”

“When he arrived at your office, did Geoffrey Shafer seem unsettled in any way?”

“No, not at all. He appeared relatively cheerful, actually. He had just hosted a successful birthday party for the twins.
He felt it had gone very well, and he dotes on his children.”

“Was he out of breath, tense, or perspiring?” Halpern asked.

“No. As I said, he was calm and looked quite fine. I remember it very clearly. And after the intrusion by the police, I made
careful
notes
to keep everything accurate and fresh,” she said, then glanced at the prosecution table.

“So you made notes for the sake of accuracy?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Dr. Cassady, did you notice any blood anywhere on Colonel Shafer’s clothing?”

“No, I did not.”

“I see. You saw no blood on Shafer. And when Detective Cross arrived, did you see any blood on him?”

“Yes, I saw dark stains or streaks of blood on his shirt and suit coat. Also on his hands.”

Jules Halpern paused to let everything sink in with the jury. Then he asked a final question: “Did Colonel Shafer look as
if he had just murdered someone?”

“No, certainly not.”

“I have nothing further,” said the defense attorney.

Daniel Weston did the cross-exam for the prosecution. He was twenty-nine years old, bright, quick-witted, a rising star—
and known to be a ruthless hatchet man in the prosecutor’s office.

Dan Weston was also good-looking, blond, and rugged. He got physically close to Boo Cassady. They made a fetching couple,
which was precisely the visual idea he wanted to communicate.

“Ms. Cassady, you weren’t Mr. Shafer’s
psychiatrist
, were you?”

She frowned slightly, but then managed a weak smile. “No, a psychiatrist has to be a medical doctor. You know that, I’m sure.”

“And you are not a medical doctor?”

She shook her head. “I am not. I have a doctorate in sociology. You know that, too.”

“Are you a
psychologist?
” Weston asked.

“A psychologist usually has a graduate degree in psychology, sometimes a Ph.D.”

“Do you have a graduate degree in psychology?”

“No. I’m a psychotherapist.”

“I see. Where did you train to be a psychotherapist?”

“American University. I graduated with a Ph.D. in Social Work.”

Daniel Weston kept coming at Cassady. There was hardly a beat between answer and question. “This ‘psychotherapy office’ of
yours at the Farragut, what sort of furnishings does it have?”

“A couch, desk, lamp. It’s basically very spare. Lots of plants, though. My patients find the atmosphere functional but also
relaxing.”

“No box of tissues by the couch? I thought that was a must,” Weston said with a wry smile.

The witness was clearly annoyed now, and maybe even shaken. “I take my work very seriously, Mr. Weston. So do my patients.”

“Was Geoffrey Shafer referred to you by someone?”

“Actually, we met at the National Gallery ? at the Picasso erotic-drawings exhibit. That’s been covered in depth by the press.”

Weston nodded, and a thin smile crossed his lips. “Ah, I see. Are your sessions with Geoffrey Shafer erotic? Do you ever discuss
sex?”

Jules Halpern rose quickly—a regular Jules-in-the-box. “Objection! Doctor-patient privilege. It’s confidential.”

The young prosecutor shrugged and flipped back his blond curls with his hand. “I’ll withdraw the question. No problem. Are
you a sexual surrogate?”

“No, I am not. As I stated earlier, I am a psychotherapist.”

“On the evening of the murder of Detective Hampton, did you and Geoffrey Shafer discuss—”

Jules Halpern quickly rose again. “Objection. If the prosecution is inquiring into the patient’s privileged disclosures—
”

Weston raised both arms in frustration. He smiled at the jurors, hoping they felt the same way. “All right, all right. Let
me see. I’ll take this out of the so-called doctor-patient realm and ask you, quite simply, if you, Ms. Cassady, a woman,
have had sexual relations with Geoffrey Shafer, a man?”

Elizabeth “Boo” Cassady hung her head and stared down at her lap.

Daniel Weston smiled, even as Jules Halpern objected to the question and was upheld by Judge Fescoe. Weston felt that he had
made his point.

“CALL DETECTIVE ALEX CROSS.”

I took a deep breath, composed my mind, body, and soul, then walked up the wide center aisle of the courtroom to testify.
Everyone in the room was watching me, but the only person I really saw was Geoffrey Shafer. The Weasel. He was still playing
the part of the wronged innocent man, and I wanted to bring him down. I wanted to cross-examine him myself, to ask the real
questions that needed to be asked, to tell the jury about all the suppressed evidence, to bring justice down on him with all
its crushing force.

It was a hard thing to have worked honestly for so many years and now to be accused of being a rogue cop, someone who had
tampered with evidence and perhaps worse. It was ironic, but now maybe I would have the opportunity to set the record straight,
to clear my name.

Jules Halpern smiled cordially at me as I sat down in the witness stand. He established eye contact, quickly looked over at
the jury, then turned back to me. His dark eyes radiated intelligence, and it seemed an incredible waste that he was working
for Shafer.

“I want to start by saying that it is an honor to meet you, Detective Cross. For years I, like most of the jurors, I’m sure,
have read in the Washington papers about the murder cases you have helped solve. We admire your past record.”

I nodded and even managed a grudging smile of my own. “Thank you. I hope you’ll admire my present and future record as well,”
I said.

“Let’s hope so, Detective,” Halpern said. He moved on. We parried for half an hour or so before he asked, “You suffered a
terrible personal tragedy a short time before the arrest of Colonel Shafer—could you tell us about it?”

I fought the urge to reach out and grab the polite-sounding, insidious little man by the neck. I leaned closer to the mike,
struggled for control.

“Someone dear to me was kidnapped while we were in Bermuda on vacation. She’s still missing. I haven’t given up hope that
she’ll be found. I pray every day that she’s still alive.”

Halpern clucked sympathetically. He was good, much like his client. “I really am sorry. Did the department give you adequate
time off?”

“They were understanding and helpful,” I said, feeling my jaw stiffen with resentment. I hated that Halpern was using what
had happened to Christine to unsettle me.

“Detective, were you officially back on active duty at the time of Detective Hampton’s murder?”

“Yes, I went back on full-time duty about a week before the murder.”

“Was it requested that you stay off active duty for a while longer?”

“It was left up to me. The chief of detectives did question my ability to resume my duties, but he made it my choice.”

Halpern nodded thoughtfully. “He felt your head might be elsewhere? Who could blame you if it was?”

“I was upset, I still am, but I’ve been able to work. It’s been good for me. The right thing to do.”

There were several more questions about my state of mind, and then Halpern asked, “When you found out that Detective Hampton
had been murdered, how upset were you?”

“I did my job. It was a bad homicide scene.”
Your client is a butcher. Do you really want to get him off? Do you realize what you’re doing?

“Your fingerprints were on Detective Hampton’s belt and on the dashboard of her car. Her blood was on your clothes.”

I paused for several seconds before I spoke again. Then I tried to explain. “There was a huge, jagged tear in Detective Hampton’s
jugular vein. Blood was everywhere in the car, and even on the cement floor of the garage. I tried to help Detective Hampton
until I was certain she was dead. That’s why my fingerprints were in the car and Detective Hampton’s blood was on my clothes.”

“You tracked blood upstairs?”

“No, I did not. I checked my shoes carefully before I left the garage. I checked
twice
. I checked because I
didn’t
want to track any blood up into the building.”

“But you were upset, you admit that much. A police officer had been murdered. You forgot to put on gloves when you first searched
the scene. There was blood on your clothes. How can you possibly be so sure?”

I stared directly into his eyes and tried to be as calm as he was. “I know exactly what happened that night. I know who killed
Patsy Hampton in cold blood.”

He raised his voice suddenly. “No, you do not, sir. That’s the point.
You do not
. In frisking Colonel Geoffrey Shafer, isn’t it fair to say that you were in physical contact with him?”

“Yes.”

“And isn’t it possible blood from
your
clothes got onto
his?
Isn’t it even likely?”

I wouldn’t give him an inch. I couldn’t. “No, it isn’t possible. That blood was on Geoffrey Shafer’s trousers
before
I arrived.”

Halpern moved away from me. He wanted me to sweat. He walked over to the jury box, occasionally looking back at me. He asked
several more questions about the crime scene, and then said, “But Dr. Cassady didn’t see any blood. And the two other officers
didn’t see any blood, either—
not until after you came into contact with Colonel Shafer
. Colonel Shafer was on the phone for three to five minutes before he met with his therapist. He went straight there from
his children’s birthday party.
You have no evidence, Detective Cross!
Except what you brought into Dr. Cassady’s apartment yourself. You have absolutely no evidence, Detective! You arrested the
wrong man! You framed an innocent man!”

Jules Halpern threw up his hands in disgust. “I have absolutely no further questions.”

I TOOK A BACK WAY out of the courthouse. I usually did that anyway, but on this day it was essential. I had to avoid the crowds
and the press, and I needed to have a private moment to recover from my time on the witness stand.

I’d just had my ass pretty well kicked by an expert asskicker. Tomorrow, Cathy Fitzgibbon would try to undo some of the damage
in cross-exam.

I was in no hurry as I walked down a back stairway that was used by maintenance and cleaning people in the building, and also
served as a fire escape.

It was becoming clear to me that there was a chance Geoffrey Shafer would be acquitted. His lawyers were the best, and we’d
lost important evidence at the suppression hearing.

And I
had
made a bad mistake at the homicide scene, when, in my rush to help Patsy Hampton, I’d neglected to put on gloves.

It was an honest mistake, but it probably created doubt in the minds of the jurors. I’d had more blood on me than Shafer.
That was true. Shafer might actually get away with murder, and I couldn’t stand the thought. I felt like yelling as I descended
the twisting flights of stairs.

And that’s exactly what I did. I yelled at the top of my voice, and it felt so damn good to get it out. Relief flowed through
my body, however temporary it might be.

At the bottom of the concrete stairs was the basement of the courthouse. I headed down a long, dark hallway toward the rear
lot where the Porsche was parked. I was still lost in my thoughts, but calmer after hollering my fool head off in the stairwell.