Konarth, Joe - Jack Daniels 02 - Bloody Mary (25 page)

“Well, I think I’ll give him a call, then. I could use the company. You work all day, and Alan spends all of his time locked in the bedroom, writing.”

I searched the fridge for a bagel, finding nothing but Alan’s health food. Soy and sprouts did not a good breakfast make. I chose some dark bread, and a non-dairy, low-fat, butter-flavored spread, which had such a long list of chemical ingredients on the package it should have been called “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Cancer.”

“Thanksgiving is next week.” I slathered the imitation stuff on the bread. “Invite him over for that.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll call him now.”

I took a bite, then spit the mouthful into my hand.

“What the hell is this?”

“Alan’s soy bread. He has that gluten allergy.”

I tossed it in the garbage. “It tastes like a sour sponge.”

“Steer clear of his breakfast cereal. Tofutos, they’re called. Beans and milk aren’t a tasty combo. And whatever you do, don’t let him make you anything in that juicer. He actually forced me to drink a celery sprout smoothie.”

Mom got on the phone, and I finished my coffee and headed to the criminal courthouse at 26th and California.

Someone had forgotten to tell Chicago it was still fall, because a light snow dusted everything and I almost broke my neck on a patch of sidewalk ice.

My car started on the second try, and I played how-slow-can-we-drive-and-still-move-forward with my fellow Chicagoans. The first snowfall of the season and everyone seems to forget, en masse, how to drive.

I was late getting to the trial. The courthouse, a squat square building, had free underground parking for city employees. Heated. I took an escalator up to the main floor, bypassed the line at the metal detector with a flash of my star, and took the second group of elevators to the twenty-seventh floor.

Court had already begun, and the tiny room was crammed full to bursting. I shouldered my way through the crowd and sat next to Libby, who wore a lavender Vanderbilt jacket and skirt like it had been designed for her.

Her co-counsel, a brown-haired, twenty-something prosecutor named Noel Penaflor, had Phil Blasky on the stand. Phil had on an ill-fitting suit and tried his best to explain, in layman’s terms, the results of Eileen Hutton’s autopsy.

“. . . thoracic cavity eviscerated and . . .”

I tuned him out, trying to organize my thoughts.

I didn’t look at Fuller.

As the litany of atrocities ensued, Noel introduced pictures of Eileen as evidence. First came pictures of her with family and friends. Then came the autopsy photos.

As expected, this caused a general uproar in the courtroom. But no reaction was more impressive than Fuller’s.

He vomited all over the defense team’s table.

CHAPTER 34

A twenty-minute recess ensued, and the courtroom cleared.

Libby seethed.

“That son of a bitch. He did it on purpose, didn’t he? How the hell did he do it?”

I shrugged. “Maybe he swallowed some ipecac, or something else to make him sick. Or maybe he can vomit on cue.”

“Have you ever seen that done before?”

I knew what Libby was asking; could I somehow discredit the vomit episode through testimony?

“Sorry. I’ve never seen it.”

She and Noel spent some time bantering back and forth. I went back into court and watched a janitor spritz the table with a disinfectant that smelled like oranges.

The trial progressed. Noel finished up with Blasky, which was followed by a brief cross-examination by Garcia. No redirect, and Blasky was excused and my name got called.

I took the stand and tried to keep the trembling under control.

Noel walked me through my testimony, and I gave a recount of the case, trying to remain professional and in control. The prosecution established me as not only a credit to my profession, but a hero as well.

I kept the dry spots to a minimum, elicited a few chuckles from the jury, and at the end of my statement repeated my encounter with Fuller at the jailhouse.

“So the defendant admitted that he was lying about the amnesia?”

“He did. And he said when he got out, he was going to kill again.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Me.” My voice cracked when I said it. “He said he was going to kill me, and my partner, Herb.”

Noel nodded at me, and I got a look of approval from Libby.

“Your witness.” Noel took his seat.

Garcia, plump and confident, approached me smiling.

“Lt. Daniels, you mentioned you’ve been on the police force for twenty years, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How many of those years have you been seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

Garcia smiled at the judge. “I’m simply bringing into question the lieutenant’s reliability as a witness.”

Libby stood up. “Your honor, the very fact that Lt. Daniels has been a member of the CPD for twenty years is enough to establish reliability. It is also mandatory policy after a shooting for a police officer to receive counseling.”

“Withdrawn.” Eric smiled. “And I’d like to thank the assistant state’s attorney for establishing that, as a member of the Chicago Police Department, an officer must surely have his mental faculties in order. Lt. Daniels, how long did you work with Barry Fuller?”

“Two years.”

“And during those two years, what kind of impression had you formed of him?”

“I didn’t know him personally.”

“Professionally, then?”

“He did his job, as far as I knew. I never had any problems with him . . . until I had to shoot him.”

That got a chuckle from the peanut gallery.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, how a twenty-year veteran, a hero who was responsible for bringing a heinous serial killer to justice last year, failed to realize the suspect she was chasing was working side by side with her all along?”

“Officer Fuller knows police procedure. Because he knows our methods, he knew how to avoid detection.”

“And did that bother you, him avoiding capture?”

“Of course it bothered me. It’s my job to catch murderers, and he was out on the streets, murdering people.”

“Did it bother you beyond a professional capacity? Didn’t it, in fact, get personal?”

“I keep my personal and professional opinions separate.”

“Even though Barry is one of your own? You don’t hold him in particular disdain, on a personal level?”

“No, I don’t. My disdain is purely professional.”

Another chuckle.

“Lieutenant, you testified earlier that, during your visit to Barry Fuller at Cook County jail, Mr. Fuller threatened you.”

“Yes.”

“During your conversation with him on that date, do you believe that you remained calm and professional?”

“Yes.”

“Not personal?”

“No.”

“Tell me, Lieutenant, is this your voice?”

He pulled a cassette recorder out of his pocket and hit the Play button. The female voice that emanated was both high-pitched and vicious.

“
Drop the act, Barry. I know you’re lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit.”

Both Noel and Libby screamed out objections, but my recorded voice could be heard above them, the murmur of the jury, and the sound of Judge Taylor banging her gavel.

“Objection, Your Honor! There’s no foundation for this tape. This wasn’t previously disclosed at the pre-trial hearing.”

“Your Honor, the State had prior knowledge of this tape, and they failed to give this to us in discovery. Full disclosure goes both ways.”

Libby made a face. “Foundation, Your Honor.”

Garcia smiled. “Witness credibility, Judge. Lt. Daniels has previously stated she clearly separates personal and professional opinion. The tape is a gentle reminder of her true opinion.”

“Privacy law, Your Honor. Lt. Daniels had no prior knowledge this tape would be used in evidence.”

“But she did have prior knowledge of the tape’s existence, Your Honor. In fact, she’s the one who created it.”

Judge Taylor turned to me. “Is that true, Lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll allow it.”

Garcia held up the recorder.

“Tape A for identification. Authentication by Lt. Jacqueline Daniels of the Chicago Police Department. Lt. Daniels, was that indeed your voice on that tape recording, made during your visit to the Cook County jail on October twentieth of this year, while interviewing the defendant, Barry Fuller?”

I felt ready to throw up myself.

“Yes. But that was taken out of context. There’s more.”

“I’d be happy to play the tape in its entirety. Let the record show that Tape A was identified and has been entered into evidence. Proceed.”

After a brief moment of rewinding, the courtroom filled with my recorded voice.

In context, I came off even worse. Fuller’s sobbing denial, and my escalating anger and accusations, destroyed my credibility.

The tape ended with Fuller asking me if I was wearing a wire.

“What happened after the tape was turned off, Lieutenant?”

“That’s when Fuller said he really remembered everything, and would kill me when he was released.”

“Why is it I expected you to say that? Even in view of your unmitigated, and very personal, hatred of my client, a wretched victim of a personality-altering brain tumor. I’m sure when he takes the stand he’ll have a different account of what happened after the recorder was turned off. No further questions.”

“Redirect?” Judge Taylor asked.

Libby stood.

“Lt. Daniels, why were you so hostile to the defendant in that tape?”

“It’s standard police technique. I was trying to get him angry at me, so he would talk.”

“And he did talk, after the tape was turned off?”

“Yes. Why else would he have asked me to turn off the tape?”

Libby turned to the jury. “Indeed. Why would he have wanted that tape shut off, if only to say something he didn’t want recorded? No more questions.”

“You may step down, Lieutenant.”

Good recovery, Libby. But as I left the stand I noticed disgust on more than a few faces in the jury box. I was no longer the hero.

When I sat down, I glanced over at Fuller for the first time all day.

He was staring at me, and our eyes locked. His face was a study in sadness. He let out a big dramatic sigh, for the jury’s benefit. Playing it to the hilt.

The judge broke for lunch, and I kept my composure long enough to get to the bathroom and splash some water on my face.

Libby walked in, and stood next to me by the sink. The bathroom was full, so I kept my voice down.

“How’d they get the tape? You’ve got the only copy.”

“And it’s in my office safe. They didn’t get my copy.”

She gave me an accusatory stare.

I sighed, too tired to get angry. “Give me a break. They crucified me up there. I want Fuller put away more than anyone.”

“All I know is, no one has touched that tape since you gave it to me. That means it must have been copied prior to my receiving it.”

I digested this.

“Unless we weren’t the only ones taping the conversation. What if someone put a wire on Fuller?”

Libby’s eyes got Betty Boop big.

“If there’s another tape, that means there might be a record of Fuller admitting to the lies.”

“Right. But who did the taping? His legal team? The prison? And even if we do find out who did it, how do we get a copy of the uncut version?”

“I know an audio guy. I’ll get a copy of Garcia’s tape, and compare it to yours. He should be able to tell if they’re from different sources. That’ll give me enough to be able to force Garcia into telling how he got the evidence.”

A woman came over to use the sink, and Libby buttoned her lip. We left the washroom.

“How about Fuller’s past?” Libby asked. “Any luck?”

“None. Maybe we could try Rushlo again.”

“I’ve tried four times. The guy won’t budge. His attorney keeps asking for extensions.”

“Why?”

“Rushlo wants to stay in jail. He’s afraid Fuller is going to get out and come after him. Jail is the only place he feels safe. He didn’t even try to make bail.”

“What’s he being charged with?”

“Two counts of accessory. We’ve got him dead to rights. He’s going away for a long time. But I’d trade that for Fuller in a heartbeat. The problem is, we can’t find any connection. We don’t even know how they met.”

I rubbed my eyes, yawned.

“How long has he owned the funeral home?”