A Picture of Guilt (7 page)

The judge looked at Brashares, then at me. “Sustained.”

“Let me rephrase that,” Brashares said smoothly. “Not being an electronics expert, perhaps you could explain the problem from a producer’s perspective.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Ryan shouted again.

“Will both counsel please approach the bench?” The judge rose and stepped to the side of the bar.

While the lawyers and judge whispered, I looked around. Mary Jo’s parents were sitting behind the prosecution’s table. Next to them was Rhonda Disapio. Mary Jo’s mother sat with her arms crossed, back straight. Her father stared at me with venom in his eyes. Only Disapio’s face seemed to hold open the possibility I wasn’t a lethal adversary.

I gazed at the row of people behind the defense table, wondering if any family members or friends of Santoro’s had come to the trial, but from their detached expressions and body language, I surmised that wasn’t likely.

Their side bar apparently now concluded, the two lawyers backed away from the bench.

“The objection is overruled,” the judge said.

Brashares smiled at me. “Now, Miss Foreman, how did the problem manifest itself on the tape?”

I described what RF can do on a tape.

“And the RF was evident on the shots—excuse me, the outtakes—of my client.”

“That’s right.” I was beginning to feel more comfortable. The questions were going the way Brashares said they would, and we were talking about subjects about which I had some knowledge.

Brashares moved to a separate table and picked up a videotape in a plastic sleeve. “Do you recognize this videotape?” He handed it to me.

“Yes. It’s the original tape that I gave you.”

“How do you know?”

I pointed to the label on the spine, which said Foreman Communications. “My label is on the edge of the cassette.”

“Is this the tape that shows my client on the bench in Olive Park?”

“Yes.”

“Does the tape fairly and accurately show how he appeared that day?”

“Yes.”

“And to your knowledge, has that tape been tampered with or altered in any way, since it was recorded?”

“No.”

Ryan scribbled furiously on his legal pad.

“Your Honor, I’d like to move this into evidence as defense exhibit number one,” Brashares said. “With your permission, we will play it for the jury.”

“Objection.” Ryan again. “Chain of custody. Where was the tape from the day it was made until now?”

Brashares’ eyes narrowed. “Counselor, I thought we worked that all out.” He turned toward the judge. “Approach the bench, Your Honor.”

The lawyers had another side bar with the judge, after which Brashares asked me a series of questions that elicited the fact that the tape had been in Mac’s tape library since we shot it, and that the tape library was locked and accessible to only two or three people. Ryan seemed satisfied and sat down.

Brashares wheeled a cart with a video player and monitor to the front of the room. The jurors leaned forward, and the room quieted. Brashares inserted the cassette and pushed Play. The tape was cued to the scene of Santoro on the bench. We heard the buzz on the track, saw the streaks on the picture. The entire scene lasted less than a minute, after which Brashares hit Pause. There wasn’t a sound in the courtroom. Brashares stepped toward the jury.

“Again, Miss Foreman, who is the man on the videotape?”

“It’s Johnnie Santoro.”

“And when was this shot?”

“July twenty-third of last year.”

“Thank you, Miss Foreman.” Brashares clicked his heels, turned around, and withdrew to the defense table. His face had a sheen, as if he’d just finished a five-mile run. He nodded to Ryan. “Your witness.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

I took a sip of water. The mood in the courtroom lightened. A low buzz came from the observers, and people seemed to relax, except for the Bosanick family, who sat tight-lipped and silent.

But when Kirk Ryan rose, the murmuring stopped. People shifted in their seats. A woman in the second row licked her lips. The door at the back of the courtroom opened, and my father walked in. How had he gotten downtown? He nodded at me and sat down in back.

Ryan, a squat man with the confidence of someone much bigger, pushed a hand through wavy blond hair. Pasting a smile on his face, he ambled toward me as if we had all the time in the world.

“Good morning, Miss Foreman. Nice to see you again.” He was referring to the deposition I’d had last week with his staff. Brashares had been right. They hadn’t been hostile; in fact, everyone had been quite polite. I returned a weak smile.

“You’re a documentary filmmaker, correct?”

“Not exactly.”

“You’re not?”

“I produce industrials—corporate sponsored videos.”

“But you did produce
Celebrate Chicago
for the city’s millennium celebration, which subsequently ran on cable television.”

“Yes. The City of Chicago sponsored that.”

“So.” He cupped his hands around an imaginary sphere. “Some of your products eventually do end up on television?”

I didn’t know where he was going, but I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it. “Yes.”

“And prior to being on your own, you worked at a television station producing news documentaries, correct?”

“Many years ago, yes.”

“Even so, would you say you have an understanding of the news process?”

“Objection!” Brashares jumped up. “I don’t know where this is leading, or how it’s relevant to the proceedings.”

“I’m laying foundation, Your Honor,” Ryan replied quickly.

The judge rubbed his nose. “I’ll allow it.”

“So.” Ryan turned back to me. “Miss Foreman, would you say you have an understanding of the news gathering process?”

“I suppose so.”

“You watch the news regularly?”

“Local or national?”

He dipped his head, as if to acknowledge I’d scored a point. “Let’s start with local.”

“Not that often.”

“Pardon me, but didn’t you say you recognized Johnny Santoro from his picture on the news?”

“I saw it in the newspaper.”

He ran his thumbs underneath the lapels of his suit. “So you do keep up with local news. Through the newspaper.”

I nodded.

“Please respond audibly.”

“Yes.”

“And when was it that you recognized Johnnie Santoro’s picture in the newspaper?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“But the crime with which Santoro is charged occurred over a year ago. Are we to believe that you, a former TV news professional, haven’t watched the news or picked up a newspaper in all that time?”

“Objection!” Brashares again. “The prosecution is assuming facts not in evidence.”

“I’m getting to them right now,” Ryan said.

“See that you do, Mr. Ryan,” the judge said.

“Well, Miss Foreman? Have you not watched the news or read a paper in that time?”

I squeezed my hands together. “Of course I have.”

“Then you know the Santoro case has been one of the major news stories of the past year, correct?”

I nodded.

“Please respond audibly.”

“Yes.”

“For someone who was once in the news business, someone who knows the value of timely information, someone whose shows are still broadcast on the airwaves, why did you wait so long to come forward with your…”—he made imaginary quotation marks in the air—“…discovery?”

“I didn’t realize that Mr. Santoro was the man on the intake crib video until last week.”

“But you read the newspaper, and you watch television. Tell me, how many hours of coverage do you think have been accorded to the Santoro case since his arrest?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would it be fair to say it’s been in the news frequently?”

“I don’t know.” My stomach was churning.

“Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Once a month, perhaps? And now, with the trial, even more?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“And in all that time, you haven’t seen one photo or image of Mr. Santoro until last week?”

“That’s right.”

“And that one image just happened to spark your memory?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that convenient?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

Ryan turned toward the jury, making sure they saw the smirk on his face.

Several jurors exchanged meaningful glances. I caught a glimpse of my father, a defiant glare in his eyes. My cheeks burned. Compared to this, maybe white-water rafting wasn’t so bad.

Ryan strutted back and forth in front of the jury box. “Now, Miss Foreman, you saw the defendant on a park bench July the twenty-third, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“How much time did you spend taking his picture?”

“About ten minutes.”

“And while you were there, you photographed other things besides the defendant, correct?”

“We were trying to find the right exposure.”

“Yes. Now, you arrived in the vicinity at about what time?”

“About twelve or twelve-thirty.”

“And you left at what time?”

“About one.”

“And when you left, you motored directly out to the intake crib, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Where you spent the next five or six hours, correct?”

“We wrapped about seven in the morning.”

“However, after you left the vicinity of Olive Park, you really have no direct knowledge about what transpired, either at the park or onshore?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled. The witness may answer the question.”

I looked at my shoes. “No.”

Ryan faced the jury and smiled as if he had just revealed an important piece of information. “Now, Miss Foreman, let’s talk a little bit about the damage to the tape for a moment. The alleged RF interference?”

I swallowed.

“What evidence do you have that the damage on the tape is indeed radio frequency interference?”

“I don’t—I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Let me clarify. Have you taken the tape in for any kind of technical analysis?”

“No, but I didn’t—”

“So you have no independent confirmation that RF interference really is the problem on the tape.”

“My director agreed that’s what it is. We’ve seen it before.”

“But you didn’t seek any kind of independent corroboration.”

“We didn’t need to. We knew what it was.”

“Based on your experience.”

“Yes. And that of my director.”

“All right. Given that you knew what it was, you still never discovered where the problem originated, isn’t that correct?”

“That’s true.”

“But it was serious enough that you wouldn’t have been able to use this tape in the final product. If the project hadn’t been canceled.”

“That’s correct.”

“So, on this damaged tape, you know what the problem is, yet you can’t adequately explain why it is there or where it’s coming from. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Very professional, Miss Foreman.”

“Objection!” Brashares yelled.

“The jurors will disregard that last comment,” the judge said.

“I apologize,” Ryan smiled, baring his teeth. “Let’s say we went back to Olive Park with a camera and tried to simulate the conditions that you found there. Would we be able to replicate the damage that we saw on your tape?”

The man was relentless. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

I hesitated. “RF interference can come from any number of different sources. And the tape didn’t have any damage on it initially.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I screened it after we shot it, and it was fine.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Brashares stiffen, but Ryan’s smile broadened, as if he knew he’d won big. “Let’s see. The tape was fine after you screened it, but now, a year later, it shows significant damage. And you testified that it’s been stored in a locked room at your director’s studio for over a year, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” I cringed. I knew what was coming.

“So, you don’t know where the problem came from, and it’s been a year since you looked at it. Yet you still maintain there’s no possibility the tape has been tampered with.” He didn’t wait for my response but whipped around to face the jury. “Thank you, Miss Foreman. I have no further questions.”

I sat on the stand for a moment, unsure who and where I was. Then I looked around the courtroom. A few faces looked back at me with sympathy, but most were curious, almost expectant, as if they were waiting for me to have a meltdown then and there. After all, I’d just been bushwhacked. Discredited. Hammered.

My father leaped to his feet and made his way to the door. In the space he’d occupied, I caught a glimpse of a man sitting behind him. Young, dark, somewhere in his twenties, he had crisp features with high cheekbones. Curly black chest hair poked through an open-necked shirt, and one arm was draped over the back of the bench. Even through my humiliation, I registered that he was sexy in a dark, Mediterranean kind of way.

I looked at him, hoping for a sympathetic nod or smile. He returned the look, but something on his face, a lilt of one brow perhaps, a narrowing of the other, gave me the feeling he could see through me and had decided there wasn’t much there. A twinge of uneasiness passed over me. Averting my gaze, I stepped down from the box.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

I testified on Wednesday, and the case went to the jury on Thursday. Ryan skewered me in closing arguments, implying I was the stupidest, most naïve documentary filmmaker in the world. Why hadn’t I come forward sooner? How did I know the tape hadn’t been tampered with? Why couldn’t I adequately explain the damage on the tape? Was I that technically incompetent? Either that, he said, or something else, something more sinister, was at work.

In either case, he declared scornfully, this was not an alibi. I might have seen Santoro at Olive Park, but what was to stop him from having traveled to Calumet Park either before or after? The tape was no more than a description of where Santoro ended up at a specific point in time. Indeed, when you added up the fingernail scrapings, the lovers’ argument, and the fact that Mary Jo’s body was found near his car, there was no way twelve intelligent jurors could possibly buy my story.