Fruits of the Poisonous Tree (34 page)

Moving in a fast shuffle around the less-frequented front of the building to the parking lot on the south side, I was shivering violently by the time I got to my car. Half bent over, my hand clutched to my stomach, I fumbled for the keys in my pocket, grateful that at least I hadn’t locked the doors.

Grateful, that is, until I got inside.

“Hi, Joe. Slip out the back door?”

Stan Katz sat in the passenger seat, looking smug and terribly pleased with himself. Trust him not to run with the pack.

“Get the fuck out of my car, Stan,” I said through chattering teeth.

He took the keys from my trembling hand and stuck the appropriate one into the ignition. “At least turn on the heater.”

I didn’t argue; but overcome by sudden nausea I had difficulty turning the key. The engine caught, and I tried to sit back, fighting the pain that was doubling me up.

Katz’s expression and attitude changed abruptly. “Jesus, Joe, are you okay?”

He wrestled out of his overcoat and tucked it around me, its warmth having as immediate an effect as the cold preceding it. “Give the motor more rev,” he ordered, sliding the heater control over to high. He watched me carefully. “Should I get some help?”

I shook my head. “I’ll be all right. Just give me a few minutes.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Nothing—you saw the mob. I guess it was the heat, then the cold, then the running. I’m not in too great shape yet.”

He turned the fan on high. The first hints of warmth were beginning to blow from the dash registers. “So, did you guys come up with something exculpatory on Vogel?”

I closed my eyes briefly, letting the growing warmth sink in. “Give it a rest, Stan.”

His voice rose several notches in protest. “Give it a rest? Fuck you. Did I park someone in the hospital hallway after you came out of your coma? Did I have a photographer stake out the farm so we could have shots of you limping around with Gail? No—”

“Fine, I get the point. You’re a saint.” I returned his coat, feeling much restored now that the heater had fully kicked in. “Look, let’s skip this crap. What do you want?”

“Last time we talked, I told you I wanted to turn the paper around—prove to the owners that a tabloid wouldn’t cut it in this town, but that I needed some cooperation.”

“I remember,” I said neutrally.

“Well, I’m not going to let you people read articles about your own department before publication, like you asked, but I can let you and Gail have your privacy and cut down on the titillation.”

I shifted my gaze from the darkened parking lot to his dimly lighted face, surprised at the passion in his voice. He had caught my interest.

I made a point not to show that. “So what?”

“So ask around. You’ve been out of touch the last month or so. The paper’s been hosting forums. It’s expanded the letter box to two full pages. We’ve invited guest columns about rape, and women’s rights, and sexual whiplash, and half-a-dozen other topics. I know damn well Dunn’s going wild up there right now, and that something’s about to turn this town inside out. This is my town, the
Reformer
’s town, and I don’t want to lose this story to all these fancy bastards from out of town.”

“We can’t give you an exclusive, Stan. That only happens in the movies. And I’m not going to give you anything right now.”

He nodded. “The headlines are common property—I can live with that. I want the inside stuff—the feature material. That’s what’s going to make my owners realize this tabloid angle is bullshit.”

I smiled in the darkness, constantly impressed by the man’s odd combination of energy and ego. Nevertheless, what he’d said had possibilities. “I’ll talk to Tony about it.”

He opened his door, letting in a wash of cold air. “That’s all I ask. So where’re you off to now?”

“Good-bye, Stanley.”

He laughed and slammed the door, walking toward the other end of the lot. Slightly off to one side, I thought I saw a quick flash of light and the sound of a door slamming, just as I had on the Wardsboro Road. Then as now, I waited for the expected roar of an engine and the ignition of a car’s headlights. But nothing happened.

I drove out of the lot, turned right onto Grove Street, and checked my rearview mirror for signs of anyone following. There were none. Of course, Vogel hadn’t known Willy and I were following him either, so many nights ago.

· · ·

The parking lot of the Barrelhead Bar was as still and vacant as the wasteland it resembled. At seven in the evening, it was still far too early for Ray Saint-Jacques’s regular crowd. Nevertheless, as implied by the anemic neon beer ads in the window, it was open for business—like some time-frozen, Depression-era snapshot, taken by a long-dead artist with an eye for forlorn irony.

Ray Saint-Jacques had testified this morning as part of Dunn’s opening salvo. Never one to start a trial with all the dull, picky, supporting evidence so precious to most prosecutors, James Dunn had an almost Shakespearean flair for presentation. He knew that his jury, like most audiences, would nod off if poorly entertained and end up giving him bad reviews regardless of how many thrills he provided at the end. Ray’s damning description of Bob Vogel’s verbal self-incrimination was perfect relief from such doldrums—like the sound of distant drumbeats, it had perked the jury up and made it attentive to whatever might next appear on Dunn’s theatrical landscape. From what Todd Lefevre had told me, Ray’s had been a muted, low-key, and therefore stellar performance, since everyone in the room knew where it was intended to lead.

It had also been, from the moment Willy and I had first heard it, a crucial turning point in the case against Bob Vogel—the key that had unlocked the search warrant to his trailer and fully revealed Vogel’s guilt. As such, it was also evidence I ranked high among that deserving a second look, and was something I wanted to pursue alone, at my own pace, away from the impatience and expectations of my colleagues. For while I trusted the competence of everyone I worked with, I also knew I was the only one convinced that we’d all made a terrible blunder.

The enormous, nylon-skinned waitress was back on her corner chair; Ray was behind the bar, polishing glasses that probably hadn’t seen use all day. The rest of the place was deserted.

I approached the bar unsteadily, a purposely bleary smile on my face. “Hi, Ray.”

“What do you want?” His voice was flat, his eyes watchful, taking in my small performance and weighing it against a half-million legitimate ones he’d been privy to over the years.

I raised my eyebrows and parked myself heavily on a stool, getting my hand tangled up in the pocket of my jacket as I did so. “Colder’n a witch’s tit out there. Give me a glass of something.”

He kept polishing his glass, now gleaming in the television’s reflected rainbow of changing colors. “Where’s your coat?”

I stared at him a moment, as if wondering what he meant, and then I dropped my eyes to my jacket sleeve. “Shit. Must’ve forgotten it someplace.”

I didn’t pursue the point, or ham it up beyond that. I perched on my elbows and lost myself in the eyes of a beautiful woman on the TV screen high above the rows of bottles opposite me.

Ray let a full minute crawl by, waiting for more. I refused to play. “So what’ll it be?” he finally asked.

I dreamily returned to him and the present. “I don’t know. A beer, I guess.”

Ray came back a minute later and put a chipped mug in front of me. “Five bucks.”

Barely taking my eyes off the set, I put the money on the counter without protest. He hesitated before removing it, as if allowing me one last chance to drop the playacting.

He became more direct then, blocking my view of the television. “Why’re you here?”

I blinked at him a couple of times, surprised by his aggressiveness. Either Ray was using me as a scapegoat for the humiliation he’d suffered from Willy earlier, or he was feeling hot under the collar for some other reason.

I passed my hand over my eyes and rubbed one of my temples as if massaging a headache. “For one thing, I wanted to thank you. Most of all, I guess I just wanted a change of scenery.”

“Thank me for what?” The hostility in his voice was slightly tempered by curiosity.

“Testifying the way you did—not that it did much good—but I appreciate it anyway.” I picked up the mug and buried my nose in it, wishing it smelled less like old socks.

He stood there for a moment, his interest beginning to gain the upper hand. “I just told them what I told you guys.”

I paused to wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Not quite—what he’d said on the stand had been a lot more damning. That, in fact, was why I was here—to find out why he’d fine-tuned his story. “Yeah, well, whatever.”

Absentmindedly, he took a couple of swipes at the stained bar top with his rag. “So what happened this afternoon, anyway?”

“Gail got raped twice, that’s what… I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

The rag froze in mid-wipe. “You mean that jerk’s going to get off?”

I put the mug back down wearily. “Don’t start, okay? I heard enough already. We did the best we could—you did, too. It’s just… Shit, I don’t know.”

The emotion in his voice was more intense than it should have been, considering that he’d told us earlier he hadn’t even known Vogel’s last name. “You’re shitting me. What about knifing you? He’s got to get serious time for that, ain’t he?”

I shrugged and fed his growing anger. “Maybe not. If he’s innocent of the rape charge, he can claim we pushed him into a corner and forced him to protect himself. He’s got a real good lawyer—he could be in here next month, drinking to your health.”

The rag was wadded up in his fist. “Not fucking likely.”

I raised my eyes to his. “Why not? This is his favorite watering hole. What do you care?”

He stepped away and threw the rag into the sink in disgust. “You guys. Don’t know from shit. That bastard owes me a bundle. He never paid his tab, and he never settled his bets. There’s no way that son of a bitch is coming in here again.” He walked toward the waitress, muttering, “Fucking deadbeat,” and then pointed a nail-bitten finger at her. “Nora, you stupid bitch. There’s nobody here. Get your ass out back and do something useful, for Christ’s sake.”

She slid off her chair as before and vanished without a murmur, Ray glaring at her and shaking his head.

I put the stale beer down, the need for pretense over.

Ray, as if sensing my eyes on the back of his head, slowly turned, his expression an oddly rueful mixture of self-revelation and shock. Seasoned snitch that he was, he knew that he’d just shot himself in the foot.

“You lied to us, Ray,” I said in a clear voice.

He made a dismissive gesture and gave me a lopsided grin. “You should talk… Christ’s sake—you know he did it.”

“He never bitched about not having an alibi, did he?”

“He came in that morning in the dumps.” His voice was slightly plaintive.

“And you laid it on thick because you had a beef against the guy. You saw a chance to stick it to him.”

He scowled at me, taking the higher ground. “I don’t believe this. You’re her fucking boyfriend. Why’re you busting your nuts for this creep? He fucks with everybody he meets, for crying out loud. All I did was help get the right thing done.”

“All you did was jeopardize the whole case. We used your testimony to get a search warrant, Ray. If that warrant’s ruled invalid now because you lied to us, then everything we got as a result of it is going to be thrown out.”

He spread his arms wide and raised his eyebrows, his face incredulous. “Then don’t tell anybody. Jesus—are all you guys this stupid?”

· · ·

I sat in the car outside the bar, torn between elation and dread. My goal from the start had been to find Gail’s attacker—for her sake and society’s, and perhaps also—in more primeval terms—to prove my worth to her. Now, while my intent was the same, my methods were going to shock a lot more people than just Ray Saint-Jacques.

If what I’d just discovered—and was legally bound to pass through Dunn to Tom Kelly—did contribute to a mistrial, then all I’d really done was destroy our legal case. I hadn’t actually proved Vogel’s innocence, much less someone else’s guilt. Everything we’d found in Vogel’s trailer still stood as damning evidence against him. But as I’d explained to the bartender, they could no longer be used.

There’s a whimsical legal phrase covering such a situation; tainted pieces of evidence, secured under what amounts to an illegal search, are termed “fruits of the poisonous tree.” Thinking of that now—the ironic duplicity of the image—I felt it applied to much more than just a legal sleight of hand. Its ramifications spilled over to color Gail’s and my relationship.

Of course, Ray’s story had been but one part of the affidavit used to get that warrant. If the rest held up, Dunn would still have enough to fight off Tom Kelly.

But I wasn’t betting on it—and it wasn’t going to be long before we all found out.

IT WAS CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT.
The entire detective squad—plus Tony Brandt, Billy Manierre, and Todd Lefevre—was crammed into the conference room. There was none of the usual chatter; everyone’s face was a study in apprehension, disappointment, or flat-out disgust. Looking around the table, I could see the emotional toll my news had cost them. Dedicated, underpaid, and generally viewed with skepticism or scorn, police officers tended to be a force unto themselves, self-effacing in public, seeking one another’s company when off duty, but finding strength in the conviction that, while they occupied the fringes of “polite society,” the very nature of their job helped give them a moral advantage.

They weren’t used to having that image tarnished, especially by one of their own.

I had been talking for a half hour, explaining step by step the realities that now faced us, trying to prepare them for what the morning would bring, but I couldn’t deny the humiliation they’d soon be suffering at the hands of a probing media and a judgmental public.

It turned out Ray’s faulty testimony had not been the only boulder to fall from the pile we’d stacked on top of Bob Vogel. Tyler had returned from the state police crime lab in Waterbury a few hours earlier with proof that the pubic-hair samples he’d gathered from Gail’s bed had no appreciable levels of nicotine, and thus couldn’t have belonged to Vogel. Furthermore, he’d reinspected the garbage I’d stolen from Vogel’s front curb, as requested, and found that a front-page fragment of an old newspaper, soiled almost beyond legibility, had someone else’s address label on it, opening up the possibility that Vogel had collected some of his mail the way we had—from the trash. Scrupulous to a fault now, Tyler had called Gail and asked her where she’d last seen her catalogue. She hadn’t been able to swear that she hadn’t thrown it out.