Murder One (42 page)

“When you describe an alarm triggering a dedicated cellular connection to one of your interconnected monitoring systems, is that a fancy way of saying that when an alarm is triggered, your center gets a call?”

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“Does your department keep records of when the security system of a particular residence is tripped and an alarm is activated?”

“The date and time are automatically recorded by the computer and supplemented by the technician.”

“And how does the technician supplement the record?”

“The technician calls the residence to determine the nature of the alarm—whether it requires a police or emergency personnel response or if it is a false alarm.”

“How can the technician tell the difference?”

“If no one answers the telephone at the residence the technician is trained to immediately dispatch the call to the local police or emergency personnel. If the telephone is answered, then the technician asks the person to provide a password for their system. If the person provides the password, the technician does not act further. If they cannot, we dispatch the call.”

“The subpoena served on you today requested that you bring certain records with you. Did you do that?”

Russo held up the file from his lap and confirmed he had brought records for the security system installed at Barclay Reid’s home on Queen Anne Hill.

“And do those records include August twenty-third of this year?”

Russo nodded. “Yes, I brought it.”

“Can you tell the jury what that record shows?”

“It shows that the alarm was tripped that day at twelve-fifty-four in the afternoon.”

“And was that call dispatched to police or to emergency personnel?”

Russo studied the record. “No, it was not.”

“Does the record indicate why not?”

“The technician noted that she called the residence and spoke to a person who provided the password for the system.”

“And what was that password?”

Russo spelled it. “L-E-E-N-I-E.”

Sloane paused for a moment. “Did the technician note the identity of the person she spoke with?”

“Yes. They’re trained to get the name of the person.”

“And what name is reflected on the record for August twenty-third at twelve-fifty-four in the afternoon?”

“The person identified themselves as the residence owner, Barclay Reid.”

Cerrabone deferred his cross-examination. He looked perplexed by the testimony. So did some of the jurors. After Russo departed, Sloane called Nina Terry, Barclay’s assistant. She was the first person to enter the courtroom and smile when she looked at Barclay. It wasn’t a big-toothed grin, just a thin-lipped statement that conveyed Terry believed Reid innocent.

“How long have you worked as Barclay’s assistant?” Sloane asked.

“We’ve been together nearly fifteen years,” she said.

“How many hours a day are you at the office?”

Perhaps in her midforties, Terry smiled and folded her shoulder-length, auburn-tinted hair behind an ear. In a cream-colored turtleneck sweater and champagne slacks, she looked like the CEO of her own company. “Well, I don’t think I need to tell you that the hours can fluctuate. Normally, I work eight to five, five days a week. But I’m usually at my desk by seven-forty-five, don’t leave until six, and sometimes work Saturday and Sunday, when we’re in trial or especially busy.”

Sloane would have paid to have Carolyn sitting in the gallery for that answer. “As Barclay’s assistant, you keep her professional calendar of appointments?”

“I keep her professional and her personal calendars,” Terry said. “It just made sense for me to keep both to avoid unnecessary conflicts or mixups.”

“Do you keep it on the computer, or do you keep an actual physical calendar?”

“I use both,” she said. “The computer allows Barclay to access her calendar remotely, and the hard copy gives me something at my fingertips when I need it.”

“And did you bring the physical copy of that calendar with you today, as I requested?”

“I did.”

“Before we get to it, let me ask you this. I would imagine, spending so many hours in Barclay’s company over the years, that you have come to experience just about every one of her moods.”

Terry responded with another poorly concealed smile. “Oh, yeah,” she said in a tone that drew chuckles from the jury. “Practicing law lends itself to mood swings. I’ve yet to work for an attorney immune to it.”

Sloane let the jury enjoy the answer. “You’ve seen her angry?”

“Yes.”

“And sad?”

“Yes.”

“Happy, depressed, contemplative?”

“All of those things,” Terry said.

“Have you ever seen her violent?”

Terry shook her head. “No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Has she ever raised her voice at you in anger?”

“She’s raised her voice, but I wouldn’t call it in anger—more like frustration at something that has happened. She’s not a robot, though given the amount of work she generates, sometimes I wonder.”

The jurors again chuckled.

“Have you ever felt threatened by Barclay?”

“Never.”

“Let’s take a look at her calendar. Were you working Wednesday, September seventh of this year?”

Terry looked at the calendar. “Yes, I was.”

“And do you recall if Barclay was in the office that day?”

“She had a meeting at eight that morning and another at one. She also had a court appearance late that afternoon. I do remember the morning meeting because I set up the conference room.”

“Do you recall what time she got to work that morning?”

“I recall that she was already at her desk when I arrived at seven-forty-five. That’s when I go in and we discuss what is on her calendar for the day and any changes.”

“So you spoke to her that morning?”

“Yes.”

“You observed her demeanor?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us how she seemed to you?”

Terry shrugged. “She seemed like she always does. She seemed fine.”

“You didn’t notice anything different about her demeanor than any other typical morning?”

“Nothing at all.”

“She didn’t look exhausted?”

“No.”

“Nervous, anxious?”

“No.”

“And did she make it through all of her appointments that day?”

“She did.”

“Anything out of the ordinary happen that day?”

“You came that day.”

“Explain that to the jury.”

Terry related how Sloane had called and asked to speak to Barclay, then appeared in the lobby and asked again, which resulted in a short meeting in the conference room.

“And after I left, did you speak to Barclay?”

“She told me that you told her that Mr. Vasiliev was dead; that someone had shot him.”

“Again, based on your fifteen years and thousands of hours working with Barclay, can you describe her demeanor when she gave you that news?”

“She seemed . . . I don’t know.” Terry looked across the courtroom at Reid. “Honestly, she seemed sort of saddened by it. After she told me, she sort of shrugged and shook her head. Then she went into her office and closed the door. ‘Depressed’ might be the best way to describe her mood.”

Sloane asked Terry to open Barclay’s calendar to August 23. “Can you tell me what was on her schedule that day?”

“That’s an easy one. That was the Bergstrom mediation with Judge Peters.”

“How is it you remember that mediation?”

“It was a significant case in the office, and we were trying to get it settled before trial. If a case doesn’t settle, then it’s Katie-bar-the-door, and that makes my life a lot more challenging. We go into trial mode.”

“Where was the mediation held?”

“In our offices. I commandeered three conference rooms to accommodate all the sides. I wasn’t the most popular person in the office that day.”

“What time did the mediation start and finish?”

“I recall that we went from nine in the morning and didn’t get the final paperwork signed until after nine o’clock that night. I know because Barclay asked me to stay and type it up.”

“Did they break for lunch?”

“They did, but I ordered in sandwiches for Barclay and our clients.”

“She didn’t leave the office?”

“Not for a minute. Not until after nine that night.”

Sloane let that piece of information sit with the jury as he flipped through his notes—the obvious question being how Barclay could have answered the security company’s telephone call to her home and provide the password if she was in the office all day.

Cerrabone kept his cross-examination brief. “During all of the hours that you’ve spent with Ms. Reid, have you ever seen her hide her emotions?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“There must have been occasions when you knew Ms. Reid was angry or upset or saddened by something but didn’t want to show others, like a client or staff, and so she hid or suppressed those emotions.”

“Yes, there have been those occasions.”

“Would January fourteenth be one of those occasions?”

Terry flipped through her calendar. “I don’t know.”

“Ms. Reid was in the office that day, wasn’t she?”

Terry considered the calendar. “She had appointments.”

“Is there anything to indicate she canceled those appointments or rescheduled them?”

Terry flipped through the pages. “Not that I recall or see.”

“Nothing to indicate she left work early that day or otherwise didn’t keep her appointments.”

“No. Nothing.”

“And yet that was the day after her daughter’s funeral, wasn’t it?”

Terry looked stricken. She glanced at Barclay, then back at Cerrabone.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was.”

Cerrabone paced before the jury. “Has Ms. Reid ever forgotten something at home and asked you to get it for her?”

Terry considered this. “I can recall one occasion.”

“How did you get in the house?”

“She gave me the key.”

“What about the code?”

“She gave me the password.”

Cerrabone looked to the bench. “I have no further questions at this time.”

When Cerrabone sat, Sloane stood for redirect. “Were you surprised to see Barclay the day after Carly’s funeral?”

“Not particularly.”

“Why not?”

“Because she told me at the reception that she would be in.”

“She told you at the reception following her daughter’s funeral that she intended to go to work the next day?” Sloane raised his voice to sound incredulous. “Did she say anything further?”

“She said she had to . . . she had to keep herself busy, keep her mind occupied, that if she didn’t, she’d go crazy.” Terry shrugged.

“And on August twenty-third, the day of the Bergstrom mediation, did Barclay send you to her home at twelve-fifty-four in the afternoon to get anything that she forgot?”

“No.”

“Are you aware whether she sent anyone to her home at twelve-fifty-four that day?”

“I’m not.”

After Underwood excused Terry, Sloane called Shawn Cortes to the stand, Cortes being the second of the two added witnesses. In her early twenties, Cortes had a purple streak in her dyed red hair. A small diamond stud pierced her right nostril. She wore black boots into which she’d stuffed green cargo pants, and a black T-shirt with the image of Jimi Hendrix, who had likely been dead nearly two decades before she was born. Cortes explained that for the past six months she had been employed as a receptionist for a group of doctors at a building in Bellevue.

“Is Dr. Felix Oberman one of the doctors in the group for which you serve as receptionist?” Sloane asked.

“Yes.”

“What are your duties as a receptionist?”

“Uh, I answer the phone?”

The jurors chuckled.

“And do you advise the person who has called whether the particular doctor is available or not available?”

Cortes continued to grin as if she had walked into the easiest pop quiz in history. “Uh, yeah.”

“So if a doctor is on his phone, you tell the caller that the doctor is unavailable, right?”

She shrugged. “Or I ask if they want to hold or be put into the doctor’s voice mail. It’s really not that complicated.”

“What if the doctor is out of the office, what do you tell the caller?”

The sardonic smile returned. “That he’s out of the office?”

More chuckles from the jurors.

“How do you know that a particular doctor is out of the office at that particular time and not just in the bathroom or down the hall getting a cup of coffee or glass of water?”

“They’re supposed to tell me when they leave and when they come back.”

“Do you note this somewhere?”

“I note it on a sheet at the desk.”

“You note when a doctor leaves the building and when he returns?”

“There’s a box next to the doctor’s name. You just write in the times.”

“What are those sheets called?”

“Daily records?” She made it sound like a question.

“And you keep one of these daily records every day that you’re the receptionist?”

She nodded. “That’s why they’re called
daily
records.” She was enjoying her time in the spotlight and was playing to the jury.

“Are they dated?”

“You write in the date in the upper-left-hand corner.”

“What do you do with the sheet at the end of the day?”

“File it in a drawer behind the desk.”

“How long are they kept?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Did you bring the file of daily records with you today?”

Her eyebrows peaked, and she held up the file in her lap.

“Would you open the file and find the sheet for August twenty-third of this year?”

Cortes took some time to flip through the sheets. Sloane was glad she did. The jurors watched intently, wondering what was to come. She pulled out a sheet, considered the date at the top, and held it up.

“Did you find the daily record for August twenty-third?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And do you recognize the handwriting on that document as yours?”

“Yep, it’s mine.”

Sloane further authenticated the document, asked the clerk to mark it, and moved to introduce it into evidence. Cerrabone did not object.