Presumption of Guilt (18 page)

They strolled down the street, gazing into the storefront windows of antique and art shops until it was time to head back to the court. Their next witness was waiting for them in the courthouse lobby.

“You’ll be the first one up when we reconvene,” Dani told him. “I really appreciate you coming here.”

“I feel it’s my duty,” the white-haired man said. “I’ve been troubled by my role for twelve years.”

Dani patted his arm. “Then I’m glad you’ll have the chance to help.”

The three headed into the courtroom and waited for the judge to return. Once he retook the bench and told Dani to proceed, she called Tony Winslow to the witness chair.

After the preliminary questions—name, address, occupation—Dani asked, “Were you a juror for the trial of Molly Singer twelve years ago?”

Murdoch shot out of his seat and shouted, “Objection.”

“Grounds?” Bryson asked.

“Relevance. Anything a juror from Singer’s trial has to say bears no relation to whether there are grounds for a new trial.”

“On the contrary,” Dani said. “It’s directly on point as to whether the new evidence we submitted had the probability to change the outcome of that trial. Who better to answer that question than a juror from that trial?”

Bryson rubbed his chin. “This is a new one for me. I’ll allow the testimony subject to a ruling later on the objection.”

Dani turned back to the witness. “Please answer the question.”

“Yes, I was a juror.”

“Would you describe the deliberations in the jury room?”

“Well, on the first vote, it was eight guilty and four not guilty. I was one of the four. I voted that way because I thought we needed more discussion.”

“And did a discussion ensue?”

“More like an argument. Most of the jurors thought there was no need to go beyond the confession. I mean, why would someone confess to a crime they didn’t commit?”

“And did you feel that way?”

“I have to admit, that confession was pretty persuasive. But she was just a kid. That bothered me. And I didn’t really see any motive for her killing her parents.”

“How long did the deliberations last?”

“Five hellish days, pardon the language. By the end, everyone just wanted to get out of there. Finally, those of us still holding out—and it was down to three at that point—figured if she confessed, she was guilty of something. So we went along. It’s bothered me all these years, though, her being so young, and pregnant on top of that.”

“If you heard evidence that her father had defrauded the county out of seven million dollars, that others had done the same, for a total of thirty-five million dollars, and if you heard that Joe Singer had been thinking of telling the authorities about his and the others’ theft, would that have changed your vote?”

Winslow sat up straight in his seat. With a loud voice, he answered, “You bet it would have. That would be a powerful motive for someone to kill him, to shut him up. I never would have changed my vote if I’d heard about that.”

“Thank you. I have no other questions.”

Murdoch walked slowly up to the witness.

“You said you’ve been bothered since the trial about your vote.”

“Sure have.”

“I’m sure all of us wish we had do-overs in life. Aren’t you here today to give yourself a do-over?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, isn’t it true that even if no other motive were presented, you’d still wish you’d voted differently?”

“I suppose that’s true.”

Murdoch turned to Judge Bryson. “Your Honor, I repeat my objection as to relevance. Many jurors regret their decision afterwards, both those who choose to convict and those who choose to acquit. It’s pure speculation for this juror to now say his position would have been different with new information about the jail. Faced with the defendant’s confession, it’s likely he would have done the same. I move to strike his testimony.”

“Your Honor,” Dani countered, “what greater proof can there be that had this evidence been available at trial, the result would have been more favorable to the defendant. It’s highly relevant.”

Judge Bryson looked at both advocates, scribbled something on a piece of paper, then said, “I have to agree with the State. The statute looks at what a reasonable person would think, not a specific juror. This witness brings baggage with him that may be clouding his judgment. His testimony is stricken.”

Dani fumed. How could the judge have dismissed the testimony so cavalierly? Shouldn’t she at least have been given the opportunity to brief the issue? “Preserve for appeal,” she muttered to the court reporter.

Murdoch smiled broadly, then moved closer to the bench. “It’s clear to me that, unless Ms. Trumball is prepared to offer definitive proof that a specific individual or individuals has committed the crime, everything we’ve heard so far is too nebulous to overcome the weight of the defendant’s confession. I move that the hearing be concluded and defendant’s motion denied.”

Dani turned from glaring at Murdoch to face the judge. “Your Honor, I’m not finished with my witnesses. I promise it won’t take much longer.”

Bryson sighed. “Go ahead, then.”

“I call Derek Deegan.”

The door to the hallway opened and a heavy man in his mid-forties, with coal-black hair and a handlebar mustache, slowly walked to the witness box.

“What is your profession Mr. Deegan?”

“I am a professor of law at Harvard Law School, where I teach criminal law. I have studied, and published numerous papers on, the issue of wrongful convictions. My research has included the phenomenon of false confessions.”

“Have you reviewed the files, including the confession, in Miss Singer’s case?”

“I have.”

“And have you reached any conclusions?”

“First, let me explain that since Ms. Singer’s conviction, a great deal has been learned about false confessions. Through examining those individuals whose convictions have been overturned as a result of DNA evidence, and who had confessed to the crime, studies have shown that the police telling a suspect false evidence exists is a common thread.”

“And was such a tactic used with Ms. Singer?”

“Yes. The police informed her that they had conclusive evidence tying her to the crime.”

“And that was sufficient to induce a false confession?”

“That’s the first step. The second is to provide the defendant with a reason why they don’t remember committing the crime. In Ms. Singer’s case, she had taken Ambien the night of the murders. The police convinced her that she didn’t remember murdering her parents because of the drug.”

“Ms. Singer recanted soon after. Is that common?”

“Yes, most defendants who have been persuaded to confess through the use of such tactics recant once they’re away from the interrogators.”

“Thank you, Mr. Deegan.” Dani turned to Murdoch. “Your witness.”

Murdoch stood but stayed by his table. “To your knowledge, do police often tell a defendant they have incriminating evidence when they don’t?”

“Yes, that’s fairly common.”

“And does that always result in the suspect admitting to a crime he didn’t commit?”

“Of course not.”

“And do criminals who confess to a crime and are truly guilty sometimes recant afterwards?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I have no further questions.”

“Is that it, Ms. Trumball?” Judge Bryson asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Murdoch, do you have any witnesses?” Judge Bryson asked.

“No, Your Honor. I’m satisfied that the defendant has failed to meet the heavy burden she has to show entitlement to a new trial.”

“Okay, then. Ms. Trumball, file your brief on why you think a hearsay exception applies by one week from today, and Mr. Murdoch, yours will be due a week after that. Include in your briefs any other arguments you wish to make about the evidence heard here today.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” they both said in unison. And with that, the hearing was over.

C
HAPTER

32

B
y the time Melanie and Dani left the courthouse, it was dark. Daylight savings time had ended a week earlier and the cool chill signaled that winter wasn’t far away. They walked in silence to the municipal parking lot two blocks away, the only sounds the clicking of their heels on the sidewalk. The confidence Dani felt over lunch had dissipated. Left was an uneasy feeling that she had failed her client.

Judge Bryson hadn’t asked for a summation—a marshaling of the evidence that favored granting their client a new trial—at the end of the hearing. “Put it in your brief,” he’d said. Dani knew that was never as effective as standing before a judge and describing why all the evidence she’d presented led to only one conclusion. The written word didn’t carry the same emotional punch.

The Catskill Mountains, which ringed the town, had disappeared in the dark. Only a few cars were still parked in the lot, and the sidewalks were devoid of pedestrians. The desolation of the town settled over Dani and magnified her own sense of unease. She was missing something. She knew it. People didn’t steal millions of dollars and go on as though nothing had happened. Yet it seemed as though they had. Was it Frank Reynolds? He still lived in the same house he’d owned for thirty years. He hadn’t taken any elaborate vacations, purchased any expensive cars or boats. Tommy had scoured the public records and found nothing. Still, for Joe and Quince’s scheme to work, they must have had people on the inside. Frank Reynolds approved the invoices from Building Pros. Was it incompetence? Even the state thought the invoices were legitimate. Still, it was Reynolds’s job to scrutinize each expense. Reynolds and—

Dani stopped. “We never spoke to the nun’s husband,” she said to Melanie.

“Huh?”

“The nun. I don’t remember her name. The one who was responsible for approving the construction bills along with Reynolds.”

“Mary Jane Olivetti. And she wasn’t a nun any longer.”

“Yes, I know. Tommy said she was married. He never spoke to her husband, though.”

They reached their cars, parked next to each other, and stopped. Melanie leaned against her Acura sedan and asked, “Do you think she was in on the scam?”

“I don’t know. But we have to find out. Tomorrow. It’s late now. Go home and get some rest.”

They got into their respective cars and drove off.

Was greed so pervasive that even a former nun would succumb to it? Dani wondered as she headed toward the thruway. Was there ever a point at which a person would be satisfied with the money he had? Joe Singer and Quince Michaels were living comfortable lives, with expensive homes and fancy cars. Why did they need to steal from the county? Taxpayers footed the bill for their avarice. People barely holding on to their homes as property taxes escalated paid more so Quince Michaels could have a mansion on the intercoastal and a boat to navigate the waterways. It sickened Dani.

She thought back to a trip she and Doug had made to South Africa, before Jonah was born. While in Cape Town, they visited the shanties of the poorest of the poor, one-room homes minimally constructed with colorful sheets of metal, barely standing upright. Yet, so many years later, she still remembered the faces of the children she met there, their happiness exploding in their smiles and playful energy. The people who stole from Hudson County had so much more, yet it wasn’t enough. Their greed led to the murders of Joe and Sarah Singer and Quince Michaels and placed eighteen-year-old Molly Singer, pregnant and an orphan, in jail for the rest of her life.

It was after seven o’clock and all the government workers had left for the day. Only Frank Reynolds remained in his office, along with Sheriff John Engles.

“How did it go?” Reynolds asked.

Engles had sat through the day’s court proceedings. “They know about Joe and Quince. Some expert—I think he said he was a forensic accountant—figured it all out. But only them. He knows there are others but doesn’t know who.”

“But what about Molly?” Frank asked. “Do you think he’ll give her a new trial?”

“Nah. Too risky.”

Frank felt a weight in his chest. It didn’t matter what the judge had said. Once Quince was found dead, Frank knew Molly was innocent. He’d never for a moment believed the boat explosion had been an accident. She didn’t belong in jail. She shouldn’t have spent twelve years there, her daughter taken away from her.

He could change her fate. He knew enough to blow open the whole case. Only doing so would put his own life at risk. And maybe Finn’s as well.

The next night, Tommy rang the bell of Burtram Olivetti. When the door opened, he saw a tall man, well over six feet, and rail thin. Olivetti held out his bony hand to shake Tommy’s, then welcomed him inside.

“I wondered when you’d get around to speaking to me,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because of Mary Jane. Her role approving the payments for the jail project.”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

Olivetti led Tommy into the living room. The home was a modest ranch house, identical to the others crowded together on the block. The sofa had started to show signs of wear, and the rug underneath it was threadbare. The Subaru parked in the driveway was at least six years old. It didn’t seem to Tommy like the home of someone who’d pocketed money from the jail project.

“First, let me say I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. It’s been twelve years, but it seems like yesterday.”

“Do you mind my asking, how did the accident occur?”

Olivetti quickly responded, “It wasn’t an accident.”

Tommy looked at him quizzically and waited for an explanation.

“The police said it was, of course. The roads were slippery. They claimed she’d lost control of the car. But Mary Jane was a very cautious driver. Always had been, even in the best conditions.”

“Was there an investigation into the accident?” Tommy asked. “Maybe to see if there had been any tampering with the car?”

“The car was destroyed. Even if they took my concerns seriously, it would have been hard to tell.”

“Other than how cautious she was as a driver, is there any other reason you’re so sure it wasn’t an accident?”