Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (39 page)

“Yes, I assume there are addicts who do not show weight loss,” Dr. Swante said. He was digging himself in deeper and deeper.

“So, Doctor Swante, is it now your testimony that Benita Gonzales could have been an addict?”

“I still believe it is unlikely this woman was a frequent user.”

“But you didn’t answer my question. You said it was unlikely but possible—especially if she mixed cocaine with milk and ate lots of food. Then she could have been a frequent user without showing any traditional signs, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, I will acknowledge that she could have been a frequent user.”

In a matter of minutes, Pisani had gotten Dr. Swante to completely reverse his earlier testimony.

Continuing, Pisani said, “Isn’t it true, Doctor, that cocaine addicts experience physical exhaustion and depression—wild mood swings. Don’t they exhibit what is known as ‘cocaine blues’ for several weeks after they come down from a high?”

“I object,” I said. “If Mr. Pisani wants to offer testimony, he needs to be sworn in.”

“I’ll rephrase my question. Isn’t it true, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, that persons who frequently use cocaine often show signs of erratic swings in their moods, including signs of severe depression?”

“Yes,” Dr. Swante said. “That is an accurate statement. Studies have shown that frequent users of cocaine suffer feelings of hopelessness and depression.”

“Now, Doctor, isn’t it also true, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, that feelings of hopelessness and depression can lead to suicide?”

“I object,” I said. “Doctor Swante is a forensic pathologist, not a psychiatrist.”

“Sustained.”

Pisani looked at me, smiled smugly, and said, “As a forensic pathologist, is there any scientific test that you can perform during an autopsy that would reveal if someone was depressed or hopeless when they died?”

“There is no such medical test,” Dr. Swante testified. “I have no idea about what this woman’s state of mind was when she died. I can only tell you that she died from an overdose of cocaine.”

“Just to be clear. You cannot tell us if this woman was depressed. Also, your testimony now is that there is a possibility that Benita Gonzales was a frequent user of cocaine. Is that correct, sir?”

“I object. He’s already been asked and answered that question.”

“Overruled. Answer the question.”

“In my medical opinion, I do not believe this woman was a frequent user of cocaine, but I will admit once again that there is a possibility that she was one, and I do not know if she was depressed.”

During the next several minutes, Pisani grilled Dr. Swante about various notes that he’d taken during the autopsy. The shrewd defense attorney wasn’t as interested in what Dr. Swante had written as much as he wanted to point out to jurors that Dr. Swante had been rushed and not as thorough as he should have been.

“In retrospect,” the witness acknowledged, “I should have taken more time with this autopsy.”

Satisfied, Pisani said, “You originally ruled that Benita Gonzales had committed suicide either intentionally or unintentionally. You have just testified that you now believe her death was suspicious. What new scientific evidence changed your mind?”

“There was no new scientific evidence. I changed my mind when I reread my notes.”

“Notes that you just admitted had been rushed and were somewhat incomplete, is that correct?”

Pisani had Dr. Swante squirming and he was not about to ease up. “Doctor Swante, who asked you to take a second look at your notes?”

“The D.A.’s office.”

“Because Ms. Fox asked you—that’s why, is that your answer? She told you that she wanted to charge my client so you changed your mind.”

“No, there was no mention of criminal charges.”

“Please, Doctor Swante, are you asking this jury to believe that Ms. Fox would ask you to take a second look at your notes if she didn’t plan on charging my client? After all, she is in the business of prosecuting people, is she not? And you told her what she wanted to hear, is that correct?”

“She asked me to take a second look. I did and I changed my mind.”

Pisani said in a voice edged with disgust, “You looked and changed your mind, I see. I have no more questions.”

In my redirect, I attempted to undo the damage that Pisani had done to Dr. Swante’s credibility. But I knew it was too late. He’d come across as being sloppy and weak-kneed. Still I wasn’t too concerned, because I’d managed to get a key piece of evidence into the record.

Benita Gonzales had drunk milk laced with cocaine. Pisani had not disputed that. My next challenge would be proving who had put that fatal dose of cocaine into her drink.

49

After Dr. Swante stepped down, judge Morano adjourned court for the day. I needed to prepare for tomorrow, so I walked across the street to my office. Everyone had gone home, which guaranteed me solitude. Just before eight p.m., I ordered a pizza, and twenty minutes later, I heard someone knock on our locked front door. Grabbing my purse, I started down the hallway.

My office is in the far rear corner of our suite. The front of our building has plate-glass windows from the waist up because it was formerly a store. We’d painted the glass to protect the privacy of our clients, but our front door was clear glass.

I expected to see the pizza boy waiting, but when I approached the door, no one was there. He must have given up, I decided. I’d been so engrossed in my work, I wasn’t certain how much time had passed between his first knock and me hearing him.

I reached to unlock the door, thinking I would go outside to see if the delivery guy was still lingering around with my dinner. As I began turning the dead bolt, a man leaped in front of the door. He was wearing a black ski mask and he grabbed the door from the outside and jerked on it with his right hand.

Startled, I stepped back and screamed. Although the dead bolt was half turned, it held. The man raised both of his arms above his head and I saw that he had been carrying a baseball bat in his left hand. He swung the wooden bat down into the glass door, sending cracks in a thousand different directions but not breaking through the thick pane. He raised it again.

I remembered the pistol in my purse this time, and I fumbled to find it. The instant I raised the .357 snub nose, the attacker ducked sideways out of my sight.

Although I was armed, I wasn’t going to risk unlocking the door and going out after him. With my pistol still aimed at the shattered door, I moved to the reception desk and, with my left hand, picked up the telephone, dialing 911.

“This is Assistant District Attorney Dani Fox,” I said breathlessly. “I’m at the Domestic Violence Unit office across from the courthouse and someone has just smashed our front door with a baseball bat! He still might be outside!”

The dispatcher told me to stay on the line, so I continued to stand next to the reception desk with my left hand holding the phone to my ear and my right hand on the .357’s trigger. Within seconds, I heard the sound of a siren, and then the shape of a figure appeared at the door. Because of its shattered glass, I couldn’t make out who was outside, so I kept my finger on the trigger, resisting the urge to fire blindly.

Flashing red lights suddenly appeared. Someone yelled, “Drop it! Hands in the air!”

“The police have a suspect,” the dispatcher told me over the phone. Lowering my handgun, I unbolted the half-locked door and stepped gingerly into the evening air.

Two White Plains police officers had a young man in handcuffs. Next to him on the sidewalk was a pizza box. He was not wearing a black ski mask or dark clothing. By the time O’Brien arrived, the frightened pizza boy had been freed and the officers were checking the area for the masked attacker.

“Glad you found your gun?” O’Brien said.

“Glad I didn’t just shoot the pizza guy.”

Examining the cracked door, I said, “Do you think he was just some angry husband or was he trying to break in because he knew I was here?”

“Did he look familiar?”

How did I know? I wasn’t used to seeing men in black ski masks. Besides, it had happened so fast. I had a new appreciation for witnesses when they were asked in court to describe their assailant.

“He was dressed in black—black boots, black jeans, black jacket, black gloves, and black ski mask with two holes for the eyes and one for his mouth. Obviously, that means he’d planned this beforehand and didn’t just show up with a bat. But I have no idea if I’ve ever seen him before.”

“Height, weight?”

“I remember the bat. It was a Louisville Slugger.”

“Did he look like Rudy Hitchins or Juan Lopez?”

“I wish I knew. If it had been one of them, I would have shot first and asked questions later.”

O’Brien said, “Just wondering. When Hitchins was in high school, he played a lot of ball. In fact, he was a pretty decent player. His pals used to call him Slugger.”

50

Day two of the murder trial began precisely at nine a.m. on a Thursday with me calling my second witness, Benita’s stepson, Hector. I called him because I needed to get the Polaroid photograph of Benita Gonzales on the day that she’d died introduced into evidence.

As required by New York law, the photograph of Benita holding little Adolpho while sitting on the lap of a shopping mall Santa Claus had been shown to Paul Pisani during pretrial discovery.

Hector had taken the snapshot with the family’s Polaroid camera, so I asked him if he had seen the picture, where it had come from, and whether it was the photo that he had taken of his deceased stepmother. He correctly identified it. Hector further testified that he was familiar with the scene depicted in the photograph and that it was a fair and accurate representation of his stepmother at the time taken. These were all procedural steps that I had to undertake in order to get the snapshot admitted.