“When did you plan on calling Dr. Enloe?” the judge asked. “How far into your case?”
“Probably next week, when I’ve completed the forensics.”
“Judge, you’re going to have to take that testimony subject to connection,” Howell said, gesturing with his gold pen. “If Ms. Cooper fails to provide any evidence that links my client to the murder, then the prejudicial nature of this woman’s testimony would far outweigh any probative value.”
Howell could tell that Gertz was beginning to lean in my favor. His best hope was to force me to save the expert until the end of my case, hoping-or knowing-that Marley Dionne, my snitch, might be lost to me.
“I don’t mind holding Dr. Enloe until that link is established,” I said. I wasn’t about to let Lem Howell dictate my order of proof, but I was confident that leaving the jurors with Enloe as their last witness could be a powerful way to arm them for their deliberations.
“I’ll reserve decision on your application, Ms. Cooper. At the moment, I’m inclined to take the doctor’s testimony, so have her on standby once you’ve proved the elements of your case.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Get Artie back in here,” Gertz said to one of the two officers standing behind the prisoner.
It was unorthodox to leave a homicide defendant in the care of one guard. And Lem would normally have been the first to remark on how different the rules were for a white businessman who had no violent criminal history. The short, stocky woman in the crisp white shirt and tight navy serge pants that bulged at the hips with her holster and gun pointed to her young colleague and sent him to find Artie.
The judge stood up and flipped his papers impatiently. “You have any witnesses here, Alex, if we get our panel in by the afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. I’m ready to go.”
“Just to be clear, Judge,” Lem said, “we have the day off tomorrow, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. We promised that to Ms. Cooper. She’s moving in on my turf, Lem,” Gertz said, signaling to the reporter that we had gone off-the-record. “Is this legit, Alexandra? This is going to be legal?”
“Chapter 207, Section 39, of the Massachusetts General Law. One of my dearest friends is getting married, at my home on Martha’s Vineyard, and the governor has granted her request to allow me to perform the wedding. It’s a one-shot deal-your job is perfectly safe.”
We were talking about the ceremony I had written for the event when Artie Tramm came back into the courtroom. He was twisting the end of his mustache with one hand and motioning to Lem and me to stay back.
Artie went directly up the steps to the bench and pulled on Gertz’s arm to turn him away from us while he whispered something to the judge.
Gertz remained standing and glanced from Lem to me, shaking his head from side to side. “Ms. Cooper, Mr. Howell. Would you approach the bench?”
“You want this on the record?” the stenographer asked.
“No,” Gertz said, “not yet. Artie, you want to have the crew take Mr. Quillian back inside for a few minutes?”
Lem and I walked toward Gertz to see what had him looking so sober, while the court officers walked the defendant back to the holding pen.
“Artie, tell them what you heard,” the judge said. “I don’t know how to deal with this.”
“It’s his brother. It’s his brother that’s one of the dead.”
“Whose brother?” I asked.
“The defendant’s brother, Ms. Cooper.”
“I didn’t know he had one, Your Honor. Was he-”
“You know about this, Lem? How do you want me to handle this?” the judge asked.
“I’m in the dark, too,” Lem said. “Exactly who is his brother and how did he die? I certainly don’t intend for Brendan to hear this news in a public courtroom.”
“Artie says there’s a rumor-”
“It’s not a rumor anymore, Judge,” Artie said. “The mayor’s gonna have another press conference at one p.m. to announce it. Duke. Duke Quillian. It’s your client’s brother, Mr. Howell.”
“What about him?” Howell asked, taking a few steps toward the door that led to the pens. He looked flustered and truly surprised.
“They’ve found body parts at the blast site, Lem,” the judge said quietly. “It seems that several workmen were killed in yesterday’s explosion.”
My master-of-the-universe perp, the Upper East Side millionaire who passed in New York society with as fine a pedigree as his late wife’s, had a brother who was a sandhog?
“Hog heaven, Mr. Howell,” Artie said, walking over to open the door for him. “Duke Quillian is one of the guys who was blown to bits in the tunnel last night.”
10
“Did I wake you?” I asked Mike, after dialing his apartment from my office.
“Nope. Came home from the Bronx around six a.m. Napped for a few hours. Got the call from Lieutenant Peterson,” Mike said, referring to the commanding officer of Manhattan North’s Homicide Squad.
“Did you know Brendan Quillian had a brother?”
“Never came up in the investigation. I thought I knew him inside out, Coop. Now Peterson tells me he had three brothers-including the late Duke-and a sister. All the men are sandhogs, like their father before them. I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know how I missed them.”
There wasn’t a more thorough investigator than Mike Chapman. “I’m not blaming you for anything.”
“Didn’t surface in any of the background checks, nothing on the phone records, not on the radar screen in weeks of surveillance. Didn’t sign the funeral-parlor memorial book for Amanda. Not even jailhouse visits. Like they were separated at birth. Knowing how close these sandhog families are, it’s really weird. How’d he react to the news?”
“Gertz was smart enough not to let me in on the session. He dismissed the jurors who’d shown up until after the weekend. Excused me, too. Then gave Lem the jury room and had Artie bring Quillian in there so he could tell him about it privately.”
“And the trial?”
“Adjourned till after the funeral. If I thought I had a chance to win up to this moment, watch when the news breaks. Talk about a sympathy vote. I can see it now. Lem will stand there wringing his handkerchief while he sums up. He’ll find some way to bring this tragedy right into the well of the courtroom.”
“Let me talk to Mercer.”
“He’s gone back to Bellevue,” I said. The hospital had a prison unit, where Marley Dionne was being guarded after his surgery. “Your snitch said he wasn’t into conversating this morning. Mercer wants to try to get a rise out of him with a mention of Duke Quillian’s death. See if he knew anything about the brother.”
“I’ll catch him there.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Peterson’s setting it up for us to meet at the union headquarters near the entrance to the hole. Get a briefing on what they’ve found since the recovery began this morning. You want in?”
“Sure.”
“Four o’clock. Be there.”
“They using the FRV?” I asked, referring to the NYPD’s experimental Forensic Response Vehicle, a mobile lab that could actually be driven to the blast location to analyze evidence, turning around DNA results in less than ten hours.
“Yeah. They expect to have positive IDs on some of the remains by then. Dress down, kid. I’ve taken you to some dives, but this joint is really rough.”
“I’ve got my crack-den crime-scene jeans ready to go.”
“Brendan Quillian might be the luckiest guy in the world if this whole thing is just one great big coincidence and he skates right out of the courtroom ’cause people feel his pain. Me, I’m more of a master-plan kind of guy. This thing stinks of trouble. See you later, Coop.”
My secretary, Laura, stuck her head in the door. “I’m ready to go to lunch. I’ll bring you back some tuna salad, okay?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“That young woman who works at Chase Bank? You know, the one who’s being stalked?”