"Thanksgiving is next week." I slathered the imitation stuff on the bread. "Invite him over for that."
"That's a wonderful idea. I'll call him now."
I took a bite, then spit the mouthful into my hand.
"What the hell is this?"
"Alan's soy bread. He has that gluten allergy."
I tossed it in the garbage. "It tastes like a sour sponge."
"Steer clear of his breakfast cereal. Tofutos, they're called. Beans and milk aren't a tasty combo. And whatever you do, don't let him make you anything in that juicer. He actually forced me to drink a celery sprout smoothie."
Mom got on the phone, and I finished my coffee and headed to the criminal courthouse at 26th and California.
Someone had forgotten to tell Chicago it was still fall, because a light snow dusted everything and I almost broke my neck on a patch of sidewalk ice.
My car started on the second try, and I played how-slow-can-we-drive-and-still-move-forward with my fellow Chicagoans. The first snowfall of the season and everyone seems to forget, en masse, how to drive.
I was late getting to the trial. The courthouse, a squat square building, had free underground parking for city employees. Heated. I took an escalator up to the main floor, bypassed the line at the metal detector with a flash of my star, and took the second group of elevators to the twenty-seventh floor.
Court had already begun, and the tiny room was crammed full to bursting. I shouldered my way through the crowd and sat next to Libby, who wore a lavender Vanderbilt jacket and skirt like it had been designed for her.
Her co-counsel, a brown-haired, twenty-something prosecutor named Noel Penaflor, had Phil Blasky on the stand. Phil had on an ill-fitting suit and tried his best to explain, in layman's terms, the results of Eileen Hutton's autopsy.
". . . thoracic cavity eviscerated and . . ."
I tuned him out, trying to organize my thoughts.
I didn't look at Fuller.
As the litany of atrocities ensued, Noel introduced pictures of Eileen as evidence. First came pictures of her with family and friends. Then came the autopsy photos.
As expected, this caused a general uproar in the courtroom. But no reaction was more impressive than Fuller's.
He vomited all over the defense team's table.
Chapter 34
A twenty-minute recess ensued, and the courtroom cleared.
Libby seethed.
"That son of a bitch. He did it on purpose, didn't he? How the hell did he do it?"
I shrugged. "Maybe he swallowed some ipecac, or something else to make him sick. Or maybe he can vomit on cue."
"Have you ever seen that done before?"
I knew what Libby was asking; could I somehow discredit the vomit episode through testimony?
"Sorry. I've never seen it."
She and Noel spent some time bantering back and forth. I went back into court and watched a janitor spritz the table with a disinfectant that smelled like oranges.
The trial progressed. Noel finished up with Blasky, which was followed by a brief cross-examination by Garcia. No redirect, and Blasky was excused and my name got called.
I took the stand and tried to keep the trembling under control.
Noel walked me through my testimony, and I gave a recount of the case, trying to remain professional and in control. The prosecution established me as not only a credit to my profession, but a hero as well.
I kept the dry spots to a minimum, elicited a few chuckles from the jury, and at the end of my statement repeated my encounter with Fuller at the jailhouse.
"So the defendant admitted that he was lying about the amnesia?"
"He did. And he said when he got out, he was going to kill again."
"Anyone in particular?"
"Me." My voice cracked when I said it. "He said he was going to kill me, and my partner, Herb."
Noel nodded at me, and I got a look of approval from Libby.
"Your witness." Noel took his seat.
Garcia, plump and confident, approached me smiling.
"Lt. Daniels, you mentioned you've been on the police force for twenty years, correct?"
"Yes."
"How many of those years have you been seeing a psychiatrist?"
"Objection. Relevance."
Garcia smiled at the judge. "I'm simply bringing into question the lieutenant's reliability as a witness."
Libby stood up. "Your honor, the very fact that Lt. Daniels has been a member of the CPD for twenty years is enough to establish reliability. It is also mandatory policy after a shooting for a police officer to receive counseling."
"Withdrawn." Eric smiled. "And I'd like to thank the assistant state's attorney for establishing that, as a member of the Chicago Police Department, an officer must surely have his mental faculties in order. Lt. Daniels, how long did you work with Barry Fuller?"
"Two years."
"And during those two years, what kind of impression had you formed of him?"
"I didn't know him personally."
"Professionally, then?"
"He did his job, as far as I knew. I never had any problems with him . . . until I had to shoot him."
That got a chuckle from the peanut gallery.
"Tell me, Lieutenant, how a twenty-year veteran, a hero who was responsible for bringing a heinous serial killer to justice last year, failed to realize the suspect she was chasing was working side by side with her all along?"
"Officer Fuller knows police procedure. Because he knows our methods, he knew how to avoid detection."
"And did that bother you, him avoiding capture?"
"Of course it bothered me. It's my job to catch murderers, and he was out on the streets, murdering people."
"Did it bother you beyond a professional capacity? Didn't it, in fact, get personal?"
"I keep my personal and professional opinions separate."
"Even though Barry is one of your own? You don't hold him in particular disdain, on a personal level?"
"No, I don't. My disdain is purely professional."
Another chuckle.
"Lieutenant, you testified earlier that, during your visit to Barry Fuller at Cook County jail, Mr. Fuller threatened you."
"Yes."
"During your conversation with him on that date, do you believe that you remained calm and professional?"
"Yes."
"Not personal?"
"No."
"Tell me, Lieutenant, is this your voice?"
He pulled a cassette recorder out of his pocket and hit the Play button. The female voice that emanated was both high-pitched and vicious.
"Drop the act, Barry. I know you're lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit."
Both Noel and Libby screamed out objections, but my recorded voice could be heard above them, the murmur of the jury, and the sound of Judge Taylor banging her gavel.
"Objection, Your Honor! There's no foundation for this tape. This wasn't previously disclosed at the pre-trial hearing."
"Your Honor, the State had prior knowledge of this tape, and they failed to give this to us in discovery. Full disclosure goes both ways."
Libby made a face. "Foundation, Your Honor."
Garcia smiled. "Witness credibility, Judge. Lt. Daniels has previously stated she clearly separates personal and professional opinion. The tape is a gentle reminder of her true opinion."
"Privacy law, Your Honor. Lt. Daniels had no prior knowledge this tape would be used in evidence."
"But she did have prior knowledge of the tape's existence, Your Honor. In fact, she's the one who created it."
Judge Taylor turned to me. "Is that true, Lieutenant?"
"Yes."
"I'll allow it."
Garcia held up the recorder.
"Tape A for identification. Authentication by Lt. Jacqueline Daniels of the Chicago Police Department. Lt. Daniels, was that indeed your voice on that tape recording, made during your visit to the Cook County jail on October twentieth of this year, while interviewing the defendant, Barry Fuller?"