“Yes. The defendant.” He pointed to Vekt with a jabbing motion. Johnson glared at Harold, then with deliberation shifted his gaze to the jury.
“Pass the witness.”
Herrera rose. “Detective Swayze, did Mr. Jagoda provide a description of the person who had robbed him and shot his wife?”
“Yes.”
The lawyer held out a page. “Does this statement include that description?”
Swayze scanned the printed sheet. “Yes.”
“Please read the outlined phrase.”
Swayze cleared his throat. “Shoulder-length blond hair.”
It was Herrera’s turn to look pointedly from the defendant to the jury. “Detective, you say Mr. Jagoda selected Mr. Vekt’s picture and then identified him in a lineup. Was anyone else whose picture he was shown included in the lineup?”
“Uhh — no — the others were cops or civilian employees of the precinct.”
“When Mr. Jagoda was viewing the lineup, what did you say to him?”
“I asked him to ID the perpetrator.”
“To be more specific, did you say, ‘Is the person who shot your wife among them?’ or did you ask, ‘Which of these people did it?’” Swayze looked perplexed, then shrugged and shook his head. “I really don’t remember.” Herrera opened his mouth, then waggled his fingers in a dismissive gesture.
“Now, Detective, after Mr. Vekt was arrested, was a search of his apartment conducted?”
“Yes.”
“Who conducted it?”
“I and my partner — Louis Walters — and two uniforms. Uniformed police officers.”
“Describe the search — how thorough was it?”
“We looked in every closet, every drawer, every pocket, every cushion, every shoe, every food container. The toilet tank, the freezer.”
“In other words, every possible place of concealment?”
“That’s right.”
“And what, if anything, did you find related to the robbery?”
“More than eight thousand dollars in cash.”
“Just cash? No jewelry? No papers from Mr. Jagoda’s briefcase, or the briefcase itself?”
“No. But Vekt could have easily—”
“Buts are not allowed, Detective. Was there anything at all that identified any part of the cash as having belonged to the Jagodas?”
“Why would a guy like Vekt have so much cash around unless—?”
“Please answer the question. Could you single out any of the cash as being proceeds of the robbery?”
“No.”
“No further questions.”
Johnson jumped up. “Redirect, Your Honor.” The judge nodded.
“Considering the hair discrepancy, why did you accept Mr. Jagoda’s identification of this picture and of Mr. Vekt in the lineup?”
“We had cautioned Mr. Jagoda to pay more attention to the permanent than to the changeable characteristics. He looked at this picture for a long time, turned the page, and then, suddenly, turned it back, saying—”
“Objection. Mr. Jagoda is the best source of what he himself said.”
“Sustained. Mr. Johnson, you may pursue this when Mr. Jagoda is on the stand.”
Vekt looked at the ceiling as Morris Jagoda entered the courtroom and walked stiffly toward the stand. Herrera jabbed his thigh. “The jury is watching you!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Luther Johnson’s body language managed to suggest deference and compassion as he began to question Jagoda. “I know, sir, that this is extremely painful for you. But it’s necessary if justice is to be done. Please tell us what occurred on the night of March twenty-first last year.”
Jagoda licked his lips. He rested his right hand on the ledge that held the microphone; his left arm hung at his side, bent slightly at an unchanging angle.
“We were on our way home from dinner, walking along Fifty-sixth Street. Someone called out to us, asked for directions. Then he pulled a gun and grabbed hold of Annabelle and demanded our valuables. We gave them to him — he instructed us to put everything in my briefcase — and he ran off. But he must have caught sight of the chain Annabelle was wearing with our daughter’s pendant on it. He became enraged and ran back and grabbed for it. Annabelle became hysterical and tried to fight him off. He shot her, directly into the heart.”
“Objection. Mr. Jagoda is not qualified to describe the course of the bullet.”
Judge Patrick Quinn raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well — it hardly matters. The medical examiner has already testified to that fact.” Herrera shrugged. The judge signaled Johnson to continue.
“Why did your wife, after surrendering all her other jewelry, resist his taking this item?”
Jagoda’s eyes lost their focus. He seemed to have left the courtroom emotionally. The judge said, “Mr. Jagoda?”
“Yes — sorry.
“Felicity was our only child. We were nearly forty when she was born — our last chance. She was bright, lively, loving. Not the prettiest little girl in the world, but the most interesting, delightful, creative personality. For her third birthday we gave her a little round gold pendant, engraved with her initials intertwined with ours as though we were all holding hands.
“A few months later she became ill. She died of leukemia two months before her sixth birthday, after a great deal of suffering. She was brave too — did I say that? Annabelle put on the pendant and never took it off. She slept with it, she bathed with it. In the end, she defended it with her life, as though it were Felicity herself.”
So that’s what set the bitch off, Vekt thought. He scanned the jury out of the corner of his eye and squirmed.
Johnson waited a few seconds in the silent courtroom, then placed himself between the defense and prosecution tables. “Mr. Jagoda, did you get a good look at the person who shot your wife?”
“Yes. He is that man” — pointing — “in the light blue shirt and dark bluejacket.”
“Please note that the witness has pointed out the defendant, Harold Vekt.” Harold began to open his mouth but was glared down by Herrera.
“Would you tell us, Mr. Jagoda, if the defendant’s appearance differs in any significant way from what it was at the time of the crime.”
“His hair is different. It was blond, and much longer.”
“Then how can you be certain it was he?”
“When I first saw his picture at the police station, there was something about it, but I passed it up because of the hair. But then I remembered that I’d been told to pay more attention to the permanent features than the changeable ones. And I suddenly recalled that as my wife pulled the robber’s hair it had appeared to shift slightly, backward from the hairline.
“The eyes and mouth, the shape of the chin were exactly as I remembered them.”
“One more question, sir. For how long a time would you estimate you had an opportunity to observe the defendant’s face and become familiar with it?”
“I can’t tell you in minutes or seconds. For as long as it took him to ask for an address, and for me to answer him; and for him to threaten us with his gun and demand our valuables, and for each of us to remove our valuables and put them in the briefcase, and for him to back away several feet and run forward again.”
“I appreciate that you can’t know the exact time lapse. But between two minutes and half an hour, which is closer?”
“Two minutes.”
“I low about between two minutes and fifteen minutes?”
“Fifteen. Definitely.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jagoda. Pass the witness.”
Herrera, four inches shorter and considerably bulkier than the prosecutor, rose from his chair but stayed behind the table. “Mr. Jagoda, may I offer my sincere condolences for your losses.” Jagoda’s expression did not change. “But you must appreciate that describing the tragic nature of a crime does not provide evidence that any specific person committed it.”