Infamy (16 page)

18

R
ICHIE
B
RYERS SAT ON THE
witness stand with his head down and tears streaming down his cheeks. When he'd met with Karp that morning before court, his old friend had warned him about what to expect. “I won't kid you, Richie, it's not going to be easy. It will be tough enough answering my questions, but I expect the defense attorney will come after you with both barrels.”

Bryers had nodded. “I understand. I guess in some ways I deserve what's coming. I fell in love, but I should have done the right thing and waited until she was divorced.”

“I'm not going to second-guess you there,” Karp had countered. “But you didn't kill Clare. Fitzsimmons did, under orders
from her husband. They're the ones guilty of her murder, not you. This will be your chance to see that justice is done. Just remember that when the questioning gets tough.”

“Mr. Bryers, how
do you know the defendant in this case?” Karp began.

“I teach, or I taught, at the private school his son attended,” Bryers replied. “I was also the basketball coach. Mr. Constantine's son, Tommy, was on the middle school team and I was asked if I would work one-on-one with him.”

“By Mr. Constantine?”

“Yes. We met at his home, and he offered me the job.”

“Did it pay well?”

“Yes, in fact, several times my going rate for private lessons.”

“And you accepted the terms and money?”

“Yes. He insisted and obviously he could afford it. I'm a teacher, and it was a lot of money to me.”

“And during your tenure, did you have occasion to meet Mr. Constantine's wife, Clare Dune?”

Bryers nodded. “Yes, I met Clare.”

“In addition to the pay, were you offered other perks?”

“Yes. I was invited to use the guesthouse at their Long Island
property in Suffolk County,” Bryers said. “I stayed there some weekends.”

“In a sense you became a family friend.”

“Yes.”

“At some point did that friendship evolve into a romantic relationship with Clare Dune?”

“Yes. A couple of months after I began working there, Clare and I became romantically involved,” Bryers admitted.

“Is it fair to say that the relationship between Clare Dune and the defendant was strained?” Karp asked. At a pretrial hearing, Arnold had won a motion precluding Karp from discussing Constantine's domestic violence against his wife.

“It was not a happy marriage.”

“Did the two of you plan a future together?”

“I'd asked her several times to leave her husband.” Bryers looked over at Constantine, who stared back at him as if he smelled bad. “But she was afraid she would lose custody of her son, Tommy. She also believed that her husband was preparing to divorce her, and she wanted to wait for him to make the first move.”

With that out of the way, Karp moved on to the crux of Bryers's testimony. “Have you ever heard of something called ­MIRAGE in relation to the defendant and this case?”

“Yes.”

“Would you tell the jury under what circumstances?”

“I was staying at the cottage when I saw a page in a journal Mr. Constantine was writing.”

“What, if anything, could you read?”

“Well, it's been a while, but it mentioned a raid and that something called the MIRAGE files ended up in the wrong hands,” Bryers said. “I remember specifically because of a comment that stated that ‘Col. S and the Russian bitch need to be eliminated.' ”

“What was your initial impression of what you read?”

“I asked Clare if her husband was writing a book. It read like a wanna-be author's first stab at a thriller.”

“Did something happen to make you question your belief that Mr. Constantine was writing fiction?”

“Yes. A couple of minutes later, I went inside the main house to wash my hands for lunch. I was passing Mr. Constantine's library when I heard his voice. He was angry and yelling at somebody.”

“What did he say?”

“He told whoever it was to make sure that someone named Mueller kept his mouth shut.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Yes. Fitzsimmons told him there was a call from the White House. He asked if Mr. Constantine wanted to take the call.”

“Do you know if the caller was a man or a woman?”

“I believe a woman, because he called the person a bitch.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Yes. He told this person that because of a raid, MIRAGE was, and I quote, ‘fucked up.' He seemed to think it was her fault.”

“What did you do after you overheard this conversation?”

“I went back outside and told Clare what I heard. She didn't think much of it at the time.”

“You said you read a comment about a ‘Col. S and a Russian bitch' needing to be eliminated. Did you later have reason to attach any special significance to that statement?”

“Yes. As I found out later, that was the day Colonel Swindells was shot in Central Park. Given that phone call, I wondered if there was a connection.”

“Did you go to the police with your suspicions?”

Bryers shook his head. “It still seemed pretty far-fetched that Mr. Constantine would be mixed up in something like that. I wanted to get another look at his journal first.”

“Did you discuss that with Clare Dune?”

“Yes.”

“Did she act on it?”

“I didn't want her to, at least not alone, but yes. Sometime later, I got a call from her. Her husband had gone to Washing
ton, and she was alone. She wanted to see what she could find in the journal.”

“Did she sound drunk or like she was doing drugs when she called?”

“No. She was perfectly lucid.”

“Did she then send you something from her cell phone?”

“Yes. She'd taken a photograph of one of the pages in Mr. Constantine's journal.”

Karp walked over to the prosecution table, where Katz handed him two clear envelopes, one of which he handed to Bryers. “You have what has been marked for identification People's Exhibit 60. Do you recognize it?”

“Yes, it's the journal photograph she sent to me.”

“Your Honor, I move that People's Exhibit 60 be received in evidence.”

Dermondy looked at Arnold, who rose from his seat. “Your Honor, the defense objected to this and other exhibits tendered by the prosecution at a pretrial hearing. We have the same objection.”

“Duly noted,” Dermondy replied. “Overruled. You may continue, Mr. Karp.”

Karp turned back to Bryers. “Would you please read what is on the photograph to the jury and the court.”

“Yes. It says, ‘MIRAGE is moving forward at last. All the players have been replaced. Just movable pieces. The refineries are back at full capacity and deliveries are being made. One problem has been eliminated but another remains. She's the weak link and has to go.' ” Bryers looked up. “That's all.”

Karp handed him the other clear envelope. “I'm handing you what has been marked for identification People's Exhibit 61. Can you identify it?”

“Yes. It's a copy of the text Clare sent me after the photograph from the journal.”

“And what does it say?”

“That she thought someone was in the house.”

“Was Clare able to contact you again after that?”

Bryers shook his head. “No. That was the last time I heard from her,” he said, his voice catching at the end.

“Did you attempt to reach her?”

“Yes. I texted her and asked if she was okay. She didn't answer. I thought maybe her husband had come home unexpectedly and she wasn't able to text me back.”

“Do you now know why she wasn't able to?”

“She was murdered by Shaun Fitzsimmons,” Bryers said, and buried his face in his hands. “Because of me.”

“No further questions,” Karp said softly.

Arnold's cross-examination was as harsh as Karp had predicted. He painted Bryers as a gigolo who'd taken advantage of “a lonely wife, whose husband's work took him away from her too often.”

“You were happy to take his money and his wife's affection, weren't you, Mr. Bryers?”

“I did both,” Bryers admitted.

“Did you also hope to talk her into a divorce so that you could live off of whatever settlement she got?”

“I didn't want his money.”

“No. But you tried to blackmail him by sending those text messages and that photograph of a private journal. You asked for four million dollars for your silence.”

“I did that with District Attorney Karp present.”

“Yes, you did, didn't you?” Arnold said with a sneer. “Just one more pawn in the prosecution's witch hunt.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Karp said, rising to his feet. “If Mr. Arnold has any proof pertaining to any witch hunt, we'd like to see it. Otherwise it's just sheer self-serving speculation and objectionable.”

“Mr. Arnold, you wish to respond?” Dermondy asked.

“I'll rely on my cross-examination to demonstrate Mr. Karp's bad faith,” Arnold said.

“Very well, Mr. Karp's objection is sustained. The jury is instructed to disregard Mr. Arnold's last statements.”

Arnold gave Bryers and then Karp one more disdainful look and shook his head. “No more questions, Your Honor.”

After Bryers left the courtroom, Karp turned to Judge Dermondy and addressed the court. “Your Honor, that concludes the People's case.”

The gallery was silent for a moment, and then began buzzing. It was obvious they'd expected more from the prosecution. “Very well,” Dermondy said, and turned to the jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen, it's now late in the afternoon and so I'm going to send you home with the same admonition to avoid watching or reading any information or material having to do with this case, and please use caution when viewing social media. Please do not discuss the case among yourselves, or with anyone else. We will see you in the morning, and now we stand adjourned until nine a.m. tomorrow.”

After the jury was escorted out of the courtroom, Dermondy turned his attention to Constantine and Arnold, who were engaged in a whispered conversation at the defense table. “Will you be calling any witnesses, Mr. Arnold?”

Arnold stood and glanced at his client, who nodded. “Just one, Your Honor. Mr. Constantine will take the stand.”

This time the spectators in the gallery responded with excitement. Tomorrow morning was bound to have more fireworks.

“Very well,” Dermondy said.

After the judge and all but a few members of the press had left, Constantine stood and faced Karp. “Is that all you got?” he said contemptuously, catching everybody, including his own attorney, by surprise.

“Excuse me?” Karp replied.

“Is that all you got?” Constantine's face was contorted and red with anger. “I thought you were supposed to be the top dog prosecutor. More like a mutt nipping at my heels.”

“Wellington, this isn't the—” Arnold placed a hand on his client's shoulder.

Constantine shrugged him off. “Get your hands off me, Mike,” he snarled. “Drop the charges now, Karp, and maybe I won't sue you personally for wrongful prosecution.”

Karp looked Constantine in the eye. “I hope you got your toothbrush with you,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Constantine shot right back.

“Just that you're never going home again after the jury convicts you,” Karp said with a laugh.

With that, Karp walked out of the courtroom and into the
hallway, where Katz and Fulton waited for him. He could hear Constantine screaming obscenities at him.

“Hear that, gentlemen? Sounds like Dean Wormer in
Animal House
berating John Belushi and his frat brothers at Delta Tau Chi. But on to more serious business, is everything ready for tonight?”

“Oh, yeah,” Fulton replied. “There will be a direct feed into the office.”

“Could be a late night,” Karp noted.

“I ordered pizza, sodas, and coffee,” Katz said.

“You're a good man, Kenny Katz,” Karp said with a laugh. “I hope you told them extra pepperoni.”

19

W
ELLINGTON
C
ONSTANTINE TOOK A MOMENT
to straighten his light gray Italian designer pashmina suit coat and settled into the chair on the witness stand before looking at the jurors with a smile. He was feeling confident as he turned to his attorney, who stood behind the defense table gazing down at his legal pad.

At the start of the morning session before the jury was brought back into the courtroom, he and Arnold had conferred quietly.

“I still recommend against this,” his lawyer had whispered. “It's a weak case at best. Why expose yourself? You don't have to take the stand. I think we can win without presenting anything. I'll tear their witnesses apart in summation.”

“No. I told you last night I want to personally humiliate that
asshole Karp,” Constantine insisted. “We've been over everything. They don't have anything that I can't explain away, and I'm not leaving any of it to chance. I didn't get where I am by backing off when someone gets in my business.”

“What if they call you-know-who to the stand?”

“We had a long talk last night after she got back from the theater,” Constantine said. “She knows the drill. They want Karp's hide on the wall down in D.C. as much as I do. We'll see who's the last man standing when I'm done kicking his ass.”

After he was called to the stand, Judge Dermondy had quizzed him about his decision. “You are not obligated to testify on your own behalf,” he said.

“I understand, Your Honor,” Constantine replied.

“Are you making this decision of your own free will after conferring with your attorney?”

“Yes.” He knew that Dermondy was questioning him so that he couldn't come back later on appeal and say that he didn't understand or had been talked into it by Arnold.
There isn't going to be any need for an appeal
, he thought as Arnold finished jotting notes and walked confidently into the well of the courtroom.

“Good morning, Mr. Constantine. Would you please state your name and spell the last.”

“Good morning, Mr. Arnold, I'd be happy to. It's Wellington Constantine. C-O-N-S-T-A-N-T-I-N-E.”

Arnold smiled and almost apologetically asked his first question. “I'm sure most everyone in this courtroom has heard about your business and philanthropic efforts, so I'm sorry if this seems a little unnecessary, but tell us a bit about your background.”

Constantine laughed lightly. “Well, I guess I could start by noting that I'm the son of a British mother and a Greek-­American father, thus the name they gave me, their only child. My mom stayed at home to raise me, Dad was into shipping. It was a happy childhood.”

“Your father was a self-made man?”

“Yes, a real American success story. Second generation. Started off as the captain of an old cargo transport, saved his money and bought the ship, then another and another.”

“I take it he did well?”

“Yes. By the time he retired he owned one of the largest shipping companies in the world. Constantine Shipping.”

“And you inherited that wealth.”

“Yes, though I like to think I've done okay on my own. Constantine Shipping is just one of more than a dozen subsidiaries of Well-Con Industries.”

Arnold continued, “Didn't
Wealth
magazine name you one of the five richest men in the world?”

Constantine nodded. “I've heard that, but I really don't pay attention to those sorts of things. I will say I'm a good businessman, and lucky. I was also fortunate that I had a hardworking father as a role model whose efforts set me up with certain advantages. I've also worked hard and seem to have a knack for making money.”

“The Midas touch, right?”

Making a face as if he was embarrassed by the line of questioning, Constantine shrugged. “I suppose you could say that.”

Arnold turned to the jury. “But it's not all about the money to you, is it?”

Constantine frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, tell us about Clare's Legacy.”

Constantine bowed his head and sat quietly for a moment before looking up at the jurors. “Clare's Legacy is a charitable foundation I started in honor of my wife . . .” His voice faltered. “My wife, Clare.”

Arnold shook his head sadly before looking back at his client. “I know this is tough, especially after the lies—”

“Objection,” Karp said. “Counsel is free to characterize statements made by the People's witnesses during his summations, but not when asking questions.”

“Sustained,” Dermondy said. “Mr. Arnold, try to avoid the editorializing.”

Arnold nodded and continued. “I know this is tough for you to talk about, but what exactly is Clare's Legacy?”

Constantine smiled sadly. “Clare was involved in a number of charitable causes—everything from saving elephants in Kenya to providing health care on Native American reservations. She channeled literally millions of dollars of our money into these during the eighteen wonderful years of our marriage. After she . . . she was murdered . . . I decided to create a single foundation where these groups can apply for funding. I wanted her life to mean something even though she's gone.”

“And what was your initial endowment for the foundation?”

“Forty million dollars.”

Glancing at the jurors to see how they reacted to that number, Arnold spoke softly. “These fine people have heard a lot about your relationship with your wife and her alleged relationships with others. But first, tell us about Clare through your eyes.”

Sighing, Constantine turned to look at the jurors as well. “She was beautiful, both inside and out. I fell in love the first time I saw her, and the day we got married was the best day of my life. Except, perhaps, the morning she gave me our son, Tommy.”

“You loved her?”

“Very much.” Another sigh for the jurors. “I still do.”

“What sort of an effect did she have on you?”

Constantine cleared his throat. They'd been over this so many times the night before that he felt like he was reading lines from a script. “To be honest, I used to get so caught up in running my company, I would forget to stop and ‘smell the roses,' or think about what other people might be going through. She taught me that there were more important things in life than money and running companies, like a family life, and love. She was also my moral compass.”

“Tell us about that,” Arnold said. “What do you mean by ‘moral compass' when you're talking about your relationship with Clare?”

“Well, I wouldn't say that I was uncaring before I met her,” Constantine explained. “My mother and father saw to it that I knew right from wrong, and that we should help those less fortunate than ourselves. And I used to donate quite a large sum to charitable organizations, such as the Red Cross. But I was never really involved, you know; I just wrote checks and went about my business. I'm something of an introvert by nature anyway.” He looked off to the side and chuckled, as if recalling a funny memory. “But Clare would have none of it. She brought me out
of my shell, both socially and as an ethical human being. I'm a better man today because of her.”

Constantine stopped and reached for the box of tissues on the witness stand. He methodically removed one and wiped at the corners of his eyes. “I'm sorry. I got caught up in the moment a little bit. Please continue.”

“I apologize that I have to pull up painful testimony by the prosecution witnesses,” Arnold said. “But the jurors heard two witnesses describe acts of infidelity between your wife and the prosecutor's witness, Richie Bryers. How did you react when you learned about the affair?”

Constantine's face and voice hardened. “At first I didn't believe it. Then I saw the photographs and was angry.”

“When were you shown the photographs?”

“They arrived anonymously in the mail a few days before Clare drowned . . . was murdered.”

“Then what happened?”

“I got a telephone call threatening to send them to the media if I didn't pay two million dollars.”

“Did you recognize the voice?”

“No. Just a male.”

“Did you pay?”

Constantine hung his head. “No, though now I wish I had.” He looked up with tears in his eyes. “You have to understand that a man with my assets is constantly threatened with lawsuits and blackmail. That's why I had someone like Fitzsimmons on my payroll.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“No. There would have been an investigation, and you know how cops are; one of them would have smelled a payday and sold the story and photographs to the press.”

“What did you do?”

“I told Fitzsimmons to look into it,” Constantine said. “I never thought he was the one betraying me . . . him and Bryers.”

“So you didn't tell Fitzsimmons to spy on your wife?”

“No. Never. I trusted her implicitly. But he knew I would do anything to protect her reputation.”

“What happened after that?”

“I got another call. Fitzsimmons was there with me. I told the caller I wasn't going to pay. He said I'd regret it.”

“And then?”

Constantine took a deep breath and then let it out dramatically. “Three days later, she was dead. I thought it was an accident until I got the toxicology report. Then I thought suicide. I was stunned when I learned Fitzsimmons had admitted to murdering her.”

“Again, I'm sorry, but we need to get to the bottom of this for the jury,” Arnold apologized. “What about Clare? She cheated on you and put you in a situation where you could be blackmailed.”

Rubbing his face with his hand, Constantine made it appear that he was struggling with his answer. “I guess,” he said at last, “like any husband I wasn't happy to hear that my wife was unfaithful, particularly with someone I considered a friend. But I've had some time to digest this and realize that I have to assume part of the blame as well. I was gone a lot, and when I was home I wasn't all there, if you know what I mean. Also . . .” He hesitated. “This is rather embarrassing, but also there was quite an age difference between us and I may not have been as attentive to her physical needs as she might have wanted. I guess she decided to do something about it. I just have to accept that.”

“Did you ever confront her about the affair?”

Constantine shook his head. “No. I thought she'd leave me if I did. I made up my mind to be a better husband and see if we could fix this thing. I didn't realize we didn't have much time left.”

“What about the testimony that you abused your wife physically and emotionally?”

“I never laid a hand on her,” Constantine spat out.

“Have you considered that your wife might have been helping Bryers and Fitzsimmons with their blackmail scheme?”

Constantine shook his head violently. “No. I refuse to believe that she was capable of that sort of deceit. I gave her everything she could want.”

“Unless she wanted to leave you for her lover,” Arnold said. “Wasn't there a prenuptial agreement that would have prevented her from getting support if she divorced you?”

“STOP IT!” Constantine demanded, partly rising from his seat. “Infidelity, yes, she was young, I was less than she needed. But blackmail . . . NEVER!” He slumped back down in his chair, satisfied that he'd played the scene well.

Arnold held up his hands. “It's okay. I'm sorry that I had to do that, but sometimes the truth is ugly, and this jury deserves to consider all the possibilities.”

All the possibilities except that I told Fitzsimmons to kill the bitch
,
Constantine thought. “Of course,” he said, “please excuse my outburst. It's all still a little bit raw.”

“We understand,” Arnold replied, looking at the jury. “Let's move on and talk for a few minutes about your professional relationship with Mr. Fitzsimmons and Mr. Bryers. The jury heard that you contracted with Mr. Fitzsimmons to provide security for Well-Con Industries and for yourself personally. They also heard
that he was dishonorably discharged from the Army for what were essentially war crimes—he was suspected, though never convicted, of killing innocent Iraqi citizens—”

“Yes, though I didn't know that when I hired him,” Constantine interjected.

“Obviously,” Arnold agreed. “And there was testimony that he was recommended to you by some unknown government official in Washington, D.C.”

“To be quite honest, I don't remember who recommended him. I left security details to my assistants and they sent him to me. I was told that he was a former Special Forces soldier who'd served in Iraq. It's true I interviewed him and hired him after that; he talked a good game and seemed a stand-up guy. I have a lot of respect for our veterans. I guess I should have vetted him more carefully myself.”

“You couldn't have known,” Arnold said, as he walked over to the witness stand and stood looking up at his client with his hands on his hips. “And what about Richie Bryers?”

“What about him?” Constantine retorted. “He took my money and had sex with my wife. I think that pretty much defines his character.”

“What about his claim that he read a page in your journal on the day Colonel Swindells was murdered by Dean Mueller that
seemed to indicate you knew about an alleged black ops raid and someone named al Taizi?”

“I never wrote anything like that in my journal,” Constantine replied.

“What about something called the MIRAGE files?”

“I know about Operation MIRAGE, but it has nothing to do—to my knowledge—with any black ops raid,” Constantine said, shaking his head.

“We'll get into what you know about MIRAGE in a moment,” Arnold said, “but what about Bryers's testimony regarding a notation that, and I quote, ‘Col. S and the Russian bitch' needed to be eliminated?”