“Good morning, Mr. Singh,” Fernandez said after Singh had taken the stand and been sworn in as a witness.
“Good morning, Mr. Fernandez.”
“Mr. Singh, I understand that you were born in India in 1933, that you’re a civil engineer, and that you worked for forty years as a railway engineer in India, rising to the position of Chief Engineer for the Northern District of Indian Railways before you retired.”
“It was forty-two years, to be precise,” Mr. Singh said.
Fernandez smiled. He’d intentionally said forty, hoping that Singh would correct him. At the trial, this kind of little thing would let the jury know right from the start that Singh was a stickler for detail.
“And are you a Canadian citizen?” Fernandez asked. Part of the art of examining witnesses in chief is remembering that the judge and jury don’t know anything about them. You had to start from the very beginning and be very curious about a story you’d already heard at least ten times.
“Most certainly,” Mr. Singh said. “And my wife, Bimal, and our three daughters. At the first available date. Precisely three years after we arrived.”
For the next ten minutes Fernandez led Singh through all the non-contentious
parts of his evidence—his years as a railway engineer in India, his decision to bring his family to Canada, and his job for the last four and a half years delivering newspapers. “One must keep oneself busy,” Singh said.
Fernandez glanced up at Summers. With that last remark, he could tell that the judge was falling for Singh, just as the jurors would at the upcoming trial.
Singh spoke about meeting Brace a few years earlier and the commencement of their daily early-morning ritual of having a brief, cordial conversation. Finally they got to the morning of December 17. Singh described in vivid detail coming to the door, no one being there, hearing a groaning sound, and then Brace coming to the door with blood on his hands.
“What, if anything, did Mr. Brace say to you at that time?” Fernandez asked, making certain he didn’t lead his star witness in any way.
“‘I killed her, Mr. Singh, I killed her.’”
“Those exact words.”
“Yes,” Mr. Singh said, “as best I could hear them.”
For a moment Fernandez froze. This was a new wrinkle. He scanned his brain. Had anyone ever asked how loud Brace’s voice was? Probably not. But did it matter? Fernandez had to make a strategic decision, and he had only a moment to do it. Should he ask Singh to elaborate or not?
There would be plenty of time to ask Singh about this later, he decided. He didn’t want to lose the rhythm of his examination.
“Where did you go after that?” he asked.
“Directly inside.”
The rest of the evidence went in perfectly. Fernandez had Singh describe following Brace into the apartment, going first to the kitchen, checking the master bedroom and bathroom, the second bedroom, and then the hall bathroom, where he found the body in the bath, determining that Torn was “most certainly dead,” calling the “police service,” Officer Kennicott rushing in, slipping, and dropping his gun while Singh and Brace were having tea in the kitchen, offering Kennicott some tea. The tea, Fernandez had decided, was a good place to end.
Summers looked over at Singh and smiled. This is exactly what Fernandez wanted. Rule number one in advocacy: Make the judge—or the jury—like your witness. A trial was like real life. People are more tolerant of those they’re attracted to. At the trial, Fernandez wanted the jury to think of Singh as their favorite uncle and to be pissed off at Parish for cross-examining him.
Fernandez sat down and looked at Parish. Just what, he wondered, would she try to do with Singh?
“Questions, Ms. Parish?” Summers asked. He had a twinkle in his eye, which made Fernandez slightly uneasy. It was the same look he’d seen at the pretrial back in February. Just what had he been hinting at to Parish?
“Mr. Singh,” Parish said, standing up slowly, taking her time. “You’ve tried today to answer every question to the very best of your ability. Correct?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Thanks for making my witness look good, Fernandez thought with a smile.
“And, sir, Officer Kennicott, the first officer on the scene, the one who dropped his gun, you remember him?” That was a good move, slipping in a little dig at Kennicott to start off with. Make the police look foolish right away.
Parish’s manner was gentle, unlike most criminal lawyers, who went on the attack with Crown witnesses. It was, Fernandez knew, very effective.
“Of course, ma’am.”
“You answered all of his questions too?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“And you remember that day clearly?”
“Ma’am, I have seen much tragedy as a chief engineer for the northern section of Indian Railways. Many people in Canada do not realize that it is the largest transportation company in the world. Each time there is a tragedy, one cannot forget.”
“Of course, sir,” Parish said. Perfect, Fernandez thought. Parish was echoing Singh’s words. He had her eating out of the palm of his hand.
“And, sir, you not only have no criminal record, but you have never been investigated by the police for committing a crime.” Parish spoke in such an easygoing manner. It was as if she and her witness were having a private conversation instead of being in a courtroom packed to the rafters.
“Of course not, ma’am.”
“And you’ve never committed a crime?”
“Of course not, ma’am.”
Fernandez clicked his pen. Where was Parish going with this?
“And you’ve never committed a murder.”
“Of course not, ma’am.”
Fernandez looked over at Parish. He could have objected that the witness had already answered the question, but what was the point? Parish, with her soft tone, was hardly badgering Mr. Singh.
“But, Mr. Singh, you have killed many people.”
Fernandez bolted to his feet. Now Parish was over the line. “Objection, Your Honor,” he said. “The witness has twice told this court he has not committed a crime and he has not even been the subject of a police investigation—”
“I have never been investigated for committing a crime, no—but yes, I have killed many people.” It was Singh speaking.
Summers held his hand up to Singh to try to stop him. But the words were already out. Summers smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Singh, I imagine this is the first time you have given evidence in court.”
“Oh, not at all. I’ve testified many times in India. As a chief engineer, I was often a witness at all sorts of trials. Murder, rape, child abandonment, illegal gambling, drug smuggling . . .”
Summers broadened his smile. “I see, sir. Perhaps this is the first time you have testified in Canada.”
Mr. Singh nodded. “Certainly, Your Honor. As a newspaper delivery person, one does not see many crimes.”
There was a small ripple of laughter from the crowd behind Fernandez.
“Yes,” Summers said. “In our courts, when a lawyer stands up to
object, the witness must wait until I make a ruling on the question. One person speaks at a time.”
For the first time since he entered the court and was uncertain about where to put his raincoat, Singh looked confused. “Your Honor, in this country I often find that people speak at the same time. My grandchildren, for example, will speak to their parents well before they are spoken to.”
This time the laughter from the gallery was even louder. Summers lifted his eyes to the crowd, then, smiling, turned back to Fernandez.
Parish had already sat down. Fernandez stood alone in front of the judge.
“Mr. Fernandez,” Summers said, “you already asked Mr. Singh about the utterance that Mr. Brace made to him that morning. Correct?”
Summers smiled toward Parish. “Utterance.” That was the term Summers had used during the JPT in February. Not “confession.” That was the signal he’d sent to Parish. She’d got it. Damn. How had he missed it?
“That’s correct, Your Honor,” Fernandez said, trying to keep his voice firm.
“Certainly she has the right to explore this further in cross.”
Fernandez saw how he’d walked right into Parish’s trap. And now he understood her earlier move. This is why she hadn’t wanted a ban on publication. She’d just taken his strongest piece of evidence, Brace’s statement to Singh, and muddied the hell out of it. And she wanted it in the press, so any prospective juror down the road would already have some doubt. Very, very smart.
“Correct, Your Honor. I’ll withdraw my objection.” Fernandez made himself sit slowly. Never show fear or disappointment in court. Even if for the second time in a row you’ve been caught flat-footed.
Parish rose and opened an orange file folder in front of her. She pivoted and for a moment looked back at the front row, where the press was sitting.
Fernandez followed her eyes. The reporters were on the edges of
their seats. He noticed Awotwe Amankwah, from the
Star
, the only brown face in the whole row, nod at Parish.
Fernandez turned back to Parish. She reached into her handbag, which was sitting on the table, and fished out a pair of reading glasses. Taking her time. I’ve never seen her wear reading glasses before, he thought. A nice touch.
“Mr. Singh, you have killed twelve people, correct?”
“Correct. Twelve people in forty-two years was considered very low.”
“But each one you remember.”
“Like today.”
“The first was Mrs. Bopart, in 1965.”
“Most tragic. The woman had left her village to get water, and she fainted right on the edge of the tracks. It was in the winter, early in the morning, before sunrise, and there was no way to see her. Unbeknownst to her husband, she was pregnant.”
“And then there was Mr. Wahal.”
“Again, most tragic . . .”
Fernandez watched Parish go through each of Mr. Singh’s dozen deaths, each one more horrific than the last. He tried not to show that he was impressed by her research. It was clear as day where she was going with it, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. Like a general on a hill seeing his army being slaughtered, all he could do was watch the inevitable unfold.
Finally Parish finished with the twelfth gruesome railroad accident and closed the orange folder. “Mr. Singh, on the morning of December 17, Officer Kennicott asked you to tell him what Mr. Brace said to you,” she said. “Correct?”
“Correct, ma’am,” Singh said.
Now she was firmly in control of this cross-examination. She had Singh echoing her words.
“And you told Officer Kennicott exactly what Mr. Brace said to you.”
“Exactly.”
Parish picked up the transcript of Singh’s statement. “This is what
you told Officer Kennicott, and I quote: ‘Mr. Brace said, “I killed her, Mr. Singh, I killed her.” Those are precisely the words he used.’”
“Precisely, ma’am.”
“And that
is
what Mr. Brace said to you, word for word.”
“Word for word.”
Parish took her glasses off and looked straight at the witness. “He never said, ‘I murdered her, Mr. Singh, I murdered her.’ Did he?”
For the first time in her whole cross-examination Parish’s pleasant tone had just a hint of an edge to it, a dash of pepper in a bland soup. There’s a rhythm that a good cross-examiner establishes with a witness, a subliminal beat that ties everything together, like a song played to a metronome. It adds quality and credibility to the words spoken.
By this time in the cross-examination, Parish had a practically singsong relationship with Singh. By changing her inflection, she was drawing attention to the importance of the question, like a jazz riff that comes in slightly behind the beat.
Singh seemed to be affected by the new tone. Naturally, Fernandez and everyone else in the court expected him to simply answer in turn. On the beat. But he didn’t. He paused.
Summers, who had been writing away, stopped and lifted his pen. Parish teetered slightly on her feet. Greene, sitting beside Fernandez and taking precise notes, stopped writing. Fernandez tried to stay still so as not to heighten the moment even more. He kept his eyes fixed on Singh.
Singh lifted his head and looked for the first time at Brace.
“In the years that I have known him, Mr. Kevin Brace has always spoken to me with great courtesy and great care. He never once used the word ‘murder.’”
“Thank you, Mr. Singh,” Parish said, and quickly sat down.
Summers turned to Fernandez with his biggest smile of the morning. A smile that said, “Don’t you dare underestimate me. I saw this from a mile away.”
“Any reexamination, Mr. Fernandez?” he asked. A big, warm smile on his face.
Fernandez had the right to reexamine the witness about things
that came out in cross-examination that he could not have foreseen. Singh had slipped over the line when he’d opined that Brace was someone who always spoke with great care. But what was the point? This was not the trial.
Clearly round one had gone to the defense. Fernandez’s best strategy was to get back to his corner of the ring as quickly as possible and try to stanch the bleeding. Right now he just wanted Singh off the stand.
“No questions, Your Honor. The Crown’s next witness is Officer Daniel Kennicott,” he said. Kennicott, Fernandez thought. Great. The cop who dropped the gun. Let’s hope he doesn’t drop the ball.
O
fficer Daniel Kennicott,” the booming voice of the cop at the door of courtroom 121 called out.
“Here,” Kennicott said, picking up his police notebook from beside him on the wooden bench and tucking it into his jacket’s inside pocket.
Kennicott had testified in court many times as a police officer, and he’d cross-examined hundreds of cops as a criminal lawyer. When he joined the force, he was determined never to be a wooden witness, like so many of the cops he’d seen in court. Too often their answers were rote, their testimony overly rehearsed. Or deliberately vague, filled with phrases like “to the best of my recollection” and “that was my understanding at the time.” He knew that what impressed judges and juries most was not a witness who simply read from his notebook, but one who genuinely tried to remember what it was he had seen and heard and felt.