“Did you discover anything about his work schedule during the same time period?”
“I did. For the last five years, he’s always arrived at work early on Monday mornings. The only exception was those six weeks.”
“When did he show up on those Mondays?”
“At one o’clock in the afternoon, including on September tenth.”
DiPaulo had been right. Even though Greene had read the disclosure many times, hearing it out loud in court made it sound much worse.
Alpine described the 911 call, received at 10:39, how he had rushed to the scene, entered room 8, saw the dead woman, and deployed his men to search for suspects and witnesses.
Kreitinger walked up to Mr. Singh and had him take two pictures out of Officer Zeilinski’s photo binder.
“Detective, I’m showing to you Exhibits 1N and 1XX. Do you recognize these pictures?” she asked.
“I do,” he said. “Exhibit 1N is a photo of the boot mark found on the door to the bathroom in room 8. And Exhibit 1XX is a photo of the treads of a boot found in the accused’s home.”
“I understand this boot was seized temporarily as a result of a search warrant,” she said. “And that this was done before his arrest and without his knowledge.”
“Yes. I had the identification officer prepare a comparison chart of the two exhibits.”
Kreitinger went back to the Crown’s table and Summers passed up a board to her. “This it?” she asked him.
Two photographs were mounted side by side on the board, showing both sets of tread marks. The jurors craned their necks to look.
“It is,” he said. “The mark on the door is on the left, the actual boot print is on the right.”
“We’ll call a footwear expert later for his professional opinion on how similar these are,” Kreitinger said as she slowly paraded the photos in front of the jury box. “But right now I want to show these to the jurors.”
Greene knew this was pure theatre. Even though the expert would say only that the treads were “probably” the same, Kreitinger was driving home to the
jury a none-too-subtle message: Use your common sense, you can see for yourself that it’s obvious Greene had been in the room.
Kreitinger returned again to the Crown table and Summers handed her a large paper bag. She took it to Alpine and opened it for him to look inside.
He nodded. “Yes,” he said, pulling out a black, right-foot boot. “This is the boot we seized from the accused’s home after his arrest. We used it to make the impression seen in the second photograph on the board you just showed me.”
“I see,” Kreitinger said as she walked the boot in front of the jury. “And, Detective, did you recognize this type of boot?”
“I did. It’s the standard uniform boot issued to every member of the Toronto Police Service.”
She took the boot and the bag over to the registrar, had them mark it as another exhibit, and retreated behind the lectern.
Well done, Angie, Greene thought. In a circumstantial case, any piece of physical evidence bolstered the case. Helped fill in the gaps.
“About the accused’s home,” Kreitinger said. “Do you know if any other adults were living there at the time of your search?”
“It appeared from the limited number of clothes that we found that only one person lived there. Only one of the two bedrooms seemed to be used. Very little food was in the refrigerator and freezer. I did a record check of the address for any driver’s licences, residential phones, taxes, and water and electricity bills as well as the electoral roll. Each time only one name came up. The same name was on all the mail I found.”
“And what name was that?” Kreitinger asked, with a self-satisfied grin.
“Ari Greene.”
“Thank you,” Kreitinger said.
Greene realized that this was about a lot more than matching his boots to the mark on the bathroom door. Kreitinger had used this whole scenario to portray him as a loner. The kind of love-starved, jealous, possessive man who would snap and kill a woman who was trying to end their affair.
IN RECENT YEARS, AMANKWAH HAD FOUND IT INCREASINGLY DIFFICULT TO GET AN INTERVIEW
with the families of murder victims during a trial. It used to be that they would walk in and out of court with everyone else, eat in the same cafeteria, hang out in the hall on breaks. Once the proceedings were under way, Amankwah would start by saying a polite hello in the hallway, and then perhaps make a comment about the food while in the lunch line with them, and after a few weeks they’d start to talk to him. First chitchat, but eventually he’d get a full interview, which he’d hold off publishing – it was called embargoing a story in the trade – until the trial had ended.
But now families were protected by an army of Victim Witness people, who escorted them to and from court, where they sat in specially reserved seats, sat beside them during the proceedings, provided them with a private room where they went during breaks and where they ate their meals. Like first-class passengers with their own boarding lounge and their own flight attendants, they travelled in a protective cocoon.
Amankwah didn’t begrudge them their privacy, but he missed the casual intimacy of the old system. And often, he found, the families really did want to talk.
Every once in a while, there was someone who rejected this blanket coverage, and to his surprise Howard Darnell was one of them. All last week, while the pretrial motions were being held and the jury was being selected, he had come to court on his own, sat by himself, waited patiently in the hallway during breaks in the proceedings, and went out of the courthouse alone during lunch breaks.
Amankwah had watched him from a distance. Last Wednesday, he had timed it so that they got in the elevator at the same time.
“Hi,” he’d said, when the doors closed.
“Hello,” Darnell said.
They travelled in silence. Before they landed on the main floor Amankwah spoke. “No secrets. I’m a reporter for the
Star
, covering the trial,” he said.
“I know who you are,” Darnell said. “I’ve read your stories for many years.”
The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Darnell insisted that Amankwah exit first.
At the end of the day last Thursday, Amankwah had made sure he left the courtroom at the same time as Darnell. They rode down in the elevator again. When the doors opened, Darnell said, “Good night, Mr. Amankwah,” before he walked away.
On Friday, court finished early. Amankwah caught up to Darnell in the hall. His heart was pounding, like a teenager asking a girl out on a first date. “I don’t want to intrude,” he said, “but do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
Darnell smiled. “Please, call me Howard,” he said. “Sorry, I can’t today, I’ve got to go pick up the kids.”
This morning, when he came into court, Amankwah made a point of sitting in the press seat closest to Darnell. They’d exchanged glances and smiled at each other.
It was lunchtime, and his gang of journalists was debating where to eat. Kirt Bishop from the
Globe
wanted dim sum on Dundas, Zach Stone from the
Sun
wanted Italian on Bay, and Kristen Thatcher from the
Post
voted for sushi on Queen.
“I’m going to beg off today, guys,” Amankwah told them.
“Oh, now that you’re a, quote unquote, political commentator, you can’t be seen hanging out with us lowly, ink-stained wretches,” Bishop said, clapping a hand on Amankwah’s shoulder.
They all laughed and the three reporters went off for sushi.
Amankwah had been eyeing Darnell, who he sensed was deliberately lingering nearby. They got in the elevator at the same time yet again.
“Tough morning,” Amankwah said when the doors closed.
Darnell pushed the button to the main floor. “Would you like to go for that cup of coffee?” he asked.
“Sure, let’s leave by the north door. Not many people use it,” Amankwah said.
Snow had been forecast. It hadn’t yet arrived, but it was cold outside. They both buttoned up their overcoats. “Jennie used to tell me most Crowns were afraid to talk to reporters,” Darnell said, moving at a quick clip. “She thought it was a mistake.”
“Your wife was a very good lawyer.”
“That’s what everyone tells me. Look, I don’t really want to go for coffee. Let’s walk, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” Amankwah said.
They headed up to Dundas Street, then west, and soon they were in the midst of Chinatown.
“I’m a mathematician. You’re going to have to explain to me this on-the-record and off-the-record stuff you journalists use,” he said.
“It’s simple,” Amankwah said. “You tell me something. If you say it’s off the record, then it’s our secret. If you don’t, I can print it.”
“So the onus is on me to be clear about things.”
“That’s right. You can also embargo a story with me.”
“Meaning, we talk about something now, and I say you can use it, but not until after the trial is over?”
“Exactly.”
They were already at Spadina Avenue. It was surprising how far you could go in a short time if you headed in one direction, Amankwah thought. They crossed the wide street and Darnell kept going. In two blocks he turned north, and soon they were in the midst of Kensington Market, the city’s old outdoor market district, filled with a dizzying array of shops selling cheese, bread, nuts, meat, and fruits and vegetables; a jumble of eclectic vintage-clothing stores; tons of restaurants with foods from all over the globe. Every immigrant group that had come to the city had passed through here and left its mark. Every spare wall was filled with colourful graffiti.
Darnell stopped in the middle of the street. Reggae was playing from a music store that also sold rugs from Nepal. The smell of fresh bread drifted from another. Tortillas were frying at a Mexican restaurant with its windows open despite the cold.
“Look at this place, isn’t it fantastic?” he said, a smile on his face for the first time since Amankwah had met him. He checked his watch. “It took us fifteen minutes to walk here.”
“We used to shop here all the time when my family first arrived from Ghana, but I haven’t been here for years,” Amankwah said.
“Okay, this is off the record, for now at least. Jennie and I moved to Toronto when we were both so young. I started at an actuarial firm and I worked all the time. She was a cop, and then became a lawyer. We bought our house out in
the Beach. Then we had kids. I was sheltered. I’d never seen much of the city. Imagine, I’d never been here, Kensington Market, until this summer, after I was fired. She was lying to me about her affair. Well, I never told her I’d lost my job. I spent six weeks walking all over Toronto. I couldn’t believe what I’d missed.”
Amankwah looked closely at Darnell. Was the man crazy? Still in shock? He could never have predicted a conversation like this.
“I’ve come here every day since the trial began,” Darnell said. “I don’t have much of an appetite these days. I get an apple at that fruit stand over there. Can I buy you one?”
“Sure, but why don’t you let the
Toronto Star
pay?”
“No,” he said firmly. “Because we’re still off the record. You have children, Mr. Amankwah?”
“Six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son. I’m divorced. I only get to see them every other weekend and Wednesday nights.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I could say you get used to it, but that would be a lie.”
Darnell shook his head. “You know, sometimes I think if this hadn’t happened, we probably would have ended up getting divorced. And then, how often would I see my kids?”
“I know it’s such a clichéd question, but how are they doing?” Amankwah asked.
They were at the fruit stand on the corner. Darnell bought a pair of bright red McIntosh apples and handed one to Amankwah.
“The younger two are going to be okay, I think. As okay as you can be. It’s my oldest son I’m worried about.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t think so,” Darnell said. “But make sure this is off the record. Aaron is an out-of-control graffiti artist who has a serious drug problem. I tricked him to get him across the border and put him in a rehab program down in a remote location in New Mexico. He was supposed to be there for at least a year. But he’s too smart for them. They went into town last week and he escaped.”
“Where do you think he’s gone?” Amankwah asked.
“Oh, he’s back here in the city.”
“How’d he manage that?”
Darnell shook his head. “That’s Aaron. As much as we can tell, he met some
girl, talked her into letting him use her phone to text a friend in Toronto who wired him some money. He either hitchhiked or took a bus. Or both. Got to the border, and even though he didn’t have a passport, he’s a Canadian citizen and an adult. He talked them into letting him in without notifying me.”
“How do you know he’s here?”
Darnell took another bite of his apple. “Yesterday he sent me an e-mail from an Internet café. Said, ‘Dad, I’m back. I’m safe. Don’t look for me.’ And last night I checked the garage, and his bicycle was gone.”
“Where could he be?”
Darnell chuckled. “Your kids are young. Wait till they’re teenagers. Aaron’s done this before. He can couch-surf for months and he’s impossible to find.”
“Why don’t you tell the police?”
Darnell took a final bite of the apple and tossed the core in a garbage bin. “This is still off the record. Aaron’s had more than enough problems with the police. The cops at 43 Division were glad to see him go and I don’t want to tip them off that their least-favourite graffiti artist is back in town.”
GREENE OFTEN STAYED UP FOR FORTY-EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT, OR MORE, DURING THE FIRST
days of a homicide investigation and usually didn’t feel tired at all. But by three o’clock on the first day of his own trial, he was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life.
And he knew the worst was yet to come.
“Detective, I want to play you the video from the Coffee Time doughnut shop, the one located down the street from the Maple Leaf Motel,” Kreitinger said to Alpine, who’d been on the stand all afternoon.
During the lunch break, Jo Summers had set up a screen and positioned it so that everyone could see it. Now she picked up a remote, Kreitinger nodded at her, and the four-part video began to play.