“Can I assume you’ll be entering all of this information into the record at some point during this trial?” Norville asked.
“It will be the first thing I do, as soon as I call my defence. They’ll be made exhibits for the jurors to have during their deliberations.”
Norville nodded. “Proceed.”
“It’s true,” Alpine said, without waiting for DiPaulo to re-ask the question.
“If a vehicle gets stuck in traffic at that point, there’s no way to get off. All you can do is wait.”
DiPaulo shifted his gaze to the jury, calmly handed the map back to the registrar, and returned to his table.
Greene saw Jo Summers open her binder of disclosure notes and begin to flip through it. Kreitinger shot out her hand to stop her, but not before a few jurors noticed.
“Last few questions,” DiPaulo said, pouring himself a glass of water and turning back to the witness stand. “The week of September tenth, that was when the Toronto Film Festival was on, wasn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“It’s always the first week after Labour Day, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“Most police officers I know have worked overtime shifts at the festival. Have you ever done that?”
“Sure.”
“For about ten days, the city is packed with movie stars, isn’t it?”
“Happens every year.”
“And this year, did you hear that Oprah Winfrey was here?”
A jolt of recognition flashed across Alpine’s eyes. Everyone in the court could tell DiPaulo had jogged his memory.
“She was,” he said, his voice suddenly tight. “I remember there was a big breakfast event at a golf course with her and Tiger Woods for disadvantaged kids.”
“And you remember it was sponsored by the Armitage Foundation, because their son Ralph Armitage used to be a Crown attorney, don’t you.”
“Yes. They do something for poor kids every year.”
“Do you remember where it was held?”
He frowned. “At the Scarborough Golf Club.”
“Do you remember what day that was?”
“No,” Alpine said.
“It wouldn’t shock you if I told you the event was held on Monday, September tenth, at ten in the morning, would it?” DiPaulo said. “And that the whole of Kingston Road was blocked off in both directions.”
“I’d have to look it up,” Alpine said.
“There will be no need, Detective. We already have,” DiPaulo said. He tossed
the file back on his table and walked around it. “Those are my questions, Your Honour,” he said, and sat down.
This was the evidence DiPaulo had warned Greene would be a surprise to him. And it was perfect, Greene thought. Now everyone in the whole courtroom knew his defence was that he could not possibly have driven to the motel in time to commit the murder. There was only one problem. Greene had never told DiPaulo where he had been on Kingston Road when the traffic had delayed him. And DiPaulo had made a point of not asking.
THIS MUST BE WHAT IT IS LIKE TO HAVE A FRONT-ROW SEAT AT THE FINALS AT WIMBLEDON,
Amankwah thought as he watched Kreitinger and DiPaulo duke it out in court.
Both lawyers were at the top of their game and the battle lines were clearly drawn. Kreitinger had spent the rest of Tuesday putting a string of witnesses on the stand. The 911 operator who took the original call, the police officers who knocked on doors in the motel and the surrounding neighbourhood, and the owner of the Maple Leaf Motel, who described a woman wearing Raglan’s disguise, the sunglasses and red hair, coming in and paying for the room the day before. In cash.
On Wednesday, Kreitinger followed up with the owners of the five other motels on Kingston Road. Each one described similar encounters with the red-haired woman in sunglasses who insisted on paying cash and only wanted room 8. Next came the homicide squad’s receptionist, a very organized woman with a British accent. She showed her chart that detailed how Greene had come in late six Mondays in a row. Fortunately for the defence, Judge Norville had disallowed the girl’s drawing of a man wearing what looked like police officer’s boots. Kreitinger finished the day with the footwear expert, who had told the court that the print on the bathroom door was a possible but not definitive match with Greene’s right boot.
Now it was Thursday morning and the coroner, Dr. Fassen, a thin woman with a lilting Trinidadian voice, was the first witness on the stand. From her usual place behind the lectern, Kreitinger had Fassen go through the evidence from the autopsy and her conclusion, which, to no one’s surprise, was that the cause of death was manual strangulation.
“Can you please tell the jury what actually happens when someone is strangled to death?” Kreitinger asked.
Faasen swiveled in her chair and faced the jury. “The neck is vulnerable to injury because it doesn’t have any bones to protect it. Strangulation causes death
when extreme pressure is placed on the airways. The victim first experiences pain, followed by anxiety as he or she tries to breathe. This is a terrifying feeling, known as air hunger, as the lungs desperately search for air. When enough force is applied to impair respiration, the victim will typically lose consciousness within ten to fifteen seconds. It could take another four or five minutes until the heart stops and they are clinically dead.”
The gruesomeness of what the doctor said was in strange contrast to the lilting accent in which she spoke.
“And how much force needed to be applied?” Kreitinger asked.
“It’s estimated that as little as two-point-five kilograms of force can be fatal. It depends on the relative strength of the parties.”
“In other words, Doctor, the stronger the assailant, the more likely he is to able to strangle someone to death?”
Kreitinger looked at the defence table. The implication of what she was saying was obvious. Greene was a tall man, with broad shoulders and big hands, who was clearly capable of choking Jennifer Raglan to death.
“Yes, a stronger assailant can kill more easily. Quicker as well,” Fassen said.
Kreitinger quietly closed her binder and walked to her seat.
DiPaulo took his time rising to cross-examine.
What was there left to ask? Amankwah wondered.
DiPaulo stayed behind his counsel table. “Dr. Fassen, you will agree with me that in this case, it is impossible to fix an exact time of death.”
“That’s correct.”
“The act of strangulation can take as little as ten, even eight seconds, or as long as a few minutes. Correct?”
“As I said, it depends on how strong the parties are. But you are right. It can be very swift or take some time.”
“After the person is unconscious, the actual death does not happen right away, does it?” DiPaulo asked.
“That’s right. It can take a few minutes for the brain to cease to function, and in time the heart stops.”
Amankwah had seen many defence lawyers be much too deferential in their cross-examination of medical experts, but DiPaulo was treating this doctor as he would any other witness. Controlling his cross-examination of her and making it seem as if he were as much an expert as she was.
He walked from behind his counsel table. “For the killer to come into the
room, commit the murder, make sure the victim is dead, place her neatly on the bed under the covers, as she was found in this case, could all take eight to ten minutes. You agree with that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, “that sounds about right.”
“We know from the Crown’s evidence in this case that the deceased arrived at the motel at approximately 10:02
A.M.
and that the 911 call was received by the police at 10:38
A.M.
In other words the murder had to happen at some point in time during those thirty-six minutes.”
“So I understand.”
DiPaulo smiled. “Doctor, as a result of your expert examination, you’ll agree with me there is absolutely no way to know if that eight to ten minutes started right at 10:02 or began as late at 10:30. Is there?”
“None at all.”
“To be absolutely clear. If, on the morning of September tenth, the killer entered room 8 of the Maple Leaf Motel at 10:02
A.M.
, he could have killed Jennifer Raglan, put her in the bed, covered her up, and been out of there by 10:10. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
DiPaulo turned his eyes to the jury and took his time looking at every face. Many of them acknowledged him with I-get-it nods.
Zach Stone, sitting beside Amankwah, whispered, “No way Greene could have done it if Raglan was killed at 10:02.”
“Exactly,” Amankwah whispered back.
“No further questions, Doctor,” DiPaulo said. He returned to his seat, put his arm on Greene’s shoulder, and slowly sat down.
During the morning recess, Stone and Amankwah speculated about which witness Kreitinger would call to the stand next. There seemed to be only three people left. Ari Greene’s father, who at the bail hearing had testified that Greene had admitted to him he’d been in the motel room that morning. Daniel Kennicott, the OIC, who would tell the jury all about how Greene had deceived him. And, of course, Howard Darnell, grieving husband, but also someone who had to be a suspect in the jury’s mind, given what his wife had been up to.
As soon as everyone was seated in court, Kreitinger stood. For the first time since the trial began, she didn’t go to the lectern.
“The Crown’s next witness is Mr. Howard Darnell.” She turned around and smiled at him. Dressed in a blue blazer, grey flannel pants, and a white shirt,
he walked slowly to the witness box. He took the Bible and was sworn. He still wore his wedding ring. His hand was shaking.
A man alone, was all Amankwah could think. A powerful witness for the prosecution.
“Mr. Darnell,” Kreitinger said, starting right in. “You were Jennifer Raglan’s husband.”
“Jennie and I were married for twenty-three years.”
“And the father of her three children.”
“Aaron, Barry, and Corinne.”
His answers were as lifeless as his demeanour.
“Sir, I have to ask you this. Did you kill your wife?”
“Of course not,” he said.
This is going to be quite something, Amankwah thought. Better settle in for an amazing day in court. He took his notebook out and began writing.
“Where were you on the morning of September tenth?”
“I had lost my job in the summer and, when I look back on it, I realize I must have been very depressed. I hadn’t even told Jennie. I was going to tell her that day. In the morning I got dressed and pretended to go to work but instead I rode the subway and walked around the west end of the city all day.”
“Thank you, sir, those are my questions,” Kreitinger said. Without hesitation she sat down.
What just happened? Amankwah had never seen a key witness in a major trial like this be asked so few questions.
Norville was totally caught off guard. She took a deep breath. Looked at the clock. It was only 10:45.
“Mr. DiPaulo,” she said, trying to act for the jury as if nothing unusual had happened.
“He’s going to ask Norville for a few minutes,” Stone whispered. “Try to figure out what to ask.”
Instead, DiPaulo pushed his chair back and walked out from behind his counsel table. He went to the jury box, turned, and looked squarely at Darnell.
“Sir,” he said. His voice was softer than normal. “You loved your wife.”
Darnell took a deep breath. The whole courtroom waited for him to exhale.
“Very much,” he struggled to say. It was as if someone had ripped the scab off a deep wound.
What do you ask after that? Amankwah wondered.
“That’s my only question,” DiPaulo said. “Thank you, sir.”
Amankwah stared at his notebook. Not even half a line of notes. He looked at his watch. It was 10:47. Unbelievable.
Norville looked totally bewildered. “You are free to step down,” she said to Darnell.
He looked dazed and relieved as he left the witness box.
“ ‘Not with a bang but a whimper,’ ” Stone whispered. “Who’s she calling next?
Kreitinger stood. Once again she didn’t go to the lectern.
“That, Your Honour, is the case for the Crown.”
Norville’s eyebrows shot up so far it was comical. Amankwah looked at DiPaulo. He was nodding, as if he’d expected this.
“Mr. DiPaulo, are you prepared to call your defence?” Norville asked, surprise still registering on her face. “We’ve had a long week already, and I’d certainly understand if you wished to take a day to consider your options.”
Norville had a hopeful look on her face. She probably wanted to get away for a long weekend at her cottage up north.
“Thank you very much, Your Honour,” he said.
“Fine. Then we’ll adjourn until Monday at –”
“But it won’t be necessary,” DiPaulo said.
Norville’s shoulders sagged.
“The defence will be ready to go first thing tomorrow morning,” he said.
“Tomorrow morning at ten, then,” Norville said, not even trying to smile.
DIPAULO HAD CLEARED EVERYTHING OFF HIS DESK, AND TO GREENE IT LOOKED STRANGELY
naked, like a table in an expensive restaurant with the silver cutlery and linen tablecloth removed. DiPaulo himself, despite being in court for three and a half straight days, looked as alert as ever. They were both relieved to be back at the office for the afternoon, and happy to have the time to prepare for tomorrow.
“You never asked me where I was on Kingston Road when I hit bad traffic,” Greene said, taking a seat across from him.
“I know that,” DiPaulo said, grinning from ear to ear. “And I’m not asking you now. I want you to think about it for a while.”
They both knew that if Greene got on the stand and said he’d been caught up in the traffic in front of the Scarborough Golf Club Road because of the Oprah and Tiger Woods event, the case against him would be in tatters. It offered the perfect explanation for how he had arrived too late to have killed Jennifer.
Of course, if he hadn’t been there, then everything was still on the line.
The problem for DiPaulo was that, as an officer of the court, he couldn’t knowingly present false evidence at the trial. That’s why he had never directly asked Greene the question. He was avoiding an answer he didn’t want to hear and virtually inviting Greene to get on the stand and testify that his scooter was caught in the Oprah traffic jam. In effect, he was saying to Greene:
If I’m right about this, great. If not, well, you decide what you want to say under oath. With twenty-five years in jail on the line, if you decided to tell a little white lie, so be it.