Trial and Terror (2 page)

“Did the hair samples you found match with the samples taken from Nick Rodriguez?” Daggett asked.

“In my opinion, they did,” Roth said as he straightened his tie. “All of them.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Daggett asked.

“Every person's hair is different if you analyze it under a microscope,” Roth explained. “Hair samples, in my opinion, can be matched with almost as much accuracy as fingerprints.”

“What are the odds the hairs found in the ski
mask are
not
from Nick Rodriguez?” Daggett asked.

“Those hair samples belong to Nick Rodriguez,” Roth said, glancing at the defendant. “I would say the odds against it are a million to one.”

Excited voices passed through the courtroom, and the judge banged his gavel for order.

“Are you convinced he's guilty now?” Joe said.

“Just about,” Frank replied.

Then a young woman in the front row of the gallery stood up and cried to the crowd, “No! He's innocent! I swear to you, he's innocent!”

One of the bailiffs hurried over to the woman. Everyone turned to watch, and suddenly the room was alive with excited chatter.

“Order in the court!” the judge boomed, banging his gavel on his desk. “Order in the court!” The crowd quieted down as the bailiff escorted the young woman out of the courtroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the judge warned, “any more outbursts like that, and I will clear this room of all spectators. This is a court of law, not a circus. Now let us continue with the testimony.”

“Let's go check on that woman,” Frank whispered to Joe. “I want to see if she's all right.”

“Good idea,” Joe said, grabbing his coat.

The Hardys slipped out of the courtroom and
entered the corridor outside. Frank saw the bailiff had brought a chair and a glass of water to the young woman. As the bailiff returned to the courtroom, the woman sat in the chair, holding the water and staring blankly into space.

Frank and Joe approached the woman. “Are you okay, ma'am?” Frank asked.

“I'm not sure,” the woman said quietly.

“Is there anything we can do?” Joe said.

“This is just very hard for me,” the woman said, looking up at the Hardys. “That's my twin brother on trial, and I know he didn't do it.”

Frank could see how much the woman resembled Nick Rodriguez. She was the same age, with the same features and the same coloring. She was an attractive woman, but sadness now filled her eyes.

“I'm Frank Hardy,” Frank said gently, “and this is my brother, Joe. I'm here watching some trials for a school civics class.”

“Hello,” the woman said, managing a small smile. “My name is Nellie Rodriguez.”

“If your brother is innocent,” Joe said, “I'm sure his lawyer will get the jury to see that.”

“But the evidence is all against him,” Nellie said with a helpless shrug. “When that man talked about the hair samples, I could see every member of that jury convicting Nick with their eyes.”

There was a blinding flash of light, and Joe turned to see a woman with frizzy red hair pointing a camera at Nellie. The woman was in her thirties, dressed in a turtleneck sweater and short leather skirt.

“Miss Rodriguez,” the redhead spoke out, “I wonder if I might have a few words with you?”

“No,” Nellie said angrily. “I've told you before, I have nothing to say to you. Please, can't you leave me and my family in peace?”

“It will only take—” the woman persisted.

“Can't you see she's upset?” Joe barked at the intruder. “Now get out of here!”

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” the redhead said as she stuffed the camera into her large shoulder bag and hurried back to the courtroom.

“That's Lisa Velloni,” Nellie said. Joe could tell that Nellie disliked the woman. “She's a reporter. Several newspapers, mostly tabloids, are covering this case because Karen is on a soap opera.”

Nellie took a sip of water, then spoke again. “I'm told Patricia Daggett seldom loses a case. And she's prosecuting this one especially hard.”

“Why is that?” Joe asked.

“Before she landed her TV role, Karen Lee worked as a secretary in the district attorney's office,” Nellie explained. “That's where all the
prosecutors work. She was only there a few months, but during that time Daggett and Lee got to know each other. That gives Daggett all the more reason to nail the person who tried to kill Karen.”

“Daggett's tough,” Frank said, “but it seems as if your brother's lawyer is also good.”

“Bernie Myers is doing his best,” Nellie said, “but he's not even sure my brother is innocent. Nick swears he had never seen those gloves and ski mask before, let alone put them under the mattress. But it sure looks like he did.”

“Maybe your brother was framed,” Frank said.

“That's exactly what I think,” Nellie said.

“Do you know of anyone who might want to kill Karen Lee?” Joe asked.

“That's part of the problem,” Nellie said. “Karen Lee is a very nice person who doesn't seem to have any enemies. Aside from Nick, there simply isn't anyone else with a motive to kill her.”

“Let me ask you something,” Frank said. “Does Mr. Myers have a private investigator working on the case?”

“He suggested we hire one,” Nellie said, “but we couldn't afford it. We couldn't even afford to put up Nick's bail money, so he's had to stay in jail since his arrest.”

Frank did not know if Nick Rodriguez was guilty or innocent, but, either way, he felt great
sympathy for Nellie Rodriguez. She seemed like a nice person who was caught in a very painful situation. Frank gave his brother a look, and Joe gave a slight nod.

“Nellie,” Frank said, kneeling beside the woman, “my brother and I do some detective work ourselves. Maybe we could lend a hand on this case.”

“I'll bet we've got a record as good as Patricia Daggett's,” Joe said proudly.

“It's very nice of you to offer, but . . . ” Nellie began, doubt in her eyes.

“And we're cheap,” Joe said. “In fact, we're free.”

“Free?” Nellie asked, now clearly confused. “Nothing's free. What's the catch?”

“We take on cases because they interest us or because we want to help someone,” Frank explained.

“Or both,” Joe added.

“Well, I . . . ” Nellie said.

“I have an idea,” Frank said. “We'll do a little preliminary investigating today, and then we'll give Mr. Myers a report. If he doesn't like what we're doing, he doesn't have to use us.”

“I guess we've got nothing to lose,” Nellie said.

“Nothing at all,” Joe said, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

Nellie gave the Hardys some more information
on Karen Lee, including her home address. Then she told the brothers to come back to the courthouse at five-fifteen, when they could talk with Mr. Myers.

The Hardys rode the elevator down to the lobby, then walked to the bottom of the building's concrete steps. The winter air was brisk but not too cold. After being inside stuffy courtrooms all day, Joe found the air refreshing.

“I don't know if we'll be able to help on this case,” Joe said, stretching his arms, “but at least you'll get a great report for your civics class.”

“This should be interesting,” Frank said. “We've never worked as PIs on a trial before.”

“And here we are,” Joe said, “first time out, smack in the middle of an attempted murder case.”

A steady flow of people moved up and down the steps. The criminal court building was a grimy granite structure that ascended twenty stories high. A large percentage of the criminal trials for the Manhattan borough of New York City took place there, and that added up to plenty of trial activity every day. Frank noticed a phrase engraved on a stone wall bordering the steps: Justice Denied No One.

“One thing I learned in civics class is that because this is a trial case,” Frank told Joe, “we don't have to prove someone else is guilty. We
don't even have to prove Rodriguez is innocent. We just have to find things that will keep the jury from being absolutely certain he's the person who attacked Karen Lee. If even one of the jurors has some doubt about Rodriguez being the culprit, the jury has to let him go.”

“I knew that,” Joe said. “The Constitution says that a man is innocent until
proven
guilty.”

“You're definitely going to get an A when you take civics next year as a senior,” Frank said with a sly look. “And it will all be thanks to me, of course.”

“Of course,” Joe said, ignoring his brother's teasing. “I guess the best way for us to give the jury some reason to doubt would be to find a few other suspects.”

“I was thinking we could first go to Karen Lee's apartment building,” Frank said. “Maybe we'll find someone there who knows a little about her or who may have seen something useful on the night of August fourteenth.”

“Sounds good,” Joe said, already on the move.

The Hardys walked a few blocks to an outdoor parking lot. After paying an attendant, they climbed inside their trusty blue van, and Frank turned the key in the ignition.

Though it was only three o'clock, the streets heading uptown were clogged with cars, taxis, trucks, buses, and even bicycles. A mixture of honking horns and rumbling engines filled the air.

Looking out the back window of the van, Joe caught sight of the two sleek towers of the World Trade Center. Up ahead he picked out the familiar shape of the Empire State Building.

“With just a turn of the head, ladies and gentlemen,” Joe said, mimicking the voice of a tour guide, “you can see the world's third and fourth tallest skyscrapers.”

Without warning, a bright yellow taxi swerved in front of the van, forcing Frank to slam on his brakes. Then a chorus of angry horns blared from behind. “Man, this traffic is murder,” Frank said.

“Welcome to New York City,” Joe cracked.

After twenty minutes, the Hardys reached a neighborhood known as Chelsea. After another twenty minutes spent searching for a parking space, Frank and Joe were finally walking down the block where Karen Lee lived.

Chelsea was a residential area, much quieter than most of Manhattan. Small apartment houses stood on both sides of the tree-lined streets. Soon the Hardys found a five-story redbrick building that had the address they were looking for.

Frank and Joe climbed the front steps, and Frank tried the front door. It was locked. But when a postman stepped out of the building, the brothers were able to slip inside.

“Easy as pie,” Joe said.

The building was clean and the hallways freshly painted. The Hardys passed an elevator and went through a door into a stairwell. After climbing two flights, they emerged through another door onto the third floor. There was a hallway that showed the doors to three apartments.

“Karen lives in three-C,” Frank said, moving down the hallway. “Let's hope some of her neighbors are home, and let's hope they're the nosy type.”

“Look,” Joe said, pointing to a door that was slightly ajar. A small plaque on the door read 3C.

Frank knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he and Joe stepped quietly inside.

They were in a living room. The lights were off, and there was no sign of anyone around. Frank noticed it seemed almost colder indoors than outside. It's the middle of December, Frank thought. Why is the building's heat not on?

Joe moved to a desk upon which everything was neatly arranged. A large manila envelope was open, and numerous smaller envelopes were sticking out of it. All the envelopes were addressed to Karen Lee, care of the
Days of Destiny
television studio. Fan letters, Joe thought.

Meanwhile Frank was moving down a hallway that he guessed led to a bedroom and a
bathroom. Then Frank stopped, his heart pounding.

The bathroom light was on, and inside, half under the sink, Frank saw a body sprawled on the bathroom floor.

Frank crept down the hallway and into the bathroom. When he reached the bathroom door, he let out an audible sigh. A young man was lying on his back, his head under the sink, just as Frank had seen. But the man was quite alive, and he held a pipe wrench in one hand.

“Who are you?” the man said, lifting his head to look at Frank. He was somewhere in his mid-twenties, dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. He had a dramatic-looking face, Frank thought. The hair was dark, the nose sharp, and the eyes intense, like those of a falcon.

“I'm sorry for barging in, but the door was open,” Frank said. He could see the man was in the middle of changing a pipe.

“I'll say it again,” the man said, eyeing Frank suspiciously. “Who are you?”

Joe appeared at Frank's side. “I'm Frank Hardy,” Frank said, “and this is my brother, Joe. We're doing some research on the Karen Lee trial as part of a high school journalism assignment. We thought we would just take a look at her building. But then we found the door to her apartment open.”

Frank and Joe looked, dressed, and acted like two ordinary high school kids, and it often worked to their advantage if people thought they were nothing more than that.

“So you guys are aspiring writers?” the man asked, looking from Frank to Joe.

“You might say that,” Frank replied. “We especially like nonfiction and love to do hands-on research.”

The man chuckled, his suspicion quickly turning into friendliness. “Well, I'm the building's superintendent,” he said, picking up a piece of shiny pipe. “When something breaks, I fix it. But I'm also a writer myself. The name's Alex Steel.”

“What sort of stuff do you write?” Frank asked, pleased to see Alex was buying the phony journalism story.