“What are you doing here?”
“I’m a magazine photographer.” He held up the camera, bristling with high-tech add-ons. “I’m doing a spread on education.”
“You were here yesterday.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“Let me see your registration and I.D.”
He set down the camera and leaned across the seat and pushed the door open. The air-conditioning lowered the policewoman’s guard, drew her closer. She placed a foot up on the car frame. It was a male gesture, and it needed more weight. It needed a boot, not that black lace-up go-to-funerals shoe she was wearing.
A bell sounded, and the schoolchildren began filing back into the building. He took out his wallet. He flipped through charge cards, dawdling until the yard was empty.
Her eyes were pale and watchful and nervous. “Would you hurry it up?”
“Sorry.” He twisted in the seat, storing torque in his right shoulder. He held out the wallet. “You know, I really didn’t plan on this.”
“Mm-hmm.” She reached for the wallet. When she saw that he was wearing surgical gloves, her eyes jumped to his face. Big mistake.
He exploded into movement. His right hand clamped onto her left. Wristbone snapped. He yanked hard and fast, sliding backward on the seat. There was a split second’s astonishment in her eyes, and she came flying full length into the car. His left hand grabbed her head and drove it into the open glove compartment. A tooth bounced off the accelerator pedal.
Holding her down with his right hand, he pulled the door shut. His eyes scanned the sidewalk for passersby. All clear for a half block in either direction.
She was whimpering like a little dog. Her neck strained against the pressure of his hand and arm.
“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to take a little drive.” He gave her five inches, just enough leeway to slam her face into the leather seat. He pressed down with his full body weight, both hands around her neck.
When he released her, she rolled partway off the seat. He pushed her down into the space between the seat and the dashboard.
He twisted the key in the ignition. With a glance over his shoulder, he angled into the traffic.
TWELVE
3:20
P.M.
“O
N OCTOBER THIRD …” TESS
diAngeli said, “did you interrogate the accused, Corey Lyle, with regard to the murders of John and Amalia Briar?”
“I did,” Assistant District Attorney Lamont said.
“Would you view the following videotape,” diAngeli said, “and tell the court if it’s an accurate record of that interview?”
“Objection.” Dotson Elihu rose to his feet, sighing. “The videotape contains statements made by Dr. Lyle in the absence of a lawyer. Since Dr. Lyle did not waive his right to counsel, the tape is inadmissible.”
Judge Bernheim turned to the witness. “Did you advise the accused of his right to counsel?”
“I did, Your Honor.”
“And did he request counsel?”
“He waived counsel,” Lamont said. “It’s on the tape.”
“The tape may be shown from the point where the accused is advised of his right to counsel.”
The prosecutor’s assistant ran the videotape fast-forward. The image of Corey Lyle, staring out of the TV screen, hardly moved. But a curtain in the window behind him flapped as though amphetamined poltergeists were ripping it apart.
Checking the sound on earphones, the assistant located the frame he wanted and slowed the tape. The window curtain floated in a lazy breeze and the off-camera voice of Harkness Lamont said, “You’re aware your statements could be used in a court of law.”
“I’m hoping they will be,” Corey Lyle’s image said, “if they can help Mickey.” Even on the TV the voice possessed astonishing resonance, as though it were speaking in an empty church.
“Do you wish to have counsel? You’re entitled to it.”
“Why would I wish that?”
“Several of your statements could be used against you.”
Corey Lyle’s image shaped a smile utterly without malice or irony. “I don’t think that need worry us, do you?”
“It’s my duty to advise you of your rights. If you want to continue this discussion, just the two of us, that’s okay.”
“At the moment my rights aren’t an issue. It’s Mickey that concerns me.”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
The prosecutor’s assistant stopped the tape.
“That is clearly not a Miranda warning.” Dotson Elihu heaved himself to his feet. “And my client clearly did not waive his right to counsel.”
“I’m going to rule that it
is
a Miranda,” Judge Bernheim said, “and your client waived. Overruled.”
Elihu shot the jury an astonished look.
The assistant started the tape again and the off-screen voice asked, “Why’s it your worry if Mickey’s in a jam?”
“In any legal sense, Mickey is innocent of the murders. He misapprehended the doctrine of our group and acted on that misapprehension. I taught him the doctrine. I’d say that puts a certain responsibility on my shoulders, wouldn’t you?”
“Two people are dead. Somebody’s responsible.”
“Then I’m responsible.”
“You’re going to have to explain that to me.”
“Your Honor,” Dotson Elihu cried, “I object to these out-of-context excerpts. They amount to compelling the defendant’s testimony.”
On the screen, all movement drained from the image.
“Must I remind you, Mr. Elihu,” Judge Bernheim said, “the constitutional prohibition against self-incrimination does not apply to documents. A tape is a document. The People can give us these statements from the tape. If you feel your client’s statements have been unfairly excerpted, you may later introduce the complete tape and set the record straight.”
A juror muttered in front of Anne, “Oy!”
“The People may proceed,” Judge Bernheim said.
The prosecutor’s assistant again aimed the remote at the TV screen.
“Were there ever occasions when Mickey Williams acted without your advice or approval?”
“Mickey never did anything without seeking my advice. He’s not a developed intellect. He prefers to obey an authority.”
“And are you that authority?”
“At present, pretty much.”
The image lurched, as though there had been some kind of electronic deletion.
“Did you speak to Mickey Williams on Friday of Labor Day weekend?”
The image nodded. “I asked him to go to the Briars’ apartment and keep an eye on them.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. You preceded Mickey to the apartment and let him in. You then left the apartment.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you speak to Mickey Williams again that weekend?”
“We spoke on the phone early Saturday morning.”
“Who phoned who?”
“Mickey phoned me.”
“Why?”
“To tell me that John Briar was dead.”
“Did this news surprise you?”
“I’d been expecting it for some time.”
“In other words, you had advance knowledge this event was going to occur?”
“That’s correct, but not in the sense you think.”
“You seem to be saying that you were involved.”
“That’s also correct, but in a way that would be hard for me to explain to you.”
“Look, are you sure you don’t want a lawyer?”
The prosecutor’s assistant aimed the remote. The image froze, then vanished, leaving the TV screen with a hard, rubbery glare. The assistant removed the tape.
“Your Honor.” Dotson Elihu stood. “I respectfully request that you declare a mistrial.”
Judge Bernheim stared at him. “On what grounds, Mr. Elihu?”
“
That
was the Miranda warning. Right there where the People turned off the tape. Everything preceding it is inadmissible.”
“I disagree with you, Mr. Elihu. By my count that was the second Miranda.”
After the day’s testimony, four guards herded the jurors down through the basement and out to a bus that took them to their hotel. The World-Wide Inn was a glass-sheathed skyscraper at the edge of lower Manhattan’s business district. Polished brass doors swung open onto a pink-and-gold lobby. The man at the desk had a list of room assignments, and Anne found she was sharing 1818 with Shoshana Beaupre, the schoolteacher.
As they stepped into the elevator, Shoshana asked, “Do you smoke?”
“I haven’t for years.”
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“Good.” Shoshana had cheerful mink-brown eyes, and her lace blouse and calf-length floral skirt gave an impression of carefully understated neatness. “We’re going to be friends.”
Anne had no sensation of rising. The floor indicator stopped at 18. They followed the guard down a gray-carpeted hallway. He slid a card-key into the lock of 1818. The tiny room had two beds and a very low ceiling and a mirrored wall that made it seem six people had crowded in. Outside the window, skyscrapers reflected the cold pink beginnings of autumn sunset.
“Home,” Shoshana said. “Do you believe it?”
“It’s a little cramped,” Anne said.
Shoshana made a quick check of the accommodations. “I think it’s their way of telling us to reach a fast verdict.”
“If I can help you in any way …” The guard set their luggage on the baggage rack and handed Anne the electronic card-key. “Just ask.”
“I know you didn’t expect to be taken up on that,” Shoshana said, “but how about seeing if you can get that TV to work?”
The guard shook his head. “You’re sequestered. No TV, no phone.”
Shoshana frowned. “What if there’s an emergency?”
“Then you get in touch with me.” He winked.
Shoshana’s silence let the suggestion glide to a crash landing. The guard tipped an imaginary hat and backed out of the door.
“I have a feeling he likes you,” Anne said.
Shoshana clicked the bolt on the door. “And I have a feeling he’s an orbiting spy satellite.”
Anne began unpacking. “Do you want the right or left half of the closet?”
“If it’s the same to you, I’ll take the left.” Shoshana shook a gym bag empty over one of the beds. Newspapers and magazines tumbled out. “Look what I sneaked past the gestapo.” She held up a copy of the latest
Savoir
. “This is where you work, isn’t it?”
“In the photography department.”
Shoshana lit a mentholated cigarette and sat with her crossed leg swinging easily. “Does that mean you’re a photographer?”
Anne tried to think how Kyra would answer that question. Evasively, of course. “I don’t have an eye for taking pictures. I only have an eye for selecting them.”
“Then you’ll love this.” Shoshana pulled a snapshot from her wallet. “These are my kids.”
The photo showed a group of beaming eight-year-olds wearing Rollerblades and private-school blazers. No more than three out of the twenty or so faces were dark-skinned. The picture had been taken on an immaculate city street lined with trees and BMW’s.
“What great-looking children,” Anne said. “Are they your students?”
Shoshana nodded. “I took that picture up on East Ninety-second, right outside the school.”
Anne turned. “They say the kids at Saint Andrew score the highest SAT’s of any school in New York City.”
“Except for the École Française. That’s where your kid goes, right?”
Anne’s hand, reaching to hang a sweater in the closet, stopped in midair. “How did you know that?”
“I’m psychic.” Shoshana laughed. “And you mentioned it in voir dire.”
“Of course. Toby’s in sixth grade. I’m sorry I don’t have any photos of him.”
“He must be pretty damned bright. I hear the École is even tougher than St. Andrews.”
“He is bright,” Anne said. “And warm. And loving. He’s a wonderful kid.”
The guard unlocked the steel door and Dotson Elihu stepped into the windowless green-walled interview room.
Corey Lyle was seated at the far end of the table, eyes fixed on the darkened screen of the TV set. As the door clanged shut, his eyes floated up. He unfurled a smile and rose, pleasant and placid as a tabby cat stretching in the sun. “There you are, Dot. Thanks for coming by.”
“DiAngeli finally gave me the tape.” Elihu took the videocassette from his briefcase and slipped it into the VCR. The TV screen lit up into a shimmering abstract painting. The colors abruptly resolved into a fuzzy but recognizable image: a dark-haired man fidgeting with a cup of coffee at a cigarette-scarred table in the Twenty-second Precinct.
“Rotten quality.” Elihu frowned. “This must be a third-generation dupe. Apparently everyone’s seen it but you and me.”
A voice spoke from off-camera. “This is an interview of Jack Briar, conducted by Lieutenant Vincent Cardozo, four forty-five
P.M.
, September eighth.”
“The sound’s pretty good,” Corey observed.
Elihu raised a shushing hand and leaned forward in the metal chair, squinting.
“Mr. Briar, would you describe the events leading up to the discovery of your parents’ bodies?”
Jack Briar’s weary, bloodshot eyes flicked up. “I can’t think of anything I haven’t told you already.”
“Let’s go through it just once more for the record. Take your time.”
In a shock-deadened voice, Jack Briar told his story.
Elihu opened Briar’s deposition and checked off points as they occurred on the tape. The order was essentially the same, as was the information.
Yet—Elihu reflected—diAngeli had tried to withhold the tape. Why?
He had come to the next-to-last page of the deposition, when the screen turned into a black-and-white snowstorm and Briar’s voice became a hissing white noise, like the sound of escaping steam.
Elihu stiffened. His eyes consulted his client’s.
Corey’s face was relaxed and at peace, eyes luminous. He seemed serenely unconnected to anything happening on the TV screen or in the space around him.
It came to Elihu with a jolt: Corey was meditating.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Elihu said, “but do you see that?”
For just an instant, Corey seemed embarrassed. “Sorry … what did you say?”
“DiAngeli erased part of the tape.”
“Really? It seems all right now.”
The image was back, and Briar’s voice was clear. Elihu reversed the tape and played again through the erasure. A little over thirty seconds had been deleted.