Judge Bernheim gave him a hard, impatient look. “The court is satisfied that this witness is an expert. People will proceed.”
Tess diAngeli asked the witness to summarize his qualifications. Langdell stated that his services were much used by NYPD detectives and New York County prosecutors. He had formerly served as a New York state trooper and a United States marine.
“On January seventh of last year,” Tess diAngeli asked, “did you administer a polygraph test to Mickey Williams?”
“Objection.” Elihu sprang to his feet. “Polygraph results are not admissible in this court.”
“Polygraph results aren’t admissible as evidence of a
defendant’s
innocence or guilt,” diAngeli shot back, “but need I remind my colleague that Mr. Williams is not the defendant?”
“And need I remind my colleague that he sure as hell ought to be!”
“Mr. Elihu, you are one millimeter away from contempt.” Judge Bernheim’s eyelids quivered at half-mast. “One more remark like that and you’ll spend the night in the Cellblock Inn. Your objection is overruled. Jury will disregard Mr. Elihu’s outburst.”
Tess diAngeli shot the witness a glance of hardship borne together. “Mr. Langdell, on January seventh of last year, did you administer a polygraph test to Mickey Williams?”
“I did.”
“Did you ask Mr. Williams if Corey Lyle had hypnotized him to kill John and Amalia Briar?”
“I did.”
“How did Mr. Williams answer?”
“He answered affirmatively.”
“How did the polygraph evaluate his reply?”
“The polygraph registered that Mr. Williams was telling the truth.”
“
Mr
. Langdell”—Dotson Elihu strode forward with his head lowered like a bull’s—“when a lawyer gathers polygraph evidence for courtroom purposes, isn’t it the usual practice to go to a variety of polygraph experts, and keep the results that favor your client, and bribe the other experts to shut up?”
“Objection.”
“Your Honor.” Elihu wheeled to face the bench. “The witness is a qualified expert and the defense is allowed to cross-examine on the usual practices of his profession.”
Judge Bernheim nodded curtly. “I’ll have to overrule.”
“To my knowledge,” the witness said quietly, pleasantly, “that is not the usual procedure.”
“Were you the first polygraph expert Mickey consulted?”
“I have no idea.”
“Was Mickey Williams accompanied by a lawyer from the BATF when he consulted you?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Isn’t it true that you can defeat a polygraph by pressing your toes tightly together and puckering up your anal sphincter?”
“No.” For the first time, the witness’s voice betrayed something like impatience. “That’s a frequently heard old wives’ tale—and it’s absolutely false.”
“Did you run a polygraph test on the defendant?”
“Objection!”
“Sustained.”
Dotson Elihu faced the prosecutor, smiling. “No further questions.”
“Your Honor,” Tess diAngeli said, “since the People’s next witness will be a nine-year-old child, we ask that the courtroom be cleared of spectators and media.”
“Objection!” Dotson Elihu roared. “The defendant is entitled to a public trial.”
Judge Bernheim overruled. “The courtroom will be cleared.” It took almost five minutes for the guards to empty the courtroom of spectators and press. Only one figure was permitted to remain in the spectator benches: Yolanda Lopez, solitary and vigilant in the third row.
“The People call Lisa Lopez.”
Elihu leapt up. “Your Honor, I’ve reviewed this witness’s statements, and they have nothing whatever to do with conspiracy to murder John and Amalia Briar. Her testimony can only be irrelevant and prejudicial. I object to her taking the stand.”
Tess diAngeli faced the bench. “Your Honor, the People will demonstrate relevance. The witness’s testimony goes directly to the character and behavior of the accused.”
“The witness may testify,” Judge Bernheim said. “Call Lisa Lopez.”
A door opened and a uniformed matron walked a little girl across the court to the witness stand. The girl wore a spotless white frock that seemed to shimmer against the deep tan of her skin. She appeared younger than nine. She had long dark hair gathered in braids, and large, melancholy brown eyes. She climbed up into the stand and took the oath.
Tess diAngeli gazed at the child with the smile that is every child’s dream: the smile of the loving mother, of the fond older sister, of the teacher encouraging a favorite pupil. “How are you today, Lisa?”
“Okay, thank you.” The little girl sat there soft but tense, like spun glass, trying to look confident.
“Lisa, would you tell us when you first met Corey Lyle?”
“I met Uncle Corey three years ago.”
“Was that when your mother brought you into Uncle Corey’s group?”
The girl nodded.
“Lisa, you have to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
“Yes.”
“Lisa, did Uncle Corey separate you from your mother?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “He made me live in the country.”
“Were you ever alone with Uncle Corey?”
“Lots of times.”
“What did Uncle Corey do when he was alone with you?”
“He told me stories.”
“Stories about what?”
“Heaven. And hell.”
“What did he tell you about hell?”
“It’s an awful place. They burn children.”
“What did he say about heaven?”
“There’s ice cream. And angels. And no one gets burned.”
“Did Uncle Corey say you were going to heaven or hell?”
“He said I’d go to hell unless I helped him.”
“What did he want you to do for him?”
“He said I had to go to the Internal—” The girl broke off and bit her lip.
“Take your time, Lisa. You had to go where?”
“The Internal Revenue Office. He said I had to tell them a story.”
“What kind of a story?”
“It wasn’t a true story.”
“And did you go to Internal Revenue and tell the story?”
“No.”
“Did Uncle Corey punish you for not obeying him?”
“He locked my doll in the basement.”
“Did he do anything else?”
“He showed me a cat. …” The child cast her eyes down. “He said … if I didn’t do what he wanted … he was going to kill the cat.”
“And did you do what he wanted?”
“No.”
“And did he kill the cat?”
The child gazed steadily at the floor.
“Did you see Uncle Corey kill the cat?”
The child’s eyes lifted. All expression had bled from them. “Yes.”
The prosecutor gave the child a moment. “And after Uncle Corey killed the cat, did you do what he wanted?”
“He said if I didn’t he’d kill my mommy.”
“And after he threatened to kill your mother, did you go to the Internal Revenue Office?”
“Yes.”
“Did Uncle Corey make you wear special clothes?”
“He made me wear a belt under my blouse.”
“What kind of belt?”
“It was a heavy white belt. He said Internal Revenue was evil and the belt would protect me.”
“What happened when you went to Internal Revenue?”
The child stared at Tess diAngeli with a drowning gaze.
“Take your time, Lisa.”
“The belt leaked, and it burned me.”
“And did you require eighteen skin grafts as a result?”
Your Honor …” Dotson Elihu pushed to his feet. “Out of deference to the witness’s obvious confusion and vulnerability, I’ve made no objections so far.”
Judge Bernheim’s expression made it plain that the court was in no mood for Dotson Elihu’s charity. “Mr. Elihu, if you have an objection, state it.”
“So far this witness’s testimony has been hearsay and responses to shamelessly leading questions. I ask that it be stricken from the record.”
“Request denied.”
“Your Honor, if it were not a child in the witness box, none of this testimony would be allowed.”
“But it
is
a child in the witness box, Mr. Elihu. Sit.”
West 12th was a quiet, tree-lined street of old brownstones, and 72 was a pink stucco building that looked as though it had originally been a two-family town house. Now it was converted into flats. Luxury flats, according to a broker’s sign at the entrance. The fountain in the courtyard had trickling water and a prancing Pan—and the mailboxes showed a Liebling/Warner in apartment IB.
Cardozo pushed the buzzer and got no answer.
“No one’s in that apartment.” A lanky young man steered a wheeled cello case into the courtyard. “Gwen’s subletting it.”
Cardozo took out his shield. “I need to talk to her tenant.”
“I’ve only seen him around here once.” The young man opened the mailbox for 2B and pulled out a handful of bills.
Cardozo showed the sketch. “Was this the man?”
“Looks kinda like him.” The young man shrugged. “Big guy, right?”
“Is there a super who might have a key?”
“I have a key. For emergency.” The young man ripped up an unopened envelope and dropped it into a wastebasket. “What did he do?”
“He may have information in an ongoing investigation. Could you let me into the apartment?”
“There’s no one there.”
“So what difference could it make?”
The cellist hesitated. “I’m having a problem with the police. Parking ticket. Think you could help me?”
“Sure.”
The cellist led Cardozo down a corridor and unlocked the door. A faint musty smell flowed out. The blinds of the French windows had been angled against the garden sun. The small living room had been furnished in painted wicker furniture and framed botany prints. An answering machine sat on the telephone table, and Cardozo could see there had been no messages.
“Why don’t you go get the ticket?” Cardozo suggested.
“I’ll be right back.” There was a sound of a cello thunking up the stairs and then the thumping of feet overhead.
Cardozo examined an efficiency kitchen tucked into an alcove. The refrigerator and dishwasher were empty. He opened the bedroom closet. Empty. The chest of drawers. Empty. He lifted a corner of the bedspread. No sheets.
The telephone gave half a ring, cut short by the click of the answering machine. He stepped into the living room and boosted the volume on the machine.
Instead of an outgoing message, he heard the clicks and beeps of automatic call-forwarding. There were three rings on another line and then another machine picked up. “Hi there,” a woman’s voice said. “I welcome your call. No one is home at present—please leave your name, your number, the date and time of your call, and I will get back to you as soon as possible.”
There was a beep, a click, a dial tone, and a disconnect.
Tommy Thomas could help
, Cardozo realized.
Just by listening to those beeps, Tommy could tell where Mickey’s forwarding his calls.
He lifted the receiver and tapped in Tommy’s work number. A strange voice answered. “Tom Thomas’s line.”
“Could I speak with Mr. Thomas, please?”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Thomas is on a scuba-diving vacation this week in Saint Kitt’s.”
THIRTY-FIVE
4:35
P.M.
E
LIHU APPROACHED THE WITNESS
box. He had the earnest-lawyer-who’s-also-a-concerned-father look down pat. He waited till Lisa Lopez’s dark eyes peeped up at him. “What a pretty dress, Lisa.”
“Thank you.”
“I want you to try to remember something, Lisa.” His voice was kind; a Goldilocks-and-the-Three-Bears voice for reading a child to sleep. “Did you ever see Uncle Corey kill any animals besides the cat?”
“Horses,” she answered.
“Objection!” DiAngeli cried. “Confusing the witness!”
“The witness doesn’t seem confused to me,” Elihu said. “She volunteered the word
horses
quite clearly.”
Bernheim pondered. “I’m going to overrule that objection.”
“Now, tell me, Lisa. Did Uncle Corey ever call spirits?”
“Objection!”
“Your Honor.” Elihu pivoted toward the bench. “I have a right to a little leeway in order to show the jury just how far this wee lass’s imagination can take her.”
“The objection is sustained,” Judge Bernheim said. “Lisa, I want you to ignore that question. And Counselor, can’t we just
once
show a little consideration? We’re dealing with a child who has barely survived a terrifying ordeal.”
Elihu crouched down by the witness box. “Now, Lisa, I want you to close your eyes and think back very hard. Did Uncle Corey ever fly or grow horns?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Lisa, I don’t want you to answer that question.”
“But Your Honor,” Lisa said, “Uncle Corey
did
fly.”
“Lisa.” Judge Bernheim’s face was stern. “Don’t answer the question after I’ve told you not to. Jury will disregard the witness’s answer and it will be stricken.”
Dotson Elihu smiled. “Thank you, Lisa. No further questions.”
Tess diAngeli moved forward swiftly. “Lisa—you’re sure you saw Uncle Corey fly?” Her manner had the threatening suggestion of a fourth-grade teacher. “You saw him fly with your own eyes?”
Lisa bit her lower lip. “He told me he could fly.”
“But did you
see
him fly?”
Lisa Lopez shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Her eyes flicked downward. “Well … not exactly.”
“And did you really see Uncle Corey kill a horse? With your own eyes?”
Lisa shook her head. “No. But I know he did because he made me drink a pot of horse’s blood.”
“And what did the blood taste like?”
“I pretended it tasted yucky.” Lisa grinned. “But it tasted like V-8 juice.”
“Thank you, Lisa. No further questions.”
As Tess pushed through the door of Flip Your Wig, an eager young woman sprang up from her chair. “May I help you, ma’am?”
Tess scowled at the minuscule scrawl on the scrap of yellow paper. “I’d like to speak with Moody, please?”
“You mean Woody.” A tic of annoyance twitched at the girl’s mouth. “Woody!”
A large man with platinum-white hair looked up from a brunette head slathered in solution and paper curlers. “Sorry. Can’t take any more.”