The judge looks at de Angelo.
“We found the victim’s prints, and two other employees’ from the center where he worked. We’re checking them out,” he says.
“Names?” I pull out a pen, holding a yellow legal pad.
De Angelo doesn’t want to give them up, but the judge tells him to disclose. He pulls out a little notebook from his inside coat pocket, then flips a few pages.
“A Cynthia Gamin, and Harold Michaels. Said they used the van last week. It checks out, but we’re checking their personal vehicles anyway,” he says, “to see if the extra tire impressions at the scene match up.”
“And you will keep us informed?” I say.
De Angelo gives me a pain-in-the-ass look. It’s nice when you have the cops working for you.
“Your Honor, you’re telling me the note is coming in, is that right?” Tannery had expected it, but he wants to make sure there’s no chance of turning Coats around on this before he leaves. “I’m going to have to take it up the line.” He’s talking about his boss, D.A. Jim Tate, and his number two, Edelstein, who is about to retire, and whose job Tannery is in line to take.
“You take it where you have to,” says Coats. “That’s what I’m telling you. You can argue all the fine points. That it wasn’t signed. You can argue the physical evidence found in the apartment and at the scene, so long as you disclose it to opposing counsel in advance. I’ll give you all the latitude I can on that,” he says. “But unless you have something more than what I’ve heard here today, there’s more than a good chance that statement is going to come in. And so that you all know, I sequestered the jury this morning, as soon as the news broke on Mr. Epperson.”
“You didn’t tell us. .” Harry starts to get into it with him.
I nudge him with an elbow. When things are going your way, you don’t complain. Harry is worried that the jury will blame the defendant for the fact that they are now locked up.
“There wasn’t time. I didn’t think you would object, especially with all the speculation,” says Coats. “I thought it best that they not be reading the papers and looking at the tube.”
“But I can’t keep the jury out of the box much longer. You’ve got two days.” He looks at his calendar. “We meet back here eight o’clock Wednesday morning. I’ll expect a full report on everything you have in the Epperson thing at that time. Do you understand?”
Tannery nods, but he’s not happy about it.
The judge starts to hand the manila evidence envelope back to the prosecutor. “I know,” he says. “These things happen. It’s a tough way to lose a case.
“And you, Mr. Madriani. I hope for your client’s sake when we get back together there’s no evidence that he was involved in this thing.”
chapter sixteen
Every shred of evidence they have found so far is consistent with a suicide, including the bruise on the back of Epperson’s neck that formed a deep Y. This we have learned from the coroner’s report, a copy of which was given to us this morning.
“What a rope does with the force of gravity,” says Harry. “But he didn’t die painlessly. Spinal cord wasn’t snapped. The coroner confirms that he strangled, probably hung from the rope for several minutes before he went unconscious.”
“Tannery is not going to be able to do much with that,” I tell him. “It would defy the norm if Epperson snapped his neck on the first try. A good hanging is an art form. Most suicide victims strangle themselves walking on air having second thoughts and trying to get back to where they started.”
“Either that or they jump from such heights that they lose their heads,” says Harry. He’s talking about decapitation. “Any way you take it, it’s a messy way to go,” he says. “All in all, pills are much better.”
He flips through the final few pages of the report, which I have already read. “I agree,” he says. “There isn’t much in here that’s gonna help the prosecution.”
“Let’s hope they didn’t find anything more at the scene, or in Epperson’s apartment,” I say.
“You really think he did himself?”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t know. Could be somebody suicided him.”
I look at Harry, waiting for his list of candidates. It is short.
“Tash. Who else? He’s close to Crone. The two are joined at the hip on this project. And it keeps comin’ back to that,” says Harry. “Maybe it had to do with the racial thing. Maybe it had to do with something else. But if you want my opinion, somebody wanted to shut Epperson up.”
“So you think Tannery has the better argument?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s one thing to think Crone may have had a hand in it. Trying to prove it is another. On the Kalista Jordan thing, I think we may have been delivered by the gods. We should consider ourselves fortunate,” says Harry. “Cut our losses and keep our distance.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean we shouldn’t be giving Crone blank checks on further defense commitments. There’s no statute of limitations, and no double jeopardy on Epperson. We rub Tannery’s nose in it on Jordan, force him to dismiss, and one thing is certain, he’s not likely to stop turning over rocks trying to put it to Crone on Epperson. And maybe, just maybe, he can make a case.”
“So you think Crone did it?”
“I don’t think we should be blind to the possibility,” says Harry. “Think about it. What were he and Tash doing with all those numbers? The meetings at the jail?”
“Genetic codes,” I tell him.
“I agree they were codes. Maybe genetic, maybe not. Were you able to understand them?”
I shake my head.
“That makes two of us. The guard outside the door makes three. Can you think of a better way to pass messages?” he says.
I don’t answer him, because the thought has crossed my mind and Harry knows it.
“Bet you dollars to doughnuts those papers with all their numbers got shredded as soon as Tash got back to his office and deciphered them.”
I don’t say anything.
He glances at me over the top of his coffee mug, shod feet propped up against the edge of my desk as he sits huddled in one of the client chairs across from me.
“Maybe we should ask Tash for a copy of one of those papers,” he says. “Probably wouldn’t do any good,” he says. “We know what Crone and Tash would say. It’s confidential. Trade secrets.” Harry gives me one of those squinting sideways looks, planting the seeds. He can sense he has set off the little neurons in my brain. He has me thinking in his direction.
“How else could Crone talk to him? He had to tell him that it was getting dicey. That Epperson was about to spill his guts about what was going on, the racial stuff.”
“Let’s assume, just for purposes of argument, that this happened. Communication by numbers,” I tell him. “You’ve seen Tash. Soaking wet maybe he weighs a hundred and fifty pounds. Even if Epperson had a heart problem, he was more than a match for Tash.”
This slows Harry down for a second or two. “You meet a lot of people in jail,” says Harry. “And Crone’s made a lot of friends. Maybe one of them got out. Crone tells Tash to get in touch. You know the cost of a killing these days. One of the few things not touched by inflation,” says Harry. “Some four-time loser might do it for a few coins and a smile from the professor.”
“What does it say about time of death?” I change the subject, point to the coroner’s report on Epperson. Harry, juggling the coffee in one hand, the report in the other, starts to read.
“Sometime after seven. The best they can figure. Based on questioning one of the gardeners. He pulled out about that time and locked up.”
“Did you see a gate?” I ask.
“I talked to one of the cops about that, at the scene. There was a gate down bottom, near the parking lot. But you could come in up above on the service road. There’s a bollard, but anybody could drive around it. Kids did it all the time, according to the cops, when they wanted to park.