Бретт Холлидей - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 9, September 1982

Siderman nodded absently as he scanned the notes. They appeared to be detailed and meticulously drawn.

“John left his parents’ home at 7:30 and got back here to the apartment around ten-to-eight,” Rambowe was continuing, his indignation rising with each word spoken. “Now that’s a twenty-minute drive and it always will be! But the police didn’t even bother to interview either me or John’s folks on it, even though John named all of us as defense witnesses. Hell, you’d almost think the public defender’s nephew is a rapist and everybody’s running around covering up for him.”

“The court often views relatives and friends of a defendant to be prejudiced witnesses,” Siderman told Rambowe. “The public defender may have thought it would be a waste of time to call them.”

“But John’s folks wouldn’t lie! They’re decent people!”

“Well, the public defender may have thought they wouldn’t lie generally , but just might lie to keep their son out of prison. It’s the P.D.’s job to determine when to take risks and when to decline to show his cards.”

Rambowe heaved a sigh and returned to his packing. “Well, it was probably all over for John the minute he agreed to take the polygraph.”

“Was he told that if he passed the test, the charge against him would be dropped?”

Rambowe nodded. “Only he didn’t pass it. Hell, nobody is going to pass a lie detector test when his nerves are shot from being charges with rape out of the clear blue sky and then hustled all around a police department with handcuffs on your wrists and ink on your fingertips.”

“Wish I’d have been there to advise him,” Siderman told Rambowe. “Since a polygraph can’t be admitted as evidence in a trial it has no validity. And if it has no validity, then the test can’t be used as a basis for arrest. No prosecutor can refute logic like that no polygraph tester, either, all of which makes the test a waste of time and taxpayers’ money.”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Siderman, I know John better than I know anyone and I’d bet my precious hide he’s in jail for another man’s crime. You can bet the cops found a car similar to the one the victim described and when something begins to look too good to be true, the cops will run with it every time rather than break a sweat looking for somebody else.”

“Well, now I’m looking for somebody else, Mr. Rambowe,” Siderman told the young man. “And my attention isn’t all that easily distracted.”

On the way back to his own apartment, Siderman was convinced of two things: first, he was certain John Gideon would not be sending him on the trail of additional evidence if Gideon knew that evidence would only tighten the noose around his own neck; and second, Siderman was certain he would make more headway if he proceeded on the premise that the actual rapist was still at-large.

Siderman spent the remainder of the morning and early afternoon familiarizing himself with John Gideon’s notes. His key piece of unintroduced evidence was the time-factor surrounding the rape. Siderman was in immediate and total agreement with it. Gideon could not possibly have left his parents’ home, picked up the victim in his car, driven her to the dead-end road on abandoned airport property, raped her, and then returned to his own apartment at the time Dick Rambowe said he did, given that Rambowe was telling the truth and Siderman thought he was. Prejudicial testimony, all of it, but Ed Wintermute, Gideon’s public defender, hadn’t even risked introducing it as evidence so that the testimony might find its way into the record. And that wasn’t at all like Wintermute’s usually aggressive style in a court of law. Siderman knew him to be generally a hard-charger. It was a change of character Siderman found difficult to explain.

It was later that same afternoon when Siderman tracked down Ed Wintermute in the heavy traffic of the Public Defender’s Office. The young P.D. snatched a look at his watch and told Siderman he could spare him enough time for a fast cup of coffee in the basement cafeteria of the Courts Building, but no more.

“But this better not be a trip around the bush, Siderman. I’ve got eight clients going to trial tomorrow and four of them are still in county lock-up without a leg to stand on.”

In the drab cafeteria, Wintermute began to wolf down an apple turnover with his coffee.

“I wanted to talk to you about the John Gideon rape case,” Siderman said the instant they were seated.

“That’s no longer a case,” Wintermute told him. “It’s down on the books as a first-degree conviction.”

“I admit I didn’t follow the trial as closely as I should have,” Siderman went on hastily, “but after talking with Gideon, I’m convinced he’s sitting in lock-up for a crime he didn’t commit.”

The public defender smiled commiserately. “Siderman, the wrong-man syndrome in jails is more prevalent than accidental falls in a BB-shot factory and you know it.”

“And so are citizens convicted on circumstantial evidence. The victim, for instance, stated she was raped in an ‘81 compact. Gideon drove an ‘81 Chevette, a company car. But hell, Wintermute, sixty percent of the cars on the road are compacts. And the police didn’t even line up several compacts for the victim to look at, only the one driven by John Gideon.”

“The police had a suspect and they had the suspect’s car in the Impound Garage, Siderman. It’s a normal thing to take the victim to the suspect’s vehicle to see if he or she can identify it. They can’t run all over town collecting compact cars so the victim can make a choice. ”

“Also,” Siderman went on quickly, “the victim described the seat covers in the rapist’s car as being of a material similar to velvet. Only John Gideon’s car had vinyl seats.”

“Which is similar to velvet, Siderman. The operative word here is similar. I don’t see anything of conflict in that evidence.”

“Okay, what about the victim testifying that the rapist wore a tan suit with matching vest? John Gideon swore under oath he didn’t even own a tan suit. And his parents testified he left their house that night wearing dark blue slacks and a white pullover sweater.”

Wintermute was shaking his head. “No cigar, Siderman. Any testimony given by the parents is considered prejudiced, you know that. And what John Gideon says he owns and doesn’t own is purely his word against anyone else’s.”

“A police search of his apartment didn’t turn a tan suit or a matching vest.”

“And a rapist, if he’s a smart rapist, will usually get rid of any evidence which might point to this guilt. And that includes the clothing he wore on the night of the rape. I defended John Gideon the best I could, Siderman, and that defense was more than he deserved. Now, if you have any more salient points to make, trot them out, because I am due back upstairs ten minutes ago.”

“Okay, okay. Just one more point. About the photo montage the victim was given to identify the rapist.”

“I don’t recall seeing a police photo montage in the Gideon case,” Wintermute said.

“Although the victim hadn’t yet seen Gideon, of the six sets of photos showing males in full-face and profile, only Gideon’s set wasn’t split by a vertical black line and were, in fact, smaller than the five other sets.” Siderman brought out a copy of the montage and slid it across the table. “It is suggestive and misleading, Wintermute, and you know it.”

“All right,” said the public defender, after analyzing the photos briefly, “I’ll admit this montage is a pretty sloppy piece of work. But it’s none of my affair how Vince DiBiasi puts together a montage. But all the men have short beards, like John Gideon. And they all are roughly the same age. Siderman, we’re not dealing with high art here, just a hurry-up photo montage. I suggest you talk to Lt. DiBiasi about it if you think the montage was unfairly rendered.” Wintermute glanced at his watch and finished off the last of his coffee. “Anything else, Siderman?”