Joseph Wambaugh - Echoes in the Darkness

“Yes, he did.”

“Now when you say you were looking at architecture for the three weeks before the weekend in question, what is it that you would do?”

“Wander around in Philadelphia, go to see specific buildings, go to see neighborhoods in general.”

“Do you recall where you were on June twenty-second, 1979, in the evening hours?”

“June twenty-second was a Friday, I understand, from what Mister Guida has said?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You don’t know. When was the first time you were asked that question by the authorities?”

“Probably the first time I spoke to them.”

“Do you recall when that was?”

“No.”

“The fact is, is it not, that on that Monday, June twenty-fifth, when the two of you were supposed to go to Santa Fe together, that was the day that he told you to drive because he was flying?”

“On that Monday?”

“Yes.”

“That probably was the day that the plans were eventually clear that he would fly and I would drive.”

“How far is Santa Fe?”

“Approximately two thousand miles.”

“So, when he told you to drive two thousand miles in his car with his belongings, you really didn’t even question that, did you?”

“Question it in what way?”

“Would you consider your act of driving that car two thousand miles an act of obedience?”

“I consider it an act of common sense.”

“Would you consider it an act of loyalty?”

“No. We had to have the belongings and the car taken to New Mexico.

“How did you learn of Reinerts death?”

“When I was driving across the country, I spoke with him on the phone.”

“When did he tell you about the children?”

“I don’t remember if he had anything to say about them, or not.”

“Did you ever ask him what he might know about her death and their disappearance?”

“No, I did not.”

“When the two of you left Santa Fe to go to Boston there was a certain typewriter that he left in your custody and control, wasn’t there?”

“That’s correct.”

“The authorities were interested in that typewriter, weren’t they?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“You refused to give it to them for a long period of time, didn’t you?”

“No, that’s not precisely correct.”

“What is precisely correct?”

“There was, I believe, an FBI agent who came and asked for it. My lawyer in Philadelphia and I didn’t think that I should give up something without a subpoena or warrant of some sort. I told him to contact my lawyer, that I wasn’t going to give it to them. And I contacted my lawyer for instructions.”

“And he told you to give it to them?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you of course had talked to Bradfield before you gave it to them, didn’t you?”

“I don’t recall whether I did or not.”

“The typewriter that you gave them had a ball on it, didn’t it?”

“An element, yes.”

“Did you give them the same element that was on the typewriter when Bradfield left it in your custody and control?”

“Yes, as far as I know.”

“As far as you know ?”

“I turned over the typewriter, as it existed, to them.”

“What else did they ask you to give them?”

“What else? It seems to me that they never actually took the typewriter, but took the ribbon and the element, what you are calling the ball, from the typewriter. If my memory is correct.”

“Directing your attention to Thanksgiving, 1978, he made some long-distance calls from where you were staying in Massachusetts. You are not aware by chance that he called Susan Reinerts mother’s house in Ridgway, Pennsylvania, from where the two of you were staying that Thanksgiving, are you?”

“Not currently.”

“After Susan Reinert was murdered, did you and Bill Bradfield develop a code system for communications?”

“No.”

“What was the purpose of the Ezra Pound book?”

“I don’t know what the purpose of the Ezra Pound book was.”

“When did you receive immunity from the government?”

“I really don’t recall the date. It was after that summer.”

“Do you understand what immunity is?”

“I believe my lawyer explained it to me.”

“Were you given immunity to the point where anything you said could not be used against you even if you had a role in the murder? Or was your immunity limited to anything you said, presupposing that you didn’t have anything to do with the murder?”

“I really don’t remember at this time.”

“You’ve had how many years of schooling?”

“At that time?”

“Today.”

Rachel paused, unclasped her hands, and glanced at the watery April sunbeams streaming through the skylight. Anybody else would probably have said, I have such and such degrees, but she answered the question precisely as it had been asked. The computer clicked a few times and then flashed the answer.

“Nineteen and a half,” she said.

“And it was only after you got immunity that you gave any statements whatsoever, isn’t that right?”

“I believe that’s correct. Yes.”

“When Bill Bradfield made a claim on the insurance policies and the estate of Susan Reinert, your relationship was a romantic one, correct?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And it was a romantic one on the weekend in question, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“And it’s a romantic one today?”

“That’s correct.”

“Is it your testimony that there were no letters in your possession from Bill Bradfield while you were in Boston? In code?”

“Yes, there were no letters in code.”

“Was there anything in code in your possession from William Bradfield while you were in Boston at Harvard?”

“No.”

“What is cryptology?”

“Cryptology? That’s the study of codes.”

“Did you study codes?”

“No, I haven’t studied codes.”

“Was there a letter from Bradfield to you congratulating you for becoming an expert in cryptology?”

“No.”

“Was there a letter while you were in Boston, in code, instructing you to destroy, burn and scatter the ashes of the typewriter ball that was in your custody and control?”

“No.”

“Do you understand enough about immunity that if you testify untruthfully under oath that you can be charged with perjury?”

“Yes, I understand that.”

“When you were living in New Mexico did William Sidney Bradfield tell you that the newspapers in Philadelphia would draw a correlation between the murder of Reinert and Jay C. Smith?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Costopoulos got up and took a report to the witness box for Rachel to read. He stayed there, clearly intending to intimidate her. Guida did not request that he move away from this witness.

When she’d finished reading the report, she said calmly, “Well, it doesn’t refresh my memory.”

“My question is, did you ever tell Trooper Holtz that Bradfield told you that the newspapers would draw a correlation between the murder of Reinert and Jay C. Smith?”

“I don’t remember.”

And from this moment, witness and lawyer had a little power struggle that Guida did not interrupt, and during which Rachel didn’t even blink.

“And of course if Bradfield told you that , you wouldn’t remember asking him what he meant, would you?”

“I don’t remember,” she said.

“You don’t remember where you were Friday night, June twenty-second, 1979?”

“That’s correct.”

“Or Saturday, June twenty-third, 1979? You don’t remember?”