Steve Martini - The Jury

Deliver her, O Lord, from death eternal in that awful day, when the heavens and the earth shall be moved: when thou shalt come to judge the world. .

All heads are downcast, except for some of the children, who seem to look on wide-eyed.

Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her.

Deliver us. .

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

Lord, have mercy.

Our Father, who art in heaven. .

As the priest recites the Lord’s Prayer he circles the bier with its undersized coffin one last time, sprinkling it with holy water. The collective voices rise in volume and confidence, until in unison they become a single Amen .

The gathering begins to break up, mourners dispersing, many of them making their way toward Doris to offer their final condolences.

At that moment, I notice that Frank is no longer standing behind her. I look for a moment. He has disappeared. Then I see him. He has made his way around the row of chairs, his lumbering body moving as if in pain like a wounded bear. He moves to the head of casket, leans over and reaches out with his left hand. I think for a moment that he merely touched it, a final farewell.

The priest consoles him, a few words. He takes Frank’s large hand in both of his. From the look on his face, it is not clear whether Frank has even heard him. He seems in a daze. It isn’t until the priest steps aside that I notice that Frank has placed something on his daughter’s coffin. There on top is a single long-stemmed pink rose.

The cops are still trying to put the pieces together. The media is calling Epperson’s death suspicious, an “apparent” suicide.

They have somehow sniffed out that Epperson was scheduled to appear in court behind closed doors. They are now fueling suspicion that Epperson was about to identify the killer when he himself was killed. Speculation is running high that the dead man knew more than authorities are willing to say about Kalista Jordan’s murder.

Harry and I, Tannery and the investigating detectives huddle this morning in Judge Coats’s chambers to gather the facts. Tannery’s face reveals that from the state’s perspective it is not good.

He has already delivered something to the judge in a sealed manila envelope. Printed on the front in large red block letters the words:

SDPD

POLICE EVIDENCE

Coats opens the envelope in front of us, removing the contents, what appears to be two printed pages, eight and a half by eleven. Coats holds them at an angle, reading.

The judge finishes one page, reads the other, only a few lines at the top, then places them facedown on the desk.

“Where did you find these?”

“They were in the victim’s printer, at his apartment,” says Tannery. “We dusted the pages for prints.”

“And?” says Coats.

“Nothing. The original document was in his computer.”

The judge would not have touched any of this, an open homicide investigation, suicide or not, except that the matter now threatens to wind up in the middle of a murder trial over which he is presiding.

“You haven’t shown this to Mr. Madriani, I take it?”

Tannery shakes his head.

“I think he should see it, don’t you?”

“I would question its admissibility,” says Tannery. “It’s not signed.”

“That may go more to the weight of the evidence,” says the judge.

“Your Honor. .” Tannery is not happy.

“Is there a legal reason we should not share this with counsel for the defense?” asks Coats.

“No,” says Tannery.

The judge hands me the document. Harry reads over my shoulder. For two days it has been rumored that there was a suicide note. Until now, we had not seen it. It is dated the third. I look at the calendar on the judge’s desk; the previous Thursday, the day Epperson died.

It is neatly typed, a few misspelled words. I quickly flip to the second page without reading all of it. Harry reaches over as if he isn’t finished. I want to check for a signature. Tannery is right. It is unsigned, but Epperson’s name is typed neatly in the center of the next page.

I flip back to the first page, and there in the center, two graphs down, is the bombshell, almost buried in the middle of a sentence, a confession by Epperson that he could no longer live with himself after having killed Kalista Jordan.

“Shit.” Harry says it out loud. The judge doesn’t bother to chastise him; I suspect because he is thinking the same thing.

“It’s a little too neat, Your Honor. The night before he’s to testify he hangs himself. It should not be allowed in.”

“What do you mean by ‘too neat’?” I ask.

“What he means is a tensioning tool, and cable ties, just like the ones in evidence, were found on the table by the computer in Epperson’s apartment.” The answer doesn’t come from Tannery, but from behind us. Jimmy de Angelo, the homicide dick in Kalista Jordan’s case, is seated on the judge’s tufted leather sofa, squeaking every time he moves.

Harry’s eyes get big as saucers. He turns to look at de Angelo. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Defense lawyer’s wet dream,” says de Angelo. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble. There was just a little too much at the scene,” he says.

“That may be your argument,” says Harry.

“Where were you last night?” de Angelo asks him.

“I was busy with my partner working.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Enough,” says Coats.

“I would ask Mr. Madriani whether his client knows anything about this. But I don’t think there’s a need, seeing as he would be aware of the requirement that he disclose it. There is no attorney-client privilege for a felony in progress.”

He would ask, but he won’t, since he just has.

“Your Honor, my client knows nothing.”

“Yes, and if he did he wouldn’t tell you,” says de Angelo.

“It’s possible Mr. Epperson didn’t want any questions about the authenticity of the note,” I tell the judge. “So he left physical evidence along with it.” I’m referring to the cable ties and the tensioning tool.

“Then why didn’t he sign the note?” asks Tannery. “That would have been pretty good authentication. Could it be that whoever killed him couldn’t get him to cooperate?”

“You have evidence that it was murder?” I ask.

Tannery doesn’t respond.

“You say the note was still in the printer?”

De Angelo nods.

“There’s your answer.”

“Why didn’t he take it out?” asks de Angelo.

“We can debate why he did or didn’t do a lot of things,” says Harry. “A man about to string himself up is not always rational.”

“What about fingerprints?” I ask. “Did you find anybody else’s on the computer?”

“No.” De Angelo says it flatly, grudging response. “But anybody could have known about the tensioning tool. It’s in evidence. Been in all the papers, along with the cable ties.”

“Then Mr. Tannery can argue it to the jury,” I tell him. “The fact remains that without some perpetrator, a face and a name to hang on it, and somebody to tie that person to my client, Dr. Crone is going to walk and the state knows it. He was conveniently in jail at the time of Mr. Epperson’s death. Unless they can tie Epperson’s death to my client, that suicide note cries reasonable doubt.”

“What about the physical evidence at the scene?” asks the judge. “The area around the cross?”

“We found some tire marks that didn’t match the victim’s van,” says de Angelo. “We’re still trying to make a match. Checking them against tire impressions from some suspects.”

“What suspects?” asks Harry.

“Persons of interest” is all de Angelo will say. My guess is they are checking out anybody and everybody who’s had contact with Crone in the last months, jail inmates who have been released who rubbed shoulders with him inside, and people from the Genetics Center. The cops will be spending their nights wheeling every vehicle they can find through plaster of paris trying to make a match they can somehow tie to Crone.