Ridley Pearson - The Art of Deception

“It’s a hearing, not a trial. There’s all sorts of leeway here, Matthews. Calm down.”

“You or Mahoney should have asked me for a psych report.”

“With all the time we had,” LaMoia said sarcastically, annoyed with her now. “Mahoney’s going on vacation next week, and I wanted her to handle it. Besides, defense agreed to the scheduling, and that means they had as little time to prepare as we did. ‘When the shoe fits …’ I’m not saying it’s perfect, but you play the hand that’s dealt you.”

“Do not start quoting country music cliches, or I’m out of here.” She sat back and stared at the ceiling, wondering how LaMoia could take the wind out of her so effortlessly. When he got a few too many beers in him or, on rare occasion, submitted to the pressures of the job and lost his cool, he had a tendency to start spouting sidesplitting one-liners like, “I’ve got tears in my ears from lying on my back and crying over you”-a personal favorite of hers. She heard a little Kenny Rogers heading her way and ducked to avoid it.

“So I’m here,” she said, “to support a psych evaluation that isn’t a psych evaluation.”

“But the point is, you’re here,” LaMoia said, realizing the worst was over. “See? There’s a bright side to everything.”

The hearing ran like a scaled-down trial; it was Mahoney’s job to make a case against Neal, and she went about the task in workmanlike fashion, offering Neal’s vehicle as the murder weapon-hairs, blood, and tissue had been collected from the undercarriage of the Corolla. A small amount of this organic evidence had been subjected to DNA testing and had been matched to Mary-Ann Walker. There was more to come, the lab tech announced from the witness stand. Mahoney hurried her presentation, apparently knowing that the court, too, regarded such hearings as pro forma and did not want to belabor her points, thereby annoying an overtaxed judge prior to the actual trial.

Matthews’s evaluation was regarded as icing on the evidentiary cake-a way to incorporate possible motives for the crime and to subtly bias the judge against the defendant at the earliest possible moment.

The public defender, a slightly overweight second-generation Indonesian man in his late twenties named Norman Seppamosa, with thick glasses and a pug nose, seemed outgunned and overwhelmed until he surprised everyone in the courtroom by requesting to cross-examine Matthews, a request immediately granted. He stood from his chair at the defendant’s table-an act of grandstanding normally not seen in such a hearing, as there was no jury to impress, and ran through a litany of questions that established Matthews’s credentials.

Daphne Matthews saw Ferrell Walker directly behind Mahoney, occupying a seat in the last row. He nodded hello to her.

As Seppamosa got started, Mahoney said, “Your Honor, I think we’re aware of Ms. Matthews’s credentials and qualifications.”

The judge, an African American woman in her mid-forties and an outspoken liberal, clicked her tongue disapprovingly at Mahoney.

Matthews found herself distracted by Walker’s presence.

“The reason I ask these questions, Your Honor,” Seppamosa explained, “is merely to establish that we, and the court, should certainly accept the credibility of such an experienced and well-established expert witness.”

Matthews felt her internal early-warning radar flash an alert and saw a similar concern sweep the patronizing smirk from Mahoney’s face as well.

With an unwanted heat swarming up her spine and across the flesh of her back, Matthews had but a few precious seconds to prepare herself for a round of aggressive questioning. Having sat through nearly half an hour of unchallenged testimony, she had arrived in the witness chair believing Seppamosa would merely take furious notes, lifting his head occasionally as he had been doing all along, and await the calling of the next witness.

With the man standing at the end of the table glaring at her, with him sweating so profusely as to stain the underarms of his suit jacket, with him addressing the court and lauding her expertise and reliability, she knew she had trouble. He had been lying in wait, nothing less.

The judge sternly reminded Mahoney that if she had an objection, she would be well advised to address the court formally, not in unannounced outbursts. “This is not a revival meeting, Ms. Mahoney.” This reprimand indicated an erosion of support that clearly wounded Mahoney and drove her back to her yellow notepad to where Matthews couldn’t tell if she was listening or not. If Seppamosa was coming after Matthews, then she believed it was to get some, or all, of her testimony tossed. Exactly what testimony remained to be seen.

“I see in the investigating officer’s report that you were present at Mr. Neal’s apartment on March twenty-eighth of this year.”

“That’s correct,” Matthews said, checking a calendar offered by the bailiff.

“In your expert opinion, Dr. Matthews, at that time did Langford Neal display any hesitation or reluctance in granting his permission for police to search his nineteen ninety-two Toyota Corolla?”

“He did not.”

“And in your expert opinion, Dr. Matthews, given that the state has made a case that evidence collected from that vehicle suggests the vehicle’s possible involvement in the crime, is this behavior-this willingness to share such evidence with police-consistent with what you’d expect in your vast and well-documented experience of a guilty party? Yes, or no?”

“No.”

“Is it consistent with what you’d expect of an innocent party?”

Matthews hesitated, but realized her hesitation hurt their case more than quick, efficient answers. “Surrendering such evidence would be more typical of an innocent party, yes, but not reserved to-”

He interrupted her. “Because basically Mr. Neal was handing over the smoking gun,” Seppamosa said. “Was he not?”

Mahoney reminded the court there was no pistol or firearm associated with the Mary-Ann Walker homicide. The bench reminded Mahoney to object formally or face a court fine.

Matthews was instructed that she did not need to answer the question.

“Ms. Matthews,” Seppamosa said, suddenly dropping her title, an omission she took seriously, “because the state has failed to produce any witnesses, other than oceanographers, as concerns the timing of this event, and seeing as how counsel is basing a good deal of their suspicions of my client on what they call this ‘inaccurate window of time,’ I’d like to question you about the Q amp;A session-should I call it an interrogation? — of my client, Mr. Langford Neal. You were in attendance, were you not?”

“I believe copies of the investigating officer’s report of that interview have already been put into evidence by Ms. Mahoney,” Matthews said.

She was directed to answer the question.

“Yes, I was in attendance.”

“So it says here,” Seppamosa said.

“Then maybe you don’t need my help,” Matthews said, winning a suppressed grin from Mahoney, “or shall I read it for you?” Seppamosa clearly intended to play hardball. The psychologist understood the importance of staking out her own territory and showing her willingness to engage. She sent the message that she would not roll over for him, and the attorney looked over at her with a renewed appreciation following the comment.

“Not the entire document,” he said, a smug expression winning his face. “I would, however, appreciate if you read for the court page seven of the transcript, lines eleven through eighteen.

I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the section. This would be the defendant, Langford Neal, speaking to you and to Sergeant John LaMoia, Crimes Against Persons, the lead investigator on the case.”