Steve Martini - Shadow of Power

Mercifully for Detrick, who would like to crawl under his chair, the judge allows only one more question before we break for the day.

“Let’s get back to my original hypothetical,” I tell him. “If the killer was someone Scarborough knew, presumably coming in from outside the hotel, wearing that same plastic raincoat in June in San Diego, where early-summer mornings are often shrouded in fog, sometimes light drizzle, isn’t it probable, isn’t it more likely, that that person wouldn’t draw a second look from anyone, including the victim?”

Detrick has the look of a whipped dog. By now it doesn’t matter what he says. The answer is so obvious that half the jurors probably don’t even hear it. He shifts in his chair, his chin pressed down into his chest, and he mumbles: “I suppose it…”

The court reporter misses it. She makes him say it again.

“I said, I suppose it’s possible.”

The next morning on my way to court, I find Harry waiting for me out on the sidewalk a half block from where I park my car. He’s all smiles. From the look on his face, I can tell he’s not standing there waiting to talk about the weather.

“Figured you’d be coming this way,” he says. “I’ve got some things here I think you’re going to want to see.”

He pulls several pages from his briefcase and hands them to me one at a time as we stand out on the street. “I found them about two o’clock this morning, going through the stacks on the conference table.” They’re computer printouts. Harry has been plumbing the depths of Scarborough’s computer memoranda.

The first item is an e-mail, very brief, three quick sentences, no salutation. “Regarding the item of which we spoke last week, I am informed that I will require access to the original. A copy will not do. Please reply.” It is signed T. Scarborough and dated eighteen months ago.

I look at the e-mail address in the “TO” box at the top. It is addressed to Aginnis@scotus.gov.

“What’s this?” I point to the address.

“Supreme Court of the United States,” says Harry. “It’s Arthur Ginnis’s e-mail address at the Court. Next,” he says. Harry hands me another page.

It’s another e-mail missive from Scarborough to Ginnis. “Regarding my message of the 18th, I have received no reply. I assume it is possible to gain access to the original? As I stated previously, a copy does not satisfy the requirements of my third party. Please reply as soon as possible.”

“And it gets more interesting,” says Harry. He hands me a third e-mail. This time it’s a reply from the Court to Scarborough, with Scarborough’s second message appearing below it. But the reply is not from Ginnis. The name on the bottom reads “A. Aranda.”

“I write you on behalf of the Court. I have been asked to inform you that this site is for the conduct of official Court business only. If you have business of a personal nature, please direct it by way of ordinary mail to the following address.” What follows is a street address in Washington, D.C., with a box number after the street name.

“So what do you make of it?” says Harry.

“Looks like Scarborough was trying to do business with Ginnis, used the wrong conveyance, and he got his hand slapped.”

“Ginnis may have slapped his hand,” says Harry, “but he didn’t tell him to go away.”

For a minute or more, Harry and I stand there on the street studying the brief lines on the paper like analysts trying to decipher language in a diplomatic code.

“The word ‘original,’” says Harry. “I’ll give you ten to one that’s Scarborough talk for the J thing, Mr. Jefferson’s infamous letter. Remember what the gal in D.C. told you?”

“Trisha Scott.”

“She said Scarborough only had a copy of the letter. That’s why he needed the original, to authenticate it. It’s dead-on,” says Harry.

“She also said that Ginnis didn’t know anything about the letter.”

“Fortunately for you and me,” says Harry, “we never believe people.” We had already dropped both Trisha Scott’s name as well as the name Arthur Ginnis into the middle of our witness list of possibles to be called, just in case. At the moment Scott’s looking like an odds-on bet for a subpoena. Of course, there’s always the risky unknown, what she might say if you put her on the stand.

“What do you make of this?” says Harry. He’s pointing to language in one of the e-mails. “Scarborough’s asking for the original, and then he says, ‘As I stated previously, a copy does not satisfy the requirements of my third party.’”

Harry gives me a quizzical glance. “Is he trying to publish the letter, or is he trying to sell it?”

I shake my head. We need to move quickly.

“Tell Herman to hire a gumshoe in D.C.,” I say, “somebody he knows or a good referral. Have them find out what’s at this street address.” I point to the D.C. address on the Court’s e-mail reply. “And if it’s a drop box, who rents it. Also ask them to check out the name A. Aranda on a directory of the Court’s employees. I assume there must be one. If not, tell them to do whatever they have to, but find out. Tell them we need the information by tomorrow.

“This next item I don’t want to job out. Ask Herman to get on his traveling clothes and catch the first flight back to D.C. If we end up having to drop a subpoena on Ginnis, first order of business, we’re going to have to know where he is.”

After Detrick was saved by the bell at yesterday evening’s break, you can bet Tuchio spent much of the night with him in the woodshed doing a refresher course on their theory of the case. This morning the detective is looking a little worn and frazzled.

Between the saucer-size eyes and the razor-quick double take Detrick does when I say his name, you might think Tuchio has been feeding him Benzedrine all night.

I don’t even ask Detrick about the detective’s note from the interview in New York with Richard Bonguard, including the early reference to the “J letter” and why the police didn’t follow up on this. This is another instance of their shoddy investigation, rush to judgment. But if asked, Detrick would no doubt simply say it was irrelevant. They already had their man and all the evidence that went with him.

This morning Detrick and I parry over one final point. We know that the killer tried to dispose of the raincoat by throwing it into a Dumpster. So if Carl killed Scarborough, why didn’t he do the same thing with his pants and shoes instead of trying to clean them? After all, he had the better part of twenty-four hours to get rid of them.

Detrick and I go back and forth over this several times, tugging and pushing. At one point he tries to repeat the statement that Carl gave the cops during interrogation, that he kept them because he couldn’t afford to replace them. I cut Detrick off before he can go there.

“Wouldn’t you get rid of them,” I ask him, “if you were the killer?”

“Oh, I would,” he says. “But then in my experience as a homicide detective over the years, I’ve seen a lot of people do a lot of stupid things.”

I could ask him whether in his long experience he has seen people burning their clothes or throwing them in Dumpsters when their only act was the misfortune of stumbling onto a crime scene where they’d picked up traces of blood. But that would be one question too many. Detrick would say, No, of course not, but then those people would have gone to the authorities and reported the crime.

“Thank you. That’s all I have for this witness.”

Tuchio spends twenty minutes on redirect trying to undo some of the damage from yesterday. He has Detrick repeat the state’s theory of the key in the lock, a secretive entry into Scarborough’s hotel room, and then emphasizes that in that case the killer would have been wearing the troublesome raincoat before he entered. It’s this image that Tuchio wants to leave with the jury before we move on.