Final Juror (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 5) Page 19

  Wow, indeed.

  “You’re probably getting hungry,” I said to Oliver.

  “I’m okay for now. What do you want to do?”

  “Before we wrap up for the day I’d like to find statements from that credit union. You relax. I’ll tear into these last two boxes.”

  As Murphy’s Law dictated, I found the folders I was looking for in the bottom of the last box. On the most recent credit union statement, all of the deposits were accounted for, plus accumulated interest.

  “We’re going out for dinner tonight, my treat,” I announced to Oliver. “But first I’d like to see if I can contact Rachel.”

  As I punched in her number, I calculated the slim odds that I’d reach her on Saturday afternoon of the holiday weekend. But after three rings, she answered.

  “Hi, Rachel, this is Sharon. I hope you don’t mind me calling over the weekend.”

  “No problem,” Rachel said. “I’m on duty, but things are slow, so I can talk for a few.”

  “We’ve been going through the financial records. Everything is pretty straightforward,” I began, but minimized the scope of what I wanted to know by saying, “I found a couple of checks made payable to Cassandra Charity. Any idea who that is?”

  Rachel paused for a few seconds. “Oh, that must be Sandy… from next door… Sandy and Herb, their last name is Charity.”

  I knew I’d be paying a visit to the neighbors.

  23

  Brad entered the courthouse on Monday morning and almost immediately spotted Detective John Cordes chatting with a tipstaff on the opposite side of the lobby. His initial impulse was to walk over and say hello, but decided that wouldn’t be kosher. He waved at the detective instead, and received a warm smile in return.

  The long weekend break seemed to have done all of the jurors a world of good. Brad even found himself slapping Jerry on the back in greeting.

  A tipstaff herded jurors into the conference room, and nobody seemed to mind the delay in the start of the day’s session. Animated conversations shared the details of their holiday with family and friends, and Brad made Evie and Mary Ellen envious of his weekend spent in Hershey.

  Because the prosecution had rested its case, Brad imagined that Judge Whitaker was dealing with a motion from Shane Asher that the prosecution had failed to prove its case and asking for a directed verdict of acquittal. Brad also knew the chances of Whitaker approving such a motion were slim to none. The prosecutor had taken four days to make her case, and Brad wondered how many days it would take for Nesbit’s defense.

  A few minutes later jurors were led into the courtroom. Brad saw a packed gallery and noted that Whitaker was already on the bench.

  “Welcome back,” Whitaker said. “I’m glad to see that everyone made it through the holiday. Mr. Asher, you may call your first witness.”

  Asher wore a light gray pinstripe suit with navy blue tie and matching pocket handkerchief. Next to him, David Nesbit sat with a tight-lipped expression. The stubble on his head had darkened over the five-day break. “Thank you, Your Honor, the defense calls Dr. Harrison Bigelow to the stand.”

  Brad recognized the name of the forensic pathologist he’d overheard Asher refer to in a courthouse restroom cell phone conversation the previous week.

  Dr. Bigelow was admitted through the side door and walked purposefully to the witness stand. He wore a dark blue suit, and his gray silk tie matched the mane of silvery gray hair that stood out against his tanned complexion.

  After the clerk swore the doctor in, Asher began the tedious review of Dr. Bigelow’s credentials, including undergraduate work at Northwestern, doctorate at the University of Chicago, an Oxford Fellowship, and stints at the Phoenix, Denver and Seattle medical examiners’ offices.

  When Asher detailed lectures and writings for which Bigelow was famous, Brad’s attention focused on the defendant. He searched for a tick or other clue of what Nesbit might be thinking, and wondered if he would take the stand in his own defense. Brad knew attorneys were loath to let their clients testify. They might hold up well enough with sympathetic questions, but few could maintain their composure under a withering cross-examination.

  Asher concluded the qualification portion of his questioning by asking Dr. Bigelow to describe famous cases on which he had consulted. Bigelow mentioned several, but when he named Robin Hartwell—a nine-year-old who had been kidnapped from her home and was later found dead in the basement at a neighbor’s house—the jury seemed to take notice. The Arizona case had attracted national attention, and a seventeen-year-old was charged and convicted in her murder.

  “Dr. Bigelow, have you had the opportunity to review the autopsy results and findings produced by Dr. Tamarai Sharma on the death of Genevieve Nesbit?” Asher asked.

  “Yes, I reviewed photographs and all of the summaries and reports, including toxicology.”

  “Did you form an opinion as to the manner and cause of death?”

  “Yes. I agree with Dr. Sharma’s assessment that the manner of death was homicide, and the cause asphyxia from smothering.”

  “Were there aspects of Dr. Sharma’s report with which you disagreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please describe those for the jury.”

  The court reporter signaled for a pause while she replaced paper in her stenograph machine. Brad saw that several jurors had taken their notepads in hand to record comments on Bigelow’s testimony.

  “You may now answer the question,” Whitaker announced.

  “I disagree with her finding on the window of time during which Ms. Nesbit’s death occurred.”

  Asher held his fist to his chin. “How so?”

  “Dr. Sharma estimated that death occurred within two to three hours of the ingestion of her final meal, and in my professional opinion death more likely occurred within three to four hours of her ingestion of food.”

  Asher sounded skeptical as he posed his next question. “Doctor, you cite your professional opinion, but were there specific pieces of evidence that led you to that conclusion?”

  “Yes. There were two issues. The level of alcohol in the victim’s body at the time of her death would have slowed her metabolism, requiring more time for digestion.”

  “You said there were two issues,” Asher reminded him.

  “The second is a bit more complicated,” Bigelow began, and pivoted toward the jury. “Food does not digest at the same rate. Ms. Nesbit’s final meal consisted of chicken piccata, a dish comprised of chicken, pasta and capers in a lemon and white wine sauce. Normally, one would expect to see a meal proceed from the stomach into the duodenum—entry to the small intestine—within four hours. The pasta would digest most easily, followed by the capers and then the protein. The fact that not all of the chicken had passed from the stomach into the duodenum, combined with the effect on her system of alcohol consumption, I concluded that her death occurred within three to four hours after the consumption of food.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Bigelow. Your Honor, I have no further questions of this witness.” Asher returned to his seat at the defense table, and Brad noticed as he patted David Nesbit’s arm.

  “Very well,” Judge Whitaker said. “Ms. Cunningham, you may cross-examine the witness.”

  Diane Cunningham stood at the prosecution table, yellow legal pad in hand. “Dr. Bigelow, you currently reside in Phoenix, Arizona, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are retired from any formal responsibilities as a medical examiner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doctor, how many years has it been since you last conducted an autopsy?”

  “Objection,” Asher shouted. “Irrelevant.”

  “Overruled,” Whitaker said, “you may answer the question.”

  “Seven and a half years.”

  “Doctor, how many times in the past year have you appeared as an expert witness in a criminal case?”

  “I can’t say precisely, probably forty times.”

 
“And on each of those occasions you appeared as a defense witness?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “Are you compensated for your expertise?” Cunningham spoke the word like it was a disease.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “How much do you receive for your testimony?”

  “I receive $5,000, plus travel expenses.” Bigelow appeared unfazed by any of Cunningham’s questions.

  “So for $5,000 you’ll provide whatever opinion the defense would like you to make in a case?”

  Asher leaped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.” Whitaker shot a you-know-better glance at Cunningham over the top of his glasses.

  “But you will acknowledge that your testimony regarding the time of death is your opinion, no more or less valid than the opinion offered by Dr. Sharma?”

  “It’s an opinion,” Bigelow began, “founded in considerably more years of experience.”

  “Your Honor, I have no further questions of this witness,” Cunningham said.

  “Any re-direct?” Whitaker asked.

  “No, Your Honor,” Asher said.

  “Very well, we’ll take a fifteen-minute break.” Whitaker stood and headed for his chambers.

  Brad would have liked to walk outside but a cloud burst ruined those plans. Instead he wandered downstairs to the cloakroom to check messages on his phone. He found a text from Sharon:

  Might be getting to the bottom of the Tetlow case. I will know more after a meeting later today.

  He burst with pride at Sharon’s handling of her own case. More than anyone else, he knew how tenacious she could be, and how valuable her input had been on his cases over the past several years.

  Following the recess, Asher called Dr. Karen Dirham as a witness.

  Brad pictured another forensic expert, who’d most likely reiterate what they’d just heard from Dr. Bigelow.

  A wisp of a woman entered the courtroom and walked toward the witness stand. Her head appeared too large for her slight build. She looked mid-forties, close to Brad’s age, and wore her brown hair in bangs.

  During the “qualification phase” of her testimony, Dr. Dirham identified herself as an orthopedic specialist. A native of Philadelphia, she’d been educated at local colleges, interned at University of Pennsylvania Hospital, and had a private practice in Haverford for the past twenty years.

  “Dr. Dirham,” Asher began, “did you have the occasion to treat David Nesbit in January of this year?”

  “I did.”

  “What was the nature of his medical complaint?”

  “He had been injured in a snowmobiling accident and complained of back pain. I was called in as a consultant while he was treated for his injuries at a local emergency room, and then I had several follow-up visits with him in my office.”

  “I’m going to show you a report from Haverford Medical Center and ask if you recognize it.” Asher handed her a sheaf of paper.

  Dirham studied the documents before responding. “Yes, this is the record of his emergency room hospitalization from this past January, including my treatment notes.”

  “Your Honor, we would like to introduce this as a defense exhibit and show it to the jury.”

  “Any objections?” Whitaker glanced at Cunningham, who shook her head.

  Moments later the documents were projected on the video screen. Brad made notes of the dates of his treatment and saw the words “Vertebral Compression Injury” as Dirham’s diagnosis.

  A few questions later, Asher asked, “Doctor, could you describe David Nesbit’s vertebral compression injury?”

  “As a result of his accident he has two vertebrae in the lower part of his back that have been compressed—squished, if you will, from their original shape. This places pressure on the spinal column and can cause a great deal of pain.”

  “How did you confirm that diagnosis?”

  “A CT scan was done of Mr. Nesbit’s back.”

  “What is the course of treatment in such cases?”

  “In the early stages we reduce the swelling—with ice packs—and ease the pain level with drugs. Heat compresses can be useful at a later point, as they help relax the back muscles.”

  Asher cleared his throat. “Will surgery be required to correct the condition?”

  “It may be. We had discussed that as a possibility, but I haven’t had a chance to examine Mr. Nesbit since February.”

  “Are you aware of the charges that have been filed against Mr. Nesbit, and the reason he is on trial?”

  “I am.”

  “In addition to being charged with killing his wife, Mr. Nesbit is accused of transporting her body from their bedroom to the garage—a distance of approximately sixty feet—and lifting it into a storage freezer in the garage. The court has heard testimony that Mrs. Nesbit weighed 135 pounds. Given his condition, is it your considered medical opinion that David Nesbit would have been able to transport a body of that weight given his medical condition?”

  “He would not. The resulting pain would have been unbearable.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Your Honor, I have no further questions.”

  Brad thought Dirham’s testimony compelling, and wondered how Cunningham would handle the cross-examination.

  As she had with Dr. Bigelow, Cunningham stood at her table and asked all her questions. “Dr. Dirham, are you aware of human beings engaging in extraordinary feats of lifting during a moment of stress, such as when a person lifts a car to free a person trapped beneath it?”

  “I’m aware of the literature in that regard; I’ve never witnessed it in person.”

  “If David Nesbit had carried his wife’s body and placed it in that freezer, what would have been the result?”

  “As I already testified, excruciating pain.”

  “But doing so would not necessarily cause greater damage to his vertebrae—beyond what the snowmobile accident had caused?”

  “Possibly. But I haven’t had a chance to examine Mr. Nesbit since February. It would have aggravated surrounding tissues.”

  “What type of pain reliever did you prescribe for Mr. Nesbit?”

  “I would have prescribed Oxycodone, but Mr. Nesbit did not want to take a narcotic, and opted for an over-the-counter NSAID—like Ibuprofen.”

  “Would any pain reliever—NSAID or narcotic—provide sufficient temporary relief from the excruciating pain you described that he would have been able to carry his wife’s body?”

  Dr. Dirham looked conflicted before responding. “It is difficult to say. It is my opinion that the pain would have been too great—even with medication—but it is difficult to assess how a particular individual might respond to such pain.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I have no further questions,” Cunningham said.

  Whitaker glanced at Asher before looking at the clock at the rear of the courtroom, which read 11:42 a.m. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we’re going to take a slightly early lunch break. Court will resume at 1:15 p.m.” With the bang of his gavel, Whitaker was already on the way to his chambers.

  Brad could not escape the clasp of a hand on his shoulder. He heard Jerry say, “Ready for lunch?”

  “I was thinking about a salad today,” Brad said, hoping that might dissuade Jerry from pushing his invitation.

  “Salad sounds good to me. I know a great place. What do you guys think?”

  Brad saw that Jerry already had Wendell and Chet in tow. They nodded their consent to a salad for lunch, and Jerry led them three blocks to a small restaurant offering deli sandwiches and salads.

  It was as if Wendell and Chet were on Brad’s same wave length. Every time Jerry tried to veer their discussion toward a semi-related trial topic, one of them would bring up a different football game from the weekend. They also speculated on the Eagles prospects against the Panthers on that Monday night’s game. Whatever the outcome, it wouldn’t do much to salvage Philadelphia’s three-win, seven-loss season.

  When
court resumed that afternoon, Asher called Detective John Cordes to the stand.

  Judge Whitaker reminded him he was still under oath.

  “Good afternoon, Detective,” Asher began.

  “Good afternoon.” Cordes glanced at Brad and smiled.

  “Detective, during your earlier testimony you reported on the March 15th arrest of David Nesbit. Did you, at any time, have any other suspects that you considered in the murder of Genevieve Nesbit?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “David Nesbit was your prime suspect from the beginning?”

  “I wouldn’t say that he was a prime suspect at the beginning, only after we discovered inconsistencies in his version of events.”

  “Did you ever consider Carmelita Diaz to be a suspect?”

  “No.”

  “Even after she disappeared following the murder of her employer?”

  Cunningham stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained,” Whitaker said. “Ask your next question.”

  “Your Honor, I would like to show the detective video footage from the arrest of Mr. Nesbit.”

  “Without objection,” Whitaker said.

  Asher stood at the side of the high-definition screen and pushed a remote to start the video.

  At the top of the screen were superimposed the words: “Live from One Feldman Place,” while at the bottom a red-lettered banner proclaimed, “Arrest of David Nesbit.” Brad recognized the logo for Channel 10, the NBC affiliate in Philadelphia. The camera was focused on the front door of the Nesbits’ mansion, and in the distance he could see the garage doors that had been described in earlier testimony. Channel 10 didn’t appear to have a reporter at the scene, only a cameraman, and voiceover commentary from the studio described what the viewers could otherwise see for themselves.

  Brad watched as the front door opened, and Detective Cordes emerged leading a handcuffed David Nesbit to the awaiting unmarked car. Cordes helped guide Nesbit’s head inside the door opening, closed the rear door, and then walked to the driver’s side door.

  As the police vehicle prepared to depart, the camera panned back revealing a knot of several dozen onlookers near the end of the Nesbits’ drive. Yellow police tape had been strung to keep them off the driveway, and Brad spotted two uniformed officers—one on each side of the crowd. Noise from an overhead helicopter drowned out whatever the station announcer tried to say.