Final Juror (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 5) Page 4

  “Not so much,” Nick said. “The detective was a guy named Alfred Miles.”

  I noted Nick used the past tense. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Might as well be. He was fifty-nine years old when Tetlow was killed… seventy-six now. I would’ve called you back sooner, but I was trying to track him down for you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Well, you’re not gonna like this. He’s in a nursing home. Dementia.”

  “You know the name of the nursing home?” I asked as I reached across the desk and grabbed a pen.

  “Yeah, I figured you’d want that. A place called Apple Acres, east of Kennett Square.”

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  It was already 1:15 p.m. and I’d wasted most of the morning waiting for return calls from Nick and the transcription service. Brad said he’d return in a few hours, and I had zilch to show for my efforts. So much for trying to impress the boss while flying solo. I decided to call Apple Acres, find out their visiting hours, and pay Miles a visit.

  I also planned to swing by the library to search media files on the Hugo Pancavetti trial. The clippings Rachel had provided primarily dealt with her father, his accident, obit, the cops calling foul-play on the car crash, and the effect of Martin Tetlow’s death on the trial. I was anxious to learn more about the other juror who had died during the 1995 trial.

  I found the website for Detective Miles’ nursing home and called the main number.

  “This is Apple Acres,” a sweet voice answered.

  “Yes, what time are your…” I blurted out before I realized it was a recording telling me to listen carefully since their options had recently changed. The option to speak with an attendant was the last one given, and I quickly punched number five.

  A man’s voice answered.

  “What are your visiting hours today?”

  “For which patient?”

  I gave Alfred Miles’ name and waited.

  “Is that spelled with an ‘i’ or a ‘y’?”

  I didn’t have a clue and hadn’t asked Nick. “An ‘i’,” I replied confidently.

  I heard the clicking of keys on a computer keyboard, and the receptionist said, “I’m afraid his visits are limited to family members only.”

  Thinking fast I said, “Well, that’s okay. Al is my uncle.”

  “Our records specify wife and brother,” he said, in a dare-you-to-show-up tone.

  I might as well dive in the deep end of the trickery pool. “That’s my dad… his brother, I mean.”

  “Well, then I’m sure there won’t be a problem if you accompany him.”

  “Actually, my reason for calling was that Dad said he’d arrive there before the close of visiting hours.” I spun my tale, talking fast. “I’m in town for a sorority reunion and I promised to catch up with him, and realized I didn’t know how late visits occurred.” I heaved an exaggerated sigh.

  “They’re not over until 8 p.m.” He sounded like he’d taken pity on me.

  “Thanks.” I hung up before he could say anything more.

  I penned a note to Brad saying that I was making progress, but wasn’t sure when I’d be back that evening and would catch up with him in the morning. I laid the note on his side of the partners’ desk in the office.

  The Ludington Library in Bryn Mawr was temporarily housed in trailers while renovations continued on their facility. Makeshift wooden ramps—ensuring handicap access—snaked their way to the entry, and I found an information desk just inside the door. I asked about copies of the Philadelphia Inquirer from 1995, and the librarian directed me to a computer where the information could be accessed online.

  “Do you have a library card?” she asked.

  “I used to, but I think it lapsed.” I left out that I meant my college library card.

  “You should renew your library card, and then you can access this information online from any computer.”

  “Great,” I said, as I settled into the wooden chair at the computer station. “I’ll take care of that before I leave.”

  The librarian gave me access to the information and showed me how to do a search by date or keyword. I thanked her, and she headed back to the front desk.

  Martin Tetlow had died on July 11, 1995. I searched for stories starting in May 1995, using the keyword Pancavetti, and found an article dated Monday, May 8, 1995:

  Jury selection begins today in U.S. District Court in the racketeering trial of Hugo Pancavetti.

  Pancavetti, 55, Gladwyne, is charged with 23 counts of Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization (RICO) violations, including money laundering, drug trafficking, and assisting illegal aliens.

  His January Grand Jury indictment followed a two-year investigation headed by Jacob Weinstein, U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of PA. Pancavetti has been free on a $500,000 bond.

  He is represented by Atty. James Pritchard, who says his client is looking forward to his day in court. “We’re confident he’ll be acquitted of all charges,” Pritchard said

  Federal Judge Bradley T. Emerson will preside at the trial, expected to last several months.

  The trial will take place at the James A. Byrne Federal Courthouse, 601 Market St.

  My cursor hovered over the next to last sentence as I thought about the implications of a long trial.

  I kept searching additional stories and learned that it took a week to complete jury selection and testimony in the trial began on Monday, May 15th. Twelve jurors and four alternates were selected. I continued to browse articles with “Pancavetti” in them, and I breezed through the newspaper’s daily trial summaries. I was less interested in the details of his case than in reports of jurors knocked off the trial. The first such story appeared on Saturday, May 20th under the headline Pancavetti Juror Dismissed.

  A juror was replaced Friday on the Hugo Pancavetti federal racketeering trial after the juror’s husband suffered a heart attack.

  The 52-year-old white female was replaced by an alternate juror, a 41-year-old African-American male. The change leaves the jury with seven men and five women.

  The court’s afternoon session was delayed for nearly three hours when the female juror did not return from lunch. Court personnel learned that the juror’s daughter had come to the courthouse with word of the heart attack. The juror simply forgot to tell anyone she was leaving, presiding U.S. Judge Bradley Emerson said.

  The trial recessed for the weekend after the alternate juror was seated.

  The story went on to summarize the charges and the key players in the case. My next major find was in the Wednesday, May 31st Inquirer. All of the reported events took place on the morning of May 30th. I’d gotten so used to current news via the Internet that I’d forgotten how “news” used to appear a day or two later in print.

  Two jurors in the Hugo Pancavetti federal racketeering trial were dismissed Tuesday amid allegations of a Memorial Day weekend tryst between them in Ocean City, N.J.

  A visibly angry Judge Bradley Emerson rejected the defense’s motion for a mistrial after the jurors’ dismissal and replacement with alternates.

  An anonymous source told the court the jurors were heard bragging about their jury service, and commenting that Pancavetti was guilty. Neither juror denied the charges, Emerson said.

  The 28-year-old Asian-American female and 33-year-old white male first met as jury members, court staff said.

  After stopping for a moment to catch my breath, I pressed on, hoping to learn more about the other murdered juror, but my search turned up no more information until the report of Tetlow’s death.

  I then decided to use “juror” and “death” as alternate keywords to see what I’d find. I got sidetracked when I spotted an article about the legal case against Timothy McVeigh in the Oklahoma City bombing case. I’d forgotten that it had been that long since the bombing.

  The June 9th Inquirer carried the story I was looking for, headlined Juror’s Death Delays Trial:

  Yet another
juror is gone from the troubled jury in the trial of Hugo Panavetti on federal racketeering charges. This time, the juror is dead in an apparent drive-by shooting.

  Norman Kinkade, 49, Port Richmond, was declared dead at the scene Wednesday night from a bullet wound to the chest. He was struck while walking from his car to his Webb Street home, witnesses said.

  The fatal shot is believed to have been fired from a 9 mm hand gun according to neighbor and witness Aaron Brody who served in Kuwait during Operation Desert Storm, and heard the gun firing many times.

  Brody also saw a black SUV leaving the area at high speed.

  Police are not yet commenting.

  Three other juror members were replaced with alternates—one after her husband suffered a heart attack, and two others after an apparent Memorial Day tryst with each other during which they allegedly discussed the case publicly.

  I saw that copy editors had left the ‘c’ out of Pancavetti’s name, which is why the article hadn’t shown up during my earlier search.

  The fourth and final alternate was seated Thursday in the federal racketeering trial of Hugo Pancavetti.

  The final alternate replaces Norman Kinkade, killed Wednesday in an apparent drive-by shooting outside his Port Richmond home.

  Judge Bradley Emerson expressed condolences of the court to the Kinkade family.

  Court observers are left wondering about the reliability of the jury with no remaining alternates and likely weeks remaining in the trial.

  It was after five before I finally left the library with my new library card and notes so that I could relocate the relevant articles at home and print them for Brad’s benefit.

  As with most cases, every question I answered earned me another slap-in-the-face question. I hoped Alfred Miles, the lead investigator on Martin Tetlow’s death, could provide a few answers. Maybe I’d have the case wrapped up with a red ribbon and sitting on Brad’s desk in the morning.

  6

  Armed with a map I’d printed earlier, I took the 45-minute journey to Kennett Square, Pennsylvania and decided to stop for supper at Jake’s Wayback Burgers before visiting the nursing home.

  The burger joint was near a flower shop, and after eating, I picked up a small bouquet of red and white carnations to take with me.

  Apple Acres reminded me of the nursing home where Brad’s father had spent the last few years of his life, a one-level sprawling campus. Nick described it as a nursing home, but the facility’s sign said “Assisted Living.” I drove my Civic past the covered entryway, hoping to find an alternate way to sneak into the building. I spotted two women wearing scrubs as they stood near a side door on a smoke break.

  I pulled into a parking space, grabbed the bouquet, and walked toward the nurses like I owned the place. November temperatures were in the 50’s, but the sun shone and felt good on my bare head. The nurses wore bear-themed pastel-colored scrubs. “Oh, I love the bears,” I cooed, as I approached.

  They both beamed and said, “Thanks.”

  I hoisted the bouquet in my left hand, and with no further explanation said, “I’m looking for Alfred Miles’ room.”

  “It’s close,” the younger of the two women said. The other one punched buttons to unlock the door, and directed me to the right saying, “Three doors down the hall on your left-hand side.”

  I escaped through the door and traipsed down the hall. Miles’ room was dark, with the curtains drawn. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could make out his shape in the hospital-style bed. I stood next to him with the flowers. “I brought you a gift, Mr. Miles.”

  He stirred, eyelids fluttering, and then he seemed to focus on me. “Hi, Sarah.”

  I wondered who Sarah was, and wasn’t sure whether to claim to be her or give my real identity. I laid the flowers on the table tray that hovered over the middle of his bed.

  “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” a deep voice behind me asked.

  I turned to see a tall, slender man in his late sixties or early seventies. “I’ve just delivered flowers.”

  “Then you can leave.”

  I froze in place, and he added, “You called earlier, didn’t you?”

  “To check on visiting hours.” I nodded.

  “Norm at the reception desk told me someone called earlier claiming to be my daughter.”

  “You’re Al’s brother?” I smiled, hoping to engage him in conversation.

  “No shit.” He took a step toward me, but the look on his face wasn’t threatening. “Norm said he told you I was the only visitor allowed.”

  “The receptionist told me his wife’s allowed to visit, too.”

  The man gave a guttural laugh. “You’ll wait a long time to see her. She abandoned him when he ended up in here—ran off with another guy.”

  I extended my hand. “I’m Sharon Porter.”

  He reached out and folded his hand over mine. “Jerome Miles.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the bed. “I’m all he’s got.” After a deep breath, he asked, “Who are you, really?”

  “I’m a private detective. I work with Brad Frame; maybe you’ve heard of him. We’re investigating the death of a man seventeen years ago—Martin Tetlow. Your brother was the lead detective on the case.”

  Alfred Miles stirred in the bed, looked at the two of us and plaintively said, “Sarah?”

  “He keeps calling me Sarah. Is that your daughter?”

  Jerome Miles shook his head. “I have two sons. Sarah was his high school sweetheart. Rita and I used to double-date with them. Al was a senior and could drive, while I was just a sophomore. Whatever life he has left is lived in the distant past.”

  Alfred reached a hand toward me and repeated, “Sarah.”

  Jerome pulled a chair over next to the bed, pointed for me to sit, and said, “Go ahead, take his hand.”

  I did, and it felt cold and lifeless.

  Jerome drew up a second chair facing me and sat. “Al won’t remember the Tetlow case, but I do.”

  “You were a cop?”

  “Thirty-one years.”

  “Did you work the Tetlow case with your brother?”

  “No, but he talked about it back then. Al spent time as an MP when he was in the Army, and when he got out it was natural that he’d want to become a police officer. They made him a detective in 1973. I got laid off that same year, and Al told me to apply for a job with the police department. I did, and I’m sure he pulled a few strings to get me in, even though he denied it.”

  “Did you work together in the detective division?”

  Jerome Miles shook his head. “I liked patrol. But I enjoyed chatting with Al about his cases. Tetlow got under his skin.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Sure. Al lived in Manayunk, not far from where Tetlow was killed. There’s a few steep hills there, and the accident—which is what they initially thought—spooked a lot of people.”

  I’d been through Manayunk, a northwest Philly neighborhood, a number of times, and I knew what he meant about the hills.

  “But when Al got into the details of the case, there were a few other things that disturbed him.”

  I murmured, “Uh huh,” not wanting to interrupt his flow.

  “Tetlow worked as an electrical engineer at the GE facility in Valley Forge.”

  I recalled that, perhaps from the obituary Rachel had provided.

  “But like Al,” Jerome continued, “he’d been in the Army for a decade before he got his degree. Al found out Tetlow worked as a mechanic in the motor pool at Fort Dix back then. He started putting two and two together and coming up with five.”

  I tried to look eager for every detail.

  “I don’t know if you knew this, but Tetlow was on a jury in a drug kingpin case in Federal court. After talking to Tetlow’s widow, Al heard about implied threats the guy got at the courthouse, and that another juror had already been killed.”

  I bobbed my head.

  “Al developed this theory that Tetlow tampered wi
th the brakes on his own car.” Jerome counted off the reasons using fingers on his right hand. “One, he knew how. Two, the timing came just days after the threat. Three, he figured he’d injure himself in a crash and get dismissed from jury duty; wasn’t planning on getting killed.”

  “So why didn’t your brother rule the death an accident?” I asked.

  “In a word, bureaucracy. Al wanted to, and he took his ideas to higher-ups, but got overruled and was told to keep the case open.”

  “Do you know who shot down the idea?”

  “Yeah, a guy by the name of Nick Argostino.”

  7

  On the first day of the trial in which they would hear testimony, Brad joined the other jurors as they lined up in numerical order along a narrow hallway outside of Courtroom A. Except for Jerry, who had the gregariousness of a used-car salesman and introduced himself to everyone, they remained nameless even to one another. Brad was grateful when the tipstaff pointed out restrooms along that same hallway, which jurors could use during breaks.

  The tipstaff opened a door and led the six men and six women, ranging in age from twenties to sixties, into the courtroom. Four female alternates, including Crochet Lady, who’d sat next to Brad in the jury marshalling room, trailed behind.

  As Brad took his seat, he noticed that the courtroom was packed. Several reporters were seated in the row directly behind the prosecutors, separated by the bar, notebooks in their laps. One young man held a sketch pad and appeared to be drawing a picture of the defendant, who sat at the defense table, fingers laced, nervously tapping his thumbs.

  Brad glanced at the clock at the back of the courtroom mounted directly above the main entrance. 9:05 a.m.

  “All rise, please,” the court crier intoned, as Judge Whitaker hustled to the bench.

  “Good morning,” the judge said, looking at the jury. “This is the case of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus David Nesbit, charged with first-degree murder in the death of his wife. In our justice system the defendant is presumed to be innocent, and it is the responsibility of the Commonwealth to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. This morning, Ms. Cunningham and Mr. Asher will present their opening statements. Their statements are not evidence. At the end of the trial, I will charge you regarding what the law requires. It will be up to you to determine the facts based upon the evidence presented.” Whitaker paused, glanced at the attorneys’ tables, and then said, “I repeat, those statements are not evidence, but an outline of their respective views on the case.