Final Juror (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 5) Read online

  “One more thing, before we begin: We’ll take frequent breaks. Should any of you require a comfort break, please raise your hand, and we’ll accommodate your request as soon as possible.”

  The judge nodded to the prosecutor. As Diane Cunningham rose from her seat, legal pad in hand, Jeffrey Holbrooke, her assistant, scurried to move a flat screen monitor into place in front of the jury box. A similar monitor on the other side of the courtroom could be viewed by the spectators.

  Holbrooke returned to his seat, pressed a button on a laptop, and the screen flickered to life with a photograph of a woman.

  Diane Cunningham stepped toward the jury box, placed the legal pad on a podium, and stretched her right hand toward the image on the screen. “This case is about one thing, justice for Genevieve Favreau Nesbit.” She paused to let the thought sink in. Brad remained riveted on the photograph, which showed a woman, perhaps in her early fifties with well-coiffed dark hair and wearing a stunning pair of sparkling earrings. A silver strap could be seen over the woman’s right shoulder, and on the mantle behind her sat an Empire-style antique clock with a bronze military figurine. What drew Brad’s attention most were the splotchy red marks—barely disguised with make-up—around Genevieve Nesbit’s left eye.

  Brad’s gaze shifted toward the defendant. David Nesbit’s reaction would have been blocked by his attorney, except that at that moment Nesbit leaned forward as if straining to take in the photograph on the video monitor in front of him. A slight smile curled his lip, and his eyes blinked rapidly. Nesbit grabbed a pen and scribbled a note on the pad in front of him before shoving it at his attorney. Asher digested the contents of the note, then turned toward his client for a brief whispered conversation.

  Cunningham drew her arm back, clasped her hands, and looked directly at the jury. “The Commonwealth will show that on March 4th of this year, David Nesbit asphyxiated his wife. As part of a calculated plan, he placed her body in a freezer in the garage of their home in Haverford. Why? To disguise the time of her death. He then left town for two weeks, no doubt planning to make the grim discovery on his return and point the blame at others. But things did not go as planned. Genevieve’s daughter visited unexpectedly, and as you will hear in testimony, her visit led to the discovery of her mother’s body, and David Nesbit’s plan unraveled.”

  A sob erupted from a woman seated in the row behind the reporters. Diane Cunningham cast a supportive glance in her direction. Brad found himself staring sympathetically at the woman who looked like a younger version of Genevieve Nesbit, and there was little doubt of her daughter’s presence in the courtroom. A man seated next to her, husband perhaps, offered a handkerchief. Had they planned that dramatic moment?

  “Yes, this case is about justice for Genevieve.” Brad sensed that the alliterative phrase would become Diane Cunningham’s mantra; a simple and effective exhortation for the jury. “Thanks to forensic science,” Cunningham continued, “we are able to uncover the truth of when Genevieve died and place David Nesbit squarely at the scene.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, consulting her notes infrequently, Cunningham named witnesses that the jury would hear from during the course of the trial, and summarized the evidence they were expected to present.

  “This is a simple and straightforward case. This was not a crime of passion. Genevieve didn’t die as a result of an accident. Her death was premeditated murder in the first degree.”

  During voir dire Brad had pegged Diane Cunningham as a workmanlike attorney plodding her way through the questions, often with halting delivery. The Cunningham who showed up for opening statements was passionate and well-prepared, and, unlike a few district attorneys he’d witnessed, hadn’t over-promised her case.

  Cunningham held up her right index finger, then touched it to her forehead. “You will no doubt be asking yourself, why would this man kill his wife? Forensic science hasn’t reached the point where we can determine what is in a man’s heart, but we know several things. Genevieve was his meal ticket. They lived on the estate she and her first husband bought in 1975. Over the years, David Nesbit had gained control over her inheritance, and as you will hear, Genevieve began to raise objections to his spending. She was fifteen years older than David. The evidence will show that he had tired of Genevieve and begun to spend time with a much younger woman. When threatened with the loss of her wealth, he took steps to ensure that Genevieve would be out of the picture.”

  As if on cue, Genevieve Nesbit’s picture began to fade on the monitor.

  Diane Cunningham turned and looked at the blank screen. “All we ask from you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she said as the picture reappeared, “is justice for Genevieve.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Cunningham settled back into her seat.

  “We’ll take a fifteen minute break at this point,” Judge Whitaker said. “Jurors should not discuss this case, or allow it to be discussed in their presence. Court is in recess.”

  As the judge left the bench, jurors were escorted into the hallway, and Brad dashed into the restroom.

  Brad stood at the urinal, and the man at the sink behind him muttered. “I didn’t really have to go, but who knows when we’ll get another break.”

  Brad grunted, zipped up, washed at the sink, and returned to the hallway where he immediately faced Crochet Lady as she waited in line to enter the women’s restroom. She pointed at herself. “I’m Elaine, and I know who you are.”

  Brad managed a smile.

  “You’re Brad Frame, right?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve read about all your cases.”

  It couldn’t have been all, since only the prominent ones made the media, Brad thought.

  “Interesting, huh?” she asked, eyebrows arching in the direction of the courtroom.

  Over Elaine’s shoulder Brad spotted a tipstaff observing their one-sided conversation. Brad had no desire to see his own name in a newspaper article about a juror getting thrown off the jury for inappropriate discussions. He excused himself to wander down the hallway.

  Shortly after court resumed, Shane Asher sauntered toward the jury box. His pocket handkerchief matched his tie, as it had during the jury selection process. That day the color was emerald green. He paused at the prosecutor’s table and whispered to Jeffrey Holbrooke. Seconds later Genevieve Favreau Nesbit’s photograph reappeared on the monitor.

  Brad expected an oration worthy of a fire-and- brimstone sermon, but Asher began using a low key, conversational approach. “We agree with the prosecutor that this case is about justice for Genevieve and,” he said, punching the next phrase, “fairness for David Nesbit. David is as baffled as anyone as to who would want to murder his wife.” As if looking directly into Brad’s eyes, Asher said, “I know His Honor told you that my client is innocent until proven guilty—he used the phrase ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’ But we’re all human. And we want someone to pay for this horrible crime. After all, everybody from the judge to you fine citizens is giving up a few weeks of your time for his trial. You’re even getting paid the princely sum of $9 a day.” Snickers rippled through the courtroom. “So the prosecutor pointed at David and said he did it. But remember that her job is to prove it, just like the judge said.” Asher paused, drawing in a deep breath. “You might be thinking,” he folded his arms over his chest in a skeptical gesture, “hmm, well, if there’s smoke there must be fire.”

  Asher crossed back to the defense table and picked up a small book. He opened it to a dog-eared page and read, “Ralph Waldo Emerson said, ‘People only see what they are prepared to see.’ A picture’s worth a thousand words, right?” Asher dropped the book heavily on the defense table, and the juror seated in front of Brad jumped at the noise.

  “What are you prepared to see? Let’s take another look at Genevieve Nesbit’s photograph. This photo was taken about five years ago,” Asher said, “when Genevieve was fifty-two. It also happened to be her and David’s fifth anniversary. Those beautiful earrings she�
��s wearing? They were an anniversary present from her husband. And we’re prepared to offer evidence that they were paid for with his own money.

  “The picture wasn’t taken at the estate Genevieve inherited from her first husband, either. The bronze clock dates from President Monroe, and sits on the mantel in the Blue Room at the White House where she and David were among several hundred guests invited by President George W. Bush.”

  The gallery rustled over that news, and Judge Whitaker tapped his gavel lightly to remind everyone where they were.

  “You see,” Asher continued, “at the time, David Nesbit was serving as Ambassador to the West African nation of Mauritania, and was invited to attend a reception in honor of democratic African states.”

  Asher, whose voice had sounded playful, turned more somber when he said, “I suspect you also noticed what looks like bruising around Genevieve Nesbit’s left eye. Perhaps you envisioned abuse at the hands of the defendant. You will learn during the course of this trial that shortly after that picture was taken, Genevieve Nesbit was diagnosed with a rare eye cancer. In 2010, to prevent the spread of the cancer to other tissue, doctors advised that she have her eyeball removed. For the last two years of her life she wore a black patch over that eye. We will present testimony that David stood by her side through those trying times.”

  Once more, Asher returned to the defense table and leaned toward his client in whispered conversation.

  “Have you concluded your opening statement, Mr. Asher?” Whitaker asked.

  Asher bolted upright. “No. I apologize, Your Honor, just a few more items.”

  Standing at the table, Asher faced the spectators. “A while ago we heard about Genevieve’s inheritance. David Nesbit’s parents—Wilber and Constance Nesbit—are here in the courtroom.” Asher gestured to a couple who appeared to be in their mid-sixties seated in the row behind the defendant. “We will show they have a sizable fortune and David is their only son. Our contention is that he isn’t any more interested in his parents’ fortune than in his wife’s estate. During the defense case, we’re prepared to demonstrate that David has more than adequate financial resources of his own.

  “You may have noticed that my client is nearly bald. He wasn’t that way a few days ago, and Ralph Waldo Emerson would want me to share the reasons. In the county lockup, a few of his fellow inmates, using a pair of blunt-nosed plastic scissors like might be found in any kindergarten class room, succeeded in cutting a large swath out—”

  Cunningham stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant.”

  “Overruled,” Whitaker said.

  Looking bemused, Asher continued, “As I was saying, a couple of David’s roommates over at the county jail decided to give him a haircut.” Asher used two fingers to mimic the action of scissors across the top of his own head. “It looked awful, and so he opted for the bald look. When I first saw him bald, I worried that you might think it made him look menacing, because People only see what they are prepared to see.”

  Asher turned and marched toward the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I thank you for your time and your service. Let’s make the next two weeks about justice for Genevieve, fairness for David Nesbit, and my promise that when the defense presents its case you should be prepared to see things differently.”

  Asher all but pleaded with jurors to keep an open mind, but revealed little of the defense strategy.

  “It is almost 11:30,” Whitaker said, “so we’ll take an early lunch break and court will resume at 1 p.m. For the benefit of the attendees, you’ve heard me admonish the jury not to discuss this case or to allow it to be discussed in their presence. Jurors wear those badges for a reason, so we are counting on your discretion.” With the bang of his gavel, court was in recess.

  From his seat closest to the door, Brad headed the parade of jurors from the top row into the hallway. He had one thought on his mind: sampling the Reuben at the Court House Diner. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder, and Jerry said, “Going to lunch?”

  Brad nodded.

  “I’ll go with you,” Jerry invited himself, and added, “Elaine told me you’re a celebrity.”

  Brad lost his appetite.

  8

  Damn, Nick Argostino!

  Why had he told me that he didn’t know anything about the death of Martin Tetlow? Not only did it seem like he knew, but he’d blocked Alfred Miles’ investigation. Why didn’t he want the truth to come out?

  I got back to my apartment—above the three-car garage at Brad’s Bryn Mawr estate—late Tuesday night, so it wasn’t until Wednesday morning that I found the note from Brad: “Picked for the jury. Can’t discuss. Likely out for two weeks. Good luck with the Tetlow case. Leave me notes if I can help.”

  Two weeks? Leave me notes!

  Brad could have helped me with Nick, of course, but not from a jury box.

  I felt trapped in a work triangle. Nick was the “silent partner” in the Brad Frame Detective Agency, and their relationship pre-dated my involvement. But Nick was also responsible for my getting a job with Brad. He’d worked with my dad on the police force, and after Dad’s death, Nick recommended that Brad hire me.

  Nick always seemed like a straight shooter to me. It was hard for me to believe he might be complicit in hiding the truth. But if I was going to make any progress on a seventeen-year-old homicide investigation, I had to talk with Nick, even if I wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation.

  And on top of everything else, with my cold I felt like shit.

  I thought about Nick quashing Alfred Miles’ investigation, and I was not a happy camper by the time I arrived at his Philly office.

  When I stepped off the elevator, the sergeant barely looked up from his position behind the counter. “Where’s Nick Argostino?” I barked.

  The officer was in the process of sizing me up when I spotted Nick over his shoulder. “I see him,” I said, as I strode around the counter and called out, “Hey Nick, we need to talk.”

  Nick stood in front of a glass-walled office gripping a coffee mug in one hand and a newspaper rolled like a billy club in the other. He smiled when he saw me, but that quickly faded when he recognized the determined look on my face. I heard a deep voice say, “Hold up.” I turned to see a uniformed officer gaining on me and about to reach for my arm, when Nick held up his hand and said, “It’s okay.”

  Nick stepped inside his office and motioned for me to join him. I turned and smirked at the six-foot-plus sergeant as he backed off.

  “What’s up?” Nick tossed the newspaper on the desk. He circled around to his chair gulping coffee as he went.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about quashing Alfred Miles’ investigation?”

  Nick arched his eyebrows and calmly sat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Gesturing to the padded metal chair in front of his desk, he said, “Have a seat.”

  I stiffened and stood my ground. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The Tetlow case? Alfred Miles? And the wild goose chase you sent me on?”

  Nick gazed up at me, puzzled. He grabbed the back of his neck and winced in pain. “Sharon, sit,” he pleaded. “I’ve got a crick from an all-night stakeout this past Sunday.”

  “Yeah?” I was unmoved. “Driving all the way to Kennett Square only to learn that you knew the whole story on the Tetlow case gave me a pain in the ass. So I’ll stand till I get answers.”

  He let out an exasperated gasp and grunted as he stood. “Have it your way. I still don’t know what I’ve done to piss you off.”

  “Stop playing games. I went to see Alfred Miles. You warned me he had dementia; he’s practically a vegetable. But I met his brother, Jerome, who knew all about the Tetlow case.” I stifled a cough. “He told me Alfred had concluded that Martin Tetlow had tampered with his own brakes, figuring an accident would get him out of jury duty. It proved fatal.”

  “Okay?” Nick said, still apparently not connecting the dots.

  “So Alfred took
his theory to a supervisor, hoping to close the case with a ruling of accidental death. And you shot down his idea.”

  Nick downed the last of his coffee, peered into the empty cup and frowned. “Follow me.”

  I reluctantly trailed along as he marched down the hall.

  We passed a couple of empty offices and arrived in front of a coffee station littered with grounds, powdered creamer, stir sticks, and a couple of torn sweetener packets. “Pigs,” Nick muttered, as he grabbed a paper towel and wiped up the mess. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee hit my nostrils, and when Nick asked if I wanted a cup I bobbed my head. It might soothe my throat.

  He poured me a large Styrofoam container before refilling his mug.

  “One more stop,” he said, as we headed further from his office and paused in front of a cubicle where a hunky brown-eyed clerk in civilian clothes sat.

  “That case I asked you about yesterday,” Nick began, “have you re-filed it yet?”

  “It’s right here.” The man reached into a wire basket and fished out a manila folder.

  “Thanks, Austin.”

  Nick motioned with the folder for me to follow him back to his office. This time I decided to sit, and placed my coffee cup on the edge of his desk.

  Nick sighed and eased into his own chair, where he proceeded to roll his neck from side to side.

  Okay, Nick, I get that your neck hurts. I crossed my arms in front of me.

  He opened the file, which I assumed was from Martin Tetlow’s case. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, leafing through the pages. “I don’t remember this case. When you called the other day, I looked at the face sheet, recognized Alfred Miles’ name, and talked with a couple of the old-timers here to see if they knew of his whereabouts. That’s how I learned Miles was in a nursing home.” He kept his face buried in the paperwork as he said, “Where’s your boss, by the way?”