Final Juror Read online

  As I opened my car door, Maureen was already speeding down the street. I waved, hoping she might spot my gesture in her rear view mirror. When her car disappeared from view, I closed my door and walked back toward the garage.

  I eased the door open on squeaking hinges, and the sound added to my feeling of being a cat burglar. The garage had a sloped roof, and enough sunlight streamed through the louvers in the rear gable to let me find the light switch. A floodlight secured to a rafter revealed that the floor was only gravel. Clapboards hung on frames of wooden two-by- fours—the old-fashioned kind that were actually 2” x 4”—aged to a deep brown. There was that musty smell found in spaces that are unheated in winter or cooled in summer, like my uncle’s barn I remembered from childhood. The odor tickled my nostrils, and I reached for a tissue in my purse.

  I pictured Martin spending hours there tinkering with his 1953 Pontiac. On one side of the garage stood a workbench, above which was mounted a now-empty pegboard where tools had hung. I knew this because Martin Tetlow had painstakingly outlined each of his tools with a black marker, leaving shadows of what once was. A rusting fluorescent fixture dangled above the bench, but I never bothered to turn it on.

  It took less than two minutes to satisfy my curiosity. I positioned the switch on the knob so that the door would lock behind me, then strode confidently down the cracked concrete driveway until I heard the guttural sound of a man clearing his throat, which stopped me in my tracks.

  It reminded me of Ken Porter, my aborted first husband, who used that passive/aggressive strategy when something I did displeased him. I figured I had three choices: keep moving, move faster, or confront the jerk.

  What the hell! I turned to see an overweight man in his sixties leaning on a rake and drawing in deep breaths. On the grass in front of him sat a pile of leaves and a large black plastic bag. He seemed oblivious to me. But he continued to suck air; so much so that I got worried. I took a step in his direction and yelled out, “Are you okay?”

  The man looked at me, and his eyes widened. He glanced between me and the back door of his house, then pedaled his hand in a keep-it-quiet gesture. Seconds later, following another check of his back door, he motioned for me to come closer.

  When I got within three feet of him, I whispered, “Are you alright?”

  He nodded before hacking again. “Yeah, just pacing myself.” Between breaths he added, “After my heart attack last August, my wife doesn’t want me doing this. She keeps checking on me.”

  “Looks like you’re almost done. Let me help.” I dropped to my knees and opened the already partially filled plastic bag next to the pile of leaves. The man used his rake while I gathered leaves with my hands, and after a few passes the bag was full.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  His breathing appeared to have evened.

  I dusted bits of dried leaves off my hands. “No problem.”

  “Are you buying the Tetlow place? My wife told me she saw people looking.”

  “Not me. The real estate agent said they have an offer.”

  He whistled. “That was quick. House across the street sat there for more than a year before it sold.”

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “All my life.” Pointing at his house, he added. “I was born here.”

  “So you knew the Tetlows?”

  “Yep.” He coughed.

  “I know Rachel,” I said, hoping to draw him out more.

  “Yeah. Cute kid. My wife said she was here last week. You’d be her age.”

  I smiled, since I was seven years older than Rachel. I bet this guy had great pick-up lines back in the day. “Too bad about her dad.”

  “That was a real shock. I was there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I drove the ambulance from the accident.”

  “Really?”

  “I didn’t realize it was Martin at first. Another unit used Jaws-of-Life to open the door, and I wasn’t checking his face when we extricated him from the car. But then I seen the license plate. He had a vanity plate with DIX DUO. That’s when I realized it was him.”

  I recalled that Tetlow had served in the military at Fort Dix. “You say anything to him?”

  He shook his head. “He wasn’t conscious.”

  The neighbor got quiet, and I guessed it was time to leave since he had no new information to share with me.

  “My wife always said Martin would kill himself the way he drove. Speed demon he was.”

  It marked the second time in my investigation that the suggestion had been made that Martin had been responsible for his own death. I wondered how much the neighbor knew about the tampered brake fluid line.

  I heard a door open and a woman’s voice call out, “Herb. Telephone.”

  “I better let you go, Herb,” I said. “Nice chatting.”

  He stood his ground. “There’s no phone call. She’s pulled that one on me a couple times. She wants me back inside.” His mouth formed a crooked grin. “Probably been watching through the window as I talk with a pretty girl, and she’s jealous.”

  I smiled.

  As I turned to leave, he asked, “You got any smokes?”

  I shook my head. “I’m guessing your wife wouldn’t approve?”

  He glanced toward the house and rolled his eyes. “You called that right.”

  Back in my car, I eased away from the curb heading south on Lyceum. I’d driven a block before the significance of what the neighbor had told me sunk in. In my earlier experiment, I’d driven at a modest 25 to 30 MPH on the city street. But if Martin Tetlow was a speed demon and had crested the hill going much faster—before he attempted to apply brakes that no longer worked—the odds of a fatal crash were greatly increased.

  12

  Brad traveled back to Bryn Mawr during the height of the rush hour, and the trip took almost forty-five minutes. He tuned to a classical music station on his satellite radio, but found no comfort in the stirring funeral march from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. He’d had enough drama for one day, and snapped the radio off—electing to ride in silence.

  But he couldn’t quiet his thoughts. Had it only been that morning when the attorneys had made their opening statements? The judge said that the trial might last two weeks, and they’d only completed one day. Maybe the judge was including the three days it took to pick a jury?

  Once home, he stopped by his office and found a two-page printout from Sharon on the Martin Tetlow case. He’d nearly forgotten about Tetlow. Sharon had left a sticky note on her report with the words: “Your thoughts?”

  Brad cringed as he read about the confrontation with Nick Argostino, and her accusing him of quashing the investigation. Apparently Nick had set her straight, and she’d moved on. She provided the details about the accident scene from the case file, coupled with her own observations from a visit to Manayunk, and concluded with a neighbor’s observation that Martin Tetlow had been a “speed demon.”

  It sounded to him like she was pursuing the investigation exactly as he would. He penned “good job!” on her sticky note, and added a few questions at the end of her report. He appreciated the digression from thinking about David Nesbit’s trial.

  Glancing at his watch he realized that Beth Montgomery, his fiancée, would be ending her workday at the Oring-Whitman engineering firm in New York City. He decided to give her a call. Chatting with Beth would be a pleasant diversion from contemplating murder scenes, which would happen again soon enough.

  F. Solomon Whitaker gaveled the trial to order at precisely 9 a.m. on Thursday. He bid the jury good morning before saying to prosecutor Diane Cunningham, “Call your next witness.”

  “Detective John Cordes, Your Honor, for redirect examination,” she said curtly.

  Detective Cordes entered the courtroom through a side door. He probably wore a fresh white shirt, Brad thought, but the blue blazer, tie and slacks looked the same.

  “I remind you, detective, that you are still und
er oath,” Whitaker said, as Cordes nodded and then turned to face the jury, once more locking his gaze on Brad.

  As Cunningham approached the witness stand, her associate, Jeffrey Holbrooke, positioned the flat screen monitor so it could be seen by the witness and the jury, before returning to his seat in front of a laptop computer.

  “During your direct examination yesterday,” Cunningham began, “when describing the scene in Genevieve Nesbit’s bedroom you said, ‘The bed was in disarray, indicating that a struggle had taken place, and a corner of the fitted satin sheet on the bed had come loose from the bottom of mattress. There were several hairs consistent in color and length with those of Genevieve Nesbit, and we found a pillow with what appeared to be a small reddish-brown spot and mucous residue. In addition, there was a fetid odor and the bed sheets appeared to be stained with urine.’ Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you stand by that testimony?”

  “I do.”

  “Now, during your cross-examination, Mr. Asher showed you a photograph of the scene. Your Honor, we would like to show the jurors that same photograph on the monitor.”

  “Any objections?” Judge Whitaker asked.

  Shane Asher, who that day wore a bright red silk tie with matching pocket handkerchief, smiled and shook his head.

  Cunningham plowed ahead. “Detective, I ask you to take a look and verify that this is what you observed on March 7th of this year.”

  The photograph materialized on the screen, and Brad wondered what point Cunningham was trying to make. Just like the 8 by 10 glossy Asher had passed around the previous afternoon, what was visible on screen did little to reinforce Cordes’ testimony.

  “Yes, that is the scene,” Cordes said.

  “Your Honor, I would like to show three more photographs to this witness, and ask that they be introduced as evidence.”

  The judge glanced at Asher, who nodded his consent, before saying, “Please proceed.”

  Another photo appeared, which Brad thought looked like a close-up of the pillow.

  After confirming that was the case, Cunningham handed Cordes a pointer and asked him to step down from the witness box and point out the droplet of blood that he had observed on Genevieve Nesbit’s pillow. Brad spotted it before Cordes left the witness box and, judging from a few nods of fellow jurors, they could see it to. It looked about a quarter-of-an-inch in diameter.

  “Detective, would you please identify this next photograph.”

  Brad turned his attention to the monitor as Cordes spoke.

  “This is a side view of the mattress.”

  “And so when you testified that the fitted sheet had come loose from the bottom of the mattress, this is what you were describing?”

  “Yes.”

  Interestingly, the earlier photographs were shot from directly above the bed and the dislodged sheet was not apparent. But in the new photograph it was clear that the sheet had come loose as Cordes had testified, and was bunched near the top edge of the mattress.

  Cunningham glanced between the monitor and jury box as if gauging whether everyone had gotten the point.

  Brad turned his attention to the defendant. David Nesbit leaned forward with his elbows propped on the defense table, and his chin resting on his clasped hands.

  “Now,” Cunningham said intently, “Let’s talk about the urine and mucous stains you testified about yesterday. Detective, can you explain why those stains are not visible in the photograph that Mr. Asher showed you during cross examination?”

  Cordes cleared his throat, and looked at Brad as he said, “Bodily fluids can be difficult to see, and the fact that the sheets are shiny and beige adds to the challenge. At the scene, I could smell the urine and had a pretty good idea where that stain was located. I asked Trevor… the evidence tech… to use a high intensity ultraviolet light to confirm my suspicions, and we also spotted the mucous/saliva on the pillow.”

  “What does ultraviolet light do that regular light will not?”

  “Urine or saliva will fluoresce under UV light.”

  “Detective, I’m going to show you another photograph of Genevieve Nesbit’s bed and ask you to identify it.”

  Brad once more turned his attention to the monitor. There was a photograph of what Cordes had just described, the same scene photographed with a high intensity ultraviolet light. The urine stain practically glowed, defining an oval shaped area in the middle of the bed at least a foot and a half long. Similarly, a saliva stain fluoresced on the pillow. Brad barely heard the detective’s response.

  The judge had instructed jurors not to form an opinion on the guilt or innocence of the defendant until all of the evidence had been presented, but that didn’t mean Brad couldn’t speculate on courtroom tactics. In her direct examination of Cordes, Cunningham had relied on the detective’s testimony, and had not introduced the photographs of the bed. Due to discovery rules, Brad knew that each side had to share their evidence with opposing counsel. He was also aware of the so-called CSI effect, that juries have gotten so used to scientific evidence produced on television dramas that they expect to see laboratory proof in real trials.

  Cunningham had supported the detective’s earlier testimony with lab reports showing that the blood and urine at the scene matched the DNA of Genevieve Nesbit. But Asher had tried to score points by using the police department’s own photographs to undermine John Cordes’ testimony. Raising reasonable doubt was, after all, Asher’s job.

  Brad felt Cunningham’s redirect examination had bolstered Cordes’ credibility, but how would other jurors feel?

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  The judge glanced at the defense table. “Mr. Asher?”

  Shane Asher stood and smiled. “Do you have any photographs of the bedroom carpet that would indicate that the victim’s body had been dragged across the carpet?”

  “No,” Cordes said evenly.

  “No further questions at this time.”

  David Nesbit snapped his head and appeared to glower at Asher. Brad wondered how many of the other jurors witnessed that reaction. When Asher sat, Nesbit grabbed his arm, but the defense attorney pushed him away and flashed a disapproving look. Asher then brushed the hem of his sleeve as if swiping away fleas.

  If the Nesbit trial were a movie, Brad figured the remainder of that morning’s testimony would be on the cutting room floor. Skip Manville and Trevor Henderson, the photographer and technician who had accompanied John Cordes to the crime scene, each testified as to their role in the investigation, reconfirming earlier testimony. Brad found himself zoning out, and jerked with a start when he heard the bang of the gavel and Judge Whitaker calling out, “Juror number ten. Your attention please.”

  At first, Brad thought the judge was talking to him, but then remembered he was juror number twelve—the final juror. The juror Brad knew only as Mary Ellen from their lunch the previous day said, “I’m awake, Your Honor. I was listening with my eyes closed.”

  “That’s good to know,” Whitaker said. “It was your extended yawn that concerned me.”

  Mary Ellen blushed. “Sorry, Your Honor.”

  Brad noticed other jurors shifting in their seats, and taking a moment to roll their shoulders.

  “I’m sure everyone could use a stretch,” the judge said, as he declared an early lunch break.

  Brad liked the Court House Diner, but since it also seemed a favorite of both Jerry and Crochet Lady Elaine—jurors he wanted to avoid—he decided to try a pizzeria around the corner on DeKalb Street.

  After ordering a slice with pepperoni, black olives, and green peppers, Brad settled into a table near the front. He alternated his time between taking bites of pizza and gazing absently out the window, until he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Mind if we join you, Brad?” a man’s voice said.

  Hovering beside his table were two members of the Nesbit jury that he recognized, but Brad didn’t know their names. Brad pointed at his full mo
uth, and motioned for them to sit.

  “I’m Chet,” the man said, sitting opposite him. “And this is Evie.”

  The woman smiled and eased into the chair next to Brad. She carried a tray with a small salad. They both appeared to be in their early forties. Each wore a wedding band, and Evie sported at least a two carat diamond ring.

  They obviously knew who he was, and Brad recalled the attorneys’ pointed voir dire examination that dealt with his career as a detective. Any well-read resident of the county would be familiar with his family’s tragedy and his better-known cases.

  In front of Chet were two slices of sausage pizza, and as Evie dug into her salad she said, “No carbs for me. I don’t want the judge yelling at me this afternoon for falling asleep.”

  “At first, I thought the judge was talking about me,” Chet commented.

  Brad grinned. “Me too.”

  They ate in silence, which Brad appreciated, before resuming their conversation.

  Unlike his lunch companions of the previous day, Chet and Evie steered clear of commentary on the testimony. He learned that Evie handled the weekend weather forecasts for the CBS affiliate in Philadelphia, while Chet served as web designer for a tech start-up based in Downingtown. Meeting them reinforced his impression that the attorneys had sought an intelligent, thoughtful jury.

  “I’ve never been on a jury before,” Evie said.

  “Me either,” Chet chimed in.

  Brad smiled. “That makes three of us.”

  “This is the third jury Jerry’s been on,” Evie cooed.

  Brad didn’t respond, but couldn’t help notice that Chet had rolled his eyes, signaling his awareness that Jerry was campaigning for election as the jury’s foreman.

  Dr. Tamarai Sharma was the second witness that Brad was familiar with, and he’d disclosed that fact during the jury selection process. Tamarai was a third-generation Indian-American, proud of her heritage, but since she’d grown up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan she sounded more Scandinavian than Indian, which confused those meeting her for the first time. She entered the courtroom through a side door wearing a blue sari edged in gold.