Bad blood

3

“I’m Lemuel Howell, Mrs. Meade. I’m sorry we haven’t had the opportunity to meet before today, but I have some questions to ask you as well,” he said to the witness, following a twenty-minute break given the jurors to refresh themselves. Howell wanted to make it clear to them that I had an advantage he had been denied.

He was polite and charming to Kate Meade, but whatever brief period of comfort she had achieved in recalling her friendship with Amanda during the first part of the direct examination had been wiped out by the last. Her body tensed up, and she wrung the handkerchief in her hands as her eyes darted back and forth between Brendan Quillian and his lawyer.

“So you’ve known Brendan for more than half your life, haven’t you?” Howell had been standing behind his client, hands resting on his broad shoulders, and patted him on the back before walking closer to the jury box. He was telling the panel that he not only represented Quillian, but liked him, too.

Kate smiled wanly and nodded.

“You’ll have to speak up, for the record,” Judge Gertz said.

“Yes. Yes, sir. I’m thirty-four now. I met him when I was sixteen.”

“Spent time with him during your high school days, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Saw him often throughout your college years?”

“Occasionally.”

Howell ticked off a litany of social events at which Kate Meade and the Quillians had spent time together. There were intimate family gatherings and celebrations of every variety, countless business functions in which the Meades had participated, and enough philanthropic work that both couples had engaged in that might have allowed the defendant to call on Mother Teresa as a character witness.

I had figured that Kate Meade would present the opportunity for Howell to put as much of Brendan’s pedigree before the jury as Amanda’s, and that she would establish for the defense some of his best qualities. It might even weigh in the decision that Howell would later have to make about whether to let his client testify. If he could establish enough of the defendant’s good nature through the prosecution witnesses, he might not expose him to the cross-examination I so dearly wanted the chance to do.

But I had no other choice than to use Kate in my direct case. She gave me facts-the repeated separations that occurred in the middle of the night, the revelation that Amanda had chosen to end the marriage, and the last phone call before Amanda’s death-that were among my strongest evidentiary links to Brendan’s motive and role in the murder of his wife.

“I believe that you served on several nonprofit boards over the last decade, some organizations that do great work for the people of this city, am I right, Mrs. Meade?”

“Yes, I have.”

One art museum, one major medical center, two diseases in need of a cure, and the junior committee of the best public library in America. Howell called out the name of each, his mellifluous voice investing them with even greater dignity.

“And was Brendan on any of those boards with you?”

“Yes,” she answered quietly.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Meade,” Howell said, cocking his head so that the jury could see how pleased he looked. “You did say yes to that, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“And, let me see, God’s Love We Deliver,” he said, referring to a well-regarded New York City organization that delivers meals to terminally ill people in their homes. Lem was holding out one of his well-manicured hands as he counted fingers to mark Brendan’s good works.

“No, no.”

“No, ma’am? You’re saying Brendan wasn’t involved in that very noble cause?” Howell said, pressing his arm across his chest in a false sign of distress.

“No, Mr. Howell, you’re mistaken about me. I’ve never served on that board.” Kate Meade was becoming flustered. She held out a hand with the crumpled handkerchief in the defendant’s direction. “Brendan did.”

“So, I am also correct that my client found time for even more community involvement than someone such as yourself, Mrs. Meade?” Howell asked, ticking off the names of four other charitable groups that Brendan helped.

“The Quillians were both very generous. It was Amanda’s way.”

Howell had made his point and moved on. “Your eldest daughter, Mrs. Meade, that would be Sara?”

Kate stiffened again, peeved that her child’s name was being brought into the proceedings. She pursed her lips and stared at the defendant. “Yes.”

“And you told us, in answer to Ms. Cooper’s question, that the Quillians are her godparents, isn’t that right?”

Her answer was another clipped “Yes.”

Howell took the witness through another list of personal duties that established the close relationship between the nine-year-old girl and her parents’ best friends-shared holidays, overnights when the Meades had other engagements, vacations together on ski trips and to beach resorts.

“In fact, with whom did Sara attend her first Yankee game last spring?”

“Brendan.”

“With or without Amanda?”

“Without.”

“And whom did you call to take Sara ice-skating in Central Park when your husband had the flu a few months before that?”

“Brendan.”

Howell was getting nothing from Kate Meade. One-word answers seemed barely able to escape from her lips before she clamped them shut again.

“With or without Amanda.”

“Without.”

“So, I take it you never said to your daughter as you sent her out the door-and we all assume you love her dearly-‘Now you watch out, Sara, ’cause your uncle Brendan, well, he’s a murderer, did-’”

“Objection, Your Honor. Amanda Quillian was very much alive then.”

Some of the jurors were chuckling along with Howell-and with the defendant himself-always a bad thing to hear at a murder trial. The hammer in my brain had resumed its dull thud, reminding me that Lem had something in store for Kate Meade.

“I’ll allow it.”

“No.” Kate Meade was looking to me to rescue her, but there was nothing I could do.

“And by the way, you never took stock around the boardroom at the Museum of Modern Art-or when he was raising millions of dollars for Mount Sinai Hospital-you never said to any of your colleagues at either institution that your dear friend Brendan Quillian wasn’t to be trusted with your money-or your life, did you?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained,” Judge Gertz said. “Let’s move on.”

“Now, Alexandra-sorry, Ms. Cooper,” Howell said, winking at me as though to apologize for slipping into the familiar, so that the jurors would know we had a friendship outside this arena. “Ms. Cooper asked you about the night that Amanda Quillian first appeared at your door, at one a.m. You told us that you didn’t see any injuries on her face, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, did you call a doctor-that night or any day thereafter during the week?”

“No, no, I did not.”

“Did you take Mrs. Quillian to an emergency room?”

“No.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“Was your husband at home with you that night?”

“Yes.”

“And apart from him-that would be Preston Meade, am I right?-apart from your husband, did you tell anyone else about Amanda’s visit?”

“No.”

“Her parents?”

“No.”

“Her sisters?”

“I’ve told you that I didn’t,” she snapped. “No one.”

Howell was setting himself up nicely for his closing argument, three weeks away. He didn’t want to ask Kate why she had told no one, because he was aware that the answer would be that Amanda had pleaded with her not to. Rather, he would leave the impression that things hadn’t been serious enough to require any intervention. I made notes to try to clarify that question on my redirect of Kate Meade, hoping that the judge would think Howell had opened the door far enough to let me go there.

“Not even your nanny?” Howell asked. “Surely, Mrs. Meade, you have a nanny for your girls?”

“We do,” she said, ruffled again. “I simply forgot about her, Your Honor. I-uh-I didn’t mean to hide it.”

Howell used his softest expression to try to calm her. “I didn’t think you were doing any such thing. I’m sure your memory of those events isn’t quite as clear now as it was back then. Did you tell the nanny why Amanda Quillian was staying at your apartment?”

“No. She knew Amanda was my best friend. I didn’t have to tell her anything.”

“Because she just worked for you, isn’t that right?”

“Exactly,” Kate answered, in a way that would not endear her to most of the jurors.

Howell was clever about subtly creating even more distance between them and my young socialite witness.

“Let me understand this, Mrs. Meade. When is the very first time you told anyone-anyone at all-about the night Amanda Quillian left Brendan to come stay with you?”

Kate paused to think. “The day I met Ms. Cooper. The detectives took me down to the District Attorney’s Office the morning of October fourth. I told Ms. Cooper about it then.”

“So, that was-my goodness-that was four-no, four and a half years after the night you’ve described, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

Howell wasn’t going to question her certainty about the timing. I had turned over Kate’s datebook entry that confirmed she had made a record of her friend’s brief estrangement from Quillian.

“And we all know how our memories of events, of conversations, of details-how they change over months and years.” Howell was walking in front of the jury box now, one hand on the railing and the other adjusting his tie.

“I remember everything that happened with Amanda. I have a very good memory.”

“But for telling me that your help-your nanny-was at home that week, isn’t that right?”

Kate was smart enough not to keep the battle going, and Howell knew he could weave her five-year silence into a suggestion that nothing had been more serious between the couple than an occasional lovers’ quarrel.

“Now, when Brendan came to the door of your home, that first week, more than five years ago, didn’t you ask him, Mrs. Meade-didn’t you ask him to explain what he had done to upset your best friend so?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you ask him to tell you his side of the story?”

“I didn’t need to ask him. Amanda had already told me.”

“But surely, you would agree that there are two sides to every story, wouldn’t you? Whether you wanted to hear what Brendan had to say or not?”

Howell was scoring twice. Not only was he making Kate Meade seem obstinate and small-minded, but he could later argue the same principle in the event the defendant didn’t testify on his own behalf.

“Possibly.”

“But you didn’t even bother to ask, did you?” Howell said, speaking slowly and emphasizing each of the words in that short question with obvious disapproval.

Kate Meade was pouting in silence.

“You must answer the question,” Gertz said to her.

“I did not.”

“Ms. Cooper,” Howell said, standing to my side and holding out his hand. “May I see People’s Exhibit twelve?”

I removed the pile of photographs that had been admitted during my direct exam of Kate and handed him the one he asked for.

“Would you look at this again for us, Mrs. Meade?”

“Of course.”

“Now, this is the actual photograph-the entire photograph-that you took at your lunch with Mrs. Quillian the terrible day she was killed, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And this enlargement, on the easel, that’s a close-up of her face made from this exact picture, am I right?”

“Yes, you are.”

“This smaller picture actually captures a bit more of the subject, of the entire scene, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes. You can see the restaurant awning behind Amanda’s head, and the little bistro table we were sitting at. Her coffee cup, the sunglasses on top of the menu. Is that what you mean?”

“Exactly.” Howell leaned on the edge of the witness stand and looked over Kate’s shoulder at the image. “There appears to be a ring on Mrs. Quillian’s finger, am I correct?”

I knew where Howell was going and I could have kicked myself for not pointing it out on my direct exam of Kate Meade. I intended to bring up the issue of the ring through the first cop on the scene and the Quillian housekeeper. Howell had taught me many years ago to gain the jury’s trust by introducing any weakness in a case through the state’s own witnesses, before the defense could expose them. I knew the ring was missing-stolen-by the time the police found Amanda’s body. It hadn’t occurred to me to introduce that fact through Kate.

“Now I know Ms. Cooper wouldn’t neglect to notice a fine piece of jewelry, but I don’t believe we’ve discussed this ring here today, have we, Mrs. Meade?”

“No. No, I wasn’t asked to.”

“Let me ask you then, do you recognize the ring Mrs. Quillian was wearing that day?”

“Yes. Yes, certainly.”

“Now, I know it’s big, and I know it’s brilliant, and I know it’s blue,” Mr. Triplicate said, smiling at the jurors as he turned his back on Kate Meade. “What kind of stone was in that ring, if you happen to know?”

“A sapphire, Mr. Howell. It was a sapphire ring.”

“And how many carats was it-or maybe I’m asking you to guess, in which case-”

“It’s not a guess. I was with Amanda when she went back to the Schlumberger salon to have it sized. Six carats. It was a six-carat sapphire.”

Howell let out a soft whistle as he stepped back. “So, that was her engagement ring?”

“No, no, it was not. Brendan couldn’t have afforded anything like that when he asked Amanda to marry him.”

“Well, do you know when she received the ring, or whether she bought it herself?”

“He gave it to her,” Kate said, dipping her head in the defendant’s direction.

“He? You mean Brendan? And when was that?”

“Two years ago. They had a tenth-anniversary party-Preston and I were there-and Brendan gave it to her then.”

Howell twisted his shoulders and smiled to the jurors to show them he liked that fact. “Did she wear it often?”

“Every day.”

“Was she wearing that ring when she stood up from this very table in the photograph and said good-bye to you on October third?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re aware, are you not, that when the police and the housekeeper found Mrs. Quillian’s body shortly after that-after your call to 911-the ring was missing?”

“That’s right.”

Howell would want to argue to the jury that the serious anniversary gift was a sign that the Quillians had reconciled their differences in a sentimental, and expensive, manner. And he would use the theft of the ring by the killer to argue robbery as the motive for Amanda’s death. Mike Chapman referred to the over-the-top bauble as a guilt gift from the defendant, and he explained its disappearance as an obvious staging of the scene-the taking of a significant jewel and the superficial ransacking of drawers and tables near the victim’s body meant to encourage police to think first of a push-in robbery as the killer’s plan.

Howell was jumping from topic to topic now, rattling Kate Meade with the uncertainty of what direction he would next take.

“I’ll get back to that 911 call in a minute, but let me ask you a few more questions about the day you sent your daughter skating with Mr. Quillian.”

Kate stiffened again, I assumed at the second mention of her child in this public forum. “Your Honor, may I speak with my lawyer?” she asked, turning to Judge Gertz.

“Are you talking about Ms. Cooper? She’s not your lawyer, Mrs. Meade-she represents the state,” the judge said, trying to calm her. “Let’s finish your testimony and get you on your way.”

I clasped my hands together on the table, waiting for Lem’s warning to strike its target. Kate wanted to tell me something and I feared that my adversary knew exactly what it was.

“I’m talking about a day in February of last year, do you recall that?” Howell said softly but firmly.

Kate seemed suddenly drained of all color, her jaw again locked tightly in place. “Yes.”

“Did you go to the Quillian home for the purpose of picking Sara up after the skating party, at about five o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Objection, Your Honor. May we approach?”

Artie Tramm led Kate off the stand as Howell and I walked before the judge and I whispered the reasons for my objection.

“This is beyond the scope of my direct. Way beyond. There’s no reason to bring the Meade children or a spin around the ice into this.”

“I gave you a lot of latitude on direct, didn’t I, Alex?” Gertz asked.

“I’ll get right to it, Your Honor,” Howell said. “It’s not about the little girl. It’s about a conversation this witness had with my client and his wife. Ms. Cooper brought some of those out on her case. I’d say it’s relevant, it’s probative, and it’s admissible.”

“Step back. Let’s see where you’re going with this.”

Artie Tramm walked up behind us and spoke to Gertz over my shoulder. “This gonna be much longer, Judge? The witness isn’t feeling too good. Maybe it’s the heat or something. You don’t want her getting sick in the courtroom.”

“Keep it moving. We’ll break for lunch as soon as Lem is done with her.”

Kate reluctantly climbed the two steps to the stand, and I perched on the edge of my seat, ready to interrupt if the cross went off subject.

“Now, your memory of events of a year and a half ago, would you say that’s as good as your memory of events of five years ago?”

She dropped her head. “Yes.”

“Were you alone when you went to the Quillian home the day of the skating event?”

“No. I was with my two little girls and their nanny.”

“Was Amanda there?”

“No, no. She had gone on a museum trip to Vienna.”

“You knew she was out of the country when you called Brendan to ask your little favor, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“Did your nanny and the children stay on there with you and Mr. Quillian?”

“No.” I could barely hear the word. “She took them to a movie.”

“But you chose to remain?”

No answer.

“Did you stay at the Quillian home?”

Kate Meade was having a meltdown before my very eyes. I’d asked her about every one of her conversations with Brendan Quillian, and she had not remembered-or not offered to me-the details of this one.

“Yes. To talk about Amanda.”

I glanced across at Lem. He was standing next to his client, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other jabbing through the air at Kate Meade. He had his most serious expression on display as he savored his moment, the witness pinned to the ropes as Howell made it clear to the jury that he was fighting for his client’s life.

“Did you indeed talk about your best friend, Amanda Quillian, that early evening?”

She swallowed hard and coughed to clear her throat. “Yes, we did.”

“By the way, in which room did you have this discussion?”

She coughed again. “Brendan’s den. On the second floor of the house.”

Howell paused, letting go of Quillian and taking a few steps closer to the witness stand. He poured a cup of water from my pitcher-Kate had not touched the one in front of her-and held it out to her. “You seem parched, dry, thirsty, perhaps. May I give you this?”

She pushed his arm away and shook her head from side to side. The internal butterflies seemed to be multiplying at a furious pace in my gut. Kate Meade, Brendan Quillian, and Lem Howell knew facts that I did not.

“Did you ask my client for something to drink that evening?”

Kate looked at Brendan with contempt, almost sneering at him in full view of the jury. “I did.”

“And what did you drink?”

“Wine. Too much red wine.”

“Did there come a time when your conversation stopped?”

“Yes.”

“Is that when you left, Mrs. Meade? Is that when you left Brendan’s home?”

Artie Tramm moved closer to the stand. It looked as if my witness was going to faint.

“Did you leave the Quillians’ house after your chat with my client, to go home to your ill husband and your precious little girls?”

“Not immediately.”

“You remember what you did next?”

“I was drunk, Mr. Howell. I can hardly remember-”

“I’m relying on the fact that you told all of us today what a very good memory you have, Mrs. Meade. Isn’t that when you-”

Kate clamped a hand on the railing in front of her and raised her voice. “He-he took advantage of me-of my condition, Mr. Howell.”

“Would you tell these good people, please.” Lem stood behind me, sweeping his left arm in a wide arc across the front of the jury box. “Isn’t that when you quite voluntarily engaged in an act of sexual intercourse with Brendan Quillian, the husband of your lifelong best friend?”