Evidence

CHAPTER 46

During his interview of Lara Rieffen, Milo had used John Nguyen’s relentless approach to prosecution as a scare tactic.

A bit of performance art, but part documentary, as well.

Rieffen’s defense lawyers filed motions to dismiss; Nguyen countered each with growing ferocity, won every time.

Their next step was to attack the admissibility of various pieces of evidence. As part of that, I was deposed to testify about Rieffen’s mental state during “Detective Sturgis’s clearly intimidating and abusive interrogation.”

Nguyen said, “Don’t respond, I’ll handle it,” and when the defense team tried plea-bargaining down to a series of lesser charges, Nguyen threatened to go for the death penalty, pointing out that Rieffen’s prints on the murder weapon made it a no-brainer, special circumstances due to multiple victims, lying in wait, extreme cruelty and depravity, murder for profit.

Rieffen pled guilty to one count of second-degree murder in exchange for the theoretical possibility of parole.

Nguyen said, “I’m happy with it, anyone else isn’t, that’s their problem.”

I kept checking the Internet for some mention of Dahlia Gemein or Prince Teddy.

Her name never came up, but four months after the turret murders, an Asian news service reported the “tragic death of Prince Tariq Bandar Asman Ku’amah Majur in a diving accident off the coast of Sranil.” The sultan, “grief-stricken and dismayed,” had declared a week of national mourning and announced that the pediatric cancer center crowning the world-class medical center planned for Sranil would be named after the prince.

“My brother was a selfless man with a special place in his heart for children.”

One week later, insurgents attempted to storm the island’s southern beaches. The sultan’s troops turned them away but several commentators believed this was only the beginning.

Logging off, I got into running clothes, jogged south on the Glen, made a few well-practiced turns, ended up on Borodi Lane.

Doyle Bryczinski was gone. Men in hard hats were busy nailing up the framework of an enormous house. Three stories, subterranean parking lot, multiple gables, and adventurous windows. A style that couldn’t be pinned down beyond Look At Me!

Where a sidewalk would be, if this was that kind of neighborhood, a couple stood, pointing and talking.

Stunning blonde, mid-to late thirties, well-toned body, sculpted face. She wore pink cashmere, a pale blue silk scarf, brown croc pumps, big diamonds. The man with his arm around her was closer to sixty, a little thick around the middle, with wavy silver hair of a tint that required effort. Soft blue blazer, white linen pants, a red pocket handkerchief that tumbled from his breast pocket like blood from a gunshot wound.

Designer sunglasses on both of them.

As I ran past them, the woman said, “Oh, it’s going to be gorgeous, honey.”