Identical

20

The final proceedings in Gianis v. Kronon had drawn a herd of spectators and the well of the courtroom was also crowded. Horgan had been accompanied by two associates, and Hal’s big law firm had sent three lawyers to sit by Mel. There was an assistant attorney general, an Indian woman who headed the appellate division, along with two troopers from the state police, one of whom was carrying a steel box, which presumably contained some of the blood. Two deputy PAs had come in from Greenwood County, and Sandy Stern had shown up, too, to represent Cass. The only person not present who might have been expected was Paul Gianis, who, as he had last week, was skipping the session, in accord with his position that the lawsuit was over. His absence also prevented him from being forced to give a DNA specimen on the spot, if the judge ruled he was required to do that.

The spectators’ pews were almost completely full. Evon sat with Tim in the front row, along with reporters and sketch artists. When the case was called, all the lawyers gathered in front of the bench, looking a little like an a capella group ready to perform. Each gave his or her name. Sandy Stern said he was making “a special appearance.”

“It’s always special when you’re here, Mr. Stern,” said Judge Lands, who seemed positively lighthearted knowing that he was about to escape this bramblebush of a case. “Any problem with Mr. Stern’s appearance, Mr. Tooley? He’s telling us that he’s going to speak for Mr. Cass Gianis, but won’t accept your subpoena if I rule against him.”

Mel argued halfheartedly that Stern was trying to have it both ways, which was exactly what the law allowed, and the judge overruled him.

“OK, let’s find out what we’re fighting over,” said the judge. “Ms. Desai, tell us if you would, please, what evidence the state police have in their possession.”

It was mostly blood-the spatters from the window, the blood specimens that had been taken from the members of the Kronon family at the time, and Cass Gianis’s blood, which had been obtained from the Kindle County Police Force fortuitously, because Cass had done a draw for a drug test in preparation for entering the academy. The state cops had retained plaster castings of the shoe-prints in the flower bed, and the tire prints collected down the hill from the house, and glass shards from the broken French door, which had been maintained in order to compare the refractive index of any traces of glass recovered from the clothes or other effects of an eventual suspect. Finally, the state police also had sealed envelopes containing evidence collected from the person of Dita Kronon: fingernail clippings that the techs had taken from Dita after her death, and six different hairs that had been gathered off her body, as well as several fibers, all of which proved to have been from her clothes. Even in 1982, when crime-scene forensics was in the middle ages compared to now, the lab had been able to say that there wasn’t a concentration of foreign skin cells under Dita’s fingernails, which tended to show she hadn’t fought off her assailant, and thus presumably knew him. As for the hairs, at the time of the guilty plea, two were said to resemble Cass’s, but DNA testing over the last twenty-five years had shown that the supposed science of hair comparison was no more valid than detecting character from the bumps on somebody’s skull, which had passed as courtroom evidence in the nineteenth century.

The Greenwood County PAs spoke up next. They said they’d produced everything already, except they’d finally found Cass Gianis’s ten-card, which they’d sent to Dr. Dickerman on Friday in compliance with Judge Lands’s prior orders. The need to account to the judge for the missing prints, with reporters present, had clearly inspired a more thorough search than the clerk’s office and the sheriff had bothered with previously.

“All right,” said Judge Lands, “I’m going to hear from the attorneys. Who would like to address the present motion?” The two prosecutors’ offices both said they had no position. Tooley, the proponent of the motion, was allowed to argue first. He was brief. It was all chronology, Mel said. The subpoenas were validly served. Their enforcement had been stayed pending the ruling on the DNA motion. The motion was allowed and thus production of the evidence was called for at once. Whether the case was over or not, Hal was entitled to get what he’d subpoenaed.

“That’s preposterous,” said Horgan when it was his turn to talk. “The case is over with the motion for nonsuit, which the court must allow. The force of the subpoenas ends with the dismissal.” Ray mentioned several cases that said that, and then talked about Paul, who he said was being harassed by Hal. Stern added similar thoughts, and said that after twenty-five years in prison Cass was entitled to be left alone. As usual, Judge Lands looked thoughtfully at all of the lawyers as they addressed him, even though he undoubtedly would have known what each was going to say if they’d reduced their presentations to pantomime.

“All right,” he said, once Tooley had finished a brief rebuttal, “this has been an interesting exercise, although my wife would probably tell you it shows what’s wrong with me, that I enjoyed passing a Sunday afternoon thinking about the essential nature of a subpoena.” Everyone in the courtroom was chuckling. Judge Lands was rarely this expansive.

“To state what we all know, a subpoena is a command from the court to produce evidence for the purpose of a lawsuit. In that sense, Mr. Tooley, the evidence gathered doesn’t belong to the party who requested it. Legal title to that property belongs to whoever produced it in the first place to the court, or, in a case like this, to law-enforcement authorities. The court-or the police-borrows that material, as it were, for the purpose of the proceeding. When that case is final and fully exhausted, the parties to the suit have no further right to the property in question, unless it happened to have been theirs in the first place.

“Now, I have made it clear that Senator Gianis is going to get to exercise his right to end this lawsuit today. But there are a couple of preliminary questions in deciding the fate of these subpoenas. The first is whether the evidence ought to be preserved for the sake of any other legal proceeding. Let me direct a question to the representatives of the prosecuting attorney’s office from Greenwood County and the attorney general.” Both women rose. “Are there any pending investigations in your office related to this crime?” The judge was asking delicately if either office had reopened the investigation of Dita’s murder to consider Paul’s role.

“None,” said the assistant AG. The attorney general of the state, Muriel Wynn, was an old friend of Paul’s and a strong political supporter. She’d been unequivocal when the press had asked about Hal’s suit, referring to it as ‘drivel.’

“None at this time,” said the PA from Greenwood, being a tad more lawyerly. They were Republicans out there, but they would not be naturally attracted to thinking they’d missed something a quarter of a century ago. Prosecutors, like everybody else, liked to believe they’d done a good job to start.

On the square bench, which reminded Evon of the boxy sedans of the 1950s, Judge Lands made notes. He had the full attention of the big room, which had been rendered silent because no one seemed to understand exactly what he was thinking.

“Next question. Is either of Mr. Kronon’s parents still alive?”

Tooley’s mouth fell ajar before he answered no.

“And who was the residual heir to their personal property, after satisfaction of specific bequests?” asked Judge Lands.

Mel, a criminal lawyer and litigator by training, looked as stunned by this detour into probate law as he would have if the judge had propounded questions about the chemical composition of distant stars. He finally turned to Hal, who stood up at counsel table and tried to close his suit coat as he’d watched the lawyers do. It didn’t quite fit that way and so he ended up holding it closed with one hand.

“Me,” said Hal.

“No other living children?”

“No, sir.”

“And if you know, Mr. Kronon, who was your sister’s heir? Was that you, too, or your parents?”

“No, my dad had set up trusts, usual estate planning stuff. Everything of Dita’s became mine.”

Lands again scribbled notes.

“Fine then, I’m prepared to rule. All of Mr. Kronon’s subpoenas may be enforced, but only to the extent they pertain to evidence originally obtained within the four walls or grounds of Zeus Kronon’s house. That would include evidence taken from the body of the decedent, Dita Kronon. I have reached this conclusion because the law is very clear that even today Mr. Kronon would have the right to appear in the original criminal case against Cass Gianis in Greenwood County and make a motion requiring all this property to be returned to him. As a result, I’ve determined that I will not be abusing my discretion by ordering that property turned over to him now.

“But that, Mr. Tooley, is as far as you may go. The subpoenas directed to both of the Misters Gianis are quashed. No DNA, no more fingerprints.”

“What about the fingerprint card Greenwood County just sent to Dr. Dickerman?” asked Mel. “Can we have that?”

“Nope,” said the judge. “I was about to get to that. The fingerprint lifts from the house are encompassed by my ruling, and Dr. Dickerman should turn those over to Mr. Kronon. The fingerprints Senator Gianis gave for purpose of this lawsuit belong to him and should be returned forthwith. The fingerprint card of Cass Gianis belongs to Greenwood County, since the county is allowed by law to maintain a database of fingerprints for future criminal investigations. Cass Gianis’s blood will be returned to him, after proper notice to Kindle County, which is the only prosecutor’s office for fifty miles with no legal representative here at the moment.”

Everybody in the courtroom howled at the small joke. Evon had noticed long ago that any effort at humor somehow seemed side-splitting when it came from the bench.

“And with that, Mr. Horgan, Senator Gianis’s motion for voluntary nonsuit is granted and this case is dismissed. Good day, all of you, and thank you for your presence.”

The judge left the bench.

Tooley motioned Tim to come forward to receive the evidence the judge had just ruled belonged to Hal. Tim signed the receipts and marked the envelopes and containers with his initials and the date and time. Sandy Stern had caught sight of Tim doing this and stepped over to pay his respects.

“This was the finest detective any of us ever saw,” Stern told Evon, who’d come forward with Tim to help him keep everything straight. She still wasn’t convinced Stern knew who she was.

“So I’ve heard.”

“That’s why old folks hang on,” Tim told them both. “To hear all those compliments they didn’t deserve in the first place.”

All three were still laughing when Mel Tooley approached Stern and took him by the elbow.

“What the hell was that?” Mel asked.

Stern smiled in his serene, enigmatic fashion.

“Well,” said Stern, “the judge is supposed to be the smartest person in the room. It’s satisfying when it actually happens, no?”

Tooley did not appear convinced.

For once Mel had no trouble convincing Hal not to speak to the press, since he appeared, just like Evon, utterly befuddled. Along with Hal, Tim and Mel and Evon squeezed into Hal’s Bentley to go back to ZP. Tim kept all the evidence in his lap. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to take it to Dr. Yavem or not.

“Did we just win or did we just lose?” Hal asked as soon as Delman, the driver, closed the door, which shut with the padded sound of a jewelry case.

“You just watched the baby get divided,” said Mel. He clearly lacked Stern’s appreciation for the judge’s performance.

“I think we may be OK,” Evon said. She’d been thinking about all of this for some minutes.

“Really?” Hal was eager for any good news.

“The idea was to do the DNA testing, right? We have the blood evidence from the house, right, from the French door? That’s clearly the murderer’s.”

“But we don’t have the DNA from either brother,” Mel said.

“We got the fingerprint lifts from the house. Lots of them were identified as Cass’s. You can extract DNA from old fingerprints.”

“You can?” Hal was delighted to hear it.

“It’s not for sure,” Evon said, “but we can try. I mean, Yavem can. I know it’s been done. It only takes a speck. With that many prints, he’s bound to get something.”

“What about Paul?” Mel asked. “Dickerman has to give back his fingerprints.”

“You can get DNA off the bone from a chicken wing somebody ate. Or a cigarette they smoked. If Tim follows Paul around for a couple of days, I’ll bet he can pick up something.”

“Great,” said Tim, who’d said nothing to this point. “Paul knows who I am. Our paths have been crossing since Cass and him went to grade school with Demetra. And he’s seen me in court. They’ll throw my butt out wherever I turn up.”

“Maybe not,” Evon said. “You’re the one who’s always telling me old men are invisible. And if they throw you out, you just refer the assignment to a buddy you trust who works as a PI. You must know a hundred old codgers who’d be good.”

Tim didn’t smile, but Hal said, “Fabulous.” Even Tooley had brightened a little, less chagrined by having been so far outflanked by the judge.

Tim drove the evidence to Yavem’s lab, then returned to the cubicle he’d been given at ZP to use the computer to study Paul’s daily calendar, posted on his campaign website. Gianis’s schedule seemed superhuman, when you remembered that he had stiff legislative duties and still kept a law office. He was shaking hands at bus stops and train stations during the morning and afternoon rushes. He attended fund-raisers at breakfast, lunch and the cocktail hour, and convened press events several times a week, at which he announced policy initiatives. There was one at a fire station today, where he was going to discuss his proposal for the future of the department, a tender subject, since over the last thirty years better building techniques had made as many as a third of the firefighters here and elsewhere in the country redundant. In the evenings and weekends, Paul tended to do town hall meetings in community centers or local places of worship. Out of curiosity, Tim had compared Paul’s schedule to that of his top three opponents, none of whom appeared to be exhausting themselves the same way. It just made you wonder what could possibly be worth it. And there wouldn’t be any letup if Paul got to city hall. That wasn’t a 9-to-5 job either.

That night Tim attended Paul’s town hall at the JCC in Center City. Gianis drew a small crowd, no more than seventy-five people, but he looked enthusiastic as he charged up the stairs to the stage in the center’s auditorium. He was wearing a camel hair sport coat but no tie and began by speaking on his own under the lights for about fifteen minutes. Paul was charming and relaxed as he talked about his campaign’s three s’s-schools, safety, stability, meaning stable finances-and growing up here in Kindle County. He’d worked every day in Mickey’s grocery until he started college. He told funny stories about putting price stickers on canned goods, from the time Cass and he were five years old.

“In my family,” Paul said, “the invention of the bar code was a bigger deal than landing on the moon.”

As soon as he turned to the audience for questions, there were several about dismissing his lawsuit against Hal. Occasionally, as he was pondering his answers, he removed his heavy glasses to rub the purple bump on his nose.

“To be blunt,” he said about the lawsuit, “we made a mistake. I was upset that someone was saying these kinds of things about me, and I wanted to take a stand. But at a certain point, when people become obsessed you have to accept that they’re not rational. They’re going to believe what they want to, no matter what you do.”

The explanations seemed to go down well with most of the small crowd. An old fellow in a flannel shirt stood up then and gave a long tirade about bullies like Kronon, swinging their billions like truncheons. If rich people could spend without limit trying to decide elections, we were basically back to where we started, when the only voters were white men with property. The audience applauded. Eventually the questions turned to school funding and the quality of lunches.

Midway through the evening, Paul opened a bottle of water that had been left on the podium and drank deeply. Tim kept his eye on it after that.

When Paul left the stage, Tim was at the back of the line of five or six people waiting to speak to the candidate personally. Standing on the last stair, Paul took a long draught from the water bottle and emptied it while he was conversing with an elderly woman who had a pointed question about the crumbling county hospital. Up close, Paul looked tired, with ashy marks under his eyes that seemed to have appeared since Tim had last seen him in court.

During his years as a PI, Tim had collected a set of disguises he used on prolonged follows-silly wigs, secondhand work jumpsuits, even a couple of dresses he wore in desperate moments. It was impressive, really, how unsuspecting people were in general. For this event, he’d stayed simple, shedding his old topcoat in favor of a parka. He put on the glasses he wore to drive at night, and got another stocking cap that he tugged all the way down and kept on all evening. Now, Tim stepped up and reached for the bottle after Paul screwed the top back on.

“I’ll take care of that for you, Senator.”

Gianis handed it over, careful to say thank you, before turning to the next person in line. Moving off with the water bottle, Tim thought he could feel Paul do a double take, but Tim feigned dropping the plastic container in a trash bin, and pushed it up the sleeve of his parka while he had his hand in the can. He sealed the bottle in a plastic bag as soon as he got to his car and took it over to Dr. Yavem’s office first thing in the morning. The doctor’s young colleague told Tim that they expected the DNA results to be back in three weeks.