Red Mist

11

The cause of death listed on the preliminary autopsy report is undetermined and the manner is the same. Undeterminedand Undetermined.In forensic pathology this is a no-hitter, a game tied at zero inning after inning and finally called because of rain or dark or who knows what, but in the end it doesn’t count.

Every death should count, and I am not a good sport when I can’t find an answer. I know there always is one. But now and then forensic pathologists like Colin Dengate and me are forced to accept we’ve failed. The dead won’t tell us what we need to know, and we have no choice but to come up with what is most plausible medically even if we don’t quite believe it. We release the body and personal effects so those left behind can tidy up legal affairs, collect insurance, arrange funerals, and go on living. Or in the case of Barrie Lou Rivers, she was signed out and buried in a potter’s field because nobody claimed her or gave a damn.

Eventually Colin amended the autopsy report to a sudden cardiac death due to myocardial infarction with a manner of natural, and this is what is on her death certificate as well. It was a default diagnosis based on an equivocal amount of coronary artery disease. Sixty percent of the left anterior descending artery. Twenty percent of the right at one centimeter from the ostium. The circumflex coronary artery was clear. She was awaiting her execution, and at some point after a last meal of a tuna-fish sandwich on rye, potato chips, and Pepsi cola, witnesses claimed she suffered shortness of breath, sweating, weakness, extreme fatigue — symptoms that were interpreted as a panic attack precipitated by her impending execution. A panic attack is consistent with the undigested food Colin found when he opened the stomach during the autopsy. Extreme stress or fear, and the digestion completely quits.

By all accounts, it appears she was dead from a massive heart attack at seven-fifteen p.m., or not quite two hours before she was scheduled to die by lethal injection. As I continue to review her case, Jaime talks from the kitchen while she arranges each of our meals on her rental unit’s white plates. She’s talking about the Jordan family. She wants their injuries and any other artifacts and crime scene information interpreted as precisely and as irrefutably as possible. She needs my help.

“Colin should be able to tell you about their injuries and everything else,” I remind her. “He went to the crime scene and did the autopsies. He’s a very competent forensic pathologist. Have you tried to discuss the cases with him?”

“One perpetrator. Lola Daggette. Case closed,” Marino replies. “That’s what everybody around here’s got to say about it.”

As Jaime gets out wineglasses I recall Colin’s demeanor during the case presentation he gave at the NAME meeting in Los Angeles years ago. He was personally outraged by the savage deaths of Dr. Clarence Jordan and his wife, Gloria, and visibly upset over their two little children, Brenda and Josh. Colin’s opinion then was that only one person had committed those crimes — the teenage girl who was washing the victims’ blood out of her clothing in a halfway-house bathroom within hours of the homicides. Any subsequent stories and rumors about Lola Daggette’s mysterious accomplice were a defense attorney’s fiction, I remember him saying.

“I’ve been to his lab only once, several weeks ago,” Jaime says. “He didn’t come out of his office to meet me, and when I went in to speak to him, he didn’t get up from his desk.”

“You can’t force him to be friendly, but I can’t imagine him deliberately impairing an attorney’s ability to get needed information,” I reply, and what I really want to say is that Jaime is Jaime, and what’s worse, she’s a New Yorker, one of those northern aggressors who comes to a small southern city and assumes everyone is backward, bigoted, dishonest, and somewhat stupid.

I suspect her attitude is obvious when she deals with Colin, who grew up in these parts and is steeped in local tradition, whether it is participating in Civil War reenactments or Irish parades on Saint Patrick’s Day.

“He’s bound by statute to give you anything that could be exculpatory,” I add.

“He didn’t volunteer anything.”

“He doesn’t have to volunteer anything.”

“He thinks I’m just looking for someone to support an alternate theory.”

“He very well might think that, because that’s exactly what you’re doing,” I reply. “You’re doing the same thing any good defense attorney does. What I haven’t been told is how or why it is you’re involved. You left the DA’s office and suddenly you’re in the opposite camp, representing Lola Daggette. And what is your interest in Barrie Lou Rivers?”

“Cruel and unusual punishment.” Jaime pours wine. “Barrie Lou was so terrified as she awaited her execution in a holding cell, she died of a heart attack. Whose idea was it to serve her a last meal that was identical to what she poisoned her victims with? Was it hers? If so, why? To show remorse, or a contemptuous lack of it?”

“There’s no forensic analysis that will answer that,” I reply.

“I seriously doubt she picked the menu,” Jaime makes her point. “I suspect the objective was to taunt her with what awaited her when she was strapped on that gurney, to terrorize her about what the death squad had in store for her and how much they were looking forward to her getting what she deserved. Barrie Lou had a panic attack, all right. She was literally scared to death.”

“I don’t know if it’s true she was tormented, and I don’t think you can know it, either, unless someone who was involved admits to such a thing. And I’m curious about why you’re suddenly so interested,” I tell her frankly. “I’m puzzled by why you’re suddenly up to your elbows in defending the very sort of people you used to lock up and throw away the key.”

“Not suddenly. I’ve been having discussions for a while. My troubles with Farbman and just my having my fill … well, it goes back longer than you might think. I alerted Joe at the end of last year that I was looking into other prospects, that I was interested in wrongful convictions.”

“Good ole Joe Nail ’emNale,” Marino quips, as he flips a page of another report. “I wish I was a fly on the wall when you told him that,” he says to Jaime.

Joseph Nale is the district attorney of Manhattan, Jaime’s former boss, and not the sort to be favorably inclined toward any individual or organization dedicated to exonerating people wrongfully convicted of crimes. Most prosecutors, if they’re honest about it, aren’t fond of lawyers who make it their mission to fight the injustices caused by other lawyers and those they recruited as experts.

“I informed him I’d also been talking with some attorneys I know who work with the Innocence Project,” Jaime continues to explain.

“The one here in Georgia?” I ask.

“The national organization in New York. But I’m acquainted with Curtis Roberts, and I did ask him to do a favor.”

“So Leonard Brazzo wouldn’t know you were behind the invitation for me to meet with Kathleen Lawler. So I wouldn’t know,” I presume.

“I’m having dialogues with firms and in the process of narrowing it down,” Jaime says, as if she didn’t hear me. “Much of it depends on where I want to live.”

“I’m sure what happens in the Lola Daggette case will have some bearing on which law firm you pick,” I say, not so subtly.

“Obviously a large one that also has offices in the South and Southwest,” she replies, as she hands me a glass of wine and gives Marino a Diet Coke. “Red states are fond of executing people, although I don’t intend to have my home base in Alabama or Texas. But to answer your question about how I came to be involved in Lola Daggette’s wrongful conviction, she wrote a number of letters to the Innocence Project and a number of groups and lawyers who take on cases like hers pro bono. The letters were badly written, let me add, and were shelved until this past November, when an emergency stay of execution was denied by the Georgia Supreme Court, inspiring a legal review by various public policy organizations. Then earlier this year there was a botched execution here in Georgia that has caused a lot of concern about whether it was deliberately cruel.

“I was asked if I were interested in Lola Daggette’s case, as there seemed to be some utility in having a woman involved, I was told,” Jaime continues. “Lola’s not known to cooperate with men, and in fact is incapable of trusting a man because of the extreme abuse she suffered as a child at the hands of her stepfather. I said I would take a look. At the time, there was no reason to think there might be any link to you. I started reviewing Lola’s case before Dawn Kincaid attacked you.”

“I’m not seeing a link to Lola Daggette beyond her being in the same prison as Dawn Kincaid’s biological mother,” I reply. “Although if Dawn’s mother, Kathleen Lawler, is to be believed, Lola seems to have some sort of connection to Kathleen. An adversarial one.”

“Most of these cases reviewed by national litigation and public policy organizations involve people incarcerated in Georgia, Virginia, Florida, the red states.” Jaime ignores what I just said. “Many of these people are given life sentences or sentenced to death because of flawed forensics, misidentification, coerced confessions. And there aren’t many women on death row. Currently, Lola is the only woman on death row in Georgia, only one of fifty-six nationwide. And there aren’t many women attorneys with my degree of experience and track record taking on these cases.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.” I won’t let her get away with her self-serving rhetoric. “What it does further explain is your interest in having a presence in certain locales and why it might be wise to take a job with a big firm that has offices everywhere.”

“I have no dining-room table, I’m sure you’ve noticed, so we’ll make ourselves comfortable in the living room. Stay where you are, and I’ll serve.” Jaime carries in our food, and her deep blue eyes meet mine. “I’m glad you got here safely, Kay. I regret any inconvenience or confusion.”

What she means is she regrets any lies. She regrets finding it necessary to manipulate me into showing up to help her with a case that will make a name for her in criminal defense law if she succeeds in freeing Georgia’s most notorious killer, who happens to be the only woman in the state on death row. I don’t want to think there is no altruism involved, but I’m certain I smell ambition and other motivating factors. This isn’t completely about Jaime’s wanting to right a wrong, maybe not even mostly about it. She wants power. She wants to rise from the ashes after being forced out of office in New York City, and she wants sufficient influence to crush enemies such as Farbman and probably a long list of others.

“I shouldn’t drink Diet Coke,” Marino says, as he begins to eat. “Believe it or not, artificial sweeteners can make you fat.”

“I was determined to convey two things to you,” Jaime says to me, as she sits down on the couch with her plate of sushi. “You’d better watch yourself, because you and I both know it’s all about the case. It’s never purely about justice when cops, the FBI, sink their teeth into something. It’s the case. First, last, and always. Quotas, headlines, and promotions.” She reaches for her glass of wine.

“I appreciate the forewarning,” I reply. “But I don’t need your help.”

“Well, you do. And I need yours.”

“White sugar and fake sugar.” Marino glances up at me as he eats, the spoon loudly clacking against the side of the mug. “I stay away.”

“I have a feeling you’ve alienated Colin.” I state the obvious to Jaime. “He can be stubborn but is very good at what he does. He’s well respected by his peers, by law enforcement. He’s also a southern gentleman, and an Irish one at that, through and through. You have to know how to work with people like him.”

“I’m not used to being a pariah.” She is facile with chopsticks. “In fact, you might say I’ve gotten spoiled. Nothing more welcome in an ME’s office or a detective squad than a prosecutor. It’s jolting to find I’ve suddenly turned into the enemy.” She takes a bite of pickled ginger and a spicy tuna roll.

“You’ve not turned into the enemy. You’ve turned into a defense attorney, and I don’t think it’s fair to assume that those of us committed to seeking truth are only on the side of the prosecution.”

“Colin is offended that I intend to get Lola off death row and out of prison,” she says. “He has no interest in my contention that Barrie Lou Rivers is a compelling argument for the GPFW going out of its way to make executions exceedingly cruel. To inflict pain and suffering, and that’s what they’ll do to Lola, who was barely of legal age when she was locked up in that place. It’s all the more barbaric and outrageous because she’s innocent. Colin feels I’m questioning him.”

“And you are. But we’re used to being questioned.”

“He doesn’t like it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like the way you’re doing it.”

“I could use a good coach.” She smiles, but her eyes don’t.

“I’m grateful you felt morally obligated to tell me that someone might be spreading lies about me, trying to get me in trouble with the Feds,” I tell her pointedly. “But this isn’t quid pro quo.”

“I don’t guess you got any Sharp’s hidden anywhere,” Marino says to Jaime, and he’s already devoured his shrimp bisque and half his french fries, invested in his dinner as if he hasn’t eaten all day.

Jaime dips another roll into wasabi and says to him, “I should have thought to pick up something nonalcoholic, I’m sorry.” Then to me she says, “I was determined to tell you exactly what’s going on before you find out in a way that’s legally and professionally not to your advantage, and the safest way to do this was to talk behind the scenes during the course of other normal things going on.”

“You told an inmate to slip me your cell phone number and instruct me to use a pay phone. I’m not sure that anything thus far constitutes normal things going on.” I try one of the scallops.

“Yes, I did give Kathleen that instruction.”

“And if she tells someone?”

“Who would she tell?”

“One of the guards. Another inmate. Her lawyer. Inmates do nothing but talk, given the chance.”

“I don’t know who would give a shit.” Marino is working on his barbecue shrimp, his napkin making a scratchy sound as he wipes his mouth. “It’s not people at the prison you got to worry about,” he says to me, as he opens another take-out packet of catsup. “It’s the FBI you got to worry about. It wouldn’t be a good thing if they knew Jaime’s informing you of everything they’re doing so they’ve lost the element of surprise by the time they finally show up to question you. I got to do something about my van. Maybe pick up a six-pack of Sharp’s while I’m at it.”

Marino’s right that the FBI wouldn’t like it if it were known that I’ve been forewarned. But it’s too late. The element of surprise is gone for good, even if I’m not clear on exactly what I’m accused of, but the likely scenario is that Dawn Kincaid and her legal counsel are making some sort of false case against me that is at least remotely credible. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, that I’m baselessly accused of misdeeds and violations and any manner of disreputable acts, whether it is falsifying death records or lab results or mislabeling evidence. In my business, someone always goes away unhappy. It is a fifty percent statistical probability that one side or the other is going to be extremely upset.

“Next time remind me,” Jaime says to Marino. “And I’ll make sure I pick up whatever your favorite is. Sharp’s, Buckler, Beck’s. There’s that market on Drayton, not too far from here. They should have nonalcoholic beer. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it earlier.”

“No one drinks the watered-down shit I do, so why would anybody think about it?” He gets up, the leather crackling again, as if the big chair is upholstered in parchment. “If you could give me the valet ticket for my van,” he says to me. “The more I think about it, it might be the alternator’s going bad. Thing is finding a mechanic at this hour.” He looks at his watch, then at Jaime. “I’d better head out.”

I dig the valet ticket out of my shoulder bag and give it to him. Marino goes to the door and opens it, and the alarm chime makes a loud chirp, like a smoke alarm with a low-battery warning. I think of the Jordans’ house again, wondering if it’s true they didn’t have the burglar alarm armed that night, and if so, why not? Were they simply cavalier and trusting? I wonder if it’s possible the killer knew the alarm wasn’t going to be an issue or was simply lucky.

“If you tell me when you’re ready to leave, I’ll come get you,” Marino says to me. “Either in the van if it’s running okay or I’ll grab a cab. I’m staying at the Hyatt tonight, too. We’re on the same floor.”

There’s no point in asking how he knows what floor I’m on.

“I’ve got a go-bag for you,” he adds. “Some field clothes and other stuff put together since I know you weren’t planning on staying another day or two. Is it okay if I put it in your room?”

“Why not,” I reply.

“If you have an extra key, it would be easier.”

I get up again and give him that, too. Then he’s gone, leaving Jaime and me alone, and I suspect that’s the point rather than the urgency of needing a six-pack of nonalcoholic beer or getting his van fixed after hours, when automotive-repair services likely are closed. Jaime probably instructed him to be on his way after he ate, or maybe she gave him some other signal I missed, and I can only assume that whenever it was Marino left the Boston area for his alleged vacation, he carried a go-bag for me. There can’t be any doubt that my sitting in Jaime’s apartment this moment was carefully planned.

Pushing off her blue leather slip-ons, she gets up from the couch, her stocking feet quiet on old pine flooring as she heads to the kitchen for the bottle of wine. She lets me know she has a very nice Scotch if I’d like something stronger.

“Not for me,” I reply, anticipating what tomorrow will bring.

“I think stronger might be better.”

“No, thank you. But help yourself.”

I watch her open a cabinet and find the Johnnie Walker Blue.

“What could the FBI or anyone possibly think they have on me?” I ask her.

“I believe in dealing proactively,” she replies, as if I asked a different question. “I never take anything for granted.”

She unscrews the metal cap from a blended Scotch so fine that it’s hard for me to imagine she bought it to drink alone. Possibly she thought she’d sit up half the night with me and get me to lower my defenses and agree to whatever she wants.

“Perception can be a lethal weapon,” she adds. “Which may be their point.”

“Whose point?” I ask, because I’m not sure that the person making a point isn’t Jaime.