To speak for the dead

19

Like fine wine, a criminal prosecution needs to age. First, a flurry of activity during the fermentation of the case, hearings, depositions, and an exchange of papers. Then, a quiet time, waiting for a trial date, files stored away in darkened cabinets, a time for brooding, waking at dawn with brilliant strategies, tossing them on the scrap heap of half-baked ideas by midday.

Judge Crane had set the trial for June, the beginning of Miami's unremitting summer. Those who can afford it are already getting away, escaping the blazing sun, ferocious humidity, and afternoon gully washers. By June the winds have shifted to the southeast-a wet, warm breath from the Caribbean-a time when each day begins with the same notion: no relief for six months. The calendar still says Spring, but in the tropics, it is not a time of renewal. It is the season of decay, streets steaming in afternoon storms that soak but do not cool, businessmen ducking from refrigerated cars to refrigerated offices while the poor, like desert dwellers, seek shade during the day, then roam free after dark, a time of short tempers and midnight shootings. And it would be our time of trial.

Six weeks after the indictment, we knew the state's case inside out. Abe Socolow detailed it for us in a bill of particulars, a witness list, and a carton of physical evidence. We knew who would testify and what they would say. No more trial by surprise, no last minute witnesses popping from the gallery.

We knew there was no wiretap evidence, no statements made by Salisbury to be used against him, and that the confidential informant, one Melanie Corrigan, would be the star witness. We learned the test results from the Medical Examiner's Office: evidence of succinic acid and choline in Corrigan's liver and brain, but strangely, none around the needle tracks in the buttocks. I would talk to Charlie Riggs about that.

On a warm, overcast day in April, I deposed Melanie Corrigan in Abe Socolow's office, staring hard at her when she took the oath. She stared right back and promised to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Once upon a time, she held a rich man's hand and promised to love and to cherish, to honor and obey.

Today she had no surprises. After her marriage, Roger

Salisbury kept pursuing her. Yes, she had dated him years ago, but that was ancient history, she was just a kid. No, she was not having an affair with him. Kept spurning his advances. He said he loved her, that Philip didn't appreciate her, didn't spend enough time with her. Roger showed her a little black valise with hypodermics and a glass vial, clear liquid inside, like a miniature vodka bottle they give you on a plane. He told her to get rid of Philip by injecting him with the drug. She was shocked, then laughed it off, thinking it was all talk. Roger always talked crazy. But when Philip died after surgery, she suspected Roger. She wanted proof. She thought something would come out in the civil trial, but nothing did.

So after the verdict, when Roger invited her over to his place, she went, and while he was fixing drinks, she looked through a desk in the study. Voila, the black valise and two hypodermics. Nearby in a small refrigerator was the vial, this time with some of the fluid missing. She slipped everything into her purse and the next day called the State Attorney's Office. At about the same time, Dr. MacKenzie tipped Socolow to the brain and liver samples that came from Charlie Riggs. When both the tissue samples and the liquid tested positive for succinylcholine, the grand jury indicted Roger Salisbury for Murder One.

She told her story well. Socolow had several weeks to prepare her for deposition after almost botching it at the bond hearing. I couldn't shake her. She denied that the valise was ever in her possession, denied planting the drug at Roger's house. Nothing there for us, but at least we knew the state's case and knew we could not win unless we discredited Melanie Corrigan.

What about the valise and the drug, I had asked Roger. I wanted him to tell me that he had never seen the succinylcholine, that Melanie must have come up with it and then stolen his valise to frame him. If we could trace the drug to her, bull's-eye!

"It didn't happen that way," he said.

"No?"

"I borrowed the sucks-that's what we call it-from an anesthesiologist. Had an old Lab retriever, must have been close to twenty, comatose, but still breathing. Put him to sleep by paralyzing his lungs with the sucks. Kept the bottle in a refrigerator. Don't remember what happened to it."

"The valise?"

He shrugged. "Noticed it missing shortly after Philip died. Didn't think anything of it."

I checked it out. The anesthesiologist confirmed the story, the pet burial place, too. An unexpected bonus, it all happened two years before Corrigan died. Ladies and gentlemen, you don't get your murder weapon and wait two years to do the job.

One name on the state's witness list meant nothing to us. Rebecca Ingram, R.N., Mercy Hospital. I took her deposition with Abe Socolow sitting grimly at her side. Nurse Ingram was in her thirties, no makeup, close-cropped dishwater brown hair. Next to her name on the witness list was the innocuous description: Responded to decedent's cardiac monitor alarm.

"Did you see Dr. Salisbury the night of Mr. Corrigan's death?" I asked.

"Yes. I saw him leaving Room five-twelve, Mr. Corrigan's room, hurrying down the hall."

Okay, the state can place Roger in the hospital that night. No problem. Seeing patients, stopped in to check on Corrigan after surgery.

"And what time did this occur?"

She did not hesitate. "Ten o'clock. Almost exactly. I remember because I was checking Mr. Corrigan every half hour on the half hour."

Still no harm done. The aneurysm occurred at eleven fifteen.

"Is that all?" That's not much of a question, sort of asking the witness what the heck you're doing on the state's witness list.

"He was carrying a little leather valise. Black. With three gold initials on it, about yea-big." She held her hands about one foot apart, and I felt a knife, the same size, lodge in my gut. Nurse Rebecca Ingram shrugged and smiled a tiny, innocent smile. "That's all," she said.

Oh. That's all. I asked Socolow if he would be kind enough to find Exhibit C in his cardboard box.

"Similar to this valise?" I asked the nurse.

"Well, it looks like it. Yes. Either that one or one just like it."

I put my hand over the gold lettering. "What initials were on the valise you saw?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"And of course you couldn't see what was in the valise, correct?"

"No. I mean yes. I mean, correct, I couldn't see what was in there." Questions phrased in the negative always confuse.

"Did you ask Dr. Salisbury what was in the valise?"

"No. I said nothing to him, and as far as I know, he didn't even see me."

"And in your experience, is it unusual for a doctor to carry such a valise?"

"Oh no. Many physicians carry small instruments in them or keep their patient notes there."

"Was there anything unusual about seeing Dr. Salisbury on the floor in the evening?"

"No. He frequently checks on patients after surgery."

"So in summary, you saw Dr. Salisbury on his regular nighttime rounds more than an hour before Philip Corrigan suffered an aneurysm from unknown causes, and the doctor was carrying a rather ordinary valise that may or may not be the one I am holding, and you don't know what, if anything, was in it?"

"Yes, yes, that's right," she said, clearly relieved not to have buried the doctor any deeper.

I paused a moment and tried to get smarter in a hurry. At trial you worry about asking one question too many; in discovery, one too few. I couldn't seem to pump any extra voltage into my brain. Abe Socolow cracked the knuckles of his bony hands and said, "Any more questions, Counselor?"

We were sitting in his tiny office in the Justice Building, files and cardboard boxes everywhere, a flood of paper, the daily bread of lawyers. The three of us plus a court reporter taking everything down on her silent machine. Socolow seemed a little too anxious to end this one. I pretended to study the chart of his convicted and condemned killers. Buying time, I stood up and walked to the small window that overlooked the trestles of the nearby expressway. I looked for a signpost on the foggy road that runs through my mind.

"One more question," I said.

Abe Socolow sighed and shook his head in disgust. That trick might work with kids just out of law school. Pretending exasperation: Why the fuck you wasting everybody's time here?

I smiled at Nurse Rebecca Ingram, who sat quietly with her hands primly folded in her lap. "Did you see anybody else on the floor that night prior to eleven-fifteen?"

"Yes, as I told Mr. Socolow, sometime between ten-thirty and eleven, I can't remember exactly when, I was at the station by the elevators, and Mrs. Corrigan came up with a gentleman."

"Oh," I breathed, trying to keep still, inviting her to continue.

"Well, they must have come up the fire stairs because I didn't see them get off the elevator. But I looked down the hall and there they were."

"Did you speak to them?"

"Yes, I told Mrs. Corrigan they really shouldn't be up there then, but she said they'd just be a minute. Then they went into Mr. Corrigan's room."

"Alone, the two of them?"

"Yes, I returned to my station."

"Did you recognize the gentleman with Mrs. Corrigan?"

"No. He was very… very muscular looking. I could see that even though he was wearing one of those khaki jackets with all the pockets, like he was going on a safari…"

"A bush jacket," I helped out.

"Yes. Heavily muscled men have a distinctive way of 233 walking, kind of rolling side-to-side. And he was not too tall. Short, actually."

"Would you recognize him again?"

"I believe 90. I believe he was Cuban, kind of swarthy, you know. .. but I don't know. He could have been Italian or something." She blushed.

What a splendid break, what a wonderful witness you have handed me, Abe Socolow. A buck would get you ten the muscular, not-too-tall guy was Sergio Machado-Alvarez, the karate instructor, boat captain, and steroid freak who made a cameo appearance on the group-grope videotape and who bruised my ancient Oldsmobile with brutal efficiency. I made a note to have Cindy subpoena Sergio for the trial.

I continued, "How long were they in the room?"

"I don't know. I didn't see them leave. They must have gone back down the stairs."

"You were on the fifth floor, correct?"

"Yes."

"Do many visitors walk up from the lobby?"

Abe Socolow was fidgeting. "Counselor, I must object to that question. It's speculative and irrelevant."

"Save it for trial," I barked. "This is discovery, and it's my deposition, and if you're sorry you listed this honest lady as a witness, tough."

Socolow banged a fist on his green metal desk, sending a Styrofoam coffee cup flying. "Damn it, Jake, you know better than that! I never try to hide anything. Let the chips fall where they may. I'm only interested in the truth, and you can create all the red herrings you want, but I don't care who was in that room, only one person poisoned Corrigan."

I ignored him and turned to Nurse Ingram.

"Just one more question," I promised.

Socolow hissed at me, "You said that fifteen minutes ago."

I proceeded as if Socolow weren't there. "Nurse Ingram, did you check on Philip Corrigan between the time you saw Mrs. Corrigan and the gentleman enter Room five-twelve and the time of the patient's distress due to the aneurysm?"

"No sir."

Whoa. I had expected a yes. Another pleasant surprise. She continued, "I'm sorry, but I missed the eleven o'clock check. I was filling out reports. Next thing I know, at eleven-fifteen, the cardiac monitor is going crazy. He'd had the aneurysm. I called in the Code Blue, and he was taken to surgery. But as you know…"

"So," I began, disregarding my one-question promise, "as far as you know, Mrs. Corrigan and the gentleman could have been in Mr. Corrigan's room from ten-thirty to eleven o'clock or even eleven-fourteen."

"I don't know. I suppose. But I don't know why they would be. Mr. Corrigan was sleeping all evening. He was sedated, of course, after surgery."

"And the last time you saw him was ten-thirty, and he was sleeping peacefully?"

"Yes."

"After Dr. Salisbury left?"

"Yes."

"Then you saw Mrs. Corrigan and the gentleman?"

"Yes."

"And the next time you saw Mr. Corrigan, he had suffered the aneurysm?"

"Yes, I said that."

"No further questions," I said, regretting only that a 235 judge, a jury, and a gallery of spectators were not there. "Your witness, Abe."

If Abe Socolow's skin were any more sallow, he'd be quarantined for hepatitis. He started in without pleasantries.

"Nurse Ingram, as far as you know, Mrs. Corrigan and her guest could have left the room at ten-thirty-one?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"And Roger Salisbury could have come back in at ten-thirty-two?"

I let out a well-planned laugh. "Sure, and maybe Santa Claus came down the chimney at eleven-ten."

Socolow ignored me. "Answer the question," he ordered the nurse.

"Well, I would have seen Dr. Salisbury if he came up the elevator. But he could have come through the stairwell, yes."

"Nothing further," Socolow said.

Abe Socolow had gambled, had rolled the dice. He wanted to place Salisbury in Philip Corrigan's room, black valise in hand. He risked our finding out that the widow and her friend were there, too. He lost. But now, how to use that knowledge. I knew where we wanted to go with it, if not exactly how to get there.

If the state intends to prove a homicide with circumstantial evidence, it had better show that the defendant had the motive, opportunity, and means to commit the crime. With Roger Salisbury the state had all three; his motive was to get Corrigan's money and wife; the opportunity was being alone in the hospital room with Corrigan; and the means were dangerous drugs and the ability to use them.

If you are defending an accused murderer who has the motive, opportunity, and means to commit the crime, you'd better have another suspect to toss to the jury. He can't be a phantom. Shadowy figures, unknown assailants without the motive to kill, get you twenty-five years to life. Or worse. To beat the charge, you need a suspect with a name, face, and social security number.

I had my suspect: Sergio Machado-Alvarez. Now all I needed was some proof.