Cruel & Unusual

  "We're not going to find a parking place," I said, turning left on 9th. "I knew this would happen.”

  "Slow down. That good woman right there on the side is doing something. Wonderful. She's leaving, if she can ever get the wheels turned enough.

  A horn blared behind me.

  I glanced at my watch then turned to Grueman like an athlete awaiting last-minute instruction from the coach. He wore a long navy blue cashmere coat and black leather gloves, his silver-topped cane leaning against seat and a battle-scarred briefcase in his lap.

  "Now remember," he said. "Your fried Mr. Patterson decides who's going in and who isn't, so we've got to depend on the jurors to intervene, and that's going to be up to you. You've got to connect with them, Kay. You've got to make friends with ten or eleven strangers the instant you walk into that room. No matter what they want to chat with you about, don't put up a wall. Be accessible.”

  “I understand," I said.

  "We're going for broke. A deal?”

  "A deal.”

  "Good luck, Doctor.”

  He smiled and patted my arm.

  Inside the courthouse, we were stopped by a deputy with a scanner. He went through my pocketbook and briefcase as he had a hundred times before when I had come to testify as an expert witness. But this time he said nothing to me and avoided my eyes. Grueman's cane set off the scanner, and he was the paragon of patience and courtesy as he explained that the silver top and tip would not come off, and that there truly was nothing concealed inside the dark wood shaft.

  "What does he think I have here, a blowgun?” he remarked as we boarded the elevator.

  The instant the doors opened on the third floor, reporters descended with the predicted predatory vigor. My counselor moved quickly for a man with gout, his strides punctuated by taps of his cane. I felt surprisingly detached and out of focus until we were inside the nearly deserted courtroom, where Benton Wesley sat in a corner with a slight young man I knew was Charlie Hale. The right side of his face was a road map of fine pink scars. When he stood and self-consciously slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, I saw that he was missing several fingers. Dressed in an ill-fitting somber suit and tie, he glanced around while I preoccupied myself with the mechanics of being seated and sorting through my briefcase. I could not speak to him, and the three men had the presence of mind to pretend they did not notice that I was upset.

  "Let's talk for a minute about what they have," Grueman said. "I believe we can count on Jason Story testifying, and Officer Lucero. And, of course, Marino. I don't know who else Patterson will include in this Star Chamber proceeding of his.”

  "For the record," Wesley said, looking at me, "I have spoken to Patterson. I've told him he doesn't have a case and I'll testify to that at the trial"

  “We're assuming there will be no trial," Grueman said. "And when you go in, I want you to make sure the jurors know that you talked to Patterson and told him he has no case but he insisted on going forward. Whenever he asks a question and you respond by addressing an issue that you have already addressed with him in private, I want you to say so. "As I told you in your office or 'As I clearly stated when we spoke whenever it was; et cetera, et cetera.”

  "It is implant that the jurors know that you are not only an FBI special agent, but that you are the chief of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, the purpose of which is to analyze violent crime and develop psychological profiles of the perpetrators. You may wish to state that Dr. Scarpetta in no way, shape, or form fits the profile of the perpetrator of the crime in question; and in fact, that you find the thought absurd. It is also important that you impress upon the jurors that you were Mark James's mentor and closest friend. Volunteer whatever you can because you can rest assured that Patterson isn't going to ask. Make it dear to the jurors that Charlie Hale is them.”

  "What if they do not request me?” Charlie Hale asked.

  "Then our hands are tied," Grueman replied. "As I explained when we talked in London, this is the prosecutor's show. Dr. Scarpetta has no right to present any evidence so we have to get at least one of the jurors to invite us in through the back door.”

  “That's quite something," Hale said.

  "You have the copies of the deposit slip and the fees you have paid?”

  “Yes, sir.

  'Very good. Don't wait to be asked. Just put them on the table as you're talking. And the status of your wife is the same, since we spoke?”

  "Yes, sir. As I told you, she's had the in vitro ferrtilizaliion. So far, so good.”

  “Remember to get that in if you can," Grueman said.

  Several minutes later, I was summoned to the jury room.

  "Of course. He wants you first.”

  Grueman got up with me. "Then he'll call in your detractors so he can leave a bad taste in the jurors' mouths.”

  He went as far as the door. "I will be right here when you need me.”

  Nodding, I went inside and took the empty chair at the head of the table. Patterson was out of the room, and I knew this was one of his gambits. He wanted me to endure the silent scrutiny of these ten strangers who held my welfare in their hands. I met the gazes of all and even exchanged smiles with a few. A serious young woman wearing bright red lipstick decided not to wait for the Commonwealth's Attorney.

  "What made you decide to deal with dead people instead of the living?” she asked. "It seems a strange thing for a doctor to choose.”

  "It is my intense concern for the living that makes me study the dead," I said. "What we learn from the dead is for the benefit of the living, and justice is for those left behind.”

  "Don't it get to you?” inquired an old man with big, rough hands. The expression on his fare was so sincere that he seemed in pain.

  "Of course it does.”

  "How many years did you have to go to school after you graduated from high school?” asked a heavyset black woman.

  "Seventeen years, if you include residencies and the year I was a fellow.”

  “Lord have mercy.”

  "Where all did you go?”

  "To school, you mean?” I said to the thin young man wearing glasses. .

  "Yes, ma'am.”

  "Saint Michael's, Our Lady of Lourdes Academy, Cornell, Johns Hopkins, Georgetown.”

  "Was your daddy a doctor?”

  "My father owned a small grocery store in Miami.”

  "Well, I'd hate to be the one paying for all that school.” Several of the jurors laughed softly.

  "I was fortunate enough to receive scholarships," I said. "Beginning with high school.”

  "I have an uncle who works at the Twilight Funeral one in Norfolk," said someone else.

  "Oh, come on, Barry. There really isn't a funeral home called that.”

  "I kid you not.’

  “That’s nothing. We got one in Fayetteville owned by the Stiff family. Guess what its called.”

  "No way.”

  "You're not from around here.”

  “I'm a native of Miami," I replied.

  "Then the name Scarpetta's Spanish?”

  “It's Italian.”

  "That's interesting. I thought all Italians was dark.”

  "My ancestors are from Verona in northern Italy, where a sizable segment of the population shares blood with the Savoyards, Austrians, and Swiss," I patiently explained. "Many of us are blue-eyed and blond.”

  "Boy, I bet you can cook.”

  "It's one of my favorite pastimes.”

  "Dr. Scarpetta, I'm not real clear on your position," said a well-dressed man who looked about my age. "Are you the chief medical examiner for Richmond?”

  "For the Commonwealth. We have four district offices. Central Office here in Richmond, Tidewater in Norfolk, Western in Roanoke, and the Northern Office in Alexandria.”

  "So the chief just happens to be located here in Richmond?”

  "Yes. That seems to make the most sense, since the medical examiner system is part of state government and Rich
mond is where the legislature meets," I replied as the door opened and Roy Patterson walked in. He was a broad shouldered, good-looking black man with close-shorn hair that was going gray. His dark blue suit was double-breasted, and his initials were embroidered on the cuffs of his pale yellow shirt. He was known for his ties, and this one looked hand painted, He greeted the jurors and was tepid toward me.

  I discovered that the woman wearing the bright red lipstick was the foreman. She cleared her throat and informed me that I did not have to testify, and that anything I said could be used against me.

  "I understand," I said, and I was sworn in.

  Patterson hovered about my chair and offered the minimum of information about who I was, and elaborated on the power of my position and the ease with which this power could be abused.

  "And who would there be to witness it?” he asked. "On many occasions there was no one to observe Dr. Scarpetta at work except for the person who was by her side virtually every day. Susan Story. You can't hear testimony from her because she and her unborn child are dead, ladies and gentlemen. But there are others you will hear from today. And they will paint for you a chilling portrait of a cold, ambitious woman, an empire builder who was making grievous mistakes on the job. First, she paid for Susan Story's silence. Then she killed for it.”

  "And when you hear tales of the perfect crime, who better able to carry it off than someone who is an expert in solving crimes? An expert would know that if you plan to shoot someone inside a vehicle, it would behoove you to choose a low-caliber weapon so you don't run the risk of bullets ricocheting. An expert would leave no telling evidence at the scene, not even spent shells. An expert would not use her own revolver - the gun or guns that friends and colleagues know she possesses. She would use something that could not be traced back to "Why, she might even borrow a revolver from the lab, because, ladies and gentlemen, every year the courts routinely confiscate hundreds of firearms used in the commission of crimes, and some of these weapons are donated to the state firearms lab. For all we know, the twenty-two revolver that was put against the back of Susan Story's skull is, as we speak, hanging on a pegboard in the firearms lab or downstairs in the range the examiners use for test fires and where Dr. Scarpetta routinely practices shooting. And by the way, she is good enough to qualify for any police department in America. And she has killed before, though to give her credit, in the instance I'm referring to her actions were ruled to be self-defense.”

  I stared down at my hands folded on top of the table as the court reporter played her silent keys and Patterson went on. His rhetoric was always eloquent, though he usually did not know when to quit. When he asked me to explain the. fingerprints recovered from the envelope found in Susan's dresser, he made such a big production of pointing out how unbelievable my explanation was that I suspected the reaction of some was to wonder why what I'd said couldn't be true, Then he got to the money.

  "Is it not true, Dr. Scarpetta, that on November twelfth you appeared at the downtown branch of Signet Bank and made out a check for cash for the sum of ten thousand dollars?”

  "That is true.”

  Patterson hesitated for an instant, his surprise visible. He had counted on my taking the Fifth.

  "And is it true that on this occasion you did not deposit the money in any of your various accounts?”

  "That is also true," I said.

  "So several weeks before your morgue supervisor inexplicably deposited thirty-five hundred dollars into her checking account, you walked out of Signet Bank with ten thousand dollars cash on your person?”

  “No, sir, I did not. In my financial records you should have found a copy of a cashier's check made out to the sum of seven thousand, three hundred and eighteen pounds sterling. I have my copy here.”

  I got it out of my briefcase.

  Patterson barely glanced at it as he asked the court reporter to tag it as evidence. "Now, this is very interesting," he said. "You purchased a cashiers check made out to someone named Charles Hale. Was this some creative scheme of yours to disguise payoffs you were making to your morgue visor and perhaps to others? Did this individual termed Charles Hale turn around and convert pounds flack into dollars and route the cash elsewhere - perhaps to Susan Story?”

  “No," I said. "And I never delivered the check to Charles Hale.”

  “You didn't?”

  He looked confused “What did you do with it?”

  'I gave it to Benton Wesley, and he saw to it that the a was delivered to Charles Hale. Benton Wesley -"

  He cut me off. “The story just gets more preposterous who is Charles Hale?”

  "I would like to finish my previous statement," I said.

  "Who is Charles Hale?”

  "I'd like to hear what she was trying to say," said a man in a plaid blazer.

  "Please," Patterson said with a cold smile.

  "I gave the cashier's check to Benton Wesley. He is a special agent for the FBI, a suspect profiler at the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico." A woman timidly raised her hand. "Is he the one I've read about in the papers? The one they call in when there are these awful murders like, the ones in Gainesville?”

  "He is the one," I said. "He is a colleague of mine. He was also the best friend of a friend of mine, Mark James, who also was a special agent for the FBI.”

  "Dr. Scarpetta, let's get the record straight here," Patterson said impatiently. "Mark James was more than a quote, friend of yours.”

  "Are you asking me a question Mr. Patterson?”

  "Aside from the obvious conflict of interest involved in the chief medical examiner's sleeping with an FBI agent, the subject is non-germane. So I won't ask-.“

  I interrupted him. "My relationship with Mark James began in law school. There was no conflict of interest, and for the record, I object to the Commonwealth's Attorney's reference to whom I allegedly was sleeping with.”

  The court reporter typed on.

  My hands were clasped so tightly my knuckles were white.

  Patterson asked again, "Who is Charles Hale and why would you give him the equivalent of ten thousand dollars?”

  Pink scars flashed in my mind, and I envisioned two tigers attached to a stump shiny with scar tissue.

  "He was a ticket agent at Victoria Station in London," I said.

  "Was?”

  "He was on Monday, February eighteenth, when the bomb went off.”

  No one told me. I heard reporters on the news all day and had no idea until my phone rang on February 19 at two-fourty-one A.M. It was six-forty-one in the morning in London, and Mark had been dead for almost a day. I was so stunned as Benton Wesley tried to explain, that none of it made any sense.

  “That was yesterday, I read about that yesterday. You mean it happened again?”

  "The bombing happened yesterday morning during rush hour. But I just found out about Mark. Our legal in London just notified me.”

  "You're sure? You're absolutely sure?”

  “Jesus, I'm sorry, Kay.”

  “They've identified him with certainty?”

  “With certainty.’

  "You're sure. I mean . . “

  "Kay. I'm at home. I can be there in an hour.”

  "No, no.”

  “I was shivering all over but could not cry. I wandered through my house, moaning quietly and wringing my hands.

  "But you did not know this Charles Hale prior to his being injured in the bombing, Dr. Scarpetta. Why would you give him ten thousand dollars?”

  Patterson dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

  "He and his wife have wanted children and could not have them.”

  "And how would you know such an intimate detail about strangers?”

  “Benton Wesley told me, and I responded by suggesting Bourne Hall, the leading research facility for in vitro fertilization. IVF is not covered by national health insurance.”

  "Bur you said the bombing was way back in February. You just wrote the check in November.”

&
nbsp; "I did not know about the Hales' problem until this past fall, when the FBI had a photo spread for Mr. Hale to look at and somehow learned of his difficulties. I'd told Benton long ago to let me know if there was ever anything I could do for Mr. Hale.’

  "Then you took it upon yourself to finance in vitro fertilization for strangers?” Patter asked as if I'd just told him that I believed in leprechauns.