Absolute Certainty Read online

  SCRIBNER

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2002 by Rose Connors

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Connors, Rose

  Absolute certainty / Rose Connors

  p. cm.

  1. Cape Cod (Mass.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.O65 A64 2002

  813'.6—dc21 2002022915

  ISBN 0-7432-3366-2

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For Alice and Tom

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Precious details in this book were provided by generous friends. To all of them—Garland Alcock, M.D., Bob and Rosemarie Denn, Ron Eppler, and Captain Eddie Reid—heartfelt thanks.

  Sincere thanks also to Amy Andreasson, reference librarian extra-ordinaire, and the amazing staff at the Eldredge.

  To Nancy Yost and Susanne Kirk—wow—thank you.

  Finally, thanks to my husband, David, for pointing me in the right direction; to my sons, Dave and Sam, for thriving on takeout; and to my sister, Peggy, whose words were an inspiration.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Many of the fictitious characters who inhabit the pages of this novel bear well-known Cape Cod surnames. This was done solely to add an air of authenticity to the story. No character in these pages is based on any real person, living or dead.

  The jury instruction delivered in chapter six, from which this book takes its title, is based on the actual instruction from Allen versus United States, 164 U.S. 492, 17 S. Ct. 154 (1896), and is still in use today.

  ABSOLUTE CERTAINTY

  Three promises. When we selected the jury for Commonwealth versus Rodriguez, I asked each prospective juror to make three solemn promises.

  First, promise to look slowly and carefully at every exhibit. The blood-soaked windbreaker, tee shirt, and baseball cap. The eight-by-ten close-ups of the fractured skull, sliced throat, and lacerated torso.

  Second, promise to listen intently to all of the testimony. The police officer’s graphic description of the young man’s body at the water’s edge. The Medical Examiner’s tedious detail about the impact of each knife wound.

  And finally, promise to rely on your own gut when you make your decision. Your practical judgment. Your common sense.

  We impaneled seven men and five women. All of them promised. And I believe they kept their promises. It was the criminal justice system that failed.

  CHAPTER 1

  Wednesday, May 26

  “You nailed him, Martha.”

  I know it’s Geraldine Schilling without looking up. She’s the only one in the office—or anywhere else for that matter—who calls me Martha. Geraldine is the First Assistant District Attorney for Barn-stable County, a county that includes all the towns on Cape Cod. She intends to be Barnstable County’s next District Attorney, a position no woman has ever held.

  “You nailed him. Now let’s go in there and finish it.”

  “I’m ready, Geraldine.”

  I snap my briefcase shut and gesture for Geraldine to take the only empty seat in my cramped office. “But Judge Carroll released the jurors for lunch. He’ll call for closing arguments when they get back.”

  Geraldine doesn’t sit down. She never does. She leans against my old wooden file cabinet instead, pressing a spiked heel against the bottom drawer. She draws hard on her cigarette and rolls her pale green eyes to the ceiling. “Lunch? Who the hell eats lunch?”

  There is a widely held belief in our office that Geraldine doesn’t eat—ever. All of us have seen her attend professional luncheons and political dinners, but no one has seen her swallow a morsel of food. Caffeine and nicotine seem to keep her going. She weighs 110 pounds wearing her neatly tailored suit.

  Kevin Kydd appears in my doorway, grinning as usual. “I do. I eat lunch. Where are we going, ladies?”

  He always makes me laugh. But Geraldine doesn’t crack a smile. She shakes her long blond bangs and blows a steady stream of smoke toward the doorway. “Lunch with you, Kydd? I’d sooner starve.”

  His grin expands. “Ah, Gerry, you’re a peach.”

  Kevin Kydd arrived in our office one year ago, a young Southern gentleman fresh out of Emory Law School in Atlanta, Georgia. He is tall and lanky, with slightly stooped shoulders and a grin that doesn’t quit. Geraldine christened him “the Kydd” immediately upon his arrival and the rest of us adopted it. He, in turn, calls her “Gerry,” always with the grin. We marvel that he still has a job.

  The Kydd ambles in and settles in the chair Geraldine rejected. “How about you, Marty? My treat.”

  “Thanks, Kydd, but I’ll have to pass. I’m expecting Judge Carroll’s clerk to call any time now. We’re closing Rodriguez this afternoon.”

  “Mind if I watch?”

  The Kydd’s question is intended more for Geraldine than for me, but I answer him quickly. “Not a bit.”

  I remember my early days in this office, handling the traffic offenses and bounced checks that the Kydd is stuck with now, waiting for an opportunity to prosecute a “real” crime. Whenever I could, I watched closing arguments in the more serious cases. I watched Geraldine in action in a number of trials. She doesn’t try cases anymore, but she was excellent in her day.

  The old black phone on my desk doesn’t finish its first ring before I grab it. “Marty Nickerson.”

  It’s Wanda Morgan, Judge Carroll’s courtroom clerk. The jury is back; the judge is calling for summations.

  I head for the door. The Kydd reaches it before I do, but he pauses to look back at Geraldine, to verify that he has her permission. She blows a smoke ring at him.

  “Go ahead,” she says. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  CHAPTER 2

  In the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, the prosecuting attorney always argues last, just before the judge gives instructions on the law. Having the last word can be a big advantage. I begin speaking to the jurors—quietly—as I walk to the evidence table set up in front of the judge’s bench.

  “Judge Carroll will instruct you that you should convict this defendant of first-degree murder if you find that he murdered Michael Scott with extreme atrocity or cruelty.”

  “This defendant” is Manuel Rodriguez, a twenty-six-year-old punk with a rap sheet as long as he is. Throughout this trial, I refused to say his name in front of the jury. I refused to say anything that might suggest he is human. I want them to see him as an animal, an animal unfit to live among the civilized, an animal they should lock away for the rest of its miserable days.

  I select two color photographs from the evidence table and pause to stare at Rodriguez. He glares back at me. This is good. I turn my back to him and walk toward the jury box, photos in hand. Some members of the panel avert their eyes; one turns her entire face away. But most, I am pleased to see, look from the bloody scenes to Rodriguez. I hope he is glaring back at them.

  “This, people, is extreme atrocity. This is cruelty.”

  I mean every word of it. I have been an Assistant District Attorney in Barnstable County for more than a decade, handling rapes and homicides for more than half of those years. Stranger homicides like this don’t happen here. Crime scenes as gri
sly as this don’t belong here. Killers so utterly void of remorse don’t live here.

  “Two different witnesses told you they saw this defendant near the Chatham Light just after two in the morning last Memorial Day. Dr. Skinner told you that Michael Scott drew his last breath between two and four o’clock that morning. His lifeless body was found on Lighthouse Beach at daybreak.”

  Dr. Jeffrey Skinner is a Harvard-educated pathologist who has been Barnstable County’s Medical Examiner for almost twenty years. Even he was visibly shaken by the condition of this corpse.

  I shift my gaze to the courtroom’s front row, where the Scott family sits silently. At my direction, they’ve sat in that spot all week— Mom, Dad, and two younger brothers. I want the panel to follow my eyes, to look at that diminished family. I want every juror on this panel to remember that the bloody corpse in these gruesome photographs was a son, a big brother, a twenty-year-old college kid with his whole life ahead of him.

  I walk back to the evidence table and hold up a third photograph, this one a close-up of the back of Michael’s head. His dark matted hair is barely visible through the dried blood.

  “Dr. Skinner told you that Michael was hit from behind with an object so heavy it fractured his skull. The contour of the fracture led the doctor to believe the attacker was left-handed.”

  I turn and point at Rodriguez.

  “This defendant is left-handed.”

  I trade the photograph in for another and carry it to the jury box. It is a view of the bluff in front of Chatham Light.

  “Detective Walter Bucknell told you that Michael was dragged through the beach plums, unconscious, down this hill to the sand below. The weight of his body left a trail that was still visible at daybreak. And there were boot prints in the wet sand at the bottom of that trail. Detective Bucknell measured those prints. He stretched his tape measure out beside them and took a picture. Here it is. The tread matches a pair of Viking fish boots, size ten.”

  Again I point at Rodriguez. “This defendant was arrested at noon that day. He was wearing a pair of Viking fish boots, size ten.”

  I hold the next photo close to my jacket. “I know how hard this is. But you made a solemn promise to look carefully at all of the evidence. And it is my duty to review it with you.”

  I turn the picture toward them; almost all of them look away. Their discomfort is palpable. The photo is a close-up of Michael Scott’s neck, his throat slit.

  “Dr. Skinner told you that Michael had regained consciousness, and was struggling, when the killer slit his throat. In this photograph, you can see the dreadful details.”

  Minutes pass and still I hold the photo in front of them. I won’t put it down until each juror has examined the slice through Michael Scott’s throat. This is important. The defense attorney hammered on the only weakness in my case, and I need to respond.

  “The defense made much of the fact that the murder weapon was never found. But remember, people, we know a lot about that weapon. We know that Michael Scott was murdered with a blade fine enough and sharp enough to cut like a scalpel. We know that blade was made of high carbon steel, just like the blade of the Dexter Rip per, a knife used on all of our local commercial fishing boats. We also know that this defendant, when he works at all, works as a deckhand on a local lobster boat. We know he had easy access to those knives.”

  I had wanted to introduce a Dexter Ripper into evidence, but Judge Carroll wouldn’t hear of it. The defense attorney had barely gotten to his feet when the judge sustained his objection. On reflection, I believe the judge’s ruling was right. And I want him to be right. My gut tells me this jury will convict, and I don’t want the conviction reversed on appeal.

  I hold up an evidence bag, one of thirty-nine bearing “Common-wealth Exhibit” tags.

  “Detective Bucknell told you this flannel shirt was found rolled in a ball in the trunk of this defendant’s car. There is blood on the left cuff and the right upper sleeve. Dr. Skinner told you the blood on this shirt is Type AB, same as Michael Scott’s. This defendant, the doctor told you, is O positive.”

  On appeal, the defense will challenge the introduction of Rodriguez’s blood type into evidence. The defense bar routinely argues that the use of physical evidence taken from a defendant, such as fingerprints, handwriting, and blood samples, violates the defendant’s constitutional privilege against self-incrimination. I am not overly concerned about this issue. The high court has held more than once that the privilege protects only against compulsion of testimony, not against production of real, or physical, evidence.

  I turn the evidence bag so they can all see the dark red stains on the plaid shirt.

  “DNA testing confirms that this blood—on the defendant’s shirt—is Michael Scott’s. No one else’s.” A few of the jurors are nodding. They’re with me.

  The last photos I intend to use during this argument are two closeups of Michael’s torso. In one, the torso is covered with blood. In the other, taken during the autopsy after the body had been cleaned, the knife wounds are clear.

  “It’s no wonder there are bloodstains on the shirt, people. As Michael Scott lay on the beach, his throat slit, literally drowning in his own fluids, this defendant sliced him again. He cut Michael open from the middle of his collarbone to his navel, then again from his right hip to his left, and yet again from his right shoulder to his left.”

  When I first saw the body in the morgue, after it had been cleaned, I was struck by how closely the torso wounds, when viewed from directly above, looked like a capital I, or maybe a Roman numeral I. The image isn’t as clear from these photos, though, and it’s not a point I raised with the jury. I look at the photographs myself, then hold them up for the panel.

  “Remember Dr. Skinner’s testimony, people. Michael Scott didn’t have time to drown. He bled to death first.”

  Mrs. Scott’s sobs fill the courtroom. I am truly sorry for her pain—after all, I’m a mother too—but I am also acutely aware that her timing is perfect. Her breakdown has a visible impact on the jurors. I’m not surprised when the defense requests a break in the proceedings.

  Judge Carroll announces a fifteen-minute recess, during which it is understood that I will gently advise Sally Scott she must either compose herself or leave the courtroom. I know how badly she wants to stay to the end. It’s all she can do for her firstborn son now.

  CHAPTER 3

  Charlie Cahoon has been a bailiff in the Barnstable County Superior Court for thirty-five years. He has seen more trials than most lawyers. He has earned the complete confidence of the judges who preside here. And he is one of my favorite people.

  I went all through the Chatham school system with Charlie’s son, Jake. During my second year of law school I came back to Cape Cod just once, for Jake’s wedding. Jake married his high school sweetheart, one of my best childhood friends, and a year later Jake Junior was born. Jake Junior had just celebrated his first birthday when his parents were killed in a car accident on the Mid-Cape Highway.

  Charlie was already a widower when his only son and daughter-in-law died, and he has raised his grandson all by himself. Jake Junior is eighteen now, a popular high school senior and a star basketball player. He has a heart of gold, just like his grandfather. My son, Luke, a high school junior, idolizes him.

  Charlie is in charge of the jurors. He leads them in and out of the courtroom each day. He arranges their lunches. And in a case like this one, where the jurors will be sequestered once they begin deliberations, Charlie will arrange their dinners and hotel accommodations as well.

  When Charlie leads the jurors into the courtroom after the break, most of them send sympathetic glances to the now composed Sally Scott. Not one of them looks at Rodriguez. This bodes poorly for him. Human beings don’t like to make eye contact with a man they think butchered a fellow human being.

  I stand in front of the jury box and hold up another evidence bag. “This is Michael Scott’s watch. Michael’s dad told you that he and h
is wife gave it to Michael when he graduated from high school. They had his initials—MVS—engraved on the wristband.”

  I have planned this moment carefully. I turn my back to the jurors, walk to the opposite side of the courtroom, and stand still in front of the defense table. I stare at Rodriguez in silence for a minute before I face the jury again. I point squarely at him. My finger is barely a foot from his face.

  “This defendant had Michael Scott’s watch. It was crammed into the front left pocket of his jeans. Detective Bucknell told you that, people. Remember his testimony. He told you this defendant had Michael’s watch and he told you this defendant had Michael’s tips— seventy-two dollars and fifty cents.”

  I retrieve another evidence bag, this one stuffed with bills—mostly singles—and a fistful of change. Michael Scott had only recently arrived on Cape Cod to work for the summer. He’d planned to return to Boston University for his junior year at the end of the season. He found work waiting tables at the Chatham Pearl, an upscale pub serving a wealthy clientele during the summer months. The season had barely begun when Michael Scott was murdered. His body was found during the early morning hours on Memorial Day, almost a year ago.

  “Of course we can’t prove beyond all doubt that these dollars and coins are Michael’s tips. After all, no one marked his money. But remember, people, each of you made a solemn promise to call on your common sense—your gut—when you looked at this evidence. Now it’s time to keep that promise.”

  I move so close to Rodriguez I can hear him breathing and, for the first time since I left my chair, I raise my voice.

  “Listen to your gut when you look at these facts, people. Michael left the Pearl shortly after his shift ended at two A.M. When his body was found just hours later, his pockets were empty and his watch was gone. When this defendant was picked up at noon, his pockets were full and Michael’s watch was still ticking. Common sense, people. This defendant murdered Michael Scott and went home with seventy-two dollars, fifty cents, and a wristwatch.”