“And was he sweaty?” the defense lawyer asked.
“Sweaty… yeah. We all were. From being down in the garage, I guess. It was a real hot night.”
“Nose running?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were Detective Cross’s clothes ripped, Mr. Lopes?”
“Yes, they were. Ripped and dirty.”
Jules Halpern looked at the jury first, then at his witness. “Were Detective Cross’s clothes bloodstained?”
“Yes… they sure were. That’s what I noticed first, the blood.”
“Was the blood anywhere else, Mr. Lopes?”
“On his hands. You couldn’t miss it. I sure didn’t.”
“And Mr. Shafer, how did Mr. Shafer look?”
“He was clean, not mussed at all. He seemed pretty calm and collected.”
“Did you see any blood on Mr. Shafer?”
“No, sir. No blood.”
Halpern nodded, then faced the jury. “Mr. Lopes, which of the two men looked more like someone who might have just committed a murder?”
“Detective Cross,” the doorman said without hesitation.
“Objection!” the district attorney screamed, but not before the damage was done.
Chapter 84
THAT AFTERNOON, the defense was scheduled to call Chief of Detectives George Pittman. The assistant district attorney, Catherine Fitzgibbon, knew that Pittman was on the docket, and she asked me to meet her for lunch. “If you have an appetite before Pittman goes on,” she added.
Catherine was smart, and she was thorough. She had put away nearly as many bad guys as Jules Halpern had set free. We got together over sandwiches at a crowded deli near the courthouse. Neither of us was thrilled about Pittman’s upcoming appearance. My reputation as a detective was being ruined by the defense, and it was a hard thing to watch and do nothing.
She bit down into a hefty Reuben
sandwich that squirted mustard onto her forefinger and thumb. Catherine smiled. “Sloppy, but worth it. You and Pittman are really at odds, right? More like you hate each other’s guts?”
“It’s serious dislike, and it’s mutual,” I told her. “He’s tried to do me in a couple of times. He thinks I’m a threat to his career.”
Catherine was attacking her sandwich. “Hmmm, there’s a thought. Would you be a better chief of detectives?”
“Wouldn’t run, wouldn’t serve if elected. I wouldn’t be good cooped up in an office playing political Ping-Pong.”
Catherine laughed. She’s one of those people who can find humor almost anywhere. “This is just fricking great, Alex. The defense is calling the chief of detectives as one of its goddamn witnesses. He’s listed as hostile, but I don’t think he is.”
Catherine and I finished off the rest of her sandwich. “Well, let’s find out what Mr. Halpern has up his sleeve today,” she said.
At the start of the afternoon session, Jules Halpern did a careful and thorough setup of Pittman’s credentials, which sounded reasonably impressive in the abstract. Undergrad at George Washington, then law school at American; twenty-four years on the police force, with medals for bravery and citations from three different mayors.
“Chief Pittman, how would you describe Detective Cross’s record in the department?” asked Halpern.
I cringed in my seat. Felt my brow wrinkle, my eyes narrow. Here we go, I thought.