The Motive (46 page)

“Have you ever used something like this in your work, Inspector?”

“Sure. All the time.”

“In fact, this sort of display is used so commonly that it has a nickname, doesn’t it?”

“We call it a six-pack.”

“Why is that?”

“Because each page holds six pictures in the slots.”

“Not just six pictures, Inspector, but six photos as similar as possible to one another, right?”

“Yes.”

“Sergeant, in your career as a homicide inspector, in roughly what percentage of your cases have you employed the use of a six-pack to assist you in obtaining identifications?”

Cuneo again looked at Rosen, but this time there was no help. “I don’t know exactly,” he said.

“Roughly,” Hardy repeated. “Fifty percent, sixty percent?”

“Maybe that much, yeah.”

“More than that? Eighty percent?”

“Your Honor! The witness says he doesn’t know.”

But Braun shook her head. “Overruled. Give us an estimate, Inspector.”

“All right. Say eight out of ten.”

“So a great majority of the time. And a hundred percent of the time when the ID is in doubt, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Inspector, can you explain to the jury why, in the great majority of cases, you would use six photographs of similar-looking individuals to positively identify a suspect, as opposed to simply showing the eyewitness a picture of that suspect and asking if it’s the same person they saw commit the crime?”

Cuneo hated it and was stalling, trying to frame some kind of response. Hardy jumped him. “It’s to be sure the witness can really make an ID, right? That he can pick out the suspect from similar individuals.”

“That would be one reason.”

“And another would be to protect against the witness feeling pressured by police to agree that the one photograph they’re shown is, in fact, the suspect?”

“That might be one reason.”

“Can you give us another, Inspector?”

Cuneo rolled his shoulders, crossed his legs. “Not off the top of my head.”

“So at least one good reason that the police, and you yourself, commonly use a six-pack is to avoid the witness feeling pressure from police to identify their suspect?”

“I guess so.”

“So an eyewitness who identifies a suspect from a six-pack
would be more reliable than one who was only shown one picture and asked to verify its identification?”

This time Rosen stood. “Objection. Speculation. Calls for conclusion.”

Hardy didn’t wait for a ruling. “Let me ask it this way, Inspector. You’ve had lots of training, including preparation for the examination to become an inspector, that taught you that this is precisely the function of the six-pack, to avoid mistaken identification, right?”

Cuneo hesitated. Hardy pressed on. “That’s a yes or no, Inspector. Haven’t you had literally hours of classes about the identification of suspects, where you learned that the six-pack is one way to avoid mistaken identification?”

Cuneo ducked. “I’ve had hours of training on IDs, yeah. I don’t recall how many involved six-packs specifically.”

Hardy felt the lame answer made his point better than either yes or no, and sailed on. “Inspector Cuneo, at any time in your investigation of Catherine Hanover, did you use a six-pack to assist eyewitnesses in their identifications?”

Cuneo didn’t answer. Braun looked down at him. “Inspector?”

“Should I repeat the question?” Hardy asked, all innocence.

This earned him a glare from the judge, who repeated, “Inspector?”

“No, I did not.”

Cuneo just couldn’t let it go, so he made it worse. “We use this to confirm an ID when the witness doesn’t know the person. When you know somebody, we might use a single photo just to be sure that we’re talking about the same person. I mean, if you say you saw your cousin, we might show you a photo of your cousin just to be sure we got the right guy.” Shoulders twitching, Cuneo tried an evasion. “It’s pretty obvious.”

“I’m sorry, Inspector. What’s obvious? That witnesses can make mistakes, or that you shouldn’t coach them to make an identification?”

Rosen was up in a second, objection sustained. Hardy didn’t even slow down.

“When there is a question, Inspector, you use a six-pack to be sure there is no mistake. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you never, ever tell a witness ahead of time who you think should be ID’d, or even give vague hints of what they look like, correct?”

“Yes.”

Just a hint of sarcasm entered Hardy’s voice—too little to object to, but just enough for the jury to discern. “And you, as a professional, intent on making sure that the wrong person doesn’t get accused, you would always do what you could to make sure an ID was correct, wouldn’t you?”

Cuneo got a bit heated now. “Yes, I would.”

“So your failure to use a six-pack was not designed to bolster your preconception of who was coming out of Mr. Hanover’s house, was it?”

“No! It was not.”

“But the first time you showed a photo, you thought the person coming out was Missy D’Amiens, right? So you showed the witnesses a single photo and got your ID, right? And then, when you decided it must have been Catherine coming out of the house, you went to the same witnesses and used another single photo, and again got the ID you wanted, right?

“It wasn’t a question of what I wanted, it was what the witnesses said.”

Cuneo’s eyes went to Rosen for an instant, but the prosecutor could do nothing to help him. Just this side of surly, he turned to face the jury box. “No, I didn’t use a six-pack for these IDs. These witnesses all said they had seen this woman before.”

“Which woman was that, Inspector? Missy D’Amiens? You remember her? The first woman they ID’d for you? Or Catherine, the second woman whose single photo got you an ID, too? In both cases, you told the witnesses who you thought they had seen, then showed them a single photo, and surprise! You got the ID you wanted, right?” Hardy, on a roll of adrenaline and anger, kept piling it on. “You said that you use a six-pack when the ID is in question, didn’t you, Inspector? Can you think of anything that might put an ID in question
more than a previous ID of someone else’s photo
?”

Another shrug, another glance at Rosen—
Do something!
Rosen tried to help. “Your Honor, objection. Vague.”

“Not vague, but compound and argumentative. Do it a piece at a time, Mr. Hardy, and perhaps a bit less…”

“Sure, Your Honor.” Then, with a slow and thoughtful cadence, he began again. “Inspector, you showed a single photo of Missy D’Amiens and got IDs, right?”

Cuneo couldn’t disagree. “Correct.”

“And after that, Catherine accused you of harassment, right?”

“I don’t know what she said.”

“Inspector, after you got the ID on Missy, and before you got the ID on my client, Deputy Chief Glitsky told you Catherine had complained of harassment, right?”

“Yes, that’s what he told me.”

“And with this information in mind, you took a single photo of Catherine, went back to those same witnesses, and said words to the effect of ‘You made a mistake last time. Here’s the woman you really saw.’ Correct?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“The bottom line, Inspector, is that knowing these witnesses had already identified somebody else, you took a single photo of my client, showed it to them, and asked if this was the person they saw, not the other person they had ID’d, right?”

Cuneo had nowhere to go. “Yes.”

“Tell me, Inspector, in all your hours of training, has anyone even hinted to you that this was a proper way to make an ID?”

“Not that I recall.”

Hardy bowed from the waist. “Thank you.”

But even after all this, there was one more nail to be driven into the inspector’s coffin. He pressed ahead. “Sergeant Cuneo, during your visit to Catherine Hanover’s house for your first interview, did you touch her?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did you shake hands?”

“I may have done that. I don’t remember.”

“But to the best of your recollection, you did not touch her otherwise?”

“No.”

“In passing perhaps?”

“Your Honor. Asked and answered.”

“Cross-examination, Mr. Rosen. I’ll allow it.”

Cuneo: “No.”

“Aside from the handshake, did any part of your hand come into contact with any part of Catherine Hanover’s body at any time?”

“Objection.”

“Overruled.”

Cuneo: “No.”

“Were you standing close enough to Catherine Hanover to touch her during any part of your discussion?”

“Objection.”

This time Braun, obviously irritated by the needless inter-ruptions, paused briefly. Hardy hoped the jury caught the signal. “Overruled. Sergeant, you may answer the question.”

Cuneo obviously didn’t want to, but he couldn’t refuse, although first he looked at Rosen for a cue. By now he had the whole imaginary drum kit going, his eyes slits at Hardy. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? You were or you weren’t close enough, Sergeant. Which is it?”

“Yes, then, I was.”

“Standing close enough to touch her?”

“Yes.”

“But in fact you touched neither her arm nor her shoulder?”

Rosen, from his table. “Your Honor!”

But Cuneo, thoroughly worn down, replied before the judge could rule. “I don’t know.” Behind him, the gallery, which had obviously been closely following the testimony, made itself heard even through the security screen, as Cuneo mumbled. “Maybe I touched her once or twice by mistake.”

Hardy stood stock still, then delivered the coup de grǎce. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, I missed that. Could I have it read back?”

Jan Saunders read Cuneo’s words again, playing it straight. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I touched her once or twice by mistake.”

Glitsky and Treya kept getting what they were told was good news, but it didn’t seem to give them much relief. The great news was that the echocardiogram ruled out aortic stenosis. Today’s X-rays on Zachary’s heart also showed no abnormality or sudden growth in size. The EKG—wires and leads stuck all over the infant’s body while he lay exposed and cold on the gurney sheet—also indicated that the heartbeat was regular. Through it all, the baby didn’t cry, but endured it with a stoicism that would have done his father proud.

All the tests took the better part of an hour. In his office when they were done, Dr. Trueblood walked a careful line between optimism and realism. “I have to tell you that Zachary’s condition as of today is the best that we could possibly have hoped for just a couple of days ago. Of all the children that I see in here, he’s in the top one percent. And this is really terrific, terrific news.”

These wonderful tidings were delivered, however, in a funereal tone. The old hunched man sat behind his desk with his shirt undone, his tie askew and his mottled hands linked in front of him. The light in the office itself was muted, the shades drawn against the dreary wetness outside, while the pitter of the constant rain provided the only soundtrack. “All that said, I feel I need to caution you that, though this is far better than aortic stenosis, it’s still something to take very seriously. Sometimes a VSD can change quickly, especially in the early months. We’ll want to keep a very close eye on Zachary.”

“What does that mean?” Treya asked.

“Well, first I mean just watch him. If he shows any marked or dramatic change in color, breathing, feeding or energy level, you can call me at any time, day or night. You’ve got all my numbers, right? But then beyond that, it would be a good idea to bring him in here every week for the next four to six weeks for the same kind of tests….”

Treya interrupted. “Every week?”

“Yes. For the next month or month and a half. Then, if there’s no change, we’ll go to once a month and see how that works out.”

“What then?” Holding his wife’s hand, Glitsky didn’t want to betray his own fear. Treya needed him to be calm and even
optimistic, and his voice reflected that. He wasn’t relaxed, but they were moving into a routine, one they’d grown used to. He just wanted to know where they were now.

“Then,” Trueblood said, “say, when he’s a year old, we’ll go to once every six months, and then once a year.”

“For how long?” The Glitskys asked it simultaneously.

“Well, assuming the hole doesn’t close up by itself—and it may do that because it’s so small—but assuming that it doesn’t, once a year certainly until he’s a young adult. Maybe longer.”

“Forever,” Glitsky said.

Trueblood nodded. “Possibly, yes. But remember, they’ve found these VSDs in autopsies of ninety-year-olds.”

“So you’re saying Zachary could have a normal life?” Treya asked, barely daring to hope.

“He could. You’ll have to be aware of his situation, of course. He’ll have to be premedicated for any dental work or surgery, but other than that it’s possible that it may never affect him at all. Maybe he’ll be able to run, play sports, do anything. Maybe he’ll need heart work in the short term, or in five years. We just don’t know yet at this stage.” Reading the agony in their faces, Trueblood broke out of his professional voice. “I realize that it’s difficult not knowing,” he said, “but please try to remember that it’s better than almost any alternative we had just a day ago. It’s entirely possible that Zachary’s going to grow up to be a fine, normal, healthy child.”