Page 110 of Two Kinds of Stranger

‘What time did the detective arrive at the apartment?’

‘Around ten thirty.’

‘Thank you, no more questions.’

I stood up and let Officer Djawadi off the hook. He’d done his job. I could spend a half hour or so picking through his testimony, hitting him with a few jabs and even a body shot or two, but there was no point. This wouldn’t win us the case.

No point in wasting energy with this guy.

I was waiting for the right witness.

This case would be won or lost depending on the answer to a single question.

One question.

Wait.

Be patient.

‘No questions, Your Honor,’ I said, then sat down.

Bernice stood, said, ‘The People call James Parker Senior. . .’

‘Your Honor,’ I interrupted, ‘Mr. Parker, the father of the late James Parker, has already been through so much. Neither my client, nor I, wish to add any further pain or injury to Mr. Parker’s suffering. We are satisfied that if his statement to the police was simply read to the jury, verbatim, it would also speed up proceedings. We do not intend to cross-examine Mr. Parker.On behalf of my client, we simply ask the court to note our sorrow at his son’s passing and offer our sincere condolences.’

A tall, fit man in his sixties with a shock of coiffured white hair, wearing a white shirt and a charcoal suit, came and stood by the prosecution table. Bernice had waved him to a stop. His pale skin had a gray tone, except for the redness around the eyes, as if these were the points through which his soul had been sucked clean out of his skull.

‘Your Honor, Mr. Parker Senior is here to testify for his—’

I interrupted Bernice again. ‘We all know what he’s here for. There’s no need to put this man through that kind of ordeal.’

There was no evidential value in calling the father of one of the victims as a witness in this case. He looked strong, but nobody gets on the stand and talks to a hundred strangers in a courtroom about finding their son’s body, at the trial of his murderer, and manages to hold it together. Nobody. Mr. Parker Senior would fight through it, but soon his breaking heart would reduce him to tears.

And all of that wasn’t for his benefit. There was no catharsis. No closure.

Bernice wanted the jury to see his pain. To feel his pain. And for that pain to turn into anger and for the jury to throw that same anger at the defendant. Juries don’t just make decisions with their minds – they make them with their hearts. They would be desperate to give this father justice. And that meant convicting Elly. And I had to stop that at all costs.

‘Mrs. Mazur, I’m afraid I am in agreement with Mr. Flynn. It saves court time and spares Mr. Parker Senior from the pressure of testifying in this case,’ said the judge. ‘The jury can read his statement, and it can be entered into evidence.’

A wave of the hand from Bernice, as if to say, you win some and you lose some and it’s no problem for the prosecution. She couldn’t really object because she wanted the victim’s father toburst into tears and get the jury on her side. She turned to Mr. Parker Senior, who had been following all of this closely.

He shook his head at Bernice, turned toward the defense table and stared at Elly. She stared back, but while Elly’s open face was filled with sorrow, for the loss of her husband and for the pain this man was going through, that look was not mirrored by Mr. Parker Senior. His mouth twisted into a snarl, his eyes crawled into a furrow and he leaned forward.

And spat in Elly’s face.

She closed her eyes, but otherwise didn’t react. I heard a gasp from someone in the crowd behind me. Bernice skipped out from behind the prosecution table, and lightly took his arm to guide him away, but he wrenched free from her grip, and with a final look of disgust at Elly he strode back to his seat in the gallery.

I looked at the judge. He shook his head.

So did Bernice. I gave Elly my handkerchief. She was crying softly now.

The judge could’ve admonished Mr. Parker Senior. Even held him in contempt. It was technically an assault on the defendant, and contempt of court. But Judge Quaid didn’t do anything. There was no point because there was no punishment fitting for this man. Very little in this world could have added to his suffering.

‘Your Honor, the People call Detective William Sacks.’

The first witness of any real consequence.

This was Detective Sacks’s big day and he had dressed for it. As he raised his hand to take the oath, his beige sport coat rode up. It may have been made to measure, probably five years ago. Made to measure a detective who was twenty pounds lighter, perhaps. Sacks wore a dark checkered shirt and a red tie beneath the tight jacket. Charcoal pants.