If I'm Dead

“And so that writing could have been there for days, even weeks or months, before Melissa left, correct?”

“I suppose.”

“Or, conversely, that writing could have been done days, weeks, or even months after Melissa left, isn’t that right?”

Officer Abrams’s expression had grown even more perplexed. A fast look at the jury told me they were equally confused, but many were leaning forward in their seats. I would’ve done the same if I hadn’t been busy acting like I didn’t give a damn.

“Well, no. How could that be? I mean, the handwriting matches. It’s Melissa’s.” Officer Abrams shook her head and shot O’Bryan a look of contempt. “She couldn’t have written it after your client killed her.”

Much as I loved the snarky dig, I knew it could be trouble. Juries don’t trust cops who come out swinging. They generally like their officers neutral and unbiased—“Just the facts, ma’am.” Saying that Melissa couldn’t have written the entry after Hildegarde had killed her was about as biased, and obviously improper, as it got. Juries have been known to turn on us for less. I tried not to cringe when O’Bryan made his objection.

“Objection!” Ronnie said. “Motion to strike! That is obviously improper!”

“It was,” the judge said. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re ordered to disregard that last remark.”

The jury nodded solemnly. I kept my poker face on, but I was in a quandary. Was Ronnie actually claiming someone dummied up this diary? Forged Melissa’s handwriting to frame the defendant? Who? According to everyone I’d asked, no one in Melissa’s life had even known she kept a diary. And I couldn’t think of anyone with a plausible motive—friends or family—who had access to the evidence after we’d seized it. Flashing back on all the people I’d spoken to, I couldn’t come up with a single one who’d given me a suspicious vibe. Had I missed it? I glanced at Hildegarde, who had a smug little smile on his face.

“Now I want to ask you some personal questions, Officer Abrams.”

I prepared to object—how could anything personal about the officer be relevant?—but his next question brought me to a dead stop.

“How long have you known Melissa Gibbons?”

I could’ve objected. The question assumed she’d ever known our victim, but I knew that’s exactly what O’Bryan wanted. If I objected it’d only help O’Bryan to underline the point; worse, it would look like I’d known all along and was trying to hide it—whatever it was. I surreptitiously inhaled and pressed my lips together as I wrote on my legal pad to Bailey: WTF???

Bailey, her expression stony, wrote back: NO FRIGGIN’ CLUE.

Officer Abrams opened and closed her mouth silently as though she had gills. When she finally found her voice, it came out rough. “What? What are you talking about? I never met the victim.”

“Really? Aren’t you married to Angus Warren?”

Officer Abrams’s brow furrowed as she answered slowly, “Yes.”

“And you’re aware that your husband, Angus Warren, was previously married to a woman named Jeanine Stryker?”

“I, ah… yes. I think that’s her name.”

“Oh, come now, Officer Abrams. You’re all remarkably friendly, aren’t you? Amicable divorce and all that, you all see each other socially, attend the same parties. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes. I just… didn’t remember what her maiden name was. We don’t see each other all that often, honestly.”

“But you do see each other, don’t you? You’re not trying to tell this jury otherwise, are you?”

“I… no, of course not. I just don’t get—”

“Of course you do. Jeanine Stryker is Nancy Gibbons’s sister. Melissa is Jeanine’s niece.”

Officer Abrams’s face froze. I struggled to look nonchalant. The defense had just thrown a veritable grenade into the heart of the case. By proving that Officer Abrams had a connection to Melissa’s family, he’d shown there was someone with both motive and access who could’ve altered the evidence.

Officer Abrams was red-faced and steaming. “You’re saying I forged Melissa’s handwriting and made that last entry? That’s crazy! Why on earth would I do such a thing?”

“I ask the questions, Officer Abrams,” O’Bryan boomed. “You give the answers. So please explain to us why you never told the prosecution about your relationship to Melissa’s family.”

The only hope we had was for the officer to keep her cool and show the attack wasn’t worth taking seriously. One look at her told me that hope was about to be obliterated. Officer Abrams had pulled herself up in her seat, and now she leaned forward, her face an angry fist.

“You’re out of your mind! How dare you.”

O’Bryan, loving every devastating second of it, turned to the judge with an air of indignation. “Your Honor, I object!” With a sweeping gesture toward the jury, he pronounced, “We’re entitled to an answer! Please order the witness!”

“Sustained,” the judge said quietly. “Answer the question, Officer.”

O’Bryan turned back and faced Abrams with a stern expression. “I’ll repeat it in case you don’t remember: you didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

The officer glared at O’Bryan, nostrils flaring. “No, Counsel. That’s right. I didn’t.”

A fast glance at the jury showed many of them had stricken looks. Juror Number Nine, who’d teared up when Officer Abrams read the diary, was looking from O’Bryan to the officer as if she weren’t sure who to believe. Worse still, Juror Number Four was studying Officer Abrams skeptically, one eyebrow raised. A lump formed in the pit of my stomach.

Meanwhile, Saul Hildegarde was nodding sanctimoniously—an “I told you so” expression on his face. I wanted to put my fist into it so badly I could feel my knuckles turn white.

We were screwed, and it was only going to get worse. I’d intended to close the case with the handwriting expert who’d say that the handwriting in the diary was consistent with Melissa’s. Since the last line of the diary helped the defense, I’d figured that was the one area O’Bryan wouldn’t want to mess with. But now I knew Ronnie O’Bryan would pull out all the stops to go after the handwriting expert to prove the diary entry could be a forgery. And that meant I’d be forced to end on the weakest note of all, because Morris Ivins wouldn’t be able to rule out the possibility that someone else had deliberately forged the last entry. I tried to salvage what I could from the wreckage of my case.

“Mr. Ivins, did Melissa Gibbons make this last entry in the diary?” I asked.

“Most likely, yes. Not only does the handwriting in this entry match the handwriting in the rest of the diary, but it also matches other known exemplars written by Melissa Gibbons.”

I sat down and slid another glance at the jury. Some looked disturbed, others confused, but there were at least two, one of them Juror Number Four, whose expressions were closed. A very bad sign. I sighed privately. There was nothing more I could do.

O’Bryan swaggered up to the podium. He took Ivins through all the weaknesses in handwriting identification for what felt like hours and then ended on a note that was predictable yet powerful:

“The truth is, Mr. Ivins, you can’t rule out the possibility that someone deliberately imitated Melissa’s handwriting, can you?”

“No, sir. I can’t.”

“And so you really can’t say for sure that the writing was done by Melissa, can you?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Nothing further, Your Honor.” O’Bryan obnoxiously turned to me with a flourish. “Your witness, Madame Prosecutor.”

I nodded and smiled serenely as I silently wished for him to perform an anatomically impossible act. Saul Hildegarde tilted his chin up and faced the jury with a self-righteous look. Before standing, I quickly leaned over to Bailey. “We could ask Officer Abrams to try and imitate the handwriting and then let Ivins show how hers is different from Melissa’s. But—”

“The defense will just say Abrams wasn’t really trying,” Bailey whispered back. “No, cut the cord. If the jury’s buying the defense bullshit, there’s nothing more we can do.”