created a colorful misinterpretation of the timing of things, deftly making Wheeler's alibi--impossible from what I'd seen two hours after the event--perfectly acceptable. The head of the forensics team defended his department's actions on the stand, but when Atwater pointed out several black-eyes suffered by his unit in three previous cases, all having to do with crime scene taint, his credibility went down in flames.
The coup de grace was a chain-of-evidence fuckup of monumental proportions. The tape of Brenda Lane's call the night she was murdered--her panicky, gasping reaction to Mike Wheeler breaking into her house minutes before she was shot to death--up and lost itself.
Lost. Vanished. As in, we couldn't find it.
I'd listened to it dozens of times. But when the original was sent by courier to Landis's office, it never got there. It grew legs and walked off. No one had made copies, even though that was standard procedure, so the only evidence of Brenda Lane's damning call was the fuzzy memory of the harried switchboard operator on duty that night.
The dirty little secret that no cop or prosecutor wants to admit is that...it happens. Things go missing that shouldn't. But you don't lose something of this magnitude. The tape wasn't just a piece of physical evidence, one block among many in the wall we were building around Wheeler. It was that all-important emotional denunciation that juries lap up, the stand-up-andpoint moment that knocks the defense's house of cards down like a hurricane hit it. Would anyone have truly believed Wheeler was there to check on a burglary after hearing Brenda's voice, the recognition in that one word, " You? "? Does a woman aiming a pistol at a potential attacker stay on the phone and scream " Don't, don't, don't! " instead of firing? Those twelve angry men would've been in and out with a guilty verdict so fast the door wouldn't have had time to swing shut.
Instead, Landis called us in a rage a few days before trial, wanting to know where the tape had gone. A massive, unsuccessful hunt for the thing followed, succeeded quickly by a lot of finger-pointing. No one seems to know who picked up the tape or signed for it, or whether it even got to the goddamn prosecutor's office. My team ripped into each other until I told them to knock it off and concentrate on the case. Communication with Landis's office reached an all-time low in both volume and civility.
I was furious--not to mention dejected--at the setback, but still thought we had enough to pin Wheeler to the wall. As for getting the jury emotionally involved, we'd lost our ace when the tape went missing, but I thought we might have a chance when Wheeler took the stand. The man was so naturally arrogant that he was his own worst enemy.
But Atwater had coached Wheeler well. He was the model defendant: humble, courteous, contrite, nearly breaking into tears when he fielded a soft-pitch from Atwater about how the shooting might mark the end of his law enforcement career. Landis did his best to rattle him and a few times I thought I saw the true Michael Wheeler rise to the surface. But each time that happened, either Wheeler recovered himself, Atwater objected, or Landis failed to follow through. Atwater took the point in that game and the defendant's testimony--so often the straw that breaks the jury's back--did nothing but pave the way for the eventual verdict.
Not guilty.
I'd been involved in enough trials to see it coming, but refused to believe it until I heard the actual words come from the jury rep's mouth. The crowded gallery broke into a raucous mix of cheers and groans; like the police, the city, and the public, the audience was split in their support. Landis stared straight ahead, his gaze caught somewhere between the floor and the judge's dais. He didn't even blink when the verdict was read. Atwater had almost the same look, with just the merest blush at her success. I remember thinking at the time that she seemed
The coup de grace was a chain-of-evidence fuckup of monumental proportions. The tape of Brenda Lane's call the night she was murdered--her panicky, gasping reaction to Mike Wheeler breaking into her house minutes before she was shot to death--up and lost itself.
Lost. Vanished. As in, we couldn't find it.
I'd listened to it dozens of times. But when the original was sent by courier to Landis's office, it never got there. It grew legs and walked off. No one had made copies, even though that was standard procedure, so the only evidence of Brenda Lane's damning call was the fuzzy memory of the harried switchboard operator on duty that night.
The dirty little secret that no cop or prosecutor wants to admit is that...it happens. Things go missing that shouldn't. But you don't lose something of this magnitude. The tape wasn't just a piece of physical evidence, one block among many in the wall we were building around Wheeler. It was that all-important emotional denunciation that juries lap up, the stand-up-andpoint moment that knocks the defense's house of cards down like a hurricane hit it. Would anyone have truly believed Wheeler was there to check on a burglary after hearing Brenda's voice, the recognition in that one word, " You? "? Does a woman aiming a pistol at a potential attacker stay on the phone and scream " Don't, don't, don't! " instead of firing? Those twelve angry men would've been in and out with a guilty verdict so fast the door wouldn't have had time to swing shut.
Instead, Landis called us in a rage a few days before trial, wanting to know where the tape had gone. A massive, unsuccessful hunt for the thing followed, succeeded quickly by a lot of finger-pointing. No one seems to know who picked up the tape or signed for it, or whether it even got to the goddamn prosecutor's office. My team ripped into each other until I told them to knock it off and concentrate on the case. Communication with Landis's office reached an all-time low in both volume and civility.
I was furious--not to mention dejected--at the setback, but still thought we had enough to pin Wheeler to the wall. As for getting the jury emotionally involved, we'd lost our ace when the tape went missing, but I thought we might have a chance when Wheeler took the stand. The man was so naturally arrogant that he was his own worst enemy.
But Atwater had coached Wheeler well. He was the model defendant: humble, courteous, contrite, nearly breaking into tears when he fielded a soft-pitch from Atwater about how the shooting might mark the end of his law enforcement career. Landis did his best to rattle him and a few times I thought I saw the true Michael Wheeler rise to the surface. But each time that happened, either Wheeler recovered himself, Atwater objected, or Landis failed to follow through. Atwater took the point in that game and the defendant's testimony--so often the straw that breaks the jury's back--did nothing but pave the way for the eventual verdict.
Not guilty.
I'd been involved in enough trials to see it coming, but refused to believe it until I heard the actual words come from the jury rep's mouth. The crowded gallery broke into a raucous mix of cheers and groans; like the police, the city, and the public, the audience was split in their support. Landis stared straight ahead, his gaze caught somewhere between the floor and the judge's dais. He didn't even blink when the verdict was read. Atwater had almost the same look, with just the merest blush at her success. I remember thinking at the time that she seemed
Similar Books
