I’d thought the Catholic church abuse case against Monsignor Gregory Quinn had been the trial of the century, but Lori Pope’s trial was an order of magnitude greater. Presiding judge Patrick Brody had to institute a lottery system among the press for gallery seats. There was another entire courtroom, across the hall, filled with reporters watching the trial on close-circuit TV.
Fortunately, Nicole Long had excepted me from the seating sweepstakes, and had somehow wangled a permanent place for me right behind the prosecution table. My name and affiliation were taped to my space on the bench. Valerie Dodds sat to my right. Logan had a space to my left, though he’d yet to occupy it. The rules prohibited potential witnesses from watching and subsequently being influenced by other testimony.
The noise of everyone shuffling pulled my attention from seating arrangements.
“All rise!” cried the bailiff. I stood as the judge, then jury entered the courtroom from different doors behind the bench.
“Prosecution, please call your next witness,” Judge Maldonado said after everyone had taken their seats. Long had spent the first days of the trial with the necessary, but boring witnesses establishing who had died and how. I leaned forward because now, she was getting to the good stuff.
“Your Honor.” Long stood, straightened her clothes. “We call Detective Rocco Nicola to the stand.”
Witness lists, like other documents, were filed with the court, and available to the public. Therefore I’d known at least one of the Cleveland Heights detectives would take the stand. As the burly middle-aged detective made his way through the gallery to the witness box, I had to wonder if he were going to plead the Fifth. I couldn’t see a way his testimony wouldn’t end up incriminating him and his partner as well as making the federal case indefensible.
Court TV was broadcasting Lori Pope’s trial. I’d set up my DVR at home, and for once could pay attention to everything going on without having to simultaneously take notes using the complex system of shorthand I’d learned at the beginning of my career.
After Long got Nicola’s name on the record, she asked her first question.
“Can you please tell the court where you work, your years of service, and any commendations you’ve received.”
“I’m a police sergeant for the city of Cleveland Heights.”
“What does it mean to be a sergeant?”
“It’s a pay classification, not an indication of duty. I work as a detective for the department. I investigate murders and other serious crimes.”
“How long have you worked with the department?”
“About twenty-five years. I came straight from a six-year stint in the Marines.”
I took in his hair, high and tight, square jaw. Probably should have guessed that. I hadn’t done a deep dive on the cops who’d assaulted Tia Wetzel, choosing instead to focus on the victim. Enough ink had been spilled on the idolization of so-called peace officers, and using the phrase “one bad apple,” without the logical follow of that aphorism was weak logic and even weaker reporting.
“Do you have an assigned partner?” Long asked Nicola.
“Thomas O’Callaghan.”
“How long have you two worked together as partners?”
“Twenty years, plus a little more. He had a partner when he was a rookie. I was assigned to work with him…to…”
I filled in his unsaid words in my head. To indoctrinate him. To rope someone into the off-the-books assignments. He couldn’t say any of that. Fortunately, he’d thought better of it. Didn’t leave the door open for Pope’s counsel to poke all the fingers at him.
“When did you first meet Lori Pope?” Long gestured to the defendant. She wasn’t going to let anyone forget who was on trial here.
“Nineteen eighty-eight or thereabouts,” Nicola answered. “Routine case. She was the prosecutor on duty. I think she was new then.”
“Do you remember investigating the death of Wayne Cooley?”
There was a long silence. I could practically see the gears turning in his head. His eyes darted to the defendant, shifted away. Long gave him all the time in the world.
Nicola’s “Yes” was somewhat underwhelming. Nicole Long handed him a piece of paper. She gave the exhibit number for the court reporter. Handed copies to Pope’s counsel and the judge.
“When did he die?”
Nicola took reading glasses from his breast pocket.
“December twenty of eighty-eight,” he read after perching his glasses on his nose.
“Was the Cooley wrongful death investigation ever closed by the Cleveland Heights police?”
“No.”
“Sergeant Nicola, how did Wayne Cooley die?”
“Gunshot from a forty-five-caliber gun.”
There was a lot of murmuring behind me. I knew the other reporters were thinking what I was. Was this a case they’d covered? How had a point-blank murder fallen off the radar? What did it mean that Detective Nicola knew what happened if it was unsolved?
“How do you know that?”
“Because I saw him pull the trigger.”
My pen fell into my lap as the gallery erupted. Watching legal shows made court look exciting. It wasn’t. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it was a snooze fest. There was a reason a coffee cart had nearly permanent placement outside.
When the room quieted, Long asked, “I want to be clear, Detective Nicola, you’re saying that you know who murdered Wayne Cooley.”
“Yes.” Nicola’s answer was quick this time, sure.
“Your Honor,” Popovic protested before Long could draw enough breath for another question. “How is any of this relevant? My client is only charged with the murder of Anna Moretti.”
“Under four oh four ‘b,’ prior bad acts can be admitted to show motive, Your Honor. Our theory of the case is that Moretti’s murder was ultimately done to silence someone who had first-hand evidence of the defendant’s crimes.”
“Your objection is overruled.” Maldonado waved a dismissive hand toward the defense table.
“Do you know the identity of the person who shot Wayne Cooley?” Long asked.
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“Thomas O’Callaghan.”
Popovic was up and out of his chair at the same time the gallery erupted.
“Objection!” Pope’s counsel yelled while Judge Maldonado’s gavel hit its block.
“On what grounds?” Long asked.
“Relevance,” Popovic answered.
“We’ll show relevance with the next question,” Long said.
“Overruled, Mr. Popovic. Ms. Long, ask your question.”
“Why did O’Callaghan fire at Wayne Cooley?”
“Lori Pope ordered him to.”
“OBJECTION!” Popovic was on his feet, hands held up in outrage. It took longer this time for Judge Maldonado to gavel the audience into silence. I’m not sure it mattered what came after this.
A video clip of a police detective in full uniform pointing the finger at the prosecutor would be at the top of every nightly newscast and full color on the front of tomorrow morning’s Plain Dealer.
“Your Honor, that’s the very definition of hearsay!” Popovic added when his voice could be heard again.
“Ms. Long?”
“Sergeant Nicola”—Long turned back to the witness—“how did you know that Lorraine Pope ordered the murder of Wayne Cooley?”
“Because I was there when she gave the order.”
Long closed her pad. Stepped away from the podium and went to her spot next to Brody. “No further questions of this witness, Your Honor.”
Popovic was up and out of the chair in less time than it took me to take a breath.
“Sergeant Nicola,” Popovic boomed. “I have a single question for you?”
Nicola nodded.
“Did the Cuyahoga County prosecutor’s office give you immunity for all crimes you committed during your twenty-five-year tenure as a Cleveland Heights police officer?”
“Yeah, I got complete immunity.”
“That’s all, Your Honor,” Popovic said before stomping back to his chair bringing his point home that Detective Nicola had all the reasons to lie. Despite the fact that there were no questions, Nicola kept on talking.
“Immunity doesn’t mean that every word I have said wasn’t one hundred percent true,” the detective insisted.
“Your Honor, please strike the witness’ last remark.”
“It’s stricken from the record. The jury is to disregard that last statement.”
While, officially, Nicola hadn’t said a thing, everyone knew the jury would never forget it.