WE ARE ALL IN OUR places on Tuesday morning, and the gallery is full. Reporters, supplemented by a smattering of court watchers, cram every corner. Lois and Raquella stare at our backs from their usual seats. In the last row, I glimpse Hildegard’s gleaming white coif. Has she been here the whole trial?
Justice Moulton, still seething about losing yesterday afternoon, scowls at Cy. But it’s Emily who gets up. Either Cy is scared of the judge—not likely—or he’s decided it’s time for Emily’s trial debut.
“I call Detective Sergeant Sydney Evans to the stand,” Emily says in a clear, firm voice.
Sergeant Evans does a languid march to the witness box. He leans back and stretches his legs before catching the judge’s glare and straightening up. I recognize the narrow face, the high forehead—no leather jacket today. In his trendy narrow suit, he’s all business.
Evans brings back bad memories, and I feel my paranoia kicking in. Did Cy put him up to accosting me at the party knowing he’d be a witness? Is this part of a plot to rattle me?
Emily puts Evans through the preliminary paces of what he does—international liaison; and his relevance to the case—Trevor Shore.
“Trevor’s death is a great loss to the investigation—no doubt he could have shed important light on who killed Laura Trussardi.” Evans shifts his gaze to Vincent Trussardi in the prisoner’s box. Inference: Who else would have wanted Trevor Shore out of the way?
Satisfied, Emily sits down. “Your witness.”
“I suggest we take the morning adjournment now,” I say as I stand. “I expect to be some time in the cross-examination of this witness.”
Justice Moulton nods, but I am aware of the jury’s curious stare—What can she do with this? I shoot them an enigmatic smile as we rise. Just wait.
“YOU HAVE MADE PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATIONS into Trevor Shore’s death, Sergeant Evans?” I ask when we return.
“Yes, based on what the Brazilian police have told us.” His eyes narrow, and his lip twists imperceptibly. I remember his swagger the night of Cy’s party, how his eye traced the line of my black dress. Today I’m in my robes, Sergeant, watch out.
“Have his killer or killers been found?”
“No, it appears not.”
“The homicide rate is high in Brazil?”
“Yes.”
“You could say that.”
“Random shootings are not uncommon?”
“Not in Brazil.”
I step out from behind my table and move deeper into the well of the courtroom. “Something puzzles me about all this, Sergeant. Trevor Shore was a person of interest in the investigation of Laura Trussardi, correct? I mean, you had been told he was her lover?”
“Yes, he was a person of interest.”
“A suspect, a prime suspect, you might say?”
“A person of interest.”
“The lover of a murdered woman, who disappears immediately after her death, would be a prime suspect in any competent homicide officer’s books, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so.”
“No supposition, officer. Just the facts.”
Evans blinks. “Yes.”
“And I think you’ve just agreed, Sergeant, that if a woman is murdered, it would be important to interview the man you were told was her lover?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“But you never bothered to contact Mr. Shore?”
“We tried. We investigated. We put out a BOLO—be on the lookout—notice. Nothing turned up. We couldn’t find him.”
“Surely Vancouver’s finest did not simply allow a prime suspect to escape the jurisdiction right under their nose?”
“We put out an INTERPOL alert. Normally he shouldn’t have got out of the country.”
“Yet we know he did, Sergeant. How did that happen?”
Evans leans back, closes his eyes.
“Sergeant Evans, are you still with us?”
He looks at me, his smugness morphing into irritation. “It seems he obtained a false passport and traveled under an assumed name. Arne Jacobs was the name on the passport the Brazilian police found in his room. They advised us, and we checked it out, found the real Arne Jacobs in Richmond. We sent blood work and dental records to Brazil. They checked out: Trevor Shore.”
I turn to Justice Moulton. “My Lord, the defense has had no disclosure of any of this. It comes as a total surprise.”
Cy stands. “We advised the defense of Trevor Shore’s death as soon as we confirmed it. These are mere details—elicited in cross-examination, may I add.”
I let it go. “When did Arne Jacobs, who we now know to be Trevor Shore, fly to Brazil?”
Evans shuffles his papers. “Air Canada records show that he departed Vancouver for Toronto on July ninth and connected through Toronto to Rio de Janeiro the same day.”
“July ninth, almost three months after Laura Trussardi’s death? Three months, and you couldn’t find him.” I retrieve a paper from the defense table, cross to the witness box, and hand it to him. “Let me show you a document, Sergeant Evans.”
Cy nudges Emily. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her stand. “My Lord, we have not seen this so-called document.”
“Since when is the defense obliged to give the prosecution disclosure of Vancouver Police Department records?” I shoot back, and Emily’s face goes white.
“Proceed,” Moulton says with a withering glare at Emily, which sends her shrinking into her seat.
“Sergeant, what is the document I have handed you?”
“It looks like a traffic ticket.” He squints, trying to make out the printing.
“I suppose you’ve seen a lot of traffic tickets in your work as a police officer?”
“Quite a few, in the early years.”
“Would you tell the jury the name of the police force that issued the ticket?”
“Vancouver Police Department.”
“And what is the date of this ticket issued by the Vancouver Police Department, Sergeant?”
“July first of this year.”
“Would you tell the jury what this ticket is for?”
“It’s for running a red light.”
“And would you tell the jury the location of the red light that was allegedly run?”
Evans studies the form. “Granville and Forty-First.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. One more thing. Please read the jury the name of the person the ticket says ran the red light at Forty-First and Granville in the city of Vancouver on July first.”
Cy sees what’s coming, and this time he’s not leaving it to Emily. “Hearsay!” he shouts.
“Read the name,” Justice Moulton tells Evans.
Evans replies, his voice faltering, “It says, ‘Trevor Shore.’ ”
The jury gasps audibly. I let the answer sink in.
“So tell me if you agree with this summary of the situation, Sergeant. The Vancouver Police Department Homicide Unit is trying to find Trevor Shore in connection with a murder case in which he is a potential suspect—indeed, a prime suspect. Some three months after the murder, the same police force issues a traffic ticket to the very same Trevor Shore they say they are trying to find.”
“I don’t understand.” Evans shakes the ticket. “There was a BOLO. It would have come up on the CPIC—the electronic record attached to his license—and the police would have brought him in for questioning. Standard procedure.”
“Except it appears they didn’t bring him in. Or, if they did, they let him go without asking him about Laura Trussardi’s murder.” Arms crossed, I wait for Evans’s response.
“Yes, so it seems.”
“Would you call that effective police work, Sergeant?”
“Something went wrong. That happens sometimes despite our best efforts.”
Half turning, I catch Richard’s eye in the public gallery. He gives me a thumbs-up. I resist the urge to smile back. Raquella, from her chair on the aisle, wraps us both in a glare of contempt. Time to finish up. “The picture I’m getting is this: the Vancouver police did all the routine things to locate Trevor Shore, but they did not put out red alerts as you have suggested. Why wasn’t Trevor Shore an urgent priority, Sergeant?”
“We assumed that because the victim was killed in the matrimonial home—”
“You assumed, Sergeant? What kind of police work is that?”
“Sometimes we have to assume things to do our jobs.”
“You knew Mr. Shore had designed the Trussardi residence?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew he had the code to the front door that would have allowed him to get in?”
“I didn’t know that, don’t know that.”
“You never checked, did you, Sergeant?”
“Not personally.”
“But you did know Trevor Shore had designed the cabinet where the combination to the safe that held the gun was kept?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Did you check?”
“No. Maybe somebody else did.”
“If they did, they never told you or anyone else on the investigative team.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“I suppose not,” I repeat, letting the words sink in for the jury. “All those months, weren’t you concerned that Trevor Shore might be hiding, Sergeant? Trying to avoid arrest for the crime he committed?”
“No, as I say, we had arrested Vincent Trussardi.”
“Tell the jury the truth, Sergeant. Your department, early on in its investigation, focused on Vincent Trussardi and made him its prime suspect on purely circumstantial evidence. Didn’t they?”
“Yes, we did. And with good reason.”
“So you thought. But having done so, you failed to effectively investigate other possibilities.”
“I deny that.” But there’s a quiver in his voice that belies the bravado of the words.
“We’ll let the jury decide what you did and, more to the point, did not do. There’s a name for this in police work, isn’t there, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Have you heard of tunnel vision?”
“Of course.”
“And do you know what tunnel vision refers to in the context of homicide investigation work?”
Evans looks at Cy, but Cy just stares at the wall. Finally, he answers. “Tunnel vision refers to the possibility that investigators develop a theory early in the case and then don’t investigate other possible suspects.”
“And would you agree, Sergeant Evans, that the term tunnel vision has recently been cited in studies as a leading cause of wrongful convictions?”
Cy rises. “Counsel knows better than to give evidence,” he bellows.
“Careful, Ms. Truitt,” Justice Moulton warns.
I keep my eyes trained on Evans. “We await your answer, Sergeant.”
“Yes, I’ve read something to that effect.”
“You let him get away, Sergeant; your police force is responsible. And now we will never know what Trevor Shore might have been able to tell us about who killed Laura Trussardi.” I enunciate each word, as I eye the jury. “We will never know if Trevor Shore killed her.”
“I don’t believe he did—”
“No further questions,” I say, and return to my seat.