Dead End Read online

  ‘You told me last night,’ remembered Jackson. ‘She wasn’t in the car when she was found. She’d been thrown clear.’

  ‘What about crawling out … releasing herself and crawling out?’

  The lawyer shook his head. ‘Not with those injuries.’

  ‘It’s not right,’ insisted Parnell. ‘Something’s definitely not right.’

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ cautioned Jackson. ‘You’re the immediate priority. They got an argument for a custodial remand, hit and run, leaving the scene of a fatal accident. I’m going to have to call you. Now don’t get mad but I’m going to ask you one more time. Did you pursue Rebecca Lang into Rock Creek Park?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Crash into her car and force her off the road?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how do you account for your car’s paint being on Rebecca’s vehicle?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You ever been in a court before? Under cross-examination?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The prosecution is going to roll all over you,’ warned the lawyer. ‘They’ve already guaranteed the publicity. Headlines. It’s the sort of stuff they go for.’

  ‘You think it was the prosecution who got all the stuff in the papers?’

  ‘Yes. They think it’s a big case from which they’re going to emerge looking good.’

  ‘I guess it is,’ accepted Parnell.

  ‘No you don’t,’ contradicted Jackson. ‘You can’t guess what it’s like until it happens to you. Don’t lose your temper, no matter how much they try to make you. Don’t rush an answer until you’ve thought about it. Don’t volunteer anything you’re not asked. You think you can remember all that?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Don’t hope so. Know so. Baldwin and Fletcher are going to be in court, by the way.’

  ‘I said I didn’t want them! Fired Fletcher.’

  ‘They’re not representing you. After all today’s publicity, they applied for – and got – a watching brief on behalf of Dubette.’

  ‘How are Dubette involved?’

  ‘You work for them. Rebecca worked for them. It’s an obvious precaution for Dubette. For their reputation.’

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘Against whatever.’

  Rebecca hadn’t been the only child-speaker, Parnell thought. ‘I don’t think I’ve properly understood things yet.’

  ‘I know you haven’t properly understood things yet. I don’t think I have, either. Until I do, we go with the flow. There’s something else you should understand. If there’s a conviction on any of what they’ve already charged you with or charge you with later – most certainly if there’s a prison term – it’s virtually inevitable your preferential work visa will be revoked. You’ll be deported, after serving whatever sentence is imposed.’

  ‘I’m frightened,’ blurted Parnell, wishing at once that he hadn’t spoken. He couldn’t remember ever admitting that before: not meaning it, as he meant it now. But then he’d never been caught up in such a nightmare before.

  ‘Do the best you can. And try to remember what I said about what to do and what not to do in court.’

  ‘I’ll …’ started Parnell, but quickly corrected himself. ‘I will. I promised I will.’

  ‘One more time,’ insisted Jackson. ‘A flight number, AF209, means nothing to you?’

  ‘Absolutely not! Why’s it so important?’

  ‘I wish to Christ I knew. Knew, too, whether I was doing the right thing.’

  The prosecuting attorney, Vernon Hanson, was a man whose thinness at once reminded Parnell of Dwight Newton, although the prosecutor was dressed better to conceal it, the suit tailored and waistcoated, the spectacles rimless and minimal. He had, too, the demeanour of belonging, of being sure of himself in familiar surroundings. Baldwin and Fletcher were in the row behind. Both had yellow legal pads before them. Baldwin smiled and nodded. Fletcher remained expressionless. To their right the press gallery was crowded, several reporters overflowing on to the extra seats provided. Everyone stood, to the usher’s order, at the entry of the white-haired, jowl-wobbling Judge David Wilson, who pointedly remained standing for several moments, peering accusingly at Parnell over half-rimmed spectacles before taking his seat. At Jackson’s halting hand, Parnell remained standing with the lawyer, formally to be charged, after everyone else sat. It was Jackson, just as formally, who entered the not-guilty plea to each charge on Parnell’s behalf.

  Hanson came up from his bench like a toy from a sprung box, his voice surprisingly resonant from such a slightly statured man. The charges were sample accusations, the prosecutor said at once. Others, more serious, might subsequently be proffered. The allegations were that the accused had knowingly pursued a terrified woman, with whom there had been an existing relationship, through a darkened park area at illegal speeds and forced her off the road into a 40' canyon, causing her death. There was already substantial and irrefutable forensic evidence of contact between the two vehicles. He was applying for Parnell to be remanded to a place of detention to enable the investigation to proceed and for further, possibly more serious, charges to be considered.

  Peter Bellamy was the first officer to be called by the prosecution for formal evidence of arrest. Parnell was surprised by the close-to-verbatim accuracy of the man’s account of the encounter in Showcross’s office, curious what there could be for Jackson to contest when his lawyer was given the right to question.

  ‘When did you come into possession of Ms Lang’s purse?’ began Jackson.

  ‘At the station house,’ replied the officer.

  ‘Who had recovered it?’

  ‘I understood it to have been found in the car, by the engineers who raised it from the gorge in Rock Creek Park.’

  ‘Had it been opened, prior to being handed to you?’

  ‘There had been a preliminary examination. That’s how the Dubette ID had been discovered. It was closed again when it was given to us. The ID was inside.’

  ‘To whom was it given, exactly? Yourself? Or officer Montgomery?’

  ‘Officer Montgomery personally accepted it.’

  ‘What happened then …?’

  ‘Are we working towards something here, Mr Jackson?’ intruded the judge.

  ‘I very much believe that we are,’ assured Jackson.

  ‘I hope we reach it soon,’ said the raven-gowned man.

  ‘I am sure we will,’ said Jackson. To Bellamy he said: ‘You were about to tell the court the procedure for an item such as Ms Lang’s purse.’

  ‘Its contents were examined. Listed.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Jackson, as if it were an important revelation. ‘Could you read every item of that list to the court.’

  ‘I must protest …’ started Hanson, rising with hands outstretched.

  ‘You promised we would reach the point of this questioning very soon,’ came in the judge, supportively.

  ‘A promise I intend to keep,’ said Jackson. ‘The list, please, officer Bellamy.’

  The man went through a litany of cosmetics, a pen, credit cards, the Dubette ID, a tampon, a First City Bank cheque book and cash card, $52.23 in cash and finally a piece of paper upon which was written AF209.

  ‘What significance did you draw from that piece of paper, with AF209 written on it?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said the man. ‘We haven’t begun a proper enquiry yet. It will probably be taken from us – go over to detectives.’

  ‘You and Officer Montgomery were the first people to list the contents of Ms Lang’s purse?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the man.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the lawyer, plumping down beside Parnell.

  ‘Mr Jackson!’ demanded the judge, warningly.

  ‘May I approach the bench?’

  ‘If you hadn’t asked, I was going to demand it,’ said the judge.

  It was a huddled unheard discussion between the judge, Jackson and Vernon Hanson, with several
bursts of gesticulating from the prosecuting attorney. When they returned to the body of the court, Hanson said to the judge: ‘Upon your instruction, I will say nothing that indicates the content of our conversation but I wish that restraint to be recorded, as well as the possibility of a complaint to another body for lack of prior disclosure.’

  ‘This is a remand hearing, Mr Hanson,’ said the judge. ‘Prior disclosure is not a requirement, although I will concede there might have been a courtesy extended.’

  Jackson was immediately upon his feet. ‘If I have offended the court – or the prosecution – then I apologize. I would also like that entered into the record.’

  Helen Montgomery’s evidence of arrest was an echo of her partner’s, as was her account of their receiving Rebecca Lang’s handbag upon their return to the police building.

  Jackson took her through that as meticulously as he had Peter Bellamy, towards the end insisting: ‘Who did what, in the listing of the contents? Who wrote the list, who extracted the items, one by one?’

  The woman shifted, uncomfortably. ‘I think I took them out, Pete wrote them down.’

  ‘What’s AF209 mean to you?’

  ‘Nothing. A flight number, I guess.’

  ‘Which you would have pursued, to discover the significance?’

  ‘If the investigation were left to us, yes. But I don’t expect it will be, now that it’s a homicide.’

  Not once was there any intervention from Hanson, who spent the questioning bent over a yellow legal pad, hurriedly writing.

  The forensic scientist was a small, elderly, thinning-haired man who very positively stressed his professorship and whose hand shook as he took the oath to be sworn in as Jacob Meadows. The man, who needed constantly to clear his throat, testified to being shown two cars the previous afternoon in the police-department garage. He was also shown substantial paint debris collected from the scene of a fatal accident involving a 2003 registered blue Ford. Grey paint adhering to the Ford, and in places wedged into that extensively damaged bodywork, together with more that had been among the dislodged blue paint, unquestionably matched that of the grey Toyota he had been asked to examine and compare.

  Jackson was quickly on his feet again. ‘Professor, where were the two vehicles when you examined them?’

  ‘I have already told you, in the police-department garage,’ replied the coughing man, testily.

  ‘And the separate paint debris?’

  ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘It was handed to me.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘One of the recovery engineers?’

  ‘In an evidence bag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you did not yourself examine the scene? Collect the samples?’

  ‘I collected those samples adhering to the Ford in the garage. And I saw how the preventative barrier had been damaged: there was blue paint residue there, where it mounted the barrier to go into the canyon. The Ford, in the garage, was also marked by paint from the barrier.’

  ‘But you yourself did not descend into the canyon, to carry out any investigation there?’

  ‘It’s a forty-foot drop. Recovery engineers had to be lowered by hoists. I understand the Ford was recovered by crane.’

  ‘You weren’t there for that recovery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And did not go down, on a hoist, into the canyon?’

  ‘I have already told you I did not.’

  ‘But you have carefully examined both cars in the garage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me, professor, at the speed that these two vehicles are thought to have collided, causing the damage you’ve indicated, would you have expected a substantial amount of blue paint from Ms Lang’s car to have marked Mr Parnell’s grey Toyota?’

  There was no immediate reply from Jacob Meadows, but there was shuffling in the court, particularly from the press bench. Finally the forensic scientist said, shortly: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were there any such blue paint markings?’

  ‘My examination was provisional, for this hearing.’

  ‘Were there any blue paint markings?’ persisted Jackson.

  The man took a notebook from his pocket, flicking through the pages with a shaking hand for several moments. ‘I haven’t recorded any.’

  ‘Is the direction of this questioning connected with our earlier discussion at the bench, Mr Jackson?’ intervened the judge.

  ‘Yes, your honour,’ confirmed the lawyer. To Meadows he said: ‘Were you shown the contents of the deceased’s handbag?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was there any discussion between you and officers at the police station about any handbag?’

  ‘No. My examination was cursory, for the benefit of this hearing.’

  ‘Cursory!’ seized Jackson. ‘You conducted a cursory examination, for the benefit of this hearing, the purpose of which is to decide whether or not Richard Parnell should be remanded in custody.’

  ‘I did what I was asked to do, at that stage.’

  ‘Asked to do by whom?’

  ‘I’m not sure I remember. Someone at the station.’

  Neither Bellamy nor Helen Montgomery were smirking any more.

  ‘I’ve concluded this initial questioning of this witness,’ said Jackson. ‘I call Richard Parnell to the stand.’

  Parnell felt a vague unreality as he walked across the well of the court, and he fought against it, nervously aware that the last thing he could afford was light-headedness or lack of concentration. He recited the oath to the usher’s dictation, glad his voice strengthened when he answered Jackson’s first question, that he fully understood what it meant to tell the truth. Despite knowing the questioning was necessary to establish a good character, Parnell regretted having to list his academic and scientific qualifications, background and acclaim to the journalists’ hurried scribbling, wondering if his arrest and arraignment would appear in British newspapers. He hoped it wouldn’t cause any embarrassment or harassment of English colleagues if it did. Or, he abruptly thought, his mother. He had to call her, just in case. Jackson took him, in just as much detail, through his employment by Dubette and even into a detailed explanation of pharmacogenomics. The media note-taking increased when Jackson led the questioning on to Parnell’s relationship with Rebecca Lang, generalizing at first before coming specifically to the Sunday at Chesapeake Bay and their return to the Washington Circle apartment. Parnell’s tension tightened when he began talking about the decision he and Rebecca had made, to live together, frightened that Jackson would introduce Rebecca’s admission of pregnancy, but the lawyer didn’t.

  ‘What was Rebecca Lang’s demeanour when she left your apartment to return to Bethesda?’

  ‘She was happy. We both were, about living together.’

  ‘You didn’t have an argument?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Fall out?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘What did you do after Rebecca left your apartment?’

  ‘Sat around. Did some work I’d brought home with me. Went to bed.’

  ‘You didn’t call her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? You’d just made a romantic commitment. A lot of people might have expected you to call to make sure she got home safely.’

  ‘I know. I just didn’t. I wish I had. I could have started a search, earlier. Maybe …’ Parnell swallowed, not finishing. He supposed Jackson was anticipating some of the questioning he had to expect from the prosecutor.

  ‘Now tell the court about the damage to your car,’ insisted Jackson.

  ‘It happened last Thursday. It had been all day in the Dubette car park. There was no damage when I left it there, just after seven in the morning. When I came out, around seven thirty, nine o’clock, someone had hit it.’

  ‘Describe the damage.’

  ‘A wing and door were badly dented. The bumper –
the fender – was bent in.’

  ‘The paint was broken?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was there much paint around on the ground?’

  ‘I don’t remember there being any.’

  ‘What about paint from the car that hit you?’

  ‘No. I don’t remember there being any trace of that, either.’

  ‘Mr Hanson,’ stopped the judge, addressing the prosecutor. ‘Isn’t that something that the court might have found useful to have been told?’

  ‘As Professor Meadows has testified, his was a preliminary examination,’ said Hanson, not as quick to his feet as before.

  ‘Told the court under cross-examination,’ reminded the judge. ‘And used the word cursory, not preliminary. During a hearing to determine whether the accused is granted bail or remanded into custody, to decide which, the court wishes to know all facts available at the time of such consideration. Do you have witnesses, either available or who can be called, to help the court?’

  Hanson turned questioningly to the two arresting officers. Bellamy shook his head. Turning back to the judge, Hanson said: ‘Not at this moment.’

  ‘Mr Jackson?’ invited the judge.

  ‘Mr Parnell,’ resumed his lawyer. ‘You’ve heard evidence of the contents of Rebecca’s handbag, including a piece of paper with AF209 written upon it. Have you any idea why that was there?’

  ‘Part of Rebecca’s job was to liaise with Dubette’s foreign subsidiaries and receive shipments from them, for analysis and testing at McLean. I can only assume it had something to do with that.’

  ‘Assume?’ picked out Jackson. ‘You and she did not discuss it on Sunday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had no idea it was in her purse.’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘I have an application to make, which you might have already anticipated,’ Jackson told the judge. ‘But at this moment I have no further questions for my client.’

  ‘Mr Hanson?’ came the second invitation.

  It was jack-in-the-box abruptness again but Parnell had already inferred what Jackson had referred to as an edge – guessing that a lot of other people in the court were at least suspecting an inference, as well – and the sting was taken out of the attack. But it was still an attack. Hanson took Parnell through every question that had been put to him by Jackson, repeating them, rewording them, hectoring for replies, but Parnell remained quite controlled, relaxed almost, telling himself he hadn’t really needed Jackson’s warnings, although at once conceding that that was probably overconfidence.