Sudden Death - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,85
far I’ve been setting up evidence of serial killings, and the only suspect in those killings until now is Kenny Schilling. Dylan has no reason or inclination to screw that up.
Once Barkley is off the stand, I ask for a sidebar conference with Judge Harrison and Dylan. As soon as we’re out of earshot of everyone, I inform the judge that Bobby Pollard will be called next and that I would like to have him declared as a “hostile” witness. As such I would be able to ask tough, leading questions, as if it were a cross-examination.
“On what grounds?” Harrison asks. “What would prompt his hostility?”
“I’m going to expose him as a fake and possible murderer.”
Dylan almost leaps in the air. “Your Honor, I really have to object to this. There has been absolutely no showing made to link Mr. Pollard to these crimes.”
Harrison looks at me, and I say, “There’s going to be plenty of showing once I get him on the stand, Your Honor.”
Harrison has little choice but to grant my request, though he will certainly come down on me if I don’t deliver. He allows me to treat Pollard as a hostile witness, though Dylan reiterates his futile objection.
“The defense calls Bobby Pollard,” I say, and within moments the door to the courtroom opens. Kevin pushes Pollard’s wheelchair to the stand, and Pollard pulls himself up out of the chair and into the witness chair with his powerful arms.
He looks confident and unworried, which means he has no idea what has preceded his testimony this morning. I start off with gentle questions about the background of his relationship with Kenny, including a brief mention of the all-star weekend. I then have him describe the nature of his injury and the circumstances in which it took place.
“So you have no use of your legs at all?” I ask.
He nods sadly. “That’s correct.”
“That’s amazing,” I say. “Yet you hold a job… live a full life. How do you get around?”
He credits his wife, Teri, with being a big help in that regard, and under prodding describes some of his daily routine, including his ability to drive a specially equipped car with hand gas and brake controls.
Since he believes he is here to say good things about Kenny, I ask questions that let him do so. Once he finishes, I hand him the list of the offensive players on the high school all-American team. “Do you recognize these names?”
He looks at them. I’m surprised that he’s as cool as he is; I would have expected the list to make him look worried. “I know a few of the names. Obviously Kenny and Troy and myself.”
“Are you aware that eight of the people on that list are dead?”
His head snaps up from the list. “Dead?”
“Dead.”
He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I have no inclination to tell him what I’m talking about, so instead, I give him a group of copied pages that Sam has gotten from hacking into computers. “Please look through these pages and tell me if they are copies of your credit card bills.”
He looks, though not too carefully. His mind must be racing, trying to figure out a way out of the trap that he’s just “wheeled” himself into. “Yes… they look like mine. Sure.”
“You can take some time to confirm this, but I will now tell you that based on your credit card receipts, you were within two hours’ drive of every one of those deaths at the time they happened. Yet you lived in New Jersey, and these deaths occurred in all different parts of the country.”
“You’re not saying I killed these people. Is that what you’re saying?” He’s showing a proper measure of confusion and outrage, an amazing job under the circumstances. But for someone who can fake paralysis for years, this bullshit must be a piece of cake.
“So you did not kill them? You did not kill any of them? Including the victim in this case?”
“I have never killed anyone in my life.”
“And everything you’ve said in court today is truthful?”
“Totally.”
“Equally truthful? None of your statements were less true than others?”
“Every single word has been the truth.”
“How did you get to court today, Mr. Pollard?”
Finally, a crack in his armor, the kind of crack that the Iraqi army left on the way to Baghdad. First his eyes flash panic, then anger. “You son of a bitch,” he says.
Harrison admonishes him for his answer, and I ask