Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery (7 page)

“The emails were a bit salacious.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, sexy. Like sex talk between lovers.”

“Anything else?”

“In the last email, the defendant threatened to kill the victim.”

“What was the date of that email?”

“March thirty-first.”

“The day Mr. Bannister was killed,” Swann said.

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“There was semen and vaginal secretions on the bed sheets in the victim’s room.”

“Have you checked for DNA?”

“Yes, sir. The semen was the victim’s. We weren’t able to compare the DNA in the vaginal secretions to the defendant.”

“Why not?”

“We have no exemplars of her DNA. We’ll be getting a court order for that.”

“Anything else?”

“The bullet that killed Mr. Bannister was from a thirty-eight caliber revolver. We found the casing in the bedroom and the bullet in his brain.”

“What significance is that?” asked Swann.

“The defendant is the registered owner of a thirty-eight caliber revolver.”

Swann looked at the camera, giving Judge Thomas a big smirky grin. “That’s all I have for now, Your Honor.”

“You may cross-examine, Mr. Royal.” the judge said.

I stood. “Thank you, Your Honor. Good afternoon, Agent Lucas.”

“Good afternoon.”

“When did you decide that Abby Lester was your target?”

“I wouldn’t say she was a target. She was the person the evidence pointed to.”

“Okay. When did you come to the conclusion that Abby was probably the murderer?” I wanted to humanize my client a bit. I would use the same tactic with the jury. Using her first name made her more of a real person than simply calling her the defendant or the accused.

“After we finished processing the evidence.”

“And what time of day was that, Agent Lucas?”

“Probably mid-afternoon.”

“Mid-afternoon of yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what time the crime scene technicians discovered Abby’s fingerprints?”

“Not exactly.”

“You weren’t part of the investigation until after the fingerprints had been processed, were you?”

“That’s right. The Sarasota police chief called my boss in Tampa and told him that Mrs. Lester might be a suspect and he wanted to get our agency involved.”

“Did the chief use that term? ‘Suspect?’”

“I wasn’t privy to that conversation.”

“So, you don’t know exactly what was said in relation to Abby Lester?”

“Not exactly.”

“So, the word ‘suspect’ is your word. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I remind you, Agent Lucas, that you’re in a court of law and sworn to tell the truth?”

“No. I’m well aware of where I am, Counselor.”

“So, would it be unfair of me to ask that you stick to what you know and not give us rank speculation?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Swann was on his feet, outrage evident. It was a pretty good act.

“What are your grounds, Mr. Swann?” asked Judge Thomas.

“Mr. Royal is arguing with the witness.”

“Didn’t sound like argument to me. The witness stepped over the line, and Mr. Royal, quite adroitly, I thought, brought him back. Overruled.”

“But, Your Honor—” said Swann, before being cut off by the judge.

“Was there something you didn’t understand about my ruling, Mr. Swann?”

“I understood it, Your Honor, but—”

The judge cut him off again. “Then sit down, Mr. Swann. I’ve ruled.”

I smiled to myself. Old Wayne Lee hadn’t changed. He ran a tight courtroom. Most good trial lawyers appreciated that. Nonsense wasn’t allowed, and woe be unto the lawyer who engaged in it. Thomas would cut him off at the knees and not worry a whole lot about the mess a couple of bloody stumps would leave in the jury’s mind.

“You may proceed, Mr. Royal,” the judge said.

“Thank you, Your Honor. How did you come to be assigned to the case, Agent Lucas?”

“I was already in Sarasota on another matter, and my supervisor called me and asked me to get involved.”

“What time of day did you decide to arrest Abby Lester?”

“After we reviewed all the evidence and had agreed to rule out the other people whose fingerprints were in the condo. About mid-afternoon, I’d say.”

“About three o’clock yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“So, by then, the fingerprints had been identified as belonging to Abby,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Had you found the emails by then?”

“Sarasota PD had those. Yes, sir.”

“Who made the decision to arrest Abby?”

“I did.”

“And that was based on the fingerprints and the emails?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did the technicians find any other fingerprints in the victim’s condo?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of how many people, Agent?”

“About ten.”

“Have you identified any of those?”

“Yes. Most of them, I think.”

“Did you arrest those people?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Why would we?”

“Well, you ordered Abby’s arrest based on the fingerprints, didn’t you?”

“And the emails.”

“Did you find Abby’s finger prints anywhere in Mr. Bannister’s condo other than on the wine glass in the bedroom?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t you find that odd? Wouldn’t you have expected to find her prints in other parts of the condo?”

“Not necessarily. With the exception of the glasses Mr. Bannister and Mrs. Lester were drinking out of, all the glasses and dishes had been washed. There were no prints of anyone on them.”

I switched gears. “How did you know the emails came from Abby?”

Lucas couldn’t help himself. He chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe because she signed them?”

“You mean she had an electronic signature attached to them?”

“No. She just typed her name at the bottom of the emails.”

“Including the email that contained the threat to kill Mr. Bannister?”

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t someone else have done the same thing? Typed her name in?”

“Why would anybody do that?” Lucas asked.

“Why would anybody as smart as a high-school history teacher like Abby put her name at the bottom of an email threatening to kill the man she was supposedly having an affair with?”

“You’d have to ask her,” Lucas said.

I let the silence hang for a moment. “I have,” I said.

I shuffled some papers, letting the silence run on for another few seconds. “Agent Lucas, why did you wait twelve hours, until three in the morning to arrest Abby?”

“It’s safer to arrest somebody in the middle of the night.”

“Safer than going to her house at a reasonable hour in the afternoon, or the next morning?”

“Yes.”

“Were you afraid she was going to shoot you? Maybe beat you up?”

“You never know, Counselor.”

“No, I guess not. Not when you’re after a hardened criminal. Or a history teacher. Did you confiscate Abby’s computer?”

“There was only one computer in the house, and we got it.”

“Were you able to determine if Abby used that computer?”

“She did.”

“Did you look at her emails? The ones she’d sent from her computer?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find copies of the emails she’d supposedly sent to Mr. Bannister?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you find that odd?”

“Not particularly. She could have erased them.”

“Do you know who her Internet service provider is, Agent Lucas?”

“Verizon.”

“And any emails she sent from her computer would have gone through Verizon, right?”

“That’s my understanding.”

“And wouldn’t Verizon have had all that information stored somewhere?” I asked.

“Supposedly.”

“Did you reach out to Verizon to see if they could track the emails?”

“One of the technicians did.”

“And did Verizon have that information?”

Lucas looked over at Swann, as if waiting for some direction. He got nothing. He looked back at me. “I’m told that Verizon had no record of any emails between the defendant and the victim.”

When one is ahead, one sits down and shuts up. “Nothing further, Your Honor,” I said.

“Redirect, Mr. Swann?” Judge Thomas asked.

“No, sir.”

“Do you have any witnesses, Mr. Royal?”

“Perhaps, Your Honor. I’d like to put my client on the stand to testify about her ties to the community, which goes to the risk of her fleeing the jurisdiction of this court and which is germane to your decision on my motion for bail. However, I’d like a stipulation, or better yet, an order from you, that the only testimony elicited from my client would have to do with her residency and such and that this would not prejudice in any way her right not to testify at trial, if she decides not to take the stand.”

“Will you so stipulate, Mr. Swann?” the judge asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then I rule that the defendant can testify and no prejudice will attach. Mr. Swann, you may not examine on the merits of this case.”

The judge swore in my client. I stood and directed my questions to Abby. “State your name for the record, please.”

“Abigail Lester.”

“Where do you reside?”

She gave her address on Longboat Key.

“That’s in Sarasota County?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

I went through a litany of questions and elicited that she had lived her entire life in Sarasota County, graduated from Sarasota High School and gone to college at the University of South Florida’s Sarasota campus. She had taught in the Sarasota County school system for seventeen years and had been married to Bill Lester, the Longboat Key chief of police, for fifteen years. Her father was dead and her mom lived in Sarasota in the house where Abby had been raised.

When I finished, Swann said that he had no questions.

Judge Thomas looked at his notes for a moment and then said, “I’m going to grant bail of one hundred thousand dollars with conditions. Mrs. Lester, you will have to wear an ankle monitor that will alert the sheriff’s office if you go more than one hundred feet from the base unit that will be in your home. If you need to leave your home for any reason, such as meeting with your attorney or going to the doctor, you will need to get permission from the probation officer who will be assigned to you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Abby said.

“Anything else, gentlemen?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor,” I said. “Can you order the sheriff’s department to set up the monitoring system today so that we can get my client released?”

“I’ll transmit the order within a half hour or so. You should be able to take her home today.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

“Anything further?”

Swann and I both said no.

“Court is dismissed,” the judge said, and the TV screen went blank.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was almost five o’clock when J.D. called the Haycock home. Lyn answered. “It’s good to hear from you, J.D.,” she said. “How have you and Matt been?”

“We’re fine, Lyn, but I need to come by and talk to you and Mike.”

“What’s up?”

“It’s part of an investigation I’m involved in.”

“Well, sure, J.D.,” Lyn said, a bit hesitantly. “You’re always welcome. You know that. Mike just called to tell me he’s on his way. He should be home in a few minutes. Come on over now, if you’d like. Is this about Linda Favereaux?”

“It’s not a big deal, but I’m just trying to get a little background on her and her husband. Sammy told me you’d had dinner together recently, and I thought maybe you could shed some light on them.”

“I’m not sure how much we can help, but I bought a bottle of Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc from Publix this morning.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

* * *

Mike and Lyn lived in a bayfront townhouse not far from the police station. They were gracious hosts who threw Super Bowl parties that had become legendary. Mike, who was nearing retirement, was an executive with a multinational company with offices in Bradenton. He and Lyn had lived on the island for a number of years and had no plans to leave.

“Sit down, J.D.,” Lyn said. “I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

“I shouldn’t. I’m still on duty.”

“We won’t tell,” Mike said.

“Well, then,” J.D. said, “you talked me right into it.”

“Lyn said you’ve been talking to Sammy.”

J.D. nodded. “Everybody on the island knows if you need to know something about anyone, Sammy’s the source.”

Mike laughed. “You can say that again. I’m afraid we can’t be much help. We didn’t really know the Favereauxes that well.”

“How long have you known them?” J.D. asked.

Mike looked at Lyn. “A year, maybe?”

“That’s about right,” Lyn said. “We met them at the bar at Pattigeorge’s one night, but they weren’t regulars. We saw them a few times after that, and a couple of weeks ago, Jim invited us to dinner. That’s how we ended up at Euphemia Haye.”

“Did they tell you anything about their backgrounds?”

“No,” Mike said. “I did ask what he did, and he told me he was retired. When I asked what he’d done before, he just said he had been an investor. He sounded sort of guarded, but that might have been my imagination. I didn’t push it.”

“How did they seem together? Any animosity, that sort of thing?” J.D. asked.

“There was quite an age difference,” Lyn said, “but I didn’t see that there was a problem. Linda said they’d been married about twenty years, so I guess it was working. But, well, I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

“You never know what might help,” J.D. said.

“I just felt like there was some kind of barrier between them. I can’t put my finger on it, but there seemed to be, maybe not a barrier, but some distance or something. You know how married couples are. There’s an easiness between them, something unspoken. I can’t explain it, and I probably ought to keep my mouth shut, but it left me feeling like I was out with two people who were friends, not mates. Does this make any sense?”

“Actually, it does,” J.D. said. “I’ve met people like that. You just know intuitively that something’s not right. Like maybe it was more of a business proposition. He needed or wanted a trophy wife, and she liked his money.”