Pop Goes the Weasel

Tricia and Erica, I’m so sorry. If I’d had any idea what a circus this would become, I would have insisted on maintaining diplomatic immunity rather than trying to clear my name, our name, their name.
    “While I’m making heartfelt apologies, I’ll make one to all of you for being a bit of a bore right now. It’s just that when you’re accused of murder, something so heinous, so unthinkable, you want desperately to get it off your chest. You want to tell the truth more than anything else in the world. So that’s what I’m doing today.
    “You’ve heard the evidence — and there simply isn’t any. You’ve heard character witnesses. And now you’ve heard from me. I did not kill Detective Patsy Hampton. I think you all know that, but I wanted to say it to you myself. Thank you for listening,” he said, and bowed slightly in his seat.
    Shafer was brief, but he was poised and articulate and, unfortunately, very believable. He always held eye contact with the jury members. His words weren’t nearly as important as the way he delivered them.
    Catherine Fitzgibbon came forward to do the cross-examination. She was careful with Shafer at first; she knew he had the jury on his side for the moment. She waited until near the end of her cross-exam to go after Shafer where he might be most vulnerable.
    “Your statement was very nice, Mr. Shafer. Now, as you sit before this jury, you claim that your relationship with Dr. Cassady was strictly professional, that you did not have a sexual relationship with her, correct? Remember, you are under oath.”
    “Yes, absolutely. She was, and hopefully will continue to be, my therapist.”
    “Notwithstanding the fact that she admits to having a sexual relationship with you?”
    Shafer held his hand out toward Jules Halpern, signaling for him not to object. “I believe that the court record will show that she did not admit to such.”
    Fitzgibbon frowned. “I don’t follow? Why do you think she didn’t answer counsel?”
    Shafer shot back, “That’s so obvious: because she didn’t care to dignify such a question.”
    “And when she hung her head, sir, and looked down at her lap? She was nodding assent.”
    Shafer now looked at the jury and shook his head in amazement. “You misread her completely. You missed the point again, Counselor. Allow me to illustrate, if I may. As King Charles said before being beheaded, ‘Give me my cloak lest they think I tremble from fear.’ Dr. Elizabeth Cassady was deeply embarrassed by your associate’s crude suggestion, and so was my family, and so am I.”
    Geoffrey Shafer looked at the prosecutor with steely eyes. He then acknowledged the jury again. “And so am I.”

Chapter 99
    THE TRIAL was almost over, and now came the really hard part: waiting for the verdict. That Tuesday, the jurors retired to the jury room to commence their deliberations in the murder trial of Geoffrey Shafer. I allowed myself to actually think the unthinkable — that Shafer might be set free.
    Sampson and I sat in the rear row of the courtroom and watched the twelve members depart: eight men and four women. John had come to court several times, calling it the “best and sleaziest show this side of the Oval Office,” but I knew he was there to give me support.
    “The son of a bitch is guilty; he’s mad as little Davey Berkowitz,” Sampson said as he watched Shafer. “But he has a lot of good actors on his side: doting wife, doting mistress, well-paid lawyers, Silly Billy. He could get away with it.”
    “It happens,” I agreed. “Juries are hard to read. And getting harder.”
    I watched as Shafer courteously shook hands with the members of his defense team. Jules and Jane Halpern both had forced smiles on their faces. They know, don’t they? Their client is the Weasel, a mass murderer .
    “Geoffrey Shafer has the ability to make people believe in him when he needs to. He’s the best actor I’ve seen,” I said.
    Then John left and I snuck out the back way again. This time neither Shafer nor the press was lying in wait downstairs or in the rear parking lot.
    In the lot, I heard a woman’s voice, and I stopped moving. I thought it was Christine . A dozen or so people were walking to their cars, seemingly unaware of me. I felt fevered and hot as I checked them all. None of them was her. Where had the voice come from?
    I took a ride in the old Porsche and listened to George Benson on the CD player. I remembered the police report about