Fault Finder

Fault Finder

Boris poured himself a stiff scotch. Pick your excuse but he needed a drink. Everyone else waited for wine but patience never one of Boris’s virtues.

‘Not possible to rely on eye witnesses,’ said David Meyer. As usual among tonight’s dinner guests.

Boris turned from the drinks cabinet and used his lawyer persona to address David, keen to gain one-up-man-ship. ‘Some serious cases are sentenced based on a spectator. Identifying perpetrators seriously influences a jury.’

‘Yes, but 75% of eyewitnesses are overturned by DNA evidence,’ replied David.

 ‘And many statistics can be manipulated.’

‘Come on Boris, human minds are not tape recorders. Witness memory is like any crime scene evidence, contaminable. An astute defense lawyer should be able to shoot holes in witness say-so. Without corroboration, works out null and void.’  

Boris chewed over his reply. Brushed against leather couch cushions, pondered a slightly distorted Barcelona street scene captured in oils framed in silver ash on an opposite wall. He desired an upper hand against David. No a friend, even though they shared offices. Always something smug in his half grin, like he’d seen something stored ready to use against Boris later. Some gross error of judgement made in law school, dancing with the wrong girl at a formal, a mishandled case, or even something shared in confidence. Who knew?

David continued, ‘watching a movie, no one says if a star has straight or curly hair. Even Elton John wrote a song dedicated to a lover, unsure were his eyes green or blue? Saying only, prettiest eyes he’d ever seen.’

‘Classic back pedal by Sir Elton too, covering up a lack of knowledge with a compliment.’ Boris retorted.

Rachel unwrapped her long fingers from clutching her husband’s elbow and chipped in with, ‘typical of you to see a compliment as a cover up. How long since you said something nice to me? Good job, Rach; that looks nice. Platitudes totally slipped from your vernacular, probably about when you stopped going to synagogue functions.’

She leapt to her feet and turned to face views over Bondi Beach rooftops. Sea mist reduced street lamps to shadows, akin to gas lights of long ago Jack the Ripper London. Almost directed at windows, semi audible, she muttered, ‘you know he instructed me to keep my wedding dress under the bed, said he wanted to know where to look, in case another wife needed it.’

Without prompting her fingers again caressed expensive silk, she lifted lace panels to examine inner slip layers. Fairly makes her skin crawl to dwell on Boris’s fingers venturing between these fabrics. Elegance embodied, pity someone else might one day wear this dress, a repeat performance walking down an aisle of assembled family members and significant acquaintances. Not if she had anything to do with Boris’s future.

Over all these years, Boris could never correctly anticipate Rachel’s conversational contributions. ‘Don’t you just love sweeping and intriguing statements?’ He hoped for some masculine complicity.

‘Listen mate, you really should take some note.’ Said David as he leant back to touch Rachel’s hand, and slid a finger over her slim gold wedding band, ‘poor dear, you really are under-rated by your husband.’

‘Thank you, David.’ Uttered with a face which embodied previous, I told you so… or you never listen to me… tearful disagreement conclusions. Similar truces at regular intervals throughout Seligman’s marriage.

‘Remember 1979 American study,’ Boris said. ‘Fewer than half respondents could identify a real penny from replicas. An everyday item with non-traumatic status. Crimes must produce stronger imprints.’

‘I disagree,’ David’s replied. ‘Victimization will shatter memory retention. Case in point, Jennifer Thompson identified incorrect persons.’

Rachel rolled her eyes, and sighed, ‘must you discuss work so much?’ A new ankle bracelet, so far unobserved by her husband pinched slightly. A pain she didn’t dislike.

‘Seeing as both examples cited are American, let’s test theories,’ insisted David. ‘Why don’t I get into a line up and see what happens?’

‘Same as Usual Suspects. How’d Kevin Spacey get away with it? A limp, hat and suit, right?’

His wife raised eyebrow, her neck stretched and chin lifted. David gave a nodded acknowledgement, his tongue moistened his bottom lip. If only Boris had been astute enough to notice. Something warming in the kitchen ticked, almost mechanical, as if a metronome clunked off time.

‘So you agree? There is a case and suspect of similar description.’

A pact agreed before Boris barely blinked. ‘You mean dark, brooding and devastatingly good looking.’

Rachel rolled her eyes again and scoured at his thickening waist-line and hirsute features, everywhere but on his head, or course.

‘Something like that,’ said David.

‘Police would not conduct a line up without a strong suspect and witness testimony.’

‘Well they do.’

‘Exactly what accusation?’ Rachel asked.

‘Won’t read your charges right now. Especially when you are my number one suspect. This isn’t an Agatha Christie denouement chapter. Too much risk of pre-empting reactions. Adding in my serious doubts about your acting abilities, negates further information.’

‘Cruel. Especially after our university reviews and theatre sports days.’

‘Exactly why I can be a resident expert on matters pertaining to your thespian skills.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Rachel. ‘Remember your dreadful drag tango number.’  

So on the following Tuesday, Boris Seligman, just for a joke, fronted a police line-up in a case of alleged burglary and attempted rape. He slipped position four chit into the front pocket of his Armani suit. Strolled leisurely amid alleged criminals. Of course he alone wore a suit, others dressed in clean, middle class attire. So as to blend, instead of embodying a spot-odd-one-out competition, a lawyers passed suspect number seven a suit coat. Soft ash, Boris observed, ill-fitting across the shoulders, sleeves a tad too long, also gave this fellow’s skin a slight tangerine edge.

To an astonished audience, the victim, a still traumatized woman identified Seligman.  

‘Are you sure, ma’am? No need to rush,’ reassured a supervisor. Everyone doubtful but tried to save more embarrassment. Affirm her, after all she’d been through enough. Right now sucking on her lips, as if affected by some sort of cud chewing disorder. Poor creature didn’t need a whole lot of doubting Thomas constables. Most of which were in on this lawyer’s joke.  

Fearful a prank gone too far. Seligman remained sanguine. He possessed a sure-fire alibi. On dates under consideration he and his wife dined with David Meyer. Friends since law school, best man at Boris’s wedding for God sake. Senior partner, you can’t get more water tight. Unfortunately after consulting his diary, David denied this dinner party occurred. Seligman’s wife confirmed no gathering at their apartment. Not 19^th. Boris mixed up dates, again. Dinner party under scrutiny was in fact held on 23^rd. Changed because of country court hearings. Simple to cross check. Boris still adamant, demanded a diary check. Surprised to find 18, 19 and 20^th all removed. His personal assistant, looked complicit, yet knew nothing about missing pages. Even though Boris often wanted to apply this notion to his wife, you can’t punish for facial expressions.

‘I distinctly remember this occasion?’ Boris tried to explain to interviewing officers. ‘We meet every three weeks. On our last gathering, we discussed this line up under guises of testing eye witness theories. Ipso facto, I am right now, wrongly identified. Ring my wife again, Rachel will confirm, check with her. 19^th being an occasion she poached fantastic salmon and did a white chocolate cheese cake for dessert. Spent a tidy, unmentionable amounts on a new Weiss dress. Now I wonder who she wanted to impress. And why she is telling you a different dates?’ 

Although Rachel agreed to be available for any police matters, landlines rang un-answered.

‘Mobile won’t let me leave a voice message,’ desk sergeant complained, ‘almost as if she’s dropped off earth’s surface.’

But then a patrol car radioed Rachel Seligman’s BMW identified entering Sebel at the Quay’s underground car-park. Sure enough foyer CCTV footage and lift vestibule images showed David Meyer and Rachel Seligman unable to keep their hands off each other.

‘Some serious face-sucking,’ a comment from a police gallery gathered to review footage.

‘Fantastic dress though.’ Says a policewoman, barely visible behind ogling, bordering on overweight constables.