Who is at Fault

Who is at Fault?

Boris poured himself a stiff scotch. Been long day, with more than usual legal argument. He needed to unwind. If he took this bribe what would be the outcome.

The courts were stressful, even in the office he always felt everyone was trying to score more brownie points, beat him to the pot of gold, everything he did included a look over his shoulder to make sure someone hadn’t already beaten him to the punch. “You’ve got a good team, don’t worry.” Empty, non-therapeutic words from outsiders. Pick your excuse but he just wanted a drink. Everyone else was waiting for glasses of wine to be poured with dinner but patience had never been one of Boris’s virtues.

“We all know that it’s not possible to rely on eyewitnesses,” said David Meyer, long-time friend and one of tonight’s dinner guests.

Boris turned from the drinks cabinet, with mouth warmed as he felt the spirit’s heat descend slowly and used his familiar lawyer persona as he addressed David, even though the man was a colleague, there was still a sense of one-up-manship to their interactions.

“Some serious cases have seen their way through to sentencing based on not much more than a spectator. Someone who can identify the perpetrator seriously influences a jury.”

“Yes, but 75% of eyewitnesses are overturned by DNA evidence,” replied David.

For reasons, not even clear to Boris, he still felt an overwhelming urge to rebut everything that came out of David’s mouth.

“And many statistics can be manipulated.”

“Come on Boris, the human mind is not a tape recorder. Witness memory is like any other evidence at a crime scene; it can be contaminated and must be preserved carefully to ensure purity. An astute defense lawyer should be able to shoot holes in any evidence, pardon the pun. Eye witness or no, if there is no other way to corroborated things that may or may not have been seen.”

Boris chewed over his reply, sure he knew that many facets of court case facts which worked off each other, interacted, contradicted, even rebutted some things; but just occasionally he would like to get the upper hand against David. Even though they worked in the same office, there was something smug to his half grin, like he’d seen something stored away in the depths of his mind ready to use against Boris later, exacting maximum effect. Some gross error of judgement made in law school, dancing with the wrong girl at a formal, a mishandled case, or even something shared with a college in confidence, that sort of thing. No matter how much Boris considered the options he could never quite figure out what advantage David held. Yet he knew not to relent. Boris had to be careful, stay ahead and never let down his guard.

David continued his of argument with, “We watch a movie and no one says did the star have straight or curly hair. Was he bald, or wear a bad wig? Even Elton John wrote a song dedicated to a lover, unsure were his eyes green or blue? Saying they were the 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 that had been clutching her husband’s elbow and chipped in with, “Typical of you to see a compliment as a cover up. How long ago did you say something nice to me?” Then she turned to the others, scouring, “Never, ever cross my husband’s lips, good job, Rach; that looks nice, any such platitudes have totally slipped from Boris’s vernacular, on this planet anyway.”  

She leapt to her feet and turned to face the view over Bondi Beach rooftops. Almost directed at windows, semi audible, she muttered, ‘you know Over all these years, Boris could never correctly anticipate Rachel’s conversational contributions, no matter how much time they spend together. So he had long ago concluded she was just another impossible to read woman.

“Don’t you just love her sweeping statements?” Boris mumbled to David, hopeful of some masculine complicity.

“Listen mate, you really should follow up on that. Take some notice and do a few nice things, just because you can.”

Then 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, at least I can rely on you to notice my husband’s short comings.”

Her expression embodied all the ‘I told you so…’ or ‘you never listen to me…’ tearful dramatic conclusion to disagreements. Similar truces that were identifiable at regular intervals throughout the Seligman marriage. Boris had learnt that when she took on that almost victim face, better to turn his mind to something else.

“Remember that American study in 1979,” Boris continued. “Where fewer than half of the subjects could even identify a real penny from replicas, something they touch every day, not even while traumatized. Surely a crime of some sort would have to imprint the images in a stronger way.”

“I disagree,” David’s replied. “I am sure being a victim would shatter your memory retention powers. And there was that famous case where Jennifer Thompson I.D’ed the wrong person.”

Rachel rolled her eyes, and sighed heavily, “Must you guy’s discuss work so much?” But the men weren’t listening.

“Tell you what Boris, seeing as both examples you cite are American, let’s test the theory, why don’t I get into a line up and see what happens.”

“It will be just like that line up for Usual Suspects, when the real criminal found a way to stay hidden. What was it, how was it done - the limp, the hat, the suit?”

He was so carried away with the idea that Boris failed to notice his wife’s raised eyebrow, her neck stretch and her chin lift. Nor did he see David’s nod nor his tongue slide over his bottom lip. Had he seen these signals, everything would have been much clearer. Or at least his suspicions about some kind of a connection between David and Rachel, some hint to what they were setting up, would have been identifiable.

“So you agree then?  I’ll set it up for you, there is a case we’ve got, with a suspect who isn’t too far from your description,” David had an agreement before Boris could barely blink.

“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. “Take more of a look at yourself, husband of mine,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Something like that,” said David. “I’ll get you into the line-up. We will see what the victim thinks of you.”   

“Police would not conduct a line up unless they had a strong suspect.”

“Well they do in this case.”

“What exactly is he being accused of?” Rachel asked.

“Not sure if I should read the charges before the event. Especially when my number one suspect is in the room. This isn’t an Agatha Christie denouement chapter and anyway I don’t want to pre-empt your reaction, you always were a terrible actor,” said David.

“How can you say that when you were part of the university review and theatre sports team with me.”

“That’s exactly the reason I can be a resident expert on matters pertaining to your thespian skills.”

“Oh my God,” said Rachel. “Do you remember that dreadful tango number with Boris in drag? Could anything go any worse?”

So this was how it came to be that one morning when Boris Seligman, just for a joke, agreed to join a police line-up in a case of alleged burglary and attempted rape. He slipped the chit which indicated he was to stand in position four into the front pocket of his Armani suit. Then strolled leisurely in with a group of alleged criminals he tried not to judge. Of course he was the only one wearing a suit, but the others were dressed in clean, middle class attire, so as not to make his presence like a spot-the-odd-one-out competition. As an afterthought one of the lawyers also passed suspect number seven a suit coat. The ‘perp’ must have been the best dressed alleged rapist in town, thought Boris.

To the astonishment of others watching, the victim, a still traumatized woman identified Seligman as the true culprit.

“Are you sure, ma’am? No need to rush,” reassured the supervising policeman. Everyone in the place was having doubts, but tried to save the girl some embarrassment, in an effort to make her feel affirmed, after all she’d had enough problems. The poor creature didn’t need a whole lot of doubting Thomas constables, because most of them were in on this lawyer’s joke.  

The other lawyers instantly feared that for once a prank had gone too far, but Seligman was sanguine. He had a sure-fire alibi: the night in question he and his wife had dined with David Meyer; they had been friends since law school. David had been best man at Boris’s wedding for God sake, and senior partner in the firm, you can’t get more water tight. But David, after consulting his desk diary had denied the dinner party was the case, and Seligman’s wife confirmed there had been no gathering at their apartment that night, it wasn’t the 19^th, Boris had gotten the dates wrong, again. No, the dinner party had been the 23^rd. They had changed the date because of a hearing in one of the country courts, a fact which was simple to cross check. Boris was adamant, he too had a diary, and wouldn’t you know it that page, and the two either side had been torn out. His personal assistant, while looking complicit knew nothing about why the pages have gone missing. Even though Boris often wanted to apply this notion to his wife, you can’t punish the girl for facial expressions.

“I distinctly remember the occasion?” Boris tried to explain to the interviewing officers. “We meet every three weeks. On our last gathering, we had set up for me to be in a line up under the guise of testing eye witness theories and you see what has happened. Ipso facto I am right now that the wrong person has been identified. Ring my wife again, Rachel will confirm, check with her. If I remember correctly the 19^th was the night she poached fantastic salmon and did a white chocolate cheese cake for dessert, and had spent a tidy sum on a new Weiss dress to wear. Now I am wondering who she might have wanted to impress. And why she is telling you a different date?” 

Although Rachel had agreed to be available for any matters the police needed to discuss, the house phone rang un-answered.

“The mobile won’t let me leave a voice message,” the sergeant complained, “It’s almost as if she has dropped off the face of earth.”

But then a patrol car radioed in that her BMW had been seen entering the Sebel at the Quay’s underground car-park. Sure enough CCTV footage from the foyer and lift showed David Meyer and Rachel Seligman unable to keep their hands off each other, “That’s some serious face-sucking,” was a comment from one of the police gallery that had gathered to review the footage.