Some United States lawyers felt that grand jury procedures were still disconcertingly close to the Salem witch trials of 1692—though usually not prosecutors.
Even with Adele Montesino’s shortcuts, a succession of witnesses and questioning continued for two hours. Malcolm Ainslie, after nearly an hour on the stand, had been dismissed and sent from the room, though instructed to stand by because his testimony would be needed again. He was not allowed to hear other witnesses; no one other than jurors or court officials ever attended a full grand jury performance.
For the principal murder-one accusation, the subject of motive—Cynthia’s lifelong hatred of her parents—was addressed by Detective Ruby Bowe, who, smartly attired in a beige suit, was responsive to questions, and articulate.
Bowe described her discovery of Eleanor Ernst’s secret diaries, though Adele Montesino’s questioning stopped before reaching Cynthia’s pregnancy. Instead, at the prompting of Montesino, who had clearly familiarized herself with the diaries’ clarified version, Bowe jumped ahead, reading aloud the diary entry that began, I’ve caught Cynthia looking at us sometimes. I believe a fierce hatred for us both is there, and concluded, Sometimes I think she’s planning something for us, some kind of revenge, and I’m afraid. Cynthia is very clever, more clever than us both.
Bowe had expected the questioning would return to Cynthia’s pregnancy and childbearing, but Montesino concluded, “Thank you, Detective. That is all.”
Afterward, when Ruby Bowe discussed the omission with Ainslie, he said wryly, “Bringing out the pregnancy by her father might have created too much sympathy for Cynthia. If you’re a prosecutor you can’t let that happen.”
Setting the stage for the tape recording, the state attorney called as a witness Julio Verona, the Police Department’s ID chief. After establishing his qualifications, Montesino proceeded. “I believe that the recording this grand jury is about to hear was subjected to tests to establish that the voices on it are indeed those of Cynthia Ernst and Patrick Jensen. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Please describe the tests and your conclusion.”
“In our own police records we already had recordings of Commissioner Ernst when she was a police officer, and of Mr. Jensen, who was once questioned in connection with another case. Those were compared with the recording you have just referred to.” Verona described the technical tests on specialized acoustic equipment, then concluded, “The two voices are identical on both recordings.”
“And now we’ll play the recording that is part of the evidence in this case,” Montesino told the grand jury. “Please listen carefully, though if there’s anything you miss and want to hear again, we can play it as many times as you wish.”
Julio Verona stayed to operate the tape, using high-quality sound equipment. As the voices of Patrick Jensen and Cynthia Ernst were heard—at first ordering their meal, then in lowered tones discussing the Colombian, Virgilio—every grand juror was visibly concentrating, anxious not to miss a word. When Cynthia was heard protesting after Jensen told her Virgilio was the wheelchair murderer—Shut up! Don’t tell me that! I don’t want to know—a male Hispanic juror proclaimed, “Pues ya lo sabe.” To which a young, blond Caucasian woman added, “But the bitch kept it to herself!”
Other jurors shushed the pair, and another voice asked, “May we hear that over again, please?”
“Certainly.” The state attorney nodded to Verona, who stopped the tape, rewound it slightly, and recommenced playing.
Then, as the recorded voices continued—two payments of two hundred thousand dollars, one for the Colombian, the same for Patrick; Cynthia suggesting “odd features” to make the deaths appear to be serial killings—murmurs, then exclamations of disgust, anger, and resolve surfaced among the jurors, one man declaring as the recording stopped, “Guilty as hell, an’ I don’t need to hear no more!”
“I understand what you’re saying, sir, and I respect your feelings,” Adele Montesino responded. “But there are two more indictments being sought here, and I must ask your patience for a little longer. By the way, I don’t know if anyone’s noticed, but we seem to have some air conditioning again.”
There was scattered applause and some sighs, this time of relief.
Fairly quickly, a few gaps were filled. An IRS inspector produced Cynthia Ernst’s subpoenaed tax records, showing she had declared and paid taxes on interest earned in a Cayman Islands bank account, the interest having resulted from deposits—stated to be a series of gifts and therefore not taxable—exceeding five million dollars. “I point out to you,” the inspector said at the end, removing his bifocals, “that Ms. Ernst’s taxes are entirely in order.”
“But the existence of the account,” Montesino advised the grand jury, “supports the statement you heard on tape about Ms. Ernst’s intention to pay four hundred thousand dollars for the murders of her parents.” Montesino did not mention the irony that Cynthia’s compliance with U.S. tax laws had created evidence that otherwise would have remained concealed in the Caymans and been off limits to any U.S. court.
Malcolm Ainslie was recalled. He described the opening of Jensen’s safe-deposit box, which included the tape recording the grand jury had heard, as well as other items. One of those was an airline ticket counterfoil showing a round-trip Miami-Grand Cayman journey, by Jensen, aboard Cayman Airways.
“What is the significance of that flight?” Montesino asked.
“Two days ago, in the presence of his attorney,” Ainslie replied, “Mr. Jensen told me that he and Cynthia Ernst spent three days together in the Caymans, during which they planned the Ernst murders; also that they traveled there separately—Miss Ernst on American Airlines from Miami, using the name Hilda Shaw.”
“And did you verify that second statement?”
“Yes. I went to American Airlines headquarters in Miami, and, using their computer records, they confirmed there was a passenger with the name Hilda Shaw on their flight 1029 to Grand Cayman that same day.”
It was all hearsay evidence, Ainslie realized, which would have been thrown out of a regular court, but was usable in this sometimes zany proceeding.
Related to the second indictment—Cynthia’s concealment of the two murders by Jensen—Ainslie produced the box of damning evidence against Jensen, put together and hidden by Cynthia Ernst. Then, prompted by Montesino, he showed and described the contents one by one.
Julio Verona was recalled next. He testified that fingerprints found on plastic bags in the evidence box were those of Cynthia Ernst, and that handwriting on several labels had been examined and certified as hers also.
“Concerning the third indictment,” Montesino told the grand jury, “I will not call any witness to confirm that Cynthia Ernst learned the name of the guilty party in what has become known as the Wheelchair Murder, and subsequently failed to report that information to police, as required by law. That is because you—the grand jurors—are, in effect, witnesses yourselves, having heard exactly what happened during the recording that was played.”
Again, murmurs and nods acknowledged her words.
Montesino was brief with her finale.
“This has been a long and painful session, and I will not prolong it, except with this reminder. Your task now is not to decide the innocence or guilt of Cynthia Ernst. That will be a trial jury’s responsibility—if you decide that the evidence presented is sufficient to take these matters onward through the courts. I do believe, most strongly, that it is far more than sufficient, and that justice will be served by your issuance of three true bills—indictments. Thank you.”
Moments later, after the state attorney and other staff departed, the grand jurors were left alone.
But not for long. Barely fifteen minutes later the judge and the state attorney were summoned, after which the judge received the grand jurors’ decisions and read them aloud. In each case an indictment called for the arrest of Cynthia Ernst.
4
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?You guys will have to move fast,” Curzon Knowles warned Ainslie as he handed him a plastic cover containing two signed copies of the three indictments. “Once those jurors get out of here, secrecy oath or not, someone will talk, and word about Commissioner Ernst will spread like a brush fire and surely get to her.”
They were in a hallway outside the courtroom. As Knowles walked with him toward an elevator, Ainslie asked, “Can you keep everyone here for a while? You have more cases with this jury?”
“One. We planned it that way, but don’t count on more than an hour. After that, you take your chances.”
Knowles continued, “They already know about the indictments at the Police Department; Montesino called the chief. And, oh yes, I’ve been told to tell you that as soon as you arrive, you should go directly to the office of Assistant Chief Serrano.” He glanced at Ainslie curiously. “Pretty unusual for the brass to be directly involved in a homicide.”
“Not when it’s a city commissioner. The mayor and commissioners are a special breed, and treated very warily.”
As a state officer dealing with many towns and cities statewide, Curzon Knowles was not tuned in to local politics as, in Miami, even a detective-sergeant was.
Ostensibly, Ainslie knew, the Police Department was independent of city politics, but in reality it was not. The city commission controlled the Police Department budget through the city manager, who also appointed the chief of police and had the power to remove one; there was an occasion when he had done so. Commission members possessed inside knowledge about senior police officers who were in line for promotion. And some commissioners had friends on the force, so quiet influence on their behalf could be, and sometimes was, applied.
Occasionally, Ainslie knew, too, there had been difficulties between the city commission and the Police Department—the commission highly protective of its authority, and touchy when it was infringed. All of which was why, five days ago, Lieutenant Newbold had brought the startling developments to the attention of his superiors, Majors Figueras and Yanes. They, in turn, had passed the information higher, and those at top command, once concerned, had stayed involved.
As the elevator doors closed, Knowles mouthed from outside, “Good luck.”
Good luck with what? Ainslie wondered as the elevator descended. His concept of luck right now would be to have his role in this drama end when he delivered the indictments to the assistant chief. But he suspected it would not.
His own deep depression of the previous Friday had continued over the weekend and through yesterday, as the net of retribution tightened around Cynthia.
In his own personal domain there had been some change. Late Friday night he had told Karen of his decision to quit Homicide when this present duty was done, and perhaps the Police Department completely, though he wasn’t sure about that. At the news, Karen had put her arms around him and, close to tears, assured him, “Darling, I’m so relieved. I’ve seen what these awful things do to you. You can’t take any more, and you should get out altogether. Don’t worry about the future; we’ll manage! You’re more important than anything else—to me, to Jason, and”—she touched her rounded stomach, now showing four months of pregnancy—“and whoever.”
That night with Karen he had spoken of Cynthia; he’d cited her childhood tragedies, described the woman filled with hate that those tragedies created, then told of Cynthia’s crimes—a fierce transfer of her hatred, with an impost under law now coming due.
Karen had listened, then reacted with some of her plain reasoning, which, through their nine years of marriage, he had come to know and value. “Of course I’m sorry for her; anyone would be, especially another woman. But the fact is, there’s nothing either done to her or by her that can be undone now; it’s all too late. So whatever happens, other people—you and I especially—don’t have to share Cynthia’s despair or guilt, and have our lives wrecked, too. So yes, Malcolm, do what you have to this very last time, and then—get out!”
As Karen spoke Cynthia’s name, Ainslie wondered, as he had before, if she was aware of his and Cynthia’s long-past affair.
But apart from all else, the objective was to get this present mission—definitely his last—over as fast as possible.
The elevator door opened at the courthouse main floor.
Exercising police privilege, Ainslie had left his unmarked car parked outside, and the journey to Police Headquarters—three blocks north and two west—was brief.
When he entered the office suite of Assistant Chief Otero Serrano, head of all police investigations, a secretary said, “Good afternoon, Sergeant Ainslie. They’re waiting for you.” She rose and opened a door to an interior office.
Inside, a conversation was in progress among Serrano, Mark Figueras, Manolo Yanes, and Leo Newbold. As Ainslie entered, voices quieted, heads turned toward him.
“Are those the indictments, Sergeant?” Chief Serrano, tall and athletically built, was behind his desk. A former detective, he had a distinguished record.
“Yes, sir.” Ainslie handed over the plastic cover he was carrying, and Serrano removed the two copies of each indictment, passing the extra set to the other three.
While all four were reading, Ruby Bowe was ushered in quietly. She moved close to Ainslie and whispered, “We have to talk. I’ve found her child.”
“Cynthia’s?” Startled, he glanced around. “Do we …”
She whispered back, “I don’t think so. Not yet.”
As those in the room continued reading, low groans were audible, then Figueras breathed, “Christ! It couldn’t be worse.”
“Things happen,” Serrano said resignedly, “that you think never would.”
A door from outside opened, and Chief of Police Farrell Ketledge came in. A hush fell over the room as everyone straightened up. The chief said quietly, “Carry on.” Moving to a window, standing alone, he told Serrano, “This is your show, Otero.”
The reading resumed.
“Cynthia screwed us well and truly,” said Figueras. “Got herself promoted after she hid that killing of Jensen’s wife and friend.”
“Goddam media will have a field day,” Manolo Yanes predicted.
Despite the more significant murder-one indictment, Ainslie realized, it was the second and third indictments—Cynthia’s participation in murders while a Homicide detective, and her concealing knowledge of another—that hurt them most.
“If this goes to trial, it could take years,” Leo Newbold said. “We’ll be under the gun the whole time.”
The others nodded gloomily.
“That’s all, then,” Serrano intervened. “I wanted to share what’s happening because we’ll all be involved. But we must move.”
“Might not be so bad if Ernst did hear before we got to her.” It was Manolo Yanes’s voice. “Then she could do the decent thing and swallow a bullet. Save everyone a potful of trouble.”
Ainslie expected Yanes’s words to produce a sharp rebuke. To his surprise, there was none; only a silence followed, during which not even the chief spoke. Was a subtle message being conveyed? As he dismissed the thought as unworthy, Serrano turned toward him.
“You may not like this, Sergeant Ainslie, but you’re the one we’ve chosen to make the arrest.” He paused, his tone becoming considerate. “Does this give you any kind of problem?”
So he knew. Ainslie supposed they all knew about him and Cynthia. He recalled Ruby’s words: We’re detectives, aren’t we?
“I won’t enjoy it, sir. Who would? But I’ll do what’s necessary.” In a peculiar way, he felt he owed it to Cynthia to see this through.
Serrano nodded approvingly. “Because it’s a city commissioner, everything from this moment on will be under the closest public scrutiny. You have an outstanding reputation, and I’m confident there’ll be no fumbling, no mistakes.”
Ainslie was conscious of all eyes on him, and, just as during the session with Figueras and Yanes five days earlier, a note of respect seemed evident that transcended ra
nk.
Serrano consulted a paper brought in by his secretary moments earlier. “We’ve kept tabs on Ernst since early this morning. Half an hour ago she went to her City Hall office. She’s there now.” He looked up at Ainslie. “You must have a woman officer with you. It will be Detective Bowe.”
Ainslie nodded. Nowadays a woman suspect was almost never arrested by a male officer alone; it made sexual harassment claims too easy.
Serrano continued, “I’ve ordered a uniform backup. They’re already below, waiting for your orders. And you’ll need this.” He passed over an arrest warrant, prepared in anticipation of the indictments. “Go do it!”
Ruby glanced at Ainslie in the crowded elevator. He murmured, “Save it. Tell me on the way.” Then, as they left the elevator, “You get us a car. I’ll talk to our backup.”
Two uniform officers, Sergeant Ben Braynen, whom Ainslie knew well, and his partner, were beside a Miami Police blue-and-white at the building’s staff-restricted exit. “We’re your strong right arm,” Braynen said, greeting him. “Orders came from the top. You must be mighty important.”
“If I am, it’s temporary,” Ainslie told him. “And I’ll get the usual check on payday.”
“So what’s the mission?”
“We go to City Hall in the Grove, the commissioners’ offices. I’m doing an arrest with Bowe, and you’re our backup.” He produced the arrest warrant, pointing to the principal name.
“Holy shit!” Braynen said incredulously. “This for real?”
Ruby Bowe, in an unmarked police car, pulled ahead of the blue-and-white and stopped.
“As real as sin,” Ainslie said, “so follow us. We may not need you, but it’ll be good to know you’re there.”