The Fifth Witness Part 47

"A. Louis Opparizio Financial Technologies. That's the name of the company."

"Now, what would it mean to you if this person Donald Driscoll, who was one of your friends on Facebook, was employed by ALOFT?"

"It would mean that somebody from ALOFT was getting all my posts."

"So, essentially, this person Driscoll would know where you've been and where you're going, correct?"

"That's correct."

"He would have been privy to your posts from last September that said you had found Mr. Bondurant's parking spot at the bank and that you were going to wait for him, correct?"

"Yes, correct."

"Thank you, Lisa. I have nothing further."

On my way back to my seat I had to steal a glance at Freeman. She was no longer beaming. She was staring straight ahead. I then looked out into the gallery for Maggie, but she was gone.

Forty-three.

The afternoon belonged to Shamiram Arslanian, my forensics expert from New York. I had used Shami to great effect in previous trials and that was again the plan here. She had degrees from Harvard, MIT and John Jay, was currently a research fellow at the latter, and had a winning and telegenic personality. On top of that she had an integrity that shone through on the witness stand with every word of testimony. She was a defense lawyer's dream. No doubt, she was a gun for hire but she took the job only if she believed in the science and in what she was going to say on the stand. What's more, there was a bonus for me in this case. She was the exact same height as my client.

During the lunch break Arslanian had set up a mannequin in front of the jury box. It was a male figure standing exactly six foot two and a half inches tall, the same height as Mitch.e.l.l Bondurant in his shoes. It wore a suit similar to the one Bondurant was wearing on the morning of his murder and the exact same shoes. The mannequin had joints that allowed for a full range of natural human motion.

After court resumed and my witness took the stand, I took my time going through her voluminous bona fides. I wanted the jurors to understand this woman's accomplishments and to like her offhand manner of answering questions. I also wanted them to realize that her skills and knowledge put her on a different plane than the state's forensic witnesses. A higher plane.

Once the impression had been made I got down to the business of the mannequin.

"Now, Dr. Arslanian, I asked you to review aspects of the murder of Mitch.e.l.l Bondurant, is that true?"

"Yes, you did."

"And in particular I wanted to examine the physics of the crime, true?"

"Yes, you basically asked me to find out if your client could've actually done the crime in the way the police said she did."

"And did you conclude that she could have?"

"Well, yes and no. I determined that yes, she could have done it but it wouldn't have been in the manner the detectives out here were saying."

"Can you explain your conclusion?"

"I would rather demonstrate, using myself in the place of your client."

"How tall are you, Dr. Arslanian?"

"I'm five foot three in my stocking feet, same height that I was told Lisa Trammel is."

"And did I send you a hammer that was a duplicate of the hammer recovered by police and declared to be the murder weapon?"

"Yes, you did. And I brought it with me."

She held the duplicate hammer up from the shelf at the front of the witness box.

"And did you get photos from me depicting the gardening shoes that were seized from the defendant's unlocked garage and later found to have the victim's blood on them?"

"Yes, you did that, too, and I was able to procure an exact duplicate pair on the Internet. I'm wearing them now."

She kicked one leg out from the side of the witness box, showing off the waterproof shoe. There was a polite round of laughter in the courtroom. I asked the judge to allow my witness to conduct the demonstration of her findings and he agreed over objection from the prosecution.

Arslanian left the witness box with the hammer and proceeded with her demonstration.

"The question I was asking myself was, could a woman the defendant's height, which is five foot three like mine, have struck the fatal blow on the crown of the head of a man who is six foot two and a half in his work shoes? Now the hammer, which adds about an extra ten inches in reach, is helpful in this regard, but is it enough? That was my question."

"Doctor, if I can interrupt, can you tell us about your mannequin and how you prepared it for your testimony?"

"Of course. Everybody, this is Manny and I use him all the time when I testify in trials and when I conduct tests in my lab back at John Jay. He has all the joints like a real human being and he comes apart if I need him to and the best thing is he never talks back or says I look fat in my jeans."

Again she scored some polite laughter.

"Thank you, Doctor," I said quickly before the judge could tell her to keep it serious. "If you could go on with your demonstration."

"Sure. Well, what I did was use the autopsy report and the photos and drawings to exactly locate the spot on the skull of the mannequin where the fatal blow was struck. Now we know because of the notch in the striking face that Mr. Bondurant was struck from behind. We also know by the even depth of the depression fracture to the skull that he was struck evenly on the top of the head. So by attaching the hammer at a flush angle like so..."

Climbing onto a short stepladder next to Manny, she was able to place the strike face of the hammer against the crown of the skull and then hold it in place with two bands that went under the faceless mannequin's chin. She then stepped down and gestured to the hammer and its handle, which was extending at a right angle and parallel to the floor.

"So as you can see, this doesn't work. I'm five four in these shoes, the defendant is five four in these shoes, and the handle is way up here."

She reached up to the hammer. It was impossible for her to grasp it properly.

"What this tells us is that the fatal blow could not have been struck by the defendant with the victim in this position-standing up straight, head level. Now, what other positions are available that do work with what we know? We know the attack was from behind so if the victim was leaning forward-say he dropped his keys or something-you see that it still doesn't work because I can't reach the hammer over his back."

As she spoke she manipulated the mannequin, bending it over at the waist, and then reaching toward the hammer's handle from the rear.

"No, doesn't work. Now for two days, between cla.s.ses, I looked for other ways to strike the blow, but the only way I could make it work was if the victim was on his knees or crouched down for some reason, or if he happened to be looking up at the ceiling."

She manipulated the mannequin again and stood it up straight. She then bent the head back at the neck and the handle came down. She grasped it and the position looked comfortable, but the mannequin was looking almost straight up.

"Now, according to the autopsy there were significant abrasions on both knees and one even had a cracked patella. These were described as impact injuries coming from Mr. Bondurant's fall to the ground after he was struck. He dropped to his knees first and then fell forward, face-first. What we call a dead fall. So with that kind of injury to the knees, I rule out that he was kneeling or crouched close to the ground. That leaves only this."

She gestured toward the mannequin's head, angled sharply back with the faceplate up. I checked the jury. Everybody was watching intently. It was like show-and-tell in first grade.

"Okay, Doctor, if you put the angle of the head back to even or just slightly elevated, did you come up with a range of heights for the real perpetrator of this crime?"

Freeman jumped up and objected in a tone of complete exasperation.

"Your Honor, this isn't science. This is junk science. The whole thing is smoke and mirrors, and now he's asking her to give the height of someone who could could have done it? It is impossible to know exactly what posture or neck angle the victim of this horrible-" have done it? It is impossible to know exactly what posture or neck angle the victim of this horrible-"

"Your Honor, closing arguments are not till next week," I interjected. "If the state has an objection then counsel should state it to the court instead of speaking to the jury and trying to sell-"

"All right," the judge said. "Both of you, stop it. Mr. Haller, you've been given wide lat.i.tude with this witness. But I was beginning to agree with Ms. Freeman until she got on her soapbox. Objection sustained."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Freeman said as though she had just been rescued from abandonment in a desert.

I composed myself, looked at my witness and her mannequin, then checked my notes and finally nodded. I'd gotten what I could.

"I have no further questions," I said.

Freeman did have questions but try as she might to shake Shami Arslanian from her direct testimony and conclusions, the veteran prosecutor never got the veteran witness to concede an inch. Freeman worked her on cross for nearly forty minutes but the closest she got to scoring a point for the prosecution was to get Arslanian to acknowledge that there was no way of knowing for sure what happened in the garage when Bondurant was murdered. The judge had announced earlier in the week that Friday would be a short day because of a districtwide judges' meeting planned for late in the afternoon. So there was no afternoon break and we worked until almost four before Perry recessed the trial for the weekend. We moved into the two-day break with me feeling like I had the upper hand. We had weathered the state's case by potshotting much of the evidence, then closed out the week with Lisa Trammel's denial and claim to be the victim of a setup, and my forensic witness's supposition that it was physically impossible for the defendant to commit the crime. Unless, of course, she happened to strike the fatal blow to the victim while he was looking straight up at the ceiling of the parking garage.

I believed these were powerful seeds of doubt. Things felt good to me and when I finished packing my briefcase, I lingered at the defense table, looking through a file for something that wasn't really there. I was half expecting Freeman to come over and beg me to sell my client a plea bargain.

But it didn't happen. When I looked up from my phony busywork she was gone.

I took the elevator down to two. The judges might all be getting off early for a meeting on the eroding rules of courtroom decorum, but I figured the DA's office was still working until five. I asked at the counter for Maggie McPherson and was allowed back. She shared an office with another deputy DA but luckily he was on vacation. We were alone. I pulled the missing man's chair away from his desk and sat down in front of Maggie.

"I came by court a couple times today," she said. "Watched some of your direct with the lady from John Jay. She's a good witness."

"Yeah, she's good. And I saw you there. I didn't know who you were there for-me or Freeman."

She smiled.

"Maybe I was there for myself. I still learn things from you, Haller."

Now I smiled.

"Maggie McFierce learning from me? Really?"

"Well-"

"No, don't answer that."

We both laughed.

"Either way, I'm glad you came by," I said. "What's going on this weekend with you and Hay?"

"I don't know. We'll be around. You have to work, I guess."

I nodded.

"We have to track somebody down, I think. And Monday and Tuesday are going to be the biggest days of the trial. But maybe we can do a movie or something."

"Sure."

We were silent for a few moments. I had just come off one of my best days in court ever, yet I felt pierced by a growing sense of loss and sadness. I looked at my ex-wife.

"We're never going to get back together, are we, Maggie?"

"What?"

"It just kind of hit me. You want it the way it is now. There when one of us really needs it, but never what it was. You won't ever give me that."

"Why do you want to talk about this now, Michael? You're in the middle of a trial. You have-"

"I'm in the middle of my life, Mags. I just wish there was a way to make you and Hayley proud of me."

She leaned forward and reached out. She put her hand against my cheek for a moment and then pulled it back.

"I think Hayley is proud of you."

"Yeah? What about you?"

She smiled but it was sort of in a sad way.

"I think you should go home and not think about this or the trial or anything else just for tonight. Let your mind clear of the clutter. Relax."

I shook my head.

"Can't. I have a meeting at five with a snitch."

"On the Trammel case? What snitch?"

"Never mind, and you're just trying to change the subject. You'll never completely forgive and forget, will you? It's not in you and maybe it's what makes you such a good prosecutor."

"Oh, I'm so good all right. That's why I'm stuck out here in Van Nuys filing armed robberies."

"That's politics. Has nothing to do with skills and dedication."

"It doesn't matter and I can't have this conversation now. I'm still on the clock and you need to go see your snitch. Why don't you call me tomorrow if you want to take Hayley to a movie. I'll probably let you take her while I run errands or something."

I stood up. I knew a losing cause when I saw one.

"Okay, I'm leaving. I'll call you tomorrow. But I hope you'll come with us to the movie."

"We'll see."

"Right."

I took the stairs down for a quick exit. I crossed the plaza and headed north on Sylmar toward Victory. I soon came to a motorcycle parked at the curb. I recognized it as Cisco's. A prized '63 H-D panhead with a black pearl tank and matching fenders. I chuckled. Lorna, my second ex-wife, had actually done what I had told her to do. It was a first.

She had left the bike unlocked, probably figuring it was safe in front of the courthouse and adjoining police station. I steered it away from the curb and walked it down Sylmar. I must've been quite a sight, a man in his nicest Corneliani suit pushing a Harley down the street, briefcase propped on the handlebars.