“They were taken from the defendant, Dante Halleyville.”
“And the prints on the right?”
“An identical set of prints lifted from the bill of the basketball cap found in the apartment where Michael Walker was murdered.”
“Again, Dr. Olson, could you give us the odds of these prints belonging to anyone but the defendant?”
“These prints could belong to no one other than Dante Halleyville.”
When the prosecution is through, Olson has been plodding along like the tortoise that always catches the hare-for six hours.
So long that there are groans of disappointment when Tom pushes out of his chair.
My own feelings are even stronger. We hadn’t planned on cross-examining Olson. Tom is recklessly winging it.
“Dr. Olson, no one questions that the handgun recovered behind the Princess Diner was the murder weapon. The question is, who fired it? Is there any physical evidence, anything at all, linking the defendant to that weapon?”
“No. The only fingerprints left on that gun belong to Michael Walker.”
“As for the prints found on the gun, the ones belonging to Michael Walker, what kind of quality are we talking about?”
“Very good. The highest quality.”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Nine, maybe even a ten,” Olson says with pride in his voice. Maybe he’s been watching a little too much CSI.
“Doesn’t it strike you as suspicious, Dr. Olson, that on a gun that has been carefully cleaned there would be one complete set of prints and every fingertip would be perfect?”
Now, for the first time in hours, the crowd is actually awake and paying attention.
“Not in this case,” says Olson.
“But you have, in the past, on at least two occasions that I’m aware of, concluded that prints found on murder weapons were, in your words, ‘too good to be credible.’ That was your conclusion in the State of Rhode Island versus John Paul Newport. Is that not true?”
“Yes, but that’s not my conclusion about these prints.”
“Defense has no further questions.”
The crowd is still buzzing when Judge Rothstein calls an adjournment for the day, but whether or not Tom’s high-risk two-minute gambit succeeded in undermining six hours of testimony, we don’t have long to dwell on it.
After Dante gives us both hugs and the sheriffs escort him back to his holding cell, the paralegal for the prosecution delivers a note.
They’ve just added Dante’s eighteen-year-old cousin, Nikki Robinson, to their list of witnesses.
Nikki was among the group of spectators who saw Walker pull the gun on Feifer, but the prosecution has already established what happened after the game. So the decision to put Nikki on the stand now doesn’t make sense.
And when the prosecution makes a move I don’t understand, I get scared.
Chapter 96. Tom
WHEN NIKKI ROBINSON, eyes averted, walks past our table and takes the witness stand, the morning crowd ripples with anticipation. To be honest, Kate and I are a lot more on edge than the spectators. Nikki works as a maid for a local house-cleaning service. She hung around at Smitty Wilson’s-but what else? Why is she being called now?
“Ms. Robinson,” says Melvin Howard, “could you please tell us your relationship with the defendant?”
“Dante is my cousin,” says Robinson, her girlish voice faint.
“And were you at the game at Smitty Wilson’s that afternoon?”
“I got there just before the fight broke out, and Michael Walker got that gun.”
“Did you leave right after?”
“No, sir.”
“What were you doing?”
“Talking to Eric Feifer,” says Robinson, her voice getting even fainter.
“Was that the first time you met?”
“I had seen him around.”
“Did you talk long that afternoon?”
“No. I clean for Maidstone Interiors and had to go do a house. Eric asked if he could go with me. Swim in the pool while I worked. I said okay.”
“So the two of you left together?”
“He put his bicycle in my trunk.”
“What happened when you got to the house you had to clean?”
“Eric hung by the pool. I got to work. House wasn’t much of a mess. The owner’s gay, and gay people are usually neat.”
“Then what happened?”
“I was vacuuming the master bedroom,” says Nikki, her voice reduced to a whisper, “and something made me turn around. Eric was standing right behind me. Naked. At first, I was so shocked-I didn’t notice the knife in his hand.”
The entire courtroom stares at Robinson now, and Rothstein gently taps his gavel. I resist looking over at Kate, or especially Dante. What is this all about?
“What did you do then, Nikki?”
“I screamed,” she says, fighting through tears. “I ran and tried to lock myself in the bathroom. But Eric, he grabbed the handle. He was strong for his size.”
“I know this is painful,” says Howard, handing her a tissue. “What happened next?”
“He raped me,” says Nikki Robinson in a tiny, anguished squeak.
Then Robinson’s head falls onto her chest, and for the first time since the trial began, both sides of the courtroom are equally distressed. Within seconds of each other, one woman cries out, “Liar!” and another yells, “Lying bitch.” Each have different reasons for their anger.
“One more outburst,” shouts Judge Rothstein, trying to control his courtroom, “and I’ll clear the room.”
Still, it’s another minute or so before Howard asks, “What happened after you were raped?”
“I pulled myself off the floor. Finished my work. I don’t know why. Shock, I guess. Then I left the house.”
“Where’d you go, Ms. Robinson?”
“I was going to go home. But I got more and more upset. I went to the courts behind the high school. Dante and Michael were there. I told them what happened. That Feifer raped me.”
“How did Dante react?”
“He went crazy. He was screaming, stomping around. He and Michael.”
“Quiet!” shouts Rothstein again, calming the room some.
“What did you think when you heard about the killings, Ms. Robinson?”
“It was my fault,” says Robinson, staring at her lap. “I never should have let Feifer come to the house. Most of all, I never should have told Dante and Michael Walker.”
Dante leans in to me. “She’s lying, Tom. She made that whole thing up. Every word.”
Chapter 97. Kate
AS ROTHSTEIN BANGS his gavel like a jockey flogging a fading horse on the home stretch, Tom writes Lindgren on a piece of paper. He slides it to me before I get out of my chair. I’m already there.
“Ms. Robinson, we’re all hearing this for the first time. To say the least, we’re a bit overwhelmed. And confused. Could you tell us again why you decided to come forward now?”
“Jesus,” says Nikki, then pauses as if to let this sink in. “He came to me in a dream and told me it was my duty to tell what happened.”
“Does Jesus often come to you in dreams, Nikki?” I ask, provoking enough derisive laughter to have Rothstein pound his desk some more.
“That was the first time.”
“Ahh. But why wait this long to come forward? And why do it now?”
“I was afraid. I didn’t want to hurt my cousin. But Jesus said I should say what I knew.”
“After the rape, did you go to the hospital?”
“No.”
“Really? Did you see a doctor anywhere?”
“No.”
“You weren’t examined by anyone?”
Robinson shakes her head, and I say, “I didn’t hear your response, Ms. Robinson.”