Blumberg is an impish little man with wire-rimmed glasses and a booming voice. He fits the popular image of science, but with the feisty nature that has allowed him to weather the blows of a career of rigorous cross-examination. He has spent twenty years fighting a fundamental lack of credentials and qualifications.
Today he is sharing his expertise on the subject of forensic pathology. He takes the stand, is sworn, and Cheetam moves in.
“Doctor Blumberg, are you familiar with the phenomenon called lividity?”
“I am.”
“I call your attention to the medical examiner’s report. Have you read this report?”
“I have.”
“In particular have you examined page thirty-seven of that report-the so-called blood-spatter evidence found in the service elevator near Mr. Potter’s office?”
Blumberg nods knowingly. He is particularly good at this. He has been known to make a complete ass of himself on me stand, and still nod knowingly-with great authority.
“Have you read that part of the report, doctor?”
“I have.”
“And have you come to any conclusions regarding the findings stated there, specifically I refer to the conclusion that the drop of blood in question was that of the decedent, Benjamin Potter?”
“I have. It is my professional opinion that the finding of the medical examiner as to this evidence is incorrect-it is in error,” he says.
Cheetam looks to the bench for effect. O’Shaunasy is not taking notes.
“And on what do you base this opinion?”
“On the clotting patterns of blood.”
“Yes, doctor.” Cheetam is moving in front of the witness box now, alternately bending low and pacing, using body English to draw the witness out, to get him to deliver the canned opinion that the two of them have hatched.
I notice that Harry has begun to doodle on a legal pad as he sits next to me, a small round circle that he inscribes over and over with his pen, until it is burned into the page.
“Please explain to the court, doctor.”
“Blood clotting occurs as a result of a complex of chemical actions involving plasma, protein fibrinogen, platelets, and other factors. Clotting begins soon after death, causing a separation of the fibrin and the red blood cells from the remaining liquid, the serum,” he says. “Once clotting has occurred, blood will no longer flow freely from a wound.”
“How soon after death would clotting occur so that the blood would no longer flow freely from the body?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
“That soon?”
“Yes.”
Harry’s doodle has now grown a thin straight line, two inches long, down toward the bottom of the page.
“What is the significance of this factor in the present case, doctor?”
“According to the pathology report the time of death was seven-oh-five P.M. Accepting the theory of the police that the decedent was killed elsewhere and that his body was moved to the office shortly before the reported gunshot in the office at eight-twenty-five, I must conclude that the blood in the victim would have already clotted and would not have flowed freely in order to drop in the elevator as stated in the report.”
Cheetam is oblivious to the fact that his own expert is now accepting as gospel the time of death fixed by Coop. This is, in fact, wholly inconsistent with the defense that Ben shot himself, for under this theory, he died nearly an hour and a half before the sound of the shotgun blast in the office. Little details.
“Thank you, doctor. Your witness.”
Nelson cracks a slight grin and rises from behind the counsel table.
“Doctor Blumberg, are you board certified as a pathologist?”
Blumberg mumbles. Along with authoritative and knowing nods, he is recognized for his excellent mumbling, particularly on cross.
“I couldn’t hear the witness.” The court reporter has chimed in. She is stalled at her stenograph machine by the witness, who has swallowed his answer.
O’Shaunasy leans over the bench. “I didn’t catch it either.”
“No.” Blumberg is looking at the court reporter through Coke-bottle lenses, a magnified evil eye.
“Have you ever practiced in the field of forensic pathology?” Nelson is enjoying this.
“I have testified in the field many times.”
“I’m sure you have, doctor, but mat doesn’t answer my question. Have you ever practiced in the field of …”
“No.”
“I see. Tell us, doctor, are you board certified in any field?”
“I am.” This is stated with some pride. The witness straightens in the chair and puffs his chest a little.
“And would you tell the court what field that is.” Nelson’s found the soft underbelly.
“Psychiatry. I am licensed as a medical doctor,” he says. His ticket as a physician has been the basis for Blumberg to put his nose under every scientific tent known to mankind.
Harry’s doodle now has two lines coming off of the longer single line, drawn out and down at a forty-five-degree angle, to form a large inverted “Y.”
“I see, so you’re a medical doctor, board certified as to specialty in the field of psychiatry, here to testify on the fine points of forensic pathology and specifically serology, the science of blood clotting?”
To this Blumberg says nothing, but merely nods, this time not so much confident as nervous.
“The court reporter can’t register a head bob, Doctor Blumberg. You’ll have to answer the question audibly.” The judge is on him.
“Yes,” he says. His looks-could-kill expression is reserved for O’Shaunasy
“Let me ask you, doctor. Have you ever published any scholarly articles on the subject of bloodstain evidence in criminalistics?”
“No.” Blumberg is becoming imperious now, refusing to look Nelson in the eye.
“Let’s take it out to the more general field. Have you ever published any scholarly articles in the field of forensic sciences?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Not that you can recall? Well, doctor, I have a copy of your curriculum vitae here, and I’ve combed it pretty well and I can’t find a single article published by you in that field. Now I would assume that if you had published anything in the field of forensic sciences you would have included it in your resume, wouldn’t you?”
Cheetam’s doing nothing to stop this pummeling. There is little he can do but rise and stipulate that his expert has no expertise.
Harry’s doodle has now grown two arms, the little stick figure of a man.
Blumberg is twitching nervously on the stand. A slight tic spasms intermittently through his right cheek, like the tremor of some larger imminent quake deep beneath the surface.
“Well, you would have included it, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s safe to say that you haven’t published any articles, scholarly or otherwise, in the field of forensic sciences?”
“Yes, yes. But as I have stated, I have testified on numerous occasions on the subject.”
“Yes, I’m aware, doctor, of your regular appearances in court. In fact, doctor, isn’t it safe to say that you are what some would call a professional expert witness, that that’s what you do for a living?”
“I testify regularly, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not quite what I mean. I mean you no longer practice medicine, whether in psychiatry or any other field. When was the last time you saw a private patient for a fee, doctor?”
“Your Honor, I object to this.” Cheetam’s on his feet. “If counsel wants a stipulation as to the limits of this witness’s expertise then perhaps we should have a sidebar or retire to chambers.” It’s a feeble attempt to dodge Nelson’s bullet.
“Counsel, you put this witness on the stand.” Looking over her glasses at Cheetam, O’Shaunasy’s showing no mercy.
“Well, can’t we move on at least? Counsel’s made his point. He’s just badgering the witness now.”
“I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Nelson. Can you move along?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”