Guilt

'And finally, once and for all, and remembering that you are testifying under solemn oath, would you answer this question for the jury: did you kill your wife?'

This time there were no histrionics. He sat forward, took a breath, let it out, and answered in an even, clear voice that rang through the courtroom. 'As God is my judge, I did not.'

Farrell nodded, said, 'Thank you,' and turned on his heel.

'Your witness.'

Before Jenkins got to the blow-by-blow cross-examination of Dooher's movements throughout the afternoon and evening of June 7th, she wanted to clear up one specific point.

She moved to the exhibit table and pulled two poster-size exhibits that she'd introduced as evidence during the questioning of the driving range's maintenance man. The first was a blow-up photograph of the hitting area taken from out in the middle of the range, and the other was a schematic rendering of the placement of the mats. She put both of these next to one another on an easel next to the witness chair.

'As you can see,' she said, 'these exhibits represent the layout of the driving range. Just so we're clear on where you hit your balls from, would you please point out to the jury the mat that you stood on?'

Cooperative and relaxed, Dooher did so.

'The very last mat, you're sure of that?'

'I am, yes.'

'This is the mat nearest the hole in the fence leading to the parking lot, is it not?'

'I don't know about that. I'd never noticed the hole in the fence. Although if your witness says so, I guess it's there.'

Jenkins stood unmoving in the center of the courtroom. After twenty or thirty seconds, the Judge spoke to her. 'Ms Jenkins?'

She blinked and brought her attention back from where it had been.

Her cross-examination lasted three and a half hours.

She got nothing.

'What was that all about?' Christina sat at the table in their ante-room eating from a pile of carrot and celery sticks on a paper plate while the men busied themselves with salami on sourdough rolls. 'The exact mat you hit the balls from?'

Dooher shook his head. 'I don't have any idea.'

Farrell was chewing, staring out the window. 'I don't like it. She's got something else she's not showing us.'

'You mean new evidence?' Christina couldn't envision it. 'How could that be, Wes? We've seen her discovery. We know all her witnesses. She'd have had to tell us before this.'

'Well, that would be in the rules, that's true.'

But Dooher was looking carefully at his friend. 'Anyway, Wes, what could she have?'

'I don't know. But it worries me. It's my job to worry.'

'Don't worry,' Dooher said. 'I was there at the last mat hitting golf balls and that's all there is to it.'

Farrell nodded again. 'Let's hope so.'

Glitsky thought that Richie Browne believed Dooher's story in all its detail. He was the golf pro at the range and could have been sent from Central Casting – a well-formed man, mid-thirties, in slacks and a polo shirt. He had gotten to know Dooher in the three or four months prior to the murder when the defendant started frequenting his range instead of the Olympic's.

'Sure, he was there the whole time.'

'You're sure?'

'I'm positive.'

Farrell turned and faced the jury, including them in his certainty, asking back over his shoulder, 'Were you aware of him the whole night?'

Browne took his time. 'I remember him coming in. We talked about some new clubs he was considering – he'd been working with some new graphite shafts on his woods and thought he was going to go with them, buy a whole set, so you know I was interested. We're talking a thousand bucks here, so I was paying attention.'

'And was that when he came in?'

'Yeah.'

'And did he seem anxious, nervous, keyed-up?'

'Objection! Calls for a conclusion.'

Glitsky noticed that Jenkins was forward on the last three inches of her chair, elbows on the table, fingers templed at her lips. He didn't know what had galvanized her at this late date, when to him the conclusion was all but fore-ordained, but something clearly had.

Thomasino overruled her, though.

Farrell repeated the question, and Brown told him that Dooher had been relaxed and genial. 'He talked about golf clubs. He didn't act any way.'

'And then when he went out to hit some balls. When did you see him next?'

'I don't know exactly. Fifteen, twenty minutes later. I walked out to the door with a lady customer and saw him down at the end, head down, lost in it. Whack whack whack.'

'Now, Mr Browne, Mr Dooher has testified that he came in and got a Coke about halfway through-'

'Your honor, please!' Jenkins shot up from her seat. 'Leading the witness.'

Thomasino was paying close attention. To Glitsky's surprise, he didn't rule right away, spending a moment mulling. Then, simply: 'Overruled.'

Farrell couldn't lose. He kept right at it. 'When did you see Mr Dooher next?'

'Again, I didn't notice the exact time. He came in for a Coke.' Jenkins slapped her hand on her table in frustration. 'Maybe after his first bucket.'

'Your honor, my God!' Jenkins – up again.

Farrell spread his palms. 'I didn't ask anything, your honor. The witness has volunteered this information.'

'It's speculation – move to strike.'

Thomasino raised a calming hand. 'Yes, it is, yes, it is.' He told the jury to disregard this last information, and Glitsky thought they could collectively do that about as easily as they could levitate on cue.

But the moment passed, and Farrell was finishing up. 'And did you see Mr Dooher at any other time during the course of this evening?'

'Sure. When he left.'

'When he'd finished hitting two buckets of golf balls?'

'Objection! Speculation.'

Thomasino sustained her again, but Farrell didn't care. He had gotten in nearly everything he wanted, and was finishing up. 'Did you see Mr Dooher when he left?'

'Yes.'

'And how was he acting then?'

'Like he usually did. Normal. He came in, we talked a couple of minutes about his game. He told me a joke.'

'He told you a joke?'

'Yeah, we talked a couple of minutes and then he asked me how you get a dog to stop humping your leg. That's how I remember I saw him when he was leaving. I was laughing.'

'You were laughing together?'

'It was a good joke.' Browne paused, looked over to the jury, gave them the punch-line. 'You give him a blow job.'

The courtroom went silent for a second, then erupted into nervous laughter. Thomasino hit his gavel a few times, order was restored, and Farrell gave Richie Browne to Amanda Jenkins for cross-examination.

'Mr Browne, I'm particularly interested in this Coke you saw Mr Dooher get in the middle of his round of hitting golf balls. In your interview with Lieutenant Glitsky regarding this night, did you mention this trip to the Coke machine?'

'I guess not. I didn't remember at the time. It came back to me later, that it was that night.'

'And do you remember it now?'

'Yes.'

'So – to be absolutely clear, Mr Browne – is it your testimony now, under oath, that Mr Dooher bought a Coke in the middle of hitting his round of golf balls that night?'

Browne squirmed. 'I think he came and got a Coke.'

'You think Mr Dooher came and got a Coke? You're not sure.'

'I'm pretty sure.'

'But not certain?'

Browne was physically reacting to the questioning, sitting back in the witness chair, arms crossed over his chest. 'No, not certain. But I think it was that night.'

'Mr Browne, you're not certain you saw the defendant come in midway through the evening and get a Coke, is that your testimony?'

Farrell took the opening. 'Asked and answered, your honor.'

Thomasino agreed with him.

It was beginning to move quickly with Farrell's defense witnesses. No sooner had Richie Browne passed out into the gallery area than Farrell called Marcela Mendoza, a forty-two-year-old former supervisor of medical technicians at St Mary's Hospital. After establishing her credentials and job duties during the twelve years she'd worked at the hospital, Farrell asked: 'Ms Mendoza, working in the blood unit of the laboratory at the hospital, did you ever experience a situation where blood that had been taken from a patient for tests got lost somehow?'