Guilt

Michael Ross was a twenty-one-year-old student at San Francisco State University – clean cut, well spoken, well dressed. From Glitsky's perspective, he was the last hope, if in fact it wasn't already way too late. But Jenkins, no denying it, had played this card masterfully.

'Mr Ross,' she began, 'on the evening of June 7th of this year, would you tell us what you did between the hours of seven and ten p.m.?'

Ross had a fresh and open face and he sat forward in his chair, enthusiastic yet serious. 'Well, my wife and I put our daughter to bed' – he looked over at the jury – 'she was just a year old and we put her down to bed at seven o'clock. Then we had dinner together. We barbecued hamburgers. It was a really nice night, and after dinner, about eight, I asked my wife if she'd mind if I went and drove a few golf balls.'

He seemed to think this might need some more explanation, but hesitated, then continued. 'Anyway, I went to the San Francisco Golf Club's range and hit a large bucket of balls, and then came back home.'

'And what time did you leave the range?'

Ross thought a moment. 'I was home by nine-thirty, so I must have left at about ten after nine, quarter after, something like that.'

Jenkins produced the credit-card slip, showing that Ross had picked up his bucket of balls at 8:17, and entered it into evidence as People's Exhibit Number Fourteen. 'So, Mr Ross, while you were out in the driving-range area, did you go to a particular station to hit your bucket of balls?'

'I did.'

'And where was that?'

'I turned left out of the clubhouse and walked down to the third mat from the end.'

The third from the end on the left side as you left the clubhouse?'

'Yes.'

Again, show and tell, and Jenkins produced the posters she'd first used with the maintenance man and then during her cross-examination of Mark Dooher. She mounted them on to the easel next to the witness box, side by side. 'Could you point out to the jury, Mr Ross, just where you stood, according to both of these visual aids?'

He did.

'And how far, then, were you from the first mat, the one Mr Dooher has testified he used on this night?'

Ross stole a neutral glance at Dooher. 'I don't know exactly. Twenty or thirty feet, I'd guess.'

'So Mr Ross, to reiterate: you went out with your bucket of golf balls at around eight twenty-five and you stood hitting shots from a mat and a tee three spots from the end on the left side, finishing up at around nine-fifteen. Is this an accurate rendition of the facts you've presented?'

'Yes.'

'All right, then. During this period of time, nearly an hour, while you stood two mats away from the last mat on the left, did you at any time see the defendant, Mark Dooher, at the last tee?'

'No. I didn't see anybody. There was nobody at the last tee.'

A buzz coursed through the room. Glitsky noticed Dooher leaning over, whispering to Christina. Farrell was sitting, face set, eyes forward, his hands crossed on the desk in front of him.

Jenkins pressed on. 'Did you see Mr Dooher anywhere there at the range, at any time that night?'

Ross again spent a minute studying the defendant, then said he'd never seen him before in his life.

'Mr Ross, was there anybody on the second tee? In other words, on the tee next to you, between you and the last tee?'

'No. I was the last one down that way.'

'There was no one either at the first or second tee the whole time you were there hitting golf balls, between eight-twenty-five and nine-fifteen p.m. on June 7th of this year?'

'That's right. Nobody.'

Farrell tried to smile, to convey the impression that this wasn't a problem. Glitsky didn't think he succeeded – he looked a couple of days older than God.

'Mr Ross,' he began. 'You've testified that you hit a large bucket of golf balls on the night in question, is that correct?'

'Yes.'

'And how many balls are in a large bucket?'

The witness seemed to be trying to visualize a bucket. He smiled, helpful. 'I'd say eighty or a hundred.'

'A hundred golf balls. And is it true that you were at your mat, hitting these hundred golf balls for fifty minutes – eight twenty-five until about nine-fifteen?'

Ross did the math and nodded. 'That's about right.'

'Would that be about one ball every thirty seconds?'

'About, yes.'

Farrell glanced over at the jury, including them. 'Perhaps some members of the jury aren't familiar with how things work at a driving range. Would you please describe in detail your actions to hit each golf ball?'

This seemed to strike Ross as mildly amusing, but he remained cooperative and friendly. 'I lean over, pick a ball out of the bucket, then either put it on a tee – they have a built-up rubber tee you can use – or lay it on the mat. Then I line up my shot, check my position, take a breath, relax, swing.'

Farrell seemed happy with this. 'And then you do this again, is that right? Do you do this every time you hit a ball?'

'Pretty close, I'd say. Yeah.'

'And would you say hitting a golf ball is a fairly intense activity? Does it take a lot of concentration?'

Ross laughed. 'It's like nothing else.'

'You're saying it is intense, then, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'Would you say you get yourself into almost a trance-like state?'

'Objection. The witness is not an expert in trances, your honor.'

Jenkins was sustained, but Farrell was doing a good job drawing the picture. If Ross had hit a ball every thirty seconds, going through his routine on each ball, and he was concentrating deeply on every swing… 'Is it possible, Mr Ross, that someone could have been hitting balls a couple of mats away and, concentrating as you were, you might not have noticed?'

'No. It's not like you're not aware of what's around you.'

'It's not? Then you recall how many other people were at the driving range that night, don't you?'

Ross shrugged, discomfort beginning to show. 'It was a quiet night. Tuesday. Fewer than average.'

'Were there twenty people there?

'I don't know exactly. Something like that.'

'Were they all men?'

'I don't know.'

'Could you give us a rough breakdown as to the races of the people hitting golf balls? Blacks, whites, Hispanics?'

'No.'

'Was there someone on the other side of you? Behind you, back toward the office?'

'A couple of mats over, yes.'

'Was this person a man or a woman.'

'A man, I think.'

'You think. How tall was he?'

Ross was shaking his head. 'Come on, give me a break, I don't know.'

Farrell came closer to him. 'I can't give you a break, Mr Ross. Hitting one golf ball every thirty seconds, is it your testimony that you are positive, without a doubt, that for the entire time you hit your large bucket of golf balls there was no one on the last mat at the end?'

Ross didn't crack. He knew what he knew. 'That's right.'

Farrell went and got a drink of water, giving himself time to think of his next line of questioning. By the time he was back at the witness box, he had it. With the bonus of a chance to put in a dig at Jenkins.

'Mr Ross, since we have just this morning learned that you would be a witness in this trial, you have not spoken to anyone from the defense before, have you?'

'No.'

'Have you spoken before to anyone from the prosecution or the police?'

'Yes.'

'Did you give a sworn statement to them about the testimony you're giving today that they asked you to sign?'

'No.'

This was about as far as Farrell could go in attacking Ross's credibility. He had to go fishing again. 'What do you study at college, Mr Ross?'