“No,” he says firmly, “it is not.”
“Isn't it true you saw all these clues laid out in front of you and followed them just like you were programmed to?”
Hatchet is in the middle of sustaining Wallace's objection while I'm yelling at Pete, and he tells Pete not to answer. He also admonishes me for being a pain in his ass, just not in so many words.
“No further questions.”
Pete is asked a few questions by Wallace to rehabilitate him, and he stares at me the entire time. My friendship with Lieutenant Pete Stanton just took a shot. I'm not happy about making him look bad; but it's what I do for a living.
I set the evening meeting with Laurie and Kevin at the office for seven o'clock, but only Kevin is there when I arrive. I've come to trust his instincts and judgments. He thinks I did well today with Pete, but recognizes what our problem is. Wallace has a mountain of evidence: the knife, the skin, the blood, the eyewitness, etc. I can attack each one, but if the jury believes any one of them, Willie is finished. Because each one is by itself capable of carrying the day.
Tomorrow Wallace will have his forensics expert on the stand, and Kevin and I set about planning our cross-examination.
Laurie comes in uncharacteristically late, but with very interesting news. Utilizing her contacts, she has uncovered the fact that Edward Markham had two arrests for beating up women prior to Denise McGregor's murder.
At least as disturbing is the fact that, though the records of these assaults have since been expunged, my father should have been aware of them back when he was prosecuting Willie Miller. Yet there is no evidence that he ever followed up on it. Did he think it was unimportant, or was he repaying a favor to his apparent friend Victor Markham, who may have paid him two million dollars? But how could Markham have anticipated a murder trial that wasn't to take place for nearly thirty years after the payment?
Laurie asks if we can use the arrests at trial, and Kevin correctly points out that we cannot, that Hatchet would never let them in. The law is clear; the previous violations, even if they were proven, have to compare almost identically to the offense that is the subject of the trial. These don't.
“Too bad,” says Laurie. “The bastard might have done it himself.”
I do a double take. “I thought you were positive that Willie Miller did it.”
“I was. And now I'm not.”
This is a major concession for Laurie, but I'm not about to lord it over her.
Around ten o'clock, Kevin leaves and Laurie hangs around for a while as I finish my preparation for court tomorrow. As she is getting ready to leave, she walks toward me and says, “You're doing really well, Andy. No one could be doing more.”
I shake my head. “You know,” I say, “my father said I couldn't win this. I think he was right.”
“He was goading you, and he was wrong. Good night, Andy.”
“Good night, Laurie.”
We just stand there, about a foot away from each other. We both know that we are dangerously close to kissing, but after a few seconds the moment passes. She leaves, and I'm alone with my thoughts.
When I was married, or at least before our separation, I did not come close to kissing other women. It sounds corny, but I rarely ever thought about other women, so ingrained in me was the sanctity of the marriage bond. That's now been changed, and I don't think it's going to change back any time soon. What's left for me is to figure out what that says about my marriage or myself.
I'll figure it out after the trial.
NICOLE HAS REALLYBEEN QUITE UNDERstanding about the trial, and the impact it's having on our time together. She waits up for me to come home at night, and gets up every morning to watch me make breakfast. She talks about us getting away after the trial is concluded; maybe to the luxury hotel in the Virgin Islands where we spent our honeymoon. That was in another lifetime, a time and place that I no longer have any connection to at all. I desperately wish I did.
I've been able to put the romantic-emotional aspect of my life on hold while I deal with the Miller case, but I know it's back there, in the dark recesses of my mind, waiting to cause me aggravation. I've always thought a main component of love is wanting, needing, to share things, good as well as bad, with the person that you love. I'm not feeling that with Nicole.
On some level I know that Nicole and I can never recapture what we had, or seemed to have had. I keep hoping that will change, but it doesn't feel like it ever will. I don't believe it is Laurie's presence that is causing this. She is not what is standing between Nicole and me.
Fortunately, I don't have very much time to agonize over these questions. Our whole team is putting in eighteen-hour days, and adrenaline is keeping us raring to go at the nine A.M. start to each court day. Another reason I'm able to be on time each morning is that I no longer even pass by the newsstand on the way to court; it is closed down and a symbol of my humiliation. Today I even arrive a few minutes early, and I use the time to get ready for the next witness, forensics expert Michael Cassidy.
As Henry Higgins would say, Cassidy “oozes smugness from every pore, as he oils his way across the floor.” I find him to be thoroughly pompous and dislikable, and I hope the jury has the same reaction. He is basically there to testify about the material found under the fingernails of Denise McGregor, as well as the scratch marks on Willie that those fingernails obviously caused. Wallace has a lot of ammunition here, and he doesn't leave a single shell unexploded.
There is a large poster board with a full-color shot of a dazed and scratched Willie Miller, taken shortly after his arrest. The only way he could look more guilty in the picture would be if he were holding up a sign saying “I did it.”
Wallace is questioning Cassidy about the photograph, and Cassidy has a wooden pointer, the type teachers used to have in class before they got the Internet wired in.
Wallace asks, “Where were the scratch marks?”
Of course, Stevie Wonder could have pointed to the scratch marks on the photograph, but Cassidy does so as if the jury really needs his help to see them.
“They are here, and here, on the left and right cheeks on the defendant's face.”
Wallace then takes maybe thirty questions to elicit the information he could have gotten in two. Not only were the blood and skin under the fingernails of Denise McGregor that of Willie Miller, but Cassidy has determined that the scratch marks on Willie's face were made by those same fingernails.
Wallace turns the witness over to me. If I can't get the jury to doubt Cassidy, it's game, set, and match.
“Mr. Cassidy, what other foreign material besides Willie Miller's blood and skin did you find under the victim's fingernails?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Which part of the question didn't you understand?”
Wallace objects that I'm being argumentative and badgering. Damn right I am. Hatchet sustains the objection. I restate the question, and Cassidy answers.
“We didn't find anything else.”
I feign surprise. “To the best of your knowledge, was Willie Miller naked when he was arrested?”
“I wasn't there, but I believe he was fully clothed.”
“Is there any reason to think he was naked when he committed the crime?”
“Not that I'm aware of.”
I bore in. “Were there scratches anywhere other than on his face?”
“No, those were the only scratch marks. But there were needle marks on each arm.”
The medical examination of Willie had shown needle marks on both arms, but since a blood test revealed no drugs in his system, the prosecution was precluded from bringing it out in direct examination. Wallace smiles slightly, assuming that I ineptly opened the door through which that information reached the jury.