“No, not English.” Jehassi shook his head. “It sounded to me like Russian.”
The day after the Jehassi cross-examination, the prosecution trotted out its expert witnesses. Dr. Gopi Annan, pathologist, testified on the cause of death. Dr. Albert Weisel, a specialist in DNA analysis, testified that skin and hair samples on the tie matched skin and hair samples taken from both the defendant and the victim.
“The preponderance of epidermal and hair follicle samples is identical to similar samples scraped from the skin of the defendant,” Dr. Weisel said. “This would be consistent with the prosecution’s contention that the item of neckwear in possession of investigators had been worn by the defendant several times before the evening in question. Also, epidermal samples matching the victim’s DNA showed stresses consistent with extreme lateral pressure, or, if you will, blunt-force trauma to the esophageal region. In the layman’s term, strangulation.”
The jurors looked on blankly as Dr. Weisel concluded his testimony. Martin chose not to cross-examine. From experience, he knew that juries have a limited tolerance for aggressive cross-examinations. Attorneys who constantly question witnesses’ testimony are seen as bullies or worse. He had decided to save his aggressive behavior for the most damaging aspect of the trial, the presentation of the eyewitnesses.
On day three of the prosecution’s case, Martin girded himself for the onslaught of upstanding and credible men and women who would solemnly swear they had seen Alexei Smerdnakov strangle Katerina Volovnaya at Club Naked Party. To his great surprise, the first witness — usually the strongest for the prosecution — was a hard young woman named Bunny Celeste Williams, whom he immediately recognized as a former prostitute unsuccessfully defended by Jacobs on a corruption of minors charge a few years before. She had gone under another name in that case, but the change had not altered her dubious character. At best Bunny Celeste Williams was a barely credible witness for the other side; at worst she was a disaster. Martin couldn’t believe his good fortune. Their star witness was a convicted criminal, a woman who had once acted as a recruiter of underage girls for the sex trade and — if memory served him correctly — a recovering heroin addict.
Martin squirmed through Rossiter’s examination of this witness, trying to conceal his glee. He listened as Bunny described how she was sitting at the bar in the VIP room that night, waiting for a friend. How she had seen the defendant assault the victim, then drag her to a darkened corner of the club, where he then strangled her to death. Smerdnakov appeared nervous during this testimony, in marked contrast with his cool demeanor up to this point. Martin thought his lapse in composure odd but didn’t have time to consider the matter. When Bunny stepped down from the witness box, it was 11:45 A.M. Martin rose and asked Judge Deal for an early recess for lunch. He needed time to prepare his cross-examination, he said.
Judge Deal wagged her silver wig in Martin’s direction. “Are you sure it’s not because you’re itching to get your hands on a Big Mac and fries, Mr. Wexler?” she said, and there was a litter of laughter from the gallery.
Martin took this ribbing with good humor. “If I have time for an apple over the next hour and a half, Your Honor, I’ll be lucky,” he said. Judge Deal granted the recess, and Martin ran across the street to Jacobs’s cubicle. One arm in the sleeve of his suit jacket, Jacobs was preparing to head out for lunch.
“Gotta run,” he said, fitting his arm through the other sleeve. “Love to chat but—”
“Just two minutes of your time,” Martin said. “I need the case files for Bunny Celeste Williams. You remember her?”
“No,” Jacobs said.
“Sorry,” Martin said. “Her name wasn’t Bunny Celeste Williams in those days. She was the one they caught out at Marshall High—”
“Oh, yeah,” Jacobs interrupted, “that slut. What do you want with her?”
Martin smiled. “I’m looking for a hot date tonight.”
He read the files at Jacobs’s desk, the sordid details coming back to him.
Six years ago Ms. Williams had been arrested on the premises of John C. Marshall High School in Falls Church while attempting to recruit underage girls for what she said was a talent agency. The scheme was ancient, old as the hills. The girls were promised lucrative careers as fashion models and actresses and lured across the District line, where they were offered drugs and taken to wild parties. This highlife did not last long. Eventually hooked on powder or pills, grades foundering, misunderstood by their parents, these naive innocents ran away from home and embarked with gusto upon the long slide down to the gutter. They began by dancing naked at one of several seedy strip joints off Florida Avenue and ended up, scantily clad in the coldest weather, walking the streets near 12th and Mass for the profit of men with names like Johnny C. or Big Red.
Bunny Williams had been charged with a first-degree felony, which was then plea-bargained down by Jacobs to a misdemeanor. At the time Bunny had been addicted to heroin, a substance she blamed for her criminal behavior. The judge agreed. She was sentenced to an abbreviated term of imprisonment of eight months, consenting to enter an addiction treatment program in prison and to continue treatment after her release.
When the trial reconvened at one-thirty, Martin was ready. Bunny took the stand, looking confident. She wore a demure blue dress with white polka dots and a pair of spectator pumps. Her hair, dyed flaming red, was pinned up on the back of her head in a French twist. Her face, heavily lined beneath layers of thick makeup, was prematurely aged by drugs and late nights and a life ruled by a single maxim: just do whatever feels good right now and to hell with the consequences.
“Ms. Williams,” Martin said, approaching the stand, “do you know me?”
Bunny searched his face. “I don’t think so,” she said in a firm voice, but Martin thought he saw her lower lip tremble.
“Because I think I know you,” he said. “Or at least I know about you.”
Bunny nodded stupidly.
“Why don’t you tell the court about your felony conviction in 1993?” he said as casually as possible, and turned away to face the jury. Rossiter’s blond assistant frowned, tightening the grip on her mechanical pencil. Rossiter himself showed no expression beyond professional interest.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell,” Bunny said, her voice tremulous.
“What was the charge?” Martin said. “Let’s start with that.”
Bunny was silent. The thick makeup around her eyes was beginning to crack a little.
“Ms. Williams?” Martin said.
“Which charge?” she said in a voice he had to lean forward to hear. “There was more than one.”
“The one you were convicted for,” Martin said. “The charge that landed you in prison.”
“Solicitation of minors for the purposes of prostitution,” she said in one breath, and there was an audible exclamation of surprise from the jury. The church ladies shook their heads. Denise Wheeler removed her elbows from the railing and leaned back with a frown. The Pakistani appeared confused.
“But I don’t do them things no more,” Bunny Williams protested. “That was a long time ago.”
“Of course,” Martin said. “But let me ask you something else: are you still involved in the methadone treatment program for recovering heroin addicts?”
Bunny nodded, cheeks flushed beneath her makeup. She was beginning to get angry. “Once you’re involved in methadone treatment, you’re in for life,” she said tartly. “Addiction is a disease. Methadone is no different from kidney dialysis.”
“Please restrict your answers to yes or no unless I ask you to elaborate,” Martin said.