“But you can’t establish it by definite proof as to identification?”
“Well...”
“Be frank, Lieutenant,” Mason interrupted. “It takes a minimum of twelve points of identity to establish positive identification, does it not?”
“Well, no, it does not,” Tragg said. “We have had rather a large number of cases where we were able to make identification from fewer points of identity.”
“How many?”
“Well, in some instances, nine or ten points are sufficient where the circumstances are such that we can negative the possibility of accidental duplication.”
“But those circumstances didn’t exist in this case?”
“No.”
“You don’t consider that six points of similarity are sufficient to prove identity.”
“Not by themselves. There are, of course, other matters. When you consider the probabilities of six points of similarity in the fingerprints where it was impossible to obtain a completely legible impression; when you consider rental receipts in the name of Dorrie Ambler; when you consider the key to the apartment being found in the purse of the decedent; when you consider the age, the sex, the size, the coloration of the hair, and group all those together, we can determine a very strong mathematical probability.”
“Exactly,” Mason said. “You have a strong mathematical probability of identity. Yet you can’t testify that the body was that of Dorrie Ambler.”
“I can’t swear to it positively, no, sir.”
“Now, you talk about the mathematical probabilities of sex, among other things,” Mason said. “Sex alone would be of poor probative value, would it not?”
“Well, yes.”
“Now, the similarity of six points of identification would not prove the fingerprints were identical?”
“No, I have explained that. However, I can list the probabilities in this way. The identity of the six points of similarity would give us, I would say, about one chance in fifty that the body was not that of Dorrie Ambler. The presence of the key to the apartment makes another mathematical factor. There are hundreds of apartment houses in Los Angeles. In the apartment house in question there are ten floors. Each has thirty apartments, and the fact that the key to Apartment 907 was found would then be one in three hundred, and multiplying one in three hundred by fifty we have a factor of one in fifteen thousand, and—”
“Now, just a minute,” Mason interrupted. “You are not qualifying as an expert mathematician, Lieutenant Tragg.”
“Well, I’m an expert in the field of criminal investigation and I can make the ordinary mathematical computations.”
“Exactly,” Mason said, “and you can twist them so that you can come up with a perfectly astronomical figure when it suits your purpose.
“We could, for instance, go at it this way. You could say that there are only two sexes; therefore the fact that the decedent was a female gives us a one out of two chance; that there are only one-tenth of adult females within the age bracket you were able to determine; that therefore you have a factor of twenty to one that this was the person in question; that of the persons in that age group only approximately one in twenty have that coloration of hair so you can multiply and get a factor of four hundred to one; and—”
“Now, that’s not fair,” Lt. Tragg interrupted. “That’s distorting the facts.”
“But it’s following the same line of reasoning that you use in trying to establish a mathematical law of probabilities,” Mason said. “I’m going to put it to you just this way. You can’t state beyond a reasonable doubt that the body was that of Dorrie Ambler, can you?”
“No.”
“That’s all,” Mason said.
“Now I wish to call one more witness, perhaps out of order,” Hamilton Burger said. “I wish to call Rosy Chester.”
Rosy Chester, a red-haired, rather voluptuous woman with a hard, cynical mouth and alert eyes, came forward and was sworn.
“Where is your residence?” Hamilton Burger asked.
“At the present time in the county jail.”
“Are you acquainted with the defendant?”
“I am.”
“When did you first meet the defendant?”
“We were cell mates for a night.”
“On that occasion did you have any discussion with this defendant about Dorrie Ambler?”
“Yes.”
“What, if anything, did the defendant say about her?”
“The defendant said that Dorrie Ambler would never be seen again.”
“Was there any further conversation?” Burger asked.
“I asked her if she wasn’t worried that Dorrie Ambler could collect a share of the estate, and she laughed and said Dorrie Ambler would never show up to claim any share of any estate.”
“Do you know whether this was before or after the body had been discovered?”
“I think the body had been discovered, but the defendant didn’t know about it. It hadn’t been announced publicly.”
“Cross-examine,” Hamilton Burger said.
“Are you awaiting trial on some charge?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Possession of marijuana.”
“As soon as you had this conversation with the defendant you communicated with the prosecutor?”
“Shortly afterwards.”
“How did you reach him?”
“He reached me.”
“Oh,” Mason said, “then you were told that you were going to be put in the same cell with the defendant and to try to get her to talk?”
“Something like that.”
“And you did try to get her to talk?”
“Well— Of course when you’re together in a cell that way you don’t have much to talk about and—”
“Did you or did you not try to get her to talk?”
“Well... yes.”
“And tried to lead her into making some incriminating statement?”
“I tried to get her to talk.”
“Under instructions from the district attorney?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“And why did you take it on yourself to act as a source of information for the district attorney?”
“He asked me to.”
“And what did he tell you he would do if you were successful?”
“He didn’t tell me anything.”
“He didn’t make you any promises?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Now then,” Mason said, “what did he say about the fact that he couldn’t make you any promises?”
“Oh,” she said, “he told me that if he made any promises to me that that would impair the weight of my testimony so that I’d just have to trust his sense of gratitude.”
Mason smiled and turned to the jury. “That,” he said, “is all.”
Hamilton Burger flushed, said, “That’s all.”
Judge Flint said, “Court will now take a recess until tomorrow morning at nine-thirty a.m. During that time the defendant will be remanded to custody, and the jurors will not discuss the case among themselves or permit it to be discussed in their presence or form or express any opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant.”
Judge Flint arose and left the bench.
Minerva Minden clutched Mason’s arm.
“Mr. Mason,” she said, “I have a confession to make.”
“No, you haven’t,” Mason told her.
“I do, I do. You must know something, you simply must. Otherwise I’ll... I’ll be convicted of a murder I didn’t do.”
Mason’s eyes met hers. “I’m going to tell you something that I very seldom tell a client,” he said. “Shut up. Don’t talk to me. Don’t tell me anything. I don’t want to know anything about the facts of the case.”
“But, Mr. Mason, if you don’t know, they’ll— Can’t you see, the evidence against me is overwhelming? They’ll convict me of a murder that—”