“Brown,” he says. “What you would commonly call chestnut.”
“A common color among horses, isn’t it?”
“Objection. The witness is not an expert on horses,” says Kline.
“No. Just what comes out of them,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Kline.
There’s some sniggering in the jury box.
“Hair,” I say. “What were you thinking?”
Kline is left to look at a laughing jury.
“I object, Your Honor. There’s nothing humorous about this.”
Radovich tells me to get on with it.
“Come on, Mr. Stinegold, isn’t it common knowledge that chestnut is not a rare color among horses?”
“Objection,” says Kline.
“Overruled. The witness can answer the question,” says Radovich.
“It’s not rare,” says Stinegold.
“In fact, if we went out today and visited stables in this county, isn’t it likely that chestnut would be the predominant color found in them?”
“It’s possible,” says Stinegold. It is more than that, but I accept the concession.
“And if we collected hair from all of those chestnut horses and gave it to you to examine under your microscope, would you be able to tell us which of those horses was responsible for the hair found on that blanket?”
He smiles. The point is made. “Probably not.”
“Because chestnut horse hair is not that unique, is it?”
“No.”
“The other elements you testified to, the texture, surface structure, and thickness from one chestnut horse is very much like another, isn’t that right?”
“That is probably true,” he says.
“So the hair on that blanket could have come from almost any chestnut horse?”
“They would be similar,” he says.
“Sufficiently similar that you would have a difficult time telling one from another?”
“Perhaps,” he says.
“So that the jury understands,” I tell him, “there’s no way that you can specifically identify the horse hair found in the defendant’s house or his vehicle with the hair found on that blanket other than to say that they look alike, is there?”
“No.”
“Mr. Stinegold, are you familiar with the concept of transference as it applies to the science of trace evidence?”
“I am,” he says.
“Can you explain that concept to the jury?”
He looks at me first as if I’m digging my own grave, as if this is not helpful to our case. Then he turns to the jury.
“Transference is the theory that microscopic evidence from one moving object will, all things being equal, transfer either all or part of itself to another object with which it comes in contact.”
“Sort of like bees pollinating a plant?” I ask.
“That’s a fair analogy,” he says.
“So that if I rub up against you, we would expect that fibers from my clothes would be left on your clothes and fibers from yours would be left on mine?”
“Allowing for differences in fabrics,” he says. “Some might not leave any trace fibers.”
“Of course. But assuming they did, you would expect to find transferred fibers, some cross-pollination?”
He thinks about this, but is already nodding his head.
“Yes.”
“And you believe that this is how the hair in question came to find its way into the defendant’s vehicle?”
“Yes.”
“And into the victim’s apartment?”
“Correct.”
“And onto the blanket used to wrap the victim’s body?”
“That’s right.”
“And did you find anything else on that blanket?”
“A few other fibers, bits of wood, microscopic refuse from the trash bin where the body was found,” he says.
“But in your view the only significant substances detected are the carpet fibers and the horse hair?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“Was there a lot of hair on that blanket?” I ask him.
“A fair amount,” he says.
“Your Honor, I would like the witness to demonstrate the transference of hair onto the blanket,” I say.
Kline has a problem with this. I have cut several small pieces of nylon carpet, and he objects that they may not match the carpet in Acosta’s car.
“They are close enough for demonstrative purposes,” I argue. “We’re not going to ask the witness to compare samplers of hair and fibers,” I say.
“With that understanding,” says Radovich.
I hand a piece of the carpet to Stinegold. I’ve gathered some horse hair for this purpose in a small envelope, and I hand this to the witness.
“The hair is black in color,” I tell the court. “They should be easily distinguishable from the others on the blanket.”
Stinegold looks at them and agrees with this. He spreads some of the hair on the carpet, wiping it along the cut bristles with his hand.
I have the clerk retrieve the blanket from the evidence cart and hand it to him. It is mauve in color. Stinegold places it in a puffed-up ball on the railing in front of him, part of it draping over the edge and down onto the floor.
He takes one corner of the blanket and wipes it briskly with the carpet, as you would a brush. Then he lays the carpet facedown on the railing and examines the blanket.
“There,” he says. Stinegold holds the blanket out for me to see, a victorious look in his eyes. It is covered with black horse hair in the area that he has rubbed.
“If you have some tape I can show you how we retrieved the samples,” he says.
“That’s not necessary,” I tell him. I pick up the blanket and the piece of carpet from the railing.
Kline is sitting with a self-satisfied smile at his table.
I walk several steps away from the stand, the blanket in one hand, the carpet swatch in the other, before I turn and face the witness in the stand. I have already looked, so I know it is there, before I hold this up for Stinegold to see on the stand-the small swatch of carpet.
“And what is that?” I ask him.
Stinegold sits looking at the carpet, wincing from the stand.
There, on the small swatch of carpet, are a dozen balled-up pills, fibers from the mauve blanket caught on the sharp bristles of the carpet.
“Mr. Stinegold, in your examination of my client’s vehicle did you find any trace of fibers from that blanket, either in the trunk or the passenger compartment?” It is a question to which I already know the answer, contained in Stinegold’s report.
It is not as if they are surprised by this. They have known from the inception that it is a problem with their case. But the manner in which it is presented makes it look as if Stinegold has been hiding it from the jury. All the ways to make a bad impression.
“Mr. Stinegold. Did you find. .?”
“No.” It is the final thing that he offers to the jury. That and a plaintive look that is worth a thousand words.
CHAPTER 24
They have discovered Oscar Nichols.
“How the hell?” says Acosta. We are in the lockup of the county jail, Harry, Acosta, and I. The judge sits on the other side of the thick glass, speaking through the microphone implanted in the shield between us. We are at this moment sitting shell-shocked, and contemplating the havoc that this one witness could wreak on our case.
“How did they find him?” Acosta is looking weary, the effects of stress with each new witness, every new revelation, the peaks of our case, and the valleys that are certain to come.
“He came forward,” I tell him. “Of his own volition.”
This seems to unnerve Acosta more than the fact itself, that a man he believed to be a friend would do this.
Word of this has come in the form of a motion from prosecutors to call Nichols in their case. Affidavits attached to the motion reveal that Nichols called Kline’s office three days ago and disclosed that he had information, supposed admissions made to him by the defendant.
It appears that regardless of the damage we have dealt to Kline’s evidence-the undermining of hair and fibers, and his avoidance of the metal scrapings-Nichols has been troubled from the inception by a single gnawing notion: that his old friend may be guilty of murder.