A Matter of Life and Death

by Phillip Margolin

  “I have never been wrong.”

  “You must make a killing at the racetrack.”

  “Objection!” Vanessa shouted out.

  “Sustained,” the judge ruled.

  “Would you agree that other fingerprint examiners have made mistakes when comparing fingerprints?”

  “I … Well, yes. I’ve heard of that.”

  “Are you aware of a study conducted by the United States Department of Justice in 2016 titled Error Rates for Latent Fingerprinting as a Function of Visual Complexity and Cognitive Difficulty that showed an error rate among experienced examiners as high as 9 percent?”

  “I’ve read that study.”

  “What about the 2016 report of the Presidential Council of Advisors on Science and Technology titled Forensic Science in Criminal Courts—Ensuring Scientific Validity of Feature Comparison Methods that quoted error rates as low as one in three hundred and six and as high as one in eighteen, or 5.55 percent? Are you aware of that report?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you still want this jury to believe that you’re perfect?”

  “I have never made an error in any of my comparisons.”

  “Are you aware that fingerprint examiners in the Los Angeles Police Department erroneously matched two individuals in two separate cases to prints that did not belong to them and covered up the errors?”

  “I did hear of that.”

  “Are you also aware that one of the worst examples of misidentification involving fingerprints was made right here in Oregon, when three FBI examiners hired by the court erroneously identified Brandon Mayfield, an Oregon attorney, as having left a print on the bag that held the detonators in a bomb that blew up a train in Madrid, Spain?”

  “I am aware of Mr. Mayfield’s case.”

  “These were three top FBI examiners with over thirty years of experience; maybe some of the FBI examiners who trained you. And they made a horrible error that led to the arrest and incarceration of an innocent man.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you have never been wrong.”

  “No.”

  Robin paused and looked at the jury before asking her next question. Some of the jurors were frowning.

  “Mr. Appleton, you testified that you found thirteen points in Exhibit 14, the known palm print of Mr. Lattimore, that matched thirteen points in Exhibit 30, the latent palm print that was found on the wall in the Carasco’s living room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your Honor, may I go to the blowups?” Robin asked.

  “You may.”

  Robin studied the blowup of the palm print. Then she turned toward the witness.

  “There are a lot of ridges in this palm print, aren’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there more than thirteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you stopped after comparing only thirteen?”

  “I was satisfied that I had found enough points of similarity to conclude that the palm print belonged to your client.”

  “Didn’t you tell the prosecutor that you would conclude that there was no match if you discovered one point on the palm or fingerprint that did not match?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there a scientific reason you stopped analyzing these prints after you found thirteen points of comparison?”

  “No.”

  “So, you just concluded in your mind that thirteen was enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re telling the jury that there is no scientific reason you stopped. You’d simply made up your mind that thirteen was enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are plenty of other ridge characteristics and end points and bifurcations on this palm print, aren’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you had continued your examination, you might have found twenty matching points?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or fifty?”

  “Yes.”

  “What if point fifty-one did not match?”

  “Well, I … Then the palm print wouldn’t belong to the defendant.”

  “So, fifty matches and one mismatch would clear Mr. Lattimore’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that Mr. Lattimore could be sentenced to death, do you not?”

  “I do.”

  “But knowing that, you decided, for no scientific reason, that thirteen was enough to send a man to death row?”

  “Objection,” Vanessa Cole said.

  Robin turned her back on the witness. “I have no further questions of this man.”

  “That was pretty dramatic,” Amanda whispered to Robin.

  “Yeah,” Robin agreed, “but it doesn’t disprove Vanessa’s contention that Joe’s prints were found next to Betsy Carasco’s body.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “The State calls Ian Hennessey,” Vanessa Cole told the court when it convened on Wednesday morning.

  Ian had barely slept, and he felt sick when he walked to the witness stand. He had to fight to keep his hand from shaking when he took the oath to tell the whole truth, because he knew that he could not tell the whole truth. If anyone found out that he’d lied under oath, he would definitely lose his job. In the worst-case scenario, he would go to prison for perjury.

  Moments after taking the oath, Ian was sitting in the witness-box answering questions about his education and how long he had been employed as a deputy district attorney.

  “So, you’re pretty new to the Multnomah County district attorney’s office?” Vanessa asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When did you start trying cases on your own?”

  “About eight months ago.”

  “Did you try a case in Judge Anthony Carasco’s courtroom recently where the defendant was represented by Robin Lockwood, Mr. Lattimore’s counsel?” Vanessa asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think the result of that case was going to be?”

  Ian turned red. “I thought I would get a guilty verdict.”

  “What was the actual outcome?”

  “The defendant was found not guilty.”

  “Were you upset about losing the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you take any steps to find out what you had done wrong so you could do a better job in the future?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  Ian felt hot and dizzy. This was the point in his testimony where he was going to commit perjury, but he couldn’t think of any way out of his predicament. His life would be ruined if he testified that he’d gone to see Anthony Carasco on the evening of the murder because he was being blackmailed by a prostitute.

  “I asked Judge Carasco if he would tell me what I’d done wrong, so I would improve the way I tried cases in the future.”

  Ian prayed silently that the prosecutor or Robin Lockwood wouldn’t ask why the mentoring session was over a week after the Stassen trial.

  “Where did this discussion take place?”

  “It was late—around six o’clock—so the judge suggested that we talk over dinner at Bocci’s, an Italian restaurant.”

  “During dinner, did the judge receive a phone call?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did he get this call?”

  “It was around seven fifteen.”

  “Who made the call?”

  “The judge told me that his wife was calling.”

  “When did the call end?”

  “A few minutes later.”

  “After dinner, did you drive the judge home?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you turn onto Judge Carasco’s street?’

  “It was sometime after eight o’clock, about eight fifteen, I think.”

  “Did you see anyone near the judge’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell the jury what you saw.”

  Ian’s mouth was dry, and he took a drink of water. “There was a man standing
in the street.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “It was hard to tell, because I wasn’t close enough to make out any details.”

  “Could you tell his race?”

  “Yes. He was African American.”

  “What about his build?”

  “All I can say was that he looked average, normal.”

  “Did your headlights illuminate the man?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He stared at us for a second. Then he threw up his arm to block his face and ran between two houses on the other side of the street.”

  “Did you go inside Judge Carasco’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell the jury what you discovered in the living room.”

  Ian swallowed. “It was Mrs. Carasco. She was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” Vanessa said.

  “I have a few,” Robin said. “It was raining very hard by the time you turned onto Judge Carasco’s street, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your windshield wipers were going full blast?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was very dark?”

  “Yes.”

  “You testified that you saw a man standing in the road near Judge Carasco’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far was your car from the man when you first saw him?”

  “Several house lengths.”

  “And the houses on the judge’s street are big with lots of property?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wasn’t the man you saw wearing a coat with a hood?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the hood was up because of the rain?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far were you from the man when he threw up his arm to block his face and ran?”

  “Still a few houses away.”

  “I’ve read the statements you gave to the police and the report of your reactions at a lineup in which Mr. Lattimore was one of the participants. Isn’t it true that you cannot say that the man you saw near Judge Carasco’s house was Mr. Lattimore?”

  “I can’t say he was the man.”

  “And that is because the distance between you and this man, the heavy rain falling on your windshield, and the action of your windshield wipers obscured your view.”

  “Yes.”

  “Judge Carasco was seated right next to you, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there any difference between what you could see through the downpour and what the judge could see?”

  “Objection,” Vanessa said.

  “Sustained,” Judge Wright ruled.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  * * *

  As soon as Anthony Carasco was sworn, Vanessa asked him about his educational and professional background and the length of his marriage to Elizabeth Carasco. Then she moved to the night of the murder and established that his wife had sounded normal when he spoke to her at seven fifteen.

  “After dinner, did you ask Mr. Hennessey to drive you home?”

  “Yes. I’d taken Lyft to the courthouse that morning, so I didn’t have my car.”

  “Approximately what time did Mr. Hennessey turn onto your street?”

  “A little after eight.”

  “So less than an hour after you’d talked to Betsy, when she’d sounded fine?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you see when you turned onto your street?”

  “I saw a man standing in the street in front of my house.”

  “Please describe this man for the jury.”

  “He was average height and weight, African American, and he had a scar on his right cheek.”

  “You are certain about the scar?”

  “I am.”

  “We’ve had testimony that this man was wearing a jacket with a hood. If he had the hood up, how could you see his scar?”

  “At one point, when he was illuminated by the headlights, the hood fell back far enough to expose his cheek.”

  “Does the defendant resemble the man you saw outside your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “To be fair, can you say with certainty that the man you saw outside your house was the defendant?”

  “No, I cannot.”

  “No further questions.”

  Robin didn’t want to challenge the judge about seeing the scar, because she knew that his answer would just reinforce his direct testimony, so she told Judge Wright that she had no questions. It didn’t matter anyway. Whether or not Judge Carasco had seen the scar on Joe’s face, Joe’s finger and palm prints were in the Carasco house right next to Betsy Carasco’s corpse, where they had no business being.

  * * *

  When Judge Carasco stepped down, Vanessa called Carrie Anders to the stand to tell the jury about the raid on the motel and Joseph Lattimore’s arrest.

  “Detective Anders,” Robin said when Vanessa was through with her witness, “other than asking you not to shoot him and asking you to make sure his wife, Maria, and Conchita, their baby, were safe, did Mr. Lattimore say much more to you or any other officer or detective?”

  “No.”

  “Specifically, he never told you, or anyone else, that he had killed Elizabeth Carasco?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t it true that one of the few statements he did make was an assertion that he did not kill Mrs. Carasco?”

  “That is true.”

  “I’d like to turn to something that has been confusing me, and I’m hoping you can help me out.”

  Carrie had known Robin for several years, and she was well aware of how smart she was. When Robin asked her for help, it raised a red flag that was similar to the flags at the beach that warn swimmers that there are sharks in the water.

  “Based on Judge Carasco’s seven fifteen phone conversation with his wife at the restaurant and his discovery of the body roughly one hour later, the time of death has been narrowed down to sometime between seven fifteen and eight fifteen, hasn’t it?” Robin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Judge Carasco told you that Mrs. Carasco sounded fine when they talked, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the conversation at the restaurant didn’t end at exactly seven fifteen, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “It lasted a few minutes more?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, we can assume that some time passed between the end of the conversation at the restaurant and the murder, can’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, maybe a forty-five- or fifty-minute window for time of death?”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  “Now, Judge Carasco and Ian Hennessey testified that they saw a man outside the judge’s house at about eight fifteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was on foot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they tell you that he ran away on foot between two houses down a lane that leads to the woods?”

  “Yes.”

  “If he came by car, and the car was parked near the Carasco home, he abandoned it, right?”

  “If he came by car and parked nearby,” Carrie said.

  “Am I correct that when Mr. Lattimore was arrested, there was mud on his clothing and the clothes were damp?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was raining heavily, and that would make the ground in the woods muddy, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that confirmed by officers who searched the woods for the man the judge and Mr. Hennessey say ran from the scene?”

  “Yes.”

  “If the clothes had not dried out, that would indicate that he had returned to the motel shortly before his arrest, would it not?”

  “Probably.”

  “So, if Mr. Lattimore was the man who Judge Carasco and Mr. Hennessey say they saw run from the scene, there is
evidence that he was on foot and went through the woods on his way back to the motel where he was arrested?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long does it take to run from the Carasco home, through the woods, and then go to the Riverview Motel?”

  “I would have to guess.”

  “If I said that I had my investigator take the shortest route through the woods to the Riverview and it took him one hour and ten minutes, would that sound right?”

  Carrie thought for a moment before agreeing.

  “When did the first officer arrive at the crime scene?”

  “About eight forty-five.”

  “When did the first reporter or other person not affiliated with the police show up?”

  “Around nine twenty.”

  “So only the police knew that there had been a murder and that the victim was Mrs. Carasco until at least nine fifteen?”

  “I can’t say for certain. A reporter could have intercepted a police broadcast.”

  “Okay. But not before the judge called 911 at eight thirty-five?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you know that you would find Mr. Lattimore at the Riverview Motel?”

  “We received a tip.”

  “When?”

  “The call came to 911 at nine thirty-five.”

  “Do you know who made the call?”

  “No. The caller wouldn’t give his name.”

  “Did you try to trace the call?”

  “Yes, but we were unsuccessful.”

  “It was a man?”

  “It sounded like a man.”

  “What did the caller tell the police?”

  “He said that Joe Lattimore killed Judge Carasco’s wife and that he was in room 214 of the Riverview Motel and we should go there fast if we wanted to get him.”

  “Nine thirty-five would be right around the time Mr. Lattimore would have gotten to the motel if he ran there from the Carasco house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I right that the caller had to know that Mrs. Carasco had been murdered in order to make the call?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that Mr. Lattimore was staying in a particular room at a particular motel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since the call was made so soon after the murder at the Carasco home and so soon after Mr. Lattimore returned to the motel, doesn’t that suggest that the caller had also been present at both locations when both the murder occurred and Mr. Lattimore returned to the motel?”