“Dr. Sandler, did you perform this PCR test on the samples of dried blood sent to you in this case by the crime lab?”
“I did.”
“And could you tell us what you learned as a result of this analysis?”
“The DNA sequencing, that is, the order of sequencing between the DNA strands from the dried blood on the victim’s pants, and the sequencing of DNA strands from the marlin in cold storage were identical.”
“Were you able to form any factual conclusion as a result of this?”
“I was.”
“And what was that conclusion?”
“The three samples in question, the dried blood from the back of the victim’s pants, came from the marlin in cold storage.”
“That specific marlin, to the exclusion of any other?”
“That’s correct.”
The courtroom is motionless. A pivotal point. It is palpable. You can smell it, hear a pin drop, the scratching of paper by pencils in the front row as reporters try to get it down verbatim.
I look over and Jonah has his head in his hands, on the table. Mary is seated behind him, beyond the railing. She seems shell-shocked, dazed. A stark, haunted expression on her face, as if occupied by a single thought, read her mind: Am I married to a killer?
“Somebody must have put it there.” Jonah’s talking about the dried blood on Suade’s clothes. “How else could it have gotten there?” he says.
“I don’t know.”
He’s looking at me as if I don’t believe him. We’re in a holding cell twenty feet from Peltro’s courtroom, just Jonah and me. People milling in the hallway outside.
When Peltro stepped off the bench, headed for chambers, Ryan convened his own court. Surrounded by a gaggle of reporters, he was asked if the trial was over. Whether the DNA was the coup de grace. I heard him tell them, in a voice loud enough to be heard halfway across the room, to stay tuned.
My cross-examination of Howard Sandler took all of three minutes. The only thing left to me was the chain of evidence. When I tried to get an edge into the collection of the samples, Ryan objected, and had me dead in the water, on grounds that this was beyond the scope of the witness.
Sandler could only say that once the samples were received at his own lab, they were properly handled and that no mistakes were made at that end.
The sole inference I tried to work toward was that maybe someone had made a mistake in labeling, mixing up the evidence from cold storage with the blood from the scene.
You can’t always tell when a jury is buying something, but you can usually tell when they’re not—and they weren’t buying this.
“You did good getting Mary out of here,” says Jonah.
My only positive deed for the day. I had Harry take her home, run the press gauntlet, down the back stairs. There will be cops outside Mary’s home tonight to keep them away, the media horde.
We went to the house a few days ago, Harry and I. All the plants and shrubs across the front are now dead, trampled as if by wildebeest. There are ruts in Jonah’s lawn from enterprising camera crews feeding the public’s right to know, trying to catch any piece of film they can for their files—Mary taking out the garbage, Mary in the kitchen, Mary trying to pull the shades in her bedroom, all this with their thousand-foot zoom lenses. News copters fly over the house, morning, noon, and night; after dark they flash their lights in her backyard, cameramen hanging from the struts.
Two days ago she brought me a letter signed by the officers of their homeowners’ association. They are asking Mary to move out, at least until the trial is over. Her neighbors can no longer deal with the invasion.
Jonah is looking at me, wondering where we go from here.
“There is another possibility,” I tell him. “Self-defense.” We have talked about this before. “Suade’s gun.” I arch an eyebrow, look at him.
“You don’t believe me,” he says.
“I don’t know what I believe. I know the evidence is not favorable, and we’re running out of time. We can’t find Ontaveroz or any evidence of a connection. If we are going to shift defenses, I’m going to have to act soon.”
I pull him over, sit him down at the small stainless-steel table in the center of the holding cell, two chairs bolted to the floor on either side that cannot be moved.
“I have experts on my list,” I tell him. “People I put there just in case. Reconstruction experts. Medical witnesses, who are willing to testify that the wounds suffered by Suade are consistent with an altercation. They’ve looked at the evidence, the medical examiner’s report, the wounds, the gun residue on Suade’s hands. They are willing to testify that a struggle occurred in the car. A fight for the gun. We have the records of the purchase of the pistol, the one Suade bought. I think it was self-defense,” I tell him. “She carried that pistol in her purse. I think she pulled it out that evening.”
“It could have happened that way,” says Jonah. “But I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t there.”
I offer up a deep sigh, look at the far wall over his shoulder.
Jonah hangs his head. “You want me to tell them I was there, I will,” he says. “I’ll tell them I fought for the gun.”
I shake my head. “Not unless it’s the truth.” Besides the fact that it would be perjury, nothing could be more dangerous than Jonah on the stand concocting stories.
Then he shakes his head. “Why can’t you just put me on the stand and I can tell them I wasn’t there?”
“Because they won’t believe you. What are you going to say when Ryan asks you how that marlin’s blood got all over Suade’s clothes?”
“I don’t know.”
“And when he confronts you with the threats you made in front of Brower? What will you say? That you were just kidding?”
“Maybe,” he says.
“So you weren’t angry?”
“No, I was angry.”
“So you weren’t kidding?”
“No, I was angry, but I wasn’t going to kill her.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“People say things they don’t mean all the time,” he says.
“Do you?”
Jonah doesn’t answer. Instead he looks on, seeing the problem. Were you lying then, or are you lying now?
With all this, there is something gnawing at me that doesn’t make sense. With all his evidence, the physical links tying Jonah to the scene, there are questions that Ryan hasn’t answered: Why would a woman who has met Jonah only once, and then in hostile circumstances, climb into the passenger seat of his car? What on earth could they find to talk about while she consumed not one, but two cigarettes? And perhaps more important, given the makeup of my jury, why would a woman, a natty dresser like Suade whose attire was meticulous even if bizarre, the tight little toreador costume, why would someone who took such care willingly jump on Jonah’s blood-spattered, scale-covered seat covers? This last defies female logic, a messy question, and one that Ryan will have to deal with, or leave dangling for me in front of nine women on the jury.
TWENTY-SEVEN
* * *
“The state calls Susan McKay.”
Ryan tries not to look at me as he says it, but in the end he can’t resist a sniggering sideways glance. Satisfaction written on his face.
Until this moment, Harry and I had assumed that Ryan was keeping Susan out in the hallway, under constant subpoena as a kind of penance. He has made her cool her heels for nearly a week, this for her help on Suade’s gun, a detail we probably would have turned up in any event.
Jonah leans over. Harry and I have him sandwiched between us, trying to avoid a repeat of yesterday, the body English of defeat.
“I thought the two o
f you were friends.” He whispers a little too loud so that I am left to look at the jury, hoping that the ones in the front row don’t have great hearing.
I cup a hand. “Against her will. She’s under subpoena,” I tell him.
“Oh.” He nods as if he understands. “She’s probably gonna tell ’em what I did in her office. How I got mad and walked out’n all.”
She might not have to if Jonah keeps talking. I put a hand on his forearm, finger to my lips to shut him up.
Even with the click of her high heels on the hard surface of the floor, I don’t have to turn to look. I know Susan is in the room. I can feel the heat of her gaze on the back of my neck, like a laser shaving the fine hairs.
She had started to relax, accepting my nightly assurances that Ryan wouldn’t call her. After all, Brower heard the death threats in my office. There’s little Susan can add.
She may be a reluctant witness, but she walks with purpose through the gate in the bar, past the rostrum where she pivots. Standing near the witness box, she raises her hand. As she does this, her gaze is not on the clerk with his upraised hand and mantra . . . Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth . . . but on me. At the moment, I suspect it’s not anger so much as the normal emotion that comes with surprise: fight or flight.
“Would you take a seat?” says Ryan. “Give us your name. Spell the last name for the record, and your address.”
“Susan McKay.” I can tell she’s scared. She spells her last name like she’s spitting out the five letters, then gives her office address, not her home. Ryan doesn’t seem to notice. The reporters in the front row will have a hard time hunting her down when she’s done. Her home number is unlisted.
“Ms. McKay, can you tell us what you do for a living?”
“I’m director of Children’s Protective Services.”
“Is that a public agency?”
“Yes.”
“In the county or the city?” says Ryan.
“County,” she says.
“And what do you do there? What are your responsibilities as director?”
“I’m the chief administrative officer for the department.”
“So you run the agency?”
“Yes.”
“Are you responsible to anyone else?”
“The board of supervisors,” she says.
“You serve at their pleasure, is that right?” Ryan asks the question as if at the moment there is very little pleasure left with Susan in that place.
“That’s correct.”
Ryan already knows all this. He’s simply reminding Susan.
“Could you please tell the jury what your agency does?”
“We’re charged with looking after the welfare of children. Abused. Neglected. We deal with allegations of child abuse and endangerment. We investigate charges. Take children into protective custody when it’s necessary. We also file applications with the court for the appointment of guardians from time to time. The department makes recommendations as to if and when children should be made wards of the court.”
“You say you investigate cases of child abuse?” Ryan picks from this smorgasbord, the one he wants.
“That’s correct.”
“And in that regard did your agency have occasion to inquire into allegations of child abuse, specifically charges of molestation regarding a child by the name of Amanda Hale?”
“I’m going to object, Your Honor. Grounds of relevance,” I say.
“Goes to motive,” says Ryan.
“I’ll allow it,” says Peltro. “Overruled.”
“I don’t do casework myself,” says Susan.
“Yes, but you do know about this case, don’t you?”
“I know about the charges,” she says.
“Was an investigation conducted by your agency in regard to those charges?”
“An inquiry was made. I don’t think it ever got to the level of a full investigation.”
“Can you tell the jury who lodged those charges with the county?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Can we approach?” I motion toward the bench.
Peltro waves us on. Ryan and I cozy up to the bench on the side away from Susan in the witness box. The court reporter with her computerized stenograph machine huddling in close to take it all down.
“Your Honor, this is highly prejudicial.” I’m whispering now, cupping a hand, trying to keep it away from the jury and the front row with their scratching pencils and pens.
“No charges were ever brought against my client. All the evidence indicates that the events never occurred. There was never any evidence of molestation or incest.”
“The charges were made,” says Ryan. “I’m not offering them to prove they were true. The fact is the allegations go directly to motive. The defendant knew these charges had been made. He was also aware that they were about to be renewed in the victim’s press release. It may very well have been defamatory,” says Ryan. “But that doesn’t justify murder. Mr. Madriani knows that’s our theory. It’s been clear from the beginning. Our theory is his client killed the victim to silence her.”
“Your Honor, if you let this in, the jury runs the risk of convicting my client for all the wrong reasons.”
The judge is shaking his head, unwilling to cut the heart out of Ryan’s case. It was a long-shot objection, and Peltro clearly sees it that way.
“Mr. Madriani, you can cross-examine the witness later,” he says. “You can make it clear at that time that the agency found no merit in the charges. But it does go to motive,” he says.
“I’m going to overrule the objection.” Peltro says it loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear. He sends Ryan back to the rostrum, me to my chair.
“Ms. McKay. Can you tell us who lodged the charges in question, the allegations of child molestation involving the child Amanda Hale?”
“It was her mother.”
“That would be Jessica Hale?”
“Yes.”
“And who were the charges made against?”
“Jonah Hale.”
“The defendant?”
“Yes.”
“He was the child’s grandfather.”
“Is,” says Susan. “He is the child’s grandfather.”
“Of course.” Ryan is well aware the child is gone, though his agency has done nothing to bring charges against Jessica.
“And you say you investigated these charges?”
“No. I said we made inquiries. It never got to the point of a formal investigation.”
“You made inquiries?”
“I didn’t. My office did.”
“Fine,” says Ryan, finally getting her to the point. “Who did they inquire with?”
“Neighbors. Other relatives. The child. The child’s grandmother.”
“That would be Mary Hale?” Ryan points to Mary sitting in the front row right behind Harry.
“Yes.”
Ryan looks at Mary and smiles. He’d put her up next, on the stand, except for the spousal privilege that prevents it.
“And based on these inquiries, your agency decided there was no need for a formal investigation?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you make that decision, or did someone else in your office make it?”
“Someone else,” says Susan.
“Who was that?”
“I don’t remember. I probably had to sign off on it. I’d have to look at the file,” she says.
Ryan doesn’t pursue it. “Now, I want to draw your attention,” he says, “to the morning of April seventeenth. This year. Did you receive a phone call from Mr. Madriani at that time?”
“I get a lot of phone calls,” she says. “I can’t remember all the
dates.”
“No doubt you get a lot of phone calls from Mr. Madriani.”
Susan doesn’t respond, except to look at me.
“Do you get a lot of phone calls from Mr. Madriani?”
“Some,” she says.
“Isn’t it a fact that the two of you are friends?”
Susan hesitates. Then says: “Yes.”
“In fact, isn’t it true that you are more than friends?”
“What do you mean?” says Susan.
“Isn’t it a fact that the two of you are lovers?”
“Objection.” I’m on my feet.
“What’s the relevance?” says Peltro.
“I’ll withdraw the question,” says Ryan. He does it smiling at the jury.
“At the moment is it true that you are living with Mr. Madriani? Or rather he is living with you?”
“Your Honor?” I’m out of my chair again.
Susan squirming in the witness box, looking at the judge.
“Mr. Ryan,” says Peltro.
“Your Honor. Goes to bias.”
“He’s trying to impeach his own witness.”
“I’m aware. She’s stated they are friends,” says Peltro. “One more question along those lines and you can get your wallet out,” he says. “And go get your toothbrush. Now move on.”
Ryan nods, then picks up his place from his notes. It could be worse. Ryan is a little ham-handed on this. It’s not so much the message, as the way it’s conveyed. He delivers it like some sleazoid listening to heavy breathing on an audiotape.
“Let’s go back to the seventeenth of April,” he says. “That’s the day the victim was killed. You do remember the day?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember receiving a phone call from Mr. Madriani that morning?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Would it help if we showed you a copy of his cellular phone records?” Ryan makes it sound as if I’m on trial, which at the moment I am.
“No. I remember,” she says.
“Do you remember the contents of that telephone conversation?”
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