by Sydney Bauer
‘To demonstrate a point, Your Honor,’ said David, deciding it was best not to elaborate further.
The Judge considered him, just as the DA had recovered enough to object. ‘I'll allow it,’ said Stein, holding up his hand to silence the DA. ‘Swings and roundabouts, Mr Katz,’ he added, basically indicating to the DA that the latitude awarded to him would also be awarded to the defence.
David turned to his client from where he stood in front of the witness. Sienna hesitated, but only for a second before sliding back her chair and getting to her feet. She looked small in her pale blue tailored dress, her long hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, her make-up-free skin flawless in the bright afternoon light.
David waited for her to reach him, after which he bent slowly and whispered something in her ear. And her chin fell, as if what he asked of her might be too much. But then she pulled back and looked up at him, her blue eyes blinking in agreement.
David turned to the Judge once again. ‘Your Honor,’ he gestured toward his client's wrists. ‘At this point I would request that my client's handcuffs be removed temporarily, and that she be sworn in so that any comments she makes during this demonstration might be tabled as being on the record.’
Stein's brow furrowed, but then it relaxed as he indicated to the nearby deputy that he could remove the defendant's handcuffs and that the court clerk could swear Sienna in so that her testimony would be recorded along with Gus Svenson's, given the ME had not been dismissed by the defence counsel, and this, in effect, was still a cross-examination of the witness currently on the stand.
The handcuffs were removed and David led his client toward the jury. He was praying they would not recoil and was pleased to see that they not only sat firm but leant slightly forward, as if to get a better look at the woman they were here to judge.
‘Dr Svenson,’ said David, now addressing the witness. He positioned himself so that he could pivot to face either the jury, the gallery or the judge. ‘You indicated that Eliza was cradled in death.’
‘Yes.’
‘You also indicated that the neck wound was inflicted right to left.’
‘Yes.’
David nodded before turning to face the jury, at which time he held out the doll before him and indicated for his client to take it.
Sienna took the doll slowly, carefully, immediately cradling the child as she had her own daughter night after night after night.
The room fell silent as Sienna lowered her gaze to look into the eyes of the toy she was holding, and her tears began to flow softly as she lifted her head again and this time, met the jury's stares front on.
‘Is this the way you used to hold her?’ David asked Sienna.
‘Yes.’
‘In the crook of your left arm – like that?’
‘Yes. My left was always easier as I held the bottle in my right.’
David nodded, turning to the witness once again. ‘Dr Svenson, you told the court on a number of occasions this afternoon that the victim's throat was cut right to left.’
‘That is what the examination indicated,’ said Svenson.
‘But in order for this to have happened, as you indicated in your demonstration, the killer must have started on the outside of the child's neck and flicked it diagonally up as their hand moved closer to their own body.’
Svenson nodded. ‘Most likely, yes.’
David took a breath. ‘That being the case, Doctor, in your expert opinion, would you say the knife was held in the killer's left or right hand?’
Svenson thought about it. ‘There is no way to tell conclusively, but it would certainly be more likely that the wound was inflicted by an instrument held in the killer's left hand.’
‘Because the baby would have been held in the right for the injuries to have been sustained as they did?’
‘Again most likely, yes.’
‘Which would suggest, once again in your expert opinion, that the killer was left handed?’
Gus took a breath. He was thinking hard now. Not because the question was difficult, but because, David knew, the ME could now see the weight of significance attached to it.
‘Yes,’ he repeated.
David released the breath he had been holding. He then offered Gus the slightest of smiles, indicating he was not angry for any oversight. He knew Gus was now cursing himself for not thinking of this distinction earlier, just as Martinelli had been frustrated at his own failure to ‘click’ to the presence of the K9s on the night of Eliza's death. But once again David knew this wasn't anyone's fault – or if there was blame to be laid, it belonged to him. He was the one who was hired to defend his client after all, and it became clear to him then that his attention had been split between preparing a defence for his client and finding the proof to destroy Daniel Hunt.
‘Sienna,’ said David, now turning to his client once again. ‘Are you ambidextrous?’
‘No.’
‘So you are right-handed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is why you supported Eliza in your left arm so that you could hold her bottle in your right?’
‘Yes.’
‘The bottle and the burp towel and the thermometer and any instrument needed to apply or offer something to your child – you held all of these things in your right hand?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why didn't you hold the knife in your right hand?’ he asked, as the entire room ceased breathing in anticipation.
The room slipped into a long, slow, thick span of silence, all eyes focused on the woman in the sunlight in the pale blue dress.
‘Because I didn't hold the knife at all,’ she answered.
‘Because you did not kill your daughter?’
‘No,’ she said, her eyes set on the jury once again. ‘No, I did not.’
75
Madonna Carrera fished in her faux Hermès Birkin and pulled out her mother-of-pearl compact with the magnifying mirror under the lid. She knew now was probably not the time to go examining the size of her facial pores, but she was nervous, and she had to do something to get her mind off things.
She hated being here in this totally fake room with the piped music and the plush carpet and the paintings done by up-themselves ‘artistes’ who couldn't tell an arm from a leg. She shook her head as she glanced at one now – it was by some Danish dude. It was called something ridiculous like ‘I Can't Dance I've Got Ants in My Pants’ but the only thing Madonna could make out in the whole painting was a chicken and what that had to do with ants or pants she had no freaking idea.
Her mind was drifting again, which was no damned wonder given it was now Monday morning and Dr Davenport hadn't come in or called since Thursday afternoon. She hated being on her own, it made her resort to things like examining her skin in her compact – her only consolation being that her complexion was looking unexpectedly fresh. Maybe stress was actually good for your skin? Sara always looked seriously hot and she obviously had a super stressful job.
She liked Sara, and David and their kid Lauren, who called Madonna Mydolly. Madonna had hung out with them over the weekend, even helped them with ideas as to how to locate the couples she'd highlighted on that list. The whole thing was creepy. Arthur and Nora had checked out every single address of every single older couple she'd circled and every single one of them was bogus. They probably hadn't even used their own names – they just walked on in and bought their babies and shuffled off to whatever filthy-rich hole they'd climbed out of, taking those poor kids with them, with the real moms kept in the dark about the whole operation.
Madonna snapped her compact shut. The quiet was beginning to freak her out. Dr Davenport had obviously cancelled his ‘clients’ personally, because no one on the appointment book beside her had actually shown – and that made Madonna wonder if the doctor knew what she'd been up to. The prospect made her nervous, and more than just a little scared but surprisingly, it also made her more determined than ever to help Sara and David and Sienna Walker,
who obviously wasn't a bitch after all.
But then the gush startled her. It was the noise the door made when someone was pushing in from the outside. For a second she felt her skin crawl as the couple entered the reception area. It was the doctor's new patients – the older couple who were not on the original list. They were the last patients the doctor had seen before he went AWOL, and she didn't even know their names because they walked right on in, with the doctor's permission, without having made a formal appointment.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked then, the slightest of quivers in her voice.
The woman smiled. An attractive strawberry blonde, she looked forty-five but Madonna knew she was older because her hands were spotty and her husband was well and truly over the hill.
‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘Our names are George and Barbara –’
But then Madonna was in for her next shock because lo and behold, Dr McCreepy himself came swanning through the door cutting the woman's words short.
‘Sorry I'm late,’ he said to the couple as he led them into his rooms, not even acknowledging Madonna's presence, like she was just part of his expensive furniture – except with a little more class.
The couple disappeared and Madonna was on the phone within seconds. It was Sara who answered after the very first ring. ‘Madonna,’ she whispered. ‘We're about to go back into court.’
‘I know,’ said Madonna, her whisper even quieter than Sara's. ‘But he's here, Dr Davenport, and he has the two new clients in his office. The ones I told you about, that weren't on the list. They're old – you know, rich old – so there is no way the wife is putting a bun in that oven given the oven probably died a good decade ago.’
Sara was silent for a moment then said, ‘Hold on.’
Which Madonna did, for a good ten seconds.
‘David's calling Joe Mannix. He'll be there in minutes. He won't come in but he'll tail the couple, okay?’
A nervous Madonna nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘Did they say anything, Madonna, give you any information, like –’
Madonna heard a voice behind Sara. It was some dude asking everyone to rise like they did on TV.
‘Madonna, I have to go … hold tight, okay?
‘Okay. Over,’ said Madonna, having no idea why she said that. She wasn't on a freaking walkie-talkie, for Christ's sakes, but it just came out – Over. What a doofus.
76
That afternoon
It was a truth, although not universally acknowledged, that ugly people made bad witnesses. Most attorneys knew it – in fact Katz had a sneaking suspicion that any lawyer worth his salt understood that a witness with a face like a smashed crab was far less convincing than one who looked like they'd just stepped out of central casting. But political correctness prevented anyone actually talking about it, let alone admitting that they sometimes dropped a witness simply because they looked like they'd been beaten with the ugly stick. Of course sometimes there was no avoiding it – case in point, Katz's current predicament regarding the man named Horace St John.
Katz had been very specific. No smiling. No snorting. No scratching of nose or rubbing of eyebrows or grooming of handlebar moustache. He asked St John to forgo the cream three-piece suit, the one with the silk-backed waistcoat, in favour of a charcoal conservative number which squared off his shoulders and hid the stretched buttonholes on his monogrammed cuff-linked shirt.
That being said, Katz had to admit the man was doing much better than he expected – in fact, almost as well as Katz's previous witness victory, FBI Profiler Ned Jacobs. St John was answering his questions succinctly and avoiding the hyperbole Katz had warned him against. He had even acquiesced to answer some of Katz's queries with replies that were one hundred per cent scripted – specifically those relating to the ‘impossibility’ of rehabilitation of those born unscrupulously bad.
‘Professor St John,’ he said after an hour of detailed questioning relating to St John's expertise in the neurological make-up of those born without the ability to empathise, those unable to feel anything for anyone bar themselves. ‘You mentioned earlier that patients labelled psychopaths shared behavioural traits, the same traits you noted in the defendant when you –’
‘Objection!’
Here he goes again, thought Katz. This was the fourth time Cavanaugh had objected to any reference regarding St John's ‘second-hand’ assessment of the defendant. True, it was a stretch entering a psych evaluation where the shrink had never actually met the subject in person, but Katz had established precedent by pointing out that other judges had allowed this form of secondary examination when the psych expert recommended his or her analysis would be more comprehensive if done in a fashion somewhat more remote.
‘Your Honor,’ Cavanaugh continued. ‘I seriously don't know where to begin. First of all, Professor St John was placed on the prosecution's witness list with no warning. Secondly, my client was examined by another prosecutorial psychologist by the name of Dr Neil Shoebridge, who now, it appears, did not make the cut of Mr Katz's ever morphing list of witnesses. Thirdly, Professor St John is providing analysis of a psychological examination performed by Dr Shoebridge at which he was not present, and finally, I would question the relevance of this witness as a whole, given he is not licensed to practice in this country and as such, his testimony –’
‘Your Honor.’ Katz could not wait any longer. Cavanaugh was messing with his rhythm, which meant the jury were losing focus. ‘As I have already stated, the witness list containing Professor St John's name was sent to Mr Cavanaugh's offices early last week and it is hardly the fault of the prosecution if his assistant failed to do something as simple as place it on his desk.’ Katz told this lie on purpose. He knew how tight Cavanaugh was with his geriatric secretary and as such took the opportunity to stick the knife in deep. ‘Further, there is nothing unusual about remote psychological evaluation, which as the Professor has stated, was much more efficient in this case.’
They waited for the Judge's response.
‘Objection overruled. You may continue, Mr Katz.’
An increasingly pissed Cavanaugh retook his seat.
Katz spent the next ten minutes broaching the whole concept of ‘psychopathic personalities and genetics’, slowly introducing questions relating to sociopathic behaviour and chromosomal links. He then led his witness into territory they had rehearsed at some length – that relating to those serotonin transporters and the matter of variations in their length. Of course Katz suspected this was all a load of bullshit but it was convincing bullshit and a jury brought up on crap like CSI Las Vegas, Miami, New York and wherever the hell else that virus of a program had migrated, would lap it up like a cat in a vat full of milk.
‘It is really incredibly interesting,’ said St John when asked about new research into serotonin and the role it plays in neurological make-up. ‘The studies have found a relationship between psychopathic personalities and higher levels of serotonin brought out of the brain synapse. Basically, there are two types of genes that transport serotonin. These two types, or alleles, vary in length and the much rarer, longer ones, quite logically are able to create more of the transporter protein that makes it possible for more serotonin to be brought out of the synapse.’
‘And more serotonin means …?’ led Katz as they'd rehearsed.
‘Well, basically more means less – and by that I mean less rash behaviour, less emotional reaction, less erratic responses and the impulsiveness that goes with it.’
‘Hold on, Professor, this is confusing me,’ Katz lied. ‘I thought you said more serotonin was linked to psychopathy.’
‘That's right,’ replied St John. ‘You have to understand that psychopaths are not your run of the mill criminals, Mr Katz. They are not rash or impulsive or erratic. On the contrary, they are clever, controlled. Their behaviour is not inhibited by feelings of empathy or remorse or regret.’
‘And have you ever treated a patient with these longer alleles? Have you perso
nally made the link between serotonin transportation and the genetic presence of these –’
‘Absolutely,’ St John interrupted as Katz had instructed. ‘It was some years ago but I assessed a patient and had the opportunity to examine his genetic make-up as part of a case I was involved in.’
‘And you found this subject to be …?’
‘Intelligent, manipulative, ruthless, covetous, malevolent and lacking in principle.’
‘A textbook psychopath.’
‘Yes, and this man's alleles were of the much longer type, and you have to remember this is quite rare, Mr Katz, so the discovery was significant.’
‘I see,’ said Katz, now flicking his eyes toward the defence table, and while the look on Cavanaugh's face was priceless, it was the one worn by his client that really hit pay dirt. ‘So this man and his longer alleles, given we are talking about genetics here, I assume there is a risk that these traits would be passed down to his ancestors?’
St John nodded. ‘Which made this patient all the more interesting given he was of British gentry – our aristocracy had a tendency to inbreed, you see, Mr Katz, thus increasing the likelihood of genetic transference.’
‘Your patient was aristocracy?’
‘He was an earl.’
‘And this gene, like many associated with other inherited conditions, was it found on the Y chromosome, meaning it can only be passed on to males?’
‘No,’ St John shook his head. ‘It is on the X chromosome, Mr Katz.’
‘Meaning it can be passed down to males or females?’
‘Unfortunately so.’
‘And the chance of this genetic transference?’
‘Is quite high – to his child, fifty per cent.’
‘So if this man's child carried the gene …?’
‘Then that child would have a fifty per cent chance of passing it on also.’
Katz nodded as if the picture was only just becoming clear. ‘Professor St John,’ he continued then. ‘Did this man – this earl you examined – did he have any children?’
‘He had one, a daughter. But she is deceased.’
