“The prints that led from the tree in the Nusbaumer woods toward the gravel road,” Reardon said, “in what direction did they lead?”
“Southeast.”
“Where in relation to the Nusbaumer property does Mr. Ratliff live?”
“Southeast.”
“What shoes were Mr. Ratliff wearing on the night of the murders?”
“Nobody knows.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nobody knows.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Ratliff told me he could not remember.” Pratt hoisted the binder and held it in high. “The police did not ask him, nor apparently did they look at his shoes.”
Pratt’s eyes traveled from the jury to McConegal. He pulled the book back into his lap, turned to a tabbed page, and put his finger to it.
“Mr. Ratliff was described by the state police detective who interviewed him—Sgt. McConegal—as being barefoot when the police arrived. There is no evidence that anyone asked him why or where his shoes were.”
I had seen bare feet on a chilly night, too. I looked at Janelle and raised my brows. She looked back but only briefly. She could not bear the weight of my gaze. I’m not all that proud I did that now.
They pretended they were God, that they could take and give back.
“You’re not saying that in your opinion Orlo Ratliff committed these crimes?”
“Objection,” Crandall growled. “Seven-oh-four.”
He cited the rule of evidence that prohibits an expert from offering an opinion about a person’s guilt or truthfulness. Secrist shot Reardon an annoyed glance and sustained the objection, but it didn’t make a difference. If Secrist had overruled the objection, Pratt would have said: “No, of course, I’m not saying Mr. Ratliff could be the murderer.”
But, of course, he had.
“What’s your opinion then?”
“I am saying that in my opinion the police did not take sufficient measures to rule out all other persons before they charged the Defendant.”
“Didn’t the police have the statements of Ms. Nusbaumer as to who was in her home that night?”
“True, but clearly that poor woman had been severely traumatized. She might not have been able to accurately describe the events of that evening. Even if she was capable of accurate descriptions, she did not see the face of the second person and there was no physical evidence.”
Pratt swept a hand up and around, broadcasting a fistful of fairy dust.
“Footprints, fingerprints, hair, fibers, ballistics, DNA. There was none of that to tie your client to the scene.”
“Didn’t Sheriff Modine and Sgt. McConegal have the identification of my client by that boy, Jacob Danvers?”
“Yes, but the boy had numerous reasons to lie.”
Crandall bolted upright. “Objection. Seven-oh-four. Province of the factfinder. Move to strike.”
Secrist called Reardon and Crandall forward so they could murmur and hiss. Near the end, Secrist leaned in close and hissed at each in turn.
“Sustained,” said Secrist with some diffidence as he waved them away. He told the jury to forget what they had just heard, an admonition that does nothing but drive the memory deeper, as Reardon no doubt intended.
The heads of more than a couple of jurors turned as their eyes followed Crandall back to his table. They had reached some decision and they were ready to test it against whatever he would have to say.
“Mr. Pratt, you testified earlier that you are frequently asked to express an opinion about the quality of the police work in the cases you handle?”
Crandall had not yet made it back to his table. He wheeled. “Objection.”
“Overruled,” Secrist said, not giving Reardon a chance to respond.
“Yes,” Pratt said.
“Did you form such an opinion in this matter?”
Crandall for the first time had stolen a glance at the jury. He leaned and placed a hand onto the table as though to catch himself.
“Objection,” he barked.
“Overruled,” Secrist said again. His eyes, too, had followed Crandall away from the bench, and there appeared to be little warmth in them.
“Yes,” Pratt said.
“What is that opinion?”
“Objection,” Crandall said, his voice clenched and angry. “Province of the factfinder.”
“No, Mr. Crandall,” Secrist said, his voice as flat as his eyes. “I don’t think it is.”
For the first time in the trial, he paused before ruling on an objection. His gaze roamed, lingering on Wood, McConegal, Moze, and, just for an instant, me.
“I think, Mr. Crandall, it goes to burden, and, as you should know, an opinion that goes to an ultimate issue is generally admissible,” Secrist said. He turned to Reardon, who had been studying Secrist intently, as though trying to divine which way the winds now blew. Secrist returned Reardon’s look: “Ask your question again.”
“What is your opinion of the quality of the police work in this case?”
Pratt had watched the jurors throughout the exchange. When he was sure they had all returned their attention to him, he shrugged and dropped his eyes.
“I’m afraid I concluded that it was poor.”
Pratt raised his eyes to one of the men, the same one he had told about his conviction record. Pratt bit his lips and shook his head.
“I don’t take any pleasure saying that.”
The man nodded back. He understood.
Reardon said: “This failure to rule out all other persons before charging someone with murder, is that contrary to the principles of good investigative procedure and technique?
“Objection,” Crandall said.
“Overruled.”
“Yes,” said Pratt, “that’s not what you’re supposed to do.”
“This failure to rule out all other persons before charging someone with murder, is that what you would have taught Sheriff Modine, Sgt. McConegal, and Deputy Beard?”
“Objection,” Crandall said half-heartedly, already knowing the outcome.
“Overruled,” Secrist said.
“No,” said Pratt, “I taught them to exclude, to winnow down the possibilities as low as they would go.”
Once again, his eyes returned to the understanding juror.
“And I take no pleasure saying that either.”
Any number of older cops allow themselves the luxury of a binary mindset: if you’re not for me, you must be against me. It is an attitude that develops over time and seems to arise from bruised and abraded altruism. These cops come to believe that their frequently dangerous work among less-than-savory elements of society is never adequately appreciated by the citizenry they became cops to protect.
Beyond its simplicity and convenience, the attitude is perhaps a defense mechanism that props up their self-esteem and allows them to stay in an ugly job long enough to earn a pension. The downside is that it leaves them raw to the merest slight, quick to construe innocuous remarks as criticism, and quicker still to cut the people who make the remarks out of the already slim herd of those with whom they will associate.
A prosecutor, now and then, usually one who prefers to move in quick
straight lines, develops a similar attitude. You’d think, though, a guy smart enough to earn a law degree would have enough sense to keep it under wraps.
Wood had been making eyes at Crandall, trying to get his attention without waving or tugging at his sleeve, but Crandall ignored him.
Before Reardon even sat down, Crandall was on his feet and said to Pratt, “Bare feet, huh?” His tone suggested the rest of the question was: “That all you got?”
Pratt withdrew his gaze from the jury. He turned to Crandall, sat back in his chair, and twisted the knob on the grin like he had just run into an old friend
. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had waved or blown Crandall a kiss.
“No shoes, Potter,” he replied, not missing the opportunity to repeat and underscore his point.
Crandall blinked, apparently at the use of his first name, but his next question had already found form on his tongue.
“You’re aware of the time Ms. Nusbaumer arrived at Mr. Ratliff’s house.”
“I know what time he said she arrived, Potter.” He returned his attention to the jury. “No one can corroborate it.”
Crandall paused momentarily, starting to sense where Pratt intended to go.
“You are aware that Mr. Ratliff had gone to bed before Ms. Nusbaumer arrived.”
“Well, again, Potter. . . .” He glanced at Crandall as he began then turned to the jury. “That’s what he said.”
“Mr. Pratt, isn’t it likely that a man who is awakened by a bloody woman—a woman he has known for the better part of his life, a woman he has a relationship with—is likely to be barefoot when he finds her severely injured and pounding on his door at that time of night?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Pratt tapped the book and spoke to the jury.
“Not one member of any police force asked him.” He turned back to Crandall. “Did they, Potter?”
“Mr. Pratt, you know as well as I do I get to ask the questions here.”
Pratt remained silent, his grin modulated to sympathetic, unfazed by the rebuke. A juror or two shot Crandall looks shaded with reproach as though they thought Pratt deserved an answer, not rudeness, but he did not notice.
He tried again to rehabilitate Orlo.
“How long after the murders occurred did you go to the Ms. Nusbaumer’s property and speak with Mr. Ratliff?”
Pratt gave dates about a couple of months after the Defendant’s arrest and several months after the murders.
“A lot can happen in that amount of time.”
“I’m sorry, Potter.” Pratt shook his head. “If that was a question, I didn’t understand it.”
“Five months after the murders occurred, you took a sample from Mr. Ratliff’s boot.”
“The only one anyone took.”
Crandall exhaled through his teeth.
“When you took that sample, you were aware that Mr. Ratliff was taking care of Ms. Nusbaumer’s property after the murders while she recuperated from her injuries?”
“Objection,” Reardon said. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”
“Overruled,” Secrist said without explanation, probably because he knew Reardon had objected only to put the jury on notice to pay attention to Pratt’s answer.
“If it’s not in there . . .” He launched his index finger up and over so that it landed point down in the middle of the book’s cover. “And it’s not, neither your investigators or I am aware of it.”
Pratt would never answer yes or no, only in ways that reiterated or underscored his direct testimony.
“You’re aware that the police found no evidence that Mr. Ratliff was in Ms. Nusbaumer’s home on the night the murders occurred?”
“Just as I am aware they found no evidence that the Defendant was in her trailer that night.”
Pratt played the fulcrum. If Crandall pushed on the Bunny end of the board, Pratt would raise police ineptitude. If Crandall stood on the cop end, Pratt raised up Bunny to the jury above all others.
It was mighty good lawyering. No one would ever know whether the idea belonged to Reardon or Pratt, but those among the clans who knew them both would’ve put money on Pratt.
Crandall tried a different tact.
“In thirty-some years as a state police detective, you never charged a suspect without ruling out all the other suspects?”
“Well, Potter, first of all, it’s the prosecutor who charges, isn’t it? The police just bring him the evidence. Isn’t that how it works?”
“Answer the question, Mr. Pratt.”
“The question is: Have I ever been involved in an investigation in which someone was charged before all other suspects were ruled out?”
“You heard it.”
“The answer is once,” Pratt said to the jury. He turned to Crandall. “Just once. As you well know, Potter.”
Crandall jerked himself erect. For just a moment, as color rose in his neck, he looked uncertain.
“You don’t take pleasure in saying bad things about our police,” Crandall said, “but you’ll take money to say them anyway, won’t you?”
Pratt adjusted the grin to show there were no hard feelings.
“Mr. Reardon paid for my time and expertise, Potter. . . .”
“It’s a yes or no, question, sir.”
“Mr. Reardon has to live with whatever opinion he gets, Potter. . . .”
“Yes or no, Mr. Pratt.”
“Potter, Mr. Reardon could no more buy my opinion now than you could when I was a detective.”
Once more, for less than a second, Crandall looked stunned.
“You know, Mr. Pratt, I’ll thank you not to refer to me by my first name.”
“I don’t understand. How long we known each other, Potter? You think we should pretend we don’t know each other pretty well by now?”
“Oh, we do, and you, sir, are a god-damn liar.”
The weight of regard should have driven Crandall to his knees, but he remained upright, rigid, hands clenched at his sides, locked in furious eyefuck with Pratt.
“We’ll take a break,” Secrist said evenly.
Neither Crandall or Pratt moved or broke his stare. As the jury filed out, Pratt did not rise, and Crandall did not turn to pay his respects.
One of the jurors apparently could not believe what she had just witnessed. As she and her colleagues filed out, she shook her head, disgust on her face.
“Counsel, I’d like to see you in my office,” Secrist said when the jury was gone.
Secrist stood, unzipped his robe, and nearly leaped from the bench, robe in full billow. At the door, he pulled up short and turned back toward
Crandall and Pratt.
“Mr. Crandall,” he said. “Now would be the best time.”
After another long moment, Crandall blinked and turned on his heel toward the door at the bench. Wood took for himself the role of Crandall’s second. Still standing from the jury’s departure, he applied his best reptile eyes to Pratt, but Pratt would not look back. He shook his head twice, once with a jerk as though to clear it and a second time slowly.
Pratt’s grin was a facsimile of expression, something empty and dark. When Pratt lifted his eyes, they met the Defendant’s. The grin disappeared altogether. No one I talked to later could remember that happening before.
And still we held our breath.
Every juror filed back in looking at Crandall, who ignored them. He said simply he was “finished” with the witness. I was not the only one who thought it a revealing choice of words. Seeing the jurors’ surprise settle into flat stares and pursed lips directed at Crandall, Reardon knew enough to excuse Pratt.
Secrist looked at both lawyers before turning to Reardon.
“I will entertain a motion now, Mr. Reardon.”
Reardon stood. He considered Crandall, who reclined in his chair, legs crossed, eyebrows raised, baiting Reardon with casual curiosity. Reardon considered the jurors, who looked puzzled. They, too, were more than a little curious about what had gone on in Secrist’s chambers while they out.
Still looking at the jurors, Reardon nodded once to himself. “Thank you, Judge,” Reardon said, turning back to Secrist. “I have none. The defense rests.”
Crandall immediately asked for the next day and the weekend to decide whether there would be rebuttal witnesses and, if not, to prepare for closing argument. Reardon said the State h
ad had his witness list for weeks, if not months, and could have decided about rebuttal witnesses long ago. The defense was ready to take this case to the jury.
For nearly two weeks, Secrist’s expressions and demeanor had given away little about what he believed or felt about the case other than a desire to see it through fairly and efficiently. Now, he listened to the argument with a wan face propped on his upraised fist.
Without taking his face off his fist, he twisted around to search each juror’s face. More than a few were haggard.
Secrist turned his gaze back on the Defendant and let his eyes linger. The Defendant returned the judge’s gaze over a satisfied smile.
Secrist broke the stare and looked at Crandall in a way that made me think he wanted to ask the prosecutor something, but he did not. Instead, he dropped the arm he’d been using as a prop to his side, shook the sleeve of his robe back over that bare arm, and cleared his throat.
“Jurors, you know your oath,” he said. “We’ll see you back here Monday. Nine sharp.”
As one, we exhaled, so grateful for respite.
As soon as the bailiff escorted the jury out and Secrist stepped down, the clans bolted toward the rail to get quotes from Crandall and Reardon. Just what was the deal with Crandall and Pratt? What was Secrist talking about when he invited Reardon to offer a motion?
I hung back. There would be no answer to those questions that day. As to the deal, Pratt was long gone, having slipped out the side door, and Crandall would never say, at least not in that setting. As to a motion, neither Secrist or Reardon would not talk about it, then or later.
Behind the scrum at the rail, Moze was hooking up the Defendant. Legs had a hand on Moze’s arm and therefore his attention. My bet was Moze thought she smelled as good as she looked.
She pointed to Reardon, then to the Defendant, then to the door through which they usually removed him from the courtroom. She seemed to think that after Pratt’s performance the cops were no longer concerned with the Defendant’s security.
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