Open and Shut

by David Rosenfelt

  “How did you know she wasn't breathing?” I ask.

  “I put my hand on her chest … here.” He puts his hand on his sternum, so as to demonstrate. “It wasn't moving at all.”

  I nod and walk over to the defense table. Kevin hands me a piece of paper, which I bring over to the court clerk. I introduce it as a defense exhibit and then hand a copy of it to Edward.

  “Mr. Markham, this is a police report regarding the night of the murder. Can you read the second paragraph from the bottom out loud for the jury?”

  Edward locates the paragraph and begins to read. “Markham's clothing, including shirt, sweater, pants, shoes, and socks, was examined and was found to be free of any traces of blood.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Could you please tell the jury how you managed to walk through the pools of blood surrounding the victim, then put your hands on her skin and chest, and not get any of her blood on you?”

  A flash of worry crosses his face, which is strange, because the same lack of blood that is causing his credibility to be questioned provides him a clear defense against being the murderer himself. There is no way he could have stabbed Denise to death in the manner this was done and not have blood on him.

  “I don't know … I guess I was just very careful. I've always been really squeamish about blood, so I probably avoided it. Everything was happening so fast.”

  “What was happening fast?”

  “You know, I found the body, called the police and my father … it just seemed like a dream.”

  I nod as if he has just cleared up everything. “A dream where you don't dirty your clothes.”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” I say. “But the defense reserves the right to recall this witness in our case in chief.”

  Based on the look on Edward's face, I don't think he's looking forward to being recalled.

  BETTY ANTHONYLIVES IN A SMALL GARDEN apartment in Lyndhurst. There are maybe five hundred units in the complex, and if any one is different from any other, it is a very subtle difference. Since I have only an address and not an apartment number, I have absolutely no idea in which specific apartment she lives.

  I stop five or six of her neighbors, none of whom has heard of her. I'm forced to go to the rental office, where I wait as the lone agent preaches to an elderly couple the benefits of the tram that goes directly from the apartment complex to the supermarket. This is clearly the place to live.

  Finally, the agent looks up Betty's apartment number, and I go there. Betty obviously takes care of her small slice of this earth with loving care; there is a small flower garden in front that looks like it is a very pampered piece of real estate. Betty is not in, and I'm trying to decide whether to wait when I finally catch a break. Her next-door neighbor comes home, and tells me that Betty would still be at Carlton's Department Store, where she sells lingerie.

  The lingerie department is on the third floor of Carlton's, and is clearly not a place for males. Female customers look at me as if I am an alien visitor, while a few smile a condescending “isn't that cute, he's buying something for his wife” smile.

  The first thing I notice about the place are the mannequins, dressed in flimsy, sexy bras and panties. They are incredibly shapely; if I were a woman concerned about my figure I would throw out all the diet books and find out what they feed these mannequins.

  I can't speak for other males, but the hardest thing for me in these situations is knowing who works for the store and who doesn't. Customers and salespeople look exactly alike. I try three people before I hit on an actual storeperson. I ask her if she can help me.

  “Unless you want to try something on.”

  My guess is that she's used that joke on the last five hundred males that she's encountered in this department, so I smile a semi-appreciative smile, and ask if she knows where Betty Anthony is. She does.

  “Betty! Customer!”

  Betty is standing at the cash register, finishing a sale, and she motions that she'll just be a minute. I nod that I'll wait, and in a few minutes she comes over. She's in her early sixties, with a pleasant face and a slightly tired smile. She'd like to be off her feet, and she deserves to be.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “I'd like to talk to you about your husband.”

  She tenses exactly as Wally had when I mentioned Denise. That's apparently my mission, to go around the state and reopen old wounds in people that deserve better.

  Finally, she nods, slowly, the nod of someone who has been expecting this visit, and who has been dreading it. I instinctively feel that if I can find out why, I'll have found out everything.

  Betty agrees to have a cup of coffee with me, and I wait the thirty-five minutes until she is finished with her shift. We go to a small diner down the street, the kind with little jukeboxes on the tables that never work. I tell her that I'm representing Willie Miller, and watch for her reaction.

  There isn't any. She has no idea who Willie Miller is, and can't imagine what her husband could possibly have to do with him. It's not good news.

  I tell her about the picture, and my suspicion that there is something about it that has changed a great many lives, possibly Mike's included.

  She tells me that “Mike had many friends. He was the kind of person that people naturally liked.”

  Then I tell her that the woman Willie is accused of murdering is Denise McGregor, and I think I see a small flash of fear in her eyes, which she quickly covers up.

  Her response is that “Mike was a wonderful man, a terrific husband and father. He loved his work.”

  Platitudes like this aren't going to do it for me; I know I have to somehow pierce this armor. “Look, I'm defending a man on trial for his life. I think you have information that can help me, but maybe you don't. The only way I'm going to find out for sure is by being direct.”

  She nods her understanding, but seems to cringe in anticipation. This is not going to be fun.

  “Why did your husband take his own life?”

  For a moment I think she is going to cry, but when she answers, her voice is clear and strong.

  “He was a very unhappy man. Haunted, really.”

  “By what?”

  “I loved my husband very much,” she evades, “but I couldn't really help him, at least not the kind of help he needed. And now all I have is his memory, and I'm not going to destroy it. Not for you, not for your client, not for anybody.”

  Sitting across this table from me is the answer; I can feel it, I know it. I have to go after it, even if it means badgering a woman who is clearly suffering.

  “Something happened a very long time ago, something I believe Mike was a part of. But whatever it was, it's over. It can't be changed. My client shouldn't lose his life to protect the secret.”

  “I can't help you,” she says.

  “You won't help me.”

  She thinks for a few moments, as if considering what I'm saying. Then her eyes go cold and she shuts off, as surely as if somebody flicked a switch. The window of opportunity has shut, leaving me to wonder if there's anything I could have done to keep it open. I don't think so; I think this decision was made a long time ago.

  “I'm not going to argue with you,” she says. “You're not going to get what you want here.”

  One last try. “Look, I know you want to protect your husband's memory … his reputation. Believe me, I want to do the same thing for my father. But a man's life is on the line. I need to know the truth.”

  I've lost her. She stands and prepares to leave. “The truth is I loved my husband.” She says that with a sadness, an understanding that her love did not prove to be enough.

  She walks away and out of the diner. I guess I'll pay the check.

  The next day is devoted to DNA, and Wallace puts on Dr. Hillary D'Antoni, a scientist from the laboratory where the tests were done. She goes through a detailed but concise definition of the process, and t
hen on to the results of the tests done on the skin and blood under Denise's fingernails.

  “Dr. D'Antoni,” Wallace asks, “what is the mathematical likelihood that the skin under the victim's fingernails was that of the defendant, William Miller?”

  “There is a one in five and a half billion chance that it was not.”

  “And what is the mathematical likelihood that the blood under the victim's fingernails was that of the defendant, William Miller?”

  “There is a one in six and one quarter billion chance that it was not.”

  My cross-examination focuses mostly on not the science but the collection methods. I get Dr. D'Antoni to agree with the “garbage in, garbage out” concept. In other words, the results her lab can achieve are only as good as the samples they are sent. My problem is I have no legitimate basis on which to challenge the samples, and if the jury has one brain among them they will know it. Besides, I'm going to challenge the physical evidence later, in a different context.

  “Dr. D'Antoni,” I say, “you raised some very impressive odds concerning the source of the material under the defendant's fingernails. In the area of one in six billion.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are positive that the blood and skin actually belonged to the defendant, are you not?”

  “I am. The tests are quite conclusive.”

  “Is there anything in those tests that leads you to believe the defendant was not framed?”

  “I don't understand the question.”

  “I'm sorry. If I gave you a hypothetical that the defendant was framed, and that the material you tested was in fact planted before it was sent to you, is there anything about your testing which would prove me wrong?”

  “No. We test the material we are given.”

  “Thank you.”

  Wallace's next witness is Lieutenant Pete Stanton. This is not something I look forward to. Pete is an experienced, excellent witness, and what he is going to say will be very negative for Willie. It will be my job to try and rip him apart, something I don't relish doing to a friend. The only thing worse would be not to rip him apart.

  Wallace takes Pete through the basics, starting off with Pete's status in the department at the time of the murder. His goal is to show his rapid rise, lending credibility to his abilities.

  “I was a detective, grade two.”

  “And you've been promoted since then?”

  Pete nods. “Three times. First came detective three, then four, and then I made lieutenant two years ago.”

  “Congratulations,” Wallace says.

  “Objection,” I say. “Did Mr. Wallace bring in a cake so we can blow out the candles and celebrate the witness's promotions? Maybe we can sing ‘For he's a jolly good detective.’ ”

  “Lieutenant Stanton's career path is relevant to his credibility,” Wallace says.

  I shake my head. “He is not here interviewing for a job. He's presenting evidence of his investigation.”

  “Sustained,” says Hatchet. “Let's move along.”

  Wallace soon gets to the meat of his testimony, which involves the murder weapon.

  “Where was the knife recovered, Lieutenant Stanton?”

  “From a trash can about three blocks away from the bar. It was in an alley behind Richie's restaurant on Market Street,” Pete answers.

  “Do you know whose knife it was?”

  Pete nods. “It was one of a set from the bar where the murder took place, and which was subsequently reported missing by the bartender.”

  “Now this knife … what was found on it?”

  “Blood from the victim, Denise McGregor. And a clear fingerprint match with the defendant, Willie Miller.”

  Wallace asks him some more questions, but the damage has been done. If I can't repair it, nothing that follows is going to make any difference. I stand up to face Pete, who digs in as if he were making a goal line stand.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant Stanton.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Carpenter.”

  Thus ends the pleasantries of this particular cross-examination. From now on it's no-holds-barred.

  “How did you happen to focus on Willie Miller as a suspect?”

  “He was identified by an eyewitness, who saw him standing over the body before he ran off. Her name is Cathy Pearl.”

  “This eyewitness, Cathy Pearl, did she say to you, ‘I saw Willie Miller'?”

  “No. She was not familiar with his name. She described him, and the bartender told us that it sounded very much like the defendant.”

  “So at that point he became your prime suspect?”

  “Obviously, it was very early in the investigation, but he became someone we were interested in finding and questioning.”

  “And where did you find him?” I ask.

  “He was lying in a doorway about two blocks away from the scene.”

  “Did he resist when you took him into custody?”

  “No, he was incapacitated from alcohol.”

  “So he stood up and walked to the car and you took him down to the station?”

  “No, as I said, he was incapacitated from alcohol, so he was unable to walk. We called paramedics, and he was taken on a stretcher to the hospital.”

  I'm puzzled. “So he ran away from the scene, but couldn't walk to the car?”

  “An hour or so had gone by, so he had time to drink more alcohol during that period.”

  “Did you find an empty bottle?”

  “There were plenty of empty bottles in that area.”

  “Any with Willie's saliva on them?”

  “We didn't look for them or test them. The alcohol was obviously in his system; there was nothing to be gained by finding out which bottle he drank from.”

  “Lieutenant, when you are assigned a case like this, you develop theories, do you not? You try and re-create, at least in your own mind, what happened?”

  “I have theories, but first I go where the evidence takes me. My theories follow from the evidence.”

  “Fine. So let's talk about that evidence. We'll start with the knife. Now, you testified that it was from a set of knives at the bar where the murder took place, and where Willie Miller worked as a busboy. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “How, exactly, do you know that?”

  Pete is becoming impatient. “It was identical to the ones used at the bar, and one was missing.”

  I nod, as if that makes sense. Then I tell Hatchet that the bailiff has two packages that I gave him, and that I would like to use as evidence. Hatchet is suspicious, but allows it, and the bailiff gives me the packages.

  I open one of the packages and take out a knife. I ask if I can hand it to the witness. Hatchet allows it.

  “Detective, the knife you are holding is one of the knives currently used in the bar where the murder took place. Would you examine it, please?”

  Pete looks at the knife, warily eyeing me the whole time. I then open the other package, and take out six additional knives, all apparently identical to the first, and show them to Pete as well.

  “One of these six knives is from the same set as the first one, and was also used at the bar. Please tell the jury which one.”

  Pete of course cannot, and he is forced to admit so.

  “So,” I ask, “the fact that one knife seems identical to another doesn't mean they are from the same restaurant?”

  “Not necessarily, but it certainly increases the chances, particularly when one is missing.”

  I move on. “You testified that you found a knife, wherever it was originally from, three blocks from the bar, where it was sitting in a trash can.”

  “That's correct.”

  “So let me get this straight,” I say. “Since you just told this jury that your theories follow the evidence, is it your theory that Willie Miller took a knife from where he worked, used it to murder a woman, and then didn't wipe off either her blood, or his fingerprints?”

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; “It's rare when murderers are that stupid, isn't it?”

  “You don't have to be a college graduate to murder someone.”

  “Thank you for making the jury aware of that, Lieutenant. I'm sure they had no idea.” Sorry, Pete, but it helps me if you look arrogant and uncooperative.

  He glares at me, but I keep boring in. “Now, Lieutenant, you'll admit it would have to require both stupidity and a poorly developed self-preservation instinct to have done all this?”

  Wallace intervenes. “Objection. The witness is not a psychologist.”

  Hatchet says, “Overruled. You may answer the question.”

  Pete has a ready answer. “When people are drunk they often have a tendency to be careless. And as I said, he was very, very drunk. There is no way he could have been thinking clearly.”

  I nod as if he has just cleared everything up for me. “Right. He was smashed. So smashed that he could run from the scene, but not walk to the car. So smashed that he couldn't think clearly enough to wipe off his prints, but sober enough that he could make a conscious decision to hide the knife three blocks away.”

  I can see a flash of concern in Pete's eyes; he wasn't prepared for that.

  “Murders and murderers aren't always logical.”

  “You're absolutely right, Lieutenant. Sometimes things aren't what they seem to be.”

  He's getting angry. “I didn't say that.”

  “I wouldn't expect you to. Your job is to justify what you've done in this case, no matter how little sense it makes.”

  Wallace objects, and Hatchet sustains, instructing the jury to disregard.

  “By the way, Lieutenant, how did you happen to locate the knife?”

  “A phone call was made to 911. Somebody reported finding a knife with blood on it.”

  “Somebody?”

  Pete is getting more and more uncomfortable. “A man. He didn't give his name.”

  My tone is getting more and more mocking, and I'm making more eye contact with the jury, especially the two people Kevin had picked out. I'm trying to draw them to my side so that we can doubt Pete's credibility together.

  “I see. Somebody who didn't give his name called to say he found a bloody knife while browsing through a trash can in the middle of the night.”