Night on Fire

by Douglas Corleone

  “The minimum?” I say. “Just the minimum? So all this discussion on direct examination about the blade of the knife being three to four inches in length was incorrect?”

  “Not incorrect,” he says. “Perhaps not completely accurate.”

  “Not completely accurate. Might I remind you, Dr. Noonan, that a young woman’s future hangs on the outcome of this case. Isn’t accuracy the only way to ensure that my client Mrs. Erin Simms receives a fair trial?”

  Noonan doesn’t answer.

  “So that there is no mistake, Doctor,” I say, “all this talk about a knife with a three- to four-inch blade is inaccurate, a figment perhaps of Mr. Maddox’s imagination?”

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained.”

  “All this talk by Mr. Maddox in his opening and in his questioning about a Pteroco Legend switchblade being used on Mr. Simms, it’s all a fabrication, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Objection, Your Honor! Objection! Objection!”

  “Sustained!” Maxa raps her gavel. “Mr. Corvelli!” she yells as I open my mouth for one final tirade.

  I pause and shake my head wearily. “No more questions for this witness, Your Honor.” I turn and look at Maddox. Loudly I say, “He’s obviously all yours.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Judge Maxa keeps her head down as she pecks away at the keyboard of her laptop on the bench. Absently she says, “Any questions for this witness, Mr. Corvelli?”

  “No, Your Honor,” I say.

  Maxa looks up, as does the witness, in complete surprise.

  “But I believe my partner Jake Harper does.”

  Honolulu PD forensics expert Alison Kelly visibly deflates on the stand and looks to Maddox for help but there is no cavalry coming. Jake gathers his notes and walks slowly to the podium, never taking his eyes off his dear ex-girlfriend, Alison Kelly.

  At first I dismissed the strategy as grade-school bullshit, bush league psych-out stuff that I might have utilized to delight my fellow law students in mock trials. Then I reconsidered. After all, cable news commentators like Marcy Faith make a mockery of the American system of justice every single day. Because of voices like hers, the defense perpetually plays “away” games; thus, we, as defense attorneys, might as well exploit fully any advantage we can. In fact, I’d say it is our duty.

  “Morning, Ms. Kelly.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Harper.”

  “Ms. Kelly,” Jake says slowly, “on direct examination you testified that all fingerprints found in the honeymoon suite where the fire allegedly started matched either the deceased Trevor Simms or the defendant Erin Simms, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “And on the exterior of the door to the honeymoon suite—the side facing the hallway—that was also dusted for latent fingerprints?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “And will you please remind the jury, Ms. Kelly, how many latent prints were found on the exterior of the door to the honeymoon suite?”

  “On the side facing the hallway, three latent prints were recovered.”

  “And who did those prints belong to, Ms. Kelly?”

  “Two belonged to the victim, Trevor Simms. One belonged to your client, Erin Simms.”

  “And that’s all?” Jake says, shrugging his shoulders. “Those are the only latent prints the forensics team could recover from the door to the honeymoon suite?”

  “Again, on the side facing the hallway, yes.”

  “Hm,” Jake says staring down at his notes. “That’s interesting. Do you know why that is interesting, Ms. Kelly?”

  “I suspect you’ll tell me, Mr. Harper.”

  Jake puts his hands out in front of him. “No need to sass me, ma’am. I’m just trying to get to the truth here.”

  Truth is, there are going to be some fireworks this afternoon. Thanks to something seemingly innocuous said to me by Corwin Pierce, I sent our forensics expert Baron Lee back to the crime scene yesterday. And Baron found something, well, interesting.

  Jake clasps his hands behind his back and pitches forward, his eyes rising from Baron Lee’s report to his ex. “To your knowledge, Ms. Kelly, did the forensics team search for any latent prints besides fingerprints on the exterior of the door to the honeymoon suite?”

  Alison Kelly shifts uncomfortably on the witness stand and steals a glance at me. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

  Last year in the Gianforte case Dapper Don Watanabe and I dueled over the admissibility of lip prints as identification evidence in a criminal case. Alison Kelly was caught in the middle of our duel, and suffice it to say, I came up on the short end.

  “Are you familiar with the term ‘anthropometry,’ Ms. Kelly?”

  “I am.”

  “Very good,” Jake says, smiling. “Will you kindly explain the term to the jury?”

  Alison Kelly clearly swallows an urge to shout at Jake for patronizing her. “Anthropometry,” she says, her face tingeing red, “is a system of body measurements used for personal identification.”

  “Kind of like fingerprints?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Well then, kindly explain the difference, Ms. Kelly?”

  “Fingerprint analysis is a widely-used, thoroughly-tested scientific method for positively identifying individuals. Fingerprint analysis has proven an acceptable form of identification in the forensics community and in the courts of the United States. Anthropometry, on the other hand, is a very general term relating to various measurements of parts of the human body.”

  “Which parts?” Jake asks.

  “Well, if I recall correctly, there are eleven: height, bust, length and width of head, width of cheeks, length of the left middle finger, length of the left foot, length of the right ear—”

  “Let’s pause right there,” Jake says, “because the right ear happens to be what I’m most interested in.”

  From the corner of my eye I watch Luke Maddox, who remains perfectly calm, sitting forward, his arms crossed on the prosecution table. He should be standing, shouting his objections, because we’re springing this on him—but he’s not. He’s perfectly fine with what is happening, and I suspect Alison Kelly, despite her apparent irritation of having to deal with Jake, is, too.

  Maddox thinks we’re playing right into his hands.

  “Are you familiar, Ms. Kelly, with the use of ear print analysis as a means of forensic identification?”

  “I’m familiar with it,” she concedes, “but it is much more popular in Europe than in the United States.”

  “So we’re a bit behind in that particular area of forensic science,” Jake states as fact.

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Jake ignores her. “Ms. Kelly, would you be surprised if I were to tell you that in addition to the fingerprints found on the exterior of the door to the honeymoon suite, there was another latent print discovered by the defense’s forensics team—an ear print, to be specific?”

  Maddox finally objects, feigning outrage.

  I hide my smile behind my hand.

  Feign your anger now, Luke, because this is just the beginning. You’re not going to have to feign anything but calm come tomorrow.

  “Sustained,” Maxa says. “The jury will disregard Mr. Harper’s last question.”

  “Then, hypothetically, Ms. Kelly,” Jake continues, “were a latent ear print discovered on the exterior of the door to the honeymoon suite, what would that suggest to you?”

  Maddox doesn’t object to Jake’s use of a hypothetical; Maddox thinks he’s still steering the boat.

  Alison Kelly shrugs. “That someone pressed their ear against the door, of course.”

  “And hypothetically speaking, Ms. Kelly, why would anyone press their ear up against the exterior of a hotel room door?”

  “My guess would be to listen to whatever was going on inside.”

  “Again, hypothetically, Ms. Kelly, based on your knowledge and experience, who in your estimation would want to hea
r what was going on inside someone else’s honeymoon suite?”

  The witness purses her lips. “Security, maybe.”

  “Hypothetically, why would security want to hear the goings-on in someone’s honeymoon suite?”

  “If there was a complaint for excessive noise, for instance.”

  “An excessive noise complaint,” Jake says. “Wouldn’t then security be able to hear said noise from the hall without pressing their ear up against the door and invading a young couple’s privacy?”

  “Possibly.”

  “If you are correct, Ms. Kelly, then, hypothetically, that ear print should match the size and shape of the ear of Mr. Izzy Dufu or some other security employee of the resort, isn’t that right?”

  “I would assume so.”

  “Again, hypothetically, Ms. Kelly, if this ear print didn’t match up with anyone from the resort’s security team, would you say that it is likely that someone else other than security pressed their ear up against the door to the Simms’s honeymoon suite?”

  “That’s a logical assumption.”

  “And hypothetically, who might that be?”

  “Could be anyone,” Alison Kelly says.

  “Anyone? Is it likely that one of the room’s current occupants would press their ear up against their own door?”

  “Anything’s possible, Mr. Harper.”

  “But if that hypothetical ear print didn’t match up with the size and shape of the ear of either of the room’s current occupants—say, Trevor or Erin Simms—that would exclude them, correct?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Hypothetically, Ms. Kelly, if that ear print didn’t match anyone working security for the resort or either of the room’s current occupants, then someone else pressed their ear up against that door, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “Someone who wanted to listen inside, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Jake’s voice suddenly rises in pitch, his pace quickens. “Maybe someone who wanted to know if anyone was in that room. Someone with something nefarious on his mind, someone who wanted to rob or kill that suite’s occupants or set that suite on fire—”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained. Mr. Harper?”

  “My apologies, Judge.”

  “Any more questions, Mr. Harper?”

  “No, Your Honor. The witness and I are through.”

  CHAPTER 52

  The courtroom is jam-packed with journalists today—including Sherry Beagan, who was somehow able to secure a front-row seat. Of course there’s nothing unusual about a courtroom jam-packed with journalists for a murder trial, especially one of this magnitude. The unusual part is that I personally invited every single one of them. And assured each that the events of this morning would shock their audience to the core.

  Jake stands at the defense table, leans across the back of Erin’s chair, and whispers in my ear. “Sure you wanna do this, son?”

  I answer by standing up.

  “Your witness, Mr. Corvelli,” Maxa calls from the bench.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. And good afternoon to you, Detective Tatupu.”

  “Counselor,” he responds with a slight nod of the head.

  There are many unwelcome side effects that come with the prospect of cross-examining a genuinely good cop: abnormal dreams, anxiety, dizziness, drowsiness, dry mouth, flushing, increased sweating, increased urination, loss of appetite, nausea, nervousness, restlessness, ringing in the ears, stomach pain, stomach upset, taste changes, trouble sleeping, vomiting, and weakness, to name a few. Indeed, for defense attorneys on trial, good cops present a constant hazard—they can single-handedly steer a jury toward a conviction with the right tone of voice, the right look, the right credentials. But the one good thing about a good cop is that you can count on him to be consistent. You can always count on him to tell the truth—regardless of the consequences to the prosecution.

  “Detective, let me begin by asking you, are you familiar with a man named Corwin Pierce?”

  Behind me I can almost feel Maddox smiling.

  “Yes, Counselor, I am.”

  “Can you describe Mr. Pierce’s physical appearance for the jury?”

  “Mr. Pierce is approximately five feet, nine inches tall. A slight build, maybe a hundred-forty pounds. Rather unique red-orange hair and light, light blue eyes. Caucasian, very pale complexion.”

  “In what capacity do you know Corwin Pierce, Detective?”

  “In his capacity as a lawbreaker, I guess you could say. Mr. Pierce has been arrested by our department on several occasions, including once just recently.”

  “Mr. Pierce’s most recent arrest,” I say, “what was the most serious charge?”

  “Arson.”

  Chatter spreads through the gallery like falling dominoes. No one on the other side of the rail is quite sure where I’m heading with this, but the media is no doubt texting or tweeting their speculation already. No doubt much of that speculation will end up on the air. CORVELLI JUST PUT A FIGURE IN THE EMPTY SEAT, some of these texts or tweets will undoubtedly say. HIS NAME IS CORWIN PIERCE.

  “Were you involved in Corwin Pierce’s most recent arrest, Detective?”

  “No, I was not. Mr. Pierce was involved in an arson investigation and I am assigned to the homicide division.”

  “I see. Were you ever involved in a case in which Corwin Pierce was arrested?”

  “No, I was not.”

  “Were you ever involved in a case in which Corwin Pierce was a suspect?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.” He shakes his head. “No, I think not.”

  “Did you ever meet Corwin Pierce?”

  Tatupu shakes his head again. “Face-to-face? No.”

  “Then tell me, Detective, how did you do such a fine job describing Corwin Pierce’s physical appearance a few moments ago?”

  “I have viewed photographs of Mr. Pierce. Booking photos.”

  “I see. On how many occasions did you view photos of Corwin Pierce?”

  “Just once, I believe.”

  “Did you review any or all of the arrest file on Corwin Pierce at the time you viewed these photos?”

  “Sure.”

  “You viewed these photographs, these booking photos, Detective, before or after Corwin Pierce’s most recent arrest?”

  Tatupu hesitates. “After,” he finally says.

  I shrug my shoulders enough so that the entire courtroom can see. Then I ask: “Why?”

  Tatupu avoids looking at Maddox for as long as he can, then finally his eyes dart over to the prosecution table. I note the look to the jury by following Tatupu’s gaze myself.

  “Did you view the photographs of Corwin Pierce in connection with your investigation in this case?” I ask helpfully.

  Tatupu breathes a sigh of relief. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  I shrug my shoulders dramatically yet again. Then I ask: “Why?”

  Tatupu scratches his chin, buys some time.

  “Remind me, Detective, when was Corwin Pierce’s most recent arrest?”

  “Five or six weeks ago.”

  “By that time you had your suspect—my client—in custody for months already. Certainly you weren’t harnessing any doubt at that time?”

  “No, Counselor, I was not.”

  “Then why did you view the booking photographs and arrest file of Corwin Pierce in connection with the Kupulupulu Beach Resort fire, Detective?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.” Maddox is on his feet. “Counsel is moving far beyond the scope of direct.”

  Maxa frowns deeply at the prosecutor. “Mr. Corvelli is asking the lead detective about his investigation into this very case, Mr. Maddox. Objection overruled.”

  “Detective,” I say, “please answer the question.”

  “Your Honor,” Maddox says, standing again, “I would like to request a fifteen-minute recess.”

  “Request denied.”

  “But Your Honor—”


  “Mr. Maddox, sit down.”

  “Detective,” I say again, “please answer the question.”

  “Do you need the question read back to you, Detective?” Maxa says.

  “No worries, Your Honor,” I say. “I’ll ask the detective again.” I move in front of the podium where I can see the sweat budding on Tatupu’s forehead. “Why, Detective, did you view the booking photographs and arrest file of Corwin Pierce in connection with the Kupulupulu Beach Resort fire, the subject of this very trial?”

  “I was asked to,” he says.

  “By whom?”

  Maddox renews his objection. “This is work product, Your Honor.”

  “Then I am a dancing chicken,” the judge says to light laughter. “Overruled.”

  When I glance back, Maddox is still standing, this time glaring at me. His cheeks are ashen, his mouth half-open as though preparing to catch flies.

  “Who asked you to view Corwin Pierce’s file, Detective Tatupu?” I say with some urgency.

  “Well, I wasn’t asked to view Mr. Pierce’s file specifically,” the detective says.

  “What specifically were you asked to do, Detective?”

  Tatutpu draws a breath. He’s made a decision, the right decision, to answer my questions accurately and honestly just as I knew he would.

  “I was asked to do a search for arson investigations in which we currently had a suspect in jail awaiting trial.”

  “Again, Detective, I ask who assigned you this task?”

  The slightest pause. “Luke Maddox.”

  I point to the prosecution table. “The same Luke Maddox who is prosecuting this case?”

  “Yes, Counselor.”

  “Did Mr. Maddox tell you why he was making such an unusual request?”

  “Objection to the characterization of the request as ‘unusual,’” Maddox says.

  “Fine. Strike the last question,” I say. “Detective, at the time Mr. Maddox made the request, did you find the request to be unusual?”

  “I did,” he concedes.

  “Then I ask again, did Mr. Maddox tell you why he was making such an unusual request?”

  “Mr. Maddox didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”

  “Was Corwin Pierce the only arson suspect in jail awaiting trial at that time?”