“People’s proposed exhibit two,” I said to the judge in a voice loud enough to be heard by the media people, “consists of ten numbered photographs. I have no objection to photos numbered one through six, taken of the deceased at the Harwell house. However, photos seven through ten were obviously taken just prior to autopsy. The body is without clothing and I see no legal reason to show the jury those pictures. The others are quite horrible enough, and they should serve Mr. Evola’s main purpose, which is obviously to poison and inflame the juror’s minds.”
Even the judge looked surprised. I had caught Evola flat-footed. He stammered for a moment, trying to figure what I was up to so he could effectively respond.
“Okay,” he said finally. “We’ll move to introduce only photos one through six and withdraw the others.”
“If the court please,” I said. “The practice is to show the jury the photographs at this point. I respectfully ask that the jury not view the photos until Dr. Rey testifies.”
“They should see them now,” Evola said quickly. He wondered what I was up to.
The judge scowled. “Dr. Rey is your next witness, is he not?”
Evola nodded. “Yes.”
“I see no problem in holding off until then,” the judge said. “People’s exhibit number two, six photographs, numbered one through six, is admitted.”
He looked at his watch. “Well, it’s almost noon. This is probably a good time to take a break. We will begin again at one-thirty precisely.”
The clerk banged the gavel, and I went back to the counsel table.
“What was that all about?” Angel asked.
“I plan to use those photos with our expert witnesses to show it was suicide.”
She looked at me, then glanced back at Robin. As usual, it was almost impossible to tell what she was thinking. When her. eyes returned to me, she said nothing.
Angel left with Robin and Nate Golden to have lunch.
I could guess who the subject of their conversation would be.
*
MY lunch consisted of a candy bar out of the machine and a quick conference with my two experts, Dr. Henry Foreman and Dr. Hans Voltz.
They were being paid to attend and observe, but both were as enthusiastic as two playgoers bubbling with enthusiasm at intermission.
From my point of view they looked distinguished, and both spoke with the gentle certainty of men who knew what they were doing. I would have bought a used car from either one. They had become friends and had dined together.
I listened as Dr. Foreman, the psychiatrist, told me of his study of the life of Harrison Harwell and how he was convinced the death was suicide.
Dr. Voltz, the pathologist, gave me a short lecture on Japanese culture and weapons. He supported Dr. Foreman’s position and added physical findings to show the knife wound was self-inflicted.
I listened to them, trying to hear them as a juror would. It sounded good, very good. If they perfected their act, they might even be able to take it on the road.
I could make an excellent case for suicide. Max Webster would testify to suicidal intent. Dr. Foreman would provide a convincing psychological profile showing that Harwell was suicidal. And Voltz would take care of the physical possibilities and the Japanese honor code that Harrison Harwell loved so much.
The little cat feet of fear seemed to retreat a bit.
*
I WAS ready for Dr. Ernesto Rey, the dapper, diminutive, lady-loving pathologist who had done the autopsy on Harwell. Of course, I knew that Dr. Rey was also ready for me.
Evola would have had the doctor memorize the transcript of the testimony he gave at the examination, and then Evola would have quizzed him carefully. Catching a witness making conflicting statements under oath was like scoring a Superbowl touchdown or the winning goal in a World Cup soccer match. Lawyers were careful to make sure that didn’t happen to their witnesses. At least they tried.
So Dr. Rey was primed and ready. But, to my advantage, he was also wary of me since I always seemed to have great luck with him on cross-examination. That concern would translate into a slightly less than authoritative manner, which might give me a little edge.
Evola took him through the autopsy, giving special emphasis to the old scar on Harwell’s left arm, but he didn’t develop it further. I supposed he hoped I wouldn’t notice. Evola then got the short sword into evidence with no objection from me, and even got the doctor to say again that the cause of death was homicide, not suicide.
The beautiful short sword was shown to the jury. Then it lay on the counsel table, a silent witness to what had happened that night.
Evola next gave the jury the photographs of the body. It took a while as the jury members passed them along from one to another. The men tried to show no reaction. Several of the women turned away and quickly passed the pictures on. When they had all had a chance to see the photos, Evola continued.
Ernesto seemed to gain confidence as he went along, especially since I wasn’t objecting very much. I suppose he thought this time he was going to get a free ride.
When it came time to cross-examine, I gently questioned him about how he arrived at his conclusion that the death was caused by someone else. He was ready for that, as I knew he would be. Apparently his fear had ebbed, because he started to elaborate on his answers, trying to stick it into me deeper each time. He didn’t win with me often, and enthusiasm replaced his normal caution.
Which is exactly what I had hoped for.
Sidney Sherman’s detectives had done a very good job. Now it would pay off.
“Doctor, are you saying that this kind of wound could never be self-administered?”
“It’s very unlikely,” he said. His chocolate eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “I would say, quite impossible really.”
“Doctor, have you, as a pathologist, ever had a suicide case with a similar wound?”
He smiled, almost in pity. “No, Mr. Sloan, I have never seen a self-inflicted wound like Mr. Harwell’s.”
“And you do a lot of autopsies, right?”
“Several hundred a year.” He assumed a pleased and satisfied expression. He was a workman proud of his production.
“And you never saw a wound like this and ruled it a suicide?”
“Never.” He exuded quiet confidence.
“I guess you’d be pretty sure about something like that, Doctor, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded, but the little knowing smile was fading. “I’m sure, yes.”
“Do you see many suicides up in this area — Pickeral Point, Port Huron, Marine City?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I walked back to the counsel table as if accepting defeat, then I stopped, pretended to think of something, and turned.
“People commit suicide for any number of reasons. Is that a fair statement?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. It ranges from pain caused by an incurable disease to getting a bad mark at school.”
“As a pathologist, I take it you’ve made a study of suicide, not only its physical indications, but also the reasons people do it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Have you ever had a case where a man killed himself because of a business failure?”
“I’ve had many cases, Mr. Sloan.” He was relaxing. “As I say, it’s regrettable, but people sometimes take their lives over trivial problems. Sometimes even over the loss of a job or bankruptcy, that sort of thing.”
“But they don’t do it by stabbing themselves in the stomach, is that your testimony?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Do you recall doing an autopsy on Marvin Michaels last September?”
Those little eyes widened in horror. He knew he had stepped into a trap.
“No, I don’t.”
“You didn’t do it, or you don’t remember it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Let me show you your autopsy report and see if that doesn’t refresh your recollection.”
&
nbsp; Evola objected. The jury was excused and we argued. Unfortunately, I had lost the element of surprise since I had to disclose the reason I brought up the deceased Marvin Michaels. He had stabbed himself in the stomach and Dr. Rey had certified it as a suicide.
The judge reluctantly allowed me to continue and the jury was brought back in.
Sidney Sherman’s people had gone over the autopsy reports in the area for the past five years, thousands of them, culling out those done by Dr. Rey. Suicides got preference. It was a sad report. People knocked themselves off in a variety of ways, some mundane, some exotic. Most did not stab themselves in the stomach. We found two who had, both within the past year. One was Marvin Michaels, an eighty-four-year-old man living with his abusive daughter. He had no other means at hand, apparently, so he used a kitchen knife. It did the job. The other was a young man, an AIDS victim. Apparently, he had decided to hack off the member that had caused his sad problem, but stabbed a little high and bled to death. Dr. Ernesto Rey had certified both deaths as suicide.
Fortunately for my purpose, no suicide note had been left by either man, just as there was no suicide note from Harwell.
Ernesto Rey was in agony. He tried to repair his previous testimony, but I wouldn’t let him wiggle off. Finally, after I worked him over a bit with the second suicide, he caved in and said suicide by a knife in the belly wasn’t all that uncommon after all. Evola’s face was a stoic mask but I presumed he would have a few unkind things to say to the doctor in private.
I wish all witnesses were like Ernesto. But they aren’t. Bendy Jenkins, the evidence technician, was on and off the stand in minutes. He merely testified that the blood of the deceased and that found on Angel’s clothing matched. And he identified the bloody prints on the short sword as belonging to Angel.
Evola called Morgan but the judge intervened and adjourned for the day. It was almost five o’clock.
I was surprised. I hadn’t even noticed the passage of time.
*
MILO Zeck, the Florida cop, was decked out in a new cream-colored summer suit. He was seated in the spectators’ section. He grinned as he worked his way forward through the mass of people leaving the courtroom.
“Hey, Mr. Sloan,” he said, pumping my hand. “You’re pretty good. You had that poor little doctor roasting in his own juices. I’m glad we don’t have to worry about facing you down home.”
“Good trip here?”
“Oh, great. Real nice. Say, we’ll have to wait on that drink though. The prosecutor said he didn’t want me talking to anybody connected with the case. Maybe when it’s all over you and I can step out and hoist a few.”
“I assume they’re still planning on calling you as a witness?”
He nodded. “The prosecutor here said you probably would be able to keep me off now. But he wants me to stick around. He said they might be able to use me as a rebuttal witness.”
He grinned even wider. “Say, every day I’m here is like a paid vacation for me.”
Zeck asked about restaurants and night life, then he left.
I looked around and Angel had gone too. So had Robin and Nate Golden.
Dr. Hans Voltz, my expert pathologist, had been in attendance all through Ernesto Rey’s testimony, as I had requested.
“What did you think?” I asked him.
“He’s probably a very good doctor, but he makes a terrible witness. I thought you handled him quite well.”
“Evola will use his testimony and findings when he questions you. You heard what he said. Will any of what you’ve heard cause you any problems?”
He smiled in a superior way. “Heavens no. I shall use all of it to our advantage. I almost pity your friend, the prosecutor. He’ll discover what it is to match wits with a real expert.”
“Pride, they say, goes before a fall.”
“Not this time.” The smile became arrogant. “Don’t worry. Just leave everything to me.”
I wonder why I wasn’t wildly enthusiastic.
*
ANGEL called almost the minute I stepped into my office. “Charley, are you planning on coming over here?”
“I’m going to review some stuff for tomorrow and then I’ll drop over,” I said.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Angel replied. “Nate Golden is here. Robin and he want me to fire you as my lawyer. I think it might be best if you stayed away tonight.”
“Angel, do you still want me to defend you?”
I didn’t breathe until she answered.
“I guess so. According to Golden if I did ask you to step aside we might have to go through all this court business again.”
“That’s probably right.” Judges usually refuse a defendant’s request to change lawyers at the trial stage, unless there was a very good reason. Judge Brown, however, would jump at the chance to bump me — he had made that clear enough. I didn’t inform her of that little nuance. Self-destruction, career or otherwise, was something I wasn’t particularly fond of.
“Besides, Charley, I’m tired,” Angel said. “I don’t do anything but sit there all day but I still come home whipped.”
“It’s the strain. That’s normal enough, Angel.”
“Anyway, I’m going to have a few drinks and then hop into bed unless there’s something you want me to do.”
“No. Just keep your spirits up, Angel. We’re doing very well so far.”
There was a pause, and then she spoke. “I’ll have to take your word for that, Charley,” she said and then hung up.
My total food intake for the day had been a morning cup of coffee and an afternoon candy bar. But the feeling that gripped my stomach wasn’t hunger. It was fear.
And those cat feet were becoming heavier and louder.
I wanted some relief from the terrible tension building within me. I was walking a very high wire with no net. I wanted to get down. But I didn’t know how.
25
BACK IN THE COURTROOM IN THE MORNING I TRIED to force myself to relax, but it was impossible. Too much was at stake.
Morgan and Maguire, the two detectives, testified. I was as careful with each of them as if I was reaching into a barrel of cobras. I did establish that Angel had been questioned nonstop for hours and that she denied committing any crime until the very last statement.
Evola then called Milo Zeck. I asked that the jury be excused. After they were out of earshot the war began.
Evola said he would prove through Zeck that Angel had tried to kill her father once before. I knew his main target wasn’t the judge but the army of reporters in the courtroom. So we held a minitrial right there. Officially I won. The judge would not allow Zeck’s testimony, saying that the state couldn’t prove one crime by alleging another. Unofficially, Evola was the true winner. The story of a previous alleged attempt would be the day’s sensation.
The jury was called back in, but before another witness could be called the judge announced a short lunch break.
My lunch again consisted of a candy bar while I reviewed the cases I planned to cite to the judge to keep Angel’s statement out.
Then the afternoon session began,
Evola tried to get the videotape in without calling Herbert Ames, the technician I had barbecued at the Walker hearing. I didn’t let him.
Ames, who had been present during Dr. Rey’s slow torture yesterday, was now in a state of near-collapse. The judge had to keep prodding him to keep his voice up.
He was almost as good for us as he had been at the Walker hearing. The jury got the point. Angel wouldn’t crack until the last. It sounded as if Evola and the cops had sent Ames out of the room so they could work her over, then called him back.
Evola then tried to introduce the tape. I demanded the right to call the witnesses I had used at the Walker hearing to challenge it. Judge Brown listened carefully to my arguments. Then he ruled.
It was like getting my legs chopped off. He would allow me to present witnesses as to Angel’s mental state that
night, but only as part of the defense case later. He would not allow a trial within a trial, he said.
It was a devastating ruling and I tried to enlarge my legal argument. I told the judge that the jury wouldn’t be able to judge the statement fairly unless they had heard my experts before they viewed the tape.
He smiled and said that he understood but disagreed. There was nothing I could do.
It was getting late and I didn’t want the jury to see the taped statement as the last thing of the day. But Evola did, and he won again.
The statement seemed worse each time I saw it. Angel, unemotional, poised, calm, sure of herself, said she thought she might have been responsible for her father’s death. She coolly explained her prints on the knife, saying she had tried to pull it out but couldn’t.
She was so calm, so cold. The courtroom remained quiet even after the tape had run. The video had enormous impact.
The judge cracked the gavel, the sharp sound echoing in the silence. We were adjourned for the day.
*
“IT didn’t go well, did it Charley?” Robin’s remark was more of a statement than a question.
We were sitting again in the long glass atrium. Although it was just after nine, it was getting dark. The days were becoming shorter. But the nearly ninety-degree heat outside held no hint of an approaching autumn. Inside everything was pleasantly air-conditioned, not too cool, not too warm, just right.
Angel had been swimming and her long black hair was still wet, her body wrapped in a long, lush towel. Robin had changed into shorts and a blazing red T-shirt. They were dressed for a picnic but the mood was more funereal than festive.
“The video statement hurt us,” I said. “But I expected that. Our experts on brainwashing should be able to turn that around when they testify. We’ll see.”
Robin looked at me, then spoke again. “Do you really think so?” Her tone indicated that she did not.
They were already drinking by the time I had arrived. I had stopped at the office, talked by phone with several of my witnesses, and then prepared for the start of our case in the morning. I hadn’t eaten. I didn’t feel like it. I had gulped down the orange juice Robin gave me when I arrived.
Shadow of A Doubt Page 37
