Killer Ambition

by Marcia Clark

  You know how voices can give you a sense of what a person looks like? Sterling Numan’s deep, almost operatic-sounding baritone painted a picture of a large man, or at least a medium-sized man with a big barrel chest. Since I’d never met him in person, that was the mental image I’d been working with. So when a wiry little guy—five feet seven inches, tops—came bouncing into my office, tie swinging, schoolboy hair slicked to one side, and introduced himself, I’d had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  I’d given him my standard advice for testifying, otherwise known as the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. He’d assured me he was very comfortable with juries. My bad. I neglected to ask whether the feeling was mutual.

  “Dr. Numan, please give us your credentials.”

  He swiveled in his chair to face the jury—which I hate—and proceeded to rattle off a list of degrees, accomplishments, and publications in a tone so condescending and self-congratulatory, I’d have thought it was a sketch right out of Saturday Night Live. I hoped things would improve when we got to the meat of the matter.

  “Did you examine the soil samples removed from Brian Maher’s car, Jack Averly’s car, and Hayley’s body?”

  This time he turned to face the jury before I’d even finished the question. I was tempted to grab the baseball off the bailiff’s desk and throw it at him—but I was afraid I might miss and hit a juror. My arm is a little unpredictable.

  “First of all, the correct name for these ‘soil samples,’ as you call them, is particulates. It’s important to use the correct terminology because each technical appellation has its own specific meaning…”

  “Technical appellation.” Kill me, just kill me. He started to roll through a list of all of these magic words. When he came up for air, I jumped in.

  “Thank you, Dr. Numan. Did you determine the general location where those particulates came from?”

  He shot me a look of annoyance at the interruption, then turned back to the jury. “Yes. I am able to determine the origin of particulates to a somewhat specific degree, though of course I cannot pinpoint the origin to a source within a small circumference…”

  Blah, blah, blah. Incomprehensible. I badly needed this answer to be in English. It was the whole point of his testimony. I sliced in when he took a breath.

  “Dr. Numan, forgive me. Those are a lot of big words. Could you help me out and give the Soil—or rather Particulates—for Dummies version?”

  He shot me an imperious glance, then swiveled back to the jury. “Of course. I was able to determine that the origin of these particulates was limited to a somewhat specific locale…”

  And off he went once again, if anything, even less comprehensible than before. I gave up. There was just no way to make him juror—or human—friendly. Eventually, though painfully, I dragged him to his conclusion—I think: that both cars and Hayley’s body showed signs of having been in the locale of Boney Mountain.

  But by that time I thought I could hear jurors snoring. I hoped to wake them up with one last piece of evidence I hadn’t mentioned during opening statements.

  “I want to shift gears now and ask about another location: Fryman Canyon, the location of the ransom drop. Were you able to tell whether Jack Averly’s car had been in Fryman Canyon recently?”

  “I examined samples taken from that location using a variety of testing methods…”

  Incredibly, he got more long-winded with every answer. I imagined calendar pages turning before he finally gave his conclusion: that he could not find soil or plant evidence to indicate that Averly’s car had ever been in that location.

  Translation: if Averly’s car hadn’t been in Fryman Canyon, Averly hadn’t picked up the ransom money. Ian Powers had retrieved it.

  By the time I was done, I suspected the jurors hated me for putting this guy on. I passed the witness to the defense, hoping they’d spend enough time with Numan to get their fair share of juror wrath.

  Wagmeister did the cross this time—a clear sign that Terry knew she didn’t have to worry about this evidence. Unfortunately, Wagmeister kept it short and sweet. He had Numan admit again that soil analysis can’t pinpoint exactly where in a given area the cars had been, then wrapped it up succinctly.

  “And you cannot say, Dr. Numan, exactly when those particulates got on the cars, can you?”

  Numan turned back to the jury. “No. I can only say it was recent enough that it had not worn off yet. But of course, cars run on wheels and wheels turn and when those wheels turn, they of course shed any material they may have picked up from any given area. And so the fact that I was still able to find the particulates that I did indicated to me that it couldn’t have been very long—less than a year, certainly—since the cars were in that area…”

  Seriously. What was so wrong with a simple “No”?

  Wagmeister’s expression went from amazed to amused, and when Numan finally wound down, he wisely threw in the towel. “Nothing further.”

  When the judge asked me if I had anything further, I wondered could there possibly be anything further? The soil should’ve been a nice piece of evidence to add to the big picture. But in the hands of “I’m comfortable with juries” Numan, all it did was confuse them and piss them off. The commentators would be dumping on us all night.

  I had no time to dwell on the loss. The next witness would be Declan’s inaugural run. I’d decided to let him take the print expert, Leo Relinsky. Relinsky had been telling juries about fingerprints for over thirty years, so I figured this was a foolproof witness to give a newbie who was getting his first taste of a high-profile case.

  Declan had been studying his notes and getting ready half the night, though it surely wasn’t the first time he’d put on a print expert. But this morning, in my office, he’d been a nervous wreck. He couldn’t stand still. He was straightening his tie, adjusting his jacket, and fidgeting nonstop. I’d had to tell him to sit down three times. “If you don’t relax, you’ll pass out in front of the jury. Take some slow, deep breaths, and don’t drink any more coffee. I’m getting the shakes just looking at you.”

  Now, as Numan left the courtroom, I sat down and whispered, “Go get ’em, slugger.”

  Declan stood, straightened his tie for the millionth time, and buttoned his jacket. He cleared his throat and barely managed to choke out, “The People call Leo Relinsky.”

  Declan started by having Relinsky state his credentials. It was a good way to warm up, because Leo’s CV went on for a solid ten minutes. He’d won awards, published papers, taught classes—you name it, Leo had excelled at it. I could see that Declan was starting to relax. Excellent. Then Declan had Leo give his spiel about the uniqueness of fingerprints.

  That out of the way, they moved on to the results: Jack Averly’s prints on the interior driver’s door handle of Brian’s car, Ian Powers’s prints on several areas inside Averly’s car, and last, Powers’s thumb and index fingerprints on the trunk of Brian’s car, half an inch from the bloodstain.

  It all went smoothly until Declan asked him about his findings on the nine-millimeter Ruger that’d been seized from Ian’s house.

  “Did you find any prints on that gun?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Did you think it unusual that someone would have a gun in his house that didn’t have his prints on it?”

  “Well, not necessarily.”

  “But doesn’t the absence of prints indicate to you that the gun had been wiped down for some reason?”

  “It could. I didn’t particularly notice evidence that the gun had been wiped down, but then again, I wouldn’t have thought much of it if I had. People frequently do clean their guns. Or they should.”

  “Did you find gun-cleaning fluid on the handle, or the trigger guard?”

  Wagmeister stood up. “Objection! Assumes facts not in evidence—that he was looking for cleaning fluid.”

  The judge had been watching Declan with a mixture of pity and irritation. The questions about wiping the gu
n were a very bad idea for exactly the reason the witness had just explained. Declan had painted himself into a corner; now he was desperately trying to make something good come of it. A classic example of bad money after bad.

  “Well, I’ll allow it,” the judge said. “But please move it along, Mr. Shackner.”

  Declan swallowed and his ears reddened. My heart ached for him. We’d all been there at some point—just not on national television.

  “Shall I ask the question again?”

  “No,” Leo replied. “I remember it. The answer is that I always note the presence of cleaning fluid if it’s there, but I did not notice any such fluid on the Ruger.”

  “Then, just to recap, you found Mr. Powers’s prints on—”

  Wagmeister was on his feet again. “Objection! Asked and answered.”

  “So it would seem from the way that question started,” Judge Osterman said. “Are we going anywhere new, Mr. Shackner?”

  Declan cleared his throat. Poor guy, I knew he’d just been trying to end on a strong note. “No, Your Honor, I guess not.”

  A brief scan of the jury showed a couple of mildly puzzled expressions, and our single black mom was suppressing a little smile. No harm done. In fact, we might’ve gained a few sympathy points. Nothing wrong with that.

  Wagmeister did the standard cross. “With regard to the prints you found on the cars, you can’t tell when the prints were put there, can you?”

  Leo amiably agreed he could not.

  As Wagmeister beat that dead horse for another ten minutes, I passed Declan a note for his redirect. He nodded, and when Wagmeister was finished, he asked that one question.

  “You testified that you found Ian Powers’s thumb and index prints on the trunk of Brian’s car. Here’s a hypothetical: Assume that those prints were found less than an inch away from a bloodstain that also matched Ian Powers. Assume further that the car was left in an outdoor parking lot near the airport for at least two days. With that information in mind, what if anything could you say about when those prints were deposited on that trunk?”

  “Objection! Improper hypothetical!” Wagmeister shouted as though he’d been stung by a hornet.

  “I assume there will be testimony to that effect regarding the blood?” the judge asked.

  “There will,” Declan said.

  “Overruled.”

  “The short answer is that it means the prints were probably left fairly recently. Reason being, weather will break down blood evidence, and though prints are a little more durable, it can destroy prints too. So when you put it all together, the fact that you found identifiable prints near the blood indicates that both were most likely deposited recently. I can’t be more precise than that, though.”

  “Thank you. Nothing further.”

  Declan had been pale after his earlier snafu, but when he sat down, I noticed there was a little more color in his cheeks now. A nice finish cures so many ills.

  69

  We still had an hour before the noon recess, so I asked Bailey to bring the New York contingent down to the courtroom. I had to put on the NYPD officers to prove that Averly had been in New York, under an assumed name, and that Hayley’s iPad had been stolen from his hotel room.

  “Okay, but who else are you going to call? The New York guys won’t take that long.”

  She was right. And I couldn’t afford to incur Judge Osterman’s wrath. His latest edict: “Any party who runs out of witnesses before it’s time to recess will find that they’ve rested their case.” Since he really couldn’t get away with forcing the defense to rest, I knew this warning was for me. “We could put on the airline records person to prove when Averly flew out of LAX and our computer cop to say that Averly used the iPad to buy that ticket to Paris.”

  “They’re in the DA lounge, ready to go. But we still might come up short.”

  “That’s all I can think of at the moment. We’ll have to put on what we’ve got and hope for the best.”

  As it turned out, we were still ten minutes shy of twelve o’clock when I finished with my New Yorkers and records people, but the judge could see I’d done my best to use my court time. He let us go early without a fuss. When Bailey left to round up our next witnesses, I walked Declan to his office, knowing he needed some moral support. Sure enough, the moment I stepped inside and closed the door, he started to apologize for his screwup with Relinsky.

  I held up a hand and told him to stop. “It can’t have been the first time you got balled up in a witness and I promise, it won’t be your last. We all have our days. And besides, the jurors loved you.”

  His eyes strayed to a small framed photograph on his desk. I looked at it more closely and saw it was a picture of a man who was beaming as though he were holding his newborn baby. Except he was holding an Oscar statue.

  “Your father?”

  Declan nodded and looked down at his desk. “The only good news about today is he’ll never see it. I think the only reason he even knows I’m on this case is because one of his assistants told him.”

  “He didn’t want you to join the DA’s office?”

  “He didn’t want me…period.”

  “You mean, he didn’t want children?”

  “No. My older sister’s the proverbial apple of his eye.” Then he lowered his voice and spoke in a gruff tone that I surmised mimicked his father. “Working with fairies is one thing. But I’m not having any damn homosexuals in my family. And don’t give me that bull about how you have no choice!”

  Declan’s admission, the pain in his voice, brought a lump to my throat. How could his father be such a Neanderthal? And how could he not see what a wonderful guy his son was?

  “Declan, I can’t say I understand that kind of mentality. I can only say that you’re one of the best people I know. Smart, talented, charming, classy. If I ever have children, I’ll feel like the luckiest woman on the planet if I get to have a son like you. Your father…needs help.” I’d almost said his father was an asshat, but I stopped myself just in time. I could tell that Declan still wanted to find the good in him, still yearned for the day his father would accept and appreciate him for who he was. And who knew? Maybe one day he would.

  Declan gave me a tight little smile. “Thank you, Rachel.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Just what you need right now. My bullshit drama. What can I do for you? Is Gelfer up next?”

  “Yep. So if you could organize the exhibits, I’ll go back over my notes.” I turned to go, then stopped with my hand on the door. “Thank you for telling me, Declan.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “Sure, any time.”

  “And that wasn’t bullshit drama. If you want to hear bullshit drama, remind me to tell you about my last fight with Graden. If that doesn’t make you feel like the model of sanity, nothing will.”

  I headed back to my office and reviewed Gelfer’s reports for the millionth time. I’d saved our most damning piece of physical evidence for last: the DNA typing of the bloodstain on the trunk, which had shown a mixture of both Hayley’s and Ian Powers’s blood. I knew this would be a pitched battle.

  Declan and I headed down to court early so we could get set up. I wanted to make everything as tightly organized as possible. Gelfer’s CV was solid, but from what I’d heard, he wasn’t super-smooth. I had to give him points for promptness, though; he showed up right on time, at one twenty-five. As always, he had that disheveled nutty professor look—badly cut mousy brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a lopsided-looking jacket. I’d noticed before that even his lab coat seemed crooked on him.

  “Hey, Tim. Ready to go?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he said in a breathless voice.

  “Got your reports in there?” I gestured to the file in his hand.

  “Uh-huh. Want to see?” He opened the file with shaking hands and started to take them out.

  “No, I’m good.” I’d gone over them so many times I could recite his findings in my sleep.

  I wished he had time to take a walk
around the block to calm down, but it probably wouldn’t have helped. Even seasoned witnesses would find the pressure cooker that was this courtroom daunting. As usual, we were filled to capacity, every row tightly packed. The judge swept onto the bench and called for the jury. When everyone was settled, Judge Osterman asked, “People, ready with your next witness?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. The People call Mr. Timothy Gelfer.”

  Gelfer moved up to the witness stand with stiff, self-conscious steps.

  I took him through his résumé, which was actually fairly impressive. At first his voice quavered as he told the jury that he had a master’s in microbiology and was in the process of getting his Ph.D. But he got a little steadier as he described the four articles that had been published in major scientific journals on various aspects of DNA testing and his work as a criminalist for the FBI.

  “So you were stationed in Quantico?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Five years.”

  “What made you leave?”

  “My wife wanted to move back here to be closer to her family.”

  “And how long have you been a criminalist for the Scientific Investigation Division here in Los Angeles?”

  “Four years.”

  Gelfer had calmed down now and seemed to have hit his stride. I established that he’d done the DNA typing on blood samples taken from Brian Maher, Hayley Antonovich, and Ian Powers, then had him describe the procedures for DNA typing. Declan started the disc that showed Gelfer in action in the lab, and Gelfer explained how each photo depicted the steps he’d performed in his testing. The visual aid made the testimony a little less dry and made it easier for Gelfer to break it all down. When he’d finished, I moved on to the crime scene evidence. I signaled Declan to run the disc that showed the photos of the bloodstain on the trunk of Brian’s car and asked Gelfer what his analysis had shown.

  “I found a mixture of two DNA profiles. The dominant profile matched the DNA of Hayley Antonovich, and the secondary profile matched the DNA of Ian Powers.”