Final Juror (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 5)

by Ray Flynt

  Dr. Tamarai Sharma was the second witness that Brad was familiar with, and he’d disclosed that fact during the jury selection process. Tamarai was a third-generation Indian-American, proud of her heritage, but since she’d grown up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan she sounded more Scandinavian than Indian, which confused those meeting her for the first time. She entered the courtroom through a side door wearing a blue sari edged in gold.

  When Brad first met Tamarai she’d worn the white lab coat indigenous to the forensic pathologist. She also displayed a bright red dot the size of a dime between her eyebrows, and seemed surprised when he asked about her bindi. He’d spent a few months in Mumbai during those years as the prodigal son wandering in the wilderness.

  Brad learned that, for her, the decoration held no religious significance; she wore it simply to celebrate her birthright. What she did not know was that her bindi, combined with her reputation to turn prickly when questioned, had earned her the nickname around the courthouse of “Fire Dot.”

  Brad had consulted with Dr. Sharma on a case, and he found her knowledgeable and forthright. He hadn’t experienced her fits of pique directly, but had heard the stories.

  As with Detective Cordes, Cunningham began her questioning of Dr. Sharma by outlining the witness’ qualifications. Listening to a recitation of degrees, specialties, guest lectures, and published works was tedious. At first, Brad found himself gazing intently at Shane Asher as if trying to will him to stipulate to Tamarai’s qualification. When telepathy failed, Brad speculated as to what strategic advantage Asher might be trying to achieve; perhaps he’d be providing his own highly-paid, well-known forensic expert that would make Dr. Sharma’s qualifications pale in comparison.

  Brad felt relief when Cunningham finally asked her first question related to the case. “Did you conduct a post-mortem examination of Genevieve Favreau Nesbit?”

  “I did.”

  “And when was that?”

  “On Tuesday, March 13.”

  Cunningham feigned shock as she asked, “But yesterday we heard that Genevieve’s body was found on Wednesday, March 7th. Why the delay in conducting the autopsy?”

  “Her body was frozen solid when it came to the morgue, and we had to wait until it thawed.”

  “Did you take any steps to help the body thaw?”

  “We placed the body in one of the morgue refrigerators, set at 39 degrees Fahrenheit, and waited for the body temperature to slowly rise.”

  “Was this the first time that you’d dealt with a frozen body?”

  “No. When I was in medical school at the University of Minnesota, I interned with the medical examiner’s office, and we had two cases involving people found frozen in the snow.”

  “In Ms. Nesbit’s case did you make a finding as to the cause of death?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Sharma turned toward the jury. “Genevieve Nesbit died of asphyxiation due to smothering.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I observed petechiae—tiny pinpoint marks which are signs of blood vessel hemorrhaging and are typically found in cases of asphyxiation. I also noted bleeding inside the upper lip consistent with a tear caused by pressure applied against the maxillary left canine tooth number 11. There was blood on that tooth.”

  “Could you explain that in laymen’s terms for the jury?”

  “The maxillary refers to the upper row of teeth. The left canine is one of the sharpest teeth in the mouth, and is located two to the left of the central incisors—the midpoint of the upper teeth.” To emphasize the point, Dr. Sharma opened her mouth and pointed at her left maxillary canine.

  Brad used his tongue to locate the sharp tooth, and noted that the juror next to him was exploring his teeth with a finger. He thought connecting the tissue damage with the sharp canine and the spot of blood on Genevieve Nesbit’s pillow was important, and he scribbled a note about it on his tablet.

  Cunningham asked, and was granted permission to introduce two autopsy photos into evidence. The first showed the petechial hemorrhaging around the eyes to which Dr. Sharma had testified, and the second revealed the damage to the tissue inside the upper lip. Autopsy photos are never easy to witness; least of all on a 42” color monitor. Brad saw several jurors look away, and he also noticed that the victim’s daughter, Francine Holt, was not present in the courtroom for the medical examiner’s testimony as she had been earlier in the day.

  As the monitor went black, Cunningham asked, “Did you have an opportunity to see the pillow that was on the deceased’s bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to show you a photograph of that pillow, and ask if the spot that has been identified as blood could have been caused as a result of the mouth tissue injury you just described?”

  Shane Asher was on his feet before the photo appeared on the TV monitor. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “Overruled,” Whitaker said. “The witness may answer.”

  “Yes. The amount of blood on the pillow is consistent with the injury I observed during post mortem examination.”

  “Now, Dr. Sharma, you testified that the victim was smothered. How is that different from being strangled?”

  “Smothering would mean that the nose and mouth of the victim were covered in order to cut off the flow of oxygen. In strangulation, the victim’s windpipe would be compressed. In Genevieve Nesbit’s autopsy there was no external trauma to the neck and no evidence of compression on the cartilage of the larynx.”

  “Is it possible that the pillow on which blood was found was used to smother the victim?”

  Dr. Sharma faced the jury. “Yes.”

  Cunningham ambled to the prosecution table, picked up a tablet, and leafed through several pages, until the pause finally drew a “Ms. Cunningham?” from Judge Whitaker.

  “Sorry, Your Honor, I lost my place,” Cunningham said, before continuing, “Were you able to make a determination as to the approximate time of death?”

  “Yes.”

  The prosecutor held up her hand, as if to stop Dr. Sharma from elaborating. “Please explain to the jury how you made that determination.”

  “We examined and analyzed the stomach contents of the deceased, learned when she had eaten that particular meal, and were able to estimate how long after the meal she died.”

  “In figuring out where Ms. Nesbit had her last meal, were you relying on the police for that information?”

  “The police provided us with certain information, but I conducted an independent investigation, including visiting the restaurant, and obtaining a sample of the menu items eaten.”

  “Why would you need to collect a sample of the food?”

  “To weigh them, for portion size, so that I could do a comparison with the contents of the digestive tract.”

  Shane Asher stood. “Your Honor, to expedite this portion of the testimony the defense will stipulate that Mrs. Nesbit had her last meal at Porcini’s Bistro in Swarthmore.”

  Brad had heard of the trendy new restaurant, but had never visited there himself. Asher’s stipulation told Brad a lot; time of death would be critical to determining David Nesbit’s guilt or innocence. He knew the medical examiner could provide a time window for Genevieve Nesbit’s death, and the defense attorney might try to raise doubt about the time depending on his client’s whereabouts on the night of the murder.

  Diane Cunningham frowned, and once more flipped through several pages of her notes. It seemed to Brad that Asher’s move to stipulate regarding the restaurant where Genevieve Nesbit had eaten her last meal had stalled her momentum.

  “Did you obtain a receipt from the restaurant?”

  “The police had found a receipt in Ms. Nesbit’s purse, and I was able to confirm the information with the manager.”

  “And did that receipt detail what was ordered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doctor, what was included in Ms. Nesbit’s final meal?”

  “Her meal consisted of mushroom bisque, Chicken
Piccata with capers, and angel hair pasta.”

  “Your Honor, the Commonwealth would like to show the jury the receipt from Porcini’s Bistro and ask that it be entered into evidence.”

  “If there is no objection.” Whitaker glanced at Asher, who sat silently, then nodded at Cunningham to proceed.

  The receipt flashed on the screen, showing two orders of each of the items the doctor had described, as well as one glass of Chardonnay and an iced tea. An order of coffee had also been placed. Brad focused on the time and date when the receipt was issued—Sunday, March 4 at 5:28 p.m. An early supper, he thought, or a very late lunch. He also noted the firm, legible signature in a blue felt-tip pen of “David Nesbit,” and a generous 25% tip; the waiter would remember him.

  “Doctor, what did you observe in the stomach contents of Genevieve Nesbit?”

  “The chicken and capers were only partially digested and remained in the stomach. The bisque and pasta had entered the duodenum.”

  Diane Cunningham opened her mouth to ask a question, then stopped before saying, “Explain for the jury what the duodenum is.”

  “That’s the entry to the small intestine.”

  “What does it mean that you found only partially digested chicken in Ms. Nesbit’s stomach?”

  Tamarai Sharma looked at the jury. “Following a meal, we would expect to see all of the stomach contents moved to the duodenum within three to four hours. Based on my experience and an analysis of the stomach contents, I would say that Ms. Nesbit died within two to three hours of ingesting her meal.”

  “I draw your attention to the receipt, and the time stamp of 5:28 p.m. on Sunday, March 4th. Based on your testimony, you are saying that Ms. Nesbit died between—”

  “Objection,” Asher said, leaping to his feet. “Improper foundation to establish the accuracy of the time stamp.”

  “Sustained,” Whitaker said.

  Cunningham smiled as she said, “No further questions at this time, Your Honor.”

  She’d made the point. If he was making a mental note that Genevieve had died between 7:30 and 8:30 p.m., Brad figured that all of the jurors were.

  “We’ll take our break now,” Judge Whitaker said, and for the umpteenth time admonished the jurors not to discuss the case.

  A line formed for the restrooms in the hallway outside of the jury box. Brad walked down the marble staircase, and when he saw the sun casting shadows against the Ionic columns of the courthouse, he decided to step outside. In spite of the size and splendor of Courtroom A, the jury box felt claustrophobic. He’d gotten used to the idea that lawyers, spectators, and perhaps more importantly the press, were watching him for every raised eyebrow or skeptical expression, but he still felt like a fish in an aquarium. It was good to hear birds chirp, see cars trolling the streets, breathe fresh air, and enjoy the moderate sixty-degree temperature. A few others milled about outside, but when they spotted his juror’s badge gave him plenty of space, which made him grin.

  After five minutes of assuring himself that the world still revolved, Brad reentered the courthouse and aimed for the nearest restroom.

  “Utter bullshit” echoed from a partitioned stall. Brad recognized the mellifluent sound of Shane Asher’s voice, obviously talking on a cell phone. Brad cleared his throat as a signal that another person was in the restroom. When Asher spoke again, it was softer but no less intent, “Yeah, okay. Just get ahold of Harrison Bigelow, and tell him I need him for a conference call at six o’clock.”

  Brad exited the restroom before Asher ever left the stall. He recognized Harrison Bigelow’s name, which ranked with Michael Baden and Cyril Wecht as among the country’s notable forensic experts. He had speculated correctly that the trial would become a contest of conflicting opinions on when Genevieve Nesbit had died, and the jury would have to pick a winner.

  13

  Following the recess, Shane Asher strode to the witness box carrying a yellow legal pad to begin his cross-examination of Dr. Sharma. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

  She stared in the direction of the jury. “Good afternoon.”

  “I only have a few questions,” Asher said, “to help clarify for the jury the answers you gave during direct examination.”

  Brad glanced at the tablet of the juror next to him. Rather than make notes, the 60-something juror with a gray crew cut had a penchant for drawings, like the guillotine he’d penned during Francine Holt’s testimony. That afternoon he’d inked a honey pot and was in the process of drawing a swarm of bees buzzing around the hive. Brad hadn’t met this juror yet, nor did he know his first name, but the man had clearly figured out Shane Asher.

  “Now, Dr. Sharma, you testified that in normal digestion you would expect the contents of the stomach to enter…” Asher consulted his notepad before continuing, “the duodenum within three to four hours?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “Is it also a fact that in normal digestion it can take four to five hours before all of the stomach contents have entered the duodenum—the entry to the small intestine?”

  “Yes.”

  “And there are various factors that can affect the digestion process, for example if the person were under stress?”

  “That is true.”

  Asher took a step toward the jury box. “On the restaurant receipt the jury saw earlier this afternoon there were several beverage items listed, and these included Chardonnay?”

  Dr. Sharma’s expression tightened before she once more responded affirmatively to Asher’s question.

  “Were you able to determine which of the beverages were ingested by Genevieve Nesbit?”

  “Yes. Ms. Nesbit had the Chardonnay.”

  “During your visit to the restaurant, did you find out the serving size for her glass of Chardonnay?”

  “Yes.” Tamara Sharma cleared her throat. “It was a six-ounce glass of wine.”

  “Is the consumption of alcohol one of the factors that could slow the digestive process?”

  “It is.”

  Asher hurried back to the defense table where he deposited his yellow-ruled legal pad before turning back to the witness. “Thank you, Dr. Sharma. It’s possible then that your timeline—suggesting that Ms. Nesbit’s death occurred two to three hours after she ingested a meal—was not entirely accurate?”

  Dr. Sharma bristled at the question. If her eyes could have fired darts, Shane Asher would have bled from pin holes. She exhaled before answering. “I factored her alcohol consumption into what is already a generous window of time during which death may have occurred.”

  Asher stood directly in front of the witness. “Would you concede that it is just as likely that Ms. Nesbit died three hours after ingesting her meal rather than two hours afterwards?”

  Asher’s line of questioning underscored for Brad that time of death would indeed be crucial in determining David Nesbit’s guilt in this case. Nesbit must have had an alibi for his whereabouts three hours after their final meal together. Gaining Sharma’s concession on the timing issue would be crucial in raising reasonable doubt.

  Dr. Sharma delivered her answer directly to the jury. “It is impossible to be more precise in determining the time of death than with the two to three hour window of time to which I have already testified.”

  Brad half expected Asher to sigh in defeat. Instead, the defense attorney faced the jury, “As part of your autopsy, doctor, did you conduct toxicology screens for drugs or alcohol?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “What was the blood alcohol level of Genevieve Nesbit at the time of her death?”

  “If I might consult my notes,” Sharma muttered.

  “Of course.” Asher flashed perfectly aligned teeth at the jury. “Take all the time you need.”

  Asher was being patronizing, Brad thought. Thanks to the rules of discovery, Asher already knew the answer to his own question, and Brad suspected—given Asher’s demeanor—that the courtroom was in for a minor bombshell.

  “Here it is,”
Dr. Sharma announced. “Genevieve Nesbit’s blood alcohol level was 0.078.”

  “And what is the legal limit for intoxication in Pennsylvania?”

  “0.08.”

  Murmurs rippled through the courtroom.

  “Genevieve Nesbit was,” Asher held his thumb and forefinger a quarter-inch apart, “this much Chardonnay away from being legally intoxicated at the time of her death?”

  The prosecutor was on her feet. “Objection. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained,” Whitaker said. Turning toward the jury, the judge said, “Dr. Sharma responded to the original question, and the jury is to disregard Mr. Asher’s follow-up. We’re going to take a break. Court is in recess for fifteen minutes.”

  As he had the previous day, Brad headed outside to enjoy a breath of fresh air. A passing shower kept him under the portico. Looking to his right, Brad spotted the artistic juror, who sat next to him in the jury box, leaning against one of the Ionic columns and dragging on a cigarette. He walked over to the man, extended his hand and said, “I’m Brad.”

  The man with the gray buzz cut returned a firm shake. “Frank,” he said, adding, “I think everyone knows who you are.”

  Brad shrugged, not wanting to say that there were times he wished he weren’t so well known.

  “I was admiring your drawing of the beehive and honeypot,” Brad commented.

  Frank smiled. “Ah, just my way of trying to capture my thoughts.”

  “You draw for a living?”

  Frank shook his head. “I went to art school. At one time I hoped to be an editorial cartoonist like Pat Oliphant, Tom Toles, or Tony Auth.”

  Brad recognized Auth’s name since he’d done the Inquirer’s editorial cartoons for more than forty years.

  “Nobody wanted to hire an untested kid when I got out of college, so I had to find a real job.” Frank laughed.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “Did. I retired two years ago. Worked for the National Park Service at Valley Forge.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  He nodded. “Every day I saw a new batch of people who knew next to nothing about our history.”