“The D.A. hasn’t put her on yet,” says Georgia. “Kreng and Reyes-Moreno have testified. They’ve established, as you might guess, a fairly airtight case against Max. Sevillas is treading water and trying to stall, but you really need to get here.”
“Just tell him I know that Marianne did it,” she says. “And that he has to try to hold on until I can get the evidence to him.”
“I’ve got to go,” says Georgia. “Max needs me.”
“Are you sure he’s okay?” Danielle feels almost frantic. “Can I talk to him?”
“No way. The bailiff won’t let him out of his sight, much less out of the courtroom.”
They sign off, but Danielle’s concern for Max consumes her. She imagines him sitting next to Tony at the defense table, petrified that she isn’t there and not understanding the legal posturing between the D.A. and Sevillas. She can’t let herself panic. The only thing she can do now is to get through as many of Marianne’s entries as possible, and to flag those she intends to introduce—assuming the judge doesn’t throw her in jail the minute she walks into the courtroom.
During the flight, she exhausts the earlier diaries and slogs her way through the CDs from the computer cabinet. At long last there is a mention of Jonas. Given what she absorbed from the earlier entries, she shudders to learn what befell Jonas as a child. She shakes her head. She cannot afford sentiment. She reads an entry about Jonas dated shortly before they went to Maitland.
Dear Dr. Joyce,
I have to come out and admit it. Jonas has turned out to be a true disappointment. When he was a baby, he was so sweet and never complained—no matter how many times we wound up in the emergency room. Unfortunately, after one of his seizures, he went without oxygen for too long—a bit ambitious on my part, I’m afraid—and mental retardation was the result. I was dismayed at first, but I soon realized that it made him infinitely easier to handle. Everything in life is a tradeoff.
Now, Dr. Joyce, pay careful attention to what I describe, because I have conducted a brilliant scientific experiment with unprecedented results. I have created autism where none existed. First I tackled the basic fact that many autistics are incapable of intelligible speech. Everyone thinks Jonas can’t speak, but they’re dead wrong. The behaviors I taught him allow him to communicate perfectly well with me—and it was obviously to my advantage that he not converse with anyone else.
Then came the challenge of self-infliction. I taught Jonas to slap his face whenever I said “no” or “bad.” Then I would give him lots of praise and a big hug. (It’s so important to provide positive feedback with children.) By the time he was six, Jonas knew that he was allowed to use anything he wanted to discipline himself and that I, in turn, would shower him with affection. Eventually, all I had to do was give him a look and he knew exactly what to do. The restraints and electric collar were useful training tools. The most inspired plans are simple ones, but they don’t fall out of the sky. It requires a tremendous commitment and a lifetime of sacrifice.
Not many women have that kind of character.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sevillas walks back into the courtroom. He has left Georgia and Max in a conference room adjacent to the courtroom and told them to stay there until he calls them. Georgia promised to calm Max down and get him something to drink. The poor kid can’t take much more. Neither, Sevillas admits, can he.
As he nears the defense table, he sees a tense gathering at the judge’s bench. Hempstead stands in deep conversation with her law clerk and the sheriff. His back is to Sevillas, but there is obviously something in his hands that is the subject of this ad hoc discussion. Langley’s head is bowed as he studies documents his baby attorneys feed him.
Hempstead looks up and sees Sevillas. The sheriff turns around, arms behind his back. “Mr. Sevillas.” Her voice is charged, edgy. “I took the opportunity during your absence to ask Sheriff Wollensky to ascertain the whereabouts of your client, as it appears that you have forgotten my order to produce her here today.”
Sevillas approaches the bench. “Your Honor, I did try—”
She holds up her hand. “Don’t bother, Counsel. Sheriff Wollensky has been to Ms. Parkman’s apartment, with a warrant signed by yours truly, and—wonder of wonders—she is nowhere to be found.” Her pale eyes through the steel rims shoot bullets at him. “Do you have any possible explanation as to where she might be?”
Langley has stopped looking at his documents and sits back with a smug grin on his face. Sevillas clasps his hands in front of him and summons his most sincere expression. “I have no idea, Your Honor. As instructed this morning, I tried repeatedly to reach Ms. Parkman by telephone, but was unsuccessful. As I related, my client has been seriously ill this week. It is highly likely that she has gone to the doctor. If the court likes, I could step into the hall and attempt again to reach her—”
Hempstead shakes her head impatiently. “Mr. Sevillas, I recommend that you not toy with me. If you know where your client is, you better tell me—now.”
Sevillas shrugs and raises his hands. “I honestly have no idea, Judge.”
She scowls at him. “I find it odd indeed that such a sick woman would leave her bed. At least I found it odd until Sheriff Wollensky came back during the break and showed me this.” She motions to the sheriff, who holds up what seems to be a long, rubbery stocking.
Sevillas tries to keep his expression impassive as his mind races to figure out what stunt Danielle has pulled now. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, what is that?”
“You have no idea?”
“I do not,” he says firmly.
“Approach,” she says. “You, too, Mr. Langley.”
Sevillas and Langley move toward the bench as the sheriff hands the thing to Hempstead. She holds it on high as if it is a malodorous lab specimen. “Sheriff Wollensky found this…thing…under your client’s bed, along with a box labeled Prosthetics, Inc.” Sevillas gives the judge a puzzled look. “It took us a while to figure it out, too, Counselor, but it appears that this is a synthetic covering for a prosthetic leg which your client apparently padded and placed over her own leg to dupe one of the other sheriffs into switching out her ankle bracelet.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Your Honor, I hope you know that I had no part in whatever Ms. Parkman has—”
“Let me finish. Your client then slipped off the ankle bracelet and hung it on the back of her bedroom door. The sheriff has ascertained that her suitcase and most of her items of clothing are missing. Now.” Her eyes are steel slits. “Do you have anything productive to say?”
Sevillas sighs. “I have no explanation, Judge. As far as I knew, she was ill and in bed.”
“That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it, I suppose.” She gives him a harsh look. “Well, I’ve put out an APB for your client. If she’s left the jurisdiction, which I have to assume is the case, this entire hearing vis-à-vis the bond issue is moot. Ms. Parkman will have the pleasure of enjoying our county jail until the date of her trial. And I better not learn, Counselor, that you had any knowledge of this whatsoever. If I do—” she points a long finger at him “—you will have the opportunity to join her.”
Sevillas nods his head.
Hempstead leans forward. “The moment you hear from her, you will so advise this Court.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Be seated.”
Sevillas, perspiring now, takes his seat. He never thought to ask Doaks how in the hell Danielle ditched that anklet. He was so upset about her jumping bond that he didn’t think to ask how she pulled it off. Well, Hempstead won’t need to throw her in jail—he’ll throttle her the minute she walks into the courtroom.
He watches as Georgia and Max take their seats. Max looks better. Sevillas leans over the rail and whispers to Georgia. “You work miracles with that boy.”
She smiles.
“It’s because he’s as much mine as Danielle’s.”
For the next half hour, they sit through
Langley’s direct of Smythe, the courtly medical examiner. Although Sevillas follows the questioning with one ear, inwardly he is fuming. Maybe he should just file a motion to withdraw. Now Danielle hasn’t just screwed up her case, she’s put him in the worst possible light with one of the best judges in Iowa. This could ruin his hard-won reputation. Besides, he has wondered from the outset if his personal feelings for Danielle have prevented him from being as effective as her counsel—and Max’s—as he should be. He glances at Max, who seems wrought with hopelessness and fear, but who sits next to him quietly, occasionally looking up at Sevillas for assurance. Sevillas leans over to him and squeezes his shoulder. “Hang in there, champ.”
Max looks at him gratefully as his body seems to unwind just a hair. “I’m trying,” he whispers.
Langley suddenly poses a question that takes Sevillas’s brain off automatic pilot.
“Can you describe the instrument used on Jonas Morrison’s body on the day of his death?”
“Objection,” says Sevillas. “Your Honor, again, the State has failed to produce any instrument they can claim is the alleged murder weapon. Any description by the witness would be mere speculation.”
The judge casts a dark look from the bench. “Mr. Langley, I am in no mood to traverse this ground again. Has the State recovered the comb?”
A cranberry flush crawls up Langley’s neck. “Your Honor, we are planning to put Officer Dougherty on the stand soon. He was the first officer on the scene, and he can clearly describe what the murder weapon looked like. Dr. Smythe, in any event, can describe the murder weapon based upon the nature and extent of the injuries he observed during the autopsy—”
The judge holds up her hand. Her face is a thundercloud. “Mr. Langley, you obviously did not hear my question. Do you or don’t you have a murder weapon to show me?”
“N-not this instant, Judge,” he stammers. “But—”
The judge shakes her head. “Unbelievable. No, Mr. Langley, I will not permit you to ask specific questions about a murder weapon you can’t produce.” She turns to the witness. “Dr. Smythe, you are free to testify as to your observations during the autopsy of the decedent. However—” she casts a sharp look at Langley “—there will be no reference by you to an item that has not been physically produced into evidence nor, it seems, is likely to be produced.” She glares at both Sevillas and Langley. “This is not your finest hour, gentlemen.”
“But Judge—” Langley begins.
“The witness may testify as to his opinion of what type of instrument might have caused the injuries he found, but that’s it. If you want to go any further, find the evidence or put the proper witness on to testify to what he or she saw. You can’t do it through this witness. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Langley sighs.
The judge motions for her court clerk. “And release the jury for the case this afternoon. It’s clear we won’t be hearing anything else today.” She turns back to Langley. “Proceed.”
“Dr. Smythe, would you please describe the injuries you observed on the body of Jonas Morrison when he was presented for autopsy?”
Smythe, in a black pinstripe suit with a white, starched shirt and a gray tie, lends an air of quiet authority. He adjusts his glasses and peers briefly at the report on his lap. “Late on the afternoon of June 20, I conducted the autopsy of Jonas James Morrison, a seventeen-year-old male. The first injuries I examined were numerous puncture wounds on the forearms, upper arms and thighs, and in the groin area of the decedent. There was bleeding from the nose and mouth, as well as petechial hemorrhaging in the whites of the eyes. The femoral artery and the femoral vein were both punctured.”
Langley strides to the witness box. “Doctor, were you able to make a count of the number of puncture marks on the boy’s body?”
Smythe looks up. “I counted approximately three hundred and fifty such marks.”
A gasp goes through the courtroom. Sevillas turns to gauge the reaction. Marianne, in a somber suit, sobs. The reporters who have fought hard to win seats next to her have their arms around her, offering comfort. Mascara runs down her face like dark icing dripping down a white cake. When he turns back around, Judge Hempstead gives him a hard look.
Langley pauses to gaze at her sympathetically as he lets Smythe’s comment sit for a moment. “How large would you say each puncture mark was, Doctor?”
Smythe takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes as if the mere act of counting all the wounds has given him eyestrain. “The punctures occurred in series of fives and were approximately one-eighth of an inch wide at the most narrow to one-fourth of an inch at the widest of the wounds.”
“What do you mean, ‘in series of fives’?”
“I mean that whatever object was used to puncture the flesh contained five prongs, and each prong was approximately one-eighth to one-fourth of an inch wide.” He demonstrates by creating a space between each of his fingers. “Like so.”
“So each time the instrument was thrust into the skin,” Langley says slowly, “it left five wounds in a row?”
“That is correct.”
Langley leans against the witness box. “Doctor, are you able to tell us anything more about the physical attributes of the object that caused these wounds?” Hempstead’s eyes narrow as she listens for the response. Sevillas leans forward in his chair.
“I can say that it was at least four inches wide and was probably made of some kind of metal, given the clean cuts it made,” says Smythe. “Also, given the depth of the wounds, I would say that it was probably six to eight inches long.”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Sevillas half rises. “That is more speculative than factual.”
“True, but I’ll allow it,” she says. “I’m not the jury, Mr. Sevillas, and it seems to be a reasonable conclusion for the M.E. to draw from his observations. Proceed, Mr. Langley.”
“Doctor, what did you determine was the cause of Jonas Morrison’s death?”
“Many of the puncture wounds were superficial in nature. They alone would not have caused the boy’s death. Unfortunately,” he adds, “both the femoral artery and vein were punctured. Anatomically speaking, they are side by side in the groin. Once these two were severed—” he makes a slicing motion with his hand “—there would have been a tremendous arterial spray. Just severing the femoral artery would have killed him, but certainly the combination of both the artery and vein being punctured are the primary causes of death.”
There is a muffled moan from the front row of the courtroom. Marianne covers her face with her hands.
Langley pauses a moment, gives her a sympathetic glance and continues.
“Are these injuries you would commonly expect if the decedent had attempted to commit suicide?”
Smythe pauses. “No.”
“And how long would it have taken for Jonas to die from these wounds?”
“Between five to ten minutes, given the severity of the femoral injuries.”
Langley goes back to his table and picks up a stack of eight-by-ten glossy color photographs. With his back to the judge so the press corps is treated to a good, long look, he takes a moment to flip through the lurid photos of Jonas’s partially nude, bloody body and the grotesque spray that covered the floor, walls and ceiling. Langley selects a few and hands them to Smythe. “Are these the photographs you took of the decedent at the crime scene?”
“Yes.”
“We’d like to have these marked as State’s Exhibit 1.” Langley hands them to the clerk, who then hands them to the judge. She studies them, her mouth grim. Langley smiles at Sevillas as he walks over and places copies of the photographs on the defense table. “The State passes the witness.”
Sevillas is surprised, and his face shows it. He had hoped Langley would do his usual ponderous job of leading the medical examiner through all the gory details of the autopsy. Then again, Langley doesn’t have the time for it. The judge has told him he has to wrap up today, and Langley needs every minut
e so he can put on more damaging witnesses.
“Your Honor?” Sevillas stands. “May we have a fifteen-minute recess?”
The judge looks over her glasses at him. “I would prefer to press on at this juncture. We’ve had a number of breaks this morning.”
“If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll begin.”
“Certainly, Mr. Sevillas.”
He races through the notes he took on direct and decides on a course of action. Maybe he can drag this out long enough so the hearing has to go into tomorrow. He approaches the witness with a friendly smile. “Dr. Smythe.”
The doctor returns his smile. “Good morning, Mr. Sevillas. It’s nice to see you again.”
“And you. Let’s talk about these injuries for a moment,” he says. “There are a number of points I’d like you to clarify for me.”
“Of course.”
“Were you able to observe the angle of the injuries on Jonas Morrison’s body?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Now, Doctor, is it possible that Jonas could have caused those injuries to himself?” He raises his hand. “Before you answer, I want you to understand something of this boy’s psychiatric history, about which I believe we are all in agreement.” He walks to the bench and looks up at the judge. “Jonas Morrison had a lifetime of psychiatric and behavioral problems. This young man was mentally retarded, autistic and had severe speech and language problems. Further, he had been engaged since early childhood in an established pattern of self-infliction of physical harm, which was a component of his psychiatric and cognitive disorders.” Langley squints, as if this might help him formulate an appropriate objection. Sevillas goes on. “Jonas Morrison also had an established pattern of causing physical harm to himself by using various objects—including his own teeth and fingernails—which resulted in bloody wounds and numerous scars.”
A murmur starts in the crowd. The judge casts a warning look, and silence falls once again.
“Given the decedent’s history, Doctor,” says Sevillas, “is it possible that the puncture wounds you observed could have been self-inflicted?” Sevillas takes the crime photos from a folder on the desk, but forgets that Max is sitting next to him. He rushes to the witness stand and hands them to Smythe, but not soon enough to evade Max’s notice. The stricken look on the boy’s face is almost more than he can bear.
Saving Max Page 26
