Silent Witness

by Richard North Patterson

  Sam, Tony saw, had a veiled, reflective look, directed at the table. “Look at her,” Tony whispered. “The jury watches that.…”

  “How long,” Stella was asking, “does it take after the heart has stopped pumping for injuries to have the appearance you describe—orange, leathery, lacking in any hemorrhage?”

  “As little as two minutes.”

  Two minutes, Tony thought, for a murderer to drag Marcie’s body from the place of death, her feet leaving skid marks as they dangled lifelessly, then throw her over the edge. “Did you form an opinion,” Stella continued, “as to the approximate time of death?”

  “I did.” Turning, Micelli addressed the jurors directly. “My opinion is that Marcie Calder died at roughly ten o’clock on the night she disappeared.”

  In the momentary silence, Stella simply nodded: Marcie’s death, if Micelli was right, occurred very close to Sam’s estimate to the police of the time he had left the park. In the jurors’ minds, Tony knew, a picture was forming: Sam Robb bludgeoning Marcie Calder; dragging her body to the edge of the cliff; throwing her over the side … This sequence had long since formed in Tony’s own mind, like a silent film he could not stop. Glancing at Sue, he saw her downward gaze.

  “Ten o’clock,” Stella repeated. “On what do you base that?”

  “When we arrived at the scene, rigor mortis had set in and the body temperature was cool—roughly that of the ambient air, sixty-five degrees or so. It was apparent that she’d been dead for hours.” Micelli looked at several jurors, confirming their attention. “During the autopsy, we examined the contents of Marcie Calder’s stomach. We found the remnants of a tuna sandwich.

  “According to an earlier witness, Mr. Nixon, he gave Marcie Calder a tuna sandwich at roughly eight o’clock. This is consistent with our findings.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s based on the gastric emptying time.” Pausing, Micelli spoke with didactic self-assurance. “A substantial meal will take four to five hours to empty from the stomach—that’s how long it takes the acids found there to break down the food. By comparison, a meal of more moderate size will empty in roughly three hours. And a small meal—like a tuna sandwich—will empty in about two hours.” Micelli paused, adding more softly, “Unless the process of digestion is terminated by death.

  “In the case of Marcie Calder, traces of that tuna sandwich remained in her stomach. Meaning that she died within two hours after ingesting the sandwich. Or less.” She faced the jury, her tone newly harsh. “If Mr. Robb was with her until ten, Marcie Calder had very little time left.”

  Next to Tony, Saul stirred but did not object. The damage was done, the relentless accretion of fact upon fact. Even Sam seemed sluggish, battered.

  As for Micelli, she appeared more severe, a portrait by El Greco. “Were you able to determine,” Stella asked, “what had happened to Marcie Calder in the hours before she died?”

  “Yes.” Micelli’s voice was flat. “We determined that she’d had anal intercourse.”

  Stella was silent for a moment. “How did you conclude that?”

  “There were lacerations in the anus and tears to the mucosa, indicating anal penetration. As did the blood on her external sphincter.”

  “Did the swabs show any semen in the anus?”

  “No.” Once more, Micelli faced the jury. “The swabs yielded traces of a petroleum-based lubricant found in a commonly used brand of condom. One with a ridged surface, called Adam’s Rib.”

  Sam gazed at Micelli blankly, a flush coming to his face. Sue stared at her folded hands; the Calders had a bitter, sickened look.

  From the bench, Karoly’s eyes followed Stella. “Did you form an opinion,” she asked, “as to whether this anal intercourse was consensual or forced?”

  Micelli frowned. “That determination isn’t easy. But I formed a definite impression, yes.”

  “And what is that?”

  “From our examination, it appeared that Marcie Calder had little, or any, prior experience of such an act. Therefore, any penetration, even consensual, would cause trauma. Even the ridges of the condom might aggravate that.” Pausing, Micelli gave Stella a narrow look. “If this were rape, Ms. Marz, I would expect to see more trauma. My impression is that this was consensual anal intercourse, involving a girl to whom this was new.”

  Stella folded her arms. Softly, she asked, “In the course of the autopsy, Dr. Micelli, did you make any other findings with respect to Marcie Calder?”

  “One. She was pregnant.”

  With flickering quickness, the beautician glanced at Sam. “How did you determine that?”

  Turning, Micelli addressed the jurors. “She was carrying a fetus,” she told them softly. “At death, it was between one to two months in development. It had died with the mother.”

  The beautician seemed to wince; Tony sensed that for her, as for Stella and for Tony himself, the sadness of this was both personal and moral. “Was there sufficient fetal material,” Stella asked, “to determine the probable father?”

  “Yes. With the help of DNA testing.”

  “And did you direct that this testing be performed?”

  “I did. By our office. I also asked the lab to run DNA testing on the blood sample taken from Mr. Robb by the police.”

  “What was the result, Dr. Micelli?”

  Micelli’s deep-set eyes were somber. “That the genetic material in the fetus reflected that found in Mr. Robb’s blood.” She paused, facing the jurors. “Within a probability of ten million or so to one, Mr. Robb was the father of that child.”

  Sam, Tony noticed, seemed not to breathe. Approaching Micelli, Stella appeared almost tentative, as if reluctant to break the silence. “Did you also, at the request of our office, attempt to determine whether there was any possibility that the father of this child was African-American?”

  “Yes.” Micelli’s voice was flat again. “Based on the genetic material, there was no possibility.”

  Stella paused for a moment, eyes downcast, hands folded in front of her. Then she looked up at Karoly, quietly saying, “I have nothing more, Your Honor.”

  Karoly nodded and then, as if it were an afterthought, remembered the clock. “At this time,” he told the jury, “we’ll take our noon recess, until one-thirty.”

  A heavy half-silence ensued, the jurors rising with a look of preoccupation, little noise coming from the gallery.

  Glancing at Saul, Sam turned to Tony. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “Alone.”

  SIXTEEN

  Tony and Sam sat alone in the witness room—small, cramped, and windowless, with a bare wooden table and hard wooden chairs. Even had the room not reminded Tony of the interrogation room of the Lake City police, Sam’s demand would have made him edgy.

  “What is it?” Tony asked.

  Sam regarded him with open blue eyes. “Are you going to let that old man cross-examine her?”

  So that was it—not Sue, or some last-minute confession. “I’m tired,” Tony answered. “A tired lawyer makes mistakes—”

  “Better your mistakes than his.” Sam’s voice rose. “That ugly bitch is full of shit, all right? I don’t know when Marcie died, or how, but it was after I left. Micelli crucified me in there.”

  Tony tried to stay calm. “She didn’t help you, for sure. But no one is going to take her apart—including me.” His voice softened. “After all, she’s right about the fetus, about the anal intercourse, even about the brand of condom you used. As for the rest, Saul’s been doing this for years—”

  “When was the last year, Tony? This may be a sentimental journey for you, but it’s my life that’s on the line here—my future, my marriage, everything.” Sam stood abruptly. “I sit here, waiting to say I’m innocent until I want to fucking scream. And you sit here, cool as ever, and put me in the trembling hands of some prehistoric sot.” Placing his palms flat on the table, he leaned toward Tony with his face red, his forehead damp. “It’s because you think
I’m guilty, isn’t it? That all I deserve is a halfhearted effort by a lawyer who’ll be fucking my wife the night after they ship me off for a lifetime of sex in the prison shower room. If you’re not fucking her already.”

  Staring up at Sam, Tony felt his jaw work. “You’re scared,” he said softly. “I understand that. But try not to make losing quite so attractive to me.…” Abruptly, Tony stopped himself. “I didn’t mean that. And you’d better not mean what you said about Sue. Because I am very, very tired of counting up all the things she doesn’t deserve.…”

  “Look—”

  “No. You look.” Tony’s voice rose. “You’re getting a goddamned good defense from me, pal—there may be better lawyers out there, but not many. So if I decide to take a break before my victory lap, you can take a moment to thank me. Instead of slandering your wife and reminding me of how pleasant my life was before that poor pregnant girl went off the cliff. However the hell that happened.” Pausing, Tony mastered his own emotions. “As for Saul, I wouldn’t sacrifice one friend to give another friend something to do. But before you open your mouth again, I’ll thank you to remember that Saul is my friend. Just like Sue.”

  Sam stared down at Tony. “We’re both tired,” he said at length. Abruptly, he collapsed in the chair across from Tony, face buried in his hands, and emitted a deep breath. “I never sleep now. I just never fucking sleep. I lie there, watching the digits move on our alarm clock, and there’s nothing I can say to her. Minutes, then hours, letting her pretend to sleep, and all I’ve got to hold on to is something I can’t share with her. Because I’m the only person in the world who knows I’m innocent.” Sam looked up again, and his face suddenly seemed haggard. “For me, innocence isn’t a presumption, Tony, or a job. It’s not about how good a lawyer you are. Try to imagine what it’s like to know that I’m innocent and sit there, while all the mistakes I ever made—everything I’m ashamed of—makes me look not just disgusting but guilty.…” He looked down. “I guess you do understand that. Some of it, anyhow.”

  “Some of it,” Tony said at last. “Except for whoever murdered Alison, I was the only one who knew. Almost everyone else thought it was me. So I can see why it matters to you. Just like it ‘mattered’ to me.”

  “You matter to me.” Sam reached out, his hand covering the top of Tony’s. “I’m not like that, Tony. Please, believe me.”

  Tony looked into Sam’s light-blue eyes, silently pleading, and felt the cost of friendship, the incalculable ways, at first unimagined, through which one person’s connection to another can alter the lives of both. “Then trust me,” Tony answered. “We’re going to get you out of this. No matter how it looks.”

  * * *

  Watching Saul stand, then shuffle ponderously toward Kate Micelli, was painful to Tony. Saul was seventy, Tony guessed, and with a sudden sadness he knew that Saul would not reach eighty: the years of neglect, the drinking, the weariness of trial after trial, were like a weight he carried. Though he had a certain dignity, his voice was rough and quavery.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Micelli.” Saul was quiet for a moment; Tony felt Sam tense, as if helplessly watching a once great actor forget his lines. Abruptly, Saul said, “Three blows to the head, right?”

  “That’s my opinion, yes.”

  “Wouldn’t there be blood spatter?”

  Micelli folded her hands. “Not from the first blow, I believe. That would simply break the skin. But probably from the second and third.”

  Saul listened, head cocked as if to hear. “All right. Now let me assume that the blows were administered by your hypothetical killer. Where would this blood spatter go?”

  Micelli gave him a look of exaggerated patience. “In your question, Mr. Ravin, are you assuming that the killer is standing, holding the victim upright, or on the ground?”

  Saul’s smile was almost bashful. “That’s a good point. Why don’t we start with both killer and victim on the ground?”

  Micelli frowned. “In that case, you’d have blood spatter on the ground, and on the victim’s face and hair.”

  Saul put both hands in his pockets, fumbling for imaginary change. “What about your hypothetical killer?”

  “Probably on his face and hair.”

  “This blood on the ground. Would it be substantial?”

  “It could be, yes.”

  Slowly, Saul nodded. “But you don’t think it happened that way, do you…?”

  “What way?” Micelli said with faint irritation.

  The jury watched Saul in puzzlement, reflecting Micelli’s apparent disrespect. “Oh,” Saul said. “Sorry. I meant that you don’t believe that the killer struck the victim while both were on the ground, do you?”

  Micelli hesitated. “No. I don’t.”

  Pausing, Saul gestured to the jury. “Could you share with the jury why that is?”

  Micelli would not look at them. “There were significant blood spatters on Marcie Calder’s sweatshirt and jeans.”

  Saul placed one hand to his face, so innocently pensive that, for the first time, Tony wanted to smile. “So your hypothetical killer was standing, holding the victim upright?”

  “This is what I believe, yes.…”

  “Then what do you believe the victim was doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Saul smiled. “I understand—of course you don’t know. Let me put it this way, Dr. Micelli. During your autopsy, did you discover any evidence that Marcie Calder was struggling?”

  “No.”

  “No skin beneath her fingernails. Or bruises on her neck or body, like those which might have been inflicted on a struggling victim by a person of considerable strength?”

  Micelli frowned again. “No.”

  “All right. This hypothetical killer—if he was standing, what kind of spatter would he have on him?”

  “There would likely be blood on his face and arms and upper torso.”

  “A lot of blood?”

  “There could be, yes.”

  “Also blood on the ground?”

  “Some.”

  Saul paused and took an audible rumbling breath, as if too many rapid questions had winded him. Tony wondered if this was true or an act—an attempt to distract Micelli, or to cover a pause for thought. But Tony took the moment to survey the room: the jury, engaged now; Stella, alert, her left hand poised over a legal pad; Karoly, looking curious for once. Abruptly, Saul said, “But there was no blood on the ground above the cliff—whether lying down, or standing up, no blood at all.”

  “It had been raining, Mr. Ravin.”

  Saul smiled again. “That may be part of your answer, Dr. Micelli. But it wasn’t my question. So, again, was there any blood whatsoever on the ground? Or on the grass?”

  “No. The rain could have washed it away.”

  “I see.” Saul paused for a moment. “Just like it could have washed away blood on the cliffside if Marcie fell by accident?”

  Micelli hesitated. “I suppose so.”

  “Or on a rock?”

  “It could.” Micelli’s tone was condescending. “But you’ll remember, Mr. Ravin, that the police found a rock with Marcie Calder’s hair and blood. The lab confirmed that.”

  Saul looked abashed. “Sorry. I wasn’t clear. I was talking about the second rock.”

  Micelli’s brow knit. “I don’t understand you,” she said with faint annoyance.

  “Okay. Let’s suppose for a moment that—despite what you surmise—Marcie Calder fell down the cliff by accident. Can I ask you to assume that? Just for the purpose of my question.”

  “All right.”

  “You don’t think, in that case, that Marcie Calder’s head would have hit the same rock three times, do you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Indeed, her head likely would have had to hit three rocks.”

  “In your scenario, yes.”

  “Then there’d be no blood on the first rock, would there? Because, as you say, the first blow would
tear the scalp without causing spatter.”

  “True.”

  Saul considered her. “What about the second rock, in my scenario.”

  “There would be blood on it, yes.”

  “Less blood than the third?”

  “Yes. But the police found no such rock, you may recall. Indeed, there weren’t any on the side of the hill.”

  “But there were at the bottom, right? Several rocks of a fair size.”

  “But none with blood.”

  Saul ignored this. “How did the rocks get there?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Any chance they were knocked down the hill by Marcie’s fall?”

  “I don’t know.” Micelli grimaced, and then tried to look judicious. “There’s always a chance, Mr. Ravin. But as to whether they caused injury, none had blood.”

  “Because of the rain? Isn’t it true that the second rock, in my scenario, would have less blood than the last?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which, during the rain, could have washed off.”

  Micelli sat back, answering at a staccato clip. “My opinion as to cause of death is a mosaic, Mr. Ravin—not a laundry list. The nature of the wounds, the absence of contre-coup brain trauma, and, yes, the single bloody rock seven feet from the body, all support my belief that Marcie Calder was killed by another above the cliff and thrown over the side already dead.”

  Turning from her, Saul walked to the defense table, pouring a glass of water as Sam looked worriedly up at him. Then Saul turned to Micelli, studying her as he sipped the water. “Dry throat,” he said to her. “Tell me, Ms. Calder must have fallen with considerable force, correct?”

  “It would seem so, yes.”

  “And the blows to her head also required considerable force?”

  “Yes. I said that.”

  Saul put down the glass. “Couldn’t Marcie’s head have hit the bloody rock you did find with considerable force, accounting for the blood on the rock and on her clothes, while causing the rock to roll down the hill another seven feet? It was round, after all, and about ninety-five pounds lighter than Marcie.”

  Micelli stared at him. “You’ve just given me several assumptions, Mr. Ravin.”