True Colors
Page 20
She went to a place in the third row and sat down, hearing people file in behind her. The gallery filled up in no time. Everyone in town wanted to be here today. The whispering was as loud as a rising tide in the wood-paneled room.
On the right side of the courtroom, at the front table, sat the assistant prosecuting attorney, Sara Hamm, and her bright-faced young assistant. On the left side, at the defense table, sat Roy Lovejoy, the attorney assigned to Dallas’s case. Winona had tried her best to get information out of the prosecuting attorney’s office, but everyone had been closemouthed during the discovery process. All she knew was what everyone knew: that the rape charge had been dropped and the murder charge remained. The media hadn’t been much help, either. The murder of a single woman in a small town in a rural county didn’t warrant much in-depth coverage. Sensationalism about Dallas’s and Cat’s unsavory pasts abounded; true facts were harder to come by.
At eight forty-five, Vivi Ann and Aurora walked into the courtroom, holding hands.
In a loose-fitting black suit, Vivi Ann looked incredibly fragile. Light gilded her ponytailed hair, softened the thinness of her face. She looked like a piece of bone china that would crack at the slightest touch. Aurora looked as grim and determined as a bodyguard. They passed Winona without making eye contact, and took seats two rows in front of her.
Winona fought the urge to go to them. Instead she straightened, folded her cold hands in her lap.
And then two uniformed guards were bringing Dallas into the courtroom.
He wore a pair of creased black pants, a pressed white shirt, and a black tie. The months in jail had left their mark on him; he was thinner, sinewy, and when he looked at Winona, she froze, heart thumping.
Vivi Ann stood up, rising like a white rose from a messy garden, and tried to smile at Dallas.
Before Dallas was seated at the defense table, the guards removed his restraints.
Judge Debra Edwards entered the courtroom, wearing her flowing black robes. She took her place on the bench and looked at the attorneys. “Are the parties ready to proceed?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the lawyers said in tandem.
The judge nodded. “Bring in the jury.”
The jurors filed into the courtroom in quiet order; all of them stared openly at Dallas. Several were already frowning.
Sara Hamm stood up. With that simple act, she commanded attention. An imposing woman in a crisp blue suit with a needle-thin white pinstripe, she looked professional and calm. She smiled at the jury and moved toward them confidently. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the facts in this case are simple and straightforward.” She had the voice of a fairy tale witch: smooth and honeyed on the surface but with a layer of steel beneath. Winona found herself leaning forward, hanging on every word.
“During the course of this trial, the state will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Dallas Raintree feigned an illness on Christmas Eve of last year to avoid having to attend church services with his family. While his wife and child were away, he went to Catherine Morgan’s home and he killed her.
“How do we know this beyond a reasonable doubt? The answer is evidence. Mr. Raintree left a trail behind him that investigators were able to follow. First and most obvious was his long-term association with the victim. Several eyewitnesses will testify as to Mr. Raintree’s regular weekend trysts with Ms. Morgan. These evenings have been described as ‘rowdy, drunken, lewd’ gatherings that went on long into the morning. But association doesn’t equal murder. For that we have to look to the physical and forensic evidence. Of which there is plenty.”
Sara held out a photograph of Cat Morgan; in it, she was sitting on her porch, smiling at the camera. In the next photograph, she was slumped against a bloody wall, naked, a torn dark bullet wound in her chest.
Several jurors flinched and looked away; others glared at Dallas. Sara Hamm strolled in front of the jury, pausing now and then in front of the female jurors as she went on, describing the crime in excruciating detail. When she was finished with that, she turned to the jury again.
“The state will introduce evidence that the gun used to kill Catherine Morgan was owned by Dallas Raintree. Experts lifted his fingerprints from the weapon. That alone could be enough to establish his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, ladies and gentlemen, but the state has even more proof. An expert from the Washington State Crime Lab will use hair samples gathered from the scene to place Dallas Raintree in Catherine Morgan’s bed that night, and an eyewitness will testify that he left her house at just past eight o’clock that evening. The medical examiner has placed Ms. Morgan’s death at somewhere between six and nine-thirty on the twenty-fourth. DNA samples from the crime scene will establish that Dallas Raintree is the same blood type as the man who had sex with Ms. Morgan just before her death.
“Coincidence? Hardly. When all this evidence is put together, the answer is inescapable. Dallas Raintree, who had a very public affair with Catherine Morgan before his marriage, went back to the affair sometime thereafter. After an argument of some kind, things went wrong for the lovers. Evidence will show that they fought for control of the gun. And Dallas Raintree won that fight. He shot her in the chest at point-blank range and then went home to his wife, celebrating a cozy Christmas while Catherine Morgan lay dead in her house. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a commonsense case. There is no doubt, reasonable or otherwise, that Dallas Raintree murdered Catherine Morgan in cold blood, and at the conclusion of the evidence I am confident that you’ll find him guilty of this heinous crime. The mistake Ms. Morgan made on that dark Christmas Eve night was in believing that the defendant was her friend and letting him into her home. She died for that mistake, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s not compound it now. Let’s make sure that Dallas Raintree is never able to hurt anyone again.” She returned to her seat and sat down. “Thank you.”
Winona sat back in her seat, finally releasing the breath she’d been holding. She glanced up at the clock, seeing that it was nearly ten-thirty. The hour and a half Sara Hamm had been talking had flown by. But it was the jury that captured her attention. Almost all of them were staring at Dallas through cold, angry eyes.
Dallas’s attorney rose. He appeared nervous and ill-put-together next to the elegant prosecuting attorney, and when he spoke his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. Winona wondered how many murder trials he’d done. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have just heard the story the state would like you to buy; it is a collection of circumstances that appear to fit together like a puzzle, but upon closer examination create only a portrait of reasonable doubt. Dallas Raintree was sick that Christmas Eve. He never left his home that evening, and he certainly never killed the woman he identified as a friend. A good friend, but not a lover. Evidence will show that Catherine Morgan had lots of men in her life. Additionally, the DNA evidence left at the scene does not identify Dallas Raintree as the man who had sex with Ms. Morgan. Experts will testify that the sample was too small to be tested. And the matching of his blood type is meaningless; forty percent of the population shares that blood type. The state has arrested the wrong man. It is as simple as that. Dallas Raintree is innocent.” With a nod to the jury, a kind of head-bobbing exclamation point, the man returned to his seat and sat down.
Winona couldn’t believe it. Lovejoy’s opening had taken less than fourteen minutes. A look at the jury convinced her that he hadn’t swayed one mind, not after the prosecutor’s brilliant blow-by-blow account of the crime.
She saw Vivi Ann frown at Aurora, who shrugged.
Winona wasn’t sure what to make of it. She didn’t know much about criminal law and knew very little about trials, but the defense attorney seemed to be making a crucial mistake.
The judge looked at the prosecuting attorney. “Ms. Hamm, you may call your first witness.”
The rest of the day and all of the following afternoon were taken up with the slow lacquering of facts, layer by layer. The prosecuting attorney brought in a series of crim
Winona sat in the gallery day after day, riveted by the slowly expanding web of circumstance and fact. She learned more than she ever wanted to know about fingerprint analysis, DNA testing, and blood types. The prosecution introduced one expert after another, proving bit by bit their assertion that Dallas’s fingerprint had been found on the gun (which had once belonged to his father—a convicted murderer himself) and that his blood type matched the sample left at the scene. The defense argued that the semen sample had been too small to run a DNA test on, and that the blood type match was meaningless, and, perhaps most importantly, that two unidentified prints had also been found on the weapon. But the damage had already been done.
On the morning of the fourth day of trial, the prosecuting attorney called Dr. Barney Olliver, a forensic criminologist. After presenting more than an hour of testimony about his credentials and testing methods, Sara got to the point. “Dr. Olliver, we’ve established that you are an expert on hair analysis. Were hair samples recovered from the crime scene?”
“Indeed.”
Ms. Hamm moved to admit a series of hair samples found at the scene, and then said, “I know this is complicated scientific testimony, Dr. Olliver, but could you explain your findings to this court?”
“Certainly. May I go to my boards?” he asked, indicating four large easels.
The judge nodded.
For the next hour, Mr. Olliver explained everything there was to know about hair sample analysis, including itemizing the hairs found at the scene, textures, thicknesses, cuticles, and more.
Winona could see the jury losing interest, taking idle notes, until the prosecuting attorney said, “And of the nine pubic hairs found at the scene, which you examined and subjected to your rigorous testing methods, did any match the defendant’s?”
“Objection!” Roy said, coming out of his chair. “The use of the word match is misleading.”
“Sustained,” the judge agreed.
Dr. Olliver barely paused. “Of the nine pubic hairs found at the scene, six were microscopically consistent with the defendant’s.”
“Meaning that, judged side by side, by a trained professional doctor, Mr. Raintree’s pubic hairs were scientifically the same as the killer’s?”
“Objection. Sidebar,” Roy said, shooting out of his seat.
Winona watched as the attorneys approached the bench, argued back and forth, and then retreated.
Ms. Hamm said, “Dr. Olliver, is it your expert testimony that Dallas Raintree’s pubic hairs are microscopically consistent with those found at the scene?”
“It is.”
Roy came forward when the prosecutor sat down. “You cannot prove that the pubic hairs found at the scene came from Dallas Raintree, can you?”
“I can testify that the hair samples when viewed at the tiniest microscopic level are entirely consistent with Mr. Raintree’s.”
“But not that they in fact came from him.”
“Not conclusively, no, but as a medical professional—”
“Thank you,” Roy said. “You’ve answered my question.”
Ms. Hamm stood up. “Dr. Olliver, is it your considered medical opinion that the hair samples found at the scene could have come from Mr. Raintree?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Thank you.”
The rumor in the courthouse on the fifth day of trial was that the prosecution’s star witness was expected to testify. Speculation ran rampant; everyone was trying to guess who it would be. Excitement was a buzzing, tangible presence as people walked into the courtroom and took their places in the gallery.
Winona sat in her regular seat, watching her sisters walk past her.
This week had taken a toll on Vivi Ann; she moved slowly down the aisle, no longer able to look anything other than weary and afraid. Her blond hair, usually so shiny and cared for, hung in a lank, boardlike sheath down her back. She’d given up on makeup, and without color, her face appeared wan and pale. Her green eyes looked startlingly bright by comparison.
Winona longed to be beside her, helping Vivi Ann, but she wasn’t welcome there.
The judge walked into the courtroom and took her seat at the bench. As soon as the jury was seated, the proceedings began.
“The state calls Myrtle Michaelian.”
A wave of whispers moved through the courtroom, so loud that the judge reminded the gallery to be quiet. Winona was as surprised as everyone else. She’d been certain that the star witness would be one of the seedy men who frequented Cat’s house on the weekends.
Myrtle walked into the courtroom, trying to look confident, but the attempt only emphasized how frightened she was. Already her hair was damp with sweat. In her floral polyester dress, she looked like an aging legal secretary.
“State your name for the record.”
“Myrtle Ann Michaelian.”
“Your address?”
“One-seventy-eight Mountain Vista Drive, in Oyster Shores.”
“How do you make a living, Ms. Michaelian?”
“My parents opened the Blue Plate Diner in 1942. I took over management in 1976. My husband and I opened our Ice Cream Shop in 1990. That’s down on the end of Shore Drive.”
“And where is the ice-cream shop in relation to Catherine Morgan’s home?”
“Down the alley. You go right past us to get to her place.”
“Please speak up, Ms. Michaelian.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.”
“Were you working at the ice-cream shop on Christmas Eve of last year?”
“I was. I wanted to make a special ice-cream cake for the evening service. I was running late, as usual.”
The people in the gallery smiled and nodded. Myrtle’s tardiness was well known in town.
“Was Oyster Shores busy that night?”
“Heavens, no. Everyone was at church by seven-thirty. As I said, I was late.”
“Did you see anyone that night?”
Myrtle gave Vivi Ann a sad look. “It was about eight-ten. I was almost ready to go. I was putting the finishing touches on the frosting when I looked up and saw . . . saw Dallas Raintree coming out of the alley that leads to Cat’s house.”
“Did he see you?”
“No.” Myrtle looked miserable.
“And how did you know it was the defendant?”
“I saw his profile when he passed under the streetlamp, and I recognized his tattoo. But I already knew it was him. I’d seen him there before at night. Lots of times. I’d even told Vivi Ann about it. It was him. I’m sorry, Vivi Ann.”
“No further questions,” Ms. Hamm said.
Roy rose and asked about Myrtle’s eyesight, which wasn’t good, whether she’d had her glasses on (she hadn’t), and whether Dallas had looked directly at her. He made valid points: the man hadn’t looked at her; it had been dark; his face had been partially hidden by a cowboy hat. Lots of men had been known to come and go from Cat’s house, and at all hours of the night. And white cowboy hats and Levi’s were hardly noteworthy in these parts.
But none of it mattered to the jury, Winona could tell. Myrtle’s testimony had done the last thing necessary: she’d placed Dallas near the scene on the night in question, when he’d told his wife he was home in bed with a fever. No one in that courtroom believed Myrtle was lying. In fact, when she finished testifying she was crying and apologizing directly to Vivi Ann.
The trial went on for another two days, but everyone knew it was just limping along. Dallas never took the stand in his own defense.
In the last week of May, the defense rested and the case was handed over to the jury.
They deliberated for four hours and found Dallas guilty. He was sentenced to prison for life, without the possibility of parole.
Chapter Sixteen
“Tell him, Roy,” Vivi Ann said as they sat at the table in the small room across from the courtroom. “We can appeal this. That hair evidence was bogus science, and so what if he’s type O blood? And Myrtle couldn’t have seen him because he wasn’t there. It’s all circumstantial. There were other prints on the gun. We’ll appeal, right?”
Roy pulled away from the wall. He’d been standing as far from them as he could in the room, to give them a few precious moments before they came to take Dallas away. “I’ll file an appeal after sentencing. Probably next month. We have plenty of grounds.”
“Tell her what’s real in this world, Roy,” Dallas said.
“It’s difficult to overturn a conviction, it’s true. But it’s too early to give up,” Roy said, yet she could see how tired he was, how dispirited.
Vivi Ann stood up and faced her husband. She knew she needed to be strong for him, for them, but she felt herself weakening. “I understand why it’s hard for you to believe in things.” She stared at his face, trying to memorize every crease and line, so she could call on his image at night when she lay alone in their bed. “But I can believe. Let me. Lean on me. I’ll show you . . .”
He closed the distance between them, kissed her with a strange gentleness. She knew what it was, what it meant. “Don’t kiss me goodbye,” she whispered.
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