Blind Conviction (Nate Shepherd Legal Thriller Series Book 3)
Page 23
“I see. Mr. Stritch put up a picture from State’s Exhibit 21 that showed that first section of railing. Danny, could you put that back up, please?”
The picture of the bloody stair railing appeared.
“So you only took prints from this first section here?”
“That's correct.”
“That section is about five feet long, isn’t it?”
“Thereabouts.”
“There are approximately eight sections of railing on the abandoned stairs, right?”
“I'm not sure.”
“I took the liberty of counting and I will represent to you for purposes of my questions that there are eight sections of railing on that stairway.”
“Okay.”
“So since you only took prints from the first section of railing, there is no way for you to know whether there were other identifiable prints on the remaining seven sections of railing, correct?”
“That's correct.”
“So your office took 1/8 of the available fingerprint evidence, right?”
“We don't know if there was fingerprint evidence on those other sections of railing.”
“That's exactly right, Sheriff. You don’t know if there was fingerprint evidence on most of the railing of the abandoned stairs, do you?”
“We do not. We only took fingerprints from the area around the blood.”
“Well, that's not true at all.”
For the first time, Sheriff Dushane raised an eyebrow. I could see he had been taking all of this as part of the job, but now I had actually piqued his interest. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you and Mr. Stritch put up exhibits just a minute ago showing blood on the stairway farther down.”
Danny, God bless him, put up a split screen of Exhibits 22 and 23, showing the two sections of stairs where there was blood on the runners.
I went to the first picture and pointed. “There's blood here, isn’t there, Sheriff?”
“There is.”
“What fingerprints were on the railing around this blood?”
“I don't know.”
“How about this one?” I pointed at the picture on the right. “There's blood on the stairway here, isn't there?”
“There is.”
“And this is right where Ms. Ackerman went off the stairway, true?”
“That's true.”
“What fingerprints were on the railing here?”
“We don't know.”
“I see. You can't say there aren't fingerprints on this railing here, can you?”
“I cannot.”
“You can't say if Ms. Ackerman's fingerprints are on the railing because she tried to catch herself, can you?”
“I cannot.”
“And you can't say if someone else's fingerprints are right here at this precise spot where Ms. Ackerman went off the stairway, can you?”
“I cannot.”
I gestured to Danny and he put up a picture of the rail at the bottom of the stairs. “And you didn’t take any fingerprints here, at the bottom of the railing by the pad, did you?”
“There’s no blood there.”
“No, and that’s a fair statement because my earlier question was about fingerprinting where the blood was.”
Sheriff Dushane nodded.
“But Sheriff, Ms. Ackerman reported to you that a man came down the stairs to her. Why didn’t you fingerprint the rail at the bottom of the stairs?”
We both knew the answer, but Sheriff Dushane still looked embarrassed. “By the time Ms. Ackerman was able to tell us about that, the site was corrupted.”
“How so?”
“It had rained.”
“I see. Why didn’t you fingerprint that area on the very first day when you were called?”
“We were focused on the area at the top of the stairs, with the blood.”
“Meaning you didn’t think to fingerprint the bottom of the rail, did you?”
“No. No, we didn’t.”
“So you can’t say whose prints were present at the bottom of the stairs? Where the final attack on Ms. Ackerman was carried out?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Now Sheriff Dushane, you said that Ms. Ackerman was unconscious when you found her?”
“Yes.”
“She had not been unconscious the entire time that she had been laying there, had she?”
“Not according to what she said.”
“She reported that a man approached her, true?”
“True.”
“And that she cried for help?”
“That’s right.”
“She also reported that she heard the man say something, didn’t she?”
“She did.”
“What did Ms. Ackerman tell you?”
“It made no sense.”
“I didn’t ask if what she told you made sense, Sheriff. I asked what she told you she heard.”
Sheriff Dushane paused and he thought.
“Would you like to read your report, Sheriff?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Shepherd.” Sheriff Dushane reached up, took his hat by the crown, and tapped it briefly on the railing of the witness stand. “She said she heard someone say, ‘It has more gas than the Albion Skip-N-Go.’”
“I see. And how did you follow up on that clue?”
“Excuse me?”
“How did you follow up on what her assailant said? What did you find out?”
“Well, nothing.”
“Nothing? Why not?”
“It didn’t make any sense.”
“Gotcha. Okay, did Ms. Ackerman identify whether she thought it was a man's voice or a woman's voice?”
“She said it was a man's voice.”
“Now you know that Ms. Ackerman has dated my client’s brother for several years, don't you?”
“I do.”
“I want you to assume that she has attended every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, every Easter, every Fourth of July, and every Ash County Fair with the Mack family over the last four years. Can you do that for me?”
“I can.”
“Thank you. Did Ms. Ackerman state that she recognized the voice that said, ‘More gas than the Albion Skip-N-Go’ as my client’s?”
Sheriff Dushane tapped his hat one more time. “She did not.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I don't have any more questions right now.”
T. Marvin Stritch was up before I could get to my seat. “Sheriff Dushane, that was the defendant on the video heading toward the back of the Quarry, wasn't it?”
“It was.”
“And that was the defendant's blood on the railing at the top of the stairs, wasn't it?”
“It was.”
“And those were the defendant’s fingerprints on the railing by that blood, weren’t they?”
“They were.”
“And there's no question that Ms. Ackerman was thrown down those stairs, is there?”
“There is not.”
“And there is no question that Ms. Ackerman was found at the bottom of those stairs, is there?”
“Just off to the side of it, that’s right.”
“And we’ll get more detail from other witnesses, but there is no question that your office found that Ms. Ackerman was struck with a rock on the side of her face while laying helpless at the bottom of the stairs, is there?”
“No. There is not.”
Stritch put his hands behind his back and looked up at the ceiling. “Before, when I asked how many years you’ve been the sheriff here in Ash County, you said ‘decades.’ How long has it been exactly, sir?”
“Twenty-nine and a half years.”
“That's what I thought,” said Stritch. “I've been a prosecutor most of that time. And were you a deputy before that?”
“I was. Eight years or so.”
“I see. So thirty-eight years in service to the folks here in Ash County?”
“It has been my privilege, yes, sir.”
“S
ee, you’ve got me by about nine years then. I always remembered when I started because it was the year after our Dellville football team made it to the state semi-finals.”
Sheriff Dushane started to say something, but Stritch waved his hand. “No, I’ll save my fellow counsel the trouble of objecting, I know it's not important. It's just one of those landmarks you remember when you’ve lived and practiced here in this county for so long. You know, we have our own customs, and practices, and rules, and we all work within the constraints of the resources that we have. Not like some of the big cities north or east of us, and certainly not like they do things in states to the south of us.”
I felt Danny tense. I smiled.
“So I have to ask you, Sheriff,” said Stritch. “Why did you only fingerprint the railing around the blood?”
“Because it seemed like the most likely place where the perpetrator would have left a print.”
“Did it make any sense to you at all to take prints from the entire railing?”
“At the time, no. I understand why some might want it. But no, it didn't make sense to spend the time and resources to take prints from the entire rail when we didn't know what it would yield. The area around the blood on the railing, on the other hand, seemed like it had a high likelihood of being relevant. Which it was.”
“Mr. Shepherd made a big deal out of the area at the bottom of the stairs. Why didn’t you fingerprint that?”
“When we found Ms. Ackerman, we thought her injuries were related to the fall. We didn’t realize that an assailant had struck her again at the bottom of the stairs until we spoke to her several days later and, by then, it was too late.”
“But none of that changes the fact that the defendant's fingerprints and blood were found on the first rail of the stairway, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
I stood, but rather than approach the Sheriff, I came around the front of the counsel table, leaned back on it, and crossed my arms. “Sheriff Dushane,” I said. “Dellville High School has never made it to the state semi-finals in football, has it?”
Sheriff Dushane smiled a little and shook his head. “It has not.”
“After you graduated from high school, you were an assistant coach at Dellville for a little while, weren’t you?”
“I was.”
“From the timeframe Mr. Stritch was referring to, I’d say he was actually talking about the Dellville team you coached that lost in the regional final, right?”
Stritch stood. “Objection, Your Honor. How is this relevant?”
Judge Wesley looked at him. “I’d say it isn’t except that you brought it up. Overruled.”
“I expect so,” said the sheriff.
“That Dellville team was good, but it had a fumbling problem, didn't it?”
Sheriff Dushane couldn't help it. He smiled. “It did.”
“And for at least the last—oh, let's say twenty-five years—you've told the running backs on your youth football teams that they have to hold the ball with three points of contact, haven't you?”
His smile broadened. “I have.”
“Not like a loaf of bread unless you want to fumble away a championship?”
He tapped his hat on the rail. “I may have said that on occasion.”
I looked up at the ceiling. “Any boy you coached here in Ash County would have heard that dozens of time, right?”
“At least. Some needed more reinforcing than others.”
“So let's leave aside for a moment where anyone's from, and what they do and don't know about our county's sports history. Can we agree that there were probably prints on the other seven-eighths of the railing on the stairs?”
“We just don’t know,” said the sheriff.
“Can we agree, then, that we have no idea whose prints, if any, were on the majority of that railing?”
“We can.”
“Can we agree that we don't know whose prints, if any, were on the railing in the immediate area where Ms. Ackerman’s blood was found?”
“We can.”
“Can we agree that we don’t know whose prints, if any, were on the railing at the bottom of the stairs where Ms. Ackerman was attacked a second time?”
“We can.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
Judge Wesley looked at Stritch, who shook his head. “Thank you, Sheriff Dushane,” the judge said. “You may step down.” She glanced at the clock. “Members of the jury, that will do it for our testimony today. Please return tomorrow at 8:30 a.m.” She struck the gavel and the jury left.
“Do you know whose prints were there?” whispered Archie.
“No.”
“Then why did you do all that?”
“To let the jury know that they could have been there.”
Archie looked at me. “Will that help?”
“Every little bit, Archie.”
He didn’t look totally satisfied with the answer. I didn’t blame him.
38
Abby was supposed to testify first thing the next day. When Ronnie Hawkins was waiting for me in front of the still-locked courtroom, I knew it wasn't good.
“Abby won't be testifying today,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Is she refusing to cooperate?”
“She can't cooperate. She had a setback last night.”
“What do you mean ‘a setback?’”
“She threw a blood clot from her hip injury. They’re working her up for a pulmonary embolus.”
A flat tire is a setback. Losing a Little League game is a setback. Having the victim rushed to the hospital to make sure a blood clot wasn’t traveling to her lungs to kill her was a disaster.
“Where is she now?
“At St. Wendolin’s in Carrefour getting checked out.”
“So is she going to be able to testify?”
“If everything is okay. If not…” She shrugged. To her credit, Ronnie looked me right the eye.
“Great. Are you going to tell the judge?”
“I am.”
“Have you told Stritch yet?”
“This morning. I felt I owed him since he had Abby under subpoena.”
“I understand.” I took stock. “All right. Let's see what Judge Wesley has to say.”
We gathered in Judge Wesley's chambers: Stritch, me, Danny, and Ronnie. None of us sat. It had nothing to do with the functional brown and orange furniture, all of which was perfectly acceptable. It had everything to do with the stakes of what we were talking about.
“She's really sick, Ms. Hawkins?” said Judge Wesley. “This isn’t an attempt to evade service by crossing the state line?”
“She really is, Judge,” said Ronnie. “And the best vascular specialist nearby is in Carrefour.”
“In Ohio?” said Judge Wesley. “That’s convenient for you, Mr. Shepherd.”
“I want her here as much as Mr. Stritch, Your Honor.”
“So you say. But her absence does raise an issue, Mr. Stritch.”
Stritch put on his poker face and shrugged. “We can prove our case without her if need be, Judge.”
“How can that be?” said Judge Wesley.
“The physical evidence is overwhelming.”
I shook my head. “You’re going to deprive me of a chance to get exculpatory evidence from the victim?”
Stritch shrugged again. “If there were any, it might be an issue. But since there isn’t—”
Judge Wesley raised her hand, cutting Stritch off. “Here's what we’re going to do. Ms. Hawkins, you said there's a chance she's okay, that this might just be a precaution?”
“There is.”
“And there's a chance that she’ll be recovered enough to testify by the end of the week?”
“Yes, Judge.”
“Then we’ll keep going. If she can testify, there’s no reason for a mistrial. If she can't, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Do you have a witness ready, Mr. Stritch?”
“Very well, let's go back out there.”
That whole day was spent on scientific evidence that I won't bore you with. Basically, Stritch put on a series of witnesses who said that DNA testing proved that the blood on the railing was Archie's and that fingerprint set number 12, which was found on the railing next to the blood, was Archie's too. So, according to science, Archie was at the top of the railing the night of the Big Luke concert. The jury knew all that before those witnesses testified, but it was still pretty damning when you heard it out loud.
Of course, I just told you that in two sentences, so I felt like Stritch overplayed his hand a little by spending the better part of a day on the details. I think he was losing the jury at the end, not from lack of understanding, but from too much—they understood what he was talking about in the first five minutes but then had to listen to another seven hours of it. They were bored.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Everyone, except Stritch maybe, was glad when the day was done. As we packed up, I saw Ronnie Hawkins and Olivia in the back of the courtroom. I went over to Ronnie right away and said, “Have you heard anything?” Olivia gravitated over to our conversation.
“Good news,” said Ronnie. “She has a clot in her leg, but it hasn’t migrated. They put her on blood thinners, but she’s doing well.”
“Is she able to testify?”
“She's home, but I don’t know yet if she’s on any restrictions for movement. I’m going to visit her tonight and will have a better idea tomorrow.” She looked over my shoulder. “I need to tell Stritch the same thing.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
When Ronnie moved on to Stritch, I said to Olivia, “What did you think?”
“The jury was bored out of their minds today.”
“Right.”
“You made some headway with the Sheriff yesterday. You need to make more.”
“That's what I thought. Thanks.”
“No problem.” She turned the glasses on me. “We need to prove who did it.”
“Not necessarily.”
“It’s a lot harder to prove a negative.”
“I agree.”
But that’s all I had at that point, suspicions and innuendo and a lack of direct evidence, so I went home to prepare for day four.