Текст книги "Compelling Evidence"

Автор книги: Steve Martini

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All the while Talia is watching the two of us bicker. A look of foreboding is in her eyes, as if to say, “If my lawyers cannot agree, what hope is there for me?”

“Potter was wearing a suit coat when he died,” Cheetam says. “What if he used the bottom of the coat to grip the gun, sort of wrapped the barrel in the coat? This would explain both the absence of prints on the gun and the lack of residue on his hands.”

It is lame in the extreme, insufficient to overcome the wealth of suspicion that has begun to settle on Talia.

“And how did he carry the gun to the office and avoid prints?” I ask.

“Maybe a gun case,” he says, “or a blanket.”

“Then why wasn’t the case or the blanket found in the office? And how do you explain the fact that the cartridge in the shotgun didn’t carry Ben’s prints, if he loaded it himself?”

“I don’t know, maybe he used gloves.” He looks at me, pushing his plate away. “I need a cup of coffee,” he says, and leaves Talia and me sitting at the table alone.

In recent days Talia has taken on the look of a trapped animal, small and frightened.

“There’s no way out of this, is there?” she says. “I’m going to have to stand trial in Ben’s death, aren’t I?”

“It doesn’t look good,” I concede.

She looks out the window for a moment, giving herself time to absorb this news. Then she turns her gaze to me. “Will you stay with me?” she says. “Will you continue to represent me?”

At this moment she is completely vulnerable. I consider the mountain of incrimination rising up before her and my mind fills with images of the death house. Only now it is not Brian Danley twisting and writhing under the straps, but Talia.

“I will,” I say. “I will stay with you as long as I can help, as long as you want me.”

She says nothing, but slides a hand along the table and takes mine. She squeezes. We are finding, I think, at long last a point of equilibrium for us, somewhere between animus and lust.

In the afternoon Nelson calls George Cooper to the stand. Cheetam refuses to stipulate to Coop’s expertise as a pathologist. One open-ended question from Nelson, and Coop begins to narrate his curriculum vitae into the record. O’Shaunasy is fuming on the bench. Ten minutes pass and finally she cuts him off.

“The man is qualified to testify as an expert on issues of medical pathology. Do you have any specific objection?” She looks over her glasses at Cheetam.

“No, Your Honor.”

“Thank God for little favors,” she says.

Coop looks at me obliquely from the witness box and smiles, a little Mona Lisa. This is the same look he uses when we play poker. Coop has one of those stealthy expressions that can mean anything from an inside straight to a pair of deuces.

Nelson wastes no time leading his witness into the well-charted waters of lividity. I suspect that Coop has kept his own counsel concerning our early conversation on the point. It is ancient history now, as the details were well covered in his report which came with discovery.

Coop talks about gravity and the flow of blood, the indisputable fact that the body was moved after death.

Cheetam leans toward me. “Was this in the report?”

I nod.

There is a sober expression on his face as he sees his suicide theory turning to dust.

“Dr. Cooper, can you tell us the cause of death?”

“Death was caused by a single bullet or bullet fragment that lodged in one of the victim’s basal ganglion. This produced,” says Coop, “almost instantaneous death.”

There follows, for the benefit of the court, a brief explanation using anatomical drawings, to show the location of the bullet fragment.

“This is a major nerve center at the brain stem,” says Coop. “This is where nerve cells connect to the cerebrum and from there down the spinal column to the rest of the body. If this nerve center is destroyed or disrupted, vital life functions stop.”

“And that’s what occurred here?”

“Yes.”

“You say a bullet caused this trauma to the victim’s basal ganglion. Do you mean a shotgun pellet?”

“No. I mean a bullet, probably small-caliber, fired into the victim’s head, probably at close range.”

There’s a stir in the courtroom. Reporters in the front two rows are taking copious notes.

Nelson pauses for a bit of dramatic effect, as if he is hearing this revelation for the first time.

“Doctor, can you tell us the time of death?”

Coop consults his notes, a copy of the pathology report.

“Between seven P.M. and seven-ten P.M.,” he says. “We fixed it at seven-oh-five P.M.”

“How can you be that precise?”

“A number of procedures,” he says. “The secret is to find the body soon after death. The various degrees of rigor mortis will tell you something. Lividity itself will give you some clues. If the skin blanches when pressed, turns white, the blood has yet to coagulate. This would mean that death occurred within less than half an hour of the examination. If the blood can’t be pressed out of the capillaries, the skin will stay the same dark tone when pressed. The victim has been dead longer. In this case I was able to take the temperature of the liver. This is an organ well insulated by the body. It’s not subject to rapid temperature variations of the outside atmosphere. In this case, I would consider it a precise means of determining the time of death.”

“I see. Then is it your testimony, doctor, that Benjamin Potter was shot in the head by a small-caliber firearm sometime between seven P.M. and seven-ten P.M., and that it was this wound that resulted in death?”

“Yes.”

“Then is it safe to say that the shotgun blast heard in Mr. Potter’s office was not the cause of death?”

“That’s correct,” says Coop.

There’s more stirring from the audience. Two of the reporters leave, probably to telecast live news shots from their vans parked in front of the courthouse.

Nelson now heads into the imponderables, the caliber of the small round and the distance from which it was fired. Coop explains that the answers to these questions are less certain since the bullet was but a fragment, and any tattooing that might have been left on the skin from a point-blank shot was obliterated by the massive shotgun wound. It is Coop’s opinion, stated to the court, that the bullet that caused death was itself fragmented by the shotgun pellets as they entered the brain.

“The shotgun blast,” he says, “in all medical respects, was an unnecessary redundancy.”

“Unless,” suggests Nelson, “someone was trying to make a murder look like a suicide?”

Precisely,” says Coop.

He is now Cheetam’s witness.

“Dr. Cooper, you say mat this mystery bullet fired into the head of Mr. Potter was the cause of death. Were you able to find an entry wound for this bullet?”

“No, as I said …”

“You’ve answered the question, doctor. So we have no entry wound that you can find for this bullet. How large was the bullet in question, what caliber, can you tell us?”

Coop’s eyes are turning to little slits.

“Not with certainty. It was a fragment.”

“Oh, a fragment. How big was this bullet fragment, doctor?”

Coop consults his report. “Ten point six eight grains,” he says.

“And when you conducted the post mortem, did you find shotgun pellets lodged in the victim’s head?”

“Yes.” Sensing Cheetam’s juggernaut, Coop’s gone to short answers.

“How many of these pellets did you find?”

“In the victim, or in the office ceiling?”

“Let’s start with the victim.”

Coop looks at his notes again. “There were sixty-seven removed from the cranial cavity during the post mortem.”

“And in the ceiling?”

“Four hundred and ninety-two.”

“Do you know the size of this shot found in the victim and in the ceiling?”

“Mostly number nine.”

“Do you know what these pellets were made of?”

“They were composed of lead with a thin coating of copper.”

“Do you know, doctor, how many pellets there are in a normal load of number-nine shot?”

“About five hundred and eighty-five …”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Nelson has caught Cheetam wandering. “If Mr. Cheetam wants to call a ballistics expert, he’s free to do so. Dr. Cooper is here to testify as to the medical pathology in this case.”

“Sustained.”

“Still,” says Cheetam, “the doctor knows his shot. He’s right on with the number.”

“Objection. Now counsel’s testifying.”

“Mr. Cheetam, direct your comments to the witness and kindly frame them in the form of a question.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.”

“Dr. Cooper, the shotgun pellets you found in the victim and in the ceiling of Mr. Potter’s office, were these all number-nine shot?”

“No. They varied in size.”

“They varied?” Cheetam’s eyebrows arch for effect, and he turns toward the jury box, forgetting for a moment that it’s empty.

“Some were one shot-size larger and some were one shot-size smaller, but most of them were number-nine shot.” Coop’s voice is flat, as if he’s saying “So what?”

Cheetam pauses for a moment. He wants to ask Coop whether such variations in shot size are common. But Nelson will have the court kick his butt. He moves on.

“Now this supposed bullet fragment, you said earlier that it was ten point six eight grains. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“How large were the shotgun pellets found in the victim?”

Again Coop looks at his notes. “They averaged about point seven five grains of weight.”

“So this other thing, this thing you identified as a bullet fragment, was a little bigger?”

“No, it was a lot bigger,” says Coop. “Approximately fifteen times bigger.”

“I see.” Cheetam’s smiling, not to appear set back by an unhelpful answer.

“Doctor, have you ever heard of the phenomenon called ‘fusing’ as it’s applied to shotgun ballistics?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Nelson’s at him again.

Cheetam’s having a difficult time trying to get where he wants to go.

“Let me reframe the question, Your Honor.”

“Please.” O’Shaunasy’s looking over her glasses at him again.

“In the course of your medical practice I assume you’ve done hundreds, perhaps thousands, of autopsies.”

Coop nods.

“And I assume that some of these, perhaps a considerable number, would have involved shotgun wounds.”

“A number,” says Coop.

“In the course of these autopsies involving shotgun wounds, have you ever encountered a situation in which two or more, perhaps sometimes even several, shotgun pellets fuse together to form a larger mass of lead?”

Cheetam turns to engage Nelson’s eyes, an imperious grin having finally arrived on his face.

“I’m familiar with the phenomenon. I’ve seen it,” says Coop.

The grin broadens on Cheetam’s face.

“Well, isn’t it possible that this object which you have identified as a bullet fragment, isn’t it possible, doctor, that this amorphous piece of lead is in fact just a number of shotgun pellets which have become fused together by the heat of the shotgun blast as they traveled down the gun barrel?”

Cheetam turns his back toward Coop. He’s now facing Nelson, straight on, with his arms folded, waiting for the expected shrug of the shoulders and the concession of “It’s possible.”

“No,” says Cooper. “These were not fused pellets.”

Cheetam whips around and takes a dead bead on the witness.

“How can you be so certain, doctor? Are you a ballistics expert now?”

Coop is slow to answer, methodical and deliberate.

“No,” he says. “I’m not a ballistics expert. But I’ve taken enough steel jackets from bullets out of bodies to recognize one when I see it.” Then, as if to pound the point home, he adds, “The fragment removed from the basal ganglion of Benjamin Potter was not lead. It was a portion of a steel jacket, used only in the manufacture of pistol and rifle bullets.”

“Oh.” Cheetam stands in front of the witness box, his mouth half open-like the emperor without clothes. He has violated the cardinal rule of every trial lawyer: Never ask a question unless you already know the answer.

“In this case it was thin and small,” says Coop, describing the fragment of jacket. “The wound that it inflicted was insufficient for a high-caliber rifle. Therefore, I arrived at the obvious conclusion that it was part of a bullet from a small-caliber handgun. Probably a twenty-five caliber …”

“That’s all for this witness, Your Honor.” Cheetam’s trying to shut him up.

“Because that’s the smallest caliber that uses a steel-jacketed round,” says Coop.

“Move to strike the last answer as not responsive to any question before the witness, Your Honor.” Cheetam is shaken, standing at the counsel table now, looking for refuge.

“Very well, counsel, but I should remind you that since you’ve opened this matter up, Mr. Nelson is free to explore it on redirect.”

O’Shaunasy’s put him in a box.

With nowhere to retreat, Cheetam withdraws his motion to strike, allowing all of Coop’s answer to remain.

Nelson passes on redirect. George Cooper has done all the damage necessary for one day.

Cheetam sits fidgeting nervously with a pencil, as Nelson calls his next witness. It is Matthew Hazeltine, Ben’s partner. It was left to Hazeltine to craft wills and living trusts for the firm’s wealthy clients. Probate and estate planning are his specialties. He comes to this role well suited in appearance, a miserly-looking man with a craggy face and round wire-rimmed spectacles. If social reserve were a religion, Matthew Hazeltine would be its high priest. I can count on the fingers of one hand the times that I had spoken to him while with the firm. With Sharon Cooper’s probate file still hanging fire, I have wished on successive occasions that I’d made a greater effort to cultivate him.

He testifies to the existence of the prenuptial agreement, a document that he says the victim asked him to prepare before Potter and the defendant were married. He now produces a copy of this contract, which Nelson has marked for identification.

“Have you ever drafted a document similar to this agreement for other clients?” asks Nelson.

“On a few occasions.”

“What is the purpose of such an agreement?”

Hazeltine considers for a moment before speaking. “Usually it’s intended to protect the rights of heirs, children by a former marriage.”

“But the victim had no children in this case. Isn’t that true?”

“That’s correct.”

“And the defendant possessed no children?”

“Right.”

“So what purpose would such a document serve?”

Hazeltine squirms a little in the chair. His is a gentleman’s venture, the drafting of wills and other papers of property where delicate questions of motive are, more often than not, left unstated.

“Mr. Potter was a very cautious man. He believed in keeping his personal affairs in order. He was not one to take chances.”

Hazeltine smiles at Nelson as if to say, “Enough on the issue.”

“Mr. Hazeltine, have you ever heard of something called the Rooney clause?”

Hazeltine’s eyes turn to little slits behind Coke-bottle lenses.

“I have.”

“Can you tell the court where this term comes from?”

“Mickey Rooney.”, Hazeltine is curt, to the point. He does no more than answer the question stated.

“The actor?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s the purpose of this clause-briefly, in layman’s terms?”

“It’s designed to protect a party from a spouse who may seek to take unfair advantage.”

“In what way?”

Hazeltine is uncomfortable with the turn this line of inquiry is taking.

“A spouse who might marry for money and seek a quick divorce,” he says.

“Ah.” Nelson’s nodding, playing obtuse, as if he’s just now understood the significance of all of this. “Have you ever heard another name for this clause?”

Hazeltine looks at him, down his nose. “Not that I recall,” he says.

“Haven’t you ever heard the term ‘gold-digger’s covenant’?” asks Nelson.

The witness gives a little shrug. “Some people may call it that.”

“Well, wasn’t this clause, this so-called ‘gold-digger’s covenant,’ included in the prenuptial agreement you prepared for Mr. Potter?”

“Yes.”

“And was it the victim, Mr. Potter, who specifically asked you to include this language in the agreement?”

“It was.”

“And did you explain to the two of them, to Mr. and Mrs. Potter, at the time that they signed this agreement, its implications and what the legal effect was?”

“I did.”

“And what is that legal effect?”

“Mrs. Potter could inherit nothing from the estate of Mr. Potter unless she was lawfully married to him on the date of his death.”

“So if she divorced him”-Nelson pauses for a moment-“or if he divorced her, she would get nothing, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your witness.”

Cheetam takes one long look at Hazeltine sitting in the box and waives off. He’s still stunned, shaken by Cooper’s torpedo.

“Your Honor,” I say, “I have a few questions for this witness.”

Cheetam looks over at me as if to throw daggers with his eyes. I look the other way, ignoring him.

O’Shaunasy nods for me to proceed.

I remain seated at the counsel table, and hone in on one gnawing question, the answer to which has remained closed to me in discovery.

“Mr. Hazeltine, isn’t it true that prenuptial agreements are often drafted in concert with wills, that the terms of such an agreement are carefully coordinated with the terms of a will?”

“That is common.”

“Were you asked to draft a will for Mr. Potter at the time that you drafted the prenuptial agreement?”

“Objection.” Nelson is on his feet. “Irrelevant, Your Honor.”

O’Shaunasy’s looking at me.

“The district attorney has opened this entire area, the question of the victim’s testamentary intentions. He’s produced evidence that unless my client was married to the victim at the time of death, she stood to lose everything acquired during the marriage. I think we have the right to see the full picture in these regards.”

“Overruled. The witness will answer the question.”

“I was asked to draft a will at the same time that I did the prenuptial agreement.”

I get up from the table, and move laterally, keeping an appropriate distance from the witness.

“I think you’ve already stated that Mr. Potter had no children.”

Hazeltine nods his assent.

“Did you prepare mutual wills for the Potters, or just one?”

“Just one, for Mr. Potter.”

“Under the terms of that will, if for any reason the defendant, Mrs. Potter, were disqualified from inheriting, because of divorce, or for any other reason, did Mr. Potter name any other heirs, persons who would inherit his estate?”

Hazeltine is clearly uncomfortable with this. He’s looking up at the judge as if for a reprieve. “Your Honor, the will has never been read. I am the executor, but until these proceedings are completed, I thought it best that any probate be postponed. These are matters of considerable confidence.”

“I can appreciate that,” says O’Shaunasy, “but they are also material to this case. You will answer the question.”

Hazeltine looks back at me, a little hopeful that perhaps I have forgotten it.

“Were there any other heirs named in the will?”

“There were several. A distant cousin in the Midwest was the only surviving relative other than Mrs. Potter. He was to get a small inheritance. Mr. Potter left several hundred thousand dollars to the law school. The balance of his estate went to his wife, and if she predeceased him or for any other reason was disqualified, then the entire estate went to a single alternate beneficiary.”

“Who was that?”

Hazeltine is pumping little points of perspiration through his bald scalp.

“Hjs partner,” he says. “Mr. Skarpellos.”

There are little murmurs in the courtroom.

“So if Mrs. Potter were”-I search for a better word but can’t think of one-“eliminated, then Mr. Skarpellos would take her part of the estate?”

Hazeltine swallows hard. “That’s correct,” he says.

“Oh.”

The full measure of Matthew Hazeltine’s reluctance is now clear. Matters of confidence or not, I can be certain of one thing. Whatever Hazeltine knows of Ben’s will is also known to Tony Skarpellos. Such is the Greek’s domination of his so-called partners. I am finished with the witness and release him to a worse fate: his office and the wrath of Tony Skarpellos.

CHAPTER 18

“Is it important?” I ask her.

I I’m on a lunch break from Talia’s case, wolfing down a deli sandwich and working to return phone calls, a stack of slips left on my desk by Dee from that morning.

“Not vital,” she says, “but a loose end that we should tie up before we close the estate.”

I’ve never met Peggie Conrad, the paralegal recommended to me by Harry to handle Sharon’s probate. I messengered the file to her after an initial telephone conversation. Since then I have talked to her twice, each time by phone. In listening to her talk I conjure the image of a dowdy, middle-aged woman. Her voice has a certain frumpish quality, a rasp that gives off mental odors of alcohol and cigarettes. It seems that Sharon’s probate, like so much of the rest of my life, is not going well. A couple of items are missing from the file.

“I just about got it assembled,” she says. “It’s a little messy, the file. Nothing I can’t fix, you understand. When I’m done goin’ through everything I’ll publish the notice to creditors, prepare the decedent’s final tax return-unless her father already did one.” It is more a question than a statement.

“Better do it,” I say. Knowing Coop and his mental state at the time of Sharon’s death, I’m sure he was in no mood for dealing with the minutiae of tax returns. The fact that the state could tax this transaction, the death of his only daughter, was, I am certain, as foreign to George Cooper as capital gains are to the homeless.

I’ve heard this morning, through the grapevine, that the police have run out of leads. A month ago they thought about checking cellular telephone records on the off-chance that the driver of Sharon’s car may have had a hand-held portable phone, and that he or she may have used this to get a ride from the scene. But this was such a long shot, one that even Coop could not justify pursuing. Instead he has called in every chit he holds, and finally convinced the cops to give him one man, a skilled forensics tech, for three hours, to go over the car one more time in hopes of finding something they may have missed in earlier searches.

“I’ll take care of it,” says Peggie Conrad. “The tax return. Then I’ll set up the property schedules. That’ll do it, I think.”

“How long before we can close?” I ask. “I’m anxious to get it done,” I tell her. “A favor for a friend.”

“Thirty, maybe forty-five days. One court appearance. We might be able to avoid it. If there’s no complications, no creditors’ claims, sometimes they’ll take a case on a written submission. Do you want me to try?”

“If you can, it would help. This thing that’s missing, the receipt, is that a complication?” I ask.

“A claim check,” she corrects me. “I doubt it.”

I work my pen over a legal pad as she talks, listing the items she needs to finish.

“Sharon’s W-2 form for the last year. For the tax return,” she explains.

I grimace. “I’ll have to get that from her father.” Sharon is a tender wound with Coop. The thought of opening it, even for a minor matter of business, is not a pleasant one.

“Now to the claim check,” she says. ‘The police inventory from the accident shows Sharon’s personal effects. It’s nothing much, but it lists this claim check from a hardware store, a place called Simms. Doesn’t say what it’s for, but whatever’s there is an asset of the estate. The claim check seems to be missing. You might check with her dad or just call the store. No big thing. If we can’t find it, we’ll just abandon the item and show it as lost on the schedules.” Peggie reads the number of the claim check to me and I make a note. I will call the hardware store. On this I can avoid dealing with Cooper.

“Is that it?”

“As far as I can tell. Do you do these often?” she asks.

“Never before”-I hesitate for a second-“or again.”

“I can tell.” She laughs.

“That bad?” I say.

“No worse than the usual. Some lawyers give me probates so old they’ve gone through two generations of executors,” she says.

“The lawyer’s motto,” I tell her. “When in doubt, procrastinate. It’s what makes malpractice so lucrative.”

“You said it, I didn’t.”

“I’ll call you when I have the other items.” Then I hang up.

Next on the stack is a message from Skarpellos. I call and get Florence. Tony’s out to lunch, seems he’s meeting with Cheetam. He wants to talk to me. According to Florence, it’s important. She builds me into his schedule for later that day, following Talia’s afternoon session. I hang up.

I feel as if suddenly I’m welded to the Greek, part of his mercantile empire. Like a bag lady at a one-cent sale, Susan Hawley has accepted Skarpellos’s offer, a free defense for her silence in “boink-gate.” I am now left to juggle Hawley’s defense as I watch Talia slide slowly into the abyss that has become her preliminary hearing.

Like envoys at the United Nations we sit four abreast at the defense table, Cheetam next to Talia. I’m to her right. Today Harry’s joined us. I’ve told him about the blunder over the bullet fragment, how Cooper handed our leader his own head on a platter. Cheetam thinks that Harry’s presence here is a show of force, a turning out of the troops for his case in chief, the first day for the defense. He has glad-handed and back-slapped Harry all the way into the courtroom. But I know Harry better. Having missed the big one, he nurtures hopes of seeing Gilbert Cheetam get his ass waxed one more time. There is a certain quiet malevolence in the nature of Harry Hinds.

In the early afternoon, Nelson’s putting the final touches on his case. He calls a witness from the state department of justice, a woman from the records section. There is little fanfare here, and no surprises. She testifies to the registration of a handgun in the name of Benjamin G. Potter. This is the small handgun purchased by Ben for Talia, the one that Talia and Tod have yet to find. As with everything else owned by Ben, this was a pricey little piece, a $400 semiautomatic Desert Industries twenty-five-caliber ACP. Nelson ties this neatly to Coop’s testimony, the fact that the twenty-five-caliber ACP is the smallest steel-jacketed round manufactured in this country.

O’Shaunasy is taking notes.

Having delivered this final blow, Nelson rests the case for the state.

O’Shaunasy inquires whether Cheetam is ready to proceed. He is.

Cheetam is up and at it. He calls his ace expert.

Dr. Bernard Blumberg is a medical hack known to every personal injury lawyer west of the Rockies. A psychiatrist by training, Blumberg, for a fee, will testify on every aspect of medical science from open-heart surgery to the removal of bunions. He is notorious for being available on a moment’s notice-the expert of choice when others have failed to shade their findings sufficiently to satisfy the lawyers and clients who hire them.

It is what has happened here. Cheetam has exhausted the pool of local experts, men who in good conscience could not dispute the substance of George Cooper’s pathology report. Several have offered to put a favorable spin on some of the findings. But this was not good enough for Cheetam. Skarpellos has put him in touch with Blumberg.

I spent two hours arguing in vain with Cheetam that it was a mistake of monumental proportions. He told me if I couldn’t handle it to stay home.

Blumberg is an impish little man with wire-rimmed glasses and a booming voice. He fits the popular image of science, but with the feisty nature that has allowed him to weather the blows of a career of rigorous cross-examination. He has spent twenty years fighting a fundamental lack of credentials and qualifications.

Today he is sharing his expertise on the subject of forensic pathology. He takes the stand, is sworn, and Cheetam moves in.

“Doctor Blumberg, are you familiar with the phenomenon called lividity?”

“I am.”

“I call your attention to the medical examiner’s report. Have you read this report?”

“I have.”

“In particular have you examined page thirty-seven of that report-the so-called blood-spatter evidence found in the service elevator near Mr. Potter’s office?”

Blumberg nods knowingly. He is particularly good at this. He has been known to make a complete ass of himself on me stand, and still nod knowingly-with great authority.

“Have you read that part of the report, doctor?”

“I have.”

“And have you come to any conclusions regarding the findings stated there, specifically I refer to the conclusion that the drop of blood in question was that of the decedent, Benjamin Potter?”

“I have. It is my professional opinion that the finding of the medical examiner as to this evidence is incorrect-it is in error,” he says.

Cheetam looks to the bench for effect. O’Shaunasy is not taking notes.

“And on what do you base this opinion?”

“On the clotting patterns of blood.”

“Yes, doctor.” Cheetam is moving in front of the witness box now, alternately bending low and pacing, using body English to draw the witness out, to get him to deliver the canned opinion that the two of them have hatched.

I notice that Harry has begun to doodle on a legal pad as he sits next to me, a small round circle that he inscribes over and over with his pen, until it is burned into the page.

“Please explain to the court, doctor.”

“Blood clotting occurs as a result of a complex of chemical actions involving plasma, protein fibrinogen, platelets, and other factors. Clotting begins soon after death, causing a separation of the fibrin and the red blood cells from the remaining liquid, the serum,” he says. “Once clotting has occurred, blood will no longer flow freely from a wound.”

“How soon after death would clotting occur so that the blood would no longer flow freely from the body?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“That soon?”

“Yes.”

Harry’s doodle has now grown a thin straight line, two inches long, down toward the bottom of the page.

“What is the significance of this factor in the present case, doctor?”

“According to the pathology report the time of death was seven-oh-five P.M. Accepting the theory of the police that the decedent was killed elsewhere and that his body was moved to the office shortly before the reported gunshot in the office at eight-twenty-five, I must conclude that the blood in the victim would have already clotted and would not have flowed freely in order to drop in the elevator as stated in the report.”

Cheetam is oblivious to the fact that his own expert is now accepting as gospel the time of death fixed by Coop. This is, in fact, wholly inconsistent with the defense that Ben shot himself, for under this theory, he died nearly an hour and a half before the sound of the shotgun blast in the office. Little details.