Текст книги "Compelling Evidence"

Автор книги: Steve Martini

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“Thank you, doctor. Your witness.”

Nelson cracks a slight grin and rises from behind the counsel table.

“Doctor Blumberg, are you board certified as a pathologist?”

Blumberg mumbles. Along with authoritative and knowing nods, he is recognized for his excellent mumbling, particularly on cross.

“I couldn’t hear the witness.” The court reporter has chimed in. She is stalled at her stenograph machine by the witness, who has swallowed his answer.

O’Shaunasy leans over the bench. “I didn’t catch it either.”

“No.” Blumberg is looking at the court reporter through Coke-bottle lenses, a magnified evil eye.

“Have you ever practiced in the field of forensic pathology?” Nelson is enjoying this.

“I have testified in the field many times.”

“I’m sure you have, doctor, but mat doesn’t answer my question. Have you ever practiced in the field of …”

“No.”

“I see. Tell us, doctor, are you board certified in any field?”

“I am.” This is stated with some pride. The witness straightens in the chair and puffs his chest a little.

“And would you tell the court what field that is.” Nelson’s found the soft underbelly.

“Psychiatry. I am licensed as a medical doctor,” he says. His ticket as a physician has been the basis for Blumberg to put his nose under every scientific tent known to mankind.

Harry’s doodle now has two lines coming off of the longer single line, drawn out and down at a forty-five-degree angle, to form a large inverted “Y.”

“I see, so you’re a medical doctor, board certified as to specialty in the field of psychiatry, here to testify on the fine points of forensic pathology and specifically serology, the science of blood clotting?”

To this Blumberg says nothing, but merely nods, this time not so much confident as nervous.

“The court reporter can’t register a head bob, Doctor Blumberg. You’ll have to answer the question audibly.” The judge is on him.

“Yes,” he says. His looks-could-kill expression is reserved for O’Shaunasy

“Let me ask you, doctor. Have you ever published any scholarly articles on the subject of bloodstain evidence in criminalistics?”

“No.” Blumberg is becoming imperious now, refusing to look Nelson in the eye.

“Let’s take it out to the more general field. Have you ever published any scholarly articles in the field of forensic sciences?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Not that you can recall? Well, doctor, I have a copy of your curriculum vitae here, and I’ve combed it pretty well and I can’t find a single article published by you in that field. Now I would assume that if you had published anything in the field of forensic sciences you would have included it in your resume, wouldn’t you?”

Cheetam’s doing nothing to stop this pummeling. There is little he can do but rise and stipulate that his expert has no expertise.

Harry’s doodle has now grown two arms, the little stick figure of a man.

Blumberg is twitching nervously on the stand. A slight tic spasms intermittently through his right cheek, like the tremor of some larger imminent quake deep beneath the surface.

“Well, you would have included it, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s safe to say that you haven’t published any articles, scholarly or otherwise, in the field of forensic sciences?”

“Yes, yes. But as I have stated, I have testified on numerous occasions on the subject.”

“Yes, I’m aware, doctor, of your regular appearances in court. In fact, doctor, isn’t it safe to say that you are what some would call a professional expert witness, that that’s what you do for a living?”

“I testify regularly, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s not quite what I mean. I mean you no longer practice medicine, whether in psychiatry or any other field. When was the last time you saw a private patient for a fee, doctor?”

“Your Honor, I object to this.” Cheetam’s on his feet. “If counsel wants a stipulation as to the limits of this witness’s expertise then perhaps we should have a sidebar or retire to chambers.” It’s a feeble attempt to dodge Nelson’s bullet.

“Counsel, you put this witness on the stand.” Looking over her glasses at Cheetam, O’Shaunasy’s showing no mercy.

“Well, can’t we move on at least? Counsel’s made his point. He’s just badgering the witness now.”

“I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Nelson. Can you move along?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Nelson retreats to the counsel table and flips through several stacks of papers, finally finding what he wants. He looks up at Blumberg, who by now is starting to show fine drops of perspiration on his forehead.

“Doctor, do you often testify in criminal cases?”

“I have testified in them before.”

“But is that your regular venue? Isn’t it true that you usually appear in civil cases?”

Sensing a more friendly line of inquiry, a concession on the part of Nelson that perhaps the witness is a little out of his field, Blumberg concedes the point with a smile and a warm nod. He’s patting his forehead with a handkerchief now, sensing that the worst may be over.

I look over and there is now a small line about where the knees would be on Harry’s stick figure, and another, heavier line, like a broad beam going up the page, a little taller than the figure, and then again a heavy line over its head.

“Doctor, do you recall testifying in the case of Panicker v. Smith, a case involving wrongful death, the hit-and-run of a little boy, two years ago?”

“I don’t … I don’t know. I can’t remember every case I’ve ever testified in.”

“I can imagine.” There is more than a little sarcasm in Nelson’s voice.

“I have a transcript here, doctor. A transcript of your testimony in that case I’d like to show it to you and ask whether that transcript might refresh your recollection.”

Blumberg is moving around now in his chair like a man forced to sit in his own stool.

O’Shaunasy has picked up her pencil.

Nelson shows the document to him. Blumberg won’t touch it, like it’s some corrosive acid. Nelson has to prop it on the railing of the witness box as the witness lowers his head and aims his spectacles to examine the cover page.

“I see I’m listed there as a witness,” he says. “That means I must have testified.”

“It would appear so, doctor. Do you recall the case now?”

“Faintly,” he says.

“Right. In part, the issue in that case involved the time of death, when the little boy died. You appeared for the defense, the insurance company representing the alleged driver. Does that help you at all?”

Cheetam’s on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor, we haven’t had an opportunity to see this transcript.”

Nelson retreats to the counsel table and pulls another copy from the pile of papers and drops it unceremoniously on the table in front of Cheetam, who begins to scour it for significance.

“During your testimony you were questioned as to the clotting properties of blood. Do you recall that testimony, doctor?”

There’s a shrug of the shoulders. “Not precisely.”

The drops of perspiration have now turned into a river, flowing south around the eyes, along the sideburns, and down Blumberg’s collar.

“In that case the driver claimed mat he was home with his wife at the time that the little boy was killed. You were asked about the time of death and you based your opinion on lividity, the fact that blood had clotted in the body, and the length of time it took for such clotting. Now do you recall your testimony, doctor?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Well, let me help you, doctor.” Nelson opens the transcript to a page marked by a large paper clip. “And I quote:

“ ‘COUNSEL: Doctor Blumberg, how long would it take for blood to clot in the capillaries of the body following death?

“ ‘DR. BLUMBERG: An hour to an hour and a half.’

“Do you remember now, doctor?”

There is only strained silence from the witness box.

“And yet today you sit here and you tell us that in the present case, it would not be possible for the victim to have bled in the elevator because blood clots in the body within fifteen minutes after death. Which is it, doctor-an hour and a half or fifteen minutes? Or does it depend on which side is paying you?”

“Objection, Your Honor” Cheetam is on his feet, wailing in protest.

“Withdraw the last question, Your Honor. I move to have the transcript in Panicker v. Smith marked for identification, Your Honor.”

“Any objection, Mr. Cheetam?”

Cheetam drops into his seat, silent at the table, and shakes his head. “Expert-shit.” It is whispered under his breath to no one in particular.

“What was that, counsel?”

“No objection, Your Honor”

I look over. Harry’s doodle is now complete, the noose about its neck, the body hanging through the trap door under the gallows-the hanging man. I notice that Talia has seen it. She is now looking at me, forlorn.

It is the problem with expert opinion, especially when stated by those with the intellectual flexibility of a Blumberg. Their babble is so voluminous they forget what it is they have said. One would believe that the forces of nature at play in each trial are somehow subject to differing, more supple rules than those that govern the affairs of mere mortals.

Tony is seeing me alone today. There is no beaming smile, no beefy grin. Today he is all business, sitting at the stone desk next to the hollow elephant’s foot overflowing with papers, the refuse of a day’s labor.

“I hear things are not going well with Talia,” he says.

“An understatement,” I tell him.

Skarpellos has been noticeably absent from the preliminary hearing. But then his only real concern in Talia’s plight is commercial, acquiring Ben’s interest in the firm as painlessly as possible.

“You must have guessed by now why I’ve called you. You know that Gil Cheetam is unable to try the case if Talia is bound over.”

Thank God for little favors, I think. I nod.

“This financial arrangement that we have can’t go on forever,” he says.

Skarpellos has seen the inevitable. He’s drawing a line in the sand, unwilling to spring for the costs of a criminal trial that could strain the resources of the firm.

“I thought you had an arrangement with Talia.”

He makes a face. “Of a sort,” he says. “Nothing ironclad. She has to sell Ben’s interest in the firm. I’m an interested buyer.” The Greek is shopping for a deal.

“The lady needs a good lawyer,” he says. “Are you interested?”

“You missed your calling, Tony. You should have been a matchmaker.”

At this he smiles a bit, a little mercantile grin.

“I would think that the question of who Talia wants as her lawyer is a matter for Talia,” I tell him.

“Not as long as I’m paying the freight.”

“A secured loan,” I remind him.

“Not if she’s convicted. The law will not allow her to share in the assets of the deceased if she murdered him.”

“Do you believe she did it?”

“Oh, I’m not judging her,” he says. “This is business. I do have to look after the security for our loan.”

“You forget that part of Ben’s interest in the firm is Talia’s community property. That’s hers no matter what happens.”

He makes a face, like “This is piddling, peanuts not to be worried about”

“She’ll have a tough time spending it if she’s convicted. But why should we argue,” he says. “We have a mutual interest. I want to help the lady. I assume you want to do the same.” His arms are spread in a broad gesture of brotherly love-and now there is the beaming grin. “If we, all three, benefit from the experience, so much the better.” He reaches for one of his crooked cigars from a gold-plated box on the desk, then leans back, reclining in his chair.

I pray silently that he will not light it.

“Let’s get to it, Tony. What is it you want?”

“I want to make you an offer,” he says. “First, I think you should talk to Talia about taking the case.”

“Why? Why me?”

“You’re familiar with it. You’ve worked with Cheetam closely”

“Don’t saddle me with that,” I say.

He laughs. “Well, the man’s busy.”

“No, the pope is busy. Gilbert Cheetam is the bar’s answer to Typhoid Mary. You show him evidence and he says the hell with it. You give him leads that, if he followed them up, might blunt part of the prosecution’s case, he drops them. If it isn’t an ambulance, he won’t pursue it.”

“Well, it’s all water under the bridge now,” he says. “I think we agree Talia’s fate in the preliminary hearing is pretty well sealed. The lady’s going to trial.”

Ron Brown’s been carrying reports from the courtroom. These plus the blistering news accounts have led the Greek to this breathtaking conclusion.

“Besides,” he says, “she was probably doomed from the beginning. I really don’t think Gil’s performance was a factor.”

“Gil’s performance was an embarrassment,” I say. “He owes her the favor of taking her case if for no other reason than to provide her with the ironclad appeal of incompetent counsel. It would be a dead-bang winner.”

He laughs a little at Cheetam’s expense. “Well, that’s not going to happen,” he says. “Gil’s out of the picture. And I think we agree you’re much better able to handle the defense.”

“Maybe she wants somebody else,” I say. “After all, I’ve been part of this circus.”

“I don’t think so.” He says this with confidence, like he’s been talking to an oracle.

“You must know more than I do.”

“Talk to her. She’ll listen to you.”

“Assuming I do. How do I get paid, if you’re no longer going to extend her any credit?”

He smiles now, toothy and knavish, reaching for a match. “You’re learning,” he says.

“Don’t light that,” I tell him. It’s been a long day and I am tired of suffering fools.

He makes a gesture of polite concession, dropping the match. He continues to suck on the cold cigar.

“I was getting to the money,” he says. “I’m prepared to offer Talia $200,000, up front, cash for a relinquishment of any interest she might have in the firm. That’ll carry the defense a long way. Well into appeals, if she needs them.”

“Talking appeals already-you must have a lot of confidence in me.”

He laughs, just a little. “Well, just seeing the downside.”

“Not a very generous offer, considering the fact that Ben’s interest in the firm is worth ten times that much,” I tell him.

“Only if she can get it. And she may have to wait for years. This is cash on the barrel, today.”

The conversation degenerates into a debate over figures. We sound like two Arabs in the bazaar, the Greek holding up his hands in protest, me trying to barter him higher, feigning an effort to sell something I have no authority to sell. I am interested in finding his bottom line. Talia may need to know.

In three minutes I have dragged him pissing and moaning to $300,000. I think he will go farther, but I am growing tired of this game.

“I’ll communicate your offer to my client, Tony. But I can’t recommend it.”

To this I get little slits of a look over pudgy cheeks from Skarpellos.

“Why not?”

“What’s the interest worth, Tony? Two million? Hmm-more? You know. I don’t. Only an auditor can tell us. She’d be a fool to sell under these circumstances. You know that as well as I do.”

“She’d be a bigger fool to go indigent. Does she really want the public defender representing her?”

“There are other alternatives,” I say.

“Like what?”

“Like a motion to the court to unfreeze Ben’s assets for purposes of Talia’s defense.” This is a bluff, a legal shot of long odds, but one that Skarpellos has not considered. It takes the confidence out of his eyes.

“Besides, assuming she invites me, and I do decide to take over the case, I might finance the action myself. I might take a little contingency in the firm for my efforts.”

I can tell that the thought of me sitting at Ben’s desk, a partner he hadn’t counted on, is not one that rests well with the Greek.

He laughs. Like steam from a dying boiler, it is forced.

“How would you finance it?” he asks. “You’re on a shoe string.”

“A second on the house. No big thing,” I tell him.

“You’d gamble that much?”

“Who knows. Maybe we’ll find out.”

“I thought you were learning,” he says. “But I can tell. You have a lot to learn.” His face is stern now. All the evil he can muster is focused in his eyes. “That would not be a smart move.”

“Is that a threat, Tony? I can’t tell.”

He makes a face, like “Take it any way you want.” Then says: “Just a little advice.”

“Ah. Well, then, I’ll take it in the spirit in which it’s offered.” I give him a broad, shit-eating grin. “I’ll let you know Talia’s decision when she’s made it.”

I get up and head for the door.

“By the way,” he says. “What made you so curious about the beneficiaries under Ben’s will?”

I turn and give him a soulful look.

“A little shot at me?” he says. He’s miffed at my questions to Hazeltine.

“You’re assuming I knew the answer to the question when I asked it.”

“I know you. You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t know.”

“Maybe you don’t know me well enough,” I say.

He nods. There is no warmth in this expression. The eyes are dead, cold, and there is a meanness in this face I have not seen before.

CHAPTER 19

I am anticipating a disaster, a rout on the magnitude of Napoleon at Waterloo. Cheetam sits at the counsel table between Talia and me. We are waiting for the result of a week of preliminary hearing. The judge is in chambers putting the final touches on her order.

“What do you think?” says Cheetam

I give him a blank stare. If he can’t see it for himself, I’m not going to tell him.

At the end of the prosecution’s case he’d asked for an outright dismissal of all charges. Only because legal protocol required it did the court humor him, taking this motion under submission.

That he could make such a motion under the circumstances tells me not only that Gilbert Cheetam lacks judgment, but that on a more basic plane, he is out of touch with reality. The submission to the court lasted three minutes, enough time for Nelson to make a brief argument; then O’Shaunasy gave the motion the back of her hand.

Cheetam reaches over and touches Talia on the arm. “It’ll just be a few minutes longer now,” he says. Talia smiles politely, then looks past him to me, searching for a little sanity.

The last day of hearing was the capper. Cheetam tried to build on a foundation of sand-Blumberg’s earlier testimony. He produced a janitor from the Emerald Tower, Reginald Townsend, who remembered cutting his hand, the day Ben was killed, on a jagged piece of broken glass. The man testified that he used the service elevator shortly after this and stated that he believed he may have dripped blood in the elevator. Lo and behold, the man’s blood type-the same as Potter’s-B-negative.

There was a satisfied grin in Cheetam’s voice as he said: “That’s all, Your Honor. Your witness.”

Nelson zeroed in on the man. He asked whether Townsend had a doctor attend to the wound after his ride in the elevator.

“It weren’t that bad.”

“Well, how much blood did you lose?”

“Oh, it were just a nick. A little thing.” He says this bravely, holding up two fingers to show the length of the wound, half an inch, as if he classifies anything less than a dozen stitches as a nick.

“I see, and you remember this nick, this little thing, nearly eight months later, and you can sit here and tell this court with certainty mat this wound, from which you apparently lost a single drop of blood in the elevator, occurred on the day mat Benjamin Potter was murdered?”

“Uh-huh. But I lost more blood than that. I held my hand in a towel,” said Townsend.

“Have you always had this gift?”

The man looked at Nelson with a vacant stare.

‘This ability to recall minute details and precise dates months after the event?”

“Oh, well, that’ll be a day none of us is likely to forget.” He was shaking his head as if to emphasize the momentous gravity of the events of that day.

“I see. You equate this nick, as you call it, on your hand with the day mat Mr. Potter was murdered?”

“That’s it,” he said, happy for some help. “Ah remember cuz you remember things when somethin’ like that happen. Like when President Kennedy got himself killed, I remember I was with my mama ….”

‘Tell me, Mr. Townsend, how did Mr. Cheetam come to discover this injury that you suffered? Did you come to him and tell him about it, or did he come to you and ask about it?”

“Well, it weren’t him.” Townsend was now pointing, his arm out straight like an arrow, at Cheetam. “No sir, Mr. Chitan, he didn’t come to me.”

Cheetam was reclining in his chair, nibbling on the eraser end of a pencil, smiling glibly at the dead end Nelson had just raced up.

“It were the other fellah, that one back there.” Like a weathervane in a shifting wind, Townsend’s arm had swung out toward the audience, taking a bead on Ron Brown, who tried to huddle behind a heavy-set woman seated in the row in front of him. “The one with the fancy pen,” said Townsend.

Nelson’s eyes followed the pointing finger like a guided missile. Brown was caught in the act, spear-chucker in hand, gold nib to the yellow pad propped on his lap.

“Your Honor, may we ask Mr. Brown, Mr. Cheetam’s associate, to stand for a moment.”

O’Shaunasy did not have to speak. Brown was up, shifting his feet, his shoulders sagging, his features lost in shadows as his head hung low, away from the beams of the overhead canister lights.

“That’s him.”

“Mr. Brown approached you?”

“Yes sir. He the one that talked to me He talk to all of us.”

“Objection, Your Honor, hearsay.”

“Were you present when Mr. Brown talked to the others, did you hear what he said to them?”

“I object, Your Honor.”

“Let’s hear what the witness has to say.” O’Shaunasy waits to see if Townsend will overcome the inference of secondhand information.

“Oh sure, he talk to all of us at once. The building manager get us together. He say one of the lawyers in the building want to talk to us.” Townsend was all smiles now, trying to be as helpful as possible.

“Overruled.”

Cheetam was fuming, angry not so much with the court and its ruling as with Brown and his lack of finesse in dealing with the hired help.

“What did he say when he talked to all of you?”

“He ask us if any of us see anything the day Mr. Porter was shot.”

“Did any of you see anything?”

“No, except for Willie He seed a lot.”

“Willie?”

“Yeah, he seed Mr. Porter after the shot.”

“Ah.” Nelson nods. “Willie’s the janitor who discovered the body?”

“Uh-huh.”

Nelson was becoming more charitable, his manner more easy, now that he was making headway with the witness.

“What else did Mr. Brown ask you?”

“He asked us if anybody ever got hurt, cut or like that, who used the service elevator.”

“He asked this question of all of you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you said yes?”

“Yeah, me and Bill and Rosie and Manual.”

“There were four of you?” Nelson’s question rose an octave from beginning to end.

Cheetam’s pencil lay on the table, the eraser end chewed off.

“Uh-huh.”

“Then what happened?”

“He took us up to his office.”

“You and Bill and Rosie and Manual?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then what happened?”

“They had a lady there, a nurse, she took our blood.”

“She took your blood?”

“Uh-huh. With a big needle. And they say they would get back to us.”

“And did they?”

“Just me,” said Townsend. “That gentleman”-he nodded toward Brown-“he get back to me.”

Cheetam and Brown must have thought they’d hit the mother lode when Townsend’s blood type came back.

“Did Mr. Brown say why he only wanted to talk to you?”

“No sir.”

“And what did he say when he finally got back to you?”

“He ask me when I hurt myself and how I done it.”

“And did you tell him?”

“Uh-huh. Just like I tell you today.”

“You mean to say that you cut your hand the day that Benjamin Potter was killed?”

“Yes sir.”

“I remind you, Mr. Townsend, you are under oath. To tell a he now is to commit perjury. That is a serious crime.”

Townsend did a lot of swallowing here. His Adam’s apple made the trip up and down his throat several times.

“I don’t lie,” he said

“Are you certain you did not injure your hand on another day, perhaps after Mr. Potter was killed, or long before the murder?”

Nelson, unable to shake the man, was offering him one last honorable way out of a lie.

“No, it were that day, or the day before, but I think it were that day. I’m sure of it.”

So much of his testimony had been compromising to Brown and Cheetam, that it was difficult to believe that he would lie on this point. Townsend’s words had the soulful ring of truth, and Nelson backed away. I wondered whether with all of his foibles Cheetam, and Talia by his proxy, would now-after all of this– finally profit from some happy coincidence. I would not wonder for long.

“Thank you, nothing more of this witness.”

Cheetam beamed like the Cheshire cat.

O’Shaunasy looked at him. “Redirect?”

“Nothing, Your Honor.”

“Very well, your next witness.”

“The defense rests, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Nelson, do you have any rebuttal witnesses?”

“Just one, Your Honor. The state would like to recall Dr. George Cooper.”

“Any objection?”

Cheetam looked mystified but at a loss to raise any grounds for objection.

He smiled. “None, Your Honor.”

Coop was called from the hall outside, where witnesses were assembled or held for further testimony. He took the stand and was reminded that he was still under oath.

“Dr. Cooper, you took blood samples from the body of the victim, Benjamin Potter, following death, did you not?”

“I did.”

“And the single drop of blood that was found in the service elevator-did you gather and process this evidence from the scene?”

“I did.”

“And finally, were you able to obtain a blood sample from one Reginald Townsend, a janitor in the building, a witness for the defense?”

“I did so, yes.”

“Doctor, can you briefly describe for the court that system of blood-type classification commonly known as A-B-O and explain in layman’s terms how it works?”

“As you know, there’s two types of blood cells, red cells and white cells. The A-B-O system keys on red cells only. It identifies chemical structures present on the surface of these cells called antigens. Under the A-B-O system, a type A blood donor would have A antigens on the surface of his red cells, a type B, B antigens, a type AB would have both A and B antigens and a type O would have neither. In addition, there is one other common factor in this blood-typing system. It’s the so-called D antigen or Rh factor of the blood. Those with the D antigen are said to be Rh-positive; those without it are Rh-negative.”

“So if both Mr. Potter and Mr. Townsend were classified as type B-negative blood donors, all that means is that they each had only type B antigens on the surface of their red blood cells, and that neither had the so-called D antigen present, so they were negative as to the Rh factor?”

“That’s correct.”

It was a polished routine, like Abbott and Costello. Townsend was disclosed as a witness for the defense before the trial, as required in discovery. It was clear Coop and Nelson had been over this ground in preparation. There was no wasted effort.

“Now this A-B-O system, is it the only method for typing and classifying blood?”

“No. It’s the most common system of classification used by hospitals for purposes of transfusions and other medical procedures. But in answer to your question, there are more than a hundred other different blood factors that have been shown to exist. In theory at least, no two individuals, except for identical twins, can be expected to have the same combination of all blood factors.”

Cheetam’s face sagged with this thought. He had spent too much time trying PI cases and too little chasing deadbeat fathers on paternity raps to be familiar with the nuances of identification by blood.

“Doctor, can you describe and explain some of these other blood factors, as you call them?”

“Well, besides the A, B, and D antigens, there are other antigens in the blood that serve as markers or can be used to identify a specific individual, or at least exclude other individuals from consideration. These can be detected, though it’s difficult when you’re dealing with dried blood.”

“Such as the blood in the service elevator?”

“Right. In this case the easiest factors to isolate are enzymes– these are markers, proteins on the red blood cells that regulate many of the body’s chemical reactions.”

Apparently in this case, given the slap-dash nature of Cheetam’s defense, Coop didn’t think it was necessary to go to the expense and trouble of exotic screenings. DNA tests were on the cutting edge, but required sophisticated labs and expensive equipment. The blood would have had to go to a private lab.

“Were you able to isolate blood enzymes in this case?”

“Yes. In the case of the dried blood taken from the service elevator we were able to isolate an enzyme known as PGM. The PGM enzyme is not the same in every person and comes in three common variations. We call these PGM-1, PGM-2-1, and PGM-2. The dried bloodstain from the service elevator in this case was PGM-2, actually somewhat rare. About six percent of the population carry this variation of the enzyme.”

“Now tell us, doctor, were you able to isolate the PGM enzyme in the blood taken from Mr. Townsend?”

“Yes, it was PGM-1.”

“Then it did not match the blood found in the elevator?”

“No.”

“Can you tell us, doctor, whether the PGM enzyme found in the blood of the victim, Benjamin G. Potter, matched the blood from the service elevator?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Therefore, is it safe to say that the blood in the elevator belonged to the victim, Benjamin Potter?”

“I can’t say that with certainty, but I can say one thing with assurance. It did not belong to Reginald Townsend. The enzyme test excludes Mr. Townsend as a possible source of this blood. I can also say that since the PGM-2 enzyme is carried by only six percent of the population, and that since type B-negative blood is similarly rare, only twelve percent, there is a very high probability that this blood belonged to the victim.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Now, instead of being merely mortally wounded, Cheetam’d had his ass blown clean out of the water, in full view of the court-the entire world. He had to do something to save face. He leaned over and looked at me, a frigid, vacant expression in his eyes-it was the first time I had seen it in him. It was the look of fear. He was so shaken that it took a second for the brain to engage the mouth.

“Can you take him on cross?” he said.

I sat there stunned, caught between the devil and the deep blue see-Cheetam who was fear-struck, and Talia who sat there staring at me expectantly, as if at this late hour I could save her from Nelson’s rolling juggernaut.