“Mr. Buehler,” Karpinen said, “were you in the lobby of the Chippewa Hotel the night of July 17th?”
“I was.”
“What time were you there?”
“Just before the bar closed.”
“And why were you there?”
“I wanted to have a word with Mr. Lyons.”
“What about?”
“He fouled me at the end of the race, and it cost me the pennant. I was going to have it out with him.”
“Please tell us what happened,” Karpinen said.
“I couldn’t get anywhere close to Lyons in the bar. It was too damn crowded.”
“Watch your language, Mr. Buehler,” Lindstrom said.
Buehler continued. “When they kicked us all out of the bar, I thought I’d catch up with him in the lobby. I saw Lyons and Halverson, right outside the door to the bar. I lit a cigar, and when I looked up, they were gone.”
“Where do you think Mr. Halverson and Mr. Lyons went?”
“They had to have gone back into the bar. It was too crowded for anybody to move very far, very fast.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Burr said. “Speculation.”
“Mr. Karpinen, you’ve gone a bit too far,” Lindstrom said.
Karpinen nodded at the judge. “Mr. Buehler, was the lobby crowded?”
“It was packed.”
“And you saw Mr. Halverson and Jimmy Lyons standing in the lobby next to the door to The Pink Pony.”
“Yes.” Buehler looked like he was losing his patience.
“And then they weren’t there,” Karpinen said.
“That’s what I said.”
“Did you see them anywhere else in the lobby?”
“No.”
Karpinen turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Buehler may have been the last one to see Jimmy Lyons alive. Except, of course, for the defendant. I submit to you that they went back into the bar after it closed, and then the defendant murdered Mr. Lyons.”
Burr jumped up. “Your Honor, this is outrageous. It’s pure speculation.”
Karpinen looked at the judge. “It’s a possibility, Your Honor.”
“I’ll allow it.”
Burr sat down, furious.
“Thank you, Mr. Buehler. I have no further questions.” He walked back to his table and sat.
Burr had had just about enough of Karpinen and his witnesses. He approached the witness stand. “Mr. Buehler, you said you raced in the Port Huron-Mackinac?”
“Yes.”
“Did you sleep much during the race?”
“I got enough.”
“Would you say you got eight hours of sleep a night?”
“No.”
“Six?”
“Probably not.”
“Four?”
“I got enough sleep,” Buehler said.
Burr thought Buehler looked like he was the one who usually asked the questions.
“Were you drinking beer in the bar?” Burr said.
“I don’t drink beer.”
“What were you drinking?”
“Salty dogs.” Buehler smiled at him.
“And that is?”
“Grapefruit juice, vodka, with a dash of salt.”
“How many would you say you had?”
“I’m sure I don’t remember.”
“But you remember seeing Mr. Halverson and Mr. Lyons outside the door to the bar?”
“That’s right.”
“But then you bent your head down to light a cigar and when you had it lit and looked back up, they were gone.”
“That’s right.”
“How long does it take to light a cigar?”
“I don’t know. Not very long.” He glared at Burr.
“You have to unwrap it, bite the end off, put it in your mouth, strike a match, and puff until the cigar is lit.” Burr mimed a demonstration, taking as long as he possibly could. “Do I have that right?”
“I use a cigar cutter and a lighter.”
“Of course, you do,” Burr said.
“Objection, Your Honor,” Karpinen said. “Counsel has no idea how Mr. Buehler actually would light a cigar.”
“Perhaps you’d demonstrate, Mr. Buehler,” Burr said. He offered his new pencil to the annoyed witness.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Lafayette,” Lindstrom said.
“Mr. Buehler, it appears that lighting a cigar is a complicated and time-consuming process. Isn’t it possible that by the time you were done lighting your cigar, Mr. Halverson had simply walked out of the lobby and into the street?” Burr turned away from Buehler. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
“Not possible. It was too crowded,” Buehler said.
Damn it all.
“That wasn’t a question,” Burr said, his back to Buehler.
“It sure sounded like one,” Buehler said.
Burr turned back to the belligerent witness. “Mr. Buehler, where did you sleep the night Jimmy Lyons was killed?”
“What?”
“I said where did you sleep the night Jimmy Lyons was killed?”
“That’s none of your business,” Buehler said.
Burr looked up at Judge Lindstrom. “Answer the question, Mr. Buehler,” the judge said.
“That’s my business,” Buehler said.
“Mr. Buehler, you will answer the question or I will have the bailiff put you in jail until you do answer,” Judge Lindstrom said.
“I slept on my boat,” Buehler said.
“Was anyone else on the boat?” Burr said.
“No,” Buehler said.
“I have nothing further.” Burr walked back to the defense table.
“Mr. Karpinen?” Lindstrom said.
“The prosecution rests, Your Honor,” Karpinen said.
“Will wonders never cease,” Lindstrom said. He made a show of looking at his watch. “It being almost five o’clock, we will recess for the day.” He tapped his gavel and walked out without a further word.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Burr looked up at the window in Lindstrom’s courtroom. A steady rain tap, tap, tapped on the window, like the tap of his pencil. The maple outside was almost bare. He stood and walked to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to finish as I began. The prosecutor must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Halverson killed Mr. Lyons.” He stepped closer to them. “Beyond a reasonable doubt,” he said again, leaning on the rail of the jury box. He looked at them one at a time, then spoke softly. “And reasonable doubt doesn’t mean you think he might have done it. Or that he could have done it. It doesn’t even mean that you think he probably killed Mr. Lyons. It means that you are almost positive that he killed Mr. Lyons. Almost positive.”
“Objection, Your Honor. That’s not the meaning of reasonable doubt,” Karpinen said.”
“Sustained,” Lindstrom said. “Can’t you leave it at reasonable doubt, Mr. Lafayette?”
I didn’t think he could hear me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, whatever words are used, reasonable doubt is a high standard. We don’t have to know who did kill Mr. Lyons, if in fact he was killed. For all we know, he may have been so drunk he strangled himself. As I said, we don’t have to know who did kill Mr. Lyons in order to acquit Mr. Halverson. To convict Mr. Halverson, you must believe beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Halverson did, in fact, kill Mr. Lyons.” Burr turned away from the jury. He wanted to give this a moment to sink in. He looked up at the window again and saw the rain running down the windowpane.
He turned back to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, as I’ve said, the evidence doesn’t support a conviction. Because the prosecutor doesn’t have much in the way of evidence. No one saw my client murder Mr. Lyons. And the evidence he doe
s have is flimsy, at best. The prosecutor has conveniently neglected to provide evidence. Evidence that shows someone else, actually many others, could have killed Mr. Lyons. And the evidence he does have may not be good evidence. It may have been corrupted by shoddy police work.” Burr paused again, almost ready for the grand finale. He looked at his shoes, which still needed polishing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps I should have started and ended with what I am about to tell you. Mrs. Halverson will testify who she was with that evening. And do you know who she was with?” Burr stopped again. He stuck his hands in his pockets. He counted to ten, then pointed at Anne. “She was with her husband the entire evening. So, Mr. Halverson couldn’t possibly have murdered Mr. Lyons.”
Karpinen’s jaw dropped. Burr had heard it from Anne ad nauseum, but this was the first the prosecutor had heard it. Which was exactly why Burr hadn’t brought it up at the preliminary exam. “Mr. and Mrs. Halverson were with each other the entire evening. And that is why you must find Mr. Halverson not guilty.” He looked at them again, one by one. Each one in the eye.
* * *
Burr called Chief Art Brandstatter. He’d considered cutting right to the chase, starting and finishing with Anne, but he’d thought better of it. He thought it was probably better to poke as many holes in Karpinen’s case as he could.
“Chief Brandstatter, are you the chief law enforcement officer on Mackinac Island?”
“That’s right.” Brandstatter smiled at him.
“Chief Brandstatter, what were you doing at The Pink Pony on the morning of July 18th, the morning James Lyons died?”
“I was investigating the murder of Jimmy Lyons.”
“Of course you were. But before that? What were you doing before that?”
“That’s what I was doing.”
“Weren’t you on the sidewalk outside The Pink Pony trying to figure out what happened to the pink pony itself, the little pink hobby horse that hangs outside the bar? The one that costs all of about twenty-five dollars?”
“It costs a lot more than that.”
“Weren’t you looking for a little pink pony outside The Pink Pony while Jimmy Lyons was dead inside The Pink Pony? On the other side of the door?”
Chief Brandstatter’s smile turned upside down. “How was I supposed to know he was in there?”
“Chief Brandstatter, how did you finally find out that Mr. Lyons was dead inside The Pink Pony?”
“Someone from the hotel told me.”
“I see. And what did you do?”
“I went inside.”
“And what did you do when you got there?”
“I investigated.”
“For the record, chief, how many murders have you investigated?”
“One.”
“Really, please tell us about it.”
“This one.”
“So chief, in your entire career in law enforcement, this was your first murder. Is that right?”
“I’ve done plenty of investigating.”
“But this is your first and only murder. Is that right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Your first and only murder.” Burr looked at the jury, then back at Brandstatter. “Did you put up any police tape?”
Brandstatter squirmed in his chair. “No.”
“I see. Did you talk to anyone?”
“I sure did.” The chief had a new smile.
“Inside the bar?”
“Yes.”
“Where Mr. Lyons was?”
“Yes.”
“When did you contact the Mackinac County Sheriff’s Department?”
“When I was done.”
“And when would that be?”
“After an hour or so. Maybe two.”
“Chief, were there any other people in the bar while you were investigating Mr. Lyon’s death?”
“A few.”
“A few,” Burr said. “So, Chief Brandstatter, let me make sure I understand you. Jimmy Lyons was dead, no more than twenty feet away from you, while you were investigating the disappearance of a little pink plastic pony. And when you finally figured out Mr. Lyons was dead, you didn’t secure the crime scene. And on top of that, any one of a number of people were in and out of the bar. Any one of whom could have killed Mr. Lyons and destroyed evidence. Is that about it?”
“It wasn’t that way at all. And you know it,” Brandstatter said, but he looked a little beat up.
As if on cue, “Objection, Your Honor,” Karpinen said. “This is irrelevant.”
Burr couldn’t have scripted it any better. He turned to the jury. “This is the most relevant part of this entire trial. The prosecutor has taken great pains to show that the sheriff’s department did a professional, expert and thorough job. But he conveniently omitted the fact that the first law enforcement officer at the scene botched the investigation before it ever started. The crime scene and the evidence were corrupted before Detective Conti and his crew, however able they may have been, even got there. The entire investigation is tainted.”
Lindstrom chewed on his cheek. “As much as I don’t like Mr. Lafayette’s approach, I’m going to allow this.” To Burr, “Anything else?”
“One more question, Your Honor.” Burr turned to the woebegone cop. “Chief Brandstatter, have you found the missing pink pony?”
“No, but….”
Burr held up his hand and shushed him.
* * *
Burr didn’t think Karpinen’s cross-examination of the once again jolly chief had hurt him so far. Karpinen had established that Brandstatter had been in law enforcement for the past thirty-five years, but Burr thought the jury was smart enough to understand the difference between experience and expertise. At least he hoped they were.
Then Karpinen got to the part that Burr knew he would get to. It was a calculated risk that Burr hoped wouldn’t backfire.
Karpinen looked at Burr, then at Brandstatter. “Chief, do you have any suspects in the theft of the pink pony?”
“I object, Your Honor,” Burr said, jumping up. “Irrelevant.”
“If the investigation into the theft is relevant, then so is the suspect,” Karpinen said.
“I’m not sure I follow that, but you may continue.” Lindstrom paused. “Briefly.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Karpinen said. “Chief, who are the suspects in the theft of the pink pony?”
Brandstatter cleared his throat. He grinned at Burr, then with as much gravity as a fat, jolly policeman on a tourist island could muster, “There is only one suspect in the theft of the pink pony.” He cleared his throat. “The only suspect is him,” he said, pointing at Burr. “Him,” he said again. “Burr Lafayette.” The courtroom exploded into a rhapsody of oohs, ahs and titters. Burr thought Karpinen would get to this, but he thought it was worth the risk. He did his best to silence the giggling jury with a steely glare.
Karpinen wasn’t done. “Chief Brandstatter, you were investigating the theft of the pink pony. And at the time you were not aware that a murder had been committed?”
“I most certainly was not.”
“For all you know, Mr. Lafayette may have been stealing the pink pony at the very time Mr. Halverson was murdering Jimmy Lyons.” The courtroom exploded again.
Burr leapt to his feet.
“Sit down, Mr. Lafayette. You started this,” Lindstrom said. He smashed his gavel on its pedestal. “That is quite enough, Mr. Karpinen. Ladies and gentlemen, you will disregard Mr. Karpinen’s last statement.”
“No further questions, Your Honor,” Karpinen said.
Chief Brandstatter stopped at the defense table on his way to the gallery. “Don’t be so smug about the pony. I found a witness.”
Burr stuck his hands out so Brandstatter could cuff him. “What are you waiting for?”
“As soon as I get his affidavit, I’m going to lock you up.”
“Have at it, Sherlock.”
* * *
Burr called Stanley Mueller, his fingerprint expert. If Murdo and Anne had mastered dressing down, Murdo in a tweedy sport coat the color of dead leaves and a too wide, striped tie, and Anne in a should-have-been-belted green and black tartan, fresh from the Junior League thrift shop, Burr wished that Stanley Mueller had taken it up a notch, from tacky to shabby.
Burr’s fingerprint expert wore a burgundy sport coat, or was it maroon, and dishwater blue pants. Slacks would give too much credit to what looked like pressed denim. A wrinkled white shirt completed the patriotic trio. His red, white, and blue plaid tie matched the rest of him. The knot in his tie was the size of a fist and hadn’t heard the fashion news about tie clips. Then there were the glasses, thicker than Burr remembered, thick enough to be coasters. Burr hoped that they gave him a scholarly appearance. He’d asked Mueller to keep his left hand, the one with the missing finger, on his lap.
Burr led Mueller through his many qualifications, then reached the meat of the fingerprint sandwich.
“Mr. Mueller,” Burr said, “Detective Conti has testified that the only fingerprints on the Christmas lights were those of Mr. Halverson.” Burr straightened his tie and resisted the temptation to tighten Mueller’s knot and line it up with his neck. “Do you agree with Detective Conti?”
“No,” Mueller said. “No, I don’t.”
“Did you examine the fingerprints found on the Christmas tree lights?”
“I did.”
“And what did you find?”
“In addition to Mr. Halverson’s fingerprints, I found at least three other sets of fingerprints on the lights.”
“Really?” Burr said, as if he didn’t know. “Could you identify them?”
“Two of them matched fingerprints I had in my possession.”
“Mr. Mueller, from your examination can you tell us who these fingerprints belong to?”
The lame prosecutor leapt to his feet. “I object. This is outrageous.”
“Mr. Mueller, where did you get these fingerprints?” Lindstrom said.
“From Mr. Lafayette,” Mueller said.
Karpinen looked over at Burr.
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