by Sydney Bauer
‘Thanks to the Kat excusing us from our duties as witnesses.’
‘Kind of him, that.’
‘I thought so.’
*
O'Donnell's testimony had been nothing short of disastrous. The DA had taken the police captain through each and every graphic image, section by section, inch by inch, until the half of the jury that were studying the images had turned an ashen shade of grey – and the other half, who could not stomach them, had stared accusingly at David's client.
Sienna had sat motionless, her face blank. David had seen this expression on his client's face many times over the past six months. It told him that she was on the verge of breaking, that she was trying desperately to hold things together, to find the strength to cope. But he also knew that to the jury she would appear cold as she sat seemingly unmoved by the bloody images of her prettily decorated daughter's bedroom … cold, removed, cruel.
‘It's okay,’ David said to his client at the end of the day's session, knowing there was nothing he could do at this point bar try to console her and get to work on the days ahead. ‘We made up some ground on cross.’
This was true. David had scored two major points on cross – the first being the issue of that controversial window screen. David had argued that just because the window screen had been forced from inside the room, it did not mean that his client was the culprit. He used O'Donnell to begin to introduce his countertheory that another intruder had entered the house by other means – perhaps someone who knew the layout of the house as well. Second, David had gotten Katz's witness to concede that Sienna's explanation for the lack of her fingerprints on the bedroom light switch – her use of the burping towel she instinctively put over her shoulder – was a more than viable rationalisation of the seemingly damning evidential anomaly. O'Donnell even admitted that his wife spent ‘a good ten years of her life wearing one of those things over her shoulder’. ‘We had four kids in six years,’ he had explained. ‘That towel became a permanent fixture in both our lives.’ And for this David had been grateful.
‘We made some ground,’ Sienna managed to agree, ‘but tomorrow the DA calls the forensics expert and the coroner.’ She was referring to BPD Crime Lab Unit Chief Dan Martinelli and to the Suffolk County ME, Gus Svenson. ‘And there is still so much we cannot explain – starting with the presence of my blood in her bedroom.’
Starting with was right, thought David, not wanting to depress his client even further by pointing out that Martinelli's and Svenson's testimonies could introduce several evidential issues the defence would have to account for on cross-examination. Dan Martinelli's evidence would be even more damning than O'Donnell's, as he would introduce not just the presence of Sienna's blood at the crime scene, but that goddamned nightshirt – found in his client's courtyard – which indicated Eliza Walker had been nursed to death. The DA would then question Svenson about the body of the baby that was – after being wrapped in said nightshirt – shoved unceremoniously up his client's backyard gutter pipe. And the jury would sit and listen, as Gus spoke words like ‘jugular’ and ‘thorax’ and ‘aspiration’, ‘spinal cord’ and ‘blood loss’ and ‘cardiac arrest’.
‘Are you going to introduce what we know about Eliza's DNA?’ she asked, perhaps hoping he was confident enough to broach the issue of Eliza's paternity.
David was unsure how to answer her. Knowing Eliza's paternity could well be Hunt's motive for killing her. It was true Lucas Cole was rushing through the results of the DNA he was lifting from the glass Sara had taken from the Fairmont Copely Plaza, but this would take time, and even if – long shot of long shots – Hunt was proven to be Eliza Walker's biological father, this still did not prove he and his cohort Davenport were involved in the murder of his client's baby daughter.
Worse still, revealing that Eliza Walker was not Jim's daughter at this early stage could backfire as it could validate the lies Hunt may be willing to tell on the witness stand – lies about Sienna's fidelity, or more specifically, her lack thereof.
‘I'm not sure,’ he said, knowing she deserved his honesty.
‘And my blood?’ She was asking about the presence of the cyropreservative found in the sample taken from her daughter's bedroom. They had discussed introducing this at length but had been hesitant to do so given they knew the DA could explain away its presence by claiming Sienna had used the DMSO as an anti-inflammatory.
‘I'm not sure. It might make us look desperate,’ he said.
She nodded, her expression tired and defeated as she took his hands in her own. ‘I trust you,’ she said once again.
He felt sick as her eyes started to water. And then the deputies came and took her away, and David collected his things and moved from the now deserted courtroom, more determined than ever to bury the man named Daniel Hunt.
*
By the time David returned to the office it was dark. He found his fellow defence team members in Arthur's office, each, including Nora, nursing an icy cold beer. There was an additional team member sitting cross-legged in the corner, and David immediately advanced to shake her hand. ‘Hello, Madonna,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she replied. ‘You were mean … for not telling me who you were.’
But David could see she was not angry. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, ‘but this case, it …’
‘It means you have to keep secrets,’ she finished the sentence for him.
‘Yes.’
She nodded, attempting a half-smile. But David could tell the girl was nervous and he wanted to put her at ease. ‘I need to thank you for helping us.’
Madonna looked at Sara, as if in apology, or perhaps for reassurance. ‘But I haven't really done anything.’
‘That's not true, Madonna,’ argued Sara. ‘You forwarded the doctor's client list, you gave me Esther Wallace's email address.’
‘Yeah, but Mrs Wallace hasn't emailed back, and the list – well, it's just a list, it doesn't tell you anything juicy.’
Unfortunately this was true. The list Madonna had provided was simply that – a list of patients who had consulted the doctor. The list may have contained the names of clients who had benefited by Davenport and Hunt's illegal services, or those whose reproductive cells had been stolen to use in the fertilisation of another child, but the list itself did not discriminate, and was a long way from pinpointing the people who were involved – wittingly or unwittingly – in Hunt and Davenport's sick activities.
‘Worse still,’ Madonna continued, ‘Sophia never returned my calls and this morning, Dr Davenport left real early so …’ she sighed. ‘I have no idea what has happened with her and … I sort of liked her, so that kind of sucks.’
This wasn't good. ‘Did Dr Davenport tell you where he was going?’ asked David, taking a seat across from her.
Madonna looked at Sara, who responded in her place.
‘He told Madonna he was going to the Dorchester clinic he volunteers at, but I called and checked, and they said they hadn't seen him all day.’
It got worse. What if Davenport had run and taken Sophia with him?
‘Madonna,’ said David, ‘did Dr Davenport say anything else that might have tipped you off as to his plans over the next day or so – for example, did he ask you to cancel tomorrow's appointments as well?’
‘No,’ said the girl, before her face crinkled in concern. ‘But, I've been thinking …’
David glanced at Sara. ‘About what?’ he asked.
The girl shifted in her seat, her too-tight skirt twisting at her waist. ‘Well, from what Sara told me, she thinks Sophia is a surrogate. But she can only have a baby or two at a time, right? So, if this is like – a big business, there must be more – girls like Sophia, I mean.’
David nodded. The girl was savvier than she appeared.
‘But Sophia is the only one that stands out,’ Madonna continued, ‘which means he must see the others at the clinic, which makes sense because Sophia was a clinic patient who only came across to the surgery because th
ere was some problem with her ultrasound.’
‘What was the problem?’ he asked.
‘I don't know. But when I think about it now, Dr Davenport was always kinda stressed after her visits.’ She shook her head. ‘But that wasn't what I was getting at.’
Sara turned to look at her. ‘Then what is it, Madonna?’
‘Well, when I was first interviewed for the job, I remember Dr Davenport saying his clients were not sick but limited in their options. He said it was his job to expand those options because they could afford to be choosy and …’ Madonna shook her head as if trying to clear it. ‘What I mean to say is, if you think about it, he might be getting the sperm and the eggs from different people, but if the lady who wants that baby is able to, I guess she might be carrying that baby for herself. Which makes sense because he sees lots of pregnant women, and he delivers these rich women's babies.’
David smiled. She was right. Davenport would not need surrogates for all the children he manufactured, especially if the ‘client’ was young and healthy and wanted to experience the process of childbirth for herself.
‘So what are you thinking?’ asked David. ‘Are you suggesting we could get a link to the surrogates if we got hold of Davenport's clinic patients and …?’
‘No,’ interrupted Madonna. ‘It's almost impossible to get details on the clinic patients. The clinic is super confidential. It's one of those places that assures young girls who, you know, get knocked up by accident … anonymous … ness,’ she struggled to find the word. ‘But what I was thinking was, we have the other list, the one with the rich people on it. And since I know what these patients look like, I could tell you the ones that, you know, didn't get pregnant, or the ones that would be too old to pop one out for themselves.’
David smiled again – Madonna was full of surprises.
‘Some of these people stand out to you?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Like … there was a couple who came in this morning. They're not on the list yet because they're new and they didn't have an appointment, which means I didn't get their names, but they'd been in once before and … they're old, you know, like real old – over forty and then some.’
David would have laughed if what they were discussing were not so serious.
‘You can tell us which patients on this list are too old – or who did not conceive personally?’
‘Yes.’
David smiled, his eyes drifting to Arthur. ‘It's a start,’ he said.
‘A very good one,’ agreed Arthur.
Sara pulled out a copy of the list Madonna had emailed to her. ‘Could you highlight those sorts of couples?’ she asked.
Madonna smiled. ‘Sure,’ she said, as if pleased her idea had been received with such enthusiasm. ‘So I'm like … helping, right?’ she asked, her brown eyes meeting David's once again.
‘You bet,’ smiled David.
‘Cool,’ she said, before taking a blue highlighter from Nora. ‘Cool.’
72
Joe called late. He warned David he was starting with the bad news. He told David about Rigotti and his intel on the DA's second witness list – first about Davenport, and then about the British psych named St John, who, Joe explained, was not a local resident, but had flown into Logan two days ago.
After David asked Joe the obvious – why Joe had not let him know sooner – Joe told David about Rigotti's twenty-four hour embargo, the one put in place to protect their reporter friend's source. Then Joe warned David against letting his fists do the talking, before reminding him that this was no time for ‘self-indulgent payback’ and that ‘revenge was a dish best served cold’.
Next, after David had calmed down a little, they discussed what this might mean for Sienna. They agreed it explained Katz's opening and that the DA probably intended to use this English shrink-for-hire to paint Sienna as a psychopath, but they also agreed the Kat would be hard up against proving the legitimacy of St John's diagnosis considering the psychiatrist had never actually examined Sienna. Joe pointed out that maybe Sienna had been a patient of St John's when she lived in the UK, and David, while sure she would have mentioned this, promised to ask her in the morning.
Bad news done.
‘I need the good news now,’ said David.
‘I'm in Lincoln,’ replied Joe, before going on to explain.
David felt a rush of excitement as he listened to Joe's story about De Lorenzo's brother. But his hopes were soon dashed when Joe told him that Marco De Lorenzo was long gone from the roadside motel where he'd made the call to his brother Vincent. Joe told David how the pissed motel owner complained about De Lorenzo skipping on the $13.55 he owed for the two beers and the packet of pretzels missing from the mini-bar, the only plus from Joe's perspective being the fact that the manager had noticed the car De Lorenzo was driving when he tore out of the hotel – a Buick, light blue, with a broken back bumper guard.
‘Did he get a plate?’ David asked, guessing the answer was no as he assumed Joe would have told him this earlier.
‘The manager has Jack Daniel's for breakfast and smokes weed for lunch.’
‘His vision is twenty-twenty then,’ a weary David managed a joke.
Joe said nothing, just sighed.
Next, after Joe promised to keep on De Lorenzo's tail, it was David's turn, so he gave Joe a run-down on Madonna's list and her idea of targeting certain couples. And while Joe agreed it was a good idea, he also concurred with David's concerns that approaching these people was risky, given that if David and his team were right, these couples were part of an elite baby trafficking business which was not only illegal but punishable with jail terms hefty enough to incarcerate them for most of the rest of their lives.
Finally, David told Joe about Lucas Cole and the fact that he was working on Hunt's illegally acquired DNA. And to Joe's credit, he did not respond by listing the number of ways David was violating the constraints of the law. He did, however, warn David that even if the results were positive, such information could backfire given they had no proof of illegal activity.
‘Your client know you're testing Hunt?’ asked Joe.
‘I didn't want to get her hopes up.’
‘You think she'd be pleased if that asshole was her kid's daddy?’ asked Joe.
‘I think she'd want to puke.’
Joe said nothing, understanding the irony of it all.
‘She's crumbling, Joe,’ said David, just as Joe went to sign off.
More silence.
‘I don't want to be in court. I want to be out there with you, looking for De Lorenzo, or with Nora and Arthur chasing down couples on Madonna's list – or with Cole in his laboratory.’
‘You're where you're meant to be, David.’
‘I'm hamstrung.’
‘No. This case will be won or lost in the courtroom.’
David sighed.
‘Get some sleep,’ said Joe, before hanging up the phone.
And David did, at least for an hour or two, before the sun shot through the bedroom window and wrenched him from rest to reality.
*
‘Good morning, all,’ said Judge Isaac Stein, officially opening the second day of trial in the case of the Commonwealth v Walker.
Katz replied with enthusiasm. ‘Good morning, Your Honor.’
‘Are you ready to call your next witness, Mr Katz?’
‘Yes, Your Honor, the people would like to call Lieutenant Daniel Martinelli.’
Sienna sighed beside David.
And Katz moved forward to begin.
The Kat was slick. His questions were polished and precise. After allowing the Crime Lab Unit chief to state his impressive credentials, he set out to take Dan Martinelli through the forensic evidence piece by piece. He began with the bedroom, firstly going over the testimony already provided by Captain Michael O'Donnell, and then moving onto new territory – the actual analysis on the forensic material collected at the scene.
‘Lieutenant Martinelli,’ said
the DA, addressing the Crime Lab chief by his official BPD rank. ‘Before we get to your analysis, can you describe to the court the procedures your technicians undertake to ensure the evidence taken from your crime scene is collected and preserved with the utmost of care.’
David knew where this was going – Katz was about to tackle the issue of the presence of Sienna's blood in the bedroom. He wanted Martinelli to impress the jury with his Unit's impeccable evidence collection procedures, closing any door David might have intended to walk through regarding the possibility that the volume of Sienna's blood found at the scene was a miscalculation on Martinelli's part.
Martinelli took a breath, as if deciding where to start. ‘Basically we run the state's only public forensic DNA laboratory – which is one of only eighteen in the country. When we knew we'd be moving from the old lab in Berkeley Street to the new facility at the new BPD headquarters in Roxbury, we made sure the unit was designed to our specs. That meant building a large laboratory space dedicated to serology, DNA analysis, trace evidence examination, and the chemical and physical processing of evidence.’
‘And serology, for us laymen and women, refers to …?’
David cringed, knowing the DA knew exactly what it referred to.
‘Bodily fluids,’ said Martinelli.
‘Such as blood?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant, please go on.’
‘Well, alongside the lab space we have an evidence examination room created specifically to accommodate a broad range of forensic evidence analysis – like a custom walk-in biological safety hood, tools such as alternative light sources to aid in identifying, presenting, cataloguing and photographing physical evidence, freezers to preserve biological evidence – sometimes for decades.’
‘And going back to that serology issue,’ the Kat reined Martinelli in, ‘any bodily fluids you collect and test – can you tell me what your margin of error is when it comes to identifying the person from which these fluids may have come.’
The no-nonsense Martinelli nodded. ‘Our testing methods are such that, if we get a DNA match on the fluids, the likelihood of the evidence sample originating from someone other than the particular suspect in question would be greater than one in a billion.’