‘I don’t understand. I did not perform any tests on the defendant,’ Ramsey said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because Cynthia Sutton is alive,’ Ramsey said. As expected, it drew a light chuckle from the spectators.
‘And as a medical examiner, you don’t perform physical examinations or tests on living people, just the ones who show up in the morgue. Is that correct?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ Back to a comfortable answer for the doctor.
‘Given that, the fact that you never examined Cynthia Sutton at all, how can you be certain she is strong enough to have killed Wendy Bryan with an award statuette?’
‘I did not say I was certain. I said it was my opinion.’ Doctors can, when they want to (and often when they don’t) take on an air of superiority in their voices. I’m a lawyer, so I know pompous when I hear it.
‘And on what did you base that opinion?’ I asked.
Valencia stood up, in my opinion because he wanted to give his expert witness a moment to breathe easy. ‘Objection. The question has been asked and answered.’
‘No it hasn’t,’ I told Hawthorne. ‘The prosecutor asked whether or not the defendant could have killed her mother-in-law. The witness said it was her opinion that was possible. I’m asking on what data that opinion is based. It’s a different question.’
‘I’ll allow it,’ Hawthorne said. Valencia sat.
Ramsey was now looking at me with something other than the eyes of a caring physician. Of course she was a pathologist and hadn’t had a live patient in years, so maybe it comes with the territory. Or maybe she thought I was trying to impugn her credibility in the case. Because I was.
‘Can I hear the question again?’ she said.
The court reporter read, ‘And on what did you base that opinion?’
Ramsey, who clearly remembered the question but simply wanted to take another second, answered, ‘On twenty-seven years of medical experience and study.’
‘Can you be more specific?’ If she wanted to play hardball, I could play hardball. Cynthia looked petrified. Patrick was sitting forward, leaning his elbows on his thighs and resting his chin on his hands. ‘Without assessing the defendant physically, what data do you have to make a judgment on her upper-body strength?’
Angie was chewing something.
Ramsey appeared to be grinding her teeth. Her dentist would no doubt send me a thank-you note after this performance. ‘None,’ she managed to squeeze out. ‘But she appears to be a healthy woman.’
‘Is that a medical opinion, doctor?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Thank you. Now. Concerning a patient you did get a chance to examine …’
Valencia was once again on his feet, doing the slowest aerobic exercise regimen in recorded history – stand up every three minutes. ‘Your Honor,’ was all he said.
‘Watch your tone, Ms Moss.’
‘My apologies, Your Honor,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I can’t help it. I’m from New Jersey.’ Again a little laugh from the people watching.
Not from Hawthorne, though. ‘Is that right?’ she said. ‘I’m from Millburn, myself.’
Really! She’d obviously been out here long enough to lose some of her Jersey-ness. ‘Edison,’ I told the judge.
‘Great. Now get on with your questioning and please take note that I managed to not sound sarcastic through this entire exchange.’ So we weren’t going to get together and reminisce about the Garden State anytime soon.
‘Yes, Your Honor.’ I turned to face the witness. ‘Dr Ramsey, in your examination of Wendy Bryan’s body, you found stab wounds in the chest and the back, is that correct?’
Ramsey nodded. ‘It is.’
‘Could you tell which of those wounds was the fatal one?’
The medical examiner was looking more confident, on familiar ground, but she was still wary because I’d made her look bad – she thought – once before. ‘The wound in the chest caused death,’ she said. ‘It was the deeper one. It collapsed a lung and caused irreparable damage to the heart. Even if she had been found by an EMT and treatment had started immediately, I don’t believe she could have been revived.’
Most of this was in her report, which was fine. It gave me a roadmap to where I wanted to end up. ‘Can you tell which of the wounds was inflicted first?’ I asked.
‘It’s difficult, but based on the depth of the wounds, the position of the body and the amount of blood that was lost, I would guess that the wound in the back was inflicted first.’
‘Thank you, doctor. One last question: is there any doubt that the TeeVee award was the murder weapon?’
‘No.’ She’d memorized the shortest answer in the human language.
‘How do you know?’
‘There were traces of the metal from the statuette and from the gold veneer it was sprayed with found in the body,’ Ramsey answered.
‘Is there any other way they could have found their way into Wendy Bryan’s body?’ I asked.
‘I suppose it’s possible but that would be extremely unlikely,’ she said.
I had to admit I agreed with that assessment. But I had a witness coming up who could elaborate.
THIRTY-ONE
‘There’s a question I should have asked you and I never have,’ I said to Cynthia.
We were taking our lunch break at the courthouse. The spectacle of a famous actress on trial for murder, coupled with the speculation in the media about why the famously single (widower) TV star Patrick McNabb was taking such an active interest in the case, was driving press coverage to a very high level. So we were eating on the roof, at a table very kindly left for us by the courthouse support staff.
It was a typically furnace-like August day in Southern California and heat rises, so taking our break up here had turned out to be one of the less-great ideas I’d had lately. But I was thinking hard now about the proceedings and was rapidly coming to the conclusion that I’d made no progress in the trial so far.
True enough, I didn’t seem to be losing ground in my effort to prove that Cynthia hadn’t killed her mother-in-law with a Best Dramatic Actress (in a miniseries, movie or limited series) award. But the trial was treading water. We were still in the early days and the less interesting (to the jurors) witnesses. I wasn’t getting anywhere and I was starting to think I knew why.
‘What’s that?’ Cynthia wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. She had another in her lap and a third tucked into her neckline. It was one thing to be on trial for murder. It was another to be an actress in Hollywood photographed with marinara sauce on her blouse. That is exacerbated when you’re on trial for murder because marinara in photographs looks like blood. And Cynthia was not to be denied her eggplant parm sandwich.
‘Who do you think killed Wendy?’
Jon leaned forward. It was windy up here, which made the heat about two percent more tolerable but also made it harder to hear from across the table. He wanted to hear the answer because I was sure he had his own theories, but hadn’t voiced them because he didn’t want to step on my toes. I believed my toes could handle it and would have to articulate that to Jon. Because I didn’t have a clue who might have stuck a TeeVee in Wendy.
Cynthia gave it some visible thought, and not the kind that actresses usually make a show of having. I have met actresses who were very intelligent in my time here, and I have met some (as well as actors, I should note) who had one thought in their heads, and it was usually about how to get further ahead in ‘the business’.
‘I honestly don’t have a real strong feeling about it,’ Cynthia said. ‘Let me check with Chrys.’ She reached for her mobile phone to text her spiritual advisor and find out who the universe thought should be the subject of the LAPD’s investigation, which was not ongoing because they thought they’d found their woman two minutes after entering Wendy Bryan’s house the night of the killing.
‘No,’ I said. I didn’t reach for Cynthia’s phone because in LA that might prompt yet another murder an
d it would be my own. ‘I don’t want to know what Chrys thinks. I want the opinion of someone who was close to the victim. You knew Wendy and what was going on with her. What do you think was going on with Rafael? Were Pete and Penelope and Leopold all taking Wendy Bryan for a ride?’
Emily, who had appeared at the lunch break as if summoned by Patrick (or Angie, at Patrick’s behest), rolled her eyes. All this talk about murder when we could be discussing real estate. She had not spoken a word to me since arriving. Good.
Cynthia shook her head. ‘I was never on the inside with that,’ she said. ‘I don’t even think Michael was allowed to look over the books at the gallery, which bugged him. But I know Michael didn’t like Leopold.’
‘Do you think Pete or Penelope might have killed Wendy?’ Jon asked at a shout.
Cynthia shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible.’
I texted Nate for more information on Leopold’s death, which I had not yet disclosed to Cynthia because I wasn’t sure it was relevant, although I thought it was. A lot of things look like heart attacks. Electrocutions look like heart attacks.
No answer came immediately so I turned back toward Cynthia. ‘You’ve told me that a lot of people hated Wendy. Pete and Penelope could have been among them, right?’
She shrugged. ‘Everybody hated her,’ she said.
I didn’t respond. Instead I looked at Patrick while Jon typed notes frantically into his iPad.
I made serious eye contact with Patrick because I knew the way his mind worked, and he was already thinking of how he could progress using the information I’d gathered at this lunch. ‘Remember that it is not the defense attorney’s job to find the real culprit,’ I said deliberately. ‘I deal with the information I have and my job is to prove that Cynthia didn’t kill Wendy, not that somebody else did. We’re clear?’
‘Crystal, my love,’ Patrick said.
‘Stop that.’ That was me, not Emily, for the record. She was still sitting there looking infuriated.
‘Of course.’ Patrick spoke with an air of tolerance; at some point I’d understand that I was in love with him. Angie, to my chagrin, grinned. ‘So we have quite the array of suspects.’
‘Did you not hear what I just said?’ What was the point, exactly? I’d had this conversation with him thirty times before, either on his trial or on this one. What was it with the Dunwoody family and murders, anyway? ‘We are not looking for suspects. We’re looking for evidence that proves Cynthia didn’t kill her mother-in-law.’
‘I didn’t,’ Cynthia said.
‘I know, but you saying that isn’t quite enough.’ My turkey club just wasn’t as appealing anymore. The crinkle-cut potato chips that had come with it were, though. I’d think about that when I went running tomorrow morning at six. Court days suck.
‘I have one idea,’ Jon offered. I immediately turned my attention to him. Patrick, who considered him a distraction from me, didn’t mind Jon exactly but thought he was unnecessary. So he engrossed himself in his phone.
‘Talk to me,’ I said to Jon.
‘What we have in evidence right now is all what the prosecution doesn’t have. They don’t have a clear motive. Yeah, the two women didn’t like each other but that rarely leads to murder. They don’t have proof that Cynthia is strong enough to bend the metal in a TeeVee. They don’t have a witness. All that’s true, but it’s proving a negative. They don’t have the evidence they need, but they have a lot of innuendo and theory, and that might be enough to convince a jury.’
I felt myself squint a little and the sun was behind me. ‘So what’s your idea?’ I asked Jon.
‘We need to prove a positive. The ME’s report is vague on the time of death, giving us a two-hour window. Lieutenant Trench, who was outside in his car, saw Cynthia go inside but didn’t have any idea there was a murder occurring, which means he didn’t hear a cry of pain or terror. It’s entirely possible that Wendy had been dead up to an hour before Cynthia arrived.’ Jon turned to face our client and raised his voice so she could hear him. ‘What were you doing right before you went to Wendy’s house?’ he asked.
‘I was getting my nails done, as a matter of fact.’ Cynthia seemed to take the question as a challenge.
‘You have someone come to your house for that?’
‘Yeah.’ You didn’t hear the British accent as much with Cynthia as her brother. She had been born in America and, from what they’d told me, only visited England occasionally when she was young despite her father being British. There was still a tinge of it here and there, but mostly she could have been born anywhere. ‘So what?’
‘I’m not implying anything,’ Jon said. ‘Please just answer my questions. How much time was there between the manicure and when you left for Wendy’s house?’
Cynthia’s defensive posture softened. ‘Just a couple of minutes. I was running late.’
Jon looked at Cynthia and me. He probably looked at Angie too, because all men do, but she was too far away to be in one glance with the two of us. ‘How long does it take nail polish to really dry?’ he asked.
‘Just a few minutes,’ I said. ‘Cynthia, I’m sure, had no trouble driving.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not really dry.’ Cynthia was now on Jon’s wavelength. ‘With the kind of stuff Sevda uses, it could actually take an hour or so.’
‘How long did it take to drive to Wendy’s?’ Jon said. He was very much in cross-examination mode right now.
‘About twenty minutes.’
‘So let’s say it was half an hour between the application of the nail polish and when you found Wendy’s body,’ Jon said. ‘Would that be about right?’
‘On the outside.’ Cynthia nodded.
Jon manipulated his phone until the photograph of Cynthia, doused in blood on the floor of Wendy’s den and clutching what she thought was her TeeVee award, showed on the screen. He handed it to me. ‘Look at her hands.’
I did, and they had a lot of blood on them, but her nails looked great. ‘I’m still not there with you,’ I told Jon.
‘Was there any mention of nail polish found in the police report or the ME’s report?’ he asked me.
‘No, but it wasn’t on Wendy; it was on Cynthia.’
‘Yeah, but think,’ Cynthia said. She was catching on faster than me. ‘If my nails were still even a little wet and I picked up the TeeVee to kill Wendy, wouldn’t there have been some polish in the blood they found?’
I looked at Jon with new admiration. ‘You’re a genius,’ I said.
He grinned. ‘I try.’
THIRTY-TWO
‘A manicurist, Ms Moss?’ Judge Hawthorne looked, let’s say, skeptical.
‘I’m merely asking for her to be added to the witness list as an expert on nail polish,’ I explained. ‘I don’t expect to call her to the stand for some time.’
We were in sidebar, which meant that the judge had stopped recording the proceedings so Valencia and I could approach the bench. This was a question of procedure and the jury didn’t need to hear it. I’d asked to add Sevda Lakonya, Cynthia’s manicurist, to the witness list, which in theory had been set in stone weeks before. But this kind of thing happens all the time and Valencia had no reason to object to it. So he’d objected to it.
‘What relevance can the defendant’s fingernails have to do with this murder?’ he asked the judge. Because, you know, girls.
‘It goes to the physical evidence and the photographs submitted by the LAPD,’ I told Hawthorne. ‘I believe there is a good deal of relevance, but of course Your Honor can rule on that when the witness is on the stand.’
Hawthorne nodded and Valencia knew he had no more chance on the subject. Why he cared, aside from being a frat boy jerk, was difficult to know. ‘I’ll allow it,’ the judge said. ‘Everybody back to your tables.’ She actually shooed us off like so many bumblebees. ‘Proceed, Mr Valencia.’
‘The people call Detective Lieutenant K. C. Trench.’ Valencia had been rehearsing that bit into a mirror; you could te
ll.
Trench, willing himself not to sweat in the overheated courtroom, strode to the stand, took his oath and sat down without creating so much as an unwanted crease in his trousers. The man was impeccable from head to toe. It was unnerving.
After the preliminaries, during which Trench’s curriculum vitae was made to sound as if he was a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Iron Man, Valencia asked if he’d been in the vicinity of Wendy Bryan’s house the night she died.
‘Yes,’ Trench said. I had seen him testify before and knew he would offer nothing but what was asked in the fewest possible words.
Valencia had clearly questioned Trench before too because he didn’t seem the least bit thrown by his witness’s brevity. ‘And did you see anyone enter the house?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ A couple of the jurors rolled their eyes. Just as well. Trench was a prosecution witness.
‘Approximately how long after you saw someone enter did the police call come in and officers dispatched to the house in Santa Monica?’ Valencia said.
‘I was not present by then, but according to the records from the Santa Monica dispatcher, it was three minutes later,’ Trench answered.
‘Did you know … Is the person who walked into Wendy Bryan’s house the night she was murdered here in the courtroom today?’ Valencia was trying to build to a TV moment worthy of … well, Patrick McNabb.
‘Yes,’ Trench said. He was trying to build a TV moment worthy of the test pattern.
‘Can you tell us who that was?’ Valencia had anticipated Trench’s taciturn response and used it to fit his rhythm. Clever.
‘It was the defendant, Cynthia Sutton,’ Trench answered. He did not point as witnesses do if they’ve seen too many movies. I doubted Trench had ever seen a movie. He probably went home every night and read through his unsolved cases. If he had any unsolved cases.
There was no gasp among the spectators. They weren’t surprised. Who else would Trench have been called to identify?
‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’ Valencia appeared to be terribly pleased with himself. He walked back to his table and sat down.
Judgment at Santa Monica Page 18