Salinas folded his arms; his posture and expression were that of a master teacher listening to his most brilliant student. ‘Have you completed your answer, Dr Shelton, regarding your basis for opining that Mr Arias was murdered?’
‘No, actually.’ Shelton turned to Caroline, nodding slightly. ‘Ms Masters is quite correct: there is no protocol for suicide. But in my experience, people tend to shoot themselves in three positions: standing up; sitting in a chair; or lying in bed. Here, based on the pattern of blowback on the arms and the angle of the bullet, Mr Arias would have had to shoot himself while lying on the floor and with his head slightly raised. I’ve never seen anyone who did that.
‘Which brings me to the angle of the gun. Like the position of the body, it’s unusual – even bizarre. If Mr Arias had been holding the revolver in his mouth, you would expect it to be pointing up toward his brain. Instead the trajectory was slightly downward, toward his throat. Which would have required Mr Arias to lie on his back, head slightly raised, and then take the gun, hold it above him – apparently over his nose – crook his elbow and arm to angle the gun downward, and then pull the trigger. Perhaps with his thumb.’
Shelton’s testimony was becoming deadly, Paget knew. But there was nothing Caroline could do but listen and wait.
Salinas walked to his table, producing a small black revolver with an exhibit tag. ‘Your Honor, this revolver has been premarked as People’s Exhibit 5. With the permission of the court, I will ask Dr Shelton to identify it.’
‘May we see it?’ Caroline asked.
Without a word, Salinas placed the revolver on the table. Looking down, Paget saw a small and worn handgun, with a checkered handgrip monogrammed. ‘S&W’ and a safety catch inside the grip. He did not pick it up.
‘Odd,’ he murmured to Caroline, ‘That it’s so old.’
‘Counselor?’ Salinas interjected.
When Caroline nodded, Salinas took the gun and handed it to Shelton. ‘Is this the murder weapon, Dr Shelton?’
Holding the revolver by the barrel, Shelton examined it. ‘It certainly appears to be,’ she answered.
With sudden fluidity, Salinas took the gun from her hand and lay on the floor, head slightly raised. ‘In your opinion, was this Mr Arias’s approximate position at the moment of death?’
Caroline rose. ‘Is Mr Salinas about to levitate, Your Honor? Otherwise I really don’t know what this proves.’
But the jury seemed riveted to Salinas. He peered up from the floor at a somewhat bemused Jared Lerner. ‘I’m simply helping Dr Shelton demonstrate her point regarding the contortions required for Mr Arias’s presumptive suicide. Quickly, I hope, before I get a crick in my neck.’
There was muffled laughter. ‘All right,’ Lerner said with an air of amusement. ‘Go ahead.’
But what was coming, Paget suddenly saw, would not be funny. Slowly, Salinas placed the gun to his mouth, asking disingenuously, ‘Is this the right angle?’
Shelton gazed down at him with a fleeting look of distaste. ‘No,’ she said tersely. ‘Raise the gun above your nose and point it down.’
Salinas followed her instructions; the result – elbows bent, wrist twisted, thumb on the trigger – looked grotesque. ‘Like this?’ he asked in a tone of disbelief.
‘Approximately. Yes.’
Salinas maintained the awkward position. ‘But this isn’t what you believe happened. Could you help me illustrate what you think did happen?’
Gingerly, Shelton walked over to Salinas and knelt. The jury watched as one.
Gazing into Shelton’s face, Salinas opened his mouth. With her right hand, Shelton slid the gun into his mouth.
Salinas’s eyes widened. ‘Like this,’ Shelton said quietly, and pulled the trigger.
There was a soft click. In the jury box, Luisa Marin turned away. Salinas’s eyes stayed frozen: in that moment, Paget knew, the murder of Ricardo Arias had become real.
Slowly, Shelton removed the gun. But Salinas’s eyes did not change. ‘Which reminds me,’ he asked quietly, ‘did you find anything peculiar about Mr Arias’s eyes?’
She looked down at him. ‘I did,’ she said with equal quiet. ‘Virtually all the people I’ve seen who shot themselves died with their eyes shut.’
Luisa Marin was staring at Shelton; in that moment, Paget was certain that she had seen her father’s body, and that his eyes were closed.
‘Pardon me, Counsel,’ Jared Lerner broke in. ‘Are you through lying on the floor?’
Salinas seemed faintly annoyed. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’
Turning, Elizabeth Shelton walked back to the stand. ‘She just loves Victor,’ Caroline whispered dryly.
Shelton faced Salinas again, her face studiedly neutral. Hands on hips, Salinas asked, ‘Based on the medical evidence, Dr Shelton, do you have a belief as to the sequence of events which led to Mr Arias’s death?’
Shelton glanced at Paget; for a brief moment, their eyes met, and then she turned to the jury. ‘I do,’ she said firmly. ‘The medical evidence is consistent with my belief that Mr Arias sustained a blow to the face and that he spun and fell over the coffee table, resulting in an injury to his head. Together, the blows to the face and head rendered Mr Arias unconscious.’ Pausing, Shelton spoke more quietly. ‘The evidence further suggests that as he lay there on the floor, someone inserted the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger twice. But, as ballistics discovered, the bullets had been kept in a damp place, and the first shot did not discharge. Finally, the medical evidence suggests that before the gun was fired again, Mr Arias awoke. So that, in the last instant of his life, he was aware of the gun in his mouth.’
The sentence lingered there. Shelton reached for the glass of water on the railing of the witness box, took a sip, and continued. ‘I cannot know what happened. But my thesis accounts for the medical evidence – the injuries to Mr Arias’s nose, head, and leg; the tissue on the table; the blood spatter and GSR on the same table as well as on his face; their anomalous absence on his hands; the peculiar angle of the bullet; the strange position of his head; and’ – here Shelton’s voice fell – ‘the look of terrible fright, captured by the moment of death.’
She folded her hands. ‘I may be off about a detail or two. But the medical evidence is not consistent with suicide. Of that I’m quite confident.’ She paused again. ‘To put it more baldly, Mr Salinas, this man was murdered.’
Beneath the table, Caroline’s fingertips grazed Paget’s knee, a fleeting gesture of reassurance. ‘Victor went a little too far,’ she murmured, and then she was on her feet, walking toward Shelton.
Shelton gave Caroline a look of polite interest. ‘Was Mr Arias’s alarm set?’ she asked abruptly.
Shelton looked surprised. ‘No. I believe not.’
‘Perhaps,’ Caroline said dryly, ‘he didn’t plan on getting up.’
‘Objection,’ Salinas called out. ‘Calls for speculation.’
‘Precisely, Victor,’ Caroline asserted, still gazing at Shelton. ‘And it’s at least as reasonable as your questions about the coffeemaker.’
The corner of Shelton’s mouth flickered. ‘Sustained,’ Lerner said. ‘Perhaps you may wish to ask the question another way.’
‘I do, actually. Dr Shelton, would you consider Mr Arias’s failure to set his alarm to be as consistent with suicide as his supposed action in setting the coffeemaker is consistent, in your thesis, with murder?’
Shelton gave a disinterested shrug. ‘I suppose so. Neither proves much, and my opinion isn’t based on coffee grounds.’
‘That’s just as well. Let’s stick to the evidence, then. For all you know, waking or sleeping, Mr Arias was alive when the newspaper was delivered, correct?’
‘It’s possible, yes.’
‘And, indeed, it’s possible he slept well into the morning? Until ten or eleven.’
Shelton’s eyes, alert and a little amused, told Paget that she had followed Caroline perfectly. ‘In theory, yes.’
‘So that even accepting your hypothesis, if Mr Paget was driving to the airport before seven and on an airplane by eight, it’s quite possible that Mr Arias died thereafter.’
Shelton nodded. ‘It’s all possible, Ms Masters.’
Caroline raised her head; her profile, handsome and aristocratic, seemed to draw the jury. ‘Then you have no opinion on whether Christopher Paget shot Ricardo Arias. Or even could have.’
‘None whatsoever.’
These were easy questions to ask, Paget knew; other witnesses would try to show his guilt. But it allowed Caroline to establish a rhythm, making a point or two with the jury. ‘Speaking of the revolver,’ she continued, ‘It’s a rather weak caliber, is it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which would cause a lesser amount of blowback?’
‘Yes.’ Pausing, Shelton decided to anticipate Caroline’s next question. ‘But not in a pattern which reached the coffee table but excluded Mr Arias’s hands and arms.’
Caroline smiled. ‘It didn’t really exclude them, did it? As I recall, the autopsy report showed traces of blood and GSR on Mr Arias’s right hand.’
‘A small trace,’ Shelton corrected. ‘But there was far more on the gun itself. From which I concluded that someone else held it, receiving blowback on his or her hand or sleeve, and then placed it in Mr Arias’s right hand, leaving only the small trace of blowback and GSR.’
Caroline walked forward, as if to demonstrate her persistence. ‘Mr Arias was right-handed, was he not?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then isn’t it possible that he shot himself using only his right hand, explaining the absence of GSR and blowback on his left hand and arm?’
Shelton frowned now. ‘That much is possible, Ms Masters. But not the paucity of residue on either hand. Particularly when compared to the revolver itself.’
Restless, Marian Celler gazed at the clock. Move on, Paget urged Caroline. But she did not do so. ‘There was also blood, was there not, on Mr Arias’s hand near his wrist. Quite a bit, in fact, and also Mr Arias’s blood.’
‘Yes,’ Shelton said. ‘But that was a smear of blood, completely inconsistent with the speckling caused by blowback.’
‘Oh? And what did cause it?’
Shelton folded her hands. ‘In my opinion,’ she said evenly, ‘the smear was caused when Mr Arias wiped blood from beneath his nose.’
Caroline raised her eyebrows. ‘How did you determine that?’
‘It just makes sense. And, as the pictures show, there was also a smear of blood beneath Mr Arias’s nose.’
Suddenly Paget saw Shelton’s mistake and knew what Caroline would do next. But instead she simply asked, ‘But you’re quite certain the blood on his hand was not blowback?’ ‘Quite.’
‘And you never considered that it was blowback but that Mr Arias’s hand, falling after he shot himself, smeared the blood as it crossed his face or body or even the rug?’
Shelton appraised her. ‘I found no blood, anywhere, which caused me to entertain that possibility.’
‘But is it possible?’
‘I wasn’t there, Ms Masters. But I found no reason to believe it happened like that.’
Shelton was looking annoyed; Caroline’s persistence in raising the question of blowback, Paget saw, seemed to have disguised what she meant to do. But then, abruptly, Caroline shifted subjects. ‘Mr Arias did leave a suicide note, correct?’
‘There was a note, yes.’
‘Do you believe he didn’t write it?’
Shelton shrugged. ‘As far as I know, the fact that he wrote it isn’t in dispute. But I would have to question the circumstances.’
Paget saw Luisa Marin clasp her hands together, her expression strained and tight. ‘In other words,’ Caroline said, ‘your opinion simply ignores the letter.’
Shelton leaned back. ‘In reaching my opinion, I took its existence into account. But I concluded, based on the medical evidence, that this was not a suicide.’
‘All right. Then let’s return to the medical evidence.’ Smiling, Caroline turned to Salinas. ‘Do you think you can play Mr Arias again, Victor? You were so good the last time.’
Salinas half stood, looking surprised and a bit nettled. ‘Why can’t you stage your own demonstration?’
‘Humor me, Victor. Besides, your suit’s already dirty.’
There was laughter in the courtroom, a small smile from Marian Celler. ‘She has you,’ Judge Lerner said to Salinas. ‘Your public demands an encore.’
There was a second wave of chuckles. Salinas opened his palms and smiled. ‘For you, Your Honor. But after this, I’m giving up acting.’
‘Oh,’ Caroline said with a smile, ‘I doubt that. But I appreciate your help, Victor. You wouldn’t mind coming over here and lying on the floor, would you? And do bring your gun.’
Paget suppressed a grin: so this was how she would do it. Walking over to Caroline, Salinas did not look happy.
She smiled again. ‘At my feet, Victor. Please.
Salinas executed a mock bow. ‘Always,’ he responded with irony, and lay on the floor near Caroline.
‘My, you look natural,’ she said, and turned to Liz Shelton. ‘And you, Dr Shelton, would you mind stepping down?’
Shelton gave Caroline a quick, appraising glance and then walked over to Salinas. ‘You may take the gun,’ Caroline said. ‘And then if you would, could you replicate the murder scenario you staged for us earlier?’
Caroline had captured the jury now. They watched with strict attention as Shelton knelt by Salinas. ‘As I recall,’ Caroline said, ‘Victor’s head was slightly raised, and he looked quite uncomfortable. Please do that again, Victor, while Dr Shelton puts the gun in your mouth.’
Salinas raised his head with a look of distaste. Slowly, Shelton slid the gun between his lips. Caroline peered down at Salinas with a critical expression. ‘Eyes a little wider, please, Victor. You were much better the first time.’
Someone coughed in the courtroom, suppressing laughter. ‘All right,’ Caroline said to Shelton. ‘Now, as I recall your thesis, some unknown person struck Mr Arias, who then took a pratfall over his coffee table, struck his head, rolled onto the carpet, passed out, and came to just in time to see his killer and gaze up with horror. Although not long enough to grab for the gun. Is that about it?’
Shelton kept looking at Salinas. ‘Approximately.’
Caroline looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t you leave something out?’
‘And what would that be?’
‘The part where Victor wipes his nose.’
The startled laugh, Paget realized, was Jared Lerner’s. But now Caroline was not smiling. ‘Can you answer my question, Dr Shelton? Just when did Mr Arias find time to wipe his nose?’
As Shelton gazed up, Salinas pushed the gun from his mouth. ‘Down, Victor,’ Caroline said, and looked back at Shelton.
Shelton shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
Caroline stared down at her. ‘I mean, it’s a little implausible, isn’t it? I were Mr Arias, I might have gone for the gun before cleaning myself up.’
Shelton set down the gun. ‘You’re assuming that’s when he wiped his nose. It could have been some other time.’
‘Oh? So now your “thesis” is that he wiped his nose shortly after he was hit but before pirouetting over the coffee table?’
Salinas sat up. ‘Are we through here?’ he snapped.
She looked down at him. ‘Completely,’ she said, and turned to Shelton. ‘You may return to the stand, Dr Shelton.’
Shelton did so. ‘Do you have my last question in mind?’ Caroline asked.
‘Completely,’ Shelton responded, with a certain wry dignity. ‘And as I testified before, it’s possible that I’m wrong about a detail or two. For example, the intruder may have struck Mr Arias at some earlier point. Temporizing with his potential killer, Mr Arias may have wiped his nose. And then, believing his situation hopeless, may have turned to run, stri
king the coffee table.’ Shelton paused, her voice gathering force. ‘Whatever else, it is not my thesis that Mr Arias beat himself, bruised his leg, banged his head on the table, and shot himself in a weird position, covering his right hand in some inexplicable way, all in order to conceal his passionate desire to kill himself.’
It was a devastating counter. But Caroline merely smiled. ‘Assuming that your earlier string of “may”s adds up to something, let me try yet another theory. In a state of extreme distress, Mr Arias begins to write a suicide note but can’t bring himself to finish. He starts pacing in an agitated state, holding the gun, oblivious to his surroundings. Blindly, he trips over the coffee table, hitting both his head and his nose, and lands on the floor with the gun.’ Caroline paused, speaking more slowly. ‘Stunned, he wipes his nose – the kind of reflexive thing an agitated man, addled and alone, has time for. And then his thoughts clarify, and he knows what he wants to do. And does it.’ Gazing at Shelton, Caroline spoke quite softly now: ‘Just as he said in the note.’
‘It’s completely inconsistent,’ Shelton answered promptly. ‘Because it fails to account for the lack of blowback and GSR.’
‘But it does account for his injuries, doesn’t it, Dr Shelton? And for the smear of blood.’ Here Caroline paused for a deadly moment. ‘Unless, of course, that was blowback.’
Shelton gave her a level look. ‘There was no GSR on his wrist at all. In my opinion, the only way Mr Arias could have fired that gun was if he were wearing a glove.’
‘But then,’ Caroline retorted, ‘he wouldn’t have that mysterious blood on his hand. Which you can’t really explain, can you?’
‘Not as an isolated fact, no. But in the totality of the facts, I don’t believe it matters.’
Caroline, Paget knew, was running out of points to score. He saw her pause, hoping to end on a high note. ‘But it did matter to your initial thesis, didn’t it? In which Mr Arias is struck and plummets over the table.’
Shelton hesitated, and then nodded. ‘It did,’ she conceded. ‘And in retrospect, I was a little ambitious in trying to tie everything together. But the essence of my opinion is this: the medical evidence – the lack of blowback, the absence of GSR, the injuries to Mr Arias’s head and body, the position of the gun – is all inconsistent with suicide. Period.’ Shelton paused again. ‘And there was one other thing,’ she finished quietly. ‘The look on Mr Arias’s face.’
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