(2012) The Key to Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  Prentiss turned the witness over to Marc who spent the next half hour questioning him about the lack of evidence. But, it was weak and almost pointless. Slocum had done a great job of explaining it away to the jury and Marc’s questions were lame and half-hearted and he knew it. As he was about to give up, the light came on in his head.

  “Mr. Jacobson, is it your position that the jury should believe that the defendant went to considerable lengths to keep the clothes out of his apartment?”

  “The jury can believe whatever they want. I’m just here to testify about the facts.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. You testified the clothes were washed three or four times, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s your opinion they were not washed at his apartment and not washed with the detergent you found in his apartment?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And the clothes were not found in the apartment, is that true?”

  “Correct.”

  “In fact, based on your scientific analysis, as far as you can tell, they were never in the apartment, true?”

  “Yes, as far as we can tell,” Jacobson said shifting slightly in his seat and shrugging his shoulders.

  “So, Mr. Jacobson, would you say that, if those articles of clothing are the defendant’s, he was being careful with them? Washing out the evidence and hiding them? Keeping them away from his apartment?”

  Jacobson shifted again and glanced quickly at Slocum who was considering an objection. An objection he decided would be ill advised. He had just spent considerable time and effort getting the jury to believe exactly what Marc was going over and an objection would make him look foolish. Worse, it would make him look like he was now trying to hide something.

  “Yes, I would say that,” Jacobson finally answered. Marc leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, locked his fingers together and held his head up with his chin resting on the back of his hands. He sat this way, without expression, staring at the witness for a long fifteen seconds while everyone in the courtroom waited for him. Wondering where he was going with this questioning that seemed to support the state’s case.

  Finally without moving, he quietly asked, “He supposedly went to all this trouble to hide the clothes, but yet, the knife, the murder weapon itself, was found in his apartment. Can you explain that, Mr. Jacobson?”

  “I dunno,” Jacobson answered. “Got careless, I guess.”

  “Pretty dumb, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Objection. Argumentative,” Slocum said as he began to rise.

  “Withdrawn,” Marc said, “I have nothing further, your Honor.”

  Slocum finished the day by calling a fingerprint expert from the State’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, commonly referred to as the BCA. He went through his normal routine of carefully establishing her credentials. Detailing for the jury her education, background and experience to convince the jury of her credibility and expertise. Amanda Evans looked anything but the part of a bookish, technically-oriented, criminal evidence analyst. Petite, pretty blond in her late forties she had turned down job offers from all over the country, including the FBI, in order to stay close to home and family. She had been with the BCA for almost twenty years and when Amanda said a set of fingerprints matched a particular person, her reputation was such that few argued with her and none did so successfully.

  She and Slocum, mostly Amanda, spent about an hour and a half going over the fingerprints taken from the quarters found in the locker’s change box. Using an overheard projector with blowups of the prints and a telescoping pointer, Amanda gave the jury a concise, easily understood and authoritative rendition of the science of fingerprint analysis and carefully and convincingly made the case that the prints on all three coins belonged to Carl Fornich. And, if that wasn’t enough, the state introduced a two foot high stack of computer printouts Amanda obtained by running the prints from the coins through the FBI’s data base. The result of that search came up with only one match; Carl Fornich. Marc sat quietly throughout her testimony. Admiring her as a witness and a professional. Of course, none of her testimony surprised him since all of this had been gleefully made known to him by Slocum weeks ago. Marc hired his own fingerprint expert to do a comparison, just to be sure, who had come to the same conclusion. Marc’s expert had found a few minor discrepancies as there always are, which Marc was prepared to bring out when Marc called him during the defense’s case.

  “Ms. Evans,” Marc said, beginning his cross examination, “were there other coins found in the locker box?”

  “Yes, ten in all,” she pleasantly answered.

  “And did you run a fingerprint analysis on all of them?”

  “Yes I did.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Well,” she began, “there were usable prints on three others but the four remaining coins were too smudged.”

  “Of the three coins, were you able to match them to anyone?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Specifically, did any other coins match the defendant’s fingerprints?”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “Would it be safe to say that ...” he began to ask, then stopped himself. He was tempted to ask her if someone besides Carl had deposited the other coins but knew that she couldn’t answer the question for sure. In fact, he realized, it was altogether possible that Carl could deposit other coins in the locker without leaving good prints or even smudging those prints already on the coins and he didn’t want the State’s fingerprint expert pointing out that fact to the jury.

  “Withdrawn, your Honor,” he said. Marc continued to stare at the witness, fighting the urge to continue along this line. He had already scored the only point he was going to, the fact that someone else had used the locker. To push further could invite disaster.

  “I have no further questions, your Honor,” Marc finally said with a friendly smile at Amanda.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  The next day, Friday, the medical examiner, Dr. Howard Palen, was first up for Slocum. Another opportunity for Slocum to put on a show. The media, having had the good doctor’s testimony leaked to it ahead of time, was back in full attendance. The courtroom was packed with them again giving Slocum the audience he craved. And the media, mostly the locals since the nationals had long since departed, couldn’t resist the ghoulish voyeurism of reporting the details the M.E. would spell out about the deaths of each of the women.

  While Marc and Carl sat passively maintaining an indifferent, even semi-bored composure, Slocum put on his show for the voters. He started slowly, as was his style with a well prepared expert witness, going over the doctor’s schooling, professional qualifications and years of experience. Palen, for his part, did an excellent job. Having testified at trials too numerous to recall, he was so good at it he hardly needed Slocum’s help at all. The two of them went over the medical details and cause of death, one by one, of each of the victims. The single stab wound beginning under the chin and thrust upward, through the mouth and into the brain.

  “So, doctor,” Slocum asked, “would you say that all of the victims died from a similar wound?”

  “No, not similar, Mr. Slocum.” Palen began his answer. “I would say, it is my medical opinion, that they were all identical.”

  “Identical?” Slocum repeated making the single word response a question.

  “Yes, identical. Each one was exactly the same and I would say each one made by the same knife.”

  With that Slocum rose from his seat and strolled to the evidence table, picked up the plastic bag containing the knife and, without asking for Prentiss’ permission, walked over to the witness stand. He handed the knife to Palen and took two steps back, a move designed to allow the jury to watch both men as Palen’s testimony reached its conclusion.

  “Now then, Doctor Palen,” Slocum said, slowly drawing out what everyone knew was coming, “I’ve just handed you State’s Exhibit 8. Do you recognize it?”


  “Yes,” Palen answered as he turned the knife over in his hands.

  “And how do you recognize it, doctor?” Slocum asked quietly, patiently standing still in his two thousand dollar, charcoal, double-breasted suit, hands folded solemnly in front of himself.

  “I was given this knife and two others taken from the defendant’s apartment and asked to compare them to the victims’ wounds.”

  “Did you do the comparison?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And,” Slocum said after making a ninety degree turn to his right to face the jury, “what, if any, conclusions did you draw?”

  “This knife, and only this knife, was a perfect match. An exact fit, if you will, of the wounds that caused the deaths of all six victims.”

  Then, while standing absolutely still and continuing his surveillance of the jurors, Slocum carefully, deliberately went through the lists of the victims. Asking Palen as he ticked off each name if the knife he held matched the entry and death wounds of each one of them. And, of course, as each victim was named, Palen affirmatively answered that the knife, State’s Exhibit 8, was an exact match for each one of them. At that point, having scored probably the most dramatic and damning testimony so far, and without returning the knife to the table, Slocum returned to his seat and turned the witness over to Marc.

  Marc asked for and obtained permission to approach the witness. For no apparent reason, he quickly walked up to the witness stand and gently took the bag with the knife in it away from the doctor. He rolled up the plastic bag around the knife while beginning his questions and, as unobtrusively as possible, held it in his hand, the blade pointing upward, along the inside of his arm to get the damn thing out of the sight of the jurors.

  He confined his cross to a few very carefully chosen questions about entry points and the angle of the wounds as he slowly moved away from the witness. Standing about ten feet in front of the defense table, he stopped his backward movement and asked, “So, Doctor Palen, could you tell whether the victims were stabbed by a right hand or a left?”

  “A right hand. Very clearly,” Palen replied.

  “It would be your testimony then that whoever stabbed each of these victims is right handed?”

  “Yes, that would be my medical opinion,” Palen answered as he shifted slightly in his chair, a curious look on his face. With that, Marc turned to the table and with one quick motion tossed the knife in the bag at Carl. Carl, with a well rehearsed, startled look on his face, reached up and snatched the knife and bag out of the air just before it would have hit him in the face. There was a slight gasp from several of the spectators and the eyes of each of the jurors remained transfixed on Carl as he held the bag up in his hand for two or three seconds, allowing all of them a clear opportunity to see that he had caught it with his left hand and then tossed it onto the table top.

  Before a startled Slocum and Gondeck could respond, Marc turned back to the witness and said, “Thank you, Doctor.” Then, turning his eyes to the bench, said to Prentiss, “I have no further questions, your Honor.”

  “Your Honor,” Slocum indignantly bellowed, “I must object.”

  Prentiss slammed down his gavel to silence the buzz in the Courtroom, looked at the jury and forcefully said, “The jury will disregard the defense counsel’s theatrics and, as for you, Mr. Kadella,” he continued turning a withering gaze at Marc who remained standing in place, an innocent look on his face, “any more stunts like that and I’ll hold you in contempt. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, your Honor,” Marc meekly replied.

  “May we approach, your Honor?” Slocum angrily asked. Prentiss turned his look back at Marc, angrily narrowed his eyes and stabbed a finger toward him while saying, “I want counsel in chambers now. We’ll take a brief recess.”

  Back in the judge’s chambers, an obviously more calm Prentiss said to Marc, “I oughta slap you with a fine for that little stunt.”

  “I want his client on the stand now. To testify whether or not he is right handed or left,” Slocum seethed.

  “Not a chance,” Marc said. “You even bring up the subject of him testifying and I ask for a mistrial.”

  “And I have to give it to him,” Prentiss replied.

  “If and when my client testifies, you can ask him then,” Marc calmly said to Slocum.

  “Relax Craig,” Prentiss said. “The jurors aren’t fools. They’ll see that for the staged stunt that it was. But,” he continued sternly looking at Marc, “I’ll tolerate no more of it. Any more and I throw your ass in a cell. Clear?”

  “Yes sir,” Marc replied.

  As they filed out of the judge’s chambers to go back into the Courtroom, Steve Gondeck, who had quietly watched it all with an amused look on his face, gently pulled at Marc’s elbow as Slocum passed through the back courtroom door. Standing in the back hall, Gondeck whispered to Marc, “How’d you know?”

  “How’d I know what?” Marc quietly asked.

  “How’d you know which hand?”

  Casting a quick glance around to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard, Marc whispered back, “It wouldn’t have made any difference.” He smiled slyly, winked at Gondeck and went through the door back to his seat.

  The remainder of the day was taken up by the State’s DNA expert. What could have been an excruciatingly painful two days of mind-numbingly boring testimony had been reduced, by prior agreement, to a couple of hours. To move the trial along Prentiss had obtained an agreement from both sides about this witness and the DNA testimony. Marc agreed to basically allow it in, the match between Carl’s DNA and the semen sample found in Constance Gavin’s vagina, without contesting it’s accuracy.

  Slocum agreed to forego the charts, graphs and long-winded explanation in exchange for Marc’s stipulation. Also, Marc’s DNA expert and findings would not be put before the jury. A brief explanation of the witnesses credentials, a summary of scientific DNA analysis techniques, a straight forward statement about the match with Carl and the witness was off the stand and the trial recessed for the weekend.

  As the Courtroom emptied Carl turned to Marc and said, “I still don’t understand why we didn’t put up more of a fight with the DNA stuff.”

  “Carl,” Marc said patiently, “we’ve been over this. Prentiss made it clear that the evidence was coming in. He was determined that this guy was gonna tell the jury it was a match. There was no point in fighting it. This way, the jury hears it without making a big deal out of it. All it really proves is you had sex with the woman and you heard him, it could’ve been as much as 48 hours before she died. Besides, this way the jury doesn’t know we had the sample tested and our expert came up with the same conclusion. It wasn’t worth fighting. We wouldn’t have won.”

  “All right. I guess,” Carl shrugged. “Was the judge really pissed about the knife trick?”

  “He wasn’t pleased,” Marc said chuckling as he finished packing to go. “I’ll see ya’ tomorrow.”

  The two men rose together, shook hands and, as Carl was being led away, Marc turned to leave and saw Maddy waiting for him at the back of the now empty courtroom.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he asked, trying to be angry but finding it too difficult just by seeing her.

  “Whatever happened to: Hi Maddy. It’s nice to see you again?’’ she said.

  “Hi, Maddy. It’s nice to see you again. Where the hell have you been?” he repeated as he stepped through the door, holding it open for her.

  “Chicago. Didn’t you get my message?” she asked as they headed toward the elevators.

  “No. Wait. Maybe. Yeah, I do remember. That was three weeks ago. I thought it was just gonna be a few days. You’re just now getting back?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “My Dad was sick. He’s okay now but I stayed longer ‘cuz of it,” she shrugged as they continued walking. “And, I settled my suit with the city.”

  “Your harassment case? That’s great. How’d ya’ make out?”

  “All right. We str
uctured it over a period of years so I guess I won’t have to worry about money for a while. Marc, she continued while he pressed the down button to summon an elevator car, “I found her.”

  “Found who?” he asked.

  “Waschke’s mother,” she whispered.

  “You did? Where? Let’s go see ...”

  “Hold it. She’s not home. I was there today. Relax. I’ll go back. I’ll get her.”

  “Do I dare ask how you found her?”

  “It’s not important,” she answered coyly. “Besides, I didn’t do anything illegal or that I’d be ashamed of.”

  They rode in silence in the crowded elevator car down to the second floor courtyard. After leaving the building, they found an empty park bench on which to continue their conversation.

  “How’s the trial going?” she asked.

  “I dunno,” he said after a long pause. “I think we’re behind on points. Before today I thought we were holding our own, but Slocum scored pretty good with the knife today. I know damn well Waschke planted the knife. But, unless we can find a solid motive for it, I don’t think the jury’s gonna buy it. They’re gonna want somebody to pay for all these murders and, right now, Carl’s lookin’ like a pretty good candidate.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll see what the mother has to say. I have a feeling it’s there. Somewhere. Something in his past. Something having to do with his brother’s name change.”

  “I hope so,” he sighed. “If not, then it’ll come down to shaking this Hobbs guy ...” he said quietly, without conviction as he stared blankly at the pedestrian traffic moving in and out of the big building.

  “How about you?” she asked, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m okay,” he said, weakly smiling at her. “When this is all done, one way or another, I’m gonna take a few days off just to sleep and eat normally again. Listen,” he continued looking at his watch, “I gotta go. I gotta get back to the office. I’m expecting a call from Washington. See if you can find the mother this weekend.”