Maybe she should keep it by the front door.
Jaime moved on to the collection of glass and blood at Christina’s Eighth Street apartment.
Banta testified that, although an effort had been made to sweep up, preliminary tests showed the presence of blood in the kitchen. Several tiny broken pieces of glass had been found on the kitchen floor. They fell around a central point of impact-a bar stool pulled up to the central island. A few slivers were found on the broom, and one had also stuck to the dustpan found in the pantry with the broom, although that had probably been washed.
Pay dirt had been struck in the kitchen trash can: the rest of the glass pieces. Nina had a point to make about that, but she decided to save her questions for the forensic technician who would be coming after Banta.
Banta went on in her relaxed, matter-of-fact voice. The glass came from a set of small Czech tumblers found in the kitchen. Traces of cognac from the bottle of Courvoisier V.S.O.P. found on the kitchen counter could be identified on the broken glass in the trash. DNA testing had picked up Christina’s saliva.
And no one else’s.
Christina had been drinking, but her killer hadn’t. Had the killer turned down an offer? Or had she been drinking to buck herself up and not felt friendly enough to offer the same person she had just let into her place late at night a drink?
And the killer had sat informally at a bar stool, not on the red leather couch in Christina’s art-filled living room. To Nina, all signs pointed to someone she knew very well. Like her brother, Alex. Or maybe this rejected boyfriend Paul had just learned about, named Sergey Krilov.
Or maybe a new man in her life. Larry Santa Ana, the burly juror, studied Stefan’s face, and Nina read his: it wasn’t too hard to picture big, hunky Stefan making eyes at a woman. Nina did not like this sort of juror, who fills the holes in testimony with personal life experience. It wasn’t too hard to picture Santa Ana making eyes at a woman, either.
“Using all the standard presumptive tests, we searched for the presence of blood throughout the apartment,” Banta said, and Nina jerked back to her testimony. “We were able to locate traces of blood that did not match the victim’s on a few pieces of glass found on the floor and in the kitchen trash can.”
“Indicating what, if anything, to you as a trained homicide investigator?”
“That the victim hit her killer with a glass, cutting him. She probably threw it.”
“Did you find blood anywhere else?”
“No.”
A hurting Madeleine Frey fidgeted, massaging her left leg. Nina caught her grimacing as Frey crossed it over her right leg. She hoped Frey could pay attention anyway, as Jaime had come to the final and most damning testimony of the day.
“And did you subsequently compare the blood on the kitchen floor and in the kitchen trash with the blood of the defendant in this case?”
“Yes. The defendant gave his permission to have a blood sample drawn so that DNA comparison tests could be made. Those tests were carried out on May second.” Stefan had sworn the tests would clear him, so Klaus, entirely properly, had allowed them without objection. Ginger would be evaluating the prosecution’s results, and continued to run new tests.
“Did you thereafter receive the certified state laboratory results?”
“Yes. In late May.”
“And what were those results?” Klaus had stipulated that Banta could testify about this, although technically Abbott Lumley, the forensics tech and blood expert, should. Many decisions had been made before Nina’s entry into the case, and she didn’t agree with any of them. She chewed on her thumbnail impotently. Beside her, Klaus listened intently with his little smile, as though he already knew all the answers and would bring them forth at the proper time.
“According to the report, there was one chance in about three million that the blood did not match the defendant,” Banta went on.
“What did you conclude from that scientific result?”
“That the blood in Christina Zhukovsky’s apartment had been left by the defendant, Stefan Wyatt.” Crowning the moment with a long, level, accusatory stare at Stefan, Detective Banta had just produced the piece of evidence that Stefan couldn’t explain, the one that made him look like a liar. Stefan put a hand on his cheek but couldn’t hide the anger in his eyes, which wouldn’t look good to Larry Santa Ana, who had followed Banta’s testimony with trustful approval.
“That test was wrong,” Stefan whispered to Nina. “They screwed up.” A lot of lifers had used that line, and Nina hoped he wouldn’t be one of them.
Ginger would be testifying all too soon, when the defense had a chance to present its case, and her testimony would convict or clear Stefan, Nina was sure of it. Ginger had called at seven to say she was awaiting final results and to wish Nina luck.
The blood was Stefan’s. Then he was guilty, the jurors would be thinking, and they weren’t the only ones. The reporters in the seats at the back energetically scratched on pads, preparing to expose his guilt to the world in tomorrow’s Salinas Californian, Monterey Herald, San Jose Mercury News, and San Francisco Chronicle. Of course, while convicting him in the court of public opinion, they would be sure to include a line about innocent until proven guilty.
Not too far from here, a man named Scott Peterson would be tried for the murder of his wife and unborn son. Although the trial had been moved from his hometown of Modesto, the whole country already knew all about the case from the papers. An “unbiased” jury, even in another county, did not really exist.
It worried Nina that Stefan’s case kept blowing up bigger in the papers. Each night, the jury was told to go home and avoid the speculation on TV and in the newspapers. Was Larry Santa Ana really able to do that?
Jaime put the forensics report on the blood into evidence and Judge Salas read it over carefully. The previously marked report became an official part of the case, the monster land mine Klaus and Nina would have to defuse later if they were to win.
“You may cross-examine,” Judge Salas said after the lunch break and a session in his chambers working on jury instructions.
Nina’s turn had come. She stayed at her table, her notes stacked in front of her. She breathed deeply, going for the receptive, open mood Klaus had suggested. “Detective Banta, you have testified that the blood found on small glass slivers at Christina Zhukovsky’s apartment matched the blood of the defendant, Stefan Wyatt; is that correct?”
“Correct. Actually, the lab tested more than one sample.”
“Did the lab do RFLP DNA testing, otherwise known as restriction fragment length polymorphism analysis, on those samples?” She had memorized the words given to her by Ginger just the night before, and hoped she hadn’t scrambled them. Having the terminology correct was important. The jury needed to believe she knew what she was talking about.
“No.”
“You know about this method of testing?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that method likely to yield higher statistically individualizing results than the less delicate PCR DNA analysis?”
“Yes.”
“Why wasn’t that done?”
“You need larger samples than we had.”
“You were able to locate only traces of blood on a few minuscule pieces of glass, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“That would be blood in extremely small amounts?”
“In small amounts. Correct.”
“Are the bits of glass found at the scene and tested for blood here in court for the jury to see today?”
“No.”
“Well, can you help us with this, so that the jury can visualize this. How small were they? This big?” She held her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.
“Not that large.”
“This?” She narrowed the gap.
“Smaller.”
“How about this?” asked Nina. She held a pin up.
“They weren’t that large.”
“No
, the samples were about as big as the head of this pin-wouldn’t that be fair to say?” Nina asked, knowing full well they were about that big.
“Yes.”
“Your Honor, may I approach the jury?”
“You’re not going to poke me with that, are you, Ms. Reilly?” said the judge, who didn’t approve of her methods but apparently was willing to sacrifice his prejudice in the service of a little humor.
“No. I’m just afraid some of the jurors might not be able to see the extremely small amount of ‘evidence’ we are talking about unless I bring it up very close.”
Some laughter followed her. She enjoyed the attention, and even the jury made an amused show of studying the head of the pin she held. She laid it carefully down on the table and turned back to face Kelsey Banta. “Did you take into account the possibility of contamination of evidence from such small sources?”
“We did. There is always a possibility of contamination if standard protocols for collection of evidence and PCR DNA testing are not followed. However, we were scrupulous.” She looked smug.
Nina knew they would have to come back to the evidence on the glass again, but she felt good about leaving it for now. “At the time of booking, did you have an opportunity to perform any sort of physical survey, or did you observe the defendant’s body?”
“Yes, I took a good look at him.”
“Did you observe his hands?”
“Yes.”
“You took a good look at his face?”
“Yes.”
“Did you observe any dried blood on his hands, his face, his arms, or any other place on his body?”
The smugness dropped. Detective Banta sat up straighter and removed all expression from her face, hiding behind professionalism, which even Larry Santa Ana, Nina was happy to see, duly noted.
Nina repeated, “Any scabs anywhere on Stefan Wyatt?”
“No.”
“So, no blood. But as a seasoned homicide investigator, wouldn’t you expect to find evidence of bleeding on the defendant charged with murdering this woman?”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose you should find injuries on the defendant, when his blood was supposedly found at the scene?”
“Yes. I would expect that.”
“Yet you found none. Isn’t that what you stated?”
“There was a small amount at the scene, so the cuts could be tiny. They must’ve dried up. Or he cleaned himself up, would be my take.”
“But at least you saw cuts on him?”
“Not really. No.”
“You looked?” This put Banta in a dilemma. If she said she hadn’t looked, Stefan might have had cuts. But then the police work would have been shoddy, which might put other evidence in jeopardy.
“I looked,” Banta said grimly.
“Ms. Banta, give us your opinion as an experienced police investigator: how could Stefan Wyatt’s blood be in Christina Zhukovsky’s apartment, without the defendant showing any evidence of a cut on his body?”
“Maybe it came from his nose or mouth.”
Every once in a while a witness departed from the expected and rustled up a confounding suggestion like this. Banta appeared amazed at herself. She had apparently just thought of this. At the moment, she probably felt damn cool.
“Do you have any evidence at all it did?” Nina asked quickly, hoping to puncture her confidence.
“Not really, but where else-”
“Detective, are you testifying that your explanation is that Mr. Wyatt had no evidence of cuts because the blood came from his mouth?”
“Where else could it have come from?”
“Let’s see,” Nina said. “Ms. Zhukovsky throws a glass at him and connects, and he bleeds from the mouth?”
“Well…” Banta looked unhappy.
“He opened his mouth really wide and the glass came flying in? I’ve heard of catching thrown grapes, but a brandy glass? Some shot! Amazing!”
“Objection,” Jaime said, drowning out the ripple of laughter behind him.
“Withdrawn,” Nina said before he elaborated. “Have you considered that the blood could be old-from a previous occasion?”
No answer.
“Was the blood sample sent to the lab and found on the glass wet?”
“No.”
“It was dry. And can it be dated exactly, as to when the blood might have been left in the apartment?”
“No.”
“There is no way to say for sure the blood was left that night?”
“No.”
She had pushed a few small holes through the wall of prosecutorial evidence. The jurors seemed relieved to see the defense acting like contenders.
Driving the Bronco slowly home along Highway 68, Nina revisited her cross-examination of Kelsey Banta, this time doing it better, washing away the scenery, the greenery, the bleak gray evening sky. Windows wide open, she tried to take in some fresh air after the close air of court but felt suffocated. She couldn’t remember a time a case had started as dreadfully as this one had, and when one had seemed so fatally proscribed in advance.
Maybe it was the graveyard scene constantly recalled to mind, or maybe it was Stefan, hardly taking a breath beside her at the table all day. She had sensed his desperation, and the jury must sense it, too. He had the attitude of the condemned, and though he rose to the occasion whenever she had a minute to talk to him, he squeezed out his remarks like a man gripped by a vise, out of contact with his own innards.
He looked woebegone, like a sad sack, and Americans don’t trust losers. She wanted the jury to know him as she was beginning to know him, but he couldn’t help. He was afraid. His very presence in the courtroom was working against him.
Stefan needed a pep talk. Klaus could do that. She would ask him to do that.
She stopped at Trader Joe’s to pick up place mats, boxed sushi and a bottle of white wine for herself, chicken taquitos and vanilla soda for Bob along with a salad he probably wouldn’t eat, arriving at the shabby white cottage in Pacific Grove late for dinner. As always. As always, she thought of their warm cabin in South Lake Tahoe, and asked herself if she had done the right thing coming back to the Central Coast.
Right after she took the job with Klaus, a few days before Paul had popped the question, Nina and Bob had moved their few things over to the house she had inherited from her aunt Helen, which Nina had been renting out for income.
Paul hadn’t wanted her to leave, but having Bob sleeping in his office wasn’t working, so he came around and helped them in the end, although now she understood his vigorous objections better. Here he was getting up the nerve to propose, and she was moving out.
While Paul had unloaded boxes, Nina cleared dust balls from corners and cupboards, Hitchcock stuck his doggy snout where it didn’t belong, and Bob cut open the small pile of boxes piled on the living room floor. She had tried to stay cheerful and tried to engage Bob in making some future plans about how they would be spending their time here, but the move had been an ordeal.
Coming up the rickety steps, Nina held her case in one hand, and in the other the bag of groceries, which she set on the porch while she found her key and opened the door.
“Bob!” she called out.
“Yo, Mom!” he replied from his bedroom.
Most of their furniture was still at Tahoe, which Nina had left nearly three months before. The couch here was secondhand, and there was no fireplace to cheer the damp coastal nights. Thick area rugs covered the worn hardwood in the living room. Pillows, two easy chairs, a television stand, and a low table made up the rest of the furniture. Cheap vinyl blinds the previous tenants had installed for privacy were the only window coverings.
She put the groceries away and put Bob’s meal into the microwave.
The bare bones of the cottage, an old white frame built over a hundred years ago, would be lovely if you could see them better, she decided, maneuvering herself onto the couch with her tray. She poured herself a glass of wi
ne and popped a wasabi-and-soy-sauced piece of California roll into her mouth. The house was ideally located, up a slope and just a block from Lover’s Point, offering a glimpse of the deep blue Pacific from its front yard. Various utilitarian renovations had taken place over the years to keep the tenants happy.
Some things would have to change, and soon. Nina was not the kind of person who considered her car or her house an outer symbol of some inner person, but she had her standards. The artificial turf leading up to the carport would have to go.
But why worry about this old place? If she married Paul, they would have to find a larger home that would suit all three of them.
After a few sips, Nina got up again. She set two new white plates on the woven blue place mats she had bought and found silverware and napkins. She set a square candle in the middle of the table and lit it, put the food on, then poured Bob a glass filled with ice and soda, and herself a tall ice water to chase the rest of the wine in her glass. The microwave beeped. From the hallway she called to Bob through his open door. “Dinner!”
“Busy,” he said.
“Come and eat,” she said. She waited, but getting no further response, walked to the open door and looked inside.
His room consisted of a bed with a wool blanket borrowed from Paul. His closet, gaping open, held a gym bag spilling its contents on the floor and empty metal hangers on the rod above. No posters decorated the bedroom walls; no bonsai tree like the one he had nursed at Tahoe spruced up this barren windowsill. Bob sat at a bare wooden table with his feet up, wearing headphones and an entranced expression.
She walked over to him and removed the headphones. “I hereby command the pleasure of your company at dinner.” She didn’t make it a question, because that opened up a discussion, and all she wanted to do was to wolf down the rest of her sushi and turn on her precious half-hour news show, which made her forget her own concerns.
“I’m not hungry.”
Unlucky in Law Page 11