SW04 - The Naked Typist
Page 19
“That is correct.”
“Now, in this instance you say you found seven points of similarity?”
“That is correct.”
“Now, according to your testimony, that is not sufficient to make a positive identification.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Fine. But let me ask you this. Is it enough to indicate a likelihood? Can you say, well, seven is more than half the points required, if the fingerprint hadn’t been smudged there’s a good chance I could have found the other three to five points?”
“Not at all.”
“And why is that?”
Riker smiled. “Because ten to twelve points of similarity is the number required for identification in matching a single fingerprint.”
Dirkson raised his eyebrows. “You’re saying that is not the case here?”
Riker shook his head. “Not at all. When I say I found seven points of similarity, I mean I found a total of seven points of similarity among all the smudged fingerprints and the fingerprints of the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder.”
“A total of seven?”
“That’s right. And no two were within the same smudge. I found seven in seven separate smudges. Moreover, these seven points of similarity did not match up with one of the defendant’s fingerprints, they actually matched up with five.” Riker took a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. “To be precise, two of the points of similarity matched up with the defendant’s right index finger. Two other points of similarity matched up with her left middle finger. One matched up with her right middle finger. One matched up with her right ring finger. One matched up with her left ring finger. And one matched up with her left thumb.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. “Now let me clarify this. When you say matched up with her finger, you mean matched up with one point of similarity in her finger?”
“Absolutely,” Riker said. “I hope I didn’t give the wrong impression. What I mean is there was one, and only one, point of similarity between, for instance, one of the smudges and Kelly Wilder’s left ring finger.”
Dirkson nodded. “I understand, Mr. Riker. Speaking as an expert, what significance does this evidence have? Being able to match one characteristic between a single smudge and a single finger?”
Riker shook his head. “None, whatsoever. In terms of making an identification it is absolutely meaningless.”
Dirkson nodded. “Thank you. That’s all.”
“Does the defense wish to cross-examine?” Judge Wallingsford said.
Steve Winslow stood up. “Yes, Your Honor.” He crossed in to the witness. “Mr. Riker, you are rather quick to say this has no scientific significance whatsoever.”
“I say it because it’s a fact.”
“That may well be, but don’t you think it’s a fact we should judge for ourselves?”
“I’m an expert delivering an expert opinion. I doubt if the jurors have studied the science of fingerprinting.”
“Maybe not, but that’s still all it is—an opinion. It’s your opinion the similarities between the prints on the computer and the prints of the defendant are meaningless. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“But there are similarities.”
“There are seven points of similarity, as I have already stated.”
“Seven points where the prints on the computer correspond with the prints of the defendant?”
“That is correct.”
“Then let me ask you this: did you find anything to indicate those prints were not those of the defendant?”
The witness hesitated.
“Objection,” Dirkson said. “Argumentative.”
Judge Wallingsford frowned. “Overruled.”
“Can you answer that, Mr. Riker?”
Riker frowned. “The answer to that question would be totally meaningless.”
Steve smiled. “Yes, but Judge Wallingsford says I can have it.”
Riker took a breath. “No, there was nothing to indicate they weren’t the prints of the defendant.”
Steve smiled again. “Thank you. That’s all.”
“Redirect, Mr. Dirkson?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Riker, you stated you found seven points of similarity between those prints and the prints of the defendant?”
“That’s correct.”
“Let me ask you this. Did you compare those prints with the prints of any other known person?”
“Yes, I did.”
“With what results?”
“I found eight points of similarity.”
“Eight points?”
“That’s correct.”
“One more point of similarity than you found with the defendant?”
“That is correct.”
Dirkson nodded gravely. “I see,” he said. “Tell me, Mr. Riker—with whose prints did you compare the smudges on the keyboard and get eight points of similarity?”
Riker smiled. “With my own.”
There was a murmur in the courtroom. Judge Wallingsford banged the gavel.
“With your own, Mr. Riker?”
“That is correct. After I compared the smudges with the defendant’s fingerprints and found seven points of similarity, I compared them to my own fingerprints and found eight.”
“You found eight points of similarity between the smudges on the keyboard and your own fingerprints?”
“That is correct.”
“Mr. Riker, have you ever been in David Castleton’s apartment?”
“No, I have not.”
“Ever type on that keyboard?”
“No, I have not.”
“And you found eight points of similarity between your fingerprints and the smudges on that keyboard?”
“Yes, I did.”
Dirkson’s smile was rather a smirk. “Thank you. That’s all.”
34.
AFTER THAT, DIRKSON PICKED UP speed. He seemed to draw strength from his strategic victory on the fingerprint evidence, and forged ahead with a vengeance, becoming even more of a showman and playing to the jury.
The jurors, of course, had no idea what the fingerprint evidence was all about, what Winslow had been hoping to prove. For that matter, neither did Dirkson. But it didn’t matter. All the jurors knew was there had been a pitched battle and Dirkson had won. Dirkson used that as a springboard and played it for all it was worth.
First he called the ballistics expert, who testified conclusively that the bullet, People’s Exhibit 2, had been fired by the gun, People’s Exhibit 3.
Dirkson then called the manager of a sporting goods store to introduce records of the fact that the gun, People’s Exhibit 3, had been duly purchased by and registered to Herbert Clay.
Steve Winslow did not cross-examine either of those witnesses. He knew nothing he could do would shake their testimony, and after the fingerprint fiasco he couldn’t afford another fruitless argument.
After the witness had been excused, Dirkson said, “Call Herbert Clay.”
There was an excited buzz in the courtroom.
Kelly Wilder squeezed Steve’s arm. “Why are they calling Herb?”
“To identify the gun.”
“Oh.”
“And to show your brother’s a convicted felon.”
“Oh.” She grimaced. “Why can’t they leave him alone?”
“Shhh.”
Two court officers escorted Herbert Clay in through the side door.
Steve took one look and sighed. They’d allowed Herbert Clay to dress for court, but even so, the impression he made was terrible. There was a certain arrogance about him, a sullen punk insolence that nothing was going to hide. He looked exactly like what he was—a convicted felon.
Herbert Clay took the oath and sat on the witness stand, glaring hostilely around the courtroom. Seeing this, Dirkson paused a few moments before starting his questioning, to let the jurors get a good look at him.
“What is your name?” Dirkson said.
The witness raised his eyes
to glare sullenly at him. “Herbert Clay.”
“What is your relationship to the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder?”
“She is my sister.”
“I submit, Your Honor, that this is a hostile witness and I should be allowed to use leading questions.”
“Granted,” Judge Wallingsford said.
Dirkson picked up the gun and crossed to the witness. “Mr. Clay, I show you a gun marked People’s Exhibit 3 and ask if you have seen it before?”
Clay glared at Dirkson defiantly. “I don’t know.”
“You haven’t looked at it.”
“I’ve looked at it.”
“And you don’t know?”
“No.”
“The serial number on this gun is nine three two four seven six two. Does that refresh your memory any?”
“No, it does not.”
“Mr. Clay, I show you a gun register marked People’s Exhibit Eight and ask if you have ever seen it before?”
“I don’t know.”
“I ask you to look at it more closely, and I ask you if this is not your signature right here on this page?”
Reluctantly, Herbert Clay looked where Dirkson was pointing.
“Is that your signature?”
“Yeah. So?”
“That is your signature here on this page of the gun register, indicating you purchased the gun with the serial number nine three two four seven six two?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Mr. Clay, once again I show you the gun marked for identification as People’s Exhibit Three and ask you if you have ever seen it before?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’ve seen a gun like it?”
“Yeah.”
“You purchased a gun like it, did you not?”
“What if I did?”
“Is that the gun you purchased at that time?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you did purchase a gun similar to this one?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why did you purchase that gun?”
“Because I wanted one.”
Dirkson took a breath. “Mr. Clay. According to the gun register, you purchased this gun three years ago on September seventeenth. Is that right?”
“I guess so.”
“Where were you employed at that time?”
Clay took a breath. There was an edge in his voice. “At Castleton Industries.”
“Castleton Industries. Was that the company owned by Milton Castleton?”
“Yes.”
“You were the bookkeeper there, were you not?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Who was your immediate supervisor?”
Clay took a breath. “David Castleton.”
“David Castleton, the decedent in this case?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Clay, as bookkeeper, was it sometimes your job to deposit large sums of money for the corporation?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Was that why you had the gun?”
“Yeah. That’s why I had it.”
“Where did you keep the gun?”
“In my office.”
“In your office?”
“Yes. In my desk.”
“You kept it in your desk so you would have it for those cash transactions?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you take the gun home with you?”
Clay shook his head. “Never.”
“Never?”
“That’s right. I kept it in the office.”
“These cash transactions—these deposits you made—were they in the evening after work?”
“Sometimes.”
“After you made a deposit, you’d go home, wouldn’t you?”
Clay shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“No, I’d go back to the office and put away my gun.”
“Even if it was late at night?”
“Sure.”
“You could get into the office then?”
“Absolutely. There’s a night watchman. Twenty-four hours. I could always get in.”
“You always returned the gun to your office and never took it home?”
“That’s right.”
“And if your roommate, the man with whom you shared your apartment, should testify that he had seen the gun lying on your bureau, he would be mistaken, is that right?”
“Objection. Argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
“You say you never took the gun home?”
“Never.”
Dirkson stood staring at the witness a moment. “Mr. Clay, have you ever been convicted of a felony?”
Clay’s eyes blazed. He said nothing.
“Your Honor, would you instruct the witness to answer the question.”
“Mr. Clay,” Judge Wallingsford said. “You are required to answer.”
“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” Dirkson repeated.
“Yes,” Clay snapped.
“What was the charge?”
“Embezzlement.”
“You were convicted of embezzling over a hundred thousand dollars from Castleton Industries, were you not?”
Clay glared at the prosecutor. He took a breath, let it out slowly. “Yes.”
“Mr. Clay, where do you currently reside?”
“Rikers Island.”
“You are in jail?”
“Yes.”
“For the embezzlement?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Two years.”
“Mr. Clay, where were you on the night of June twenty-eighth?”
“There.”
“In jail?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Clay, did you kill David Castleton?”
“No.”
“Thank you. That’s all.”
“Does the defense wish to cross-examine?” Judge Wallingsford asked.
Not on your life, Steve thought. But he merely smiled and said, “No questions, Your Honor.”
“Call Jeff Bowers,” Dirkson said.
Jeff Bowers took the stand and testified that he knew Herbert Clay and had shared an apartment with him up until the time that he’d been sent to prison.
“Mr. Bowers,” Dirkson said, “during the time that Herbert Clay shared your apartment, did you ever see him with a gun?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I show you a gun marked People’s Exhibit Three and ask you if that is the gun you saw in the possession of Herbert Clay?”
“It looks like it. I don’t know if it’s the same gun.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bowers. Now when you say Herbert Clay had the gun in his possession, what do you mean?”
“I mean he had it on him. He was wearing it, in a holster on his belt.”
“In your apartment?”
“That’s right.”
“On more than one occasion?”
“Oh yeah. Several times.”
“Did you ever see the gun when he was not wearing it in a holster on his belt?”
“Oh, sure.”
“When was that?”
Bowers shrugged. “I can’t remember exactly. Again, it was several times. When he came home with the gun, he wouldn’t walk around wearing it all evening. He’d take it off and leave it on his dresser.”
“His dresser?”
“Yeah. Or he’d stick it in one of the dresser drawers.”
“You saw him do that?”
“Yes, I did.”
“On more than one occasion?”
“Several.”
“Did he ever leave the gun in the apartment? When he went back to work, I mean.”
“Yes, he did.”
“On more than one occasion?”
“That’s right.”
“How many times?”
Bowers shrugged. “I don’t know. Several times.”
“It was common practice, then, for him to l
eave his gun at home?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“You say he left the gun at home several times?”
“Yes, he did.”
“For how long? Just one day, or longer?”
“Longer.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He talked about it. He bragged about it, you know. About the gun and how much money he was carrying on him. He’d take out the gun, say, ‘Guess what secret agent just smuggled ten thousand dollars through enemy lines.’”
“That’s when he brought it home. How are you so sure he left it home?”
“I remember another time he came home and told me he just made a fifteen-thousand-dollar deposit totally unarmed because he’d forgotten to take his gun.”
“Where was his gun?”
“In his dresser drawer.”
“How do you know?”
“After he said that, he went in and checked to make sure it was there. He looked for it in the office, couldn’t find it, then he came home and found it at home.”
“I see,” Dirkson said. “Now let me ask you this. Are you familiar with Herbert Clay’s sister, the defendant, Kelly Clay Wilder?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How do you know her?”
“She came to the apartment once. About four months ago.”
“How did that happen?”
“When Herbert went to jail, I lost a roommate. That left me stuck for the rent. For a while it was all right. I’d been getting pretty steady work, and it was nice having my own apartment.
“Then money got tight, I got hit with a rent increase, and I decided I couldn’t go it alone anymore. Herbert wasn’t paying anything and Herbert wasn’t coming back. So I wrote him a letter, told him I was gonna have to put his stuff in storage and rent the room.
“Then she called me. His sister. Kelly Clay Wilder. Said Herbert told her about it and wanted her to come pack his stuff for him.”
“And she did?”
“Yes, she did. She came over with a bunch of boxes and tape and stickers, packed all his stuff and labeled it. A storage company came and carted it away.”
“She packed up Herbert Clay’s things?”
“That’s right. All of it.”
“Did you help her with it?”
He shook his head. “She wouldn’t let me. Kicked me out of there. Said she’d do it alone. Very possessive, she was.”
“Did you watch while she packed?”
“No. I offered to help her and she said no. Frankly, she was a nice-looking girl and I tried to make conversation with her, but she obviously wasn’t having any of it, so I left her alone.”