Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Judge Tooley nodded. “The jury will disregard the last part of the witness's comment.”

  Pelle started to pose another question, then asked instead to have photographs of the crime scene admitted into evidence. Once they were identified by Dennison and properly tagged, he asked that they be projected onto a screen for viewing.

  The lights were dimmed. The first photo flashed onto the screen.

  There was an audible gasp from somewhere in the back of the courtroom, and several of the jurors turned away. The blood had spattered against the wall and pooled near the body on the floor. It was deep, dark red against the pearly gray tile of the entry hall.

  Terri, looking a little green around the gills, gripped her hands tightly in her lap.

  Judges have the discretion to keep upsetting or prejudicial photos from the jury. But gory as these were, particularly enlarged for the benefit of easy viewing, they fell clearly into the camp of acceptability.

  “Inspector, can you tell us how far the body was from the door of the home?”

  “Roughly three feet.”

  “Was there any sign of forced entry to the home?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Any sign of a struggle?”

  “None. No scratches or bruises on the body of the deceased. Nothing under the fingernails. His clothing was straight and unmussed.”

  I leaned back in my chair and surveyed the courtroom. It was filled to capacity. Weaver's son, Dan, was seated toward the back. I didn't see Melissa, but I did recognize Len Roemer and Hank Lomax sitting together off to my left.

  “How about inside the house? Any signs of a scuffle?”

  “Again, no. No overturned tables, fallen pottery, anything like that. You can see here.” He pointed to the antique glass table in the center of the foyer. “There are some precariously balanced articles and they remained in place.”

  Pelle was ruling out self-defense, hoping to undercut any argument on our part about “heat of the moment,” as well.

  “Any indication that Mr. Weaver had company the evening of his death?”

  “Nothing obvious.”

  “Moving now to the gunshot wounds themselves. Can you tell which shot of the two occurred first?”

  “Yes, the shot to the abdomen came first.” Dennison went on to describe the entry and exit wounds, the clotting and other factors he observed, concluding that the gun was fired at a distance of approximately twenty feet. “The head wound,” he continued, pointing to the photograph on the screen, “came from a shot fired at close range, probably three to four feet. You can see the tattooing around the wound, but there wasn't the tearing that you'd find with a contact wound.”

  “I'm not sure I understand.”

  “When a person is shot at close range, the bullet entrance wound is surrounded by pinpoint hemorrhages caused by the gunpowder expelled from the barrel. We call this tattooing or stippling.”

  “So there were two shots fired. The first from a distance and the second at close proximity but not in contact?”

  “Correct.”

  “In your experience, could either wound by itself have been fatal?”

  I could have objected—Dennison had been qualified as an expert in firearms, not on cause of death. But maintaining a favorable image with the jury is sometimes more important than being a stickler for the rules of evidence. I kept quiet.

  “The shot to the head would have been fatal by itself,” Dennison said. “In all likelihood, the first shot would have killed him as well, but it's difficult to say with certainty.”

  Pelle wanted the jurors to understand that the killing was deliberate. Not a botched robbery or some misguided, unintentional act. The point was not lost on Ms. Huntington, who turned to regard Terri with a cold glare.

  “In your search of the crime scene, did you find the murder weapon?”

  “No, we did not.”

  “How much of the area did you search?”

  “The whole area, inside and out.”

  “Do you know if Mr. Weaver owned a gun?”

  “There were two guns registered to him. A Smith and Wesson .38 automatic and a Colt double action .45. Both guns were in the house at the time of his death. Neither had been fired recently.”

  “What did you conclude from this?”

  “That the killer brought a gun to the house with intention of shooting Mr. Weaver, and took it away after the shooting.”

  This time I did object. “Calls for a conclusion.”

  “He's a homicide detective,” Pelle responded. “This is his area of expertise. He has a right to draw conclusions.”

  “But he can't read minds, can he? He has no way of knowing anyone's intentions.”

  The judge sustained the objection and Pelle rephrased the question. But the message remained. Someone had come to Weaver's that night for the purpose of killing him.

  “Can you identify the type of weapon used to kill Weaver?” Pelle asked.

  “Yes, a .25 caliber Beretta, semiautomatic.” Dennison launched into an explanation of rifling and twist, terms applied to the markings and grooves imprinted on a slug as it moved through the barrel of the gun.

  “Do you know if the defendant owns such a gun?”

  “A Beretta model 21 Bobcat, .25 caliber, was registered in her name in 1992.”

  Again, glances from the jury.

  “Did you test the defendant's gun to see if, in fact, it matched the slugs found at the scene?”

  “No, sir, we did not.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She was unable to produce the gun for us. She claimed not to know where it was.” Even delivered in a straightforward manner, the response carried an innuendo of suspicion.

  “You find spent cartridges at the scene?” Pelle asked.

  “Yes. Two of them.”

  Pelle picked up two small plastic bags from the evidence cart. “Inspector, are these those cartridges?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  Pelle addressed the court. “I ask that these be marked as people's exhibit one and two.”

  “Any objection?” This was directed my way.

  “None.”

  Pelle moved back into place for questioning. “What else did you find at the scene?”

  “There was some white wool on Weaver's pant leg.”

  Pelle reached for another bag and went through a similar exercise to have the fiber admitted into evidence.

  “Were you able to identify it?”

  “Objection,” I said. “The Inspector is not trained in identification of fibers.”

  “Your Honor, I'm simply trying to present my case logically.”

  Judge Tooley nodded, but her face was a scowl. “A commendable goal, Mr. Pelle, but we have rules about how evidence should be presented.”

  Pelle didn't push the issue. Instead, he went through the other items bagged at the scene—dark glasses, black fiber, and the gum wrapper—and had them admitted into evidence. Then he moved on other aspects of the investigation.

  “Were you able to establish a window for the time of the shooting?”

  “Based on the coroner's report and interviews with neighbors, it appears that Weaver was shot around midnight.” Dennison checked his notebook. “One neighbor heard what she thought might have been shots at twelve-ten. Another remembers hearing two sharp bangs just as she was going to bed. She didn't look at the clock, but based on her television viewing, she estimates the time to be a little after midnight.”

  “The coroner's report is consistent with that?”

  “Right. And we know that Weaver was on the air with his radio broadcast until nine o'clock. He didn't leave the studio until about twenty after.”

  Pelle walked back to his table, checked a note, and addressed Dennison from there. “Inspector, when did you first talk to Mrs. Harper?”

  “My partner tried to reach her that morning, about eleven, but she wasn't home. No one knew where she was. I was finally able to talk to her Sunday afterno
on.”

  “Where did she say she had been all that time?”

  All that time, as if she'd gone underground for months. But raising an objection would only highlight the fact that Terri had taken an unexpected trip.

  “She said she'd driven north to Mendocino.”

  “A long drive for such a short stay, wouldn't you say?”

  I stood up. “Objection. Not only is the prosecutor editorializing, it's irrelevant.”

  “I'll withdraw the question.” His expression bordered on smug. Withdrawn or not, the thought remained with the jury. “Did you do a trace metal or gunpowder residue test on the defendant?”

  “No. By then too much time had elapsed for either test to prove useful.”

  One of the members of the jury, a school teacher I'd thought might be sympathetic to our side, nodded slightly. Pelle had apparently succeeded in making his point.

  “Did you conduct a search of the defendant's home?” Pelle asked.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “A black nylon jacket.”

  Pelle again headed to the evidence cart and had the jacket admitted into evidence. “What was it about this jacket that caught your interest?”

  “Well, we'd found black nylon fiber at the scene. It was caught in a rosebush by the front walkway. Looked as though it could have come from the defendant's jacket.”

  Pelle picked up another plastic bag. “Moving on, Inspector, can you identify this videotape?”

  “Yes, it's from one of the security cameras in this building.”

  “Taken?”

  “July 6.”

  “Ten days before Mr. Weaver's murder, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Pelle had the tape logged into evidence and then asked permission to play it for the jurors.

  I was on my feet in a flash. “Could we have a sidebar, Your Honor?”

  “What is it?” she asked when Pelle and I had gathered at the podium.

  “The tape is prejudicial,” I said, “and has been introduced without proper basis. He's going to select the soundbite that serves his purpose and—”

  “Would you rather I showed the whole tape?”

  “I'd rather you didn't show it at all.”

  “Your client threatened Weaver,” Pelle said tartly. “The jury needs to know that.”

  Judge Tooley interrupted. “Your objection is overruled, Ms. O'Brien. We'll see the tape.”

  The judge instructed the bailiff to darken the room. A minute later the courtroom's attention was riveted on an enlarged close-up of Terri's face contorted with rage.

  There's no way in hell you'll get my daughter, she said on film. You'd better watch your back. I'd kill you before I let you have Hannah.

  Pelle let the film run long enough that we could see Ted pulling Terri away, restraining her while she thrashed to get free. Then he stopped the film and signaled for the lights.

  In the silence that followed, three jurors glared accusingly at Terri. The others seemed to make it a point to avoid looking at her. Pelle took his time checking his notes, letting Terri's words echo in people's minds.

  “That's all for Inspector Dennison at this time,” he said, and sat down.

  I suspect he had other minor points he'd intended to bring forth, but the tape had been more powerful than he'd expected. And if there was one thing Pelle knew, it was how to stage a prosecution for effect.

  CHAPTER 31

  Cross?” Judge Tooley tossed the ball into my court. I had been afraid she might call a recess, which would have allowed Terri's angry face and words to be imprinted in the minds of the jurors for longer.

  I stood and approached the witness box. Best to confront the damning testimony face on, I decided. Especially since it was freshest in the jurors' minds.

  “Inspector Dennison, were you present at the courthouse encounter between Terri Harper and Mr. Weaver?”

  “No, I was not.”

  “Isn't it true that you have no way of knowing the details and circumstances of that encounter outside the portion that was taped?”

  “I know they'd left a hearing—”

  “But you don't know what happened just prior to the events shown on the tape?”

  “Correct.” It was a reluctant admission.

  “Or just after.”

  “That's also correct.”

  “Or what else might have been going on at the same time that was not captured on film.”

  “Well, it seems pretty obvious—”

  “Inspector, please. Just answer the question.”

  “No,” Dennison said in clipped tones, “I do not.”

  I took a few steps to the side, adopted a more casual tone. “When did court personnel contact you about the existence of the tape?”

  “I contacted them.”

  I frowned. I'd assumed it was the other way around. “How did you know to do that?”

  “I got a call, alerting me to the fact that your client threatened Mr. Weaver after the hearing.”

  “A call from whom?”

  “A friend of his. Len Roemer.”

  The name caught me by surprise. “When was this?”

  “I don't... just a minute.” Dennison checked his notebook again. “July 19.”

  After Terri's arrest. After I'd talked to Roemer myself. An interesting detail though I wasn't sure what I'd be able to do with it.

  “How many other names did you come up with of people who might have reason to kill Weaver?”

  “How many?” He wore a befuddled expression.

  “Surely my client wasn't your only suspect?”

  “Not at first, no.” Dennison ran a finger under the collar of his shirt. It was a nervous gesture, although Dennison appeared confident and at ease as a witness.

  “It did occur to you, did it not, that someone besides my client might have a motive to kill Weaver?”

  “Sure.”

  “You talked about the possibility among yourselves?”

  “We tossed around a number of ideas.”

  “How many names?”

  “I couldn't say offhand.” He pulled himself up straighter in his chair.

  “Two? A dozen? Fifty?”

  “Sorry, I can't remember.”

  “Did you question any of them?”

  “The evidence pointed to the defendant.”

  “Is that a 'no' Inspector Dennison?”

  He frowned. The busy eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. “I've lost the question, I'm afraid.”

  “Did you question any potential suspects besides Terri Harper?”

  “We talked to people who knew Weaver—neighbors, friends, coworkers, and so forth—but the evidence persuaded us to focus on the defendant.”

  “The evidence.” I shifted my gaze to the jury box, as though we were allied by our doubts. “You can't say for sure that it was Mrs. Harper's gun that was the murder weapon, can you?”

  “Without having the gun in hand to run a comparison, it's impossible to say with certainty.”

  “Nor can you say for sure that the murder weapon was a Model 21 Bobcat. Isn't that so?”

  “Correct, but there are—”

  “That's fine, Inspector. You need only answer the question. Did you find evidence of additional shots fired, shots that missed the victim?”

  “No, we did not.”

  “And you found only two casings?”

  “Correct.”

  “So the person who killed Mr. Weaver was a pretty good shot?” I could use this later when I'd introduce testimony to show that Terri was not.

  “Either that or lucky.” Dennison looked toward the jury with a thin smile.

  Not a one of them returned the smile, though there was a soft ripple of laughter from the spectator area.

  I checked my notes. “Did you find anything unusual about the casings, Inspector?”

  “Yes. They showed multiple tool marks.”

  “How do you account for tha
t?”

  “Most likely explanation is that the casings had been fired previously.”

  “Reloaded?”

  “Right.”

  “Where does one purchase reloaded ammunition, Inspector?”

  “Mostly, people reload it themselves. Hunters, gun hobbyists, that sort. But you can sometimes buy it at gun shows.”

  This, too, was something we could use later in Terri's favor. She was not a likely candidate for buying reloaded ammunition.

  I glanced back to the defense table, knowing Jared would signal if I'd missed anything. Apparently we were on track. But at the other end of the table, Terri was clutching her stomach and looking glum.

  “Inspector, you said there was no sign of robbery. How carefully did you look?”

  The question appeared to amuse him. “We looked through the house and saw no sign that anything had been disturbed.”

  “But your focus was on the homicide, wasn't it?”

  “Initially. However, it's standard practice in a situation like this to check for robbery.”

  “And nothing was missing?”

  “Not that we could determine.”

  “Did you get a list of contents for comparison?”

  Dennison gave a derisive laugh. “I don't imagine many people keep a contents list for home furnishings and personal belongings.”

  “Did you ask a close relative or friend of Mr. Weaver's to look through the house and tell you if anything was missing?”

  “The television, his wallet, a pair of diamond cuff links—there were many things of value lying in plain view.”

  “But isn't it correct that you don't know what else might have been there, whether in plain view or not?”

  Dennison sighed and delivered his response with heavy sarcasm. “You're right. There may have been a valuable Ming vase Weaver kept in his sock drawer, and we never knew about it.”

  “Or business records, letters, compromising photographs, a taped conversation. The list goes on, Inspector. It's possible, isn't it, that the killer was after something besides so-called valuables?”

  Pelle rose behind me. “I have to object, Your Honor. Counsel is engaging in pure speculation.”

  “The prosecution's interpretation of evidence is also speculative, Your Honor. We know that Mr. Weaver was killed. We don't know the circumstances or reason for his death.”