To this Blumberg says nothing, but merely nods, this time not so much confident as nervous.
“The court reporter can’t register a head bob, Doctor Blumberg. You’ll have to answer the question audibly.” The judge is on him.
“Yes,” he says. His looks-could-kill expression is reserved for O’Shaunasy
“Let me ask you, doctor. Have you ever published any scholarly articles on the subject of bloodstain evidence in criminalistics?”
“No.” Blumberg is becoming imperious now, refusing to look Nelson in the eye.
“Let’s take it out to the more general field. Have you ever published any scholarly articles in the field of forensic sciences?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“Not that you can recall? Well, doctor, I have a copy of your curriculum vitae here, and I’ve combed it pretty well and I can’t find a single article published by you in that field. Now I would assume that if you had published anything in the field of forensic sciences you would have included it in your resume, wouldn’t you?”
Cheetam’s doing nothing to stop this pummeling. There is little he can do but rise and stipulate that his expert has no expertise.
Harry’s doodle has now grown two arms, the little stick figure of a man.
Blumberg is twitching nervously on the stand. A slight tic spasms intermittently through his right cheek, like the tremor of some larger imminent quake deep beneath the surface.
“Well, you would have included it, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s safe to say that you haven’t published any articles, scholarly or otherwise, in the field of forensic sciences?”
“Yes, yes. But as I have stated, I have testified on numerous occasions on the subject.”
“Yes, I’m aware, doctor, of your regular appearances in court. In fact, doctor, isn’t it safe to say that you are what some would call a professional expert witness, that that’s what you do for a living?”
“I testify regularly, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s not quite what I mean. I mean you no longer practice medicine, whether in psychiatry or any other field. When was the last time you saw a private patient for a fee, doctor?”
“Your Honor, I object to this.” Cheetam’s on his feet. “If counsel wants a stipulation as to the limits of this witness’s expertise then perhaps we should have a sidebar or retire to chambers.” It’s a feeble attempt to dodge Nelson’s bullet.
“Counsel, you put this witness on the stand.” Looking over her glasses at Cheetam, O’Shaunasy’s showing no mercy.
“Well, can’t we move on at least? Counsel’s made his point. He’s just badgering the witness now.”
“I think you’ve made your point, Mr. Nelson. Can you move along?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Nelson retreats to the counsel table and flips through several stacks of papers, finally finding what he wants. He looks up at Blumberg, who by now is starting to show fine drops of perspiration on his forehead.
“Doctor, do you often testify in criminal cases?”
“I have testified in them before.”
“But is that your regular venue? Isn’t it true that you usually appear in civil cases?”
Sensing a more friendly line of inquiry, a concession on the part of Nelson that perhaps the witness is a little out of his field, Blumberg concedes the point with a smile and a warm nod. He’s patting his forehead with a handkerchief now, sensing that the worst may be over.
I look over and there is now a small line about where the knees would be on Harry’s stick figure, and another, heavier line, like a broad beam going up the page, a little taller than the figure, and then again a heavy line over its head.
“Doctor, do you recall testifying in the case of Panicker v. Smith, a case involving wrongful death, the hit-and-run of a little boy, two years ago?”
“I don’t … I don’t know. I can’t remember every case I’ve ever testified in.”
“I can imagine.” There is more than a little sarcasm in Nelson’s voice.
“I have a transcript here, doctor. A transcript of your testimony in that case I’d like to show it to you and ask whether that transcript might refresh your recollection.”
Blumberg is moving around now in his chair like a man forced to sit in his own stool.
O’Shaunasy has picked up her pencil.
Nelson shows the document to him. Blumberg won’t touch it, like it’s some corrosive acid. Nelson has to prop it on the railing of the witness box as the witness lowers his head and aims his spectacles to examine the cover page.
“I see I’m listed there as a witness,” he says. “That means I must have testified.”
“It would appear so, doctor. Do you recall the case now?”
“Faintly,” he says.
“Right. In part, the issue in that case involved the time of death, when the little boy died. You appeared for the defense, the insurance company representing the alleged driver. Does that help you at all?”
Cheetam’s on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor, we haven’t had an opportunity to see this transcript.”
Nelson retreats to the counsel table and pulls another copy from the pile of papers and drops it unceremoniously on the table in front of Cheetam, who begins to scour it for significance.
“During your testimony you were questioned as to the clotting properties of blood. Do you recall that testimony, doctor?”
There’s a shrug of the shoulders. “Not precisely.”
The drops of perspiration have now turned into a river, flowing south around the eyes, along the sideburns, and down Blumberg’s collar.
“In that case the driver claimed mat he was home with his wife at the time that the little boy was killed. You were asked about the time of death and you based your opinion on lividity, the fact that blood had clotted in the body, and the length of time it took for such clotting. Now do you recall your testimony, doctor?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Well, let me help you, doctor.” Nelson opens the transcript to a page marked by a large paper clip. “And I quote:
“ ‘COUNSEL: Doctor Blumberg, how long would it take for blood to clot in the capillaries of the body following death?
“ ‘DR. BLUMBERG: An hour to an hour and a half.’
“Do you remember now, doctor?”
There is only strained silence from the witness box.
“And yet today you sit here and you tell us that in the present case, it would not be possible for the victim to have bled in the elevator because blood clots in the body within fifteen minutes after death. Which is it, doctor-an hour and a half or fifteen minutes? Or does it depend on which side is paying you?”
“Objection, Your Honor” Cheetam is on his feet, wailing in protest.
“Withdraw the last question, Your Honor. I move to have the transcript in Panicker v. Smith marked for identification, Your Honor.”
“Any objection, Mr. Cheetam?”
Cheetam drops into his seat, silent at the table, and shakes his head. “Expert-shit.” It is whispered under his breath to no one in particular.
“What was that, counsel?”
“No objection, Your Honor”
I look over. Harry’s doodle is now complete, the noose about its neck, the body hanging through the trap door under the gallows-the hanging man. I notice that Talia has seen it. She is now looking at me, forlorn.
It is the problem with expert opinion, especially when stated by those with the intellectual flexibility of a Blumberg. Their babble is so voluminous they forget what it is they have said. One would believe that the forces of nature at play in each trial are somehow subject to differing, more supple rules than those that govern the affairs of mere mortals.
Tony is seeing me alone today. There is no beaming smile, no beefy grin. Today he is all business, sitting at the stone desk next to the hollow elephant’s foot overflowing with papers, the refuse of
a day’s labor.
“I hear things are not going well with Talia,” he says.
“An understatement,” I tell him.
Skarpellos has been noticeably absent from the preliminary hearing. But then his only real concern in Talia’s plight is commercial, acquiring Ben’s interest in the firm as painlessly as possible.
“You must have guessed by now why I’ve called you. You know that Gil Cheetam is unable to try the case if Talia is bound over.”
Thank God for little favors, I think. I nod.
“This financial arrangement that we have can’t go on forever,” he says.
Skarpellos has seen the inevitable. He’s drawing a line in the sand, unwilling to spring for the costs of a criminal trial that could strain the resources of the firm.
“I thought you had an arrangement with Talia.”
He makes a face. “Of a sort,” he says. “Nothing ironclad. She has to sell Ben’s interest in the firm. I’m an interested buyer.” The Greek is shopping for a deal.
“The lady needs a good lawyer,” he says. “Are you interested?”
“You missed your calling, Tony. You should have been a matchmaker.”
At this he smiles a bit, a little mercantile grin.
“I would think that the question of who Talia wants as her lawyer is a matter for Talia,” I tell him.
“Not as long as I’m paying the freight.”
“A secured loan,” I remind him.
“Not if she’s convicted. The law will not allow her to share in the assets of the deceased if she murdered him.”
“Do you believe she did it?”
“Oh, I’m not judging her,” he says. “This is business. I do have to look after the security for our loan.”
“You forget that part of Ben’s interest in the firm is Talia’s community property. That’s hers no matter what happens.”
He makes a face, like “This is piddling, peanuts not to be worried about”
“She’ll have a tough time spending it if she’s convicted. But why should we argue,” he says. “We have a mutual interest. I want to help the lady. I assume you want to do the same.” His arms are spread in a broad gesture of brotherly love-and now there is the beaming grin. “If we, all three, benefit from the experience, so much the better.” He reaches for one of his crooked cigars from a gold-plated box on the desk, then leans back, reclining in his chair.
I pray silently that he will not light it.
“Let’s get to it, Tony. What is it you want?”
“I want to make you an offer,” he says. “First, I think you should talk to Talia about taking the case.”
“Why? Why me?”
“You’re familiar with it. You’ve worked with Cheetam closely”
“Don’t saddle me with that,” I say.
He laughs. “Well, the man’s busy.”
“No, the pope is busy. Gilbert Cheetam is the bar’s answer to Typhoid Mary. You show him evidence and he says the hell with it. You give him leads that, if he followed them up, might blunt part of the prosecution’s case, he drops them. If it isn’t an ambulance, he won’t pursue it.”
“Well, it’s all water under the bridge now,” he says. “I think we agree Talia’s fate in the preliminary hearing is pretty well sealed. The lady’s going to trial.”
Ron Brown’s been carrying reports from the courtroom. These plus the blistering news accounts have led the Greek to this breathtaking conclusion.
“Besides,” he says, “she was probably doomed from the beginning. I really don’t think Gil’s performance was a factor.”
“Gil’s performance was an embarrassment,” I say. “He owes her the favor of taking her case if for no other reason than to provide her with the ironclad appeal of incompetent counsel. It would be a dead-bang winner.”
He laughs a little at Cheetam’s expense. “Well, that’s not going to happen,” he says. “Gil’s out of the picture. And I think we agree you’re much better able to handle the defense.”
“Maybe she wants somebody else,” I say. “After all, I’ve been part of this circus.”
“I don’t think so.” He says this with confidence, like he’s been talking to an oracle.
“You must know more than I do.”
“Talk to her. She’ll listen to you.”
“Assuming I do. How do I get paid, if you’re no longer going to extend her any credit?”
He smiles now, toothy and knavish, reaching for a match. “You’re learning,” he says.
“Don’t light that,” I tell him. It’s been a long day and I am tired of suffering fools.
He makes a gesture of polite concession, dropping the match. He continues to suck on the cold cigar.
“I was getting to the money,” he says. “I’m prepared to offer Talia $200,000, up front, cash for a relinquishment of any interest she might have in the firm. That’ll carry the defense a long way. Well into appeals, if she needs them.”
“Talking appeals already-you must have a lot of confidence in me.”
He laughs, just a little. “Well, just seeing the downside.”
“Not a very generous offer, considering the fact that Ben’s interest in the firm is worth ten times that much,” I tell him.
“Only if she can get it. And she may have to wait for years. This is cash on the barrel, today.”
The conversation degenerates into a debate over figures. We sound like two Arabs in the bazaar, the Greek holding up his hands in protest, me trying to barter him higher, feigning an effort to sell something I have no authority to sell. I am interested in finding his bottom line. Talia may need to know.
In three minutes I have dragged him pissing and moaning to $300,000. I think he will go farther, but I am growing tired of this game.
“I’ll communicate your offer to my client, Tony. But I can’t recommend it.”
To this I get little slits of a look over pudgy cheeks from Skarpellos.
“Why not?”
“What’s the interest worth, Tony? Two million? Hmm-more? You know. I don’t. Only an auditor can tell us. She’d be a fool to sell under these circumstances. You know that as well as I do.”
“She’d be a bigger fool to go indigent. Does she really want the public defender representing her?”
“There are other alternatives,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like a motion to the court to unfreeze Ben’s assets for purposes of Talia’s defense.” This is a bluff, a legal shot of long odds, but one that Skarpellos has not considered. It takes the confidence out of his eyes.
“Besides, assuming she invites me, and I do decide to take over the case, I might finance the action myself. I might take a little contingency in the firm for my efforts.”
I can tell that the thought of me sitting at Ben’s desk, a partner he hadn’t counted on, is not one that rests well with the Greek.
He laughs. Like steam from a dying boiler, it is forced.
“How would you finance it?” he asks. “You’re on a shoe string.”
“A second on the house. No big thing,” I tell him.
“You’d gamble that much?”
“Who knows. Maybe we’ll find out.”
“I thought you were learning,” he says. “But I can tell. You have a lot to learn.” His face is stern now. All the evil he can muster is focused in his eyes. “That would not be a smart move.”
“Is that a threat, Tony? I can’t tell.”
He makes a face, like “Take it any way you want.” Then says: “Just a little advice.”
“Ah. Well, then, I’ll take it in the spirit in which it’s offered.” I give him a broad, shit-eating grin. “I’ll let you know Talia’s decision when she’s made it.”
I get up and head for the door.
“By the way,” he says. “What made you so curious about the beneficiaries under Ben’s will?”
I turn and give him a soulful look.
“A little shot at me?” he says. He’s miffed
at my questions to Hazeltine.
“You’re assuming I knew the answer to the question when I asked it.”
“I know you. You wouldn’t ask if you didn’t know.”
“Maybe you don’t know me well enough,” I say.
He nods. There is no warmth in this expression. The eyes are dead, cold, and there is a meanness in this face I have not seen before.
CHAPTER 19
I am anticipating a disaster, a rout on the magnitude of Napoleon at Waterloo. Cheetam sits at the counsel table between Talia and me. We are waiting for the result of a week of preliminary hearing. The judge is in chambers putting the final touches on her order.
“What do you think?” says Cheetam
I give him a blank stare. If he can’t see it for himself, I’m not going to tell him.
At the end of the prosecution’s case he’d asked for an outright dismissal of all charges. Only because legal protocol required it did the court humor him, taking this motion under submission.
That he could make such a motion under the circumstances tells me not only that Gilbert Cheetam lacks judgment, but that on a more basic plane, he is out of touch with reality. The submission to the court lasted three minutes, enough time for Nelson to make a brief argument; then O’Shaunasy gave the motion the back of her hand.
Cheetam reaches over and touches Talia on the arm. “It’ll just be a few minutes longer now,” he says. Talia smiles politely, then looks past him to me, searching for a little sanity.
The last day of hearing was the capper. Cheetam tried to build on a foundation of sand-Blumberg’s earlier testimony. He produced a janitor from the Emerald Tower, Reginald Townsend, who remembered cutting his hand, the day Ben was killed, on a jagged piece of broken glass. The man testified that he used the service elevator shortly after this and stated that he believed he may have dripped blood in the elevator. Lo and behold, the man’s blood type-the same as Potter’s-B-negative.
There was a satisfied grin in Cheetam’s voice as he said: “That’s all, Your Honor. Your witness.”
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