Nelson zeroed in on the man. He asked whether Townsend had a doctor attend to the wound after his ride in the elevator.
“It weren’t that bad.”
“Well, how much blood did you lose?”
“Oh, it were just a nick. A little thing.” He says this bravely, holding up two fingers to show the length of the wound, half an inch, as if he classifies anything less than a dozen stitches as a nick.
“I see, and you remember this nick, this little thing, nearly eight months later, and you can sit here and tell this court with certainty mat this wound, from which you apparently lost a single drop of blood in the elevator, occurred on the day mat Benjamin Potter was murdered?”
“Uh-huh. But I lost more blood than that. I held my hand in a towel,” said Townsend.
“Have you always had this gift?”
The man looked at Nelson with a vacant stare.
‘This ability to recall minute details and precise dates months after the event?”
“Oh, well, that’ll be a day none of us is likely to forget.” He was shaking his head as if to emphasize the momentous gravity of the events of that day.
“I see. You equate this nick, as you call it, on your hand with the day mat Mr. Potter was murdered?”
“That’s it,” he said, happy for some help. “Ah remember cuz you remember things when somethin’ like that happen. Like when President Kennedy got himself killed, I remember I was with my mama ….”
‘Tell me, Mr. Townsend, how did Mr. Cheetam come to discover this injury that you suffered? Did you come to him and tell him about it, or did he come to you and ask about it?”
“Well, it weren’t him.” Townsend was now pointing, his arm out straight like an arrow, at Cheetam. “No sir, Mr. Chitan, he didn’t come to me.”
Cheetam was reclining in his chair, nibbling on the eraser end of a pencil, smiling glibly at the dead end Nelson had just raced up.
“It were the other fellah, that one back there.” Like a weathervane in a shifting wind, Townsend’s arm had swung out toward the audience, taking a bead on Ron Brown, who tried to huddle behind a heavy-set woman seated in the row in front of him. “The one with the fancy pen,” said Townsend.
Nelson’s eyes followed the pointing finger like a guided missile. Brown was caught in the act, spear-chucker in hand, gold nib to the yellow pad propped on his lap.
“Your Honor, may we ask Mr. Brown, Mr. Cheetam’s associate, to stand for a moment.”
O’Shaunasy did not have to speak. Brown was up, shifting his feet, his shoulders sagging, his features lost in shadows as his head hung low, away from the beams of the overhead canister lights.
“That’s him.”
“Mr. Brown approached you?”
“Yes sir. He the one that talked to me He talk to all of us.”
“Objection, Your Honor, hearsay.”
“Were you present when Mr. Brown talked to the others, did you hear what he said to them?”
“I object, Your Honor.”
“Let’s hear what the witness has to say.” O’Shaunasy waits to see if Townsend will overcome the inference of secondhand information.
“Oh sure, he talk to all of us at once. The building manager get us together. He say one of the lawyers in the building want to talk to us.” Townsend was all smiles now, trying to be as helpful as possible.
“Overruled.”
Cheetam was fuming, angry not so much with the court and its ruling as with Brown and his lack of finesse in dealing with the hired help.
“What did he say when he talked to all of you?”
“He ask us if any of us see anything the day Mr. Porter was shot.”
“Did any of you see anything?”
“No, except for Willie He seed a lot.”
“Willie?”
“Yeah, he seed Mr. Porter after the shot.”
“Ah.” Nelson nods. “Willie’s the janitor who discovered the body?”
“Uh-huh.”
Nelson was becoming more charitable, his manner more easy, now that he was making headway with the witness.
“What else did Mr. Brown ask you?”
“He asked us if anybody ever got hurt, cut or like that, who used the service elevator.”
“He asked this question of all of you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you said yes?”
“Yeah, me and Bill and Rosie and Manual.”
“There were four of you?” Nelson’s question rose an octave from beginning to end.
Cheetam’s pencil lay on the table, the eraser end chewed off.
“Uh-huh.”
“Then what happened?”
“He took us up to his office.”
“You and Bill and Rosie and Manual?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then what happened?”
“They had a lady there, a nurse, she took our blood.”
“She took your blood?”
“Uh-huh. With a big needle. And they say they would get back to us.”
“And did they?”
“Just me,” said Townsend. “That gentleman”-he nodded toward Brown-“he get back to me.”
Cheetam and Brown must have thought they’d hit the mother lode when Townsend’s blood type came back.
“Did Mr. Brown say why he only wanted to talk to you?”
“No sir.”
“And what did he say when he finally got back to you?”
“He ask me when I hurt myself and how I done it.”
“And did you tell him?”
“Uh-huh. Just like I tell you today.”
“You mean to say that you cut your hand the day that Benjamin Potter was killed?”
“Yes sir.”
“I remind you, Mr. Townsend, you are under oath. To tell a he now is to commit perjury. That is a serious crime.”
Townsend did a lot of swallowing here. His Adam’s apple made the trip up and down his throat several times.
“I don’t lie,” he said
“Are you certain you did not injure your hand on another day, perhaps after Mr. Potter was killed, or long before the murder?”
Nelson, unable to shake the man, was offering him one last honorable way out of a lie.
“No, it were that day, or the day before, but I think it were that day. I’m sure of it.”
So much of his testimony had been compromising to Brown and Cheetam, that it was difficult to believe that he would lie on this point. Townsend’s words had the soulful ring of truth, and Nelson backed away. I wondered whether with all of his foibles Cheetam, and Talia by his proxy, would now-after all of this- finally profit from some happy coincidence. I would not wonder for long.
“Thank you, nothing more of this witness.”
Cheetam beamed like the Cheshire cat.
O’Shaunasy looked at him. “Redirect?”
“Nothing, Your Honor.”
“Very well, your next witness.”
“The defense rests, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Nelson, do you have any rebuttal witnesses?”
“Just one, Your Honor. The state would like to recall Dr. George Cooper.”
“Any objection?”
Cheetam looked mystified but at a loss to raise any grounds for objection.
He smiled. “None, Your Honor.”
Coop was called from the hall outside, where witnesses were assembled or held for further testimony. He took the stand and was reminded that he was still under oath.
“Dr. Cooper, you took blood samples from the body of the victim, Benjamin Potter, following death, did you not?”
“I did.”
“And the single drop of blood that was found in the service elevator-did you gather and process this evidence from the scene?”
“I did.”
“And finally, were you able to obtain a blood sample from one Reginald Townsend, a janitor in the building, a witness for the defense?”
“I did so, yes.”
“Doctor, c
an you briefly describe for the court that system of blood-type classification commonly known as A-B-O and explain in layman’s terms how it works?”
“As you know, there’s two types of blood cells, red cells and white cells. The A-B-O system keys on red cells only. It identifies chemical structures present on the surface of these cells called antigens. Under the A-B-O system, a type A blood donor would have A antigens on the surface of his red cells, a type B, B antigens, a type AB would have both A and B antigens and a type O would have neither. In addition, there is one other common factor in this blood-typing system. It’s the so-called D antigen or Rh factor of the blood. Those with the D antigen are said to be Rh-positive; those without it are Rh-negative.”
“So if both Mr. Potter and Mr. Townsend were classified as type B-negative blood donors, all that means is that they each had only type B antigens on the surface of their red blood cells, and that neither had the so-called D antigen present, so they were negative as to the Rh factor?”
“That’s correct.”
It was a polished routine, like Abbott and Costello. Townsend was disclosed as a witness for the defense before the trial, as required in discovery. It was clear Coop and Nelson had been over this ground in preparation. There was no wasted effort.
“Now this A-B-O system, is it the only method for typing and classifying blood?”
“No. It’s the most common system of classification used by hospitals for purposes of transfusions and other medical procedures. But in answer to your question, there are more than a hundred other different blood factors that have been shown to exist. In theory at least, no two individuals, except for identical twins, can be expected to have the same combination of all blood factors.”
Cheetam’s face sagged with this thought. He had spent too much time trying PI cases and too little chasing deadbeat fathers on paternity raps to be familiar with the nuances of identification by blood.
“Doctor, can you describe and explain some of these other blood factors, as you call them?”
“Well, besides the A, B, and D antigens, there are other antigens in the blood that serve as markers or can be used to identify a specific individual, or at least exclude other individuals from consideration. These can be detected, though it’s difficult when you’re dealing with dried blood.”
“Such as the blood in the service elevator?”
“Right. In this case the easiest factors to isolate are enzymes- these are markers, proteins on the red blood cells that regulate many of the body’s chemical reactions.”
Apparently in this case, given the slap-dash nature of Cheetam’s defense, Coop didn’t think it was necessary to go to the expense and trouble of exotic screenings. DNA tests were on the cutting edge, but required sophisticated labs and expensive equipment. The blood would have had to go to a private lab.
“Were you able to isolate blood enzymes in this case?”
“Yes. In the case of the dried blood taken from the service elevator we were able to isolate an enzyme known as PGM. The PGM enzyme is not the same in every person and comes in three common variations. We call these PGM-1, PGM-2-1, and PGM-2. The dried bloodstain from the service elevator in this case was PGM-2, actually somewhat rare. About six percent of the population carry this variation of the enzyme.”
“Now tell us, doctor, were you able to isolate the PGM enzyme in the blood taken from Mr. Townsend?”
“Yes, it was PGM-1.”
“Then it did not match the blood found in the elevator?”
“No.”
“Can you tell us, doctor, whether the PGM enzyme found in the blood of the victim, Benjamin G. Potter, matched the blood from the service elevator?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Therefore, is it safe to say that the blood in the elevator belonged to the victim, Benjamin Potter?”
“I can’t say that with certainty, but I can say one thing with assurance. It did not belong to Reginald Townsend. The enzyme test excludes Mr. Townsend as a possible source of this blood. I can also say that since the PGM-2 enzyme is carried by only six percent of the population, and that since type B-negative blood is similarly rare, only twelve percent, there is a very high probability that this blood belonged to the victim.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
Now, instead of being merely mortally wounded, Cheetam’d had his ass blown clean out of the water, in full view of the court-the entire world. He had to do something to save face. He leaned over and looked at me, a frigid, vacant expression in his eyes-it was the first time I had seen it in him. It was the look of fear. He was so shaken that it took a second for the brain to engage the mouth.
“Can you take him on cross?” he said.
I sat there stunned, caught between the devil and the deep blue see-Cheetam who was fear-struck, and Talia who sat there staring at me expectantly, as if at this late hour I could save her from Nelson’s rolling juggernaut.
My hesitation caused him to bolt. Before I could lean over and say anything to him, Cheetam addressed the court.
“Your Honor, if the court pleases, cross-examination of Doctor Cooper will be handled by my associate, Mr. Madriani.” He pushed himself back from the table and refused to make eye contact with me, looking instead off in the general direction of the empty jury box.
I could feel fire out to the tips of my ears. If the place had been empty, I could easily have killed. Here I was, about to earn an ulcer in a battle over the insignificant, some blood in an elevator that was now central to our case only because Cheetam had failed to defend on a plausible theory. He had pursued the case as a suicide with the dogma of a chief inquisitor, but with none of the success.
I rose, my thoughts a shambles. In a mental buzz, I approached the witness box, my mind racing for some loose thread, something to take hold of. I scanned the few notes I had taken from Coop’s direct testimony. I was stalling for time.
Coop sat there looking at me, the familiar Southern smirk on his face. I knew that inside he was laughing at how I’d been sandbagged by Cheetam. He was having a good time, now that this was at my expense. I would never hear the end of this, I was sure.
“Doctor, these tests-these so-called enzyme tests”-I was waving my arms, flapping my note pad in the air for effect, as if I was referring to a bag of witch doctor’s bones. “Are these tests absolutely reliable? Have you ever known them to report a false result?”
“People can make mistakes in administering them, but the tests themselves are reliable.” The asinine smile returned to Coop’s face.
“Is it possible that a mistake might have been made in this case?”
He looked at me, a bit of soulful Southern charm, then shook his head slightly. “No.” Like “Try the next door, Charlie.” He knew I was dabbling in the dark. He was almost laughing. It might have been funny but for the stakes.
“Did you perform these tests yourself?”
“I did.”
I was chasing rainbows.
“Now doctor, you say in your testimony that there was a high probability that the blood in the elevator was that of Mr. Potter?”
“No, I said there was a very high probability that the blood in the elevator belonged to the victim.”
He was playing all the buzz words. I referred to Ben as “Mr. Potter”-a little sleight of hand to decriminalize Talia’s situation. He came right back-”the victim.”
“Excuse me, doctor, a very high probability. Now does that mean that there is a possibility that this blood could also belong to someone else?”
“There is that possibility, though it is remote.”
For a long moment there was a still silence in the court, punctuated only by a hacking cougher in the audience. I considered whether to ask the question-the one set up by Coop’s answer. I rechecked my notes, the quick calculation I had made while Nelson was getting the answers he wanted. It was a risk, but it was weighed against void on the other side, for I had no other line of inquiry.
“Just
how remote is the possibility that this blood sample in the elevator could belong to someone else?”
Coop reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small hand-held calculator. He looked at his notes, then punched a few buttons and looked up. “Fewer than eight people in one thousand will carry the combination of these two markers in their blood.”
To statisticians such odds may be remote. To a trial lawyer in trouble, these numbers opened all the avenues of opportunity I was likely to get.
I turned for a moment and looked out over the railing at the bar. Two hundred sets of eyes riveted on me. A couple of artists were in the jury box doing my profile. For an instant there was the sensation, a little stage fright, the familiar flutter of fear as it rippled through my body, tinged by excitement. I turned back to Cooper to suppress it and reassembled my thoughts.
“That means that in an area such as this, with”-I made a face in estimation-“a million and a half people in the greater metropolitan area, there are what, almost twelve thousand people living in this area alone who could have dropped that blood in the elevator. Is that right?”
“Your figure,” said Coop.
“Is it right, doctor?”
“Objection, Your Honor. The doctor’s not a mathematician.” Nelson remained in his chair, but leaned toward the bench a little.
“Your Honor, it was Doctor Cooper who pulled the calculator from his pocket.”
Cooper smiled broadly and started to hand me the calculator. I stepped back, avoiding the thing like it was some truth machine.
“Sustained. The numbers will speak for themselves.”
Given what I had to start with, I’d done better than I had any right to expect, though my argument was more likely to confuse a jury than this judge. It ignored the facts that Townsend, Cheetam’s prime candidate for the blood, was not among the twelve thousand souls I’d fingered, and that Ben was.
It worked once so I trotted it out again, this dead horse that fed on numbers.
“Doctor. Do you have any idea how many people work in the building where Mr. Potter had his office?”
“No.”
“Would it surprise you if I told you there are nearly four thousand people who work in that building? That doesn’t count salesmen, vendors, repair people who come and go, deliverymen?”
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