Harper Ross Legal Thrillers vol. 1-3

by Rachel Sinclair

  “Ms. Ross,” Judge Graham said. “Your witness.”

  I walked towards the witness stand. Ordinarily, I would have ripped this guy apart. I would have been able to use his statement to me at the police station that there was nothing amiss with Michael, and I would have thrown that up in his face. I could have asked him to point to the police report and to show me where he wrote down that Michael was acting odd and that Michael’s car was in the driveway for an hour.

  In short, I ordinarily would have made mince-meat out of this guy. He would have completely lost credibility by the time I got through with him.

  But in this case…I needed the jury to believe him. He had a good story, one that made Michael look guilty as the day is long. I wanted that story to stay in the jury’s mind.

  I cleared my throat. “Officer Murphy, have you had experience with men acting like you claim that Michael was acting?”

  I was carefully laying the groundwork for his testimony to damn Michael even more, all while making it look like I was trying to cross-examine him, and, oops, I didn’t get the answer I wanted. Happens all the time.

  Be careful, Harper. You don’t want this conviction overturned on the grounds of ineffective assistance of counsel. Just do enough, but not too much.

  “I have.”

  “How many times have you encountered men who acted like you say that Michael acted at the scene? Non-chalant, uncaring, joking around?”

  He shrugged. “A good dozen times, I guess.”

  “Out of those men that you arrested who acted extremely calmly when you arrested them, how many of those men ended up being convicted for the crime for which they were arrested?”

  “100% of the time.”

  Good, good. “100% of the time? So, you’re saying that every time you have arrested somebody who acted extremely calm when there was a dead body in the room, that person was found guilty by a jury of his peers?”

  “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Nothing further, your honor.”

  There. That was plausible enough. When Michael filed his ineffective assistance of counsel appeal, I could simply say that I was looking for a different answer there. That I was looking for the officer to say 50% of the time or something like that, and I was going to use that answer to springboard to different questions. But he said 100% of the time, so there wasn’t anywhere I could go with that, so I decided just to rest.

  I sat down and Michael was ready to kill me. I knew this. I could feel his eyes on me, even though I refused to turn my head to look at him. “Why did you do that? Why didn’t you question him harder?” Michael’s voice was a whisper, but I could feel it. I could feel it in my bones.

  I turned to look at him. “Stop questioning me.”

  I looked up at Judge Graham and saw that she was still studying me. She knew that I wasn’t on my game. I had been in front of her enough times that she knew how I usually operated. I was usually aggressive with lying witnesses. I could always break them down.

  I closed my eyes and prayed that there wouldn’t be a mistrial. I needed this conviction. The judge calling a mistrial would be a disaster, because it would delay my plan to try to bring down Gerald. I had decided that bringing down Gerald, and bringing him down quickly, would be the best way to also bring down Judge Perez before the Dowling trial. Assuming I was correct, and Gerald was in on the whole scheme with Judge Perez, I knew that he was going to sing like Adele about the judge, in order to get a better deal.

  I needed that to happen, and I needed that to happen quickly. I wanted everyone who was involved in this sorry affair to burn. Except maybe Kayla. I kinda felt badly for her.

  “Call your next witness, Ms. Todd,” Judge Graham said.

  “The State calls Bradley Cipolla.”

  Bradley was the guy who was going to testify about matching up the gun with the bullets. I knew this, because he was on April’s witness list and I had also seen his deposition transcript. There wasn’t much that I was going to be able to impeach him with. He was pretty solid.

  Brad went to the witness stand and was sworn in.

  “Mr. Cipolla, could you please state your name for the record?”

  “Bradley J. Cipolla.”

  “Mr. Cipolla, what is your current title?”

  “I’m the lead forensic investigator for the Kansas City police department. I specialize in firearm forensics.”

  “Firearm forensics. Can you please explain what that means?”

  “Basically, I match bullets with guns. That’s what I do, in a nutshell.”

  “Okay. And what kind of training did you complete to become a forensic investigator?”

  “I received a Bachelor of Science degree at Colorado State University, with a concentration in criminal forensics. I studied as an apprentice with Officer Dayton Roswell, who was the lead forensic investigator prior to my becoming the lead. Officer Roswell retired last year. My training with him lasted three years, and I learned about bullet striations, gunpowder residue, trajectory and ricochet, pin impressions and bullet tissue damage.”

  “Tell me about the gun that was recovered from the landfill. Was it matched up with the bullets that were found in Judge Sanders?”

  “Yes it was.”

  “And how did you match up that gun with the bullets found in Judge Sanders?”

  He cleared his throat. “I was able to match it by bullet striations.”

  “Bullet striations. Explain what you mean by that.”

  “Well, every gun barrel is different. Every gun barrel has a unique pattern of grooves. Because of this, every bullet fired from a certain gun is going to have that same unique groove pattern. The gun that was recovered from that landfill was matched to the bullets found in the victim, Robert Sanders, by matching striations.”

  “And how did you match the striations in this case?”

  “I fired another bullet from the recovered gun and matched that bullet up with the bullets found in Robert Sanders. Under a microscope, I can compare the strata on each bullet. Both the bullet fired from the recovered gun and the bullets found in the victim had identical strata.”

  “The bullets had identical strata? Is it possible for two bullets, fired from two different guns, to have identical strata?”

  “No. That is impossible.”

  “And why is this?”

  “Because the strata on a bullet is like a fingerprint. It’s unique, because the every gun barrel is 100% unique.”

  “And what is your professional conclusion?”

  “My professional conclusion is that the gun that was recovered from the landfill was the same gun that was used to kill the victim, Robert Sanders.”

  April then went to her table and brought a gun out of a box, after carefully putting on latex gloves. “Is this the gun that was used to kill Robert Sanders?”

  “It is.”

  “I would like to enter this gun into evidence as Exhibit A,” April said.

  “I have no objection,” I said.

  “It is so entered,” Judge Graham said.

  “I have nothing further.” April sat down.

  “Your witness, Ms. Ross,” Judge Graham said.

  “I have nothing for this witness, your honor.”

  “Mr. Cipolla, you are excused,” Judge Graham said to the officer. “Ms. Todd, please call your next witness.”

  “The State calls Alan Dennehy,” April said, and I sat up in my chair. I rubbed together my hands, knowing that this was going to be the good witness. He was the forensic expert who was going to testify about the gloves.

  After I “accidentally” included my forensic report for the gloves in my document dump to April, she apparently took the ball and ran with it. She formally asked for the gloves, and I gave them to her, without Michael’s knowledge. I was really covered there, because April formally asked for them, and I was obligated to give them to her. She then hired her own forensic guy to test the gloves, and I knew the outcome. Alan Dennehy was going to testi
fy to this.

  I looked over at Michael, and saw that he had no idea what was coming. He was slouched in his chair, doodling on a piece of paper, looking pissed off. He didn’t show any degree of alarm about seeing this guy, though, so I knew that he was about to be blindsided.

  Alan came to the stand and raised his right hand.

  “Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” April asked him.

  “I do.”

  “Please state your name for the record.”

  “Alan B. Dennehy.”

  “Mr. Dennehy, what is your profession?”

  “I am a forensic investigator.”

  “Please state your qualifications to be a forensic investigator.”

  He cleared his throat. “I received a bachelor of science in biology from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, in 1991. I went on to receive a master’s degree in Criminal Justice and Criminology from the University of Missouri-Kansas City, graduating in 1992. In getting both my bachelor’s degree and master’s degree, I took extensive coursework in DNA analysis and finger and glove print analysis. I became an officer in training on the Kansas City police force in 1993. I was an officer for 10 years, and, in 2003, I underwent an apprenticeship with a senior forensic investigator, Officer Finney, that lasted two years. I graduated from that apprenticeship in 2005, and, since 2005, I have investigated over 3,000 crime scenes using forensic analysis.”

  Impressive credentials. This guy was unimpeachable. Not that I wouldn’t be able to make him crack if I was really trying, but I wasn’t going to try, so I knew that the jury was going to find him extremely persuasive.

  That was my hope.

  “Okay. Now, Officer Dennehy, did you examine the gun that was found in the landfill and was matched to the crime scene?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you find fingerprints on this gun?”

  “No I did not.”

  “Did you find glove prints on this gun?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How did you recover these glove prints?”

  He cleared his throat. “Glove prints are as unique as fingerprints. Each glove has a unique grain, which is found on the surface of each pair of gloves. Most pairs of gloves, over a period of time, pick up dirt and grease, which leaves prints on hard surfaces, such as that of a gun. I dusted the surface of the gun and I retrieved a unique gun print from the weapon.”

  I turned and looked at Michael and saw that he was looking alarmed. He frantically left me a note on the yellow pad of paper. “What the fuck?” was all that note said.

  I simply shrugged and turned back to listen to Alan give testimony that was going to definitively sink my client. Michael was going to be as sunk as the Titanic by the time this guy got through with his testimony.

  April started to pace a little bit in front of the witness. Then she went over to her table and put on her latex gloves again, and picked up the pair of leather gloves that were in a box next to her table.

  She approached the witness as Michael wrote another note. “Those are my fucking gloves. How did she get my fucking gloves?”

  I shrugged again, and I wrote back. “Maybe one of your enemies sent them to her. I guess you were careless and left them somewhere.”

  “I am going to show you a pair of leather gloves,” April said to Officer Dennehy. “Can you please identify these gloves for the record?”

  “Yes. These are the gloves that I used for my forensic analysis of the recovered murder weapon.”

  “You did the forensic analysis on this pair of gloves?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe the forensic analysis that you conducted on these gloves.”

  “I dusted the murder weapon for glove prints and found several. I then received this pair of gloves and I matched the grain that was on these gloves with the grain that I found on the recovered gun. The two prints were identical.”

  “Was there anything else that led you to find that this pair of gloves match the glove print on the gun?”

  “Yes. I found that the gloves are frayed and worn on certain areas.” Alan took the glove and held it up. “Right here, you can see a wear pattern, a place where the grains of the gloves are not as prominent as other areas of the glove. These wear patterns were identical to the areas of the gun that didn’t have prominent glove grain prints. From the grain patterns that I dusted and the wear patterns that I also dusted on the gun, my conclusion is that this pair of gloves were the same gloves that were used to fire the recovered murder weapon.”

  I had to suppress a smile. This testimony was getting good.

  “What the fuck,” Michael wrote on a piece of paper. “She obtained those gloves illegally. She had to have. You better call for a mistrial. I’m not going to fry because the prosecutor stole my gloves.”

  “Relax,” I wrote back. “She got these gloves perfectly legally.”

  I turned back and watched the rest of the testimony unfold.

  “And were you able to trace these gloves to anybody in particular?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who did you trace the gloves to?”

  “Mr. Michael Reynolds.”

  I turned around and looked at the jury. They were mesmerized by this testimony, and, when Officer Dennehy stated that the gloves belonged to Michael, I saw them look stunned and I heard an audible gasp.

  Michael heard it, too. “Do something,” he wrote on the pad of paper. “Do something or I will.”

  I started to panic just a little. What did that mean, “do something or I will?” What did he plan on doing?

  April was still questioning Officer Dennehy. “How did you trace these gloves to the defendant, Michael Reynolds?”

  “By a DNA sample. When Mr. Reynolds was arrested, he gave a DNA sample. These gloves had leftover DNA inside of them. DNA can be left by sweat, and this was the source of the DNA that was found inside the gloves.”

  “I see,” April said. “And did you do the DNA analysis?”

  “I did.”

  “And what qualifications do you possess which would enable you to perform a DNA analysis?”

  “As I noted before, I received a bachelor of science in Biology and a master’s degree in criminal justice, plus I completed a 2-year apprenticeship with Officer Finney. I studied extensively about DNA analysis in obtaining my bachelor’s degree, my master’s degree and in my apprenticeship. Since I graduated from my apprenticeship in 2005, I’ve examined over 10,000 individual sources of DNA and have successfully matched 80% of these sources with a suspect.”

  “And what about the 20% of the DNA sources that you haven’t been able to match?”

  “I wasn’t able to match that extra 20% simply because I wasn’t able to obtain the proper suspect’s DNA. Those cases have gone cold.”

  “And what is your expert opinion regarding the gloves that you hold in your hands, and the glove prints that were found on the gun?”

  “My expert opinion is that these gloves,” he said, holding up the gloves, “are the same gloves that were used to fire the murder weapon, and that these gloves belonged to the defendant, Michael Reynolds.”

  “And did you find any other DNA source on these gloves?”

  “No.”

  “Did you find any other fingerprints or glove prints on the murder weapon, besides these glove prints?”

  “No.”

  “I have nothing further.”

  “You get out there,” Michael whispered. “You get out there and you hammer this guy. Ask him where he got those gloves, because I certainly didn’t supply them.”

  “Ms. Ross,” Judge Graham said. “Your witness.”

  I stood up. “I have no questions for this witness, your honor.”

  At that, Michael stood up. “This is bullshit! This is bullshit! That prosecutor stole those gloves. She stole them. She can’t get away with this!”

  While Michael was screaming obscenities and accusations, Judge
Graham was banging her gavel, over and over again. “Mr. Reynolds, I will not tolerate outbursts in my courtroom. If you say one more word, I will have the bailiff remove you and you will not be allowed to participate in this trial anymore. Do you understand me, Mr. Reynolds?”

  He sat back down and crossed his arms in front of him. I looked at him, and he was shaking his head, over and over again. “It’s over,” he wrote down on the sheet of paper. “I’m toast. And so are you. I’m going to have your Bar license when this is all said and done.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” I whispered.

  THE REST of the trial was anti-climactic. After the testimony by Officer Dennehy, everything was downhill from there. April called Christina, Ava and Anita to testify. They all testified to the fights they witnessed between Michael and Judge Sanders, and they all testified to the fact that Michael was the only one who had decent access to Judge Sanders’ kitchen, because he refilled the pill boxes, so he was the most likely one to have poisoned Judge Sanders. They all testified that Michael had motive to kill Judge Sanders, because Judge Sanders was threatening to tell Christina about his affairs with multiple women, and Christina would have divorced Michael and left him penniless.

  I half-heartedly cross-examined each of them, doing the bare minimum - just enough to keep me out of trouble, but not enough to make the witnesses look bad.

  For Christina, I stood up and asked one question. “Ms. Sanders, you stated that only Michael had access to the Judge Sanders’ kitchen. But you never actually saw him put poison into the orange juice, did you?”

  “No.”

  “I have nothing further.”

  For Ava, I went a tad further. “Mrs. Sanders, isn’t it true that Judge Sanders had a different family?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you wanted to divorce him?”