The witness squirmed. “We’ve been working with new DNA analysis techniques—”
“Did either of the hairs you found have a live hair bulb?”
“A—what?”
“Hair bulb. You know, the root.”
“Uh, no.”
“But, sir, you can’t take a DNA fingerprint of the hair itself, because the hair is dead, right?”
“I—suppose.”
“And even if the bulb hadn’t rotted, you said it wasn’t intact.”
“That’s true.”
“Well then, isn’t it also true that you cannot say with medical certainty that the hairs in the crossbow came from Donald Vick’s head?”
The witness glared at Ben. “That’s true. When you put it like that.”
“Thank you, sir. No more questions.”
“Redirect?” Judge Tyler asked.
“Definitely,” Swain said. “Mr. Stephens, let’s talk about the scenario Mr. Kincaid just proposed. Do you believe that Donald Vick never came near that crossbow?”
“No. I know he did.”
“How do you know?”
“The hairs weren’t the only trace evidence I found. There was also a bloodstain.”
“A bloodstain!” Swain whirled to face Ben, obviously expecting to see a look of astonishment or surprise. He was greatly disappointed. Thanks to Mike, Ben had seen this one coming a mile away.
“Did you run any tests on the bloodstain?” Swain continued.
“Of course. We typed the blood, then compared it to a sample taken from Donald Vick. They matched.”
“Indeed. And what is Mr. Vick’s blood type?”
“B negative.”
“Is that a common blood type?”
“Not at all.”
“So the crossbow has Donald Vick’s hair and Donald Vick’s blood. Did you find trace evidence belonging to anyone else?”
“No, sir.”
“I guess that’s it, then. No more questions.”
Judge Tyler made a bridge with his hands and rested his chin upon it. “Back to you, Mr. Kincaid.”
“Right.” Ben approached the witness. “Mr. Stephens, you said B negative is an uncommon blood type. Just how uncommon is it?”
Stephens obviously liked having a chance to display his erudition. “About ten percent of the population has B negative blood.”
“And how many people live in Silver Springs?”
“Counting the surrounding country? Oh, I’d say about three thousand.”
“And ten percent of three thousand is how many?”
Stephens coughed. “Well … math was never my best subject … but that would be three hundred.”
“So when you say the blood on the crossbow was Donald Vick’s type, you’re really saying that it was the type of about three hundred people in the immediate area, one of whom was Donald Vick. Right?”
“I suppose you could look at it that way.”
Ben heard a noise in the back of the courtroom. He turned and saw Mike entering the gallery. Mike was motioning to him, but Ben knew Judge Tyler wouldn’t permit a recess at this critical juncture.
“Did you run any other tests on the blood?” Ben asked Stephens.
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“You did?”
“Yes. We performed a microscopic analysis of the blood cells. Just got the equipment this year,” he added proudly.
“What were the results?” Just as he finished the question he noticed Mike waving frantically from the back of the courtroom. His message was absolutely clear: Don’t ask that question.
Too late. “The tests showed that the blood on the crossbow was Donald Vick’s. Not that it came from one of three hundred people. That it came from Donald Vick. Beyond any question.”
Ben saw Mike slump down into his seat. The Tulsa tests must have produced the same result.
Ben saw Swain grinning through the hand across his mouth. Swain had suckered him in, and his witness had delivered the punch. Ben knew he was only getting what he deserved. He had violated the cardinal rule of cross-examination: if you don’t know the answer, don’t ask the question.
“Thank you,” Ben said quietly. “No more questions.”
“Any further redirect?” Judge Tyler asked.
“Oh, no,” Swain said happily. “I think everyone understands the forensic evidence just fine now.”
“Very well. Mr. Stephens, you are excused. Ladies and gentlemen”—his stoic face shifted to a sly grin—“I’m hungry. Let’s get some lunch. This trial will resume at one-thirty.”
47.
AFTER THE LUNCH BREAK Swain called to the stand Mary Sue Mullins, sole proprietor of Mary Sue’s boardinghouse. Mary Sue was dressed in a bright green dress with a lace collar—undoubtedly her Sunday best. She left her apron at home.
As she passed Ben on her way to the witness stand, he noticed she was trembling slightly. Nervous? About cross-examination? Or perhaps she just didn’t like appearing in public without Old Sally.
Swain extracted a bit of background from Mary Sue, including the critical fact that she ran a boardinghouse on Maple Street. He didn’t waste much time. Ben had the feeling everyone on the jury—probably everyone in town—already knew who she was.
“Do you know the defendant?” Swain asked.
“Oh, yes. I’ve known Donald for several months.”
“And how do you know him?”
“He took a room in my house. Room six. At the top of the stairs.”
“Did you see much of him?”
“Well, a bit. ’Course, he was gone during the daylight hours. Out at that camp running maneuvers, I’d imagine.”
“Objection,” Ben said. “She’s speculating.”
Tyler nodded. “Sustained. The witness will confine herself to the events she has seen or heard.”
Mary Sue looked stung, but she managed to carry on. “He came back most evenings for supper. Then he’d go up to his room for the night.”
“So there’s no question in your mind but that you know who Donald Vick is?” Swain asked.
“Not the least bit. He’s sitting right over there in the gray coveralls.”
Swain nodded. “Where were you on the afternoon of July twenty-fifth?”
“At Mac’s place. You know, the Bluebell Bar.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“Yes. Tommy Vuong was there. With three of his friends.”
“Do you know the friends’ names?”
“No. But they were all Vietnamese. Coi Than Tien people, I assumed.”
“What happened when Donald Vick came into the bar?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”
Swain didn’t respond verbally; instead he gave the judge a roll of the eyes and a do-I-really-have-to? look.
Judge Tyler licked his lips. “Sorry, Mister Prosecutor. He’s right. Let’s do it by the book.”
“All right,” Swain said. His tone made it clear he considered Ben’s objection a trivial annoyance that prevented him from unearthing the truth. “Let me try it this way. Did anyone enter the bar while you were there?”
“Yes. Donald Vick.”
“What a surprise.” He shared a smile with the jury. “Did Mr. Vick stop and chat with you?”
“Oh, no.” She folded her hands over her purse and leaned toward the jury. It was as if she was sharing a bit of gossip on the back porch. “He made a beeline for Tommy Vuong.”
“And then what happened?”
“Donald raised his hands like this”—she locked her fists together—“and clubbed Vuong right on the back. Without any warning. He was like a savage beast, just pounding and pounding him, without a shred of mercy.”
“That sounds horrible,” Swain said. “What happened to Vuong?”
“He didn’t know what hit him. He just kinda slumped over the bar. Didn’t move a muscle. But that didn’t matter to Donald Vick. He kept on hurting him. I thought he was going to beat the po
or boy senseless.”
“Is that what happened?”
“No. Fortunately Vuong’s friends came to his rescue. They pushed Vick away, then overpowered him. Vick wasn’t so tough once the tables were turned. I have to say, they did some serious pounding of their own. Vick’s face was cut and bleeding, and the rest of him didn’t look any too healthy.”
“What happened next?”
“They tossed him right out the door.” She had apparently been coached not to repeat the hearsay statement Judge Tyler had excluded. “That was the last we saw of him. I figured we’d probably never hear from him again. I had no idea. …”
“I sure you didn’t, Mary Sue. No more questions, your honor.”
“Mr. Kincaid?”
Ben walked slowly to the witness stand, carefully considering his strategy. Whether he believed her testimony or not, Mary Sue was an older woman and a respected member of the community. Treating her like the enemy would be a big mistake.
Ben reintroduced himself and tossed her a few softballs, easy questions intended to ease into the cross-examination. But eventually, before the jury got too bored with the chitchat, he knew he had to get to what really mattered.
“Now, ma’am, prior to that night at the bar, did Donald Vick strike you as a hothead?”
“Oh, no. Anything but. He was a quiet fellow. Timid almost. But you know”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“it’s always the quiet ones.”
“Move to strike,” Ben said. When would he learn to keep his clever comments to himself? “Donald never picked a fight at your house, did he, ma’am?”
“Oh, no!”
“Never threatened you, did he?”
“No, no. Of course, I’m not Vietnamese.”
“Now that’s an interesting suggestion.” Ben walked slowly back to defendant’s table, drawing the jury’s eyes away from the witness. “Donald actually had some Vietnamese friends, didn’t he?”
“I’d be very much surprised.”
“Didn’t you yourself admit a Vietnamese visitor to Donald’s room two nights before the murder?”
“Well … that’s true.”
“Who was the visitor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it Tommy Vuong?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Was it anyone in the courtroom?”
Mary Sue scanned the faces in the gallery. “I don’t think so.”
“What about Donald’s other visitor?” Ben paused dramatically. “The woman.”
“I—I don’t—”
“Didn’t a woman come to visit Donald Vick the night before the murder?”
“Well … yes …”
“And didn’t she enter Donald’s room while he was there?”
Heads turned in the jury box. Ben was afraid the reputation of Mary Sue’s boardinghouse would be tarnished for some time to come.
“Y-yes.”
“Do you know who the woman was?”
“Never saw her before.”
“Was she Vietnamese?”
“No. White.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
“I think so.”
“Is she in the courtroom today?”
Mary Sue took a quick look. “I don’t see her.”
“Did Donald have any other Vietnamese visitors?”
“Not that I noticed—”
“Is it possible that he had some visitors when you weren’t around?”
“Well … I suppose it’s possible.”
Ben had made his point. It was time to move on. “Let’s turn to the following afternoon, at the Bluebell Bar. You say Donald walked up and started pounding Tommy Vuong. But, ma’am—wasn’t there a bit of conversation before the pounding started?”
“Uh—conversation?”
“Right. Between Vick and Vuong?”
Mary Sue frowned. “They did talk. …”
“Vuong talked to Vick?”
“Mostly the other way around, as I recall.”
“Did you hear what they said?”
“No. He’s your client. Why don’t you just ask him what they said?”
Would that it were so simple. “How long did this conversation last?”
“Well, I wasn’t timing it. About a minute, I’d guess.”
“Did any of Vuong’s friends overhear the conversation?”
“I doubt it. The bar was quite noisy.”
“And then what happened?”
“Vuong turned his back while Donald was still talking. Just ignored him.”
“And that’s when Donald hit him?”
“I guess that’s right.”
“So the fight emerged from the discussion. Argument, probably. Possibly an argument begun two nights before at your boardinghouse.”
“I said it wasn’t Tommy Vuong that came to visit Vick!”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. With God as my witness, I’m sure.”
Ben slowly crossed the courtroom. “Ma’am, I don’t want to be indelicate. But isn’t it true that you have a drinking problem?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“I don’t mean to embarrass you, ma’am. But you are fond of the bottle, aren’t you?”
“I … occasionally take a small glass of sherry just before bed.”
“Well … according to your testimony, on the day of the murder, you were in the Bluebell Bar. In the middle of the afternoon. Right?”
Mary Sue lifted her head indignantly. “True.”
“And you weren’t there just to play pinball, were you?”
Mary Sue looked down at her hands.
“Ma’am, the jury is waiting for your answer.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t there just to play pinball.”
“In fact, you sometimes take a drink or two in the morning. Right?”
Her eyes began to well up. “It’s just so hard some mornings … since Joe passed on and … and—”
“My point is this,” Ben interrupted, hoping to make this easier for her. “Drinking affects your vision, doesn’t it?”
“Well, I don’t know … I guess it could.”
“Ma’am, had you been drinking two nights before the murder?”
“I … suppose I might’ve done …”
“Are you sure it wasn’t Tommy Vuong who came to your house to see Donald Vick two nights before the murder?”
“I told you it wasn’t!”
“True.” Ben slowly turned toward the jury. “But haven’t you also said that all those Vietnamese look alike to you?”
Mary Sue’s lips parted, then froze. Her mouth worked wordlessly for a few moments.
“Thank you,” Ben said, walking back to defendant’s table. “No more questions.”
48.
BEN WAS IN THE back of the Hatewatch office, in a smallish cubbyhole he had transformed into his War Room. He was poring over his notes for the next day’s trial when Mike and Jones entered.
“Nice work on that boardinghouse lady,” Mike said. “I think you seriously impeached the veracity of her identification.”
“That’s true,” Ben agreed. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that Donald picked a fight with Vuong a few hours before he was killed. That combination of inconvenient facts is going to be very hard for the jury to forget.”
“I expect so.” Mike noticed that Ben was craning his neck, peering over Mike’s shoulder. “Looking for something?”
“Oh … not really. I just thought … maybe …”
“Christina? Sorry. I did see her in town today. I think she was going on a picnic. It’s amazing how well she gets on with the locals. You could take some lessons from her. Haven’t seen her around here, though.”
“Oh.” Ben glanced down at his notes. “It’s not important. I just thought perhaps she might have …”
“Changed her mind?” Jones said. “Christina? Don’t count on it, Boss.”
“Yeah. Stupid of me. I have other problems to
worry about anyway.” He dropped his pencil. “But I sure could use a good legal assistant.”
Jones pulled some papers out of his satchel. “Here’s some research I did this afternoon on the admissibility of confessions. Should come in handy tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry I didn’t get back from the post office sooner,” Mike said. “My lab people back in Tulsa reached the same conclusion, though. They’re absolutely certain the blood on the crossbow came from Donald Vick. How much longer do you think the trial will last?”
“Two or three days. Why?”
“After yesterday’s riot, it’s just a matter of time before the FBI descends on this town. This is becoming a major civil rights situation.” Mike grimaced. “If you think things are bad now, wait till the FeeBees arrive.”
“Swell. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“If there’s some way I can help,” Mike replied, “let me know. Otherwise I’m going out of town to try to scrounge up helicopter parts. If I don’t replace most of Portia’s engine, I’ll never get her off the ground again.”
“That’s fine,” Ben said. “There’s no point in your hanging around the courtroom watching me get slaughtered.”
“Try to cheer up, Ben. If—”
The bell over the front door rang. All heads turned as Belinda bounced into the office.
“Jones,” Mike said, “don’t we need to be somewhere about now?”
“Not that I can—oof!” Mike’s elbow in his stomach seemed to jog his memory. “Oh, right. Now I remember.”
“C’mon,” Mike said, grabbing Jones by the arm. “I’ll buy you a drink at the world-famous Bluebell Bar.”
After they left, Belinda sat next to Ben, grinning happily. “How’s it coming, lover boy?”
“Not well, I fear.”
“Nice work in the courtroom today.”
“Thanks. But I bet it wasn’t good enough.”
“Ben … you know how I feel about this trial. I—” She paused, then reformulated her sentence. “I don’t know why I’m saying this. But I don’t want to see an innocent man go to prison. Or worse. There’s something you should know.”
Ben looked at her, puzzled. “What is it?”
“Mary Sue’s testimony wasn’t entirely accurate. The conversation at the Bluebell between Vuong and Vick lasted more than a minute or so. It was at least five minutes. Maybe longer. And it wasn’t just Vick getting upset. It was both of them.”
Perfect Justice Page 21