Naked Justice

by William Bernhardt

“Who was that?”

  “That was my colleague, Lieutenant Prescott.”

  “I see. Would he be the one the men call Pigpen Prescott?”

  Mike had to close his eyes and bite his bottom lip. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ben leaned against the jury rail. “So for over twelve hours following the murders, Prescott—not you—was in charge of the crime scene.”

  “Right.”

  “Did he secure the crime scene?”

  Mike hesitated for only the barest of seconds. “He did.”

  “To your satisfaction?”

  The hesitation was a bit longer this time. “I’m not his superior, so my satisfaction is irrelevant.”

  “Did he do things the way you would have done them?”

  Mike’s eyes focused on Bullock for a moment, then darted away. “No.” Then he added: “But every officer has a different style—”

  “Was it Lieutenant Prescott’s style to allow a lot of unnecessary personnel to tromp through the Barrett home?”

  Mike licked his lips again. Ben knew Mike well enough to know that, however uncomfortable this made him, he was an honest man. He wouldn’t lie. “There were a number of persons in the home when I arrived that morning.”

  “Were these all police officers?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Well, then who were they?”

  “For the most part, they were … sightseers.”

  Ben blinked, giving the jury a moment to absorb it all. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Curiosity seekers. People who heard about the killings on TV or radio and decided to take a look.”

  “How many?”

  “I’m not sure. Ten or fifteen.”

  “And these people were able to get inside the house?”

  Mike nodded. “True.”

  “Was butcher paper on the floor?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Photographs taken?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Forensic teams been through?”

  Mike shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “So none of that happened until after you chased these ten or fifteen people out of the house.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thank you.” Ben allowed himself a small smile. “Just a few more questions. After the preliminary investigation, did you continue to work on the Barrett case?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The feeling of my superiors in the department was that there was no need for further investigation. The case was assigned to another officer who specializes in pretrial preparation.”

  “I see. And when was that decision made?”

  “I believe it was March 12.”

  Ben blinked. “The day after the murders?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Lieutenant Morelli.” Ben spoke slowly and carefully. He wanted the jury to absorb every word. “To your knowledge, did any member of the police department ever investigate the possibility that someone other than my client might have committed these horrible crimes?”

  Mike’s answer was firm. “Not to my knowledge.”

  Ben smiled. “Thank you, sir. No more questions.” And, Mr. Bullock, let that be a lesson in the dangers of putting an honest man on the stand. Ben had assumed he would have to wait until he was putting on the defense case to introduce his main theme—police mishandling of evidence. Instead, he’d been given a brilliant opportunity to do it during the prosecution’s main case.

  Bullock rose more slowly than usual this time, a rare sight that cheered Ben’s heart. He stood as close to Mike as he could and began his redirect. “Lieutenant Morelli, I just want to ask you a few more questions. It’s unfortunate, but sometimes lawyers couch their cross-ex questions in ways that can mislead the jury.” Ben noted that Bullock’s voice had acquired just the tiniest edge. “Lieutenant, you didn’t mean to suggest that the crime scene was contaminated during the time that Lieutenant Prescott was in charge, did you?”

  “Objection,” Ben said. “Leading.”

  Judge Hart nodded, but said, “I’ll allow it.”

  Mike eased forward in his seat. “I was not present at the time Lieutenant Prescott was in charge, so I can’t possibly testify as to what happened then.”

  Bullock spoke in soft, even tones. “But, Lieutenant, I know you’ve been working in Homicide for some time and undoubtedly hope to continue to do so in the future, so let me ask my question again. I’m asking, did you see any evidence that the crime scene was contaminated?”

  Mike leaned forward, his jaw tightening. “Let me make myself clear. I took an oath to tell the truth, and that’s what I’m going to do, and there isn’t anybody or any threat that can make me do differently.” He paused. “Now, having said that, let me answer your question. No, I did not see any evidence that the crime scene was contaminated.”

  “Thank you, sir. You may—”

  “At the same time, I know there’s no way in hell that ten or fifteen rubberneckers could stomp through a house without disturbing things. I don’t know of any specific item that was altered, but I can’t dismiss the possibility.”

  Bullock’s voice was cold as ice. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Mike smiled congenially. “My pleasure.”

  “The witness may be dismissed.”

  Mike stepped down from the stand and hurried to the back of the courtroom, but not so fast that Ben didn’t notice a definite bounce in his step that hadn’t been there before. He didn’t miss the wink Mike gave him on the way out, either.

  Chapter 49

  AFTER A MID-MORNING BREAK, Bullock called his next witness, a Dr. Albert Camilieri. Ben knew from the prosecution’s witness list that he was their blood expert.

  Bullock began the witness examination in the traditional fashion, trying to wow the jury with a seemingly endless recitation of the witness’s qualifications, recommendations, degrees, professional memberships, and the like. The strategy was simple. For most of his testimony, he would likely be talking way over their heads. They wouldn’t be able to follow the analysis, much less duplicate the procedure. They simply had to take his word for it. To make sure that happened, Bullock had to make the man more than just a run-of-the-mill police lab tech. Albert Camilieri wasn’t enough. He had to be the Albert Einstein of the blood world.

  For more than half an hour, Bullock dwelt on the man’s professional credentials, including a review of prestigious cases he had worked on—indeed, had practically solved single-handedly, if you believed Bullock.

  Finally he brought the witness around to the case at hand.

  “Dr. Camilieri, have you had any connection with the case that is presently before the court?”

  The doctor was a thin man wearing a tweedy coat that seemed about two sizes too big for him. “Yes, I have.”

  “How were you involved?”

  “I was the blood expert called to the scene by Sergeant Tomlinson.”

  “And who is Sergeant Tomlinson?”

  “He’s Lieutenant Morelli’s assistant.”

  “And, as we’ve previously been told, Lieutenant Morelli was the investigating homicide officer in charge at the scene, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Bullock paused and did a little pirouette around the podium. “Now, before you tell us what you did, I’d like to ask you what you saw. When you arrived at the scene, what did you see?”

  Camilieri shrugged. “It … seemed like a standard crime scene.”

  “Were there hordes of gawking tourists?”

  “No. No one but authorized police personnel.”

  “Had the blood evidence been contaminated?”

  “Not in any way that I was aware of.”

  “Very good. Now, please tell us what you did.”

  Camilieri took a deep breath. Recalling this job probably wasn’t any more pleasant for him than it was for anyone else. “I was shown to the three areas of the house where the bodies were found. I
then removed representative blood traces from those areas, including from the bodies themselves.”

  “What did you do with these blood traces?”

  “I placed them on individually labeled glass slides and placed those inside individually labeled petri dishes, then sealed the dishes in individually labeled paper bags.”

  “Is there any chance that the various samples could have been switched or mislabeled?” A leading question, but Ben let it pass.

  “No, none. I was very careful.”

  “We appreciate your professionalism, doctor.” Well, Ben thought, Bullock does, anyway. “What did you do with the samples next?”

  “I took them to our central police lab for examination. I did this work in the presence of at least two witnesses at all times. These witnesses took notes on exactly what samples were being scrutinized and exactly what results were discovered.”

  Ben had to admit to being impressed. Camilieri seemed to have covered every base in the chain-of-custody ballpark. He was leaving no room for a clever cross-examining defense attorney to wriggle in some reasonable doubt.

  “Dr. Camilieri, would you please tell us what those results were?”

  “Of course.” He inched forward a bit in his chair. This, of course, was the part everyone had been waiting for, and he knew it. “In most cases, the blood found at the scene of the crime belonged to the victim. The blood surrounding Alysha belonged to Alysha; the blood surrounding Caroline belonged to Caroline. There was one exception, however.”

  He paused, giving Bullock a marvelous opportunity to draw out the suspense. “Really? An exception? What was that?”

  “The blood surrounding the corpse of Caroline Barrett for the most part did belong to Caroline Barrett. But I found a few traces of blood from another source. A splatter on the bodice of the dress she was wearing, plus some smeared on her hand.”

  Bullock nodded. “And did you perform an analysis of this unmatched blood?”

  “I did.”

  “Were you able to identify it?”

  Camilieri ran a finger down the side of his nose. “Well, as I’m sure you know, it’s impossible to make an absolutely positive identification of a blood source. It isn’t like fingerprints; it isn’t that unique. What we can do, however, is identify various blood characteristics, such as type, constituency, secretions, white blood cell counts, and so forth, and determine whether the characteristics in the sample match those found in a given individual’s blood.”

  “I see. And did you perform such an analysis on the unmatched blood found on the body of Caroline Barrett?”

  “I did.”

  “Good.” Bullock paused again, and this time he allowed his eyes to drift across the courtroom until they rested on Wallace Barrett. “Dr. Camilieri, did you ever have an opportunity to examine the blood of the defendant?”

  “I did. I took a blood sample from him after he was incarcerated.”

  “And did you analyze his blood for those distinguishing characteristics you described earlier?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you have an opportunity to match the results you received from the unidentified blood found on Caroline Barrett’s body with the blood taken from Wallace Barrett?”

  “I did.”

  “And what was the result of that comparison?”

  Camilieri held his breath for a few moments before answering. “It was an almost perfect match.”

  Bullock nodded his head grimly. “I see.” He cast a gravely disapproving glance toward Barrett, then continued his questioning. “Dr. Camilieri, have any studies been performed of these blood characteristics as they pertain to the general public?”

  “Yes, the blood traits of the population have been categorized and mapped. Of course, I can’t identify the specific blood characteristics of any given individual, but I can determine the statistical likelihood of any combination occurring in the general populace.”

  Ben sat up straight. Any time the prosecution started talking statistics, it was time for the defense to watch its backside.

  “Did you have an opportunity to compare your findings from the unmatched blood found on the body of Caroline Barrett with the population at large?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Objection!” Ben said. “This is not relevant. Statistical probabilities can in no way tell this jury whether the defendant committed this particular crime.”

  Judge Hart removed her glasses and tapped them against the bench. “I’m familiar with those arguments, counsel, and I’m not unsympathetic to them. But I’m going to allow this.”

  Ben gritted his teeth and sat back down. He knew this was going to be bad.

  “Please answer the question,” Bullock said.

  Camilieri nodded. “Statistically speaking, the chances of another person having exactly the same blood characteristics as Wallace Barrett are almost one in one hundred thousand. Given that the population of the Tulsa metropolitan area is only about half a million, that means there are only about five people who would make a positive match with that blood.”

  Bullock pondered that information with his soberest expression. “Five people.” Once again his eyes turned toward the defendant, and this time the eyes of the jury turned with him. “And one of them is Wallace Barrett.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I have no more questions for you.”

  Chapter 50

  BEN HAD CROSS-EXAMINED EXPERT witnesses before, and often enough to know that trying to attack their credentials was a fool’s game. Better to go after the statistics, to try to expose them for the intellectual game-players they were.

  “Dr. Camilieri,” Ben said, “if I understood your testimony correctly, you said that there are only five people in the Tulsa area whose blood characteristics would match the blood you found near the body of Caroline Barrett.”

  “That’s correct. Statistically speaking.”

  “Ah. Statistically speaking. And those statistics are based on the population of the entire country, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s a national average.”

  “Right.”

  “But that doesn’t tell you how many people with those characteristics live in the state of Oklahoma, does it?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “And it certainly doesn’t tell you how many people with those characteristics live in the Tulsa area, does it?”

  “Using the national statistical map as a guide, I can—”

  “Doctor, please answer the question. Your national statistics cannot tell us with any certainty how many people with these blood characteristics live in the Tulsa area. Right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “There may be five, or there may be fifty. You just don’t know.”

  “Well, I haven’t taken a census, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What I mean, sir, is that you don’t know. You’re just guessing.”

  “On a large-scale sampling, the statistical probabilities will come out correct.”

  “On a large scale, yes, but on a small scale, say, a single city, the statistics may be totally skewed, right?”

  “Well… it’s possible.”

  “In actual practice, statistics don’t always play out the way they’re supposed to, right?”

  “If the sampling is small, it’s possible—”

  “Possible? Anybody who’s ever been to Las Vegas knows that statistical probabilities don’t always play out according to the book.”

  “Yes, but the point—”

  “The point, sir, is that you’ve told this jury there are only five people in town whose blood matches the sample you found, but the truth is, you don’t know how many possible matches there are. Right?”

  “I can perform a probability analysis—”

  “Answer the question, sir. The truth is, you don’t know how many people in this city have blood that matches your samp
le. Correct?”

  Camilieri’s lips pursed tightly together. “That’s correct.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your candor.” Ben flipped a page in his notebook. “For that matter, there’s no reason to assume that the killer resides in the Tulsa metropolitan area, is there?”

  Camilieri glanced up at Barrett. “Well …”

  “Doctor, do you know who the killer was?”

  “Well, not from my own personal knowledge, no.”

  “So therefore, you don’t know where the killer lives, either.”

  “I suppose.”

  “So there was no reason to limit your blood analysis to Tulsa. You just did that as a means of justifying a smaller statistical base.”

  “I did that because it seemed probable.”

  “Are you a detective, sir?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Is it your job to detect?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t.” Ben quickly checked the judge. He was getting a bit rowdy even by defense attorney standards. “Did you uncover any evidence that suggested where the murderer lived?”

  “No.”

  “Then please don’t suggest to the jury that you did. The decision to limit your statistical base to the Tulsa area was an arbitrary decision on your part, right?”

  Camilieri seemed resigned to the inevitable. “That’s correct.”

  “Thank you.” Ben knew that was as good as it was going to get. Time to move on.

  “Did you find any other traces of blood anywhere in the Barrett home other than those you’ve mentioned?”

  “I found blood on or near each corpse, and some mixed with smeared footprints in the front hallway.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, there was one small sample in Mrs. Barrett’s bed, but I hardly thought that relevant, since none of the murders occurred there.”

  “Now, you admitted yourself that it was not possible to make a positive identification of any particular suspect simply by comparing blood samples.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So even with all your statistics, you cannot say with certainty that the blood you found on Caroline Barrett came from her husband, correct?”

  It seemed Camilieri had had enough. “Well, given the circumstances, it seems damned likely.”

  “Ah. So you, like everyone else on the police force, went into your analysis assuming my client was guilty and looking for ways to prove it.”