by Kate Wilhelm
“My God,” Barbara whispered.
“Hold it,” Frank snapped, still clutching her arm in a hard grasp. “They’ve got garbage to throw. Come on.” He pulled her behind a car waiting to enter the parking lot. They stayed behind cars to the entrance of the tunnel under Seventh that led to the courthouse. The tunnel was crowded as usual at this hour.
As soon as they emerged within the building, a bailiff met them. “Judge Paltz wants you,” he said to Barbara.
And she wanted him.
Gerald Fierst was already there when she was admitted to Judge Paltz’s chambers. Both men were grim-faced. Judge Paltz looked her over quickly and motioned to a chair, and then seated himself behind his desk.
“This won’t do,” he said.
“I request that the jurors be sequestered,” Barbara said. “Those people have tomatoes, who knows what all.”
“I know that,” the judge said. He turned to Gerald Fierst. “How long is this trial going to take?”
“I’ll wrap up my end in three days,” Fierst said. “If there’s no hindrance from the defense.”
“I don’t know how long it will take,” Barbara said. “But if it takes a month, the jury has to be protected from a mob like that. There can’t be a fair trial with that kind of demonstration outside the door. It’s a vigilante mob out there. And we all know some of them will be inside the court today. Ask them if they intend to delay anything.” She drew in a deep breath. “If the jury is prejudiced or frightened by a mob like that, it’s an automatic mistrial.”
“Don’t tell me my business,” Judge Paltz said softly. “We have a situation on our hands, and we have to deal with it. Once the jury is inside and accounted for, they will be protected. And there will not be any demonstrations in my court. The principals in this case will all be escorted to the courthouse door for the duration of this trial. You will be picked up by an unmarked police car and brought here, and taken back at the close of the day. No attorney in my court is going to appear with tomato or eggs on their clothing. A room will be set aside for lunches to be brought in, or you may choose to bring your own food, or eat in the cafeteria. There will be no disruption of these proceedings. I advise both of you to expedite this trial. Before today’s opening I shall speak to the jury and explain the situation to them. Is that satisfactory?”
After he dismissed them both, Barbara found Frank waiting outside the door. She told him what arrangements Judge Paltz was making.
“How did he sound?” Frank asked.
“He never raised his voice.”
“Yep. Mad as hell. Don’t blame him, either. Well, that’s life.”
The courtroom was packed to capacity that day. The three students were there, but for the most part the audience was middle-aged or older, and they were for the most part well dressed and silent. To Barbara’s eye they looked like vultures waiting for the first blood.
“Did you see all those people?” Paula whispered when she was led in to take her place by Barbara.
“Don’t worry about them. The judge is handling things.”
Paula nodded, but she looked very frightened.
If the panel of jurors had been upset by the demonstration, whatever the judge told them seemed to have had a calming effect; they were impassive and attentive when Gerald Fierst called his first witness.
Willis Jacobson testified that he was with the volunteer fire team that got to the fire six or seven minutes after the call came in. “It had been burning maybe ten minutes by then; the whole building was burning, up and down. The defendant was crying that her baby was upstairs somewhere, and I was suited up, so I went in with a hose to look for her. But it was too smoky by then to see anything and I had to back out again. We had the pumper on the house, and had the fire out within ten minutes, and we looked again for the child, and found her body on the first floor, in the living room.”
“Exactly what did Mrs. Kennerman say when you got there?”
“Well, she was sort of out of her head, crying and screaming, and fighting to get back in. Two women were holding her back. She was bloody and burned some herself. She said, ‘My baby’s upstairs somewhere. For God’s sake, she might be under a bed or in a closet hiding.’ ”
Barbara had no questions.
The next witness was the state fire marshal. Gerald Fierst had him describe his background, his position, his years of experience, and then asked, “Mr. Conkling, what time did you arrive at the Canby house?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“I see. And who called you?”
“The chief of the volunteer fire department, Walter Dixon.”
“And why did he call you?”
“When there’s a suspicious fire, it’s routine to bring in an investigator. Chief Dixon suspected arson fire and called me.”
“All right. Tell us, please, exactly what you did at the scene.”
“Yes, sir.” He was a solid man, forty-three years old, six feet tall, and very broad, slow speaking, deliberative. He took his time describing his investigation. Gasoline had been present in the kitchen, in the hallway, and in the living room. The kitchen door had been closed, and when the tank of propane exploded, it blew the door open and blew out the front screen door, and the fire spread to the living room and on up the stairs.”
“How do you know it was gasoline and not kerosene, or even motor oil?”
Conkling went into a very technical explanation of the different ways combustibles burned, the different ash left, the different smoke. He explained the flash effect of the blast against the door; the same effect had been through the hall and on the frame of the screen door, and to a lesser extent on the front wall of the living room.
“So you can tell exactly what burned, and where it started, even after the Bremen have soaked the house?”
“Yes, sir. We can tell.”
“What did you determine about the living room where the child’s body was found?”
“Someone had thrown gasoline on some of the furniture, but mostly on the floor and on the rugs. And the girl’s body had been covered with gasoline. There was gas under her and over her.”
Paula made a low sound, but did not move, and Barbara did not turn to look at her. She listened intently to the marshal as he continued to describe what he had found.
“It was as if the person had stood in the room and splashed out gas in several directions, making a ray pattern.”
“How do you know the child’s body was soaked in gasoline?” Gerald Fierst asked in a low voice. He sounded as if he hated this as much as anyone in the room.
“I examined her body and her clothing.”
“Can you just tell us the conclusions you drew from your examination?”
“Yes, sir. The fire flashed over her, consuming all the gasoline, and it ignited her clothes and her hair…” He kept his gaze fixed on Gerald Fierst, His voice was without expression.
Someone in the seats behind Barbara began to sob in a loud voice, and there were mutters, and one voice calling out in a harsh whisper, “Oh, God! Oh, God!” Barbara did not turn to look. She did, however, glance at Paula, who was like a carving, except that her eyes were closed and tears were coursing down her face. Barbara stood up. “Your Honor, may we have a recess?”
He already had his gavel raised, and brought it down hard as she spoke. “Ten minute recess,” he said. “The bailiff will clear the courtroom.” He stalked out.
When they resumed, Judge Paltz said icily in a very soft voice, “If there is any further demonstration of any kind in this courtroom, the persons responsible will be charged with contempt of court and will be denied reentry. Mr. Fierst, please.”
Gerald Fierst surprised Barbara then by changing the direction of his questions. “Mr. Conkling, as part of your investigation did you try to find the source of the gasoline?”
“Yes, sir. We found three gas cans in the barn. One five-gallon can and two one-gallon cans. The five-gallon can was half filled, the others were empty.”
Barbara rose and walked to the front of her table. “Mr. Conkling, can you estimate how much gas was spilled in the house that day?”
“At least a gallon,” he said without hesitation.
“Could it have been more?”
“It might have been more, but no less than a gallon.”
“Mr. Conkling, I have here a floor plan for the Canby house.” The drawing was admitted. She handed it to Conkling. “Is this correct as far as you can tell?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s the house plan.”
“What I’d like you to do, Mr. Conkling, is try to show us where the gas actually was, starting with the kitchen. Can you do that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She handed him a red felt-tip pen. “If you would just indicate where the gas was spilled, please. And describe to the jury where you are marking the floor plan.”
He began to draw jagged red marks in the kitchen, explaining as he went. He looked up at her. “There wasn’t any gas on the kitchen door. Out in the hall, it was sort of splashed back and forth, not quite to the walls. Then in the living room.”
When he finished, she took the house plan and studied it a moment. “There wasn’t any gas on the stairs?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You show that it stopped several feet away from the living room door, and there isn’t any shown for several feet into the room. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“These other two doors in the hallway, one to a bedroom, and the other to an office, were they splattered at all?”
“No, they weren’t.”
“Mr. Conkling, as part of your investigations into arson fires, do you sometimes reconstruct the actions of the arsonist?”
“Frequently we do that.”
“And could you do it for us with this fire?” She walked to the jury and held the house plan drawing up so they could see it and follow what he was saying.
“Yes, pretty much. Someone went to the kitchen and splashed the gas around and tossed a match in, and then closed the door and went through the hall splashing it around for about fifteen feet. Then the arsonist went into the living room and stood about where I put a circle, and threw the gas around the room and on the child’s body, and then went out.”
“You’re assuming the child’s body was on the floor already?”
“Well, the gas was all over her.”
“But you said earlier that it was under her as well. Didn’t you?”
“Yes. It was.”
“So it had to be on the floor already when she was struck and then covered with gas. Is that right?”
“Objection,” Fierst called out. “This is getting out of the range of expert opinion into pure speculation.”
“The witness has been testifying as an expert from the start; this is what he does for a living, reconstruct what happened,” Barbara said quickly.
“Overruled,” Judge Paltz said. “You may answer.”
“This is a difficult question,” Conkling said. “Some gas could have flowed under the body, or she might have fallen where gas already was in place, or she might have rolled into it, or been placed on it. Without observing her body in place, I couldn’t say which one is correct.”
Barbara nodded. “All right. Would you expect anyone throwing around that much gas to get some on his or her clothing?”
“Very likely.”
Barbara nodded and went to the defense table, where she had placed the large plastic bag. She took out a gas can. “Mr. Conkling, is this like the cans you found in the barn?”
She handed it to him, but he was already nodding. “Yes, it is,” he said.
She took the can back and walked with it to the jury box to show them. The can was red, with a short spout and cap and a top handle. She returned to the witness stand with it. “Mr. Conkling, would you mind demonstrating how you believe the arsonist threw the gas around?”
“Objection,” Fierst said. “This witness can’t know the movements of the arsonist. This is pure speculation.”
Judge Paltz was eyeing the gas can with a slight frown. He waved toward Fierst and said, “I think I would like to see such a demonstration. If you will, Mr. Conkling?”
Conkling stood up, went to the front of the bench, and took the can from Barbara. He regarded it for a moment.
“We’ll pretend the kitchen door is here,” Barbara said, drawing an imaginary line. “The door is closed now.”
“Well,” Conkling said, grasping the can in both hands, “I think you’d want to walk backwards, so you wouldn’t walk through the gas.” He walked backward a few steps, tilting the can with one hand, guiding it with the other in a sweeping motion.
“And now the living room,” Barbara said. “Let’s pretend this is where you drew your circle, where you think the arsonist stood.”
He paused in thought again and then looked at her. “I think you’d want the cap off,” he said. “You couldn’t throw it out very well through the spout.” She nodded, and he removed the cap and, using both hands, pantomimed throwing gasoline. When he was done, he replaced the cap.
“Thank you, Mr. Conkling. When you examined the gas cans in the barn, were the caps on them all?”
“Yes they were.” He looked hesitantly at the witness chair and she nodded. He reseated himself.
“Did you examine the clothing worn by Paula Kennerman that day?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
“Did you find any traces of gas?”
“No.”
“Did you also examine Paula Kennerman?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell us what you found.”
“She had flash burns down one side of her face and her body, a first-degree burn where her skin was exposed.”
“One side of her face and body? Which side?”
“Down the left side. Her hair was slightly charred on the left side, also.”
“Thank you, Mr. Conkling. No further questions.”
Fierst asked from his table. “Mr. Conkling, when you said that likely the person would get gas on her clothing—”
“Objection,” Barbara snapped. “Pronouns, Mr. Fierst.”
“Let me rephrase the question,” Fierst said with a glance at Judge Paltz. “If a person were being very careful, then would it be likely that he or she could avoid splashing gas on himself or herself?” From someone else the question would have hung heavy with irony, but from Fierst it simply showed caution.
“It probably could be avoided.”
The prosecution’s next witness was the medical examiner who had performed the autopsy on the body of Lori Kennerman. Dr. Voorhees was sixty-four, thin-faced, with a raspy, high-pitched voice. He started by describing the condition of the body. When he went into detail about the extent of the burns, Barbara gripped Paula’s arm. It felt like steel. In his irritating voice Voorhees continued to give a detailed report on what he had done, what his conclusions were.
“What exactly was the cause of death?” Fierst asked.
“A blow to the neck, just below the anterior region of the right ear, with an instrument sharp enough to puncture the skin and sever the carotid, and to cause a break between the third and fourth vertebrae.”
“A broken neck, is that the common term?”
“Well, I suppose it is.”
“Was the wound caused by a knife?”
“No, nothing that sharp. It broke through the skin, but didn’t cut it as a knife would do.”
“Something like the edge of a square-cut fireplace poker?”
“That could have done it, or anything with a straight edge wielded hard enough.”
Barbara glanced again at Paula, who had her eyes closed and her fists clenched tight enough that blood was showing on her hands. Fierst finished his questions, and Barbara stood up.
She picked up the gas can once more and approached the witness chair. “Dr. V
oorhees, could something like this have caused such a wound?” She indicated the bottom of the can. He peered at it.
“Yes, that straight edge might have done it, too.”
“Dr. Voorhees, would such a wound as you describe cause copious bleeding?”
“Oh my, yes. She was very nearly exsanguinated.”
“And would there have been a spurt of blood from such a throat wound?”
“I should think so.”
“Would you expect a person standing close enough to cause such a wound to have that blood on his or her clothing?”
“It’s difficult to say for certain, but I think so.”
“Would death have been very fast from such injuries?”
“Instantaneous unconsciousness and death immediately following would result from such injuries,” he said.
“As part of your examination, did you look for indications of previous accidents or injuries, signs of abuse in the past?”
“Yes. There were none.”
Barbara thanked him and turned back to the defense table. Paula had her head buried in her arms.
Fierst stood up for his redirect. “Dr. Voorhees, would a long weapon afford enough distance to avoid being splashed with blood?”
“If it’s long enough, or if the killer was in motion, I guess he could avoid it. But blood would have spurted.”
Fierst had no further questions and the doctor was excused.
“In view of the hour, we will be in recess until two,” Judge Paltz said then.
Everyone except Paula rose as he left the bench. She tried, but sank back down into her chair. As soon as the judge was gone, a murmurous group voice rippled over the courtroom. Paula looked up at Barbara; her face was ashen.
“How could you do that?” she whispered. “How could you talk about her as if she weren’t even real?”