“Did your search uncover any other objects which, in your opinion, could account for those head wounds?”
“No. We found no heavy objects, or rocks of this size, whether on the cliff or closer to the body.”
Gregg, Tony knew, was systematically destroying the defense of accident or suicide, and now Stella meant to drive this home. “Did you form an opinion,” she asked, “as to how a rock with Marcie Calder’s blood and hair and tissue on it wound up over seven feet from her body?”
“Objection.” Tony stood. “We concede that Ms. Marz has qualified Detective Gregg as an expert with respect to the conduct of crime scene investigation. But there’s nothing in his credentials or in the record to suggest that the ‘opinion’ Ms. Marz asks for is any better than anyone’s guess.”
Stella’s gaze at Tony was ostentatiously unimpressed. “Your Honor,” she said, “the witness can state the factual basis when he states his opinion. If the court considers the basis inadequate, it can so instruct the jury.” Her voice took on a weary sarcasm. “As for expertise, I somehow think that this witness’s extensive education and professional experience qualify him to opine on how a ten-pound rock managed to travel quite so far.”
When Karoly, turning, raised his eyebrows, Tony knew that objection had been a mistake: the judge’s expression was a silent comment on Tony’s effrontery. “Overruled,” he said in his flattest voice. “Do you have the question in mind, Detective Gregg?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Gregg answered. “My opinion is that someone took the rock from above the cliff, struck Marcie Calder on the head, and threw both her body and the rock off the edge of the cliff.” Pausing, he gave Tony a brief sardonic glance. “As to how I reached that opinion, there are a number of factors.
“First, there are several rocks of a similar composition near the footprints above the cliff. We found no such rocks near the trail caused by Marcie’s fall.
“Second, there were no footprints near the rock, or near the body. Marcie Calder didn’t walk there, and no one walked the rock another seven feet.
“Third, Marcie Calder did not bludgeon herself to death with a ten-pound rock. She wasn’t strong enough, and if she were, who threw it off the cliff?
“Fourth, it is a ten-pound rock. If Marcie’s head had hit it in some accident, or in a fall, how could it travel so far from her body, and so far from the bottom of the cliff where the body ended up? Not plausible.
“Fifth, of course, are the marks above the cliff. They’re almost four feet long. Even if she fell, the toes of her shoes—which I believe made those marks—wouldn’t have made so long a trail. In my opinion, Marcie Calder was dragged to the edge of the cliff.
“Sixth, Marcie’s body was heavier than a rock. Even someone with considerable strength could not have hurled a one-hundred-and-five-pound body very far out from the cliff. Ten pounds of a football-shaped rock is something else again.…”
Abruptly, Gregg stopped, as if he had lost track of the many reasons why his opinion was clearly right. When Tony looked to his side, the jurors were riveted.
“Oh, yes,” Gregg added. “The rock was lying in a deep indentation in the sand, as shown by”—he glanced over his shoulder—“Exhibit D-5. Like it had landed hard.” He paused, as if aware that this was not his most compelling point; this hesitance made his demeanor, before somewhat robotic, suddenly quite human. It had been several trials, Tony realized, since he had seen a police department criminologist who seemed as credible.
“I guess that’s all,” Gregg finished abruptly.
Stella paused for dramatic effect. “When you found her, Detective Gregg, was Marcie Calder wearing a watch?”
“She was, yes. It was a blue Swatch—plastic and rubber.”
Stella held out a glassine bag, containing a watch. “Is this the watch—premarked as Exhibit 7?”
Gregg turned the bag in his hands. “I believe so.”
“And were you able to lift any fingerprints?”
“There were three distinct prints. One print, as you might expect, was Marcie Calder’s. Another was unidentified.”
“And the third print?”
“It belonged to the defendant, Mr. Robb.”
Stella moved closer. “With respect to the smear of blood which the police found on the steering wheel, did you also submit a sample of that blood to the coroner’s office?”
Gregg nodded. “I did. For DNA testing.”
“And what, if anything, did the lab report to you?”
Once more, Tony was silent; to object would only worsen the inevitable. Gregg’s gaze took in Tony and Sam, then the jury, their faces keen and attentive. “That the blood on the steering wheel was the victim’s, Marcie Calder’s.”
In silent accusation, Nancy Calder turned to Sam Robb. “It’s all right,” Tony murmured to Sam. “It’s all right.”
“No further questions,” Stella said.
THIRTEEN
During the recess, Tony asked the courtroom deputy to put away Stella’s exhibits. When the jury returned, and Tony commenced his cross-examination, Marcie Calder’s photograph was gone.
Keep it short, Tony told himself. Get what you can get, and get out. He was glad that Sue had not been in court to watch.
Rising, he faced Gregg with a look of puzzlement. “Did you test the rock for fingerprints?”
“Yes, sir. There were none.”
“What about the third print on the watch, the one you couldn’t identify? Did you run it through your own records, and those of other jurisdictions?”
Gregg nodded. “We did. We couldn’t get a match.”
“All right. You’ve already testified that the blood on the rock was Marcie Calder’s, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“There was quite a bit of blood on that rock, wasn’t there?”
“Yes, sir. There was.”
“And you believe that all that blood got on the rock when someone—you don’t know who—bludgeoned Marcie Calder.”
Gregg smoothed a crease in his suit. “Yes. I do.”
“But you’re not an expert in forensic medicine.”
“No, I’m not.”
“So your opinion is not based on the injury itself, but something else. Like that the rock was seven feet from the body.”
“Yes.”
Tony put his hands on his hips. “The sand on that beach was packed down hard, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“So couldn’t the rock have rolled there?”
“A rock that heavy? I don’t believe so, and besides, there were no marks in the sand to suggest it had.”
“Might not the rain account for that?”
Gregg hesitated. “It might.”
“And if the rock were knocked loose by Marcie’s fall, it would have a certain momentum as it went down the cliff, correct? Especially one that heavy.”
“It could. But enough to roll an additional seven feet? I doubt that very much.”
There was no more to be gained here, Tony thought. “If, as you believe, Marcie Calder was struck by someone standing above the cliff, that would have created a spray of blood, wouldn’t it?”
“It might.”
“And did, in this case?”
“It appears so, Mr. Lord. We found blood on both Marcie’s sweatshirt and her blue jeans.”
“Did you find any blood on the bluff itself?”
Gregg paused again. “No, sir. We didn’t.”
“Wouldn’t you expect to?”
“Ordinarily.” Gregg shifted his weight. “But by the time we found Marcie Calder, it had been raining—or drizzling—for at least seven hours. As you pointed out.”
“But you looked for blood, right? On the mud, on the grass—in fact, in a fifty-square-foot area surrounding the footprints and what you refer to as the ‘drag marks’?”
Gregg nodded; like any good expert, he knew when not to quibble. “We found nothing, Mr. Lord.”
“And you also fou
nd no blood in Mr. Robb’s home, or on the clothes and shoes he gave you.”
“No, sir. We did not.”
“Wouldn’t the murderer, in the scenario you imagine, have a splatter of blood all over him? The same as Marcie?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“And yet you found no evidence that Mr. Robb discarded any article of clothing.”
Gregg adjusted his glasses. “At this time, we’re aware of none.”
“Where did you search for discarded clothing?”
“In the park, in the woods nearby, and, a few days later, at Lake City High School.”
Tony paused, considering his next question. Softly, he asked, “Have you searched any private residence since Mr. Robb was indicted?”
Gregg gave him a cool look. “We have not.”
“And with respect to Mr. Robb, the only evidence of Marcie Calder’s blood was on the steering wheel of his car.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tony paused. “Apart from whatever theory you may have, you have no factual basis for knowing how Marcie Calder’s blood could have gotten on Sam Robb’s steering wheel?”
At the corner of his vision, Tony saw Stella stir, then reconsider, placing confidence in her expert. “My theory has a factual basis, Mr. Lord.” Pausing, Gregg considered his further answer. “But no—I wasn’t there. So I can’t know how that smear of blood got there.”
Abruptly, Tony’s manner became more relaxed, discursive. “Let me ask you, as an expert witness, to assume for a moment that what I tell you is true. All right?”
Gregg hesitated. “All right.”
“We’ll keep assuming that this is murder, not something else. In fact, we’ll assume practically everything that you now assume—that Marcie Calder was struck with this rock; that the murderer threw her body and the rock off the cliff where you found the footprints; that he or she got rid of blood-spattered clothes; and that the drizzle falling later that night washed away any blood on the ground. Still with me?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s change one simple fact. Just assume—for this purpose—that I’ve proven to you that there’s an innocent explanation for that smear of Marcie Calder’s blood on the steering wheel. It could be a cut finger; that really doesn’t matter.”
Gregg’s face looked tighter, his cheeks more hollow. Softly, he answered, “All right. I’ll assume that.”
Tony cocked his head. “What does that do to the physical evidence that Sam Robb, as opposed to someone else, committed this hypothetical murder?”
Gregg grimaced. “Well, it weakens it. Assuming what you say—”
“Weakens it.” Tony’s voice rose in incredulity. “There isn’t any, is there? Not a scrap.”
“Not true.” As Gregg paused, Tony watched him thinking. “There’s the defendant’s fingerprint.”
“Ah, yes. The fingerprint. Of course, you’ve no idea how that got on Marcie Calder’s watch, do you?”
“No, sir.”
Pausing, Tony asked softly, “Or who the other print belongs to.”
“No, sir,” Gregg conceded. “I said that.”
Tony moved closer. “All right. Let’s get back to the smear of blood, then. When you sent the sample to the laboratory, did you ask them to test for foreign substances?”
“What do you mean? Like alcohol, or HIV?”
“No.” Tony moved forward. “I mean any substance in the blood which is foreign to blood.”
Gregg looked concerned; for once, it was clear, he did not see where Tony was going. “No,” he said defensively. “I didn’t specifically request that, and the lab did not report any ‘foreign substances,’ as you describe them.”
Tony nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and sat down, feeling the jury’s puzzlement, knowing that, in the last two hours, Gregg had pushed him closer to a defense based on Ernie Nixon.
* * *
“Suicide looks bad,” Saul said that night.
Tony stared out Saul’s window at Steelton’s skyline, the lights flickering and irregular, like a power outage. He must not let his thoughts dwell on what had really happened, he reminded himself, but only on what could have happened that would make his friend and client innocent of murder. “You’re right,” Tony finally answered. “A pregnant girl in despair is a tough sell now, and the jury will remember that I tried it.”
Saul did not argue with him; among professionals, his look said, there was no point skirting the truth. “At least you had something going by the end.”
Tony smiled a little. “So what would you give me, Professor? Maybe a C?”
Saul smiled as well. “A B-plus for cross-examination and a D for dumb objections.” He sat back, serious now. “You were okay. But you’re looking tired. More tired than a trial lawyer can afford.”
It was true, Tony knew. During trial, adrenaline kept him going, but the nightly crashes were harder, longer, offering exhaustion without relief. “I’m not sleeping well,” he said.
Saul frowned. “Is it this case? Or is that the usual?”
“No. It’s not the usual.” It was pointless, Tony thought, to talk about nightmares: in the early hours of the morning, when he finally slept, sleep did not last long. He took a deep swallow of Saul’s single-malt Scotch.
Saul, Tony noticed, was not drinking. “Maybe I can help,” Saul said at last. “Take a witness or two.” There was compassion in Saul’s eyes, Tony thought, and, more than that, a need to prove to himself, and perhaps to Tony, that he was not a burned-out case. “Of course,” Saul finished, “speaking personally, I don’t give a shit about our client. But maybe that helps.”
This was so mordant, and so true, that it made Tony smile again. He gazed at Saul with real affection. “I’ll hold the thought,” he answered.
FOURTEEN
It was after nine when Tony returned to his hotel room, tired and hungry, meaning to order a sandwich from room service and outline his cross-examination of Stella’s next witness, the coroner. Then he opened the door and found Sue Cash Robb sitting on the end of his bed.
She was dressed in a navy-blue suit, as though for court, and looked at him quietly before saying, “I hope this is all right.”
Closing the door, Tony stood there, feeling the tingle of surprise and alarm, yet pleasure in seeing her alone and away from the trial. “Of course,” he answered. “Are you all right?”
Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. “I came back to court today. Without Sam and Jenn—I’m sending them home.”
Tony put his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t see you.”
“I know. I sat in back, so nobody would.”
“How much did you see?”
“Most of the prosecutor’s questions. All of yours.”
“Jesus, Sue.” Tony walked across the room and sat next to her, taking her hand. “You’ve done enough. I didn’t want you having to watch that.”
“Do you think I haven’t thought about her?”
“No. But seeing is different.” Tony paused. “I’ve seen hundreds of pictures like the one of Marcie Calder’s face, many much worse. But that one bothered me quite a lot.”
She was quiet for a time. Though she still watched him, something in her gaze seemed inward, directed at her own thoughts; once more, Tony had the sense that she had come to tell him something that he did not wish to hear. But all that she said, finally, was, “Marcie Calder didn’t kill herself, did she?”
Tony exhaled. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Then it comes down to Ernie Nixon.” Pausing a moment, Sue finished softly: “Or a stranger.”
Tony did not answer directly. “I think I can win this, Sue.”
She turned from him, looking out his hotel window at much the same view, random lights in darkness, that Tony had watched from Saul’s office. “We’ve asked so much of you, Tony. I’ve asked so much. Much more than I knew.”
Tony smiled. “De nada,” he said.
“No. Not nothing. Too much.”
“Yes. I said I was going to buy you dinner, if I could. I’m still partial to the truth.”
The last phrase, Tony thought, had an indefinable edge—what puzzled him was whether it was directed at Sam or at herself. “How has it been for you?” he asked. “We’ve hardly talked.”
Sue got up, walking to the window. To Tony, she looked slender, small; it was the first time he had thought of her as fragile. “In a strange way,” she said, “it’s been like a lot of my life, like people are when they have kids they love and a marriage that isn’t right enough to be really happy or wrong enough to change—you do what you need to do for the people around you, and try not to ask yourself too hard how you feel about it.”
She paused, quite still now, as though staring out at the city without seeing it. “For Sam and Jenny,” she said at last, “I’m still their mother. I ask questions about their lives—the normal ones they have away from here—and say hopeful things about the trial. And, like all families, there are the subjects we avoid: they never ask, and I never say, whether I think their father’s innocent. They just accept that I’m there, because that’s what they need—if I weren’t there, this would be so much harder for them. The only difference is how solicitous they are with me.” For an instant, her voice had a trace of dry humor. “It’s like this scary preview of what will happen when I’m old and they think I’m not quite with it anymore.”
She needed to talk, Tony realized, and he wanted to listen, not just for Sue but for himself. For he had discovered that what had seemed in Sue at seventeen to be deep empathy was something more: a particular acuity once hidden by her sunniness, and obvious to him now. “And Sam?” he asked. “How is that for you?”
She did not turn. “You mean, how is it to be in court?” she asked. “Or to go home, almost as if nothing has happened, and then sleep next to someone who may have murdered the teenage girl he was having an affair with.”
Silent Witness Page 39