“Mrs. Stafford, are you employed?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. The court reporter glanced at the judge, and Judge Rosenthal leaned toward the witness.
“You’ll have to speak up, Mrs. Stafford,” he said gently.
“Yes, I am,” Jenny repeated.
David noticed that Larry was leaning toward Jennifer, listening to her testimony with an intensity that David had not noticed when the other witnesses were on.
“Where do you work?”
“I teach second grade at Palisades Elementary School.”
“How long have you been teaching there?”
“This will be my third year.”
“How long have you and Larry been married?”
“A little less than a year,” she answered, her voice breaking slightly from the strain. David waited for her to compose herself. He fought the urge to go to her and hold her.
“Can you remember when you first saw your husband on June sixteenth of this year?”
“Yes. We got up together and ate breakfast. Then Larry went to work.”
“Was he acting unusual in any way?”
“No.”
“When did you next see him?”
“Around eight o’clock, when he came home from work.”
“Was it unusual for Larry to work so late?”
“No. His job was…is very demanding. He would often keep late hours.”
“Tell the jury what happened after Larry came home.”
“We just watched some television. I can’t even remember what. Then we had a snack and went to bed.”
“You and Larry sleep together?”
“Yes,” Jennifer said, blushing and looking at her lap.
“Where was Larry when you woke up the next morning?”
“In bed.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that he left your bed at any time that evening?”
“No. I’m a light sleeper, and I would have heard him if he got up.”
David paused. He had established Larry’s alibi. There was no reason to ask any more questions, and he wanted to make Jenny’s ordeal as easy as possible. He turned toward Monica.
Monica acknowledged David’s nod. Jennifer Stafford had been very believable, and her alibi would be difficult to break down. She did not know what to do to attack it, and she was beginning to feel helpless. She had put an investigator on the Staffords and had come up with nothing. She risked a look at David. He was chatting with the defendant, looking very sure of himself. Monica felt herself tighten with anger. She could not lose this case. She had to do something. But what?
“Mrs. Stafford, you are a wealthy woman, are you not?”
“Objection,” David said, standing.
“This goes to motive, Your Honor,” Monica replied.
“We went through this before, Mr. Nash, in chambers. You may have your objection.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Monica said. “Are you a wealthy woman, Mrs. Stafford?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that. I am well-off financially.”
“If neither you nor the defendant were working, could you get by?”
“Larry wouldn’t accept my money. He-”
“That doesn’t answer my question, Mrs. Stafford.”
“I don’t need to work,” Jennifer said stiffly.
“But your husband does?”
“He has saved money from his job. He works very hard and-”
“Your Honor,” Monica interrupted, “would you please instruct the witness to confine her answers to the questions?”
“Yes, Mrs. Stafford. Answer only the question put to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Jennifer answered nervously. Monica was pleased with the course of the questioning. Stafford’s wife was becoming defensive, and that would help cast doubt on her credibility.
“You purchased your house for four hundred seventy-five thousand dollars, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Stafford could not have purchased the house without your money, could he?”
“No,” Jennifer answered. She was angry and David began to worry.
“In fact, if you and he were divorced, it would seriously alter his lifestyle, wouldn’t it?”
“Objection,” David said.
“Sustained. That is highly speculative, Ms. Powers.”
“I withdraw the question,” Monica said, satisfied that the jury had got the point.
“Mrs. Stafford, do you love your husband?”
David looked up. He knew that her answer would mean nothing, but he tried to read something in her eyes: a message he hoped he would see there.
Jennifer hesitated a second and Monica noticed. She wondered if the jury had, and she turned in its direction.
“Yes,” Jennifer answered softly.
“Would you lie to help him?”
“Yes,” she answered, “but I did not lie, because I did not have to. Larry was with me, Miss Powers. He couldn’t have murdered that poor woman.”
David selected the Georgetown for lunch because it was dark and the individual wine-red booths provided privacy.
“I was so frightened,” Jenny said.
It was the first time they had met during the day someplace other than his office. David reached across the narrow table and touched Jenny’s hand.
“You were fine.”
“And Larry?” she asked.
“He was fine, too. The trial is going very well.”
Judge Rosenthal had called a recess for lunch as soon as Larry had finished testifying. Stafford had been nervous but had handled himself well. On direct, David had limited himself to asking the defendant where he had been on the evening of the murder and filling in items of his biography that had not been provided by other witnesses. On cross, predictably, Monica had delved into Larry’s feelings about not making partner and asked about his relationship with his wife. Stafford was well prepared to handle this line, as David, playing the role of district attorney, had grilled him far worse in the jail than Monica did on the stand. David enjoyed Monica’s frustration as it became clear that she was making little headway. Her final questions concerned Stafford’s sex life, and David felt they were sufficiently embarrassing so that the overall effect was to create sympathy for his client. When Monica asked her final question, “Have you been with a prostitute in the past two years?” Larry’s answer-“Why would I do that, when I have a wife like Jenny, who loves me?”-had caused several of the jurors to nod their heads in approval.
“Do you…will you win, David?” Jenny asked.
“It’s impossible to say, but I feel good about the case. I believe in Larry. I could see his sincerity when he testified. I’m a pretty good judge of people, and if I’m getting these impressions, I’m sure the jurors are, too.”
Jenny looked down at the table for a moment. She seemed troubled.
“What’s the matter?” David asked.
“I’ve decided, David,” Jenny answered in a hushed voice. David felt his heart leap. Was she saying good-bye? Was this the end of his dream?
“No matter what happens, I’m going to ask Larry for a divorce. Then, if you want me…”
“Want you? God, Jenny, you don’t know what this means to me. I love you so much… Don’t cry.”
Jenny’s head was lowered, but even in the dim light he could see tears coursing down her cheeks.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” a voice from behind David said. Jennifer looked up, startled, and David turned rapidly. Thomas Gault was standing over the table, a sly grin looking diabolical in the frame of his Chinese mustache.
“I saw you two over here and thought maybe I’d get me a scoop.”
“Gault,” David barked angrily, “this is a private meeting.”
“But you and the lady are public people. I have my duty as an agent of the press to seek headlines wherever.”
Gault stopped suddenly when he noticed Jenny’s tears. The smile disappeared.
/> “Say, I am sorry. I didn’t realize…It’s so dark in here.”
He whipped out a handkerchief and held it toward Jenny. She looked at David, puzzled.
“It’s okay,” Gault said. “I’ve been there. Had my own trial. For murder, too,” he said with a trace of pride. “But Dave got me off and he’ll clear your husband. Don’t you worry.”
Jenny continued to stare at the handkerchief, which drooped from the end of Gault’s hand like an ill-cared-for flag. David saved the situation by proffering his own, which Jenny took quickly.
“Look, Tom, Mrs. Stafford is upset and we would like a little privacy.”
“Sure thing. And I am sorry. Didn’t mean to…you know.”
“Sure. And, Tom, if you want a scoop, come to court this afternoon. My last witness is going to be a doozy.”
Gault brightened.
“Now, that’s the spirit. I’m givin’ you great press, buddy. Sorry again, Mrs. Stafford. Your husband’s got a great lawyer.”
Gault left and the couple said nothing for a moment. Then Jenny asked David, “What’s going to happen this afternoon?”
David felt a surge of excitement and smiled. “Oh, I’m going to hammer the final nail into the State’s coffin. But I don’t want to talk about that now. I want to talk about us.”
“Mr. Conklin, during your years as an investigator have you developed an expertise in the area of photography?”
“I have.”
“Would you tell the jury what training you have in this field?”
Terry turned toward the jury and smiled. He was an old hand at being in the witness box and appeared to be completely relaxed.
“I received my initial training in the Air Force, then studied by correspondence through the New York Institute of Photography. For a short time, after the Air Force and before I went into police work, I owned a photo studio and worked as a cameraman for KOIN-TV.
“When I was with the Lane County Police Department, I set up their photo lab, and, since going into private practice, I have done all of the accident and special photography for several law firms in town.”
“Have you ever won any prizes for your work?”
“I’ve won several awards over the past ten years. In fact, I won the blue ribbon in two categories at the last Multnomah County Fair.”
“Did I contact you with regard to assisting me in the investigation of the Larry Stafford case?”
“Yes, Mr. Nash, you did.”
“In this capacity, did you take any photographs at the Raleigh Motel, room twenty-two?”
“I did.”
“What was your assignment with regard to these photographs?”
“Well, as I understood it from talking to you, I was to take a photograph inside the motel room where the murder occurred that would accurately portray how a person standing where the killer stood on the evening of the crime would look to a person in the position Officer Ortiz was in when he saw the murderer.”
There was a stir in the courtroom, and several of the jurors made notes on their pads.
“How did you prepare yourself for this assignment?”
“First I visited the motel room with you and got a feel for the layout and the lighting. Then I read the police reports and sat in at a hearing when Officer Ortiz drew a diagram of the positions of everyone in the room at the time of the commission of the crime.”
David pointed to the easel. “Is that the diagram?”
“Yes.”
“So you really got the information on the positions from Officer Ortiz?”
“That’s right. His statements under oath and his written report.”
“What information did you have with regard to the lighting in the motel room on June sixteenth?”
“As I understood the testimony and the report, there were no lights on when Officer Ortiz entered the room, but there was a large globe light that illuminated the landing.”
“Where was this globe light situated?”
“To the right of the door, on the outside.”
“Were there any other lights?”
“Only those in the street. Neon signs, headlights. Things like that. The side of the motel away from the office is not well lit.”
“What did you do next?”
“A few weeks after the hearing, when I had the information about the positions of the people involved, I hired an individual who is the same height as Mr. Stafford to accompany me to the Raleigh Motel. I received permission to enter the room from the manager, Mr. Grimes, and I proceeded to set up my camera at the same height Officer Ortiz would be if he was lying in the position he described. I then put the model where the murderer was supposed to be.”
“What position was that?”
“I had him stand at the door frame, leaning into the room. His body was at a slight angle, with his right leg and arm outside the door and his left leg and arm just inside the room. The model was instructed to look down toward the camera.”
“When were these pictures taken?”
“At night, about the same time as the murder.”
David approached Conklin and handed him three photographs.
“I hand you what have been marked as defendant’s exhibits number twelve, thirteen, and fourteen. Can you identify them for the jury?”
“These are three photographs taken in the motel room by me.”
“Tell the jury what they portray.”
“Okay,” Terry said, holding the first picture up to the jury. “Exhibit twelve is a picture of a man standing in the doorway of room twenty-two. This is the model. He is standing exactly as described by Officer Ortiz at the hearing.”
“Can you see the man’s face, Mr. Conklin?”
“No, sir, you cannot.”
Someone gasped and the jurors wrote furiously. Monica was straining to see the photograph.
“Your Honor, I’ve never seen these pictures,” she shouted. “I object to…”
“Yes, Mr. Nash. The jury should not see these pictures until they have been admitted into evidence. Show them to counsel, please,” Judge Rosenthal said.
David smiled. The uproar over the improper way in which he had introduced the pictures would heighten the jury’s suspense and the impact the pictures would make. He had counted on Monica’s objection, and she had not let him down.
Monica scanned the pictures. She could not believe it. With the globe lamp outside and the model’s head just inside the door, shadows obscured the face. It was impossible to make out the features. The other two photos were taken with the model standing straight up and leaning outside the door. In the last picture, with the head tilted back, you could make out some features, but not many, and the shadows still obscured most of the detail. Ortiz’s identification had been completely impeached. She turned toward David as she began to make her legal objection to the pictures and saw the smile he hid from the jury. She felt her blood rise. Then she caught Stafford out of the corner of her eye. He too was gloating.
Judge Rosenthal was ruling in favor of the admission of the pictures into evidence, and Conklin was continuing his testimony, explaining the technique he had used to produce the photographs, but Monica only half heard it. She was seething, burning. She could not let David get away with this. She was not going to let that smug son of a bitch walk out of this courtroom scot-free. He had suckered her with those pictures, but he hadn’t won yet. Monica picked up her pen and doodled the name Cyrus Johnson on her witness list.
3
David let out his belt a notch and groaned with relief. Helen Banks smiled at the compliment to her cooking and began collecting the dirty dishes.
“Why don’t you and Greg get some fresh air, while I get the coffee on?” she said, stacking the dishes on a serving cart.
“Sounds like an excellent idea,” Gregory said as he pushed away from the table. It was Saturday evening and the trial was in recess for the weekend. David had rested after Terry Conklin had finished his testimony Friday afternoon. From all acc
ounts it looked as if victory was assured. Even Rudy, the jail guard, who rarely expressed his opinion about a case, had made a comment about Stafford’s being out soon.
As it did almost every year, the cold of autumn had given way to a week of false spring that fooled the flowers into opening to the October air and brought back pleasant memories of summer. Gregory lit up a cigar and the two friends strolled onto the terrace. The dark river was at peace, and so was David.
“What’s on the menu for Monday?” Gregory asked.
“I don’t know,” David answered as he sank into a lawn chair. “Monica said she might have some rebuttal, but I can’t imagine what it could be.”
“Maybe she’s going to have one of her investigators go out to the motel and try to get some pictures that show a face.”
“Not a chance. I had Terry’s work double-checked by two other professionals before I used it. Given those lighting conditions, there’s no way Ortiz could have seen the killer’s face.”
Gregory leaned back and puffed on his cigar. It was quiet on the terrace. The breeze was cool, and the lights from the houseboats across the way appeared to wink on and off as the boats twisted with the current.
“What do you know about Ortiz, Dave?” Gregory asked after a while.
“Why?” David asked. He felt dreamy, fatigued by too much food and too much wine and lulled by the sounds of the river.
“I don’t know. It just seems strange that he would be so certain, if those pictures are accurate.”
“The mind plays strange tricks sometimes. Don’t forget, he’d just been struck on the head, and he was coming into a darkened room from the outside. There are probably a hundred explanations a psychiatrist could give you.”
“You’re right. Anyway, if it helps you lock this up, I don’t care what he saw.”
“Confusion to our enemies,” David toasted, taking a sip from the wineglass he had carried with him. Gregory raised his cigar.
“If nothing else, this case has at least raised your spirits.”
“What do you mean?”
The Last Innocent Man Page 17