“You got it.”
Forty-two
Freeman was still swelling with pride over her morning victory when I got back to the courtroom. She sauntered over, folded her arms and leaned her hip against the defense table.
“Haller, tell me that was just an act, you not knowing about the Facebook page.”
“Sorry, I can’t tell you that.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Uh-oh, sounds like somebody needs a client who isn’t hiding things… or maybe a new investigator who can find them.”
I ignored the taunt, hoping she would stop gloating and go back to her table. I started flipping through the pages of a legal pad, pretending I was looking for something.
“That was like manna from heaven last night when I got that printout and read those posts.”
“You must’ve been very pleased with yourself. Which asshole reporter gave it to you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I will know. Whichever one breaks out the next exclusive from the DA’s office will be the one who helped you out. They’ll never get so much as a ‘no comment’ from me.”
She chuckled. My threat had nothing to do with her. She had gotten the posts out before the jury and nothing else mattered. I finally looked up at her and squinted.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what? That the jury now knows your client was previously at the scene of the crime—proving that she had knowledge of where to find the victim? No, I completely get that.”
I looked away and shook my head.
“You’ll see. Excuse me.”
I stood up and headed toward the witness stand. Lisa Trammel had just returned from the restroom. She had redrawn the makeup on her eyes. When she started to speak, I cupped the microphone again.
“What were you doing talking to that bitch? She’s a horrible person,” she said.
A bit stunned by the unbridled anger, I looked back at Freeman, now sitting at the prosecution table.
“She’s not horrible and she’s not a bitch, okay? She’s just doing—”
“Yes, she is. You don’t know.”
I leaned close to her and whispered.
“And what, you do? Look, Lisa, don’t go bipolar on me. You’ve got less than a half hour of testimony still to go. Let’s just get through it without cluing the jury in to your issues. Okay?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about but it’s very hurtful.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that. I’m trying to defend you and it doesn’t help me to have to find out about things like Facebook when you’re being cross-examined by the prosecution.”
“I told you, I’m sorry. But your associate knew.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t.”
“Look, you said before that you might be able to make this work in our favor. How?”
“Simple. If someone was going to set you up, this Facebook page would have been a damn good place to start.”
Talk about manna from heaven. Her eyes looked upward and pure relief colored her face as she came to understand the tactic I was about to employ. The anger that had darkened her expression only a minute before was now completely gone. It was just then that the judge entered the courtroom, ready to go. I nodded to my client and went back to the defense table as the judge instructed the deputy to bring in the jury.
Once everyone was situated the judge asked if I wished to question my client on redirect examination. I jumped up from my seat like I had been waiting ten years for the opportunity. It cost me. A jolt of pain moved like lightning across my torso. The ribs may have mended but the wrong move still lit me up.
Just as I walked to the lectern the rear door of the courtroom opened and Lorna came in. Perfect timing. Carrying a file and a motorcycle helmet, she walked swiftly down the center aisle to the gate.
“Your Honor, could I have a moment with my associate?”
“Make it fast, please.”
I met Lorna at the gate and she handed over the file.
“That’s the list of all her Facebook friends, but as of when I left, Dennis and Jennifer hadn’t found any connection to you know who.”
It was strange hearing Cisco and Bullocks referred to by their real names. I looked down at the helmet she carried. I whispered.
“You rode Cisco’s motorcycle over here?”
“You wanted it quick and I knew I could park up close.”
“Where’s Rojas?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t answer his cell.”
“Great. Listen, I want you to leave Cisco’s bike where it is and walk back to the office. I don’t want you riding that suicide machine.”
“I’m not your wife anymore. I’m his.”
Just as she whispered this I looked over her shoulder and saw Maggie McPherson sitting in the gallery. I wondered if she was there for me or for Freeman.
“Look,” I said. “That’s got nothing to do with—”
“Mr. Haller?” the judge intoned from behind me. “We’re waiting.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said loudly without turning around. Then in a whisper to Lorna, I said, “Walk back.”
I returned to the lectern, opening the file. It contained nothing more than raw data—a thousand-plus names, listed in two columns per page—but I looked at it as if I had just been given the Holy Grail.
“Okay, Lisa, let’s talk about your Facebook page. You testified earlier that you have more than a thousand friends. Are all of these people personally known to you?”
“No, not at all. Because so many people know about me through FLAG, I just assume that when someone wants to friend me, they are supportive of that cause. I just accept them.”
“So then the posts on your wall are open to a significant number of people who are Facebook friends but in reality complete strangers to you. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.
“So any one of these strangers who was interested in your movements, past or present, could just go to your Facebook page and see the posts on your wall, am I right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“For example, someone could go to that page right now and scroll through your updates and see that back in September of last year you hung out in the garage at WestLand, waiting for Mitchell Bondurant, correct?”
“Yes, they could.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and, using the lectern as a blind, brought it up and put it down on the work surface. While leafing through the printout of names with one hand, I used the other to open the text I had just received. The message was from Bullocks.
3rd page, right column, 5th from bottom—Don Driscoll. We have a Donald Driscoll as former ALOFT in IT. We’re working it.
Bingo. Now I had something I could hit out of the park.
“Your Honor, I would like to show the witness this document. It is a printout of the names of people who have friended Lisa Trammel on Facebook.”
Freeman, seeing her victorious morning in jeopardy, objected but the judge overruled without argument from me, saying Freeman had opened this door herself. I gave my client the list and returned to the lectern.
“Can you please go to the third page of the printout and read the name that is fifth up from the bottom in the right-side column?”
Freeman objected again, stating that the list was unverified. The judge advised her to challenge it on re-cross if she thought I was introducing a bogus exhibit. I told Lisa she could read the name.
“Don Driscoll.”
“Thank you. Now is that name familiar to you?”
“Not really, no.”
“But he is one of your Facebook friends.”
“I know but like I said, I don’t know everybody who friends me. There are too many.”
“Well, do you recall if Don Driscoll ever contacted you directly and identified himself as working for a company called ALOFT?”
Free
man objected and asked for a sidebar. We were called to the bench.
“Judge, what’s going on here? Counsel can’t just throw names around. I want an offer of proof that he isn’t just throwing darts at the list and picking out a name.”
Perry nodded thoughtfully.
“I agree, Mr. Haller.”
My phone was still on the lectern. If I had gotten any updates from Bullocks they weren’t going to help me now.
“Judge, we could go into chambers and get my investigator on the phone, if you wish. But I would ask the court for some leeway here. The prosecution opened up this Facebook issue just this morning and I am trying to respond. We can hold things up for an offer of proof or we can wait until the defense calls Don Driscoll to the stand and Ms. Freeman can have at him and see if I am mischaracterizing who he is.”
“You are going to call him?”
“I don’t think I have any choice in light of the state’s decision to pursue my client’s old Facebook posts.”
“Very well, we’ll wait for Mr. Driscoll to testify. Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Haller, and come into court and say you changed your mind. I won’t be happy if that happens.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
We returned to our places and I asked Lisa the question again.
“Did Don Driscoll ever contact you on Facebook or anywhere else and say he worked for ALOFT?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Are you familiar with ALOFT?”
“Yes. That is the name of the foreclosure mill that banks like WestLand use to file all the paperwork on their foreclosures.”
“Was this company involved in the foreclosure of your home?”
“Yes, totally.”
“Is ALOFT an acronym? Do you know what it stands for?”
“A. Louis Opparizio Financial Technologies. That’s the name of the company.”
“Now, what would it mean to you if this person Donald Driscoll, who was one of your friends on Facebook, was employed by ALOFT?”
“It would mean that somebody from ALOFT was getting all my posts.”
“So, essentially, this person Driscoll would know where you’ve been and where you’re going, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“He would have been privy to your posts from last September that said you had found Mr. Bondurant’s parking spot at the bank and that you were going to wait for him, correct?”
“Yes, correct.”
“Thank you, Lisa. I have nothing further.”
On my way back to my seat I had to steal a glance at Freeman. She was no longer beaming. She was staring straight ahead. I then looked out into the gallery for Maggie, but she was gone.
Forty-three
The afternoon belonged to Shamiram Arslanian, my forensics expert from New York. I had used Shami to great effect in previous trials and that was again the plan here. She had degrees from Harvard, MIT and John Jay, was currently a research fellow at the latter, and had a winning and telegenic personality. On top of that she had an integrity that shone through on the witness stand with every word of testimony. She was a defense lawyer’s dream. No doubt, she was a gun for hire but she took the job only if she believed in the science and in what she was going to say on the stand. What’s more, there was a bonus for me in this case. She was the exact same height as my client.
During the lunch break Arslanian had set up a mannequin in front of the jury box. It was a male figure standing exactly six foot two and a half inches tall, the same height as Mitchell Bondurant in his shoes. It wore a suit similar to the one Bondurant was wearing on the morning of his murder and the exact same shoes. The mannequin had joints that allowed for a full range of natural human motion.
After court resumed and my witness took the stand, I took my time going through her voluminous bona fides. I wanted the jurors to understand this woman’s accomplishments and to like her offhand manner of answering questions. I also wanted them to realize that her skills and knowledge put her on a different plane than the state’s forensic witnesses. A higher plane.
Once the impression had been made I got down to the business of the mannequin.
“Now, Dr. Arslanian, I asked you to review aspects of the murder of Mitchell Bondurant, is that true?”
“Yes, you did.”
“And in particular I wanted to examine the physics of the crime, true?”
“Yes, you basically asked me to find out if your client could’ve actually done the crime in the way the police said she did.”
“And did you conclude that she could have?”
“Well, yes and no. I determined that yes, she could have done it but it wouldn’t have been in the manner the detectives out here were saying.”
“Can you explain your conclusion?”
“I would rather demonstrate, using myself in the place of your client.”
“How tall are you, Dr. Arslanian?”
“I’m five foot three in my stocking feet, same height that I was told Lisa Trammel is.”
“And did I send you a hammer that was a duplicate of the hammer recovered by police and declared to be the murder weapon?”
“Yes, you did. And I brought it with me.”
She held the duplicate hammer up from the shelf at the front of the witness box.
“And did you get photos from me depicting the gardening shoes that were seized from the defendant’s unlocked garage and later found to have the victim’s blood on them?”
“Yes, you did that, too, and I was able to procure an exact duplicate pair on the Internet. I’m wearing them now.”
She kicked one leg out from the side of the witness box, showing off the waterproof shoe. There was a polite round of laughter in the courtroom. I asked the judge to allow my witness to conduct the demonstration of her findings and he agreed over objection from the prosecution.
Arslanian left the witness box with the hammer and proceeded with her demonstration.
“The question I was asking myself was, could a woman the defendant’s height, which is five foot three like mine, have struck the fatal blow on the crown of the head of a man who is six foot two and a half in his work shoes? Now the hammer, which adds about an extra ten inches in reach, is helpful in this regard, but is it enough? That was my question.”
“Doctor, if I can interrupt, can you tell us about your mannequin and how you prepared it for your testimony?”
“Of course. Everybody, this is Manny and I use him all the time when I testify in trials and when I conduct tests in my lab back at John Jay. He has all the joints like a real human being and he comes apart if I need him to and the best thing is he never talks back or says I look fat in my jeans.”
Again she scored some polite laughter.
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said quickly before the judge could tell her to keep it serious. “If you could go on with your demonstration.”
“Sure. Well, what I did was use the autopsy report and the photos and drawings to exactly locate the spot on the skull of the mannequin where the fatal blow was struck. Now we know because of the notch in the striking face that Mr. Bondurant was struck from behind. We also know by the even depth of the depression fracture to the skull that he was struck evenly on the top of the head. So by attaching the hammer at a flush angle like so…”
Climbing onto a short stepladder next to Manny, she was able to place the strike face of the hammer against the crown of the skull and then hold it in place with two bands that went under the faceless mannequin’s chin. She then stepped down and gestured to the hammer and its handle, which was extending at a right angle and parallel to the floor.
“So as you can see, this doesn’t work. I’m five four in these shoes, the defendant is five four in these shoes, and the handle is way up here.”
She reached up to the hammer. It was impossible for her to grasp it properly.
“What this tells us is that the fatal blow could not have been struck by the defendant with the victim in this position—standing up st
raight, head level. Now, what other positions are available that do work with what we know? We know the attack was from behind so if the victim was leaning forward—say he dropped his keys or something—you see that it still doesn’t work because I can’t reach the hammer over his back.”
As she spoke she manipulated the mannequin, bending it over at the waist, and then reaching toward the hammer’s handle from the rear.
“No, doesn’t work. Now for two days, between classes, I looked for other ways to strike the blow, but the only way I could make it work was if the victim was on his knees or crouched down for some reason, or if he happened to be looking up at the ceiling.”
She manipulated the mannequin again and stood it up straight. She then bent the head back at the neck and the handle came down. She grasped it and the position looked comfortable, but the mannequin was looking almost straight up.
“Now, according to the autopsy there were significant abrasions on both knees and one even had a cracked patella. These were described as impact injuries coming from Mr. Bondurant’s fall to the ground after he was struck. He dropped to his knees first and then fell forward, face-first. What we call a dead fall. So with that kind of injury to the knees, I rule out that he was kneeling or crouched close to the ground. That leaves only this.”
She gestured toward the mannequin’s head, angled sharply back with the faceplate up. I checked the jury. Everybody was watching intently. It was like show-and-tell in first grade.
“Okay, Doctor, if you put the angle of the head back to even or just slightly elevated, did you come up with a range of heights for the real perpetrator of this crime?”
Freeman jumped up and objected in a tone of complete exasperation.
“Your Honor, this isn’t science. This is junk science. The whole thing is smoke and mirrors, and now he’s asking her to give the height of someone who could have done it? It is impossible to know exactly what posture or neck angle the victim of this horrible—”
“Your Honor, closing arguments are not till next week,” I interjected. “If the state has an objection then counsel should state it to the court instead of speaking to the jury and trying to sell—”
The Fifth Witness: A Novel Page 35