Chapter Thirty-three
We are minutes from the start of this morning’s session, Lenore and I, busy at counsel table arranging the documents, and items of physical evidence needed for today’s witness, Dr. Lloyd Tolar, our pathologist. He is outside in the hall, sequestered from the courtroom, going over his notes. We have decided that Lenore will take this witness on the stand. She may possess powers of persuasion and suggestion with this witness which I lack. At trial you learn to use every advantage.
Lenore is oblivious to the defense lawyers, the interpreter and Andre Iganovich at the other table. She is focused on the task at hand. The only one who pays much attention to us is the Russian, from whom we draw unremitting icy stares. It seems he has not picked up on the proper etiquette for these proceedings, the quiet and polite contempt that passes for professionalism among adversaries in court. He seems not to fathom why, in these moments when we are here alone in the courtroom, his representatives do not cross the gulf between tables and bludgeon us.
The guards are outside in the hall by the rear entrance, two bulls who look as if they would rather eat iron than pump it.
Claude comes into the empty courtroom and through the railing. Today he will join us at the counsel table. Under the law of this state each side has a right to designate a chief investigator to join them, somebody who can whisper in your ear critical little details of the case at opportune times.
This morning he appears agitated, slides into the empty chair next to me and tells me he has some news.
“A couple of items,” he says. This is all done in low tones, under his breath.
First he has checked with the Davenport Police Department. It seems the department subscribes to the Criminal Law Reporter, the publication clipped to make the threatening letter sent to my house. He tells me they throw out old editions as they are updated, a ready source for the print used in the note.
“Guess where they keep them, the old editions?” he says.
“Tell me.”
“In the basement at City Hall,” he says. “The same place our friend Jess Amara burned all of Scofield’s old notes.”
Clearly his suspicions are heightened.
“But that’s not all,” he says. Claude is leaning into my ear now so that even Lenore does not hear what comes next.
“The title search,” he says, “the one you asked for on the property where we found the Scofields’ bodies. It’s not done, but some interesting information.”
The owner, whom they have yet to identify because of what appear to be a series of bogus strawman transfers, was bankrolled by foreign money, he tells me.
“A bank in Tokyo,” says Claude. “A consortium of Japanese investors.” With this I get heavily arched eyebrows from Claude. Jess Amara’s little sideline business, the Asian trading company.
I had not pursued this earlier, but it is a curious point. The bodies of the four students were staked out on public lands, open and unfenced. But the Scofields were killed on private property, fenced, if you could call it that, and posted against trespassers. It struck me that perhaps the Scofield killer had used this property because it was familiar. Maybe it was a place where he would feel comfortable, where he knew he would not be disturbed.
Claude asks me what I want to do about all this.
I tell him to finish the title search, to get the results to me as soon as possible.
“Should I put a tail on him?” He’s talking about Amara.
“He’d know it in a minute,” I say, “and lose them in two.”
Claude ponders this for a moment, then concludes that I am right. He may not respect the man, but suspects as do I that he is competent at his job and would know if he were being followed.
Claude tells me they should have all the information from the title search by the end of the day, first thing in the morning at the latest.
Dr. Lloyd Tolar has the portent of a troublesome witness for Adrian. His opinions will be grounded in harder science than the seeming whimsy of the psychiatrists and their theories of criminal profiles. The physician examined the bodies of each of the victims, explored their wounds. Before the missing piece of the cord, I would have gauged Tolar as my next strongest witness behind Sellig. With the turn of events, unless Kay can find the missing cord, he may now be the summit of my case.
This morning Lenore has him up on the stand. Tall and imposing, piercing blue eyes and a countenance like some feted solon inside the beltway, his eminence, he sits on the stand like the patriarch of medicine.
“Dr. Tolar, you are the medical examiner for Davenport County, is that correct?”
“I am.”
“You are also on the teaching faculty of the medical school at the university here in Davenport?”
“That’s correct.”
“And what do you teach?”
“Several courses,” he says, “but I hold the chair in medical pathology and am board certified in forensic pathology.”
All the while he is giving Lenore enchanted looks. Tolar never takes his eyes off of her, the form-fitted blue suit and ruffled blouse, her feline moves below the bench.
Lenore is meeting him with a dark Mediterranean look, a brooding expression that fails to engage his ardent interest.
“Tell the jury,” she says, “what forensic pathology is.”
Goya moves to the jury railing and leans on a distant corner, out of the way, an effort to take herself out of the picture, to create at least the illusion that the witness is talking to the jury.
“Pathology is the study of human diseases,” says Tolar, “abnormal changes in body tissues or functions caused by disease.
“Forensic pathology is generally concerned with sudden, unexpected or violent death,” he says.
“So you teach in the field as well as perform the duties of a forensic pathologist for this county?”
“That’s correct.”
“What are your credentials in this field?”
“I’ve brought a copy of my curriculum vitae,” he says.
He holds this up, a résumé thicker than this city’s phone directory.
Tolar has taught at three different medical schools in this country, is board certified in two specialties, is licensed to practice medicine in this state as well as two others, and belongs to a dozen professional societies and associations. Beyond this he has authored volumes of scholarly articles in the field of pathology, the most recent appearing four months ago in the New England Journal of Medicine. He is nearly breathless, and three inches higher in his chair when he finishes touting this background. The male ego at work.
Lenore moves smoothly through the common elements of these murders.
Tolar explains that he served as ME responding to the murder sites and performed all of the autopsies, on the four college students as well as the Scofields.
I notice as we edge toward the details of death, that Kim Park and his wife leave the courtroom. This is apparently too much for them. Two of the other parents stopped coming after the second day of trial, though they now send surrogates, an uncle and a cousin. Only Jess Amara and Jeanette Scofield, of the immediate families, are here in the courtroom at this moment.
“Then, doctor, you personally performed the autopsies on Julie Park and Jonathan Snider, Sharon Collins and Rodney Slater?”
“That’s correct.”
“Can you tell us the date that those autopsies were done?”
He’s looking down at something on his lap, I suspect copies of the autopsy reports. He gives Lenore the dates.
“And you also performed the autopsies on Abbott and Karen Scofield?”
“Yes.”
Lenore is moving back toward the counsel table when she thinks of something.
“Probably not significant,” she says, “but were you acquainted with Dr. Scofield?”
“I know that he taught at the university. We may have met a few times at faculty functions. I knew who he was. The university is a big place,” he says, “fo
rty-six thousand students, twelve hundred faculty.”
“On the Scofield post mortems, do you recall the date that those were performed?”
He looks down in his lap.
Suddenly Chambers is on his feet. “If the witness is reading something, we’d like to know what it is.”
“Dr. Tolar, are you reading something?” says Lenore. “Notes?”
“Yes,” he says. “My notes.” He holds these up above the railing that surrounds the witness box for all to see. “And a copy of the autopsy report in the Scofield matter.”
“Are these notes that you took yourself, close to the time of the autopsies?”
“Yes, they are.”
“And the autopsy report on the Scofields, is it something that you prepared, at or near the time that you performed the autopsy?”
“It is.”
“And do you have independent recollection of these events, the autopsies, the dates that you performed them?”
“I do.”
“So these documents merely help to refresh your recollection of the events, the details, is that correct?”
“Precisely,” he says.
Lenore looks at Chambers. He sits down.
She repeats her initial question. Tolar says he did the Scofield autopsies both on the same date, July twelfth, this year.
Lenore is moving steadily toward the object of her pursuit, the revelation, not fleshed out in the reports, but attested to here by Tolar, that the Scofields were killed someplace else, a major departure from the Putah Creek MO, something that will cause Adrian major grief in his quest to show that another common killer did them all.
Right now, as I look over, Adrian is busy talking to co-counsel, he and Haselid in heated dialogue, some problem or other. For co-counsel, they seem not to get along. Then anyone working with Chambers is likely to have a difficult time. Haselid is no doubt straining to hold up his own ethical skirts, clear of the mud from Adrian’s witness hunting. I can imagine that this is no mean feat. The rising chorus of whispers finally overtakes Ingel’s concentration.
The judge interrupts the testimony. “Mr. Chambers. I’d like the jury to be able to hear,” he says.
Adrian looks up at him. I sense that there is disagreement between the two lawyers on some matter of strategy with this witness.
“Your honor,” says Chambers. “We’d like to voir dire this witness, as to his qualifications,” he says, “his expertise.”
Lenore looks at me, a little funny, like what does he want, the dean of Johns Hopkins? This is not some country quack.
Still, Adrian has an absolute right here, to challenge the qualifications of the witness, his professional pedigree. To do this he is entitled to break into our direct examination and question the witness on this limited issue.
Goya shrugs her shoulders, like good luck, but she doesn’t sit down, instead she leans against the jury railing out of the way. This should not take long.
Adrian’s out from behind his table.
“Doctor, you say that you performed the autopsies on all of the victims, the four students as well as Abbott and Karen Scofield. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And as to the Scofields, you said that you performed these autopsies on July twelfth. Is that correct?”
A face from the physician. “Yes.”
I look over at Lenore. She is thinking what I am: what does this have to do with qualifications?
I give her a signal, a little shift with my shoulder, a psychic nudge.
“Your honor, we agreed to voir dire, not cross-examination. Counsel’s not talking about the witness’s qualifications.”
Ingel looks down. “How about it, Mr. Chambers?”
“If you’ll allow me, your honor, a couple more questions, you will see that this line of inquiry goes directly to this witness’s competence to testify on issues before this court.”
Ingel makes a face. “A couple more questions,” he says, “but make ’em quick, and keep ’em on point.”
“You say the Scofield autopsies were performed on July twelfth, that is correct?”
Tolar looks at the report again. “That’s right.”
Adrian moves toward his counsel table, picks up a couple of documents but keeps his distance from the doctor.
“And you did these, the Scofields?” he says.
I can see a little bead of sweat begin its journey from Tolar’s temple down one cheek, but no change of expression.
“I did the Scofield autopsies, that’s right,” he says.
“That’s because you have a contract with the county, isn’t it, to perform all post mortem examinations referred by law enforcement agencies in this county?”
“That’s right.”
“And you are contracted to perform these examinations, these autopsies yourself, isn’t that correct?”
“Right.”
“You don’t have another licensed physician working with you to service this contract, do you?”
“No.”
“It’s just yourself, assisted periodically by some of your students, whom you supervise. Is that correct?” Adrian knows that it is. He has a copy of the county contract for pathology services in his hand.
“That’s right.”
“Well then, doctor, can you tell this court how it was possible for you to have performed the autopsies on Abbott and Karen Scofield on July twelfth of this year, between the hours of oh-eight-hundred and sixteen hundred, when during that time, on that date, you were in Los Angeles speaking before a seminar of the American Medical Association—a seminar on forensic sciences?” he says.
Like the air has left my lungs, I feel light-headed. I know that at this moment I sit at counsel table with the most witless expression painted on my face for the jury to see, but I cannot help myself. I have visions. The last stop in the sieve that is my case is collapsing. We are going down like a colander in dishwater.
“You must have your dates wrong,” says Tolar.
“The date of the autopsy?” says Adrian.
“Objection.” Lenore is faster than I. She is away from the railing, steaming toward the center of the courtroom, a cruiser trying to draw fire, laying down smoke.
“This has nothing to do with the witness’s qualifications,” she says. “He’s a physician licensed in this state, qualified to comment and give opinion on the medical reports in this case.”
This ignores of course the fact that the witness is halfway to being caught in a dozen lies.
“It has everything to do with his competence to testify as a percipient witness to an autopsy which he did not perform,” says Chambers, “which he did not even observe.”
Ingel is giving Tolar sharp looks, the kind reserved for the smell of perjury.
“I’ll allow counsel to go on,” he says. “A few more questions.”
Lenore looks at me, one of those expressions that pleads for fate to intervene, a quick earthquake, the rumble of Mount Saint Helens, anything.
“Dr. Tolar, isn’t it true that on July twelfth, the date of the Scofield autopsy, you were in fact in Los Angeles, three hundred miles away attending a seminar of the American Medical Association?”
“I attended a seminar,” he says. “I don’t know the date.”
“Well, let me refresh your recollection.” Adrian approaches the witness box. He hands Tolar one of the documents from the counsel table. “Do you recognize that signature?” Chambers points with his pen. “Right there.”
Nothing from Tolar, but he brings his eyes up to look at Lenore. It is this expression, the shallow, ineffective attempt to control his panic, the bobbing Adam’s apple like an epileptic yo-yo, that for the first time confirms that we are now in deep squish.
“Do you recognize the signature, doctor?”
“It looks like mine,” he says.
“And the date on the form?”
“July twelve,” says Tolar.
“The same date as the Scofield autopsies?”
“Isn’t that the attendance sheet for the seminar in Los Angeles?”
“They must have misdated it,” says Tolar.
“Doctor. I have the tapes of the autopsy performed on Abbott and Karen Scofield,” says Adrian. “Do you want me to bring them in and play them for the jury? Do you want them to hear the voice, the name of the medical intern who performed these autopsies?” Adrian looks at him, then turns his head to the jury, looking at them square on for emphasis and effect. Adrian is good at this, maximizing the effect of the blow.
“Your name,” he says, “your voice, doctor, are notable by their absence from those tapes,” says Chambers.
Silence from the doctor.
“OK,” says Tolar. “I may have forgotten. I do a lot of autopsies,” he says.
“Forgotten?” says Adrian. “Forgotten whether you performed an autopsy? You have the report there in your hand. You’ve read it. You apparently know the details, and now you tell us that you forget that somebody else, one of your students, unlicensed in medicine, unsupervised under the terms of your contract, did this autopsy. That this student”—Adrian makes the word sound like it should have four letters—“that some student wrote the report. His opinions, his conclusions.” Chambers’s voice bellows in the courtroom like an angry god.
Ingel slaps his gavel. “Enough,” he says. “We will take a recess. I will have counsel back in my chambers.”
“So what did you know and when did you know it?” Ingel is in my face. I am in the hot seat directly across from him in chambers. Lenore may have taken the witness, but it is my ass in the flames.
“Believe me, your honor, we had no idea. The county’s own medical examiner. The man has testified in hundreds of trials, an experienced expert witness. How could we know that he would do such a thing?”
I tell him that we prepped him in detail, went over his testimony carefully, that he never gave any hint, any clue, that someone else might have performed the Scofield autopsies.
“He signed the report,” I say.
“He signs all the reports,” snaps Ingel. “You could have checked the autopsy tapes,” he says. “It seems somebody had the presence of mind to do that.” He looks over, the slightest of smiles, a psychic kudo for Adrian.
Madriani - 02 - Prime Witness Page 35