Steve Martini - The Jury

“Doctor, I would ask you to examine the cable ties in this bag.”

Warnake takes it and looks at the ties through the plastic bag.

“Do you recognize them?”

“I recognize the tag tied to them.”

“Are those your initials on the tag in question?”

“They are.”

“And did you examine the ties in that bag?”

“I did.”

“Your Honor, for the record, the ties in question are the cable ties found and previously identified by Lieutenant de Angelo during his search of the defendant’s house,” says Tannery. “They were marked for identification, and the record will reflect that they were discovered in the pocket of Dr. Crone’s sport coat hanging in the hall closet.”

Coats doesn’t even look up. Instead he nods his assent as he makes a note on the pad in front of him on the bench.

“Dr. Warnake, can you tell the jury what you did to examine the cable ties in this bag, the ones found in the defendant’s coat pocket?”

“I examined them separately, placing each of them under a stereo microscope. I looked for toolmarks on the surface at specific locations along each of the ties.”

“And what did you discover?”

“I determined that they were made by the same manufacturer as the cable tie used to strangle the victim, Kalista Jordan.”

There are noticeable murmurs in the courtroom. Whispering by people beyond the bar, some press types and the media sensing blood in the water.

“Were they produced by the same molds that produced that cable tie? The one used to kill Kalista Jordan?”

“No. They were made by other molds in the same production run. Molds in the possession of that same manufacturer.”

“Let me get this straight.” Tannery starts motioning with his hands as if drawing a picture for the jury. “There’s a whole line of these molds at the factory where they’re made? Not just one.”

“That’s correct.”

“And each one of these molds is giving off different toolmarks as they’re injected with molten plastic?”

“That’s right.”

“And after the ties are injected and cooled, what happens to them?”

“They’re packaged and shipped to distribution points around the country, wholesalers in some cases, retailers in others.”

“So if you went to the store and bought one of these packages of cable ties, you’d get ties that could be traced back to a whole line of manufacturing molds, probably in the same plant?”

“Yes. I believe that’s true.”

“And that’s what you found here?”

“Yes.”

“You were able to trace the production mold that made the tie used to kill Kalista Jordan?”

“Yes.”

“And in that same manufacturing plant you were able to identify molds that produced the two cable ties found in the coat pocket of the defendant”-Tannery points with an outstretched arm and an accusing finger-“the coat belonging to Dr. David Crone?”

“That’s right.”

Coats is now sitting up straight, looking down at the witness for the first time, his dark robe and gleaming bald head like an inverted judicial exclamation point to this evidence.

“Were you able to conclude from this that the tie used to kill the victim, Kalista Jordan, and the cable ties found in the coat pocket of the defendant had been purchased at the same time, from the same location?”

“Objection.” I’m on my feet. “Calls for speculation.”

“I’m only asking as to the probability,” says Tannery. “The witness has surveyed manufacturers and points of sale. He should be allowed to testify on the issue.”

Coats is not sure about this. He wants to talk to us. He calls the lawyers up to the side of the bench.

“Mr. Madriani, it seems as though the witness has already testified to this.”

“Then it’s been asked and answered, Your Honor. There should be no need for the question.”

“No, it’s not quite the same.” Tannery wades in. “I asked him about production runs, and shipping practices. I’m only trying to tie it all together,” he says.

“There’s no way this witness can know whether the tie used to kill the victim and the ties found in the defendant’s pocket were from the same store.” I am red out to the tips of my ears. “This exceeds any issue of expertise. It raises questions of factual knowledge.”

“It raises issues of probabilities,” says Tannery. “We know all the ties came from the same factory. They came from the same press run of machines. Is it not probable they were purchased at the same store?”

“That calls for speculation.”

The judge is shaking his head. I can’t believe it.

“You’ll have your chance to cross-examine him, Mr. Madriani. I’m going to allow it.”

We step back from the bench. Harry’s looking at me, like What gives? I simply shake my head. It’s how you feel when you’ve lost a call that you know is wrong.

“Is there not a good probability, Doctor, that the tie used to kill Kalista Jordan and the cable ties found in the coat pocket of the defendant, David Crone, were purchased at the same point of sale?”

“I believe so.” Warnake is actually smiling. He knows there is no way he can prove this. Tannery has pressed it too far. It is just the kind of error that can lead to reversal on appeal.

“Perhaps they were part of the same package?” says Tannery.

“Your Honor, I have to object.”

“Sustained.” I can see it in the judge’s face. He has made a mistake, and he knows it.

“Let me ask you this, Doctor Warnake. From what you now know, can you exclude the possibility that all of these cable ties came from the same package in the same store?” says Tannery.

He has turned it around so that there is no basis to object, though I do it anyway.

“I’ll allow that,” says Coats.

“No, I cannot exclude that possibility.”

Crone is looking up at me from the counsel table. His hand comes over on my arm as if he is actually consoling me. His expression says he is not surprised, the scientist accepting the conclusions of science.

From Harry I get a different look: one that says, I told you so.

Within seconds of the judge’s gavel coming down, a phalanx of county jail guards moves in to escort Crone back to the holding cell. There he will change from his suit and tie back to jail togs and rubber flip-flops for the shackled walk across the bridge that links the criminal courts building to the jail.

Harry and I collect our papers as the courtroom empties. A few bystanders, court hangers-on, chew on the events of the day. Most of the reporters have headed back to the pressroom where they will file their stories by e-mail, driving one more spike into our client’s reputation, and tallying one more brick on the scales for the state.

Tannery’s evidence is beginning to come in cleanly, the outline of a case taking shape like a Polaroid print developing in front of our eyes. Lawyers can sense when an opponent hits his stride. It’s a feeling that brings on heart-pounding panic, even as you are pulling all the legal levers in court with simulated confidence and spinning a web of lies to the media outside.

The challenge, as always, is to lie to yourself and to do so convincingly. That is the art of a true believer, who will accept every deceit, even his own, on faith. Neither Harry nor I am of this religion. We are cockeyed pessimists with a cynical twist. I have my own unspoken doubts about the case. I am convinced that at the heart of it lies some corrosive deception, though I still cannot accept that my client killed Kalista Jordan.

It isn’t until I turn to stash my copy of West’s softcover Penal Code in my brief box that I see him, sitting alone, forlorn in the back of the courtroom. Frank Boyd has been watching our case unravel from the shadows of the last row.