Steve Martini - Undue Influence

‘A lot of red blotches,’ he says. ‘Chemical burns, all the way up onto her forearms.’

‘Did you ask her about this?’

‘Yes. She said it was an accident.’

‘Accident?’ says Cassidy. ‘Pretty clumsy, wouldn’t you say? Pretty convenient accident?’

‘Objection — calls for speculation.’

‘Sustained.’

‘Officer, do you know anything about gunpowder-residue tests?’

‘I’m going to object to this whole line of inquiry, your honor. The witness is not a forensics expert. He’s not been qualified.’

‘Good point,’ says Woodruff.

‘He doesn’t have to be a qualified expert to answer whether his department attempted to conduct any powder-residue tests on the defendant’s hands after her arrest.’

Woodruff gives it the smell test, a twitching nose. ‘That’s all you want to ask him?’

‘That’s it, your honor.’

‘Go ahead,’ says the judge.

‘Officer Demming — do you know whether your department attempted to conduct gunpowder-residue tests on the hands of the defendant after her arrest?’

‘I do not.’

‘Then you wouldn’t know whether such tests were possible given the chemical contamination of the defendant’s hands?’

‘Objection!’ I’m on my feet, shouting at the bench.

‘That’s it,’ says Woodruff. ‘Not another word,’ he says. ‘The question will be stricken from the record. The jurors are instructed to disregard the last question of the prosecutor. Ms. Cassidy, I want to see you in chambers with Mr. Madriani as soon as we are finished with this witness.’

‘Yes, your honor.’

‘Nothing further of the witness,’ she says. Cassidy takes her seat, declining to engage Woodruff’s eyes as they bore a hole through her forehead.

I am steaming down deep, under the collar, but I try not to show this. One of the biggest mistakes you can make on cross: unleashing your venom on a witness who will at least give the appearance of neutrality.

‘Officer Demming.’ I smile at him, big and broad, count to ten. ‘Thank you for coming all the way down here,’ I tell him.

‘Part of the job,’ he says. He looks at me with stern eyes. He knows I am the devil.

‘I have just a few questions by way of clarification.’

He nods like he understands, though his expression is something you might reserve for a trip to the dentist.

‘You say that when you received the call to respond to the laundromat that you checked for a warrant, and that you were informed that one had been issued?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You were also told that the suspect could be armed. Is that correct?’

‘It is.’

‘And when you took the defendant into custody, did you find a weapon in her possession?’

‘No.’

‘No weapon concealed on her body?’

‘No.’

‘No gun in her purse?’

‘If we’d found a gun, it would have been listed on the inventory sheet. Did you see one?’

Testy.

‘So you didn’t find one?’

‘That’s what I said.’

I could push him further, ask him if he thought this was strange, no gun, after being warned that Laurel might be armed and dangerous. But such questions with an obviously hostile witness have a way of imploding. Demming might speculate that if she had a gun, she could have dumped it somewhere, planting the damaging specter in the minds of jurors.

I leave this alone.

‘When you approached the defendant did she put up any kind of resistance? Did she struggle with you?’

‘No.’

I don’t belabor the point that she probably had a dozen handguns pointed at her at the time. Cassidy has wisely stayed away from this since Lama’s testimony, and it does not serve my own ends at this moment.

‘Other than the single statement by the defendant that you alluded to earlier, did the defendant say anything else when you took her into custody?’

He thinks for a moment. If he tries to say it again, I will cut him off.

‘No. Not that I can remember.’

‘She made no confession?’

‘No.’

‘She didn’t say “I did it”?’

‘No.’

‘She didn’t try to run?’

‘That would have been difficult,’ he says.

‘But she didn’t try?’

‘No.’

‘Officer Demming, you say you found the carpet belonging to Laurel Vega in a commercial laundry unit. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, obviously, when you approached the defendant in the laundromat your first concern was not the contents of what was in the laundry, was it?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘I mean, you had a dangerous suspect on your hands here. Someone you were told was armed and dangerous. Isn’t that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you were sort of preoccupied watching her, weren’t you? A little too busy to be noticing what was tumbling in the laundry unit?’

‘That’s true,’ he says.

‘So how did you find out that the rug inside the unit belonged to the defendant?’

‘She told us.’

‘She told you?’ I make a big point of this, a lot of emphasis in the voice.

‘Yes. That’s right.’

‘So she wasn’t trying to conceal her possession of this item from you?’

‘No.’

‘She volunteered the information that the rug was hers?’

‘That’s correct.’

The point is clear. If the rug is incriminating evidence linking her to the murder of Melanie Vega, why would Laurel tell the cops it was hers? Why not just leave it — walk away? Tell the cops that whatever was in that unit belonged to somebody else?

In Demming there is a little bit of the old adage that the worst witness can always give even the darkest cloud in your case some tint of a silver lining.

‘That’s all I have for this witness,’ I say.

Demming collects his papers and starts to get up.

‘Oh. One more question, officer.’ I’m halfway back to the counsel table when I turn.

‘About Mrs. Vega’s hands. You said that when you took her into custody they were inflamed, irritated. I think your words were’ — I look at my notes — ‘ “A lot of red blotches. Chemical burns, all the way up onto her forearms.”

‘This would be pretty painful, I would imagine?’

‘No doubt,’ he says.

‘Still,’ I say, ‘this didn’t stop you from using metal cuffs, and cuffing both of her hands up behind her back before pushing her into your squad car — did it?’

He looks at me. ‘Standard procedure,’ he says. ‘We’re required to-’

‘That’s all for this witness.’ I leave him standing there, offering the only excuse he can to the jury — a plaintive look.

Since we are between witnesses, we don’t retire all the way into the judge’s chambers, but huddle in a narrow hallway out of earshot of the jury, and off the record. Harry and I, Woodruff and Cassidy, stand in the little hallway leading to the judge’s office, in semidarkness. Lama has tried to edge his way in as the representative of the people, as best he can, but he is left dangling with his ass-end halfway in the courtroom, trying to look over the shoulder of the taller Cassidy.

Woodruff is clearly kindling some smoldering hostility. He looks at Morgan.

‘I’ve had all of this I’m going to take,’ he says. ‘Maybe I look the fool to you,’ he says.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ says Cassidy innocently.

‘I’m talking about matters that I ruled on in pretrial motions. Do you remember? Correct me if I’m wrong, but we had a conversation about inferences and evidence being destroyed, and you were told that comments on such matters would be off-bounds. Do you remember now?’ he says.

‘Certainly I do,’ she says.