Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“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?”

“Yes.”

“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.