Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“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.

Chambers sits next to Haselid on the couch in the corner, one leg draped loosely over the other. Strangely he does not seem to be enjoying this as much as I would have thought. He fidgets nervously, like he’s uncomfortable to be here. Maybe the bad blood is beginning to sour in his own veins, though I doubt this would stop him producing tainted testimony, if it served an end.

“You’re batting a thousand.” Ingel is seething over his desk. “So far you’ve managed to lose a vital piece of evidence, and trotted a lying son of a bitch up onto the stand in my courtroom.”

He ignores that this lying son of a bitch has been there, on a regular and repeated basis before, that the county may now have scores of tainted convictions. When this news gets out, the filing counter at the court of appeals will look like a gasoline line during an oil embargo.

“What’s in store for us tomorrow?” says Ingel. He’s looking at me intense, unremitting. “Perhaps doctored evidence?” He leaves me sitting there with nothing that I can say.

Goya jumps in the void. “The problem goes to the weight,” she says. Lenore means that Tolar’s testimony should not be stricken, that the jury should be allowed to hear what he has to say, to weigh it for themselves, considering his misconduct on the bench.

“He is still an expert,” she says. “He can comment on the autopsy report, his conclusions and opinions from reading the document.”

“Not likely,” says Ingel. “Not in my court. If he wants to talk about the four kids, that’s fine. Unless we find out he didn’t do those,” he says. He looks over at Chambers to see if Adrian has any contribution on this point. The lawyer shrugs his shoulders, an expression like maybe he should take the time to look.

“As to the Scofields, you can forget it,” Ingel says.

Adrian unfolds his legs and edges closer to the edge of the couch like maybe he thinks this meeting is over. Then he pipes in.

“Your honor, we’d like to renew our motion,” he says, “to dismiss the first two counts.” It is like Adrian to seize the advantage in a moment of crisis, to capitalize on Ingel’s anger. Though in his position, seeing the chance for a quick end, I would no doubt do the same.

The judge looks at him, drowning for the moment in his own wrath, he has trouble focusing on the change of subject.

“The lost piece of cord,” says Adrian. “We’d like to renew our motion at this time to dismiss the first two counts.”

“Not now.” Ingel brushes him off with the back of his hand, too busy chewing on my ass to be bothered with distractions. In a strange way I have been saved by the seething fury that now grips the Prussian, his eyes fixed on me. He dismisses the others, tells me to stay put. I am in for a tongue-lashing from hell.

“The biggest goddamned owl I ever saw.” This is how Denny Henderson over the telephone describes the great horned owl at the San Diego Wild Animal Park. “A wing-span like a B-fifty-two,” he says.

It is just after one in the afternoon. I am still smarting from the verbal battery administered by Ingel in our private meeting. He has threatened to bring me up on charges before the state bar, suborning perjury of a witness, notwithstanding that he has no evidence to support this charge, not the slightest inkling that I knew about Tolar’s lies. Within an hour I’m sure that his lecture will be the talk of the courthouse, chewed on by judges and their clerks. Such is the grapevine that grows in these places.

After kicking my ass the judge adjourned early. I can imagine the phone call he is having with Coconut across the river. Between the two of them, they no doubt are planning my future.

Lenore and I have a meeting with Ingel and Chambers at four, to go over jury instructions. This is a little premature, but Ingel has made it clear that nothing at the end of this trial is going to delay his vacation. Once the jury gets the case they’d better move quickly, or they’re in for a trip. I have visions of the panel, flowered leis around their necks, cracking coconuts and fingering poi during deliberations.

Claude is in my office. We are on the speaker phone. Denny has managed to find his way to this place, the Wild Animal Park in San Diego. He has spent the entire morning dogging the bird show, talking to the staff, the trainers at work, before he keyed on one guy. He is now at the San Diego PD.

“He doesn’t work there anymore,” he says. “Used to. His name is Cleo Coltrane,” he tells us. “They canned him last year. Wanna know why?”

“Tell us,” says Claude. Dusalt is in no mood for twenty questions. He sees his case twirling down the tubes.

“He’s got a record, two federal convictions,” says Denny. He reads us a section number from the U.S. Codes which he says comes off a rap sheet on the man Coltrane.

“What the hell’s that?” says Claude.

“Violations of the Endangered Species Act,” says Henderson.

“He worked at the park part-time, until the first conviction,” says Denny.

“He killed birds?” I say.

“No. In the two cases they nailed him on, he was caught taking rare birds from the wild, trapping them alive.”

Close enough, I think. All the pieces are falling into place. Scofield had somehow gotten a lead on this guy, and traced him back to San Diego and his place of employment. It is probably not a large fraternity, the people who deal in endangered species.

“Do they know where he is?” I say.

“Sure. Right now he’s sitting in a cell down the hall.” Denny sounds cocky as hell. I can picture him with his feet on somebody’s desk drinking coffee from a borrowed mug.

“You arrested him?”

This concerns me. We have no legal authority to hold this man. It would take a subpoena issued by a superior court judge coupled with some unwillingness on the part of the witness to comply before we could lawfully take him into custody, even as a material witness, for his own protection.

“Didn’t have to,” says Denny. “This guy was made to order,” he says. “Seems there was an outstanding warrant on a traffic violation. The cops down here are real nice, real cooperative.” What he means is any excuse to roust a necessary witness.