Paul Levine - To speak for the dead

"What do you make of that?"

"I would have expected to find it, if that's what you mean."

I nodded with approval and paused to emphasize the point. "You expected to find succinic acid and choline near the needle track because the concentration of the drug should be greatest near the injection, correct?"

Again he looked toward Socolow. "Ordinarily."

"Then how do you explain the lack of the two substances near the track where the drug was supposedly injected?"

He paused. One beat, another beat. Then, very softly, a murmur barely above the whir of the air-conditioning, "Sometimes, in science, we don't have an explanation for everything."

"Quite so," I said, and sat down.

Abe Socolow had been around long enough to know how to rehabilitate a witness.

"Just a few questions on redirect," he said with perfect calm. Never let the jury sense your fear. "Now, Dr. MacKenzie. Besides looking for the presence of succinic acid and choline, what else did your tests do, and I direct your attention to page seven of the report."

MacKenzie warmed to the friendly face and followed the coaching. He flipped through Blumberg's report, got to page seven, and smiled. "We scanned for other toxins. Those tests were negative. The tests were positive only for the components of succinylcholine."

Socolow nodded. "To exclude the remote possibility of picking up traces of succinic acid and choline occurring naturally in the body, what did you do?"

Dr. MacKenzie read some more, his eyes brightening. "We tested three other bodies that recently arrived in the morgue. We performed the same chromatographic tests on brain and liver samples. None showed any evidence of succinic acid or choline."

Abe Socolow smiled too. His jury smile. To carry the message, no harm done, just clearing the confusion caused by that wily defense lawyer.

"No further questions," Socolow said, easing himself into his chair.

The judge was ready to bang his gavel and call it a day. But I had one or two more questions. Recross.

"Dr. MacKenzie, these three other bodies you tested. How many had died during or just after surgery?"

He didn't know where I was heading. But Abe Socolow did. He stood up. Tried to think of an objection but couldn't. The question was relevant and within the scope of his redirect.

"None," the doctor said, looking at the report. "Two were gunshot victims, one died in an auto accident. All DOA."

"So none had received succinylcholine within the last twelve hours before death?"

There was an inaudible mumble from the witness stand. He shook his head from side to side. Now he knew.

"You must speak up for the court reporter," I advised him.

"No, none received succinylcholine."

"You're familiar with the records of Philip Corrigan' back surgery on the day of his death?"

A quiet "Yes."

"And the anesthetics included, did they not, succinylcholine?"

"Fifty milligrams, IV drip," he said, softer than the rumble of voices from the gallery.

I told Roger not to start celebrating but he was slapping me on the back. Brilliant again.

"You destroyed MacKenzie." He was jubilant.

"Maybe," I told him. "But they still have time to test someone who dies during surgery and Charlie Riggs doesn't know what it'll show. Nobody seems to know."

"Still," Roger insisted, "we won the day."

"Sure," I said, "but tomorrow is Melanie Corrigan. And the jury will convict if they believe her, acquit if they don't. Expert witnesses are just icing on the cake."

That was hard for his scientific mind to accept. "Then the trial is just showmanship," he complained, "if whoever has the best looking, most likable witness wins."

"It sometimes works like that," I said. "My job is to get the jury to dislike her or Sergio or both."

"How do you do that?"

I winked at him. Like it was a great secret. Which it was. Especially from me.

I slept well. I had prepared. I lowered my pace a bit. Tried to forget just who she was and what she had done to Susan. My first responsibility was to Roger Salisbury. Time for the rest later.

She still turned heads walking into a courtroom. Unlike the civil trial, she could not sit at counsel table. The witness rule was in effect. No witnesses present except when testifying. So the jurors hadn't seen Melanie Corrigan yet. It made her appearance more dramatic. She didn't let them down. Poised, confident, a beautiful walk to the witness stand.

Still in his black suit, the Grim Reaper asked when she first met Roger Salisbury.

She was well prepared. "I was just a kid, really. I looked up to him. He was a doctor, and I was training to be a professional dancer. We became involved. He pursued me. He was, in a way, obsessed with me. He wanted to possess me, and I gave in to him."

Then she blushed. Really blushed. It came out well, set off nicely by a navy blue, dress-for-success skirt-suit. She had the whole shtick, white silk blouse and frilly bow, hair tied back in a pony tail. Little Bo-peep. Where was the slinky temptress of the videotape? I shouldn't have been surprised. Usually, it's the defendants who do the changeovers. Street hoods shave their beards, shower, and cover their tattoos with discount store suits. A crack dealer shows up for trial looking like an investment banker. And here was Melanie Corrigan, ex-stripper, semi-pro hooker, up from the streets, blushing on cue, Abe Socolow leading off Day Two with his strength.

He took her through it all, just as he had promised in opening statement. Roger Salisbury chased her long after the relationship was over, showed her the drug, wanted her to kill her husband. She thought he was joking or half crazy, would never do it. Then Philip died, darling Philip. The beginning of a tear, tastefully done. No gushers that would interrupt the timing of the questions. After the malpractice trial, Roger asked her over, and she found the drug and the black valise in his house.

It took less time than I had anticipated. Socolow got her up there, fulfilled his prophecy, then sat down. I stood up. And the worst thing that could happen to my cross-examina-tion happened.

Nothing.

It was uneventful.

Flat, dull.

I had worked so hard to stay in control, to bury the hatred inside of me that I buried everything else. No spark, no inspiration, no edge. Flabby questions, brief denials, no follow-up.

"Were you intimate with Roger Salisbury after your marriage?"

"No, of course not."

I had no way of disproving it. The tape was shot before the marriage, and Judge Crane wouldn't let it into evidence anyway. Roger would contradict her statement, of course, but there is something unchivalrous about that. The jury will not like him.

"Were you intimate with your employee, a Mr. Sergio Machado-Alvarez?"

"Objection," Socolow yelled out. "Irrelevant."

The judge's eyes darted across the gallery. Helen Buch-man had gone to the restroom. He took a stab at it. "Granted. Same ruling as on Mr. Socolow's motion in limine. Mr. Lassiter, I remind you that Mrs. Corrigan is not on trial."

"Thank you, Your Honor," I said, to confuse the jury. "Mrs. Corrigan, the black valise you testified about, was it ever in your possession?"

"No."

Again, nothing to disprove her. If Susan were alive, she could ID the valise in Melanie's underwear drawer. Destroy her testimony. I needed Susan for this and a thousand other reasons. I blinked and saw her face, nuzzling me on the way to Granny's house. I blinked again, and she was facedown in the pool. I was reeling, losing control.

"What do you know about the break-in at Susan Corrigan's cabana?"

An inane question. A preordained answer. Floundering.

"Nothing. Poor thing, to die so young."