John Lescroart - The 13th Juror

Some of the damage perhaps repaired, Freeman allowed himself a breath. "Let's go back, if we may, to what Matt said to his father. Can you tell us again what it was?"

Seeing this new trap, Powell was on his feet. "It's in the record, Your Honor. The reporter can read back what Mr. Rivera said."

Villars considered Powell's point a little too long for Freeman's comfort. Knowing that a trap could sometimes spring on the person who set it, Freeman withdrew the question. He did not want the jury to hear again how Matt had said 'I'm going to show this to Mom.' He had been fishing, hoping that Fred would come up with another paraphrase of the same idea, something like 'I'll see if Mom will like this when she gets home.' But no such luck.

Smiling, Freeman turned back to the witness. "So, to summarize, you did not see Jennifer Witt in the house at 9:30?"

"That's right."

"You did not hear her either?"

"No, I didn't."

Freeman paused and realized that this was about as good as he was going to get, and it wasn't all that good. Giving the jury a confident grin, he said to Rivera, "Thank you, sir. No further questions."

Powell, smelling blood, stood quickly and said he had a short question or two on redirect. "Mr. Rivera, when Matt went running off with this package, what was Dr. Witt doing?"

"What was he doing? I guess he took the clipboard, looked at his watch, signed it and gave it to me."

"Did he speak to his son?"

"No, I told you, the boy went running behind him."

"Yes, you did say that. He didn't remind the boy, though, for example, that his mother wasn't home?"

"Objection!" Freeman was up, shot from a cannon.

Villars pointed at Powell. "Sustained, Mr. Powell, you know better. Strike the last." And she directed the jury to disregard the question, which they would try to do. But Powell had done more damage, and he knew it as he graciously dismissed the witness.

Freeman was fuming. Over Jennifer's objections he had insisted that he and Hardy return to the Sutter Street offices. He need to vent and didn't want to do it in front of his client. "He never, never mentioned Matt going to show anything to anybody!"

Hardy was drinking cranberry soda out of a bottle, picking pretzels out of the bag on the center of the conference table. "Well, he did today, David. Did you ask him?"

"Shit."

"Does that mean you didn't?"

Nothing, it seemed, dimmed Freeman's appetite. He was having liverwurst and onions on a rye roll, drinking one of the popular non-alcoholic beers that were so politically correct in San Francisco but which Hardy thought were a blight on the earth. "I asked him ten times if he'd seen Jennifer. Was Jennifer there? You're sure you didn't see her?"

"You think she was there?"

Freeman swallowed what he was chewing. "The jury thinks she was there, Diz. We've got to convince them she wasn't 'cause if she was, guess what?"

Hardy knew too well the answer to that one. He sat a moment, part of him savoring the experience of Freeman choking on his arrogance, a victim of his own oversight.

After lunch they breezed through the coroner, Dr. Strout again, and this time he delivered his testimony without incident. It was no surprise that both Larry and Matt had been shot at close range with Larry's gun and had died almost instantly from the wounds. Freeman could have stipulated to most of what Strout had to say, but he held onto a small hope that once again the doctor would put some spin on his testimony that might cast doubt on the essential and undisputed facts. He did not.

There was no point in boring the jury. Freeman had been willing to stipulate to the validity of the forensics report identifying Larry's gun as the murder weapon. But on the matter of fingerprints, he had a few thoughts.

The witness was the police department's expert. Aja Farek, an attractive Pakistani woman of perhaps thirty-five. Powell had elicited from her the testimony that Jennifer's fingerprints had been on both the brass bullet casings and clip that held them.

Freeman shuffled to center stage. "Ms. Farek, did you find any fingerprints at all on the outside of the gun? – the barrel, the grip, anyplace like that?"

"No. Except the person's who found the gun, of course."

"The person who found the gun? Who was that?"

Ms. Farek consulted some notes. "His name is Sid Parmentier. He's the man who found the gun in the dumpster, I believe."

"The dumpster? What dumpster?" Freeman knew all about the dumpster. Still, he raised his eyebrows, including the jury in his shock at this surprising new development.

Powell stood up. "Your Honor, the People will be calling Mr. Parmentier about his discovery of the murder weapon. Ms. Farek is a fingerprint expert."

Villars nodded, her face a blank. "Stick to the point, Mr. Freeman."

"All right. Fingerprints." Freeman again included the jury, this time in his disappointment. He guessed that they, too, would have to wait to find out what they all wanted to know about the dumpster. Well, it wasn't his fault. He was trying to help them but the judge and prosecutor weren't cooperating. Back at the witness, he was gentleness itself. "How long do fingerprints last, Ms. Farek?"

The witness frowned. "They can last a long time."

"A long time? A month? A year?"

"Yes. Easily."

"And how old were the fingerprints of Jennifer Witt that you found on the casings and the clip?"

"I don't know. There's no way to tell that."

"You can't test them for residual dryness, anything like that?"

"No. Fingerprints are oil-based. They don't get dry in that sense."

"So she could have handled those bullets and the clip at almost any time?"

"Yes."

"Not necessarily on the day of the shooting or anywhere near it?"

Powell raised himself from his chair again. "She's already answered that, Your Honor."

Freeman piped right up. "So she has." Beaming all around, as if he'd made a point he'd been laboring over for weeks. "No further questions."

Despite the lead-in, Sid Parmentier, the man who had found the gun, had nothing either new or startling to say about the gun or the dumpster. Nevertheless, it was not in Freeman's nature to pass on even neutral testimony. He must have felt he had already used up his quota for the day by not cross-examining Strout, because he jumped up ready to go when Powell had finished.

Mr. Parmentier was heavy-set, with a Neanderthal-like hairline. His black sports coat was shiny. His over-starched white shirt was too tight, and, evidently, so was the black tie he constantly tugged at.

Freeman, loving a man who shared his sartorial tastes, stood close to the witness box, hands in pockets, relaxed. "At any time, sir, did you see the defendant, Jennifer Witt" – he pointed for effect – "at or near this dumpster?"

"No."

"Did you see her throw anything into it?"

Powell raised a hand. "Asked and answered, Your Honor."

Villars sustained him, but Freeman hadn't had his say yet, or he had another card to play. Hardy suspected the latter. "Your Honor, it bears repeating."

"I'm sure the jury heard it the first time, Mr. Freeman. If Mr. Parmentier didn't see Mrs. Witt at or near this dumpster, then it follows, doesn't it, that he didn't see her throw anything into it?"

Silently, apparently deep in thought, Freeman nodded. He half-turned around to the defense table, thought some more, then gave the jury a look.

Villars wasn't having it. "Mr. Freeman, do you want to excuse the witness? Let's stop these histrionics."

Contrite, sincere, Freeman apologized – lost in thought, as though he'd forgotten where he was for the moment. "It just occurred to me, Your Honor, that this testimony here falls into the same category as that you ruled on during the earlier part of this trial."