Steve Martini - Shadow of Power

When asked for his opinion, Stepro states, “Better than any fingerprint, the complexity of the pattern and the countless intersecting matches between paper and leather put the issue beyond any possible doubt. The four folded pieces of paper were without question the object that created the shadow on leather.”

Stepro also testifies that examination of the paper reveals that the documents, the four pages, were stapled only one time. Further microscopic inspection of the staple at the folds in the metal where it was bent and closed to bind the pages indicates that it was probably driven in by an electric stapling machine and that, because of the tight closure, it is his opinion that no pages were removed or appear to be missing.

Finally I ask him about fingerprints on the pages and whether any were found.

“We found several fingerprints. I believe there were at least thirty-two full or partial prints on the four pages.”

“Were you able to lift these, and were you able to identify whom they belonged to?”

“We lifted all of them, and they all belonged to the same person, the victim, Terrance Scarborough.”

Ginnis knew exactly what he was doing in the video when he refused to touch the letter over the dinner table in the restaurant. When he finally reached out to dispose of the letter, to get it off the table, he did it with the butter knife, flipping the pages back to Scarborough.

According to Stepro, and included in the police crime lab’s report, is the finding that four small bloody spots on the folded surface of the letter, the spattered side, as well as a single blood spot on the reverse side, show traces of fiber transfer, similar to the spots found on and inside Scarborough’s attaché case, evidence of the blood-soaked cotton gloves of the killer.

When I finish with the witness, Tuchio gets up and asks a single question: whether the witness, during the course of his examination of the four pages, examined the writing or read the contents of the communication written on them.

The judge nearly swallows his tongue.

Before I can even object, the witness responds and says, “No. I was instructed by my client not to read the contents of the correspondence for the reason that it was confidential.”

“No further questions.” Tuchio takes his seat.

That he would pop this question in this way tells me two things. One is that Tuchio is as convinced as I am, despite what Quinn may be saying, that the contents of the Jefferson Letter will at some point be admitted into evidence and read to the jury. Second is that if it must come in, Tuchio would prefer that it come in now, before the defense has completed presenting its case. He’s hoping that this might dissipate its effect. Or at least remove it as far as possible from the point of deliberations so that its impact on the jury will be lessened, once they’re sedated a bit by the passage of time, closing arguments, and other evidence.

For the first time I can recall, ever in a trial, the judge has lunch brought in for the lawyers. With the pressure on, he’s not letting any of us out of the courthouse. He tells court staff to stay close, to eat in the cafeteria. The race to a restaurant is not worth the risk of the melee outside, and Quinn wants everybody back in court by one o’clock.

A little past noon, and the rhythmic pounding of demonstrators, the ceaseless chants and yelling, against the pitched wail of electronic sirens outside, has the constancy and power of roiling surf.

It seems to overwhelm, until I realize that there are at least six solid walls of reinforced concrete between those of us in the building and the hell that is happening out on the street. I cannot fathom what the bedlam must sound like there.

Every few minutes Quinn takes reports from one of the senior bailiffs, updating him on the situation on the street in the event that it becomes necessary to evacuate the building. So far there have been no shots fired and no fatalities, but eight officers have been hospitalized and an untold number of civilians have been caught up in the burgeoning battle and injured.

According to the bailiff, a delegation from the local chapter of the NAACP and the National Lawyers Guild have appealed for calm, while another group has appeared at the courthouse’s main entrance and demanded a copy of the Jefferson Letter. One of the deputies, a lieutenant, told them that he would relay their request to the judge, who would take it under advisement.

By one o’clock we’re back in the courtroom. Quinn is running a taut ship at this point, hustling to get the case to the jury before the folks outside can burn the building down. His biggest fear is more revelations regarding the letter. But sooner or later it has to come out.

Our last two witnesses are both educators, one more surprise for Tuchio and, if the letter comes in, what may prove to be a hideous shocker for the nation.

Kathy Lafair is a teacher who also holds a joint degree in clinical and educational psychology and has been tucked into our witness list for months. She has given us nothing in writing that we would have to turn over to the prosecution, though Harry and I know what she will say.

Lafair teaches classes in the evenings at a school in the eastern area of the county. It is part of an extension program for special education, serving adults who dropped out of school when they were kids due to learning disabilities and who now find themselves locked out of the system because they lack basic skills.

Under oath and on the stand, she tells the jury that with counseling, encouragement, and sometimes one-on-one tutoring, some of these adults can find their way back to the dreams they once had as children, to learn and to enjoy more productive lives.

Sadly, however, this was not the case for Carl Arnsberg.

Harry was the one who discovered the problem, and he felt bad about it. He’d made a wisecrack about Carl early in the case, just after the three of us had met for the first time at the jail.

Harry and I were talking, and the issue was whether Scarborough’s book might have set Carl off, especially if he were a nutcase. Harry brushed it aside with one of his glib comments.

The comment came back to haunt him two weeks later in a meeting with Carl to go over some items of evidence delivered to us by the D.A.’s office. By that time Harry had some suspicions, but he wasn’t sure. He handed Carl a slip of paper and told him to take a look at it. Harry was busy hunting for other documents in his briefcase.

Carl picked up the slip of paper, studied it for a few seconds, and then put it down.

Harry regarded Carl and said, “What do you think?”

“Oh, it’s fine. Looks good.”

The half slip of paper was a form with some printing on it and some boxes to be checked. Two of the boxes had X’s typed in them. It was the charging document for “special circumstances”-the legal justification, and the basis if he is convicted, for the State of California to execute Carl Everett Arnsberg.

Carl is illiterate. It’s not that he has difficulty reading. He can’t read a word. He never told us, didn’t say anything. Carl has been hiding this from people all his life. We didn’t know the full story until he gave us the name of Kathy Lafair.

This morning she sits on the stand and smiles at him.

Carl’s head is down. He glances up at her every once in a while, but he won’t look her in the eye. Kathy Lafair is just another reminder of failure in Carl’s life, one of many.

“Can you tell the jury how you came to know the defendant, Carl Arnsberg?” I ask her.

“He was one of my students,” she says. “For about six weeks. Three times a week at night, he would come to classes.”

“And what did you teach?”

“Basic reading comprehension.”