Perri O'Shaughnessy - Unlucky in Law

Right, keep the fact that he dug up an old man’s bones and stuck them in a grubby duffel bag at a distance by using words like “disinter.”

Hmm, the forewoman’s face said.

“Digging up a grave for someone is not murder,” Nina told the jurors. “Someone paid five hundred dollars. Who? Who else knew Mr. Wyatt would be digging up the grave that night? Ask yourselves that question as this trial progresses.”

Nina stopped. She could not accuse Alex Zhukovsky of anything outright, because Stefan Wyatt wouldn’t be testifying to say he had hired him in the first place. Zhukovsky denied he had hired Stefan, and all the defense had was five hundred bucks floating around in a pocket that never otherwise sported such riches to show Stefan hadn’t acted on his own.

She had said all she could on that topic. “Ask yourself this, too,” she went on. The inner logician reappeared, unexpectedly. She wasn’t thinking ahead of the words that came out. Silently, she applauded that part of herself that worked in the background, a silicon chip, amassing information, collating, and on top of that, doing the work of a creative artist, figuring out how to adapt the information to best effect. “Where was Mr. Wyatt taking those bones? What earthly use could he have for them? If he just murdered a woman and went to hide the body in a grave, why pick Christina Zhukovsky’s father’s resting place? Why make a spectacle of himself, driving around Monterey with a taillight out and a set of human remains in his car?”

The jurors appeared flummoxed.

Excellent. As the trial progressed, somebody would have to come up with a coherent theory about Stefan Wyatt and that duffel bag full of bones, and it better be Jaime. Thank goodness that wasn’t her job. The burden of proof was on the prosecution. Sometimes the defense’s main job was to sow confusion, and that was the one thing she felt absolutely qualified to do in this case.

“Now, you will also be presented with blood evidence, ladies and gentlemen,” Nina said. “A forensic technician will testify for the prosecution that some small amount of blood found in the victim’s apartment turned out, after all kinds of newfangled DNA testing, to be similar to Mr. Wyatt’s blood. It’s always tempting to accept what a scientist tells you about a test that’s very hard to understand. I ask you not to do that uncritically.

“Instead, I ask you to listen with discerning ears to the testimony of the defense expert, Dr. Ginger Hirabayashi, a top forensic pathologist, who will tell you that-that mistakes can be made.” It was weak, but she had to say something about the blood. Actually, the blood evidence would convict Stefan if Ginger didn’t come up with an alternative explanation, and she hadn’t been able to do that right up to this moment, so…

Forget about Ginger. There was something else about the blood she wanted to say, something helpful. She turned toward Klaus, hoping he would be able to mouth some crucial word at her to help her remember, but Klaus simply waved, the king approving of his resourceful lackey.

“Right,” Nina said. Someone stifled a yawn in the back, which set the tip of her tongue to tickling. The blood, and oh, yes, where there was blood there had to be…

“Mr. Wyatt was arrested the day after this murder, booked, searched, and examined, but please note: here’s the evidence. He didn’t have a single cut or bruise on his body. He was not wounded. So how could he have bled at Christina Zhukovsky’s apartment late the previous night?

“Where did that blood come from?”

Nina put her hand on the railing and asked them the question she had been punishing herself with for the past two weeks. “How could blood possibly come from Mr. Wyatt when he had not bled?” She heard Ms. Frey’s jaw click as she processed the question. Nina didn’t move, holding them in that moment, Stefan’s chance.

Finally, Ms. Frey looked away. The other jurors cleared their throats and stabilized themselves in their chairs. Nina stepped back. “Thank you for your time.”

“We’ll take the mid-morning recess.” Judge Salas rapped his gavel.

Nina recovered from the haze of her thoughts to face the bald glare of the courtroom, smelling the sweat of people too long confined and the ordeal of their thinking. She felt worn out, as if she had run a long way on a boiling hot day. Gulping for breath, dry-throated and unable to speak further, she left the courtroom ahead of Klaus, who stayed behind to talk with Stefan. Her mouth tasted of burnt pudding, cinders, dust. Today stood out among the worst days of her life. She had winged an opening statement in a homicide case. She felt angry, relieved, used, and plain confused.

Making the curve outside the courtroom door in record time, she headed for the ladies’ room, hoping the reporter Annie Gee wouldn’t follow.

She washed her face and hands, got out her brush, bent over so her hair hung toward the floor, and started brushing her hair from the roots up. This ritual blood-stirring always calmed her.

The door opened. Annie’s inquisitive eyes reflected brightly in the mirror behind her.

Tuesday 9/16

“STATE YOUR FULL NAME FOR THE RECORD.” TUESDAY WAS A NEW day, and the courtroom smelled of smuggled coffee. The high windows let in a flood of marine light, reminding Nina that the Pacific Ocean, even in inland Salinas, was only fifteen miles away.

The young police officer, a new father whose eyes sagged with lack of sleep, said, “Jay Arthur Millman.”

“You may be seated.”

Millman, in full uniform except for his weapon, which had been checked, sat in the witness box and looked around curiously, as if unsure where the questions would come from. Jaime didn’t get up, but, marshaling his files and his papers, he let his witness know where he was.

Beside Nina, Klaus sat in his black suit, starched white shirt with gold studs, and a blue-on-red tie. Right on time and sunny as usual, he had brought nothing but a leather notebook with a large brass clasp and a fountain pen. Nina had set up the files in front of him. Watching him come up the central aisle as he greeted Paul, the reporters, clerks, and other lawyers, and seeing the affection and respect he received, Nina felt comforted. He was a legend, and there was inherent dignity in acting as his minion.

From the report Officer Millman had filed, they already knew what he had to say. Nina took rapid notes as Jaime whisked the witness through his graduation from the Police Academy and his two years as a patrolman on the City of Monterey police force. Talking about these familiar topics, Millman relaxed. He was shockingly young, twenty-three years old, thin-shouldered under his uniform jacket, his chin scraped clean.

“Now, directing your attention to the early morning of April thirteenth, were you on duty that night?”

“Yes, sir, third watch, twelve to eight A.M.”

“What were your duties on that particular night?”

“Patrol the downtown Monterey area, check the patrons at the nightclub on Alvarado when the club closed to make sure they weren’t driving away intoxicated, respond to any incident calls at the hotels or burglar alarms going off at any of the downtown businesses. Make traffic stops as needed. Keep an eye out,” Millman said. Ms. Frey nodded, apparently liking this fresh-faced young man.

“You were patrolling with a partner?”

“Officer Kyle Graydon. He joined the force last year.”

“Did your patrol area include the city cemetery?”

“Yes, and the Catholic cemetery right next to it. The cemeteries are located about a mile from downtown, along Lake El Estero, just across from Dennis the Menace Park.”

“And during the first two hours of your shift did you pass by the cemetery? The city cemetery?”