Michael Connelly: The Brass Verdict

“Didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Why?”

“Because it was not going to be an issue. The evidence was overwhelming that he had fired the weapons in his possession. We weren’t worried about gunshot residue.”

“Thank you, Deputy Stallworth. I hope you can go get some sleep now.”

I sat down and left the witness for Golantz. He slowly got up and took the lectern. He knew exactly where I was going now but there was little he was going to be able to do to stop me. But I had to give him credit. He found a small crack in my direct and tried his best to exploit it.

“Deputy Stallworth, approximately how long did you wait for your car to be repaired at the downtown motor hub?”

“About two hours. They only have a couple guys work midnight watch and they were juggling jobs down there.”

“Did you stay with the car for those two hours?”

“No, I grabbed a desk in the office and wrote up the arrest report on Wyms.”

“And you testified earlier that no matter what the procedure is supposed to be, you generally rely on the motor pool to keep the fleet cars clean, is that correct?”

“Yes, correct.”

“Do you make a formal request or do people working in the motor hub just take it upon themselves to clean and maintain the car?”

“I’ve never made a formal request. It just gets done, I guess.”

“Now, during those two hours that you were away from the car and writing the report, do you know if the employees in the motor hub cleaned or disinfected the car?”

“No, I do not.”

“They could have and you wouldn’t necessarily know about it, right?”

“Right.”

“Thank you, Deputy.”

I hesitated but got up for redirect.

“Deputy Stallworth, you said it took them two hours to repair the car because they were short-handed and busy, correct?”

“Correct.”

He said it in a boy-am-I-getting-tired-of-this tone.

“So it is unlikely that these guys would have taken the time to clean your car if you didn’t ask, right?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask them.”

“Did you specifically ask them to clean the car?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you, Deputy.”

I sat down and Golantz passed on another round.

It was now almost noon. The judge adjourned for lunch but gave the jury and lawyers only a forty-five-minute break as he sought to make up for time lost during the morning. That was fine with me. My star witness was next and the sooner I got her on the stand, the closer my client was going to be to a verdict of acquittal.

Dr. Shamiram Arslanian was a surprise witness. Not in terms of her presence at the trial – she had been on the witness list longer than I had been on the case. But in terms of her physical appearance and personality. Her name and pedigree in forensics conjured an image of a woman deep, dark and scientific. A white lab coat and hair ironed back in a knot. But she was none of that. She was a vivacious, blue-eyed blonde with a cheerful disposition and easy smile. She wasn’t just photogenic. She was telegenic. She was articulate and confident but never came close to being arrogant. The one-word description for her was the one-word description every lawyer wants for every one of his witnesses: likable. And it was rare to get that in a witness delivering your forensic case.

I had spent most of the weekend with Shami, as she preferred to be called. We had gone over the gunshot residue evidence in the Elliot case and the testimony she would give for the defense, as well as the cross-examination she could expect to receive from Golantz. This had been delayed until so late in the game to avoid discovery issues. What my expert didn’t know she couldn’t reveal to the prosecutor. So she was kept in the dark about the magic bullet until the last possible moment.

There was no doubt that she was a celebrity gun for hire. She had once hosted a show about her own exploits on Court TV. She was asked twice for her autograph when I took her to dinner at the Palm and was on a first-name basis with a couple of TV execs who visited the table. She charged a celebrity-level fee as well. For four days in Los Angeles to study, prepare and testify she would receive a flat rate of $10,000 plus expenses. Nice work if you could get it, and she could. She was known to study the many requests for her time and to choose only those in which she steadfastly believed there had been a grievous error committed or a miscarriage of justice. It also didn’t hurt if you had a case that was getting the attention of the national media.

I knew after spending the first ten minutes with her that she was going to be worth every penny Elliot would pay her. She would be double trouble for the prosecution. Her personality was going to win over the jury, and her facts were going to seal the deal. So much of trial work comes down to who is testifying, not what the testimony actually reveals. It’s about selling your case to the jury, and Shami could sell burnt matches. The state’s forensic witness was a lab geek with the personality of a test tube. My witness had hosted a television show called Chemically Dependent .

I heard the low hum of recognition in the courtroom as my big-haired witness made her entrance from the back, holding all eyes as she walked up the center aisle, through the gate and across the proving grounds to the witness stand. She wore a navy blue suit that fit her curves snugly and accentuated the cascade of blonde curls over her shoulders. Even Judge Stanton seemed infatuated. He asked the courtroom deputy to get her a glass of water before she had even taken the oath. He hadn’t asked the state’s forensic geek if he had wanted jack shit.

After she gave her name and spelled it and took the oath to tell nothing but the truth, I got up with my legal pad and went to the lectern.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Arslanian. How are you?”

“I’m doin’ just fine. Thanks for asking.”

There was a slight trace of a southern accent in her voice.

“Before we go over your curriculum vitae, I want to get something out of the way up front. You are a paid consultant to the defense, is that correct?”

“Yes, that is correct. I’m paid to be here, not paid to testify to anything other than my own opinion – whether it’s in line with the defense or not. That’s my deal and I never change it.”

“Okay, tell us where you are from, Doctor.”

“I live in Ossining, New York, right now. I was born and raised in Florida and spent a lot of years in the Boston area, going to different schools here and there.”

“Shamiram Arslanian. That doesn’t sound like a Florida name.”

She smiled brilliantly.

“My father is one hundred percent Armenian. So I guess that makes me half Armenian and half Floridian. My father said I was Armageddian when I was a girl.”

Many in the courtroom chuckled politely.

“What is your background in forensic sciences?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve got two related degrees. I got my master’s at MIT – the Massachusetts Institute of Technology – and that is in chemical engineering. I then got a PhD in criminology and that was awarded to me from John Jay College in New York.”

“When you say ‘awarded,’ does that mean it’s an honorary degree?”

“Hell, no,” she said forcefully. “I worked my butt off two years to get that sucker.”

This time laughter broke out across the courtroom and I noticed that even the judge smiled before politely tapping his gavel one time for order.

“I saw on your résumé that you have two undergraduate degrees as well. Is that true?”

“I’ve got two of everything, it seems. Two kids. Two cars. I’ve even got two cats at home, named Wilbur and Orville.”