Lisa Scottoline - Mistaken Identity

“I’m so long in the tooth, God only knows,” he said, and the jurors smiled with him. “Thousands, easily.”

“Thank you.” Bennie held up the sweatshirt. “Dr. Pettis, didn’t you testify earlier that the blood spatter pattern on this sweatshirt is typical?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You teach this in your lecture course to the police, is that right, sir?”

“Yes.”

Bennie faced the jury, still holding the sweatshirt against her own chest. She didn’t need hair or skin analysis to tell her it was Connolly’s; it would have fit Bennie exactly. “Tell the jury, Dr. Pettis, do you ever re-create spatter like this in your lab?”

“Yes. All the time. I do it to test my hypotheses and confirm my conclusions.”

“So you create blood spatter, all the time? How do you do it?”

“I simply spray blood, I use pig’s blood, at different garments. If it’s at a distance I use a spray gun. But short of that, I simply flick the blood onto the garment, as Jackson Pollock did with paint. It isn’t difficult.”

Bennie smiled inwardly. Thank God for the expert’s modesty. “So isn’t it true that an individual familiar with blood spatter principles can create blood spatter?”

“Yes.”

Bennie tossed the sweatshirt aside to signal to the jury how useless it was. She never was one for subtle cues. “I have no further questions,” she said, but Hilliard was already reaching for his crutches.

Dr. Marc Merwicke was the most respected of the city’s medical examiners, and Bennie wondered as Hilliard qualified him if his signature was the one on Lenihan’s false blood alcohol levels. But Dr. Merwicke’s appearance belied the suggestion that he could be capable of anything as exciting as a criminal conspiracy. Dressed in a gray suit and a solid tie of platinum color, Merwicke was about forty years old, with wet-down hair prematurely gray and a pallor that belonged in a morgue. Bennie felt a cold chill looking at him, thinking of her mother, then Lenihan. So much death; it was all around her. Her life was thick with it, as were her thoughts.

Hilliard asked a series of questions that took Merwicke through the autopsy he performed on Della Porta. Over Bennie’s objections, Merwicke launched into a complete and painstaking examination of grisly autopsy photos, wound site photos, and magnifications of exit and entrance wounds. They were projected on a large screen pulled down from the wall, like a macabre movie, and Bennie watched the librarian turn away and the back row of the jury shudder almost collectively.

Merwicke finally testified that the “shooter”-borrowing the term from police lingo-could have been a man or woman, but was a tall person. Bennie watched nervously as several of the jurors turned to size Connolly up. The jurors frowned further when Merwicke testified that hair and skin samples from the defendant matched several found on the sweatshirt, linking the blood-spattered exhibit to Connolly.

“I have one last question, Dr. Merwicke,” Hilliard asked, returning to the podium. “Does your office routinely perform tests for gunshot residue on the hands of murder suspects?”

“Yes.”

“Did you perform a residue test on Alice Connolly’s hands in this case?”

“No.”

“Why was that, Dr. Merwicke?”

“Lawyers,” the witness said flatly, and the jury laughed.

“Move to strike, Your Honor,” Bennie said, standing up. She didn’t understand the answer and she wasn’t about to lose the residue point. “A lawyer joke isn’t responsive, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard said from the podium, “I was about to ask the witness to explain his answer.” Judge Guthrie nodded, and Hilliard asked the witness to elaborate.

Dr. Merwicke’s mouth tightened. “I meant that we can’t always perform the tests we need to because criminal defense lawyers obstruct our efforts.”

“Objection!” Bennie said, angry. “Move to strike that question and answer, Your Honor. There has been no evidence in this case that defense lawyers obstructed efforts to test Ms. Connolly’s hand and-”

“But they did,” Merwicke broke in, pointing a finger. “Alice Connolly’s first lawyers did. They filed a motion. They made such a stink, my office couldn’t get a sample. We had to take it to court, and by the time we could get a judge to rule, your client’s hands were clean.”

“Move to strike the testimony!” Bennie said, though it shocked her. There hadn’t been any motion about it in the Jemison file and she had been too busy to check the docket sheets herself. “Your Honor, the witness may not testify as to any decisions or filings by previous defense counsel in this matter. Ms. Connolly has a right to assert all protections due her under the Constitution.”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard argued, “defense counsel opened the door, with Dr. Pettis. The Commonwealth is entitled to elicit why a gun residue test wasn’t performed on the defendant’s hands, now that defense counsel made it an issue in her examination.”

“Quite right, the objection is overruled,” Judge Guthrie said. “I’ll not strike the testimony.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hilliard said. “Permit me a minute while I determine if I have any further questions.”

Bennie sank into her seat, her eyes on the jury. They had heard the whole exchange and it was devastating to the defense. She had screwed up the residue point. What had Jemison, Crabbe done? Opposed the residue test? Why? Because it would prove that Connolly hadn’t fired the gun? And why hadn’t their briefs or motion been in the file?

“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Hilliard said, his tone ringing with confidence as he gathered his papers and took his seat.

Bennie rose, hiding her unease. She had to set it right, if possible. “Dr. Merwicke, I have only a few questions for you. You testified that no residue test was performed in this case, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“That test could have just as easily have shown that Alice Connolly did not fire the gun that killed Detective Della Porta, couldn’t it?”

“Well… Yes.”

“In fact, isn’t it true that if the residue test had been performed, and no residue was found on Alice Connolly’s hands, that would be proof positive that she was not the murderer of Detective Della Porta?”

“Then why would she oppose the test?” Merwicke’s eyes flashed with anger, and Bennie bore down.

“It’s a yes or no question, Dr. Merwicke. If no residue was found on Alice Connolly’s hands, it would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that she had not fired that gun. Yes or no?”

“Yes. But then why-”

“Dr. Merwicke, do you know for a fact that Alice Connolly opposed it or do you know only that her previous lawyers opposed it?”

“I assume she would know-”

“You assume wrong,” Bennie spat back, and Hilliard half rose.

“Move to strike, Your Honor. Defense counsel is testifying.”

Judge Guthrie nodded quickly. “Sustained. Please strike that comment, Ms. Reporter.”

“No further questions,” Bennie said. She’d said it for the jury anyway. She could only hope it would mitigate the damage she’d just done. She sat down and caught Connolly’s expression. She looked as stricken as Bennie felt, and it wasn’t contrived. Connolly’s features, so like Bennie’s without makeup, were limned with the stark, cold fear of a woman who had glimpsed her own execution. It was as if Bennie were looking at her own death mask.

And she couldn’t turn away.

The defense team, including Lou, huddled back at the office over a dinner of take-out ribs at a walnut conference table dotted with crumpled paper towels. A paper clip tray had been converted to a water bowl and droplets of saturated fat floated on the water like oil in a gutter. “How’d we do today, Coach?” Judy asked, licking her fingers.