Джеффри Дивер: The Midnight Lock

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

But of course the jurors’ memories could not be erased. They’d just heard that Rhyme was not completely playing fair.

“Mr. Rhyme, were you inside the sterile area of your lab when the analysis of this sand was going on?”

Rhyme fell silent. He looked at Thom in the back of the courtroom, his trim aide wearing today an impeccable navy-blue suit, off-white shirt and dark gray tie.

Coughlin prodded, “Mr. Rhyme?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And when you went inside, did your aide scrub the treads of those tires?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Wipes and bleach.”

“Did he use a Q-tip or similar item to dig into the treads?”

“No. He used wipes.”

“And that was for only ten minutes per wheel.”

“Objection.”

Coughlin trimmed out the “only” and asked, “And that was for ten minutes per wheel?”

“About that, yes.”

“Mr. Rhyme, you must have a lot of equipment in the lab. Chromatographs, electron microscopes, drying hoods... Typical forensic devices.”

“That’s right.”

“And they generate a fair amount of heat?”

“When they’re in operation, yes.”

“Are there fans in the lab?”

Rhyme was silent for a moment. “Yes.”

“And a fan could, in theory, blow trace evidence around. So that foreign matter brought inside the lab could contaminate a soil sample?”

“Objection.”

The judge: “He’s an expert witness. I’ll allow the hypothetical. Mr. Rhyme, please answer.”

“In theory.”

“Mr. Rhyme, the evidence report states that your laboratory analyzed the soil samples from the murder scene and from my client’s property on April twentieth. Is that correct?”

“That sounds right.”

“And on that day were you outside your town house for any reason?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Well, I’ll refresh your memory. You gave a lecture at the Manhattan School of Criminal Justice on West Seventy-Fourth Street. This was at ten a.m.”

“I’d have to check.”

“Your lecture was on YouTube. It’s time-stamped.”

“Then,” Rhyme said stiffly, “I guess the answer is yes.”

“Your Honor,” Coughlin said as he lifted another document and approached the bench, “I’d like to introduce into evidence Defense Exhibit One.” He handed two copies to a woman bailiff, who gave one to the judge and the other to Sellars. The ADA read through the pages and then looked at Rhyme with a frown.

After skimming her copy, the judge asked, “Mr. Sellars?”

A sigh. “No objection.”

Coughlin approached Rhyme and placed a copy open before him. “Mr. Rhyme, this is a report from Albrecht and Tanner Forensic Services. Are you familiar with them?”

“I am.”

“Could you describe them to the court?”

“They are a private forensic laboratory. They do commercial work for construction and manufacturing companies mostly.”

“Are they a respected operation?”

“Yes.”

“This report was commissioned by my firm and, in full disclosure, I’ll add that we paid the company’s standard fee for their services. I’m reading from their report. ‘Our technicians collected eighty-four ground samples from sidewalks, gardens, planting beds and public works sites.

“‘These samples were stored in sterile containers and returned for analysis in our laboratory. Per instructions, our technicians were told to look for the presence of calcium sulfate dihydrate, with silicon dioxide, in combination with C 12H 24— saturated hydrocarbons (seventy-five percent) and aromatic hydrocarbons (twenty-five percent). Our analysts did find significant quantities of such substances.’”

Coughlin cast a dramatic glance toward the jury then to his witness. “Mr. Rhyme, what the report is describing is a particular type of sand mixed in with diesel fuel, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You see the proportion of chemicals in those samples?”

Rhyme looked down.

“I do.”

“And is that proportion identical to the proportion of chemicals in the six grains of sand the prosecution introduced as evidence linking my client to the murder scene?”

Rhyme looked toward Sellars, then quickly away. “It is.”

Coughlin returned to the report. “Under the heading ‘Location of Collection,’ the report states, ‘These samples of sand came from a work site on the west side of Central Park West, in the three hundred block.’ Mr. Rhyme.” Coughlin turned. “Is your town house, which contains your laboratory, located in the three hundred block of Central Park West?”

Clearing his throat, he responded. “Yes.”

“Is it possible, Mr. Rhyme, that those six grains of sand you claim link my client’s home to the site where Leon Murphy was killed came not from either of those locations, but from right outside your front door, and that they were tracked into your laboratory in the treads of your wheelchair, and that therefore no trace evidence exists suggesting my client is guilty?”

Rhyme’s lips tightened.

“Your Honor?” Coughlin asked.

“Mr. Rhyme, please answer.”

Rhyme cleared his throat. “What you describe is possible.”

“No further questions.”

I see that, no, it’s not a scare tactic.

This is going to be murder. The real thing.

Blood is about to flow.

In quantity.

AC/DC, the one with the knife, grabs the victim’s hair with his left hand, pulls it back and works the knife around the neck, the way you slit the paper wrapper atop a bottle of whisky. The victim gives a squeak as if of surprise and the crimson fluid flows. Oh my, it sprays. He sinks to his side. The knife man saws and saws — the knife merely appeared sharp — and finally detaches the head. He tosses it contemptuously aside and continues to lecture. The body doesn’t twitch or curl. It’s completely still.

And now for my role in the matter.

My decision.

I hit the space bar to freeze the video. I sip some caffeine-free cola and realize it’s gone warm and flat during the course of the past hour or so; I’ve been engrossed in videos of the sort I’ve just been watching. One loses track.

I sit up a bit straighter and lift one shoulder, then the other. A bone pops. I’m at my workbench in a chair that’s padded but not made for long-term sitting, though I usually sit in it long-term. I’ve been meaning to get a new one and I will soon. I have my eye on a thousand-dollar, special-order model.

I read the comments populating the screen below the frozen video.

Epic!!!!

Los Zetas should be rounded up and shot.

Was a Mexican cop who did it, the cartels OWN them.

Not as good as last weeks why no closeups!!

Why didnt they do his girlfriend two?

Why indeed? I think. That was a bit of a disappointment.

So, decision time.

I type several keys and hit Return.

The screen goes black, replaced by the words:

This video has been removed for violating our community standards.

This will piss off a lot of our audience. I sometimes read comments complaining about the company deleting a video. They cry censorship. How can we ignore the First Amendment?

But viewers on social media are rarely constitutional scholars and they miss the significant fact that the First Amendment prohibits governmental censorship. My company — ViewNow — like YouTube, Instagram and all the others can delete to their hearts’ delight. Completely legal. You don’t like it, type in another URL and browse elsewhere.

I had debated a different route. Rather than deleting the vid, I could have put it behind an entry page. When a viewer clicked on the title, “Justice Cartel Style,” a pop-up would have appeared.