Patricia Cornwell - Cruel and Unusual

Grueman got up with me. "Then he'll call in your detractors so he can leave a bad taste in the jurors' mouths.”

He went as far as the door. "I will be right here when you need me.”

Nodding, I went inside and took the empty chair at the head of the table. Patterson was out of the room, and I knew this was one of his gambits. He wanted me to endure the silent scrutiny of these ten strangers who held my welfare in their hands. I met the gazes of all and even exchanged smiles with a few. A serious young woman wearing bright red lipstick decided not to wait for the Commonwealth's Attorney.

"What made you decide to deal with dead people instead of the living?” she asked. "It seems a strange thing for a doctor to choose.”

"It is my intense concern for the living that makes me study the dead," I said. "What we learn from the dead is for the benefit of the living, and justice is for those left behind.”

"Don't it get to you?” inquired an old man with big, rough hands. The expression on his fare was so sincere that he seemed in pain.

"Of course it does.”

"How many years did you have to go to school after you graduated from high school?” asked a heavyset black woman.

"Seventeen years, if you include residencies and the year I was a fellow.”

“Lord have mercy.”

"Where all did you go?”

"To school, you mean?” I said to the thin young man wearing glasses..

"Yes, ma'am.”

"Saint Michael's, Our Lady of Lourdes Academy, Cornell, Johns Hopkins, Georgetown.”

"Was your daddy a doctor?”

"My father owned a small grocery store in Miami.”

"Well, I'd hate to be the one paying for all that school.” Several of the jurors laughed softly.

"I was fortunate enough to receive scholarships," I said. "Beginning with high school.”

"I have an uncle who works at the Twilight Funeral one in Norfolk," said someone else.

"Oh, come on, Barry. There really isn't a funeral home called that.”

"I kid you not.’

“That’s nothing. We got one in Fayetteville owned by the Stiff family. Guess what its called.”

"No way.”

"You're not from around here.”

“I'm a native of Miami," I replied.

"Then the name Scarpetta's Spanish?”

“It's Italian.”

"That's interesting. I thought all Italians was dark.”

"My ancestors are from Verona in northern Italy, where a sizable segment of the population shares blood with the Savoyards, Austrians, and Swiss," I patiently explained. "Many of us are blue-eyed and blond.”

"Boy, I bet you can cook.”

"It's one of my favorite pastimes.”

"Dr. Scarpetta, I'm not real clear on your position," said a well-dressed man who looked about my age. "Are you the chief medical examiner for Richmond?”

"For the Commonwealth. We have four district offices. Central Office here in Richmond, Tidewater in Norfolk, Western in Roanoke, and the Northern Office in Alexandria.”

"So the chief just happens to be located here in Richmond?”

"Yes. That seems to make the most sense, since the medical examiner system is part of state government and Richmond is where the legislature meets," I replied as the door opened and Roy Patterson walked in. He was a broad shouldered, good-looking black man with close-shorn hair that was going gray. His dark blue suit was double-breasted, and his initials were embroidered on the cuffs of his pale yellow shirt. He was known for his ties, and this one looked hand painted, He greeted the jurors and was tepid toward me.

I discovered that the woman wearing the bright red lipstick was the foreman. She cleared her throat and informed me that I did not have to testify, and that anything I said could be used against me.

"I understand," I said, and I was sworn in.

Patterson hovered about my chair and offered the minimum of information about who I was, and elaborated on the power of my position and the ease with which this power could be abused.

"And who would there be to witness it?” he asked. "On many occasions there was no one to observe Dr. Scarpetta at work except for the person who was by her side virtually every day. Susan Story. You can't hear testimony from her because she and her unborn child are dead, ladies and gentlemen. But there are others you will hear from today. And they will paint for you a chilling portrait of a cold, ambitious woman, an empire builder who was making grievous mistakes on the job. First, she paid for Susan Story's silence. Then she killed for it.”

"And when you hear tales of the perfect crime, who better able to carry it off than someone who is an expert in solving crimes? An expert would know that if you plan to shoot someone inside a vehicle, it would behoove you to choose a low-caliber weapon so you don't run the risk of bullets ricocheting. An expert would leave no telling evidence at the scene, not even spent shells. An expert would not use her own revolver - the gun or guns that friends and colleagues know she possesses. She would use something that could not be traced back to "Why, she might even borrow a revolver from the lab, because, ladies and gentlemen, every year the courts routinely confiscate hundreds of firearms used in the commission of crimes, and some of these weapons are donated to the state firearms lab. For all we know, the twenty-two revolver that was put against the back of Susan Story's skull is, as we speak, hanging on a pegboard in the firearms lab or downstairs in the range the examiners use for test fires and where Dr. Scarpetta routinely practices shooting. And by the way, she is good enough to qualify for any police department in America. And she has killed before, though to give her credit, in the instance I'm referring to her actions were ruled to be self-defense.”

I stared down at my hands folded on top of the table as the court reporter played her silent keys and Patterson went on. His rhetoric was always eloquent, though he usually did not know when to quit. When he asked me to explain the. fingerprints recovered from the envelope found in Susan's dresser, he made such a big production of pointing out how unbelievable my explanation was that I suspected the reaction of some was to wonder why what I'd said couldn't be true, Then he got to the money.

"Is it not true, Dr. Scarpetta, that on November twelfth you appeared at the downtown branch of Signet Bank and made out a check for cash for the sum of ten thousand dollars?”

"That is true.”

Patterson hesitated for an instant, his surprise visible. He had counted on my taking the Fifth.

"And is it true that on this occasion you did not deposit the money in any of your various accounts?”

"That is also true," I said.

"So several weeks before your morgue supervisor inexplicably deposited thirty-five hundred dollars into her checking account, you walked out of Signet Bank with ten thousand dollars cash on your person?”

“No, sir, I did not. In my financial records you should have found a copy of a cashier's check made out to the sum of seven thousand, three hundred and eighteen pounds sterling. I have my copy here.”

I got it out of my briefcase.

Patterson barely glanced at it as he asked the court reporter to tag it as evidence. "Now, this is very interesting," he said. "You purchased a cashiers check made out to someone named Charles Hale. Was this some creative scheme of yours to disguise payoffs you were making to your morgue visor and perhaps to others? Did this individual termed Charles Hale turn around and convert pounds flack into dollars and route the cash elsewhere - perhaps to Susan Story?”

“No," I said. "And I never delivered the check to Charles Hale.”

“You didn't?”

He looked confused “What did you do with it?”

'I gave it to Benton Wesley, and he saw to it that the a was delivered to Charles Hale. Benton Wesley -"