William Bernhardt - Murder One

“DNA analysis never does,” Barkley protested. “But it can establish that the odds against the sample coming from anyone else are so—”

“Yes or no, Doctor—is it possible the sample came from someone else?”

“It’s possible, but—”

“Thank you for answering my question. It’s important that we separate the truth from the speculation.”

“Your honor,” LaBelle said. “She’s speechifying again.”

“I have warned you,” Judge Cable said, looking at Christina sternly. “Don’t let it happen again, young lady.”

I’ll try not to, old man. And watch the sexist remarks. “Speaking of speculation—that was a handy bit where you told the jury the skin must’ve gotten under his fingernails when McNaughton fought off his attacker. The truth is, you have no idea how that skin got there, do you?”

Barkley hesitated before answering. After being burned four times, he was undoubtedly reluctant to defend another assumption. “Given the circumstances, it seems reasonable—”

“You don’t know how it happened. You’re guessing again. Your testimony has been nothing but guesses strung together to support the prosecution’s unsubstantiated case.”

LaBelle started to object, but Barkley jumped in before he could. “Well, how else could it have gotten there!” he shouted. “It was her skin!”

“Were you in the courtroom yesterday, Doctor?”

“You know I was.”

“Then you undoubtedly heard the lurid and unnecessary testimony about the victim’s unusual sexual tastes.”

“I thought it was the defendant’s—”

“And you heard that he allegedly participated in … rough sex.”

Barkley’s face began to color. Apparently rough sex was not a topic LaBelle had prepared him to discuss. “So?”

“Well I’m not an expert, Doctor, but if two people are having rough sex—don’t you think it’s possible he might get her skin under his nails?”

“Well … how would—”

“Maybe a long scrape down the back during a moment of passion? A firm grip on the buttocks?”

Bentley was beet red. “How would I know?”

Christina smiled. “That’s just the point, Doctor. You don’t. That skin sample might’ve come from consensual sex—it might have nothing to do with the murder. You don’t know how the skin got there, just as you don’t know whether this knife is the murder weapon or whether the victim suffered much pain or even what precisely was the cause of death. You’re just guessing. And the jury is entitled to know that.”

LaBelle redirected, naturally, but after that whirlwind cross, there was only so much he could do. He’d made his points and Christina had made hers. The jury was ready for a new witness. And since he had a doozy waiting in the wings, it probably seemed smarter to move on.

During the recess between witnesses, Christina couldn’t resist asking. “So, Ben—I know this is kinda like the insecure guy who wants to know, Was it good for you, too?, but I have to ask anyway—what did you think of my first cross?”

“I only wish I’d been that good when I started,” Ben replied.

“You mean it? You thought I did okay? I mean, I thought I did okay, but maybe I’m too close to be objective.”

Ben smiled and gave her a punch on the shoulder. “It was good for me, too.”

36

AFTER THE LUNCH BREAK, LaBelle called a series of so-called experts. Ben knew that most of them were required, in order to establish one legal criterion or another, but none of them was very sexy, which was no doubt why LaBelle scheduled them during nap time.

LaBelle called the hair-and-fiber expert who testified to the precautions taken to secure the crime scene after the police arrived. The evidence custodian testified regarding the chain of custody for all prosecution evidence. He was about as interesting as the ingredients label on a carton of milk, but the testimony fulfilled the legal need to establish that the evidence could not have been corrupted. The jury also heard from another DNA expert, an expert on knives, and the civilian who first found McNaughton’s body in Bartlett Square and called in the police.

Just after the midafternoon break, LaBelle called Chester Isaac Bare, Tulsa P.D.’s top man on fingerprints. Ben had heard Bare testify so many times he could have done it for him, but he forced himself to remain attentive, just in case LaBelle tried to slip something past him.

Before they got to any of the evidence relating to the case at bar, LaBelle and Bare gave the jury an almost hour-long lecture on everything you ever wanted to know about fingerprints, but not really. Bare waxed on about latents and patents, curls, smudges, line patterns, the thirty-two key indicia of print matching, the roles computers play in the identification process, the FBI database, and on and on and on. Ostensibly, this testimony was relevant because it would help the jury understand his later testimony—as if there was anyone on earth who didn’t know about fingerprints already. The real purpose, Ben knew, was to establish Bare as the unquestioned expert in his field—so the jury would believe what he said and resist any efforts by the defense to challenge his findings.

Bare actually seemed to bounce up and down in his seat as he extolled the “virtually infallible computerized print extrapolation programs,” which could accurately create an entire print from a smudgy partial. In some respects, Bare, who was balding and wore thick black glasses, was like a Hollywood stereotype of the egghead professor, waxing on enthusiastically about a subject that could not possibly be of interest to anyone other than himself.

Until they got to the McNaughton case. In a fraction of the time it had taken them to establish the man’s credentials, LaBelle and Bare told the jury why this information was important—because both the chains that bound the body of Joe McNaughton and the murder weapon itself bore the fingerprints of Keri Dalcanton.

“Is there any question about your findings?” LaBelle asked, summing up.

“Absolutely not. There were three perfectly clear un-smudged prints on the chains, and two on the murder weapon.”

“Are you saying it’s likely Keri Dalcanton touched those chains?” It seemed LaBelle was learning from the previous cross.

“No. I’m saying that it is an absolute certainty. This isn’t like DNA analysis, where ultimately you can only say that the chances of the sample belonging to anyone but the defendant are astronomical. No two people ever born anywhere on planet Earth have ever had the same fingerprints. Never. Those prints were made by Keri Dalcanton. Period.”

LaBelle continued debunking any theories Ben might advance. “Is there some way those fingerprints could have been … planted?”

“No. Despite what you might have read in Dick Tracy or Batman comics or something, there’s no way to fake a fingerprint. Ms. Dalcanton’s fingers made contact with the chains and the knife. Unquestionably.”

“Thank you,” LaBelle said. “I’ll conclude and let Mr. Kincaid examine the witness. If he thinks there’s any point.”

Hard to turn down an invite like that, Ben thought, as he pushed himself to his feet. He sensed that the jury was not going to be responsive to any Simpsonesque theories of how the police could’ve planted the fingerprints. The expressions on their faces suggested that they believed Bare, and indeed, they had no reason not to trust him. Ben would have to do the best he could with the facts as they were.

“Mr. Bare, were you in the courtroom during the testimony of Corporal Wesley?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Then you heard the evidence regarding alleged sexual activities between the defendant and the deceased.” He hated to keep reminding the jury about the most lascivious aspect of the case, but it was better than letting this damning fingerprint testimony go unrebutted.