William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

“Matched means matched. Same texture, same color, same race …”

“Sir, isn’t it true that at this time there is no absolutely certain method of establishing that a hair came from a particular person?”

The witness squirmed. “We’ve been working with new DNA analysis techniques—”

“Did either of the hairs you found have a live hair bulb?”

“A—what?”

“Hair bulb. You know, the root.”

“Uh, no.”

“But, sir, you can’t take a DNA fingerprint of the hair itself, because the hair is dead, right?”

“I—suppose.”

“And even if the bulb hadn’t rotted, you said it wasn’t intact.”

“That’s true.”

“Well then, isn’t it also true that you cannot say with medical certainty that the hairs in the crossbow came from Donald Vick’s head?”

The witness glared at Ben. “That’s true. When you put it like that.”

“Thank you, sir. No more questions.”

“Redirect?” Judge Tyler asked.

“Definitely,” Swain said. “Mr. Stephens, let’s talk about the scenario Mr. Kincaid just proposed. Do you believe that Donald Vick never came near that crossbow?”

“No. I know he did.”

“How do you know?”

“The hairs weren’t the only trace evidence I found. There was also a bloodstain.”

“A bloodstain!” Swain whirled to face Ben, obviously expecting to see a look of astonishment or surprise. He was greatly disappointed. Thanks to Mike, Ben had seen this one coming a mile away.

“Did you run any tests on the bloodstain?” Swain continued.

“Of course. We typed the blood, then compared it to a sample taken from Donald Vick. They matched.”

“Indeed. And what is Mr. Vick’s blood type?”

“B negative.”

“Is that a common blood type?”

“Not at all.”

“So the crossbow has Donald Vick’s hair and Donald Vick’s blood. Did you find trace evidence belonging to anyone else?”

“No, sir.”

“I guess that’s it, then. No more questions.”

Judge Tyler made a bridge with his hands and rested his chin upon it. “Back to you, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Right.” Ben approached the witness. “Mr. Stephens, you said B negative is an uncommon blood type. Just how uncommon is it?”

Stephens obviously liked having a chance to display his erudition. “About ten percent of the population has B negative blood.”

“And how many people live in Silver Springs?”

“Counting the surrounding country? Oh, I’d say about three thousand.”

“And ten percent of three thousand is how many?”

Stephens coughed. “Well … math was never my best subject … but that would be three hundred.”

“So when you say the blood on the crossbow was Donald Vick’s type, you’re really saying that it was the type of about three hundred people in the immediate area, one of whom was Donald Vick. Right?”

“I suppose you could look at it that way.”

Ben heard a noise in the back of the courtroom. He turned and saw Mike entering the gallery. Mike was motioning to him, but Ben knew Judge Tyler wouldn’t permit a recess at this critical juncture.

“Did you run any other tests on the blood?” Ben asked Stephens.

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“You did?”

“Yes. We performed a microscopic analysis of the blood cells. Just got the equipment this year,” he added proudly.

“What were the results?” Just as he finished the question he noticed Mike waving frantically from the back of the courtroom. His message was absolutely clear: Don’t ask that question.

Too late. “The tests showed that the blood on the crossbow was Donald Vick’s. Not that it came from one of three hundred people. That it came from Donald Vick. Beyond any question.”

Ben saw Mike slump down into his seat. The Tulsa tests must have produced the same result.

Ben saw Swain grinning through the hand across his mouth. Swain had suckered him in, and his witness had delivered the punch. Ben knew he was only getting what he deserved. He had violated the cardinal rule of cross-examination: if you don’t know the answer, don’t ask the question.

“Thank you,” Ben said quietly. “No more questions.”

“Any further redirect?” Judge Tyler asked.

“Oh, no,” Swain said happily. “I think everyone understands the forensic evidence just fine now.”

“Very well. Mr. Stephens, you are excused. Ladies and gentlemen”—his stoic face shifted to a sly grin—“I’m hungry. Let’s get some lunch. This trial will resume at one-thirty.”

47.

AFTER THE LUNCH BREAK Swain called to the stand Mary Sue Mullins, sole proprietor of Mary Sue’s boardinghouse. Mary Sue was dressed in a bright green dress with a lace collar—undoubtedly her Sunday best. She left her apron at home.

As she passed Ben on her way to the witness stand, he noticed she was trembling slightly. Nervous? About cross-examination? Or perhaps she just didn’t like appearing in public without Old Sally.

Swain extracted a bit of background from Mary Sue, including the critical fact that she ran a boardinghouse on Maple Street. He didn’t waste much time. Ben had the feeling everyone on the jury—probably everyone in town—already knew who she was.

“Do you know the defendant?” Swain asked.

“Oh, yes. I’ve known Donald for several months.”

“And how do you know him?”

“He took a room in my house. Room six. At the top of the stairs.”

“Did you see much of him?”

“Well, a bit. ’Course, he was gone during the daylight hours. Out at that camp running maneuvers, I’d imagine.”

“Objection,” Ben said. “She’s speculating.”

Tyler nodded. “Sustained. The witness will confine herself to the events she has seen or heard.”

Mary Sue looked stung, but she managed to carry on. “He came back most evenings for supper. Then he’d go up to his room for the night.”

“So there’s no question in your mind but that you know who Donald Vick is?” Swain asked.

“Not the least bit. He’s sitting right over there in the gray coveralls.”

Swain nodded. “Where were you on the afternoon of July twenty-fifth?”

“At Mac’s place. You know, the Bluebell Bar.”

“Was anyone else there?”

“Yes. Tommy Vuong was there. With three of his friends.”

“Do you know the friends’ names?”

“No. But they were all Vietnamese. Coi Than Tien people, I assumed.”

“What happened when Donald Vick came into the bar?”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”

Swain didn’t respond verbally; instead he gave the judge a roll of the eyes and a do-I-really-have-to? look.

Judge Tyler licked his lips. “Sorry, Mister Prosecutor. He’s right. Let’s do it by the book.”

“All right,” Swain said. His tone made it clear he considered Ben’s objection a trivial annoyance that prevented him from unearthing the truth. “Let me try it this way. Did anyone enter the bar while you were there?”

“Yes. Donald Vick.”

“What a surprise.” He shared a smile with the jury. “Did Mr. Vick stop and chat with you?”

“Oh, no.” She folded her hands over her purse and leaned toward the jury. It was as if she was sharing a bit of gossip on the back porch. “He made a beeline for Tommy Vuong.”

“And then what happened?”

“Donald raised his hands like this”—she locked her fists together—“and clubbed Vuong right on the back. Without any warning. He was like a savage beast, just pounding and pounding him, without a shred of mercy.”

“That sounds horrible,” Swain said. “What happened to Vuong?”

“He didn’t know what hit him. He just kinda slumped over the bar. Didn’t move a muscle. But that didn’t matter to Donald Vick. He kept on hurting him. I thought he was going to beat the poor boy senseless.”