Alibi (59 page)

The judge called for lunch—a full hour recess during which, David knew, the jury would be dwelling on the testimony they had just heard, those images no doubt turning them off their food and on to the possibility of returning a guilty verdict.

Once James had been removed to a holding cell for lunch, David and Arthur headed to the court cafeteria where they could go over David’s questions for Svenson, while Sara tried to track down Sawyer who, the last time they saw him, was the picture of humiliation and defeat.

“These are good, David,” said Arthur before taking a sip of the too bitter, too hot cafeteria coffee.

“They’d better be,” said David. “Any word from Nora?” he added, hoping the efficient Mrs. Kelly might have called or left a message with news of any faxes from Australia.

“Not yet. But it is now the early hours of the morning Down Under, and given they did not come in this morning, I wouldn’t expect them until tonight.”

David looked at his watch; the lunch hour was almost up and he was really hoping for some progress on the Australian front before the day was out. The trial was moving quickly and there was every chance the defense would be starting their case before the end of the week.

“Here comes Sara now,” said Arthur, interrupting David’s thoughts and pointing toward the café’s entranceway. They watched her weave her way around the irregularly placed metal tables before reaching them and falling into her seat.

“He is not answering his cell,” she said. “And I called Deane to see if he was back in class, but apparently he didn’t make his last lecture.”

They nodded, each of them feeling terrible for what had happened to their eager young apprentice at this morning’s mortifying setup.

“Katz is an asshole,” said Arthur.

“And we are even worse for getting the kid into this in the first place,” said David.

Sara nodded. “There is some good news though,” she said, perhaps keen to lift their spirits. “I just spoke to Nora, the Australian boys’ statements have arrived.”

A relieved David let out a sigh. “That is good news. Someone down there is super efficient, faxing at what must be about what? Three . . . four a.m.?”

“No,” said Sara, grabbing the coffee Arthur had brought for her in advance. “The statements are originals. They arrived by courier about an hour ago and according to Nora they are glowing.”

“That was fast,” said David.

“Well,” said Sara, taking another long sip of the now lukewarm mud. “The main thing is that they are here, and we can enter them into evidence as an opener as planned.” But she must have noted the furrow in David’s brow.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing, they must have . . . It was just fast, that’s all.”

“Which is also what this lunch break has been,” said Arthur pointing to his watch. “It’s time for you to work your magic, David, my boy.”

The walls of the courtroom moaned like an alley cat. The heating system had obviously started to cave under the pressure, letting out a series of long, low whines, which played like background music to the setting before them. The placards, which David had personally taken down before heading out for lunch, had been reassembled, a little tactic the Kat had no doubt orchestrated before anyone returned for the afternoon session.

Judge Stein peered over his glasses at the defense table below him, obviously still angry at David after Sawyer’s testimony this morning. Katz was looking particularly cocky, the jury were looking accusatorily at their client, and the only comfort David took was from a small nod from John Nagoshi, who met his eye briefly before turning to face the front of the room once again.

“Are you ready to cross-examine the witness, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

And so David took to his feet and began.

David knew the jury would be exhausted by this morning’s heavy and depressing medical data, and so chose to be short and direct. While Katz had done more than a stellar job in ascertaining what Svenson
could
conclude from his examinations, David wanted to begin by dwelling on what he
couldn’t
—including calculating the offender’s height or weight, or determining his actual identity from the finger impressions on Jessica’s neck. That done, he moved on to the perpetrator’s build and strength, and ultimately his hand size.

“Dr. Svenson, you told the court earlier that the offender was most likely strong.”

“Yes.”

“But does that necessarily mean the man was large, or tall, or athletic?”

“No.”

David looked to the jury, the answer obviously caught them by surprise so he asked the witness to elaborate.

“Strength comes in all forms, Mr. Cavanaugh. It is a fact that jockeys are some of the strongest athletes in the international sporting fraternity. The power of force does not just emanate from physical size or fitness, but also from core emotion such as anger, resulting in a physical assertion of rage.”

“Objection,” yelled Katz. “While I have great respect for the doctor’s ability as a coroner, he is neither a sports physician nor a psychologist, and this testimony is beyond his medical expertise.”

“Your Honor,” countered David, “Dr. Svenson has had years of experience in linking autopsies with perpetrators. I suggest his expertise lies in the very nature of his job, and the many murders he has worked on over the past decade.”

“He’s right, Mr. Katz. Objection overruled, but I suggest you rephrase the question, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said David, turning quickly back to Svenson. “I’m sorry, Doctor, please allow me to clarify. I believe you are suggesting that in your experience you have seen numerous smaller men, who may appear outwardly fragile or weak even, capable of great strength in the perpetration of a violent crime such as this?”

“Yes.”

“So if we cannot prove the offender is of a large, athletic build, is there anything that suggests he might be otherwise—perhaps even the opposite—small, lean, slender?”

“Yes,” said Gus.

And there it was.

The courtroom gasped—sucking in an almighty intake of air that seemed to time itself with a long, simultaneous moan from the heating. The press lifted their heads from their pads to look at one another in astonishment, and the jury, almost to a number, sat transfixed, their eyes on James, their entire predisposition of guilt flying swiftly out the window.

“Order!”
cried Stein.

“Objection!”
yelled Katz, but by the look on his face David guessed that he was not too sure what to object to.

“Sit down, Mr. Katz,” said Stein. “I want to hear this. Please go on, Doctor.”

Svenson paused until the rumblings abated, before lifting his head and moving on.

“I make the conclusion the offender is small from the nature of bruising on the neck.”

“Objection!”
Katz was up again. “Your Honor, the witness gave no testimony of this nature when asked specifically about said bruising earlier today. He . . .”

“Yes,” interrupted Stein. “But if I recall, Mr. Katz, you asked only about the perpetrator’s strength, not his size. The witness will continue and I would ask you to refrain from objecting until you have a valid argument, Mr. Katz.”

And so the Kat sat, his recent look of invincibility replaced by a churlish scowl.

“Go on please, Doctor,” said David. “You were telling us about the neck and the bruising and . . .”

“Yes. The bruising pattern tell us the victim attacked from behind,” said Gus, holding up his hands in that circular gesture once again. “With the neck clasped with fingers at front, thumbs around the back. But in the victim’s case,” said Gus, raising his right arm to point to one of the large photographs before him, “the bruising stop at the side—there.”

“So the thumbs did not reach around the circumference of the neck?”

“No.”

“Only to its sides, just under the ears, as the bruising shows here,” said David, now pointing to the blown up image as well.

“Yes.

“Because they were too small.”

“Yes.”

“And short.”

“Yes.”

“And slender.”

“Yes.”

David did not miss a beat.

“Mr. Matheson!” he called to his client, the fresh look of hope on his young face now undeniable. “Would you hold up your hands for the court please, angling them toward the jury so that . . .” David thought again. “Your Honor, if it would please the court, I would like to ask that my client be given permission to approach the jury and show them his hands.”

“No, Mr. Katz,” snapped Stein. “You are the one who favors close-ups,” he said, gesturing at the macabre images before him. “I will allow it. You may approach the jury, Mr. Matheson.”

And so James rose to his feet—his right hand giving the slightest of twitches. And as he stood, he straightened his back and moved around the defense table to walk slowly, carefully, toward the twelve men and women who would decide his future.

The room was still, the heating now silent, the only sound in the room was the click of James’ heels on the hard floor.

David watched the jury and was relieved to see that not one—
not a single one
of them—recoiled from the approaching stranger. In fact, if anything they leaned in, toward him, as if wanting to see proof that this good-looking young kid did not kill the girl he professed to have loved.

And so, as James held up his hands—his long, strong, olive-skinned hands—the jury stared and nodded in amazement, Josh Bergin at one point appearing as if he was about to lift his own young hand in a high five of victory with the defendant. And James nodded, as if in thanks to each of them, for their willingness to see and trust and believe.

That night David caught up with Joe at Bristow’s—a snug, stained-glass-windowed Downtown Crossing bar that David had been frequenting since college. They chose a corner booth, away from the younger crowd that hovered around the fireplace at the front end of the bar, drinking their beer and sharing a huge platter of French fries and onion rings to go with their ribs and burgers.

“You kicked ass today, David,” said Joe, lifting his glass. “You should have seen the look on the Kat’s face when Stein said your client could approach the jury.” Joe and Frank had sneaked into the back of the courtroom after lunch. “I thought he was going to puke.”

But David said nothing, a little uncomfortable with the praise. “What’s up?” asked Joe, obviously reading the concern on his friend’s face. “I know the Kat gained a little on his redirect, but that thing with the hands, David, that was pure genius.”

Joe was right. Katz had opted to re-cross Svenson hoping to regain some ground—which he did, by getting the ME to admit that his assumption that the killer’s hands were “small” was just that—an assumption made on the evidence available. Svenson did stress, however, that given the bruising pattern, it was “highly unlikely” the victim was attacked by a large-handed man, after which the Kat cut his losses and sat down.

“It’s not that,” said David.

“Is it Jones, because Sara told me she spoke to him late this afternoon and he was doing okay.”

“He is. He spent the afternoon hanging out with Mr. Lim, took him out to lunch, despite the weather.”

“So you told Lim what Nagoshi said?”

“Yeah, I called him early this morning. I told him John Nagoshi would be coming to see him personally, to apologize and make things right. The guy speaks reasonable English but I still got the feeling he had trouble taking it all in. But Sawyer has taken him under his wing so . . .”

“The kid’s all right,” said Joe.

David nodded. “We were wrong about him, Joe.”

“It happens.”

They took another sip of their beers and gazed over at the young people at the front of the bar, drinking, laughing, their voices getting louder with every bitter pint.

“So what is it then?” asked Joe at last.

“What’s what?”

“What’s bothering you? If it’s not Jones then . . . ?”

“It’s nothing. Just something about one of tomorrow’s witnesses, and a discussion I had with Sara a while back,” said David.

“Isn’t the Kat calling Barbara Rousseau tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Which is bad enough, but at least we know what she is going to say.”

Mannix said nothing, allowing David to take his time.

“It’s that Professor Nancy Wakeford, you know the fetal expert Katz is calling to establish viability.”

“You have a strong legal argument against that one, David.”

“I know, and we’ve prepared our cross well. In fact, I thought it might be better if Sara questioned Wakeford. You know, the female angle and all.”

“So you two have been talking about this issue?” asked Joe. “The whole idea of when a kid stops being a clump of cells and starts to become a human being.”