Courthouse (47 page)

“Are you telling me,” said Marc, “that the police can't accurately compare bullets because they don't precisely measure the lands and the grooves, and therefore, can't really tell anything except a general description of the model of the weapon the bullet was fired from?”

“That's right. They can tell if the bullet has right or left twist, five or six grooves. In other words, they can tell if the bullet was fired from the same
type
of weapon. But to say this bullet came from this particular Chief Special as opposed to that Chief Special, that's not possible unless they measure the markings on the bullets precisely. After all, we're dealing with something that to the gross eye, or even with the naked eye aided by a seven-power microscope is very small; the variations are only, say, a thousandth of an inch. And a thousandth of an inch is a significant factor in bullet tolerance.”

“Then all this stuff about ballistics in court isn't in the least bit scientific or accurate.”

“Do they measure the width, or depth, or height of the marks and grooves?” Stuart asked.

“No. They just say I studied the bullet and the bullets compare positively—without giving any basis except it's their opinion.”

“How can they give a precise answer when they're not dealing with precise information? I told you these weapons are manufactured by precision machine—not by hand. If they're off—one slightly different from another—they're off a hair. I mean that literally, a hair. You put two similar hairs together under one of these seven-power microscopes and tell me if you can see which is thicker. If they're as close together in size as two manufactured revolvers, you're going to have one hell of a time telling me precisely, scientifically, which is thicker just by looking through one of these old-fashioned microscopes.”

“Go on, I'm fascinated,” said Marc.

“Another thing,” said Stuart. “The police don't measure the angle or pitch of the grooves when they compare.”

“What does that mean?” asked Franco.

“Well, you see, this is the kind of work we do at the lab. The tool dies used to manufacture the weapons sometimes create—despite expensive precautions—slight variation in the angle of the grooves. It's very slight, but it's there. Anyway, that variation can be to the right or the left. Now suppose one revolver has a variation or deflection of a half of one degree or more to the right, and another has a variation of a half of one degree or more to the left. That means that the angle of the grooves on the bullets will be one or two degrees different. You get what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“Okay, I'll try it again. The grooves in one revolver are off a little, one degree to the left. Another revolver of the same manufacturer, is off one degree to the right. That variation is actually tolerable. They'll both fire accurately. There's no problem with that. But there is a two-degree difference in the line the grooves will cut into a bullet. Now, unless the police measure the angle or pitch of the grooves, how can they tell that a bullet came from a particular weapon? It may look the same; one degree doesn't look like much, but it's sure as hell different.”

“I can hardly believe what you're telling me,” said Marc.

“You give a set of bullets to people who have access to the equipment I use, and you'll probably end up with as many opinions about the bullets as there are people who examine them. Even when you measure the way I'm saying is necessary, it's very difficult to say with any certainty that a bullet came out of a particular weapon.”

“Will you come to court to testify for me if I need you?”

“Why not? I just won't be able to bring any testing equipment. These microscopes are gigantic,” Stuart replied.

Marc rose. “I'll be in touch with you shortly if I need you. And I really appreciate your help.”

“Glad to be able to help you.” Stuart shook hands with Marc. “I've been really re-educated about ballistics since I work in the lab. It'd be a pleasure to set the record straight.”

Franco stopped the car at a red light. Marc, in the passenger seat, was idly whistling the music being broadcast over the car radio. Suddenly, the sound of a clacking teletype machine loudly cut out the music, signifying a special news announcement was to be made.

WE INTERRUPT THE REGULAR PROGRAMING AT THIS TIME TO BRING YOU A SPECIAL NEWS BULLETIN
[the radio announcer said gravely].
A DARING, ARMED COURTROOM ESCAPE BY TWO MEN ON TRIAL FOR INCITING THE TOMBS RIOTS LAST AUGUST HAS JUST BEEN FOILED BY HEROIC POLICE WORK AT THE CRIMINAL COURTS BUILDING, 100 CENTRE STREET, MANHATTAN. IN THE MELEE, WHERE SEVERAL GUNSHOTS WERE EXCHANGED—INCLUDING A SHOTGUN BLAST—JUDGE JAMES J. CRAWFORD, PRESIDING AT THE TRIAL, RECEIVED FACIAL WOUNDS WHEN ONE OF THE DEFENDANTS FIRED A SHOTGUN AT HIM FROM POINT-BLANK RANGE. THE JUDGE IS IN SATISFACTORY CONDITION AT BEEK-MAN DOWNTOWN HOSPITAL.

“Holy Christ,” exclaimed Franco, turning the radio louder.

ALSO IN BEEKMAN DOWNTOWN HOSPITAL IN CRITICAL CONDITION IS OSCAR JOHNSON, ONE OF THE DEFENDANTS WHO WAS ATTEMPTING TO ESCAPE. JOHNSON, ALSO KNOWN AS ALI AL-KOBAR, IS CONSIDERED BY AUTHORITIES TO BE THE RINGLEADER OF THE ESCAPE GROUP. IT WAS JOHNSON WHO ALLEGEDLY SHOT JUDGE CRAWFORD
.

ALSO IN BEEKMAN DOWNTOWN HOSPITAL WITH SERIOUS WOUNDS RECEIVED AS HE TRIED TO ESCAPE IS DEFENDANT JAMES PHELAN. RALPH SANTIAGO, A THIRD DEFENDANT ON TRIAL, DID NOT TAKE PART IN THE ATTEMPTED ESCAPE
.

IT IS NOT KNOWN AT THIS TIME HOW THE DEFENDANTS OBTAINED THE WEAPONS WITH WHICH THEY ATTEMPTED TO ESCAPE, ALTHOUGH IT IS SUSPECTED THAT AN ATTORNEY FOR ONE OF THE PRISONERS MAY HAVE SLIPPED THE WEAPONS TO THE PRISONERS DURING A LUNCHEON RECESS. TWO OF THE ATTORNEYS ARE BEING HELD FOR INVESTIGATION AT THIS TIME
.

IT HAS BEEN ASCERTAINED THAT THE SAWED-OFF SHOTGUN USED BY JOHNSON OR AL-KOBAR TO WOUND JUDGE CRAWFORD WAS FABRICATED FROM A SHOTGUN OWNED AND REGISTERED TO SPENCER ROBERTS OF OLD LYME, CONNECTICUT. AFTER INVESTIGATION, THE POLICE HAVE ASCERTAINED THAT THE SHOTGUN HAD LAST BEEN IN THE POSSESSION OF MISTER ROBERTS' DAUGHTER, ANDREA ROBERTS, A RESIDENT OF THE EAST VILLAGE IN MANHATTAN, MISS ROBERTS IS AN ALLEGED MEMBER OF THE PEOPLE'S REVOLUTIONARY ARMY AND A DEMONSTRATION LEADER WHO IS A FAMILIAR SIGHT ON MANY LEFT-WING PICKET LINES
…

Marc and Franco were transfixed by the broadcast. Franco had brought the car to a stop, the motor still running as they listened.

AN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN HAS BEEN ISSUED FOR THE ARREST OF ANDREA ROBERTS IN CONNECTION WITH CONSPIRACY TO ATTEMPT MURDER, ESCAPE, ASSAULT, POSSESSION OF UNREGISTERED WEAPONS, AND OTHER CRIMES. WE NOW RETURN YOU TO THE REGULAR BROADCAST
.

“Did you hear that?” asked Marc.

“I sure did.”

“I've seen that girl around, even spoken to her a couple of times,” said Marc.

“I know,” said Franco. “I've seen you. She seemed like just a nice little kid from the country. It's hard to understand why she'd get involved in this.”

“It's hard to understand why anyone gets involved in crime,” said Marc. “Let's go back to my office. Maybe she'll call. She took my card once and told me she'd call me if she needed a lawyer.”

Marc was silent as Franco pulled away from the traffic light. He wondered if Andrea Roberts would call. He wondered whether, if she did, he could help her.

31

Friday, September 15, 12:25
A.M.

On the twenty-ninth floor of the Hotel Louis Quinze, Johnny Manno eased silently through the darkness, expertly dodging the shadowed furniture, eluding pools of light which drifted through the windows from the world outside. He stopped behind Zack Lord's large desk. He slid open the top center drawer of the desk and, mostly by deft touch, studied the contents. There were the usual papers, pencils, paper clips, small books. Nothing unusual. Johnny bent to his left, and pulled open a side drawer. There were some books, a tissue box, a shoe-shine brush. There was another drawer on the left side of the desk, lower than the first. Johnny opened it. There was some sort of machine in the lower drawer. Johnny felt the machine. It was a tape recorder. Suddenly, Zack Lord's desk phone rang, tearing the silence of the room, resounding from the dark walls. As the phone rang, a light on one of the phone buttons lit up intermittently, casting a feeble glow through the room. Johnny stood back and watched the flashing light silently. Abruptly, the ringing stopped, but the phone light remained on steadily, as if someone, perhaps an answering service, had answered the phone. At the moment that the phone was answered, the recorder in Lord's desk started to turn, a small indicator light went on. Johnny watched the machine recording. When the light on the phone went out, so did the indicator light, and the machine stopped recording.

Johnny slid the drawer with the recorder shut and went through the rest of Lord's desk. There were the usual office items, but no sign of the automatic pistol Franco had mentioned.

Johnny turned to a long, low cabinet against the wall behind Lord's desk. The cabinet had four separate doors. Johnny knelt and opened the first door. There were many corporate seals, checkbooks, papers, and other documents. He moved to another of the compartments. There were more papers and books and documents. The third door contained the same. The fourth door was locked. There was no key in the key hole. Johnny looked about for a key. There were none in any of the other compartment doors. He rose and turned back to Lord's desk. He felt inside the top center drawer; it was too risky to put on a light. He felt for a key but found none. Johnny let his hand feel the underside of the center drawer. Still no key. He felt the bottom of the top drawer on the left side. His fingers touched a key attached with Scotch tape to the underside of the drawer. Johnny removed the key and tried it in the lock on the fourth compartment in the cabinet. It fit.

Inside, Johnny found another tape recorder similar to the one in Lord's desk. Also inside the cabinet, above the recorder, were several stacks of recording tape reels. Johnny took several reels to one of the pools of light entering the office through the windows. He made sure his body remained in the shadows as he studied the reels. They were each dated with several days of recordings on each reel. There seemed to be two separate divisions of the tapes. One set of tapes was for Lord's office phone number. The phone number was written and Scotch-taped to the reels along with the dates. The other tapes were marked with a phone number Johnny didn't recognize. Johnny made a mental note of the second phone number, then returned the tapes to the cabinet in which he found them. He locked the cabinet again and returned the key to its hiding place. Still he found no pistol. Perhaps Lord had a safe nearby. Johnny began to search for the safe.

Occasionally Johnny stopped working, as he heard the noises of elevators, or of doors on the floor below, being shut. He knew Lord was not in the apartment; he had looked. When the sounds subsided, Johnny continued to search. The safe was not in any of the walls of the office. Johnny began to tap the floor lightly, listening carefully to the sound. In a few minutes, he found Zack Lord's safe under the rug, near the desk.

Marc stood in the darkness at the railing of his apartment balcony. The late evening air had cooled to a clear, exhilarating crispness. He gazed across the empty river, absently studying the shimmering lights of New Jersey, thinking about the strategy of the trial he was going to begin in the morning. He wore a light sweater; the chill of Fall had begun.

Maria walked slowly, sleepily, through the dark, carrying a small glass of
Cuarenta Tres.
She had fallen asleep watching TV, and had now awakened to join Marc.

“Don't you think you ought to go to bed now?” Maria said. “You have a trial in the morning.” She put her arm through his and snuggled against him.

“In a few minutes,” Marc replied. “I have a few more pages of pre-trial testimony to read first.”

The phone rang. Maria turned. She saw Franco in the living room move quickly to answer it. Through the windows he could be seen looking at his watch as he spoke into the phone. Both Marc and Maria watched him. A look of concern came over Franco's face. He spoke again into the phone. Then he put the phone down on a table and walked out to the balcony.

“It's Johnny Manno.”

“What's the matter?” asked Marc.

“Nothing's the matter,” replied Franco. “It's just that he was out doing something for me,” Franco looked away from Marc's gaze. “He just told me something a little peculiar.”

“What's it all about, Franco?” Marc asked, seeing the sheepish look on Franco's face.

“I had him go into Zack Lord's office,” admitted Franco.

“You had him what?” Marc was open-mouthed. He looked at Maria, annoyed, as he did, to find she was not as surprised as he was.

“I figured he could find the pistol that belonged to Lord—the one that's the same as Toni Wainwright's—and we could take a couple of test shots with it and then we'd have what we wanted.” Franco talked nervously fast.

“Have you lost your sense of proportion?” asked Marc. “The both of you?”

“Don't get sore at anyone but me, boss,” Franco implored. “It's all my fault. I was the one who wanted to find out for sure if Lord killed Wainwright. I mean, we can't let that dame, even if she's a creep, take a bad fall, can we?”

“We expect the D.A. and the police to do things the right way, don't we?” said Marc. “I think we're required to do the same. And here you get someone involved in bulglary and larceny, committing a crime to protect our clients from being convicted of other crimes. It's as bad as the Special State Prosecutor Belacian getting people to perjure themselves so he can discover other people perjuring themselves.”

“When the police start playing fair, so can we,” said Maria.