The Hearing (42 page)

When he finally got the pictures back and entered as People’s Exhibits, Torrey told Strout he had one more question. “These injuries, Doctor, were they administered before or after the decedent’s death?”

Strout replied, “From a medical standpoint, it’s impossible to say with certainty in the cases of the neck and ear injuries. Certainly near to the time of death, say within an hour. The finger, however, was broken after the decedent’s heart had stopped pumping blood.”

“In other words, after she was dead?”

In his laconic drawl, Strout granted that death usually went along with when the heart stopped and stayed that way. A ripple of amusement—tension breaking in the gallery—greeted this reply. Torrey let it die out, then passed the witness.

Hardy stood up. “Dr. Strout,” he began, “the injuries you described earlier, including the gunshot wound, the pictures we’ve seen—was that the extent of damage to the decedent’s body?”

The witness considered for several seconds. “Yes, sir,” he answered with finality.

“Were there any other broken bones, physical marks, bruises, abrasions?”

“No.”

“Did you examine her extremities, Doctor?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And were there any scratches or scrapes on her knees, or elbows, or on her hands?”

“No.”

“Aside from the bullet wound, was the same true of her head?”

Another wait while Strout considered carefully. “Yes.”

“Doctor, was there
any
abrasion, no matter how slight, that, in your expert opinion, would be consistent with her dropping dead—instantaneously, as you said—and falling directly with gravity onto unyielding concrete or asphalt?”

“No, there was none.”

Hardy thought he’d nailed down his point succinctly enough. The Cadaver had listened intently, even had taken a few notes. He’d have to let the information—and inferences to be drawn from it—hang fire for a while, but when the time came, it might be persuasive.

In the gallery, the noise bubbled up again. Hardy didn’t know if the Cadaver used it for the same purpose, but suddenly the waxing and waning of the background sound struck Hardy as a kind of barometer. While he was asking his questions of Strout, the room had been almost completely silent. Which told him he must have been getting somewhere, making people think. Even if the majority of them, like Cole, were ignorant of where he intended to go, what his questions meant.

But he knew.

And the gallery would remember them, waiting for an answer, for closure. So, Hardy believed, would the judge.

He bowed his head slightly to Strout. “Thank you, Doctor. No more questions.”

By the time Hardy was back at his table—six steps—Hill had directed Torrey to call his next witness. As he sat down, Cole whispered, “What was that all about?” and Torrey stood and asked Steven Petrie to come forward. Hardy looked around Cole to Freeman. The old man pointed to the yellow legal pad on the desk in front of him. In block letters, he’d written “PETRIE.” He smiled helpfully.

“What?” Cole asked again.

Hardy patted his arm, whispered to him. “It’s like a movie, Cole. You pick it up as it goes along.”

Petrie, the officer who’d been first on the scene, was in uniform today. Blond and crew-cut, he had a runner’s body and a military air, and seemed nearly as uncomfortable as Strout had been composed. He gave his name, his rank, his duties and time on the force. Torrey was up, standing in front of him. “Officer Petrie, would you please describe your actions on or about twelve-thirty a.m. on the morning of Monday, February first, of this year?”

Hardy conceded that this was a good way to loosen up the stiff cop. Petrie seemed to sag in relief—he wasn’t going to be answering a barrage of questions, at least not right away. He glanced up at the judge, then back to Torrey, and began his recital in a normal voice.

The details were familiar enough to Hardy, but he knew that a straightforward chronology of events would be helpful to the judge. Eventually, also—he hoped—it would serve him. But for now, he sat forward, listening for factual error, taking notes.

Petrie told it clearly. He and his partner, Daniel Medrano, were cruising downtown on their regular beat when they saw some suspicious movement at the head of Maiden Lane, at Grant. As they pulled closer, they brought their squad car’s spotlight to bear, and saw a man squatting over a fallen figure. He turned and began to run. Petrie’s partner Medrano got out and gave chase while Petrie first called for backup, then got out to see to the fallen figure, a young African-American woman, who appeared to be dead.

He took under a minute satisfying himself that he could do nothing to help the victim, but he called the paramedics anyway. By the time he finished, Medrano was returning with the suspect, whom he’d apprehended at the Union Square end of Maiden Lane. Medrano told him that, in the dark, the suspect had run into a fire hydrant and fallen down.

Shot out of a cannon, Hardy was on his feet with an objection. He heard Freeman call his name hoarsely, but he was already up, committed. “Hearsay, your honor.”

Hill’s eyes narrowed with displeasure. “Absolutely,” he replied. “And as such permitted in a preliminary hearing when offered through an experienced officer, as you no doubt remember from your days in law school. Mr. Torrey, please continue.” But another thought struck him. “Oh, and Mr. Hardy, try to refrain from frivolous objections like this as we go along here, would you. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. Thank you. All right, Mr. Torrey, you may proceed.”

Hardy sat down heavily and Freeman reached around Cole to pat his arm. “I tried to tell you,” he said. It wasn’t any solace.

Torrey brought Petrie back to where he’d been and he continued. “So Dan—Officer Medrano—came back down Maiden Lane with the suspect. He also had a gun that he said the suspect had dropped when he fell.”

More hearsay, though Hardy didn’t doubt its truth.

“Let’s stop there for a moment, Officer Petrie. Do you recognize the suspect that you and your partner arrested that night in the courtroom today?”

“Yes.”

“Would you point him out to the court, please?”

Petrie raised a hand, pointed a finger. “In the middle of the defense table over there.”

Torrey had the record reflect that Petrie had identified the defendant, Cole Burgess. “Now, this gun . . .” He introduced the murder weapon into evidence, and evidently the size of it made an impression on the gallery. It truly was a tiny weapon—no more than two and a half inches long, perhaps half an inch wide. Petrie identified it as the gun from the scene. “All right,” Torrey said, “you’ve arrested the suspect and recovered a gun. What did you do next?”

“I should say he was already handcuffed. Dan had handcuffed him after he caught him.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“Then we brought him over to the squad car and patted him down. His pockets, his coat. He was wearing an old jacket.”

“And did you find anything on his person?”

“Yes, sir. Several items.”

“Would you describe them, please?”

Petrie identified them—the necklace, diamond ring, pair of earrings, a wallet belonging to the deceased containing her identification as well as eighty-five dollars in bills and a dollar sixteen in coins.

Prosaic as this was, no one in the courtroom was unaware of the significance of this testimony. This made it murder in the commission of a robbery. It’s what made it a capital crime for which Cole Burgess could be put to death.

If there had been a jury present, this would have been the opportunity for Torrey to play to it, to underscore the importance of this testimony. But there was nothing for him to do in that regard now, no theatrical business to attend to, so he had to press on ahead.

“Officer Petrie,” he said, “was the defendant intoxicated when you arrested him?”

Hardy stood. “Objection, your honor. Calls for a conclusion. Officer Petrie is not an expert witness.”

But Torrey was ready with an argument. “Your honor, a layman can offer an opinion in this area and every policeman on the street is intimately familiar with apparent intoxication.”

Hill nodded in agreement. “Objection is overruled.”

Hardy wanted to keep going, but he’d been warned. The judge had made his ruling. Besides, it was the correct one. There was nothing to do but sit back down and listen to Petrie’s answer.

“I smelled liquor on his breath, but he was conversant and coordinated.”

Torrey smiled, obviously pleased at how well his witness had taken to his coaching. “Conversant and coordinated,” he repeated. “Thank you, Officer. No further questions.”

If Hardy had been prosecuting, he would have had a lot more, so he was surprised—his rhythm off—as he stood to begin his cross. “Officer Petrie,” he began, “you smelled liquor on Cole Burgess’s breath, is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Was this a strong odor?”

“I could smell it, yes.”

“Did you give him a Breathalyzer test?”

“No.”

“No.” Hardy paced a few steps to his left, deep in thought. “Officer Petrie, in your years as a police officer, have you ever pulled over a car for a driving violation?”

Petrie reacted with a bit of impatience. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Hardy repeated. “And on any of those occasions, if you wanted to know if someone was drunk, what was your procedure?”

“Usually we ask the person to get out of the car and administer some field sobriety tests. Saying the alphabet backwards, or standing on one foot with their eyes closed, like that.”

“So basically walking and talking, right? And other basic tests of coordination?”

“Yes.”

“Now you saw my client staggering when he walked, isn’t that right? When he came back with your partner?”

“Well, yeah, but he had fallen down.”

“That’s right, Officer. He not only couldn’t walk when you saw him, but he was too uncoordinated to escape, right? He plain fell down when he tried to run, isn’t that correct?”

“Well, he ran into something.”

“And fell down, didn’t he?”

A reluctant nod. “Okay. Yes.” Petrie tried to sneak a glance over Hardy’s shoulder, pick up a cue from Torrey.

Hardy took a step toward the witness box and to his right, hopefully blocking the line of sight. “Now, how about his speech?”

“I don’t know,” Petrie said grudgingly. “It varied.”

“Did he speak at all, Officer,” Hardy asked, “or was he too incoherent to say much?”

“He was pretty incoherent.”

“And passed out in the back of the patrol car?”

“Yeah.” Petrie squirmed. “He did that.”

Hardy backed away a step, took a beat, then came back to the officer. “People who act as you’ve described here might be drunk, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Another alternative would be if they were injured, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And in fact, Mr. Burgess was bleeding slightly from a head injury, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, since you’ve testified that there were paramedics at the scene and your policy and procedure is to have injured prisoners evaluated by paramedics, isn’t it true that the reason you didn’t show Mr. Burgess to the paramedics was because you could tell that the only thing wrong with him was that he was drunk? Falling-down, incoherently drunk?”

Petrie was stuck. “He was.”

Hardy nodded, satisfied. “No further questions.”

During the recess, Freeman left for the bathroom. Cole pushed back from the defense table. He was not cuffed in the courtroom, and had crossed his arms over his chest, rested an ankle on his knee. “I can’t believe you didn’t ask him anything about the shot,” he said.

Hardy wasn’t much in the mood for criticism at the moment. “Like what? He’s not our witness.”

“Why not?”

Hardy, pretending to read from some notes in front of him, finally gave that up and turned to face Cole. “Because I talked to him early in the week. He says he didn’t hear any shot. And we need that shot as much as they don’t need it.”