The Law of Second Chances (43 page)

The jurors were horrified. Some of the women were moved to tears. At the end of his testimony, Leland Pendergast finally gave the only opinion that mattered. The cause of Carl Robertson’s death was a single bullet wound to the head. It took him two and a half hours to get there.

Sitting in the front row behind Jack and his son and watching the juror’s reactions to the pictures, Luis understood what Jack meant about a trial turning on a dime. The pictures weren’t the only bad turn. Benny, who had been silent and stoic throughout the trial as Jack had directed him, was visibly moved by the pictures. Try as he might, he couldn’t help himself. Tears rolled down his cheeks. The jurors saw the tears and wondered if they were tears of guilt.

Jack saw the tears too. There was nothing he could do about them. He had to concentrate on taking a pound of flesh from Leland Pendergast. As he rose to begin the cross, something in his mind clicked about a piece of evidence whose significance he had not understood until that very moment.

Before taking his place at the podium he walked over to the easel facing the jury, removed the last of the grisly pictures, and placed it facing backward on the far wall with the other exhibits so it would not be a distraction during his cross-examination. Mr. Pendergast was going to have to get through cross on his words alone.

“Were you at the scene of the crime?”

“No.”

“Was somebody from your office there?”

“Yes.”

“Who was that?”

“Dan Jenkins.”

“And is Dan Jenkins a licensed pathologist like yourself?”

“Yes.”

“And has he testified in court before?”

“Yes.”

“In murder trials?”

“Yes.”

“Has he ever been disqualified for any reason?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Who did the actual autopsy?”

“Dan Jenkins—with my supervision, of course.”

“We’ll get to that. The autopsy report that you’ve been talking about, state’s exhibit number 10—did Dan Jenkins sign that?”

“Yes. And so did I.”

“Is it your practice to sign every autopsy report?”

“Yes. I am responsible for every opinion that comes out of my office.”

“And that signature of yours on this autopsy report, is that a stamp?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is the stamp for convenience so you don’t actually have to sign all the autopsies that are done by your staff?”

“Yes.”

“How many autopsies does your office do a year?”

“Thousands. This is New York City. We are very busy.”

“So you don’t read and approve every autopsy report before it comes out of your office, do you, Mr. Pendergast?” This was where Jack expected the big lie. He wasn’t disappointed.

“I try to. I’m sure some slip by.”

“You said Dan Jenkins did the autopsy with your supervision, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How long has Mr. Jenkins been with your office?”

“Around ten years.”

“Does he need supervision to do an autopsy?”

“Absolutely not. What I mean by that statement is that I supervise the work of all my people.”

“You weren’t present when Dan Jenkins did the autopsy of Carl Robertson, were you?”

“I may have walked in and out of the room a few times.”

“Do you specifically recall if you did or not?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So you don’t have any firsthand knowledge of the findings in this autopsy report that you have been testifying about all afternoon, is that correct?”

Leland didn’t answer right away. Instead, he made one of the most amateur and devastating moves a witness who is trying to appear impartial can make. He looked over to Spencer Taylor for help. Spencer looked down at his notes.

“Is that correct?” Jack prompted.

“Yes, but as an expert witness I can testify about the findings of others, especially my staff.”

Jack had taken enough wind out of Leland’s sails. It was time to get down to specifics. He was debating whether he should even use Dr. Wong’s exhibits at this point. There had to be a reason Dan Jenkins was not on that stand. Maybe he would save the exhibits for when he called Jenkins himself.

“In your opinion, Dr. Pendergast, was the assailant close to the deceased when he shot him?”

“Yes.”

“How close?”

“Not point-blank but very close.”

Jack wanted to ask him how he’d arrived at that conclusion but he refrained from doing so because Leland had given the exact answer he’d wanted. “I’ve reviewed this autopsy report and I noticed that there was—I’m not sure how you put it—a protrusion at the rear of the cranium, is that accurate?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is that where the bullet struck the back of the cranium?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Now, did you or Mr. Jenkins measure the angle from the entry wound to this protrusion in the back of the cranium?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And why would you do that?”

“To determine the trajectory of the bullet. It’s not always totally accurate, because sometimes the trajectory is thrown off by other obstacles in the body.”

“How about in this case? Do you think the trajectory was accurate?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what was the trajectory of the bullet?”

“It was almost a straight line from the forehead to the rear of the head. There was a slight upward angle.”

“Are you aware of how tall the defendant is?”

“Yes, I am.” Leland smiled when he gave the answer as if he suspected Jack would be surprised by his positive response. That told Jack that they knew where he was going and were ready for him. He kept going anyway.

“How tall is he?”

“Five feet eight.”

“And Carl Robertson, how tall was he?”

“Six feet four.”

“At close range, if a five-foot-eight man shot a six-foot-four man, wouldn’t the trajectory be straight up with the bullet hitting the top of the cranium rather than the rear?”

Leland smiled again. He’d obviously been waiting for the question. “Not necessarily, and certainly not if the taller man was looking down at the shorter man. Say they were having a conversation like ‘Give me your money’ or something like that. Then the trajectory would be at a straight angle, just like we found.”

That last opinion did in all of Dr. Wong’s wonderful graphs and charts. Jack had considered Leland Pendergast’s explanation as a possibility; he had just hoped that the state had been overconfident and not done its homework. Now he was out on a limb with no place to go, and Leland Pendergast was all puffed up and confident again.

Jack decided he had no choice but to try the new theory that had just come to him. “Doctor, is it accurate that a bullet loses its velocity the more distance it travels?”

“That’s hard to say with any definiteness. Velocity depends on a lot of things—the type of gun and the type of ammunition being the two most important factors. I don’t know as I sit here what the speed per foot was of the ammunition fired from the Glock that was used. That’s not my area of expertise. However, the longer the distance, the more resistance the bullet encounters in the atmosphere, and eventually it starts to lose a little steam—so I would agree with your proposition in general, but I don’t think you can gauge the loss of velocity with any accuracy. If the target is in the range of the gun as it obviously was in this case, the job gets done, no matter what the distance.”

It was a confusing answer, and Leland probably meant it to be so. Jack ignored the explanation completely.

“Is that a yes, Doctor?”

“Yes, I’d agree with your proposition in general.”

“Would a gun fired, say, at point-blank range or very close be more likely to pass through the skull?”

“Not really. The skull is very durable. That’s where we get the term ‘hardheaded.’” There was a laugh from a few members of the gallery. Some of the jurors smiled as well. The judge wisely let it go. “I don’t believe that a Luger Parabellum, the bullet that was used, fired from a Glock nine-millimeter would penetrate the skull no matter what distance it was fired from. Just look at how beat up this bullet was.”

Jack had what he wanted. It was time to bring Leland down a few pegs again before he let him go.

“When was the last time you actually performed an autopsy rather than simply supervising your staff?”

Leland didn’t answer right away. “Maybe five years ago.”

“How long has it been since you did autopsies on a regular basis as part of your job duties?”

“Ten years, I’d say.”

“No further questions, your honor.”

It was almost five o’clock when Leland Pendergast sashayed off the witness stand. The judge dismissed the jury and cleared the courtroom. He wanted to talk to the lawyers alone and
get a sense of where they were and when they expected to be done with their cases.

“I may have one or two witnesses, I may not,” Spencer told the judge. Jack took that statement to mean that Spencer would be resting his case first thing in the morning.

To his credit, Judge Middleton didn’t buy off on Spencer’s dodge. “Come on, Mr. Taylor, you know if you’re going to rest tomorrow or not.”

“I really don’t, Judge. There’s a possibility I might rest first thing in the morning. If I do call more witnesses, they’ll be brief. I’m not going to go back over ground we’ve already covered.”

“Good,” the judge replied. “Because I’m not going to let you.” Jack liked the judge’s attitude. In spite of everything he had heard, up to now Langford Middleton had run this trial as well as anybody could have. Jack hoped he would continue in that vein.

“Mr. Tobin?”

“Yes, your honor?

“Be prepared to start your case tomorrow.”

“Yes, your honor. I also have a motion I would like to argue after the prosecution rests.”

“I figured you would. Okay, gents, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jack caught the court reporter on the way out and requested the transcript of his cross of Tony Severino. He then called Dorothy and gave her another witness to call—assistant coroner Dan Jenkins.

62

Henry and his new cohort, Valentine Busby, had driven to Tampa early Thursday morning and boarded a plane to Chicago, from where they would head to Madison, Wisconsin. It was a bumpy flight, and Henry had been so nervous he was sweating.

“This is nothing,” Valentine told him. “When I was in the Army we used to fly overseas in those big transports. They never flew around storms back then. I thought I was going to die at least a dozen times, and I’m still here.”

Valentine’s pep talk didn’t do much for Henry, who hadn’t felt better until the plane touched down in Chicago. They rented a car and arrived in Madison three hours later, finding Milton Jeffries’s house with little difficulty. Things seemed to be going well—until a woman in her mid-fifties answered the door and told them that Milton Jeffries didn’t live there anymore.

“My husband and I bought the place last year. We’re both professors at the university, and so was Milton. He retired just before he sold the house. He didn’t tell us where he was going. To be honest, he was a little weird about it. If you go to the administration building on campus, they may have a forwarding address.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Henry said graciously. “We’ll do that.”

Milton Jeffries hadn’t left a forwarding address with the school, so Henry went to the biology department and started
knocking on the doors of faculty members and asking if they had any idea where their former colleague could be. At the fourth door they met Harvey Nelson.

“I don’t have any idea,” Harvey told them after Henry explained who he and Valentine were and that it was quite literally a matter of life and death. Harvey was an affable fellow in his mid-forties, with curly brown hair that stopped just a few inches short of his shoulders. Henry could tell he was trying to be helpful. “To tell you the truth, Milton’s retirement was a shock to everybody. He really loved his work. Then all of a sudden he was gone—no forwarding address, no nothing. They had to scramble to get somebody to take his classes.”

“Is there anybody who might know where he went?”

“Unfortunately, no. He was pretty much of a loner. I was probably his closest friend in the department, but we weren’t really that tight. We went fishing together a few times. Hey, wait a minute—fishing. Milton loved to fish. He had a cabin out in the middle of nowhere at a place called Castle Hill Lake. He invited me up a couple of times. He had to give me directions to the cabin or I never would have found it. I think I still have them in my computer, if only I can remember what I saved them under. It’s a long shot, but he might be living there.”

“That would be great if you could do that,” Henry replied.

“No problem,” he told them. “Come on in and sit down. It may take me a few minutes.” Harvey went to his desk and started searching on his computer. “Let me see, maybe it’s under
Milton
or
Milton’s cabin
,” he muttered to himself as he stared at the screen. “Nope. Let’s try
cabin
. Nope. I need to get these files organized better,” he said apologetically over his shoulder before turning back to the screen. “Let’s go over to
fishing
. Nope. How about
directions
, Harvey?” Henry gave Valentine a sidelong look. “Aha! Here it is:
Directions to Milton’s house”
He opened the file and scanned the lines of type. “Yup, this is it,” he said, turning to Henry and Valentine with a look of satisfaction on his face. “I’ll
just print it out for you. Let me see, where is that
print
command . . .”

A couple of minutes later the directions were printing out. “It takes about an hour and a half to get there,” he told Henry as he handed him the paper. “If you left now, it would be dark by the time you got there. You don’t want to be driving up to somebody’s house after dark in that neck of the woods, especially if you’re not expected. Besides, I can almost guarantee you’ll get lost. I got lost in the daylight.”

Henry knew all about the hazards of arriving unexpectedly. He stole another, sharper glance at Valentine.

Valentine just shrugged his shoulders. “People don’t like being surprised,” he muttered.