caught up in the tension of the moment, Ortiz turned toward the defense table and pointed his finger at the defendant. Direct examination was over, and Monica nodded to David.
Ortiz turned toward the defense table and waited for cross-examination to begin. His hand had been steady, and there had been no tremor in his voice when he identified Larry Stafford, because he had learned from dozens of experiences on the witness stand to control his nerves, but the fear of what David might do to him was there.
David did not rush his questions. He smiled at Ortiz and leaned back in his chair. He wanted Ortiz to wait, and he wanted to build on the tension that already permeated the courtroom.
“Officer Ortiz,” he asked finally, “what day was Darlene Hersch killed?”
“June sixteenth,” Ortiz answered tersely. He was determined to answer only what he was asked and to volunteer nothing. The less he said, the less information Nash would have to work with.
“Thank you,” David said politely. “And when did you see Mr. Stafford in the courthouse hallway?”
“Early September.”
“Some three months after the murder?”
“Yes.”
David stood up and walked to an easel that the clerk had placed between the witness stand and the jury box. David flipped the cover page from a large drawing pad over the top of the easel and revealed the diagram of the motel room that Ortiz had drawn at the bail hearing.
“During a prior hearing in this case, I asked you to draw this sketch and to indicate your position and the killer’s position at the moment you saw his face, did I not?”
“Yes.”
“And is this an accurate representation of those positions?”
Ortiz studied the drawing for a moment, then nodded.
“I believe at the hearing you stated that, at the moment you saw the killer’s face, his left arm and leg were inside the room a bit and his body was at a slight angle, with the right arm and leg outside the door?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, you were struck immediately upon entering the motel room, were you not?”
“Yes.”
“The lights in the room were out?”
“Yes.”
“You fell, twisted, and your head struck the bed?”
“Yes.”
“How long would you say you had a good view of the killer’s face?”
“A few seconds.”
“Five to ten?”
“A little more than that.”
David picked up the transcript of the bail hearing, consulted an index card, and flipped to a page.
“At a prior hearing in this case, did you not testify as follows:
“’Q: So you saw him for a few seconds?
“’A: Yes.
“’Q: Less than a minute?
“‘A: Maybe five, ten seconds. But I saw him.’”
“I think that’s right.”
“So the only time you saw the killer’s face was for five or ten seconds after you had been struck on the head and before you lost consciousness?”
“Yes, but I saw him clearly. It was Stafford,” Ortiz blurted out. Monica expected David to object to the unresponsive answer, but David merely smiled.
“You are certain of that?” David asked. Monica was puzzled. Why was David giving Ortiz a chance to repeat so damaging a statement?
“Positive.”
“Yes. I believe, at the prior hearing, I asked you, ‘You are certain?’ and you replied, ‘I will never forget that face.’”
“Yes, I said that,” Ortiz answered nervously. He had forgotten that he had given that answer at the bail hearing.
“But the impossible happened, did it not?”
“What do you mean?”
David strolled over to the far end of the counsel table and picked up a stack of papers.
“Were you hospitalized after the blow to your head?”
“Yes.”
“Was Dr. Arthur Stewart your treating physician?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you in the hospital, Officer Ortiz?”
“About a week.”
“How long did you continue to see Dr. Stewart for problems relating to the blow to your head?”
Ortiz could feel the sweat forming on his brow. Why didn’t the bastard ask the question Ortiz knew he would ask?
“I stopped two weeks ago.”
“Mid-October? Is that when he released you?”
“Yes.”
“You had a concussion, did you not?”
“Yes.”
David paused and the smile disappeared. “And you could remember nothing about what happened inside that motel room from June sixteenth until September? Isn’t that true?”
“I remembered parts of what happened. It was-”
“Mr. Ortiz…Pardon me. Officer Ortiz,” David said, his voice cutting like a knife, “I have here copies of your medical records from Good Samaritan Hospital. On September third, did you visit Dr. Stewart?”
“Uh, I…It could have been that date. I had an appointment in early September.”
“You don’t remember?” David asked with a smirk.
Ortiz felt his body tighten. He wanted to strike out at David. He felt like a butterfly pinioned on a board, waiting for dissection.
“Objection,” Monica said, standing. “Mr. Nash is arguing with the witness.”
She could see the danger signs and had to give Ortiz a chance to collect his thoughts.
“Yes, Mr. Nash,” the judge said, “just ask your questions.”
“Very well, Your Honor. Officer Ortiz, did you not tell Dr. Stewart during your September visit, a few short days before you arrested Larry Stafford, that you could not remember what happened inside the motel room and that you could not remember what the killer looked like?”
Ortiz did not answer immediately. He stared at David and at Stafford. Stafford stared back.
“Well, Officer?” David asked sharply.
“Yes.”
“You had amnesia, did you not?”
“Yes, if that’s what you call it.”
“What do you call it?”
“I mean…”
Ortiz stopped. David waited a moment, watching the jury.
“Officer, if I understand your testimony, you first saw the Mercedes from a distance of one city block?”
“Yes,” Ortiz answered quickly, grateful that the subject had been changed.
“Then you followed it from a distance of approximately two city blocks?”
“Yes.”
“And, finally, you saw it briefly as you drove by the motel lot?”
“Yes.”
