“But anyone could have entered?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say the alley at the time you arrived was clean?”
“Well, there was a great deal of blood.”
“I understand, but I mean in addition to the evidence of the murder. Did the alley look as if it had been scrubbed recently?”
“No, I wouldn't say so.”
“So the scene was already dirty. Trash, food from the restaurants, animal waste?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Prentice, you said the first thing you did was cordon off the scene. Why did you do that?”
“To prevent people from tromping around on the evidence and contaminating it. To preserve the evidence.”
“Were you successful at that?”
“Yes, I believe that I was.”
“Did any people enter that specific area?”
“Not after I was there. I made sure everyone stayed clear of the scene, so that the forensics people could do their work.”
“I'm not an expert on this kind of thing, so perhaps you can tell me … is there a law of contamination that says it can only take place after the police arrive?”
“Of course not,” he says. “Contamination can take place at any time.”
“Well, was anybody on the scene before you arrived?”
“Yes.”
I feign surprise. “Who?”
“Well, Edward Markham, his father-”
I interrupt. “Edward Markham's father was there? Was this some kind of a family outing?”
“No, he had called his father as well as the police.”
Under prodding, Prentice is forced to admit that there were also a group of people from the bar that had been on the scene.
“So there were at least a half-dozen people walking around that alley before you got there?” I ask.
“Yes,” he concedes.
“Just hanging out, contaminating away?”
He won't concede that, but he doesn't have to. I've gotten the idea in the jurors’ minds, and that's all I was going to manage.
Wallace next calls the on-scene technician who supervised the gathering of the blood and other evidence. She comes off as thoroughly professional and confident that she had done her job well. The most I can get her to admit is that techniques have improved since then, and that DNA was not on her mind when she was doing the collecting. She leaves the stand unscathed.
The next to escape any damage from my cross-examination is Donnie, the bartender. Wallace leads him through his story, and his recollections remain crystal clear. I make little effort to attack him, since his information is factual, but notterribly harmful to Willie. But I need to make some points, so that the jury will remember that we are a force to be reckoned with.
“How long did you work with Willie Miller?”
“About six months.”
“Was he a reliable employee?”
“He was okay. As long as he did his job, we didn't have too much to do with each other.”
“So to your knowledge he was never reprimanded? Never threatened with termination?”
“No.”
“Did you serve liquor at this establishment?”
Donnie laughs. “Of course. It was a bar.”
“Did Willie Miller have access to this liquor? Was it within easy reach for him?”
“Well, sure. I mean, it wasn't that big a place.”
“Did you ever see him drunk before that night?”
“No.” He quickly qualifies it. “Employees aren't allowed to drink on the job.”
“That's a rule?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“So Mr. Miller followed that rule? He did not drink on the job?”
“If he did, I don't remember it.”
“Would he have been reprimanded if he were caught drinking on the job?”
“Sure.”
I switch the focus. “When Edward Markham told you what happened, what did you do?”
“I went out to the back, and I saw the … young woman's body.” Donnie says “young woman” with a wary eye on Laurie. This is a man who has a strong testicle-preservation instinct. “He said he had called the cops, so I just waited with him.”
“When the police came, did you tell them you thought Willie might have done it? I'm talking about before the eyewitness said what she had seen.”
“No.”
“So you had no reason to suspect that he would have committed this murder?”
“No.”
I let him go and turn the momentum back to Wallace. He is doing what he is supposed to do: getting the witnesses necessary to build his case on and off quickly. Each represents a building block for the prosecution, and by the time they are finished they expect to have a house that cannot be blown over by the windbag defense attorney, me.
Next up is Edward Markham, who clearly did not spend his recent trip to Africa on a hunger strike to protest the granting of a new trial to his girlfriend's accused killer. He is at least forty pounds heavier than pictures show him to have been at the time of the murder, and though he is only in his thirties, he's already captured the look of an aging playboy.
“Had you and Denise McGregor been dating long?” asks Wallace.
“About three months. We were pretty intense.”
“Any plans for marriage?”
“I certainly had some,” says Edward. He grins. “But I hadn't gotten up the nerve to ask her.”
Wallace brings him to the night of the murder, and Denise McGregor's fateful trip to the rest room.
“How long was she gone before you started to worry?”
Edward appears to consider this, as if it is the first time he's been asked this question, and he's trying to comb through his memory. I would bet twenty-two million dollars he and Wallace rehearsed every word of this testimony at least twice.
“I'd say about ten minutes or so. And even then I wasn't that worried. I mean, you don't think about something like this. But I thought there might be something wrong.”
“So you got up to check on her?”
“Yes,” says Edward. “I went to the rest room door, and it was ajar, you know, not fully closed. I didn't know if I should go inside, or maybe find another woman to go in and check up on her. I thought she might be sick or something.”
“What did you do?”
“I called into the room a few times, just yelling ‘Denise,’ but there was no answer. So I pushed the door open a little more and looked in.”
“What did you find?”
“Well, at first nothing. I looked around, and she wasn't there, so I started to go back to the table. I really didn't know what to think. Then I saw the blood.”
“Blood?”
“It sure looked like it, and it was still wet. It was splattered on the floor near the phone. And the phone was
