Open and Shut

I'll wait, and in a few minutes she comes over. She's in her early sixties, with a pleasant face and a slightly tired smile. She'd like to be off her feet, and she deserves to be.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“I'd like to talk to you about your husband.”

She tenses exactly as Wally had when I mentioned Denise. That's apparently my mission, to go around the state and reopen old wounds in people that deserve better.

Finally, she nods, slowly, the nod of someone who has been expecting this visit, and who has been dreading it. I instinctively feel that if I can find out why, I'll have found out everything.

Betty agrees to have a cup of coffee with me, and I wait the thirty-five minutes until she is finished with her shift. We go to a small diner down the street, the kind with little jukeboxes on the tables that never work. I tell her that I'm representing Willie Miller, and watch for her reaction.

There isn't any. She has no idea who Willie Miller is, and can't imagine what her husband could possibly have to do with him. It's not good news.

I tell her about the picture, and my suspicion that there is something about it that has changed a great many lives, possibly Mike's included.

She tells me that “Mike had many friends. He was the kind of person that people naturally liked.”

Then I tell her that the woman Willie is accused of murdering is Denise McGregor, and I think I see a small flash of fear in her eyes, which she quickly covers up.

Her response is that “Mike was a wonderful man, a terrific husband and father. He loved his work.”

Platitudes like this aren't going to do it for me; I know I have to somehow pierce this armor. “Look, I'm defending a man on trial for his life. I think you have information that can help me, but maybe you don't. The only way I'm going to find out for sure is by being direct.”

She nods her understanding, but seems to cringe in anticipation. This is not going to be fun.

“Why did your husband take his own life?”

For a moment I think she is going to cry, but when she answers, her voice is clear and strong.

“He was a very unhappy man. Haunted, really.”

“By what?”

“I loved my husband very much,” she evades, “but I couldn't really help him, at least not the kind of help he needed. And now all I have is his memory, and I'm not going to destroy it. Not for you, not for your client, not for anybody.”

Sitting across this table from me is the answer; I can feel it, I know it. I have to go after it, even if it means badgering a woman who is clearly suffering.

“Something happened a very long time ago, something I believe Mike was a part of. But whatever it was, it's over. It can't be changed. My client shouldn't lose his life to protect the secret.”

“I can't help you,” she says.

“You won't help me.”

She thinks for a few moments, as if considering what I'm saying. Then her eyes go cold and she shuts off, as surely as if somebody flicked a switch. The window of opportunity has shut, leaving me to wonder if there's anything I could have done to keep it open. I don't think so; I think this decision was made a long time ago.

“I'm not going to argue with you,” she says. “You're not going to get what you want here.”

One last try. “Look, I know you want to protect your husband's memory … his reputation. Believe me, I want to do the same thing for my father. But a man's life is on the line. I need to know the truth.”

I've lost her. She stands and prepares to leave. “The truth is I loved my husband.” She says that with a sadness, an understanding that her love did not prove to be enough.

She walks away and out of the diner. I guess I'll pay the check.

The next day is devoted to DNA, and Wallace puts on Dr. Hillary D'Antoni, a scientist from the laboratory where the tests were done. She goes through a detailed but concise definition of the process, and then on to the results of the tests done on the skin and blood under Denise's fingernails.

“Dr. D'Antoni,” Wallace asks, “what is the mathematical likelihood that the skin under the victim's fingernails was that of the defendant, William Miller?”

“There is a one in five and a half billion chance that it was not.”

“And what is the mathematical likelihood that the blood under the victim's fingernails was that of the defendant, William Miller?”

“There is a one in six and one quarter billion chance that it was not.”

My cross-examination focuses mostly on not the science but the collection methods. I get Dr. D'Antoni to agree with the “garbage in, garbage out” concept. In other words, the results her lab can achieve are only as good as the samples they are sent. My problem is I have no legitimate basis on which to challenge the samples, and if the jury has one brain among them they will know it. Besides, I'm going to challenge the physical evidence later, in a different context.

“Dr. D'Antoni,” I say, “you raised some very impressive odds concerning the source of the material under the defendant's fingernails. In the area of one in six billion.”

“Yes.”

“You are positive that the blood and skin actually belonged to the defendant, are you not?”

“I am. The tests are quite conclusive.”

“Is there anything in those tests that leads you to believe the defendant was not framed?”

“I don't understand the question.”

“I'm sorry. If I gave you a hypothetical that the defendant was framed, and that the material you tested was in fact planted before it was sent to you, is there anything about your testing which would prove me wrong?”

“No. We test the material we are given.”

“Thank you.”

Wallace's next witness is Lieutenant Pete Stanton. This is not something I look forward to. Pete is an experienced, excellent witness, and what he is going to say will be very negative for Willie. It will be my job to try and rip him apart, something I don't relish doing to a friend. The only thing worse would be not to rip him apart.

Wallace takes Pete through the basics, starting off with Pete's status in the department at the time of the murder. His goal is to show his rapid rise, lending credibility to his abilities.

“I was a detective, grade two.”

“And you've been promoted since then?”

Pete nods. “Three times. First came detective three, then four, and then I made lieutenant two years ago.”

“Congratulations,” Wallace says.

“Objection,” I say. “Did Mr. Wallace bring in a cake so we can blow out the candles and celebrate the witness's promotions? Maybe we can sing ‘For he's a jolly good detective.’ ”

“Lieutenant Stanton's career path is relevant to his credibility,” Wallace says.

I shake my head. “He is not here interviewing for a job. He's presenting evidence of his investigation.”

“Sustained,” says Hatchet. “Let's move along.”

Wallace soon gets to the meat of his testimony, which involves the murder weapon.

“Where was the knife recovered, Lieutenant Stanton?”

“From a trash can about three blocks away from the bar. It was in an alley behind Richie's restaurant on Market Street,” Pete answers.

“Do you know whose knife it was?”

Pete nods. “It was one of a set from the bar where the murder took place, and which was subsequently reported missing by the bartender.”

“Now this knife … what was found on it?”

“Blood from the victim, Denise McGregor. And a clear fingerprint match with the defendant, Willie Miller.”

Wallace asks him some more questions, but the damage has been done. If I can't repair it, nothing that follows is going to make any difference. I stand up to face Pete, who digs in as if he were making a goal line stand.