“Well, the lights were out, so I didn’t see her at first. The man was lyin’ with his head against the bed. He was bleedin’ and I thought he might be dead. Then I seen he was breathin’, so I went to use the phone. That’s when I saw her. You see a lot workin’ in the hotel business, but that was terrible. I ran outa there and called the cops from my office.”
“And did the police come?”
“A few minutes later. An ambulance came too.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grimes. I have no further questions.”
“Mr. Nash,” Judge Rosenthal said, nodding in David’s direction.
David took a final look at the report Detective Crosby had made of his interview with Grimes, and Terry Conklin’s report of their interview. It was quiet in the courtroom, and David could hear a juror shifting in his seat and the nervous drumming of Stafford’s fingers on the wooden table.
“Just a few questions, Mr. Grimes. As I understand your testimony, you did not get a good look at the man who was driving the Mercedes while Darlene Hersch was registering.”
“That’s right.”
“And you did not get a good look at him when he ran out of the room where the murder was committed?”
Grimes nodded.
“Did you get a look at him as he drove out of the parking lot, after the murder?”
“Like I said, not a clear look.”
“Did you see his hair well enough to describe it to the jury?”
Monica had been going over her notes and listening to David’s examination with half an ear. Now she lowered her pen and concentrated. She could tell from David’s tone that something was up.
“Yeah, I seen his hair,” Grimes answered. “Just for a second, but I seen it.”
“Did the driver of the Mercedes have blond curly hair like Mr. Stafford?”
Grimes leaned forward and studied Larry Stafford.
“Could he turn around?” Grimes asked, turning toward the judge. “I only seen him from the back.”
“That’s up to Mr. Nash,” Rosenthal replied.
“Certainly,” David said, and Larry stood up and turned his back to the witness stand.
“I don’t remember it lookin’ like that,” Grimes said decisively.
“How would you describe the driver’s hair?”
“Well, like I said, I only seen it for a second, but it looked brown-colored to me, and he had one of them cuts that came down a ways.”
“Thank you. I have nothing further.”
Monica reread the police report on Grimes rapidly. There was nothing about hair color in the report. She turned to the third page and saw why. The son of a bitch was going back on his statement to the police. This was bad, because Grimes had the appearance of an honest witness. His testimony about the hair color could be crucial in a close case.
“Mr. Grimes,” Monica asked, “how well lit is the parking lot at the Raleigh?”
Grimes tilted his head back and furrowed his brow. “Not too good over by the side near Tacoma Street, but there’s plenty of light from that McDonald’s. Bothers some of the customers sometimes.”
Monica felt her stomach tighten. Damn, she’d just made it worse. She hated surprises in trial, and this was a bad one. She decided to back off on the lighting.
“Was the murderer’s car moving fast when it left the lot?”
“I’ll say. It just come whippin’ around that corner. He screeched his tires when he did that, and that’s why I looked over.”
“So you just had a brief view of him?”
“Right. Like I said, I wasn’t concentratin’ on him much. I was lookin’ up at the room.”
“Do you remember being interviewed by Ronald Crosby, a Portland police detective, on the evening of the murder?”
“Was that the fella that bought me coffee?”
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Grimes.”
“Nice fella. He even sprung for a doughnut. Not as tight as some a them cops I know.”
Someone laughed in the back of the courtroom, and the judge rapped his gavel. Monica waited for the jury’s attention to return to the witness stand.
“You never told Detective Crosby that the man had long brown hair, did you?”
“He never asked.”
“But he did ask you if there was anything about the man you could remember, did he not?”
“I don’t recollect the whole conversation.”
“Do you remember saying that the man did not make much of an impression on you and Detective Crosby asking you if you remembered his hair, eyes, or anything else about him and your answering ‘No’?”
“That sounds right. Only I was talkin’ about when the girl come in. He never asked about when the fella drove off.”
Monica looked as if she were going to ask another question, then thought better of it.
“Nothing further,” she said.
Judge Rosenthal looked at David, who merely smiled and shook his head.
“Nice going,” Larry whispered.
“That’s what you pay me for. If I do as well with the next witness, we’ll be in good shape.”
“Who’s the next witness?” Stafford asked David.
“The State calls Bertram Ortiz,” Monica said.
DIRECT EXAMINATION WASeasy for Ortiz. The questions were almost identical to the direct examination during the bail hearing, and he had gone over his answers with Monica several times. First he described the stakeout and the beige Mercedes. Then he recounted his surveillance during the drive to the motel. He told the hushed courtroom of his violent encounter with the man who had murdered Darlene Hersch, his reaction when he saw Larry Stafford in the courthouse corridor, and the results of the search at Stafford’s house. Then, as the jurors leaned forward, 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.”
