“Would you tell the jury what training you have in this field?”
Terry turned toward the jury and smiled. He was an old hand at being in the witness box and appeared to be completely relaxed.
“I received my initial training in the Air Force, then studied by correspondence through the New York Institute of Photography. For a short time, after the Air Force and before I went into police work, I owned a photo studio and worked as a cameraman for KOIN-TV.
“When I was with the Lane County Police Department, I set up their photo lab, and, since going into private practice, I have done all of the accident and special photography for several law firms in town.”
“Have you ever won any prizes for your work?”
“I’ve won several awards over the past ten years. In fact, I won the blue ribbon in two categories at the last Multnomah County Fair.”
“Did I contact you with regard to assisting me in the investigation of the Larry Stafford case?”
“Yes, Mr. Nash, you did.”
“In this capacity, did you take any photographs at the Raleigh Motel, room twenty-two?”
“I did.”
“What was your assignment with regard to these photographs?”
“Well, as I understood it from talking to you, I was to take a photograph inside the motel room where the murder occurred that would accurately portray how a person standing where the killer stood on the evening of the crime would look to a person in the position Officer Ortiz was in when he saw the murderer.”
There was a stir in the courtroom, and several of the jurors made notes on their pads.
“How did you prepare yourself for this assignment?”
“First I visited the motel room with you and got a feel for the layout and the lighting. Then I read the police reports and sat in at a hearing when Officer Ortiz drew a diagram of the positions of everyone in the room at the time of the commission of the crime.”
David pointed to the easel. “Is that the diagram?”
“Yes.”
“So you really got the information on the positions from Officer Ortiz?”
“That’s right. His statements under oath and his written report.”
“What information did you have with regard to the lighting in the motel room on June sixteenth?”
“As I understood the testimony and the report, there were no lights on when Officer Ortiz entered the room, but there was a large globe light that illuminated the landing.”
“Where was this globe light situated?”
“To the right of the door, on the outside.”
“Were there any other lights?”
“Only those in the street. Neon signs, headlights. Things like that. The side of the motel away from the office is not well lit.”
“What did you do next?”
“A few weeks after the hearing, when I had the information about the positions of the people involved, I hired an individual who is the same height as Mr. Stafford to accompany me to the Raleigh Motel. I received permission to enter the room from the manager, Mr. Grimes, and I proceeded to set up my camera at the same height Officer Ortiz would be if he was lying in the position he described. I then put the model where the murderer was supposed to be.”
“What position was that?”
“I had him stand at the door frame, leaning into the room. His body was at a slight angle, with his right leg and arm outside the door and his left leg and arm just inside the room. The model was instructed to look down toward the camera.”
“When were these pictures taken?”
“At night, about the same time as the murder.”
David approached Conklin and handed him three photographs.
“I hand you what have been marked as defendant’s exhibits number twelve, thirteen, and fourteen. Can you identify them for the jury?”
“These are three photographs taken in the motel room by me.”
“Tell the jury what they portray.”
“Okay,” Terry said, holding the first picture up to the jury. “Exhibit twelve is a picture of a man standing in the doorway of room twenty-two. This is the model. He is standing exactly as described by Officer Ortiz at the hearing.”
“Can you see the man’s face, Mr. Conklin?”
“No, sir, you cannot.”
Someone gasped and the jurors wrote furiously. Monica was straining to see the photograph.
“Your Honor, I’ve never seen these pictures,” she shouted. “I object to…”
“Yes, Mr. Nash. The jury should not see these pictures until they have been admitted into evidence. Show them to counsel, please,” Judge Rosenthal said.
David smiled. The uproar over the improper way in which he had introduced the pictures would heighten the jury’s suspense and the impact the pictures would make. He had counted on Monica’s objection, and she had not let him down.
Monica scanned the pictures. She could not believe it. With the globe lamp outside and the model’s head just inside the door, shadows obscured the face. It was impossible to make out the features. The other two photos were taken with the model standing straight up and leaning outside the door. In the last picture, with the head tilted back, you could make out some features, but not many, and the shadows still obscured most of the detail. Ortiz’s identification had been completely impeached. She turned toward David as she began to make her legal objection to the pictures and saw the smile he hid from the jury. She felt her blood rise. Then she caught Stafford out of the corner of her eye. He too was gloating.
Judge Rosenthal was ruling in favor of the admission of the pictures into evidence, and Conklin was continuing his testimony, explaining the technique he had used to produce the photographs, but Monica only half heard it. She was seething, burning. She could not let David get away with this. She was not going to let that smug son of a bitch walk out of this courtroom scot-free. He had suckered her with those pictures, but he hadn’t won yet. Monica picked up her pen and doodled the name Cyrus Johnson on her witness list.
3
David let out his belt a notch and groaned with relief. Helen Banks smiled at the compliment to her cooking and began collecting the dirty dishes.
“Why don’t you and Greg get some fresh air, while I get the coffee on?” she said, stacking the dishes on a serving cart.
“Sounds like an excellent idea,” Gregory said as he pushed away from the table. It was Saturday evening and the trial was in recess for the weekend. David had rested after Terry Conklin had finished his testimony Friday afternoon. From all accounts it looked as if victory was assured. Even Rudy, the jail guard, who rarely expressed his opinion about a case, had made a comment about Stafford’s being out soon.
As it did almost every year, the cold of autumn had given way to a week of false spring that fooled the flowers into opening to the October air and brought back pleasant memories of summer. Gregory lit up a cigar and the two friends strolled onto the terrace. The dark river was at peace, and so was David.
“What’s on the menu for Monday?” Gregory asked.
“I don’t know,” David answered as he sank into a lawn chair. “Monica said she might have some rebuttal, but I can’t imagine what it could be.”
“Maybe she’s going to have one of her investigators go out to the motel and try to get some pictures that show a face.”
“Not a chance. I had Terry’s work double-checked by two other professionals before I used it. Given those
