without incident. It was no surprise that both Larry and Matt had been shot at close range with Larry's gun and had died almost instantly from the wounds. Freeman could have stipulated to most of what Strout had to say, but he held onto a small hope that once again the doctor would put some spin on his testimony that might cast doubt on the essential and undisputed facts. He did not.
There was no point in boring the jury. Freeman had been willing to stipulate to the validity of the forensics report identifying Larry's gun as the murder weapon. But on the matter of fingerprints, he had a few thoughts.
The witness was the police department's expert. Aja Farek, an attractive Pakistani woman of perhaps thirty- five. Powell had elicited from her the testimony that Jennifer's fingerprints had been on both the brass bullet casings and clip that held them.
Freeman shuffled to center stage. 'Ms. Farek, did you find any fingerprints at all on the outside of the gun? – the barrel, the grip, anyplace like that?'
'No. Except the person's who found the gun, of course.'
'The person who found the gun? Who was that?'
Ms. Farek consulted some notes. 'His name is Sid Parmentier. He's the man who found the gun in the dumpster, I believe.'
'The dumpster? What dumpster?' Freeman knew all about the dumpster. Still, he raised his eyebrows, including the jury in his shock at this surprising new development.
Powell stood up. 'Your Honor, the People will be calling Mr. Parmentier about his discovery of the murder weapon. Ms. Farek is a fingerprint expert.'
Villars nodded, her face a blank. 'Stick to the point, Mr. Freeman.'
'All right. Fingerprints.' Freeman again included the jury, this time in his disappointment. He guessed that they, too, would have to wait to find out what they all wanted to know about the dumpster. Well, it wasn't his fault. He was trying to help them but the judge and prosecutor weren't cooperating. Back at the witness, he was gentleness itself. 'How long do fingerprints last, Ms. Farek?'
The witness frowned. 'They can last a long time.'
'A long time? A month? A year?'
'Yes. Easily.'
'And how old were the fingerprints of Jennifer Witt that you found on the casings and the clip?'
'I don't know. There's no way to tell that.'
'You can't test them for residual dryness, anything like that?'
'No. Fingerprints are oil-based. They don't get dry in that sense.'
'So she could have handled those bullets and the clip at almost any time?'
'Yes.'
'Not necessarily on the day of the shooting or anywhere near it?'
Powell raised himself from his chair again. 'She's already answered that, Your Honor.'
Freeman piped right up. 'So she has.' Beaming all around, as if he'd made a point he'd been laboring over for weeks. 'No further questions.'
Despite the lead-in, Sid Parmentier, the man who had found the gun, had nothing either new or startling to say about the gun or the dumpster. Nevertheless, it was not in Freeman's nature to pass on even neutral testimony. He must have felt he had already used up his quota for the day by not cross-examining Strout, because he jumped up ready to go when Powell had finished.
Mr. Parmentier was heavy-set, with a Neanderthal-like hairline. His black sports coat was shiny. His over- starched white shirt was too tight, and, evidently, so was the black tie he constantly tugged at.
Freeman, loving a man who shared his sartorial tastes, stood close to the witness box, hands in pockets, relaxed. 'At any time, sir, did you see the defendant, Jennifer Witt' – he pointed for effect – 'at or near this dumpster?'
'No.'
'Did you see her throw anything into it?'
Powell raised a hand. 'Asked and answered, Your Honor.'
Villars sustained him, but Freeman hadn't had his say yet, or he had another card to play. Hardy suspected the latter. 'Your Honor, it bears repeating.'
'I'm sure the jury heard it the first time, Mr. Freeman. If Mr. Parmentier didn't see Mrs. Witt at or near this dumpster, then it follows, doesn't it, that he didn't see her throw anything into it?'
Silently, apparently deep in thought, Freeman nodded. He half-turned around to the defense table, thought some more, then gave the jury a look.
Villars wasn't having it. 'Mr. Freeman, do you want to excuse the witness? Let's stop these histrionics.'
Contrite, sincere, Freeman apologized – lost in thought, as though he'd forgotten where he was for the moment. 'It just occurred to me, Your Honor, that this testimony here falls into the same category as that you ruled on during the earlier part of this trial.'
No one in the courtroom – not Hardy, not Powell, not the jury or Villars – knew where he was going, and he took the opportunity he had created to push forward uninterrupted. 'We've got a gun in a dumpster, just like we had a hypodermic needle in a leg years earlier.' Freeman turned directly to the jury, suddenly raising his voice, suddenly furious. 'You see what he's doing, don't you? Mr. Powell keeps leaving out any agent who delivers these objects to their destinations. He wants you to assume that it's Jennifer Witt and he can't do that.'
Bam bam bam.
Villars sounded angry: 'Mr. Freeman, get hold of yourself. You don't address the jury like that. The reporter will strike those last remarks.'
But Freeman kept his voice up, indignant, outraged. 'Your Honor, my client's life is at stake here, and there's no evidence whatsoever that Jennifer Witt even held this gun that somehow got into the dumpster.'
'Your Honor!' Powell had come around his table into the forum of the courtroom. 'Her fingerprints were on the weapon.'
Villars used her gavel again. 'Sit down, Mr. Powell, we're not arguing this right now.' She pointed a finger. 'You, Mr. Freeman, are out of order. Are you finished with this witness or not?'
'I am outraged-'
Now Villars slammed the gavel, the sound echoing in the wide, high room. Next to Hardy, Jennifer jumped.
'Anything but a yes or no and you'll go to jail, Mr. Freeman.'
Suddenly Freeman got himself back under control. He nodded, swallowed hard. 'Yes, Your Honor.'
'Yes, what?'
'Yes, I'm through with this witness.'
The judge was still holding her gavel, ready to crack it down again. But the moment had passed, Powell was back in his seat, Freeman was returning to his.
Villars perused the room from her bench. With no one else to talk to, she looked down on Mr. Parmentier. 'The witness may be excused,' she said. 'We're going to take a short recess.'
'They're hating you,' Jennifer said.
Freeman was walking around by the window, looking out, then back, pleased with himself. He, Hardy and Jennifer had retired for the recess to their semi-private conference room behind the bailiff's area.
'I don't think the jury is hating him,' Hardy said.
'They love me,' Freeman declared.
'But Mr. Powell was right.' Jennifer was sitting on the desk, hands and feet crossed. 'There was something connecting me and that gun – it was mine and Larry's – even if I didn’t put it in that dumpster. It wasn't the same as the needle.'
'It doesn't matter,' Freeman said. 'After what the judge did with Ned, every person on that jury is going to
