To speak for the dead

My cross-examination was short.

'Deputy Roundtree, did Dr. Salisbury offer any resistance to your serving the warrant?'

'No.'

'Was he polite?'

'Yes.'

'When you pulled the valise from the drawer, what did he say?'

'Something like, 'What the hell?' '

'Anything else?'

'Best I remember, T can't believe she'd do this.' Something like that.'

'Did he say who the she was?'

'Not that I recall.'

Jennifer Logan called the lab technician who had tested the liquid in the vial. She asked for his findings.

'Sucks,' he said.

She reddened. 'Beg your pardon?'

'Sucks. Succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant used in surgery. Sodium pentothal puts the patient to sleep, succinylcholine relaxes the muscles and helps the anesthesiologist intubate the patient, get the tube down the trachea. The lungs stop working, the patient breathes on a respirator.'

'And if there's no respirator?'

'The patient dies.'

'A strong drug?'

'Very strong. Sort of synthetic curare. You know, the poison the Indians in South America make from plants. They dip their arrows in it. Ugly way to die.'

'Your witness,' Jennifer Logan said.

'No questions,' I said, visions of poison-tipped arrows sailing across my mind.

'The state calls Dr. Hilton MacKenzie,' Abe Socolow announced. The jurors straightened, Abe's appearance signifying an important witness.

Dr. MacKenzie was tall and ramrod straight with fine features and a forelock of straight black hair that fell into his eyes. He was not yet forty and gave the impression that he grew up with all the advantages of money, family, and education. He had a habit of jutting his fine patrician chin toward the heavens, looking down over his reading glasses, and speaking in a tone most of us reserve for pets not yet housebroken. He lacked nothing except humility.

Socolow ran through his credentials. Penn undergraduate, Harvard Medical School, internship at New York Hospital, residency at Mass General, fellowships in pathology, the whole bit. Into public service as an assistant ME in Miami, then chief canoemaker. My terminology, not his. I would ask him on cross who trained him. Charles W. Riggs, of course. Let their witness polish my witness's silverware.

'Dr. MacKenzie,' Abe Socolow said, his voice heavy with respect, 'let me show you what has been marked Plaintiff's Exhibit C for identification and ask you to identify it.'

MacKenzie removed his reading glasses from a breast pocket, ceremoniously put them on, and studied the document. 'It's our toxicology report on certain brain and liver samples from Philip Corrigan's body.'

'Objection,' I said, popping up, reminding the jury of my presence. 'Improper predicate. No showing of chain of custody of the alleged samples.'

Socolow looked perplexed. He asked if we could approach the bench. Judge Crane leaned to one side, away from the jury, and we huddled there, exchanging whispers.

'Judge,' Socolow said, 'I'd assumed Jake would stipulate to chain of custody to save one of his witnesses some embarrassment. These samples were in the possession of Dr. Charles Riggs, and my sense of propriety does not allow me to say on the record where he got them.'

Judge Crane looked my way. I looked back. 'This is a capital case, Judge, and I'm not going to stipulate to the kind of sandwiches you serve the jury. Doc Riggs will understand.'

The judge shrugged. 'Abe, you gotta call Riggs. I'll let you get this in now, subject to tying it up with Riggs's testimony.'

That was okay with me. I wanted Charlie on the stand as much as possible. Make him their witness for purpose of chain of custody. Let the state vouch for his credibility before I call him.

Socolow went through it with MacKenzie, the finding of succinic acid and choline-two of the components of succinylcholine-in Corrigan's liver and brain. The buttock dissection showed a needle track. His expert opinion on cause of death, cardiac arrest following the injection of succinylcholine. The aneurysm? In the throes of death, quite possibly the stress on the system caused the aorta to rupture. But the instigating cause, succinylcholine, no doubt about it. The whole dance took ten minutes. Socolow moved to admit the toxicological report into evidence, and the judge accepted it, subject to Charlie Riggs tying up chain of custody. Then it was my turn.

I grabbed the report and pretended to read it, furrowing my brow.

'Now, Dr. Blumberg-'

'Dr. MacKenzie,' he corrected me.

'Oh,' I said, feigning surprise, 'there must be some mistake. A Dr. Blumberg signed this report.'

Hilton MacKenzie smeared me with his exasperated look. 'Milton Blumberg is the toxicologist who analyzed the tissue samples.'

'Oh,' I said again, looking around the courtroom for the toxicologist.

'Blumberg works under my supervision and I am responsible for his actions,' MacKenzie piped up, getting the drift.

I turned toward the judge. 'Your Honor, I move to strike all of Dr. MacKenzie's direct testimony as hearsay. Further, he's not capable of responding to my cross-examination of the report, so it too must be stricken.'

Before Socolow could rise and offer me Blumberg, a guy I didn't want, MacKenzie chimed in, 'Your Honor, I am inti-mateiy familiar with toxicology methods and the preparation of this report based on the chromatography tests.'

Ah, vanity.

'Very well,' I said, 'as long as we have the expert here, objection withdrawn.'

He settled back into his chair. Before he could get too comfortable, I asked, 'How much succinic acid was found in the brain?'

'How much?' he repeated.

'Yes, your report-Milton Blumberg's report-says there was succinic acid in the brain. How much?'

He seemed startled. 'I don't know,' he said.

'In the liver?'

'I don't know. It doesn't matter-'

'And how much choline?'

'Objection!' Socolow stomped toward the bench. 'Judge, he's not letting the witness finish his answer.'

The judge looked toward the press gallery. Helen Buch-man from the Herald was nodding. Or maybe just chewing her gum. No matter. 'Sustained. Doctor, you were say-ing…'

MacKenzie was silent. Gathering his thoughts. He shook his head, confused. 'We didn't measure the amount.'

My face registered shock. I spun on my heel in front of the jury box and waved the toxicology report at the witness, a toreador taunting the bull. 'So it could have been ten milligrams, twenty milligrams, a quart, a gallon?'

'You don't understand,' Dr. MacKenzie said, scowling. Exasperated.

'I'm sure I don't. That's why I ask questions. Now, how much choline was found in the brain tissue?' 'I don't know. Again, we didn't test for amount, only presence. It was a qualitative test, not a quantitative one.'

Fancy doctor words.

'Then how did you differentiate the substances you allegedly found from the choline and succinic acid already there?'

The doctor stared at me.

I moved closer to the witness stand. 'Those two substances are normally present in the body, correct?'

'Yes, of course.'