removed the skullcap. I noted lacerations in the dura, both subdural and arachnoid. Additionally, there were multiple hemorrhages and disruption of the brain tissue. Near the exit wound, there were fractures radiating throughout the skull.”
“ At this point what had you concluded?”
“ That a projectile had entered Mr. Cimarron’s right ear and exited the temporal bone of the skull above the left ear.”
“ Then what did you do?”
“ I removed the brain and did the usual.”
Easy for her to say.
“ Yes, Doctor, and what was that?”
“ Well, I examined the brain, of course. It was quite sodden with blood. I weighed it and replaced it in the skull.”
McBain ran through a series of photographs, trying to get Cimarron’s bloody brain on display in front of the jury. Patterson objected, and the judge, bless his heart, sustained on the ground he’d already let in a police photo of Cimarron lying in a pool of blood, and his rule was one gory photograph per trial.
Dr. Chin identified a nail in a little Baggie that the police had given her. It had been removed from a saddle and had been admitted into evidence when the crime scene technician testified. Dr. Chin’s tests revealed the presence of Cimarron’s blood, tiny fragments of his skull, and chunks of his gray matter, though it actually looked tan. She concluded that the nail had, in fact, been the projectile.
“ What did you do next?”
“ I completed an autopsy of the entire body.”
“ Any other abnormalities?”
“ Some coronary atherosclerosis, but that’s not what killed him.”
“ And what did kill Mr. Cimarron, Dr. Chin?”
“ A three-inch steel nail fired from a power tool directly into and through Mr. Cimarron’s brain.”
“ This nail?” McBain asked, holding up state’s exhibit seventeen.
“ It would certainly appear so.”
“ To a reasonable medical certainty?”
“ Yes, in my opinion, to a reasonable medical certainty.”
Patterson was brief. There was little to be gained, and it doesn’t do you any good to get whacked twice.
“ Dr. Chin, other than what you have described, were there any other injuries to the head?”
She put on a pair of glasses that dangled from a chain around her neck and took a moment to review the autopsy report.
“ On the back of the skull, there was swelling that was evidence of trauma with a blunt object.”
“ Based on your examination, can you tell us what caused that trauma?”
“ An object made of wood. We removed several splinters that were embedded in Mr. Cimarron’s hair and scalp.”
“ Can you tell us the severity of the blow?”
“ Not precisely.”
“ Well, can you tell us whether the blow was severe enough to fracture Mr. Cimarron’s skull?”
“ The skull fracture I described radiated from the site of the exit wound and was caused by the projectile. The blow to the back of the head did not cause it.”
“ Would the blow to the back of the head have been sufficient to render Mr. Cimarron unconscious?”
Dr. Chin closed her eyes and thought about it. “It could have, but that is not to say that it did.”
“ I understand,” Patterson said, nodding.
I was glad someone did.
“ Anything further?” Judge Witherspoon asked. “The jury looks hungry.”
Me too. Autopsies do that to a guy.
Patterson allowed as how he was finished. McBain had no redirect examination, and everybody gathered up their coats, scarves, and gloves and left for the lunch recess.
Edie Laquer was thirty-eight, suntanned, and athletic. She worked as an assistant vice president at Southern Federal in downtown Miami. Her job this week was to fly to Houston on
Continental, change planes, fly to Denver, take a commuter flight to Aspen, get a cab to the Little Nell Hotel at the foot of Aspen Mountain and check into a four-hundred-dollar-a-night room. The next day, she had eggs and a bagel at sunrise, rode the lift to the top of the mountain and skied until noon, then changed clothes, walked down Spring Street, past Le Tub, a bicycle shop, Wienerstube German restaurant, past Hyman Avenue and Hopkins to Main Street, where she turned left and continued two blocks to the courthouse. Edie Laquer carried a thin file of documents to the second floor, where she spent approximately ninety seconds on the witness stand authenticating my banking records. Whatever the glories of our justice system, efficiency is not among them.
Judge Witherspoon admitted the records into evidence, so the jurors would have documents showing that seventy-five thousand dollars was deposited into my account. When I testified, you could be sure the prosecutor would have a few questions about the transaction.
Edie Laquer left the courthouse, and the wheels of justice continued to turn. Housekeeping is what lawyers call it. The official seal of the secretary of state of Florida was emblazoned on the certificate of incorporation of Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc. The shareholders’ agreement also came into evidence, as well as the prospectus, and various books and records.
As a case builds, you get the drift of where the state is going. The prosecutor was taking no chances on the issue of motive. It wasn’t just the lust for Cimarron’s woman that drove this brutal man. It was greed for Cimarron’s money, too. Already, I was imagining McBain’s cross-examination.
So, Mr. Lassiter, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you embezzle seventy-Jive thousand dollars from Mr. Cimarron’s company and thereafter stalk Ms. Baroso to Colorado where she was visiting him, trespass on his property at night, sexually assault Ms. Baroso, then viciously attack Mr. Cimarron, finally killing him by shooting a steel nail through his brain?
Yes, it’s true! All of it! And not only that, I also picked protected wildflowers on state-owned lands.
My mind does that in trial sometimes, takes flight on winged journeys. Now, everything seemed so ludicrous it would be funny if it weren’t so damn real. What had happened? A few months ago, I was a moderately successful trial lawyer doing his best in an imperfect world. Now, I was caught up in…what did Patterson call it last night? A Kafkaesque tragedy.
Right. One of the few books I read in law school that wasn’t filled with legal citations and jurisprudential mumbo jumbo was The Trial. To this day, I can remember the first line. “Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K., for without having done anything wrong, he was arrested one fine morning.”
Hey, Joseph K., this is Jacob L.
Me too.
CHAPTER 24
“ How long have you known the defendant?” Mark McBain asked.
“ Years,” Abe Socolow said. “Ever since he started practicing law. He was an assistant public defender, and I was an assistant state attorney.”
“ You know him well?”
“ Yes.”
“ Both in and out of court?”
