what each was going to say if they’d reduced their presentations to pantomime.
“All right,” he said, once Tooley had finished a brief rebuttal, “this has been an interesting exercise, although my wife would probably tell you it shows what’s wrong with me, that I enjoyed passing a Sunday afternoon thinking about the essential nature of a subpoena.” Everyone in the courtroom was chuckling. Judge Lands was rarely this expansive.
“To state what we all know, a subpoena is a command from the court to produce evidence for the purpose of a lawsuit. In that sense, Mr. Tooley, the evidence gathered doesn’t belong to the party who requested it. Legal title to that property belongs to whoever produced it in the first place to the court, or, in a case like this, to law- enforcement authorities. The court-or the police-borrows that material, as it were, for the purpose of the proceeding. When that case is final and fully exhausted, the parties to the suit have no further right to the property in question, unless it happened to have been theirs in the first place.
“Now, I have made it clear that Senator Gianis is going to get to exercise his right to end this lawsuit today. But there are a couple of preliminary questions in deciding the fate of these subpoenas. The first is whether the evidence ought to be preserved for the sake of any other legal proceeding. Let me direct a question to the representatives of the prosecuting attorney’s office from Greenwood County and the attorney general.” Both women rose. “Are there any pending investigations in your office related to this crime?” The judge was asking delicately if either office had reopened the investigation of Dita’s murder to consider Paul’s role.
“None,” said the assistant AG. The attorney general of the state, Muriel Wynn, was an old friend of Paul’s and a strong political supporter. She’d been unequivocal when the press had asked about Hal’s suit, referring to it as ‘drivel.’
“None at this time,” said the PA from Greenwood, being a tad more lawyerly. They were Republicans out there, but they would not be naturally attracted to thinking they’d missed something a quarter of a century ago. Prosecutors, like everybody else, liked to believe they’d done a good job to start.
On the square bench, which reminded Evon of the boxy sedans of the 1950s, Judge Lands made notes. He had the full attention of the big room, which had been rendered silent because no one seemed to understand exactly what he was thinking.
“Next question. Is either of Mr. Kronon’s parents still alive?”
Tooley’s mouth fell ajar before he answered no.
“And who was the residual heir to their personal property, after satisfaction of specific bequests?” asked Judge Lands.
Mel, a criminal lawyer and litigator by training, looked as stunned by this detour into probate law as he would have if the judge had propounded questions about the chemical composition of distant stars. He finally turned to Hal, who stood up at counsel table and tried to close his suit coat as he’d watched the lawyers do. It didn’t quite fit that way and so he ended up holding it closed with one hand.
“Me,” said Hal.
“No other living children?”
“No, sir.”
“And if you know, Mr. Kronon, who was your sister’s heir? Was that you, too, or your parents?”
“No, my dad had set up trusts, usual estate planning stuff. Everything of Dita’s became mine.”
Lands again scribbled notes.
“Fine then, I’m prepared to rule. All of Mr. Kronon’s subpoenas may be enforced, but only to the extent they pertain to evidence originally obtained within the four walls or grounds of Zeus Kronon’s house. That would include evidence taken from the body of the decedent, Dita Kronon. I have reached this conclusion because the law is very clear that even today Mr. Kronon would have the right to appear in the original criminal case against Cass Gianis in Greenwood County and make a motion requiring all this property to be returned to him. As a result, I’ve determined that I will not be abusing my discretion by ordering that property turned over to him now.
“But that, Mr. Tooley, is as far as you may go. The subpoenas directed to both of the Misters Gianis are quashed. No DNA, no more fingerprints.”
“What about the fingerprint card Greenwood County just sent to Dr. Dickerman?” asked Mel. “Can we have that?”
“Nope,” said the judge. “I was about to get to that. The fingerprint lifts from the house are encompassed by my ruling, and Dr. Dickerman should turn those over to Mr. Kronon. The fingerprints Senator Gianis gave for purpose of this lawsuit belong to him and should be returned forthwith. The fingerprint card of Cass Gianis belongs to Greenwood County, since the county is allowed by law to maintain a database of fingerprints for future criminal investigations. Cass Gianis’s blood will be returned to him, after proper notice to Kindle County, which is the only prosecutor’s office for fifty miles with no legal representative here at the moment.”
Everybody in the courtroom howled at the small joke. Evon had noticed long ago that any effort at humor somehow seemed side-splitting when it came from the bench.
“And with that, Mr. Horgan, Senator Gianis’s motion for voluntary nonsuit is granted and this case is dismissed. Good day, all of you, and thank you for your presence.”
The judge left the bench.
Tooley motioned Tim to come forward to receive the evidence the judge had just ruled belonged to Hal. Tim signed the receipts and marked the envelopes and containers with his initials and the date and time. Sandy Stern had caught sight of Tim doing this and stepped over to pay his respects.
“This was the finest detective any of us ever saw,” Stern told Evon, who’d come forward with Tim to help him keep everything straight. She still wasn’t convinced Stern knew who she was.
“So I’ve heard.”
“That’s why old folks hang on,” Tim told them both. “To hear all those compliments they didn’t deserve in the first place.”
All three were still laughing when Mel Tooley approached Stern and took him by the elbow.
“What the hell was that?” Mel asked.
Stern smiled in his serene, enigmatic fashion.
“Well,” said Stern, “the judge is supposed to be the smartest person in the room. It’s satisfying when it actually happens, no?”
Tooley did not appear convinced.
For once Mel had no trouble convincing Hal not to speak to the press, since he appeared, just like Evon, utterly befuddled. Along with Hal, Tim and Mel and Evon squeezed into Hal’s Bentley to go back to ZP. Tim kept all the evidence in his lap. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to take it to Dr. Yavem or not.
“Did we just win or did we just lose?” Hal asked as soon as Delman, the driver, closed the door, which shut with the padded sound of a jewelry case.
“You just watched the baby get divided,” said Mel. He clearly lacked Stern’s appreciation for the judge’s performance.
“I think we may be OK,” Evon said. She’d been thinking about all of this for some minutes.
“Really?” Hal was eager for any good news.
“The idea was to do the DNA testing, right? We have the blood evidence from the house, right, from the French door? That’s clearly the murderer’s.”
“But we don’t have the DNA from either brother,” Mel said.
“We got the fingerprint lifts from the house. Lots of them were identified as Cass’s. You can extract DNA from old fingerprints.”
“You can?” Hal was delighted to hear it.
“It’s not for sure,” Evon said, “but we can try. I mean, Yavem can. I know it’s been done. It only takes a speck. With that many prints, he’s bound to get something.”
“What about Paul?” Mel asked. “Dickerman has to give back his fingerprints.”
“You can get DNA off the bone from a chicken wing somebody ate. Or a cigarette they smoked. If Tim follows Paul around for a couple of days, I’ll bet he can pick up something.”
“Great,” said Tim, who’d said nothing to this point. “Paul knows who I am. Our paths have been crossing since Cass and him went to grade school with Demetra. And he’s seen me in court. They’ll throw my butt out wherever I turn up.”
“Maybe not,” Evon said. “You’re the one who’s always telling me old men are invisible. And if they throw you
