“Yes, counsel, that is correct.”
“Who else was involved in this agreement?”
“Other people will testify to this. There were a number of drug kingpins from Kandahar Province in Afghanistan who were involved in the financing of the mission. I do not know their names, but there were a few of them.”
“Now of all of the people you mentioned, did any of them inculpate Leon Lestage?”
“Implicate? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, Inspector. Did any of these conspirators that you mentioned name Leon Lestage as one of the group?”
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.”
Dana looked at her computer screen and the questions continued to scroll across the page. Turbee wasn’t half bad.
“Well, then, what evidence do you have that Leon Lestage was a part of this agreement?”
“It’s mostly out of my bailiwick, and there will be other people who will testify to this, but there were a fair number of emails directed to Leon’s computer. We have emails from a drug lord in Afghanistan and we have a number of emails from the Los Angeles cell. Ray, Hank, Sam, and Jimmy sent him dozens of emails as they were waiting for the Semtex to come through the mine and into the US.”
“You know that emails can be cooked up, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“A virus can be introduced into the computer and make it appear that an email was sent when it wasn’t. If you actually had possession of the computer, you could load it up with all manner of emails that were apparently, but not actually, sent.”
“Yes, I suppose that is true.”
“In fact, I intend to call a witness who will testify in this courtroom that those emails were falsely planted, to create a false trail.”
“Oh are you now?” Cynicism registered on Indy’s face and in the cadence of his answer.
“Yes, I am. Now, if the emails are tossed as being unreliable, what kind of case do you have left?”
Sheff was on his feet and was going to object on the bases of speculation, calling for a conclusion of law, hearsay, too, if you looked hard enough. But as sometimes will happen even in the most perfectly choreographed trial, a witness—even an experienced witness—can blurt something out and that thing can turn into a lynchpin for the defense.
“Not much of one, I’m afraid.”
Then the objections came, and were allowed, and the jury was instructed to ignore Indy’s blurt. This, of course, promptly piqued the jury’s interest. One even wrote down, “No emails, no case.”
“I am now showing you Crown Exhibit 16.” Dana reached for a large pencil drawing lying on the exhibit table. It was a two-by-three-foot poster containing sketches that had been prepared by a forensic artist in Los Angeles.
“Do you know how this was prepared?”
“Yes. You heard from my colleague, Corporal Catherine Gray, last week. She became a passenger in the box van with the Semtex, and ended up outside a building on Wahweap Bay, which is part of the Lake Powell Reservoir, created by the Glen Canyon Dam. She testified that she saw eight people working there, packing the Semtex into some kind of strange casing. These are the sketches that were produced.”
“Were there ever names attached to the four older men, the ones that are drawn here?”
“Yes, actually, there were. It is always difficult to ID someone from a forensic sketch, but the top figure is apparently a gentleman by the name of Kumar. Kumar Hanaman. An engineer from Pakistan who owned companies in Karachi and California. Among other things, they built small commercial submarines. We do not know who the other three are.”
“And why don’t you add these four to the list of conspirators? I mean, they were there, directing the proceedings, packing the Semtex into some kind of device. Why are they not part of the list?”
“Ma’am, we have no idea who they are. We are not even completely certain that the fourth is called Kumar. They may have been directing events; we cannot link those to anyone.”
“Okay. Now have a close look at those four sketches, and have a close look at my client. In fact, I will put these sketches up by the dock. Now, do you agree that none of these people look even remotely like my client?” “Doesn’t appear so,” said Indy quietly.
Dana glanced at the large clock hanging on the rear wall of the courtroom. It was approaching 12:30. Turbee had stopped feeding her questions. “Can we adjourn for lunch, m’lord?”
“When it’s 12:30. You have half an hour left.”
Dana spent five minutes shuffling through her notes. Eventually McSheffrey got to his feet and tried to force the issue.
“Well, Judge, it sounds like my learned friend here has reached the end of her cross-examination. We should finish, so that this busy officer can come off the stand and get on with his life.”
“Aptly spoken,” nodded Judge Mordecai. “It sounds like you’re done, Ms. Wittenberg. So let’s push on and we’ll take the noon adjournment at the usual time. Carry on.”
Dana’s mind again went completely blank, and she had no idea where to go next. After another thirty seconds of silence she was about to fall on her sword when the rear door of the courtroom opened and there was Lee Penn-Garrett, in his wheelchair, with a little stack of paper in his lap. Penn-Garrett motioned to one of the sheriffs to wheel him down to the counsel table. Judge Mordecai saw him and inwardly groaned. More mischief on the way.
The ancient lawyer tossed a couple of documents on the prosecutor’s side, and was going to drop the documents on Dana’s side, but at the last minute he saw the overturned water glass, the mass of Kleenex, and the small lake in which Dana’s notes were floating. He simply handed the documents to Dana and parked.
Dana looked at them, read them over, read them over again, and handed two
