gliding down the path to defeat. “I’ve got to shake things up,” I say.
Kevin nods; he knows what I’m getting at and agrees. Kevin is much more conservative than I am, so if he believes that I need to shake things up, I probably should have done so already.
“What do you mean?” Laurie asks.
“It’s like when you blitz in football,” I say, and Laurie moans. “Sometimes a defense is overmatched, and it’s not the best strategy, but a blitz rattles the offense’s cage and puts a lot of pressure on. Hopefully, something good will come from that pressure. Either way, it’s better than just sitting back and letting Tucker drive down the field.”
“Exactly,” Kevin says.
“I’ve got an idea,” Laurie says. “Can we try and get through one five-minute period without you making a football reference? Can we try and intellectually elevate things a bit?”
I look at Kevin, who seems agreeable. “Sure,” I say. “Think of it in ballet terms. If everybody comes out in tutus, the audience just sits there. It’s no big deal, ’cause that’s what they expect. But dress the dancers in leather garter belts and Mickey Mouse ears, and the audience is on their toes, wondering what the hell is going on. It shakes them up.”
Kevin nods. “Or in opera, if you start off with the fat lady singing, the audience doesn’t know what to think. Is it over? The fat lady has already sung, right?”
Laurie smiles. “See? Isn’t that better? We’re on a much higher plane now.”
We adjourn early, partly because I have to think things through on my own and partly so Kevin and I can avoid whatever it is Laurie has planned for dessert. I’m not sure my stomach could handle tofu jubilee or broccoli brulee.
Willie comes over, bringing with him some paperwork that we have received from the city Animal Services department. He also brings along Sondra-in fact, they are holding hands. Since there is no automobile traffic in my living room, I have to assume he’s not helping her cross the street and that their relationship has quickly graduated from employer-employee.
Further circumstantial evidence of their romantic involvement is the fact that she is wearing an expensive watch and very expensive locket, with a large blue stone that I believe is alexandrite. I’m far from an expert on jewelry, but I once represented a client accused of stealing some uncut alexandrites, and I know how valuable they are.
Sondra has never worn the watch or locket the other times I’ve seen her. Since we’re not paying that much in salary for her work at the foundation, Willie has apparently taken some of his coffee earnings and bought her the jewelry.
“How’s the trial going?” Sondra asks.
I shrug. “Okay. Could be better.”
“You gonna win?”
Willie interrupts. “Of course, he’s gonna win. I’m standing here, aren’t I? This guy doesn’t lose.”
Sondra doesn’t look that pleased with Willie’s assessment. She and I have talked about this; she wishes me the best, but if Daniel is responsible for killing Rosalie, she wants him strapped to a table with a needle in his arm.
Willie and Sondra invite Laurie and me out with them; they’re going dancing at a club. The idea has absolutely no appeal to me, but I appreciate the invitation, so I look at my watch for an excuse. “It’s almost nine- thirty,” I say. “I need to get some sleep.”
Willie nods. “So grab a couple of hours. We’re not going out until midnight.”
I express my amazement at this, and Willie and Sondra proceed to tell me about this other world that exists out there, a world where people go out and have what they consider fun while I am in bed doing what I consider sleeping. These people seem to exist on another plane, using the resources of our planet while “normal” people like Laurie and me are tucked away with no need for them. Willie and Sondra are in the unique position of straddling both worlds, and I’m sure there is much to learn from them. Just not tonight, because I’m tired.
• • • • •
DONALD PRESCOTT SPENDS all day, every day, looking at fibers. He does this for the New Jersey State Police, and if you possess both a desire to be a cop and a self-preservation instinct, it’s a good job to have. There is even less chance that Prescott will get shot at than the guy who draws the chalk outlines around bodies.
Tucker has called Prescott to testify to his analysis of the fibers on the scarf used to strangle Linda Padilla, which was found with her severed hands in the trunk of Daniel’s car. The police have even located a sales receipt from a store which shows that Daniel bought that exact scarf, or one just like it.
Tucker holds up the scarf, which has been submitted into evidence. “Are these fibers distinctive?” Tucker asks.
“I’m not sure how you define ‘distinctive,’” Prescott answers. “But they’re not very common. The scarf is expensive, and as you can see, the color is rather unique.”
Tucker looks really interested, as if he’s hanging on every word Prescott says. The uninformed, a group that no doubt includes the jury, might not realize that they’ve rehearsed this testimony at least three times.
“Did you have occasion to examine any clothing belonging to the defendant?“ Tucker asks.
“Yes. I was sent the clothing he was wearing the night of the murder.”
“Did it contain any fibers?” Tucker asks.
Prescott smiles slightly at the imprecise question. “Many. Fibers are everywhere, on virtually everything. If you’re asking if fibers consistent with the scarf were on his clothing, the answer is yes.”
Tucker smiles. “Thank you, that’s exactly what I was asking. Were there many such fibers consistent with the scarf or just a few?”
“Many,” Prescott says. “He had recently handled that scarf, or a garment just like it. But most likely that one.”
“Why do you say that?” Tucker asks.
“Because the fibers on his clothing had blood on them. Linda Padilla’s blood.”
Tucker turns the witness over to me, and every head in the courtroom swivels toward me, challenging me to deal with this disaster.
“Detective Prescott, was my client standing, sitting, or lying down when he touched this scarf?”
“I have no way of knowing that,” he answers truthfully.
“Was he conscious or unconscious?”
“Again, I can’t really answer that.”
I nod. “Could Ms. Padilla have already been dead when he touched it?”
“I suppose it’s possible. It’s not within the scope of my examination,” he concedes.
“Does the scope of your examination allow you to tell whether anyone else besides my client and the victim touched the scarf on the day of the murder?”
“No, it does not,” he answers.
“So if I can present a hypothetical, based on the scope of your examination and your testimony here today, it’s possible that Mr. Cummings was lying down, unconscious, with Ms. Padilla already dead, when a third party rubbed the scarf on him?”
Prescott’s expression is pained; he knows that Tucker will have him for lunch if he agrees to this. “I have seen nothing to substantiate that. Absolutely nothing.”
“Do you have anything that would eliminate it as a possibility?”
“Logic,” he says, a comeback so good I would like to wrap the scarf around his neck.
“Detective Prescott, I based the hypothetical on your testimony. Would you like to go back over that testimony so you can adjust your answers? Or were you testifying accurately and truthfully the first time?”
He looks at me with undisguised disdain, but when he speaks, his voice is quiet and controlled. “Scientifically, the hypothetical you present is possible. Not in any way likely, but possible.”
“Thank you,” I say with a small sigh, conveying to the jury that it took a lot of effort, but the truth finally came out. “Detective Prescott,” I say, “are you familiar with the name Dominic Petrone?”
The mere mention of Petrone’s name sends a shock wave through the gallery, and that jolt sends Tucker
