maybe four days’ worth of witnesses still to call, and then it’s our turn to present our case, such as it is.
I believe in being completely honest with my clients, except when I think it is in their best interest to conceal things or flat-out lie to them. My moral compass pretty much always points south.
But in Noah’s case there’s no reason not to be straight, so in our daily meeting before court I lay things out as best I can. As he always does, he listens respectfully, with no apparent emotion, and then asks intelligent questions when I finish.
Once I’ve answered everything completely, if not to either of our satisfactions, he says, “It’s funny in a way; the longer this has gone on, the more I’ve believed in my own innocence. And the more I’ve wanted to win.”
“That’s only natural,” I say.
He nods. “I suppose. But there was something very comforting in not caring. The worst had happened; that was as bad as it was going to get.”
I know exactly what he’s saying, and I’m feeling very guilty about it. I gave him a reason to hope, I gave him actual hope, and to this point I’m not delivering on it. I’ve built him up for a fall, and we both know it.
But he’s going to try and let me down easy. “On the other hand, Andy, the relief that I feel that I didn’t kill those people makes anything that happens worthwhile. I had to live with that horror for a long time, but it’s gone. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t hate myself.”
I just nod my understanding.
“Instead I hate you,” he says, and laughs to let me know he’s kidding.
Before we head into court, Noah tells me that he heard from Becky and Adam this morning, and that they’re doing well.
“She wanted me to ask you if she can come back to attend any of the trial,” he says. “She wants to support me, and she wants the jury to see her supporting me.”
It’s actually a good point, and one I’ve thought about. The jury may be wondering why she’s not here, and I’m going to answer that question for them in our case.
“But I told her no,” Noah says. “I want her where it’s safe, and I sure don’t want her here when the jury tells us their verdict.”
The truth is, I’m not that anxious to be here for that either.
Dylan doesn’t have much more to say, so he’s going to keep saying it.
His first witness today is Randall Henderson, a forensic scientist with the New Jersey State Police. He is the person who did the original testing on the paint can in the days after the fire, and whose work has since been confirmed by the FBI’s lab.
If I play my cards right, he will be the only witness today. One of the jurors has a doctor’s appointment that has been deemed necessary, so court will not be in session this afternoon. Since it’s Friday, that will give me two and half days out of this courtroom, which will feel like a three-month world cruise.
Henderson is a very competent professional, and there is little doubt that his testing was done correctly. Though I made the FBI scientist look bad on cross-examination, the fact that the test results of both labs were identical makes it impossible to effectively challenge the results. They know that, Dylan and I know that, and the jury sure as hell knows it.
Dylan does me a favor by dragging out his testimony for two hours. I just have to keep Henderson on the stand for a few more minutes, and it’s hello, weekend.
“Mr. Henderson, in examining the can, did you weigh it?”
“No, there was no reason to, not for my purposes.”
I take the can and ask De Luca if I can hand it to him. When he says that I can, I ask Henderson to hold it and guess its weight. “Maybe six pounds,” he says.
“And it’s empty?”
“Yes.”
I walk back to the defense table, and Hike hands me the second can, which I give to him. “What about this one, which is now two-thirds filled with liquid?”
Henderson is a pretty big guy, maybe six feet, a hundred and eighty pounds, and he has no trouble lifting it. “I don’t know… fifteen pounds.”
“I weighed it earlier, and it totaled thirteen and a half pounds. Does that seem about right?”
“I would think so,” he says.
“There was earlier testimony that the amount of flammable liquid used would have required between four and five of those cans. That would mean between fifty-four and sixty-seven pounds, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Would it not be incredibly difficult to carry four or five of these rather unwieldy cans, weighing sixty or so pounds?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
I receive permission from De Luca to ask him to step down from the witness stand. Hike reaches under the table and starts handing me additional cans, one at a time. I pretend that I’m having a little difficulty carrying them, and I make four trips over to Henderson, each time carrying one can.
“Mr. Henderson, each of these cans is identical to the original, wouldn’t you say?”
“They look the same,” is his grudging reply.
“And they all are filled with fluid, and each weighs thirteen and a half pounds. You don’t have a bad back, or anything like that, do you?”
“No,” he says.
“Great. Then would you please carry them to the back of the courtroom? All at once, please.”
Dylan stands. “Your Honor, please…”
De Luca stares him down. “Your Honor, please?” he mimics. “Is that an official objection?”
De Luca instructs Henderson to carry the cans as I asked, providing he is not afraid he will injure himself. It’s a fairly impossible task, because there is no way two hands can grip all the various handles at the same time.
Henderson gives it his best try, and much to my delight drops one of the cans after walking only a few feet.
“Pretty tough, huh?” I ask. “And remember, this fire was set on the third floor, so these cans were carried up the steps.”
“It’s difficult, but not impossible,” Henderson says.
“You want to try it again? We’ve got time.”
He doesn’t want to, so I let him get back onto the stand.
“Mr. Henderson, let’s say for argument’s sake, all evidence to the contrary, that one person could do what you just failed to do. If you saw someone doing it, just walking down the street, do you think you would notice him?”
“I suppose I would, depending on what I was doing at the time.”
“Yet no one reported seeing Mr. Galloway doing that.”
Dylan finally makes the correct objection that these questions have nothing to do with Henderson’s lab work, and De Luca sustains.
“When you were testing this can in your lab, did you ever have trouble finding it?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Ever misplace it?”
He shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“It stands out, doesn’t it? Be pretty tough to lose.”
“I certainly would not lose it, or misplace it.”
“Yet no other cans were found, not in Mr. Galloway’s apartment or anywhere else. Does it seem strange to you that he would leave the can with his charred skin on it right out on the street, but would hide the other cans so carefully that an entire police department could not find them?”
Before he can answer, Dylan objects, and De Luca tells him not to answer the question.
I try another one. “Did you have occasion to test any items from the actual house itself?”
He nods. “I did.”
“Any significant results?”
“Depends what you mean by significant,” he says. “But basically no. Everything in that house was pretty much
