Blind Justice (19 page)

IRONICALLY, THE DAY started out pretty well for us.

Tolletson called Randy Crowley, the man who sat next to Howie on the flight down from Alaska. The calling of this witness was proof that Tolletson was dead serious about winning this case because it must have cost a lot in time and money to track this guy down.

When I got the witness list in discovery, I asked Howie about this man. Howie remembered him vaguely but couldn’t remember anything he’d said to him. His mind had been elsewhere.

Mr. Crowley seemed to have a great memory of his conversation with Howie.

“What was the first thing you recall the defendant saying to you?” Tolletson asked.

Crowley, who was thin—Ichabod Crane thin—and wore glasses, wasn’t a magnetic witness. He had a reedy voice that annoyed me and, I hoped, the jury.

“He asked me where I was heading to,” Crowley said.

“And you answered?”

“Toluca Lake. That’s where I live.”

“What, if anything, did he say next?”

“He told me he was going to catch a bus and come up to Hinton.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He said he had to see someone.”

“Were those his exact words?”

“Yes, sir. He said, ‘I have to see someone.’”

“How did he say it?”

“He just said it in a matter-of-fact way.”

“Did he say he was going to see his wife?”

“No. He said, ‘Someone.’ And he had a faraway look when he said it.”

“Objection,” I said. “Non-responsive and speculation.”

“Sustained.”

Tolletson asked, “What, if anything, did you say next?”

“I asked him if this was regarding business.”

“What did he say?”

“He shook his head and said, ‘No, I’m going to deliver a message.’”

“What was his demeanor like when he said that?”

Again I objected. This time Wegland overruled me. Crowley said, “He was very serious and looking straight ahead.”

“He wasn’t talking directly to you?”

“No, sir. He just looked straight ahead, sort of faraway.”

Once more I objected, since the same speculative answer had come in again. Wegland said the answer would stand this time. “He’s explained it,” she said.

“Did he say anything else?” Tolletson asked.

“Only one more thing,” Crowley answered. “He said, ‘She’ll never forget it.’”

“Again, were those his
exact
words?”

“Yes. ‘She’ll never forget it.’ And he was still looking far away. I got a little spooked.”

“You were afraid?”

Crowley squared his shoulders. “Not afraid, just spooked. Like this guy was a little weird.”

“Objection!”

“Overruled.”

Tolletson said, “And did you have further conversation with the defendant?”

“No. That was it. I was glad when the flight was over and he would go away.”

“Your witness,” Tolletson said to me.

“Good morning, Mr. Crowley,” I said. He nodded at me. “What was my client wearing that day on the plane?”

The question surprised him, which was exactly my intent. Crowley looked at the ceiling a moment, then said, “He had on a suit, I think.”

“Can you describe it a little better than that?”

“Well, I wasn’t really studying him. I think it was a blue suit of some kind.”

“What about shoes?”

“I believe they black.”

“You believe? Can you be sure?”

“Again, I wasn’t studying his clothes.”

“I see. Did you have a meal on that flight?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Do you remember what you ordered?”

Crowley smiled and said, “It was probably rubber chicken.” His attempt at humor fell flat. No one in the courtroom laughed. That shook him. He looked nervously at the jury, then back at me.

“This is a serious question,” I rebuked. “What did you have to eat?”

Sighing, Crowley looked up at the ceiling again. Maybe he was looking for an escape hatch. “I think it was chicken, or maybe some sort of beef.”

“Do you know the difference between chicken and beef?”

“Objection,” Tolletson intoned.

“I’ll withdraw the question, Your Honor. Mr. Crowley, did you order any drinks on that flight?”

“Yes,” he said confidently. “I always order a Coke when the flight attendants come around.”

“And what did my client order?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did he order anything?”

“He may have. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“I see. Now Mr. Crowley, you’ve just testified that you aren’t sure, that you ‘think’ or ‘believe.’ Yet when it comes to what my client said, you have no such uncertainty, do you?”

Now fully aware of what my questioning was about, Crowley began to fidget. He put his bony hands together on his lap, and one of his thumbs started flicking up and down, up and down.

“I remember what he said, yes.”

“It’s more than that, isn’t it? You remember his
exact
words, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You even remember the details of his facial expression, for heaven’s sake.”

Tolletson objected at this point, which didn’t bother me. My point was made. Judge Wegland sustained the objection.

“Mr. Crowley, can you search that sharp memory of yours and tell us if you remember that Howie Patino was carrying anything with him on that flight?”

“I seem to remember a carry-on bag.”

“Seem to?”

Crowley snapped, “I do remember.”

“Was he carrying anything else?”

“Um . . . I think he might have been.”

“Was he by any chance carrying a stuffed bear?”

“Yes. That was it. He had a stuffed bear.”

“You remember now. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“It was, in fact, a little teddy bear, was it not?”

“Yes, I believe it was.”

“One last question, Mr. Crowley. Do people generally take stuffed teddy bears to people they are going to harm?”

“Objection!” Tolletson said, but once more I didn’t care. I had the witness right where I wanted him. Even as the judge was sustaining the objection, I said, “No more questions.”

I knew I’d done well and felt pretty good.

Then Tolletson called his first expert.

Criminal trials increasingly depend on the testimony of expert witnesses. You’ve got the forensic experts working for law enforcement, uncovering grand stories from such minutiae as clothing fibers and fingernail scrapings. Then there are the microbiologists, who can go even smaller, and the population geneticists, who can apply all this to the entire population of the world. Every conceivable medical niche is filled by innumerable people with advanced degrees who love nothing more than telling jurors how much they know.

These people generally work for law enforcement and the prosecution. Unless the defendant has money or wealthy relatives, all he generally ends up with is one court-appointed doctor who gets ripped on cross-examination.

I had Hendrick Brown, who was about as good as I could get for the resources at my disposal.

Benton Tolletson began the forensic part of his case with Chet Riordan, the chief medical examiner of Hinton County, the man who liked Rye Krisp with his cadavers.

He had an avuncular appearance, which no doubt served him well in front of juries. His down-home style of answering was straight Andy Griffith. That was a counterpoint to the details of his testimony, which involved multiple stab wounds and a whole lot of blood.

After ten minutes of testimony, Benton Tolletson showed Riordan a color 8 x 10 glossy of Rae Patino’s body. After Riordan identified it, Tolletson asked if he could show it to the jury.

I objected, and the judge asked us to approach.

“That picture is highly prejudicial,” I said. “We will stipulate to the cause of death and the number of wounds. But showing that picture to the jury will just get them all worked up. Against my client.”

“Murder is not pretty, Your Honor,” said Tolletson.

“Neither is this attempt to sway the jury.”

Wegland held up her hand and looked closely at the photo. “No, it’s not pretty, Mr. Denney, but it is evidence. Your motion is denied.”

“I object vigorously to this.”

“Noted,” the judge snapped. “Now go back to your chair.”

So Tolletson got to show the jury the photograph. As the wide-eyed jurors passed it from hand to hand, I could almost feel a sense of frontier justice rising in them. It’s impossible to see a picture like that and keep a sense of objectivity. One juror, a woman in the second row, glared at me.

I tried to keep a poker face attempting to prevent the jury from seeing my inner agony at this ruling. I’d had years of practice at this but still wasn’t very good. My jaw muscles start to twitch. But with a few deep breaths and some strategic placements of my hands on my face, I managed to keep cool.

That is, until the bombshell.

Every trial has at least one surprise for a lawyer, no matter how well prepared he is. If he’s lucky, it will be a minor thing, easily handled with a little clear thinking. If he’s not lucky, it will explode in his face and threaten to blow his case right out of the water.

That’s what happened as I sat there, trying to calm my quavering jaw muscles as Benton Tolletson continued with his direct examination. I was only half listening as I jotted some notes for the imminent cross-examination.

“Was there anything else unusual about the body of Rae Patino?” Tolletson asked.

Riordan calmly answered, “Yes.”

That stopped me. I looked at the witness.

“And what was that?” said Tolletson.

“The victim was approximately three months pregnant.”

The shock waves were immediate. It was like one of those TV moments, when the crowd gasps together in collective horror. I gasped myself. All thought left me. It was only out of instinct that I shouted, “Objection!”

At that very same moment, Howie Patino stood up and screamed.

He screamed as loudly as any person I had ever heard, and it didn’t help that he was only a foot or so from my left ear.

The bailiff, a portly deputy sheriff, ran over to Howie and wrapped his arms around him to restrain any further movement. Howie struggled for only a second before going almost completely limp.

Out in the gallery, people were scuffling, talking, and exchanging looks.

I practically raced Tolletson to the bench.

“I was not provided this material on discovery!” I said through clenched teeth. “This is the first I’ve heard about any pregnancy.”

“You certainly were informed,” Tolletson said.

Almost crying with indignation, I said, “I went over every inch of Riordan’s report, and that was not in there.”

“It was the subject of a supplementary report,” Tolletson said.

“Do you have that?” Judge Wegland asked me.

“No, I do not,” I insisted.

“He does, Your Honor,” said Tolletson. “Ms. Plotzske can tell you she delivered it herself.”

Sylvia Plotzske had handed me several items of discovery over the past few weeks, but surely I would have noticed a supplementary medical report on the victim of this murder.

Wouldn’t I? Or had my drinking affected my short-term memory that much?

“Mr. Denney,” said Judge Wegland, “Mr. Tolletson and Ms. Plotzske are well known to me, and if they’re sure they delivered you this item, then I’m sure they did. Frankly, I think the more realistic possibility is that you misplaced it.”

“But I—”

“Your objection is overruled.”

I could sense, rather than see, the smile on Benton Tolletson’s face. He was enjoying this. I’m sure that if he ever mowed down Viet Cong with an M-16, he enjoyed that too. This was a slaughter.

I made it back to my counsel table in a daze. Tolletson asked Riordan a few more questions. The judge called on me to cross-examine.

For a long moment, my head was blank. I heard the judge’s voice call on me again. It was like a distant echo.

Then I heard Trip whispering in my ear. “Ask about the blood,” he said.

“The what?”

“Ask him why he never tested the blood.”

I remembered. Trip and I had discussed this point during preparation, but I had forgotten about it. Not a good thing for a trial lawyer.

I stood up. “Dr. Riordan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many stab wounds did the victim receive?”

“Twenty-five.”

“You counted them yourself?”

“Part of the job.”

“I see. That’s a lot of stab wounds, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.”

“Were there any slash wounds?”

“There were, yes.”

“How many and where?”

Riordan reached for the papers in front of him. “May I refer to my report?”

“Please.”

After a moment’s reading, Riordan said, “Three deep lacerations. One to the jugular, another to left cheek area, and a third to the left shoulder.”

“Is it safe to say that the laceration to the jugular would have resulted in a massive loss of blood?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, Dr. Riordan, isn’t it true that a wound of this type would have blood spurting forth?”

“That would be consistent with such a wound.”

“And so, isn’t it also safe to assume that a killer inflicting twenty-five stab wounds, including a laceration to the jugular, would be covered with the victim’s blood? Isn’t that true, Dr. Riordan?”

For a moment, Riordan hesitated. “In the usual case, yes.”

“And is there anything unusual about this case?”

“There may be. I don’t know.”

“You
don’t know?
You’re the medical examiner, aren’t you?”

“Objection,” Tolletson said. “Argumentative.”