Key Witness (86 page)

“Not at all.” She gathered herself together and left the room.

“Thank you, Your Honor. Recall Dr. Ayala to the stand, please.”

Dr. Ayala had been waiting in the corridor outside. Looking ill at ease, he took his more illustrious colleague’s place on the stand. The lights had been turned back on.

“This will only take a moment, Dr. Ayala,” Wyatt assured him. He walked to the defense table, dusted his hands with baby powder, put on a pair of latex gloves, and picked up a sealed manila envelope, which he carried to the podium. Holding the envelope up to Grant, he said, “We offer the contents in this envelope, which were taken from the property department of the county jail, Your Honor. As you can see from the seal”—he pointed it out—“it was delivered by a member of the sheriff’s department, Lieutenant Myers, who verifies here in writing that no one other than he put the contents in here and sealed it.”

Grant looked at the sealed envelope. “I’ll accept that.”

“Can I see that?” Abramowitz asked, her body rigid with the struggle to keep herself in check.

Wyatt walked it over to her. “You do trust your own people, don’t you?” he asked sweetly.

She turned away. “Yes,” she bit off.

“Good.” Standing at the podium, he opened the envelope and took out the contents: a knife. Holding it up so that everyone, particularly the jurors, could see it, he walked it over to Ayala. “Earlier you testified that the man who committed these seven rapes and murders used a particular kind of knife,” he said, refreshing Ayala’s memory. “Do you recall saying that?”

Ayala was fixated on the knife. “Yes, I said that.”

“Would you mind taking a look at this knife, Dr. Ayala, and telling me if this is the
kind
of knife that would fit your description? Let me get you a pair of sterile gloves first.”

Again he walked back to the defense table, holding the knife so that it was clearly visible, picked up a second pair of latex gloves, and brought both back to the stand. He waited while Ayala expertly rolled the gloves onto his hands.”

“You do that much easier than I do, Doctor,” he complimented Ayala.

“Lots of practice,” the doctor answered.

“I’m sure.” He handed Ayala the knife. “What do you think, Doc?” he asked. “Could this knife, or one like it, be the murder weapon?”

Ayala turned the knife over in his hands. “Most definitely,” he answered without hesitation.

“I’d like to place this knife in evidence, Your Honor,” Wyatt said, handing it to the bailiff, who held it with a piece of tissue.

“So ordered,” Grant said.

The clerk assigned the knife a number. It was placed into a plastic Baggie.

“Thank you, Dr. Ayala,” Wyatt told the coroner. “That’s all.”

“You are excused, Dr. Ayala,” Grant said. He instructed the bailiff to bring Dr. Lynch back in. “You are still under oath,” the judge reminded her when she had taken her seat again. Turning to Wyatt: “Proceed, Counselor.”

Wyatt had the lights dimmed again. Returning to the screen, he pointed at the slides that were projected. “Earlier, Dr. Lynch testified that these DNA samples were similar, but came from two different sources. This one”—he pointed to the left-hand slide—“came from Paula Briggs, the latest victim. And this one”—he pointed to the right-hand slide of plastic strip—“came from a sample of blood taken from a prisoner currently in custody here in the jail.” He walked to the clerk’s table and picked up the knife in its protective Baggie. “The same prisoner whose knife was taken from his personal-effects envelope this morning, at the jail across the street.”

The courtroom erupted. The buzz among the spectators sounded like a swarming beehive. Jurors scribbled in their notebooks and stared from the slides on the screen to the knife in Wyatt’s hand.

“You’ve got the guilty man in your jail, all right,” Wyatt told Judge Grant, the prosecution team, and the jury. He pointed to Marvin. “But he isn’t the man who is sitting in this courtroom.”

The prosecution immediately requested and was granted a recess to look over this latest development. During the break Wyatt reviewed his strategy with Walcott, Josephine, and Darryl.

“You know what they’re going to be coming at you with,” Walcott reminded him.

“I’m counting on it,” Wyatt said. He was so overflowing with excitement he could hardly sit still. “I’m going to stop at a hardware store on the way back to court and buy them a hammer. Alex Pagano can pound the last nail in his coffin himself.”

J
UDGE GRANT’S CHAMBERS WERE
crammed. Alex Pagano had joined the prosecution team. The prosecutors looked remarkably smug; Helena Abramowitz was particularly calm and collected, considering she’d just had a nine-ton safe dropped on her head.

“We’ve looked into defense counsel’s allegations about Elvis Burnside, the prisoner Mr. Matthews claims is the real killer,” Pagano told the judge by way of leading off. He was going to handle this personally—his career was on the line. And he didn’t want to cut Wyatt’s legs off vicariously—he wanted to do the deed in the flesh.

“Mr. Burnside is a despicable character. I agree with Mr. Matthews in that regard. He is a multiple rapist, he has committed numerous acts of violence. He is currently awaiting trial on a rape and assault charge.”

Grant was sitting up straight, paying fierce attention. He glanced over at Wyatt, cocking his head as if to say, “How did you manage to do this?”

“But as we all know,” Pagano continued, “revelations such as these only take place on television. They don’t happen in real life.”

He held out his hand. Abramowitz placed a records sheet in it—an orchestrated move.

“We have all agreed that one man committed all seven murders,” he said. “I don’t think Mr. Matthews has a disagreement with us on that score, do you, Wyatt?” he asked.

“No. I agree that one man did them all,” Wyatt said.

“Good. As I said, Mr. Matthews’s sleuthing has been nothing short of miraculous, Your Honor. And if I thought that he had uncovered a fresh suspect who really was the killer, I’d be the first to drop all charges against Marvin White and issue him a formal, heartfelt apology. Unfortunately, I can’t do that.”

He handed Judge Grant the document. “Elvis Burnside was in our own county jail when the fourth rape-murder was committed, Your Honor. That is the record of his incarceration. He couldn’t have committed that crime, because we had him locked up. It would have been a physical impossibility.” His smile was blinding as he focused on Wyatt. “Sorry, Charlie. Great try, but your hook’s come up empty.”

Wyatt stared back impassively as Grant read the jail record. Then the judge looked up, an unabashed expression of sympathy on his face. “The district attorney’s right, Wyatt,” he said, almost mournfully. “I’m sorry.” He rose from his chair. “We have to go back into court. Do you have any more witnesses you want to call?”

“No, Your Honor, no more witnesses,” Wyatt answered. “However, I do have a document of my own I’d like you to look over. It clarifies and supplements the one Mr. Pagano gave you.”

He pulled some papers out of his briefcase. “It’s true that Elvis Burnside was in jail when the fourth killing took place. He was serving his time on the county honor farm. I believe the information sheet Alex gave you indicates that.”

Grant looked at the record Pagano had presented. “Yes, that’s correct,” he said. Looking perplexed, he asked Wyatt, “Doesn’t that buttress his proposition?”

“That he was in custody of the sheriff, at the honor farm? Absolutely, without question.”

The judge was confused. “Then your hypothesis is invalid.”

Wyatt smiled. “No, Your Honor.” He passed his own papers across the desk to Grant. “Burnside was doing time, all right, but he wasn’t in lockup all the time he was doing it.”

He turned and looked at Pagano; and he knew that Pagano knew. Not that his adversary had hidden anything—it was that feeling you get when the light suddenly goes on.

“Elvis Burnside was in a daytime work-release program, Your Honor. As you know, it’s a commonly used way for the county to make back some of the costs of housing the jail population. An inmate works an outside daytime job, the county garnishees his wages, and they put the money in the till.”

“I know about the work-release program,” Grant said. “I’ve assigned prisoners to it.”

“I know that, Your Honor. I’m stating the facts for the record.” Wyatt continued with his presentation. “Every morning the jail bus would take Burnside downtown to Siskin’s Salvage Company, where he worked as a tool-and-die grinder, an occupation he’s proficient at. The bus would drop him off at eight in the morning and pick him back up at six in the afternoon. It’s right there, on the first page I’ve handed you.”

Grant scrutinized Wyatt’s top page. “Yes, I see that,” he said slowly.

“Okay,” Wyatt pressed on. “In at eight, out at six. Doesn’t leave the place. Brings a bag lunch the jail gives him. They don’t let him off the property, or out of their sight. It’s a condition of his sentence.”

He handed Grant another document. “Except for one day. April twenty-eighth, the exact date of the fourth murder. He hands the foreman at Siskin’s a note from the jail. He’s got a dental appointment and is to be allowed to leave between the hours of three and five-thirty in the afternoon.” He walked around to Grant’s side of the desk to point out the note. “Obviously a forgery—the officer whose name is on that note will swear he never wrote it, never would write such a note. But our boy Elvis has been on the job a month, he seems like he’s a solid citizen, it smells legit. And who from the jail would know Burnside was gone, since when the bus showed up at six, he had already returned?” He pointed to a card stapled to the document. “Left Siskin’s at three-oh-seven, returned at five-twenty-six. The foreman had it marked in his records.”

He crossed back to his side, standing close to Pagano. Pagano immediately backed away. “The fourth murder was different from the others, Your Honor,” Wyatt went on. “All the others were committed at night, when it was dark, between nine at night and three-thirty in the morning.” He turned to face Pagano. “But the fourth murder, according to
your
pathologist, Dr. Ayala, whose credibility on judging time of death is considered top-notch, took place between four and seven in the afternoon. The victim’s body was found the next day in an alley off Sycamore Drive, which is three and a half short blocks from Siskin’s Salvage.”

He turned back to Grant. “I’ll bet the farm that Elvis Burnside was in that alley between four and five that afternoon, killing that victim with a knife similar to the one I introduced into court. He was working in a metal shop in the salvage yard, Your Honor. There’s a million knives like that lying around. He even could have made one.”

E
VERYTHING FELL INTO
place, almost instantaneously. The stolen files were found hidden in various places in Blake’s computer, along with her altered bar exam scores.

All charges against Marvin White were dropped. A red-faced Alex Pagano stood in front of hundreds of reporters to announce the new suspect in the killings—Elvis Burnside. Along with the indictment of Burnside for the rape-murders of seven people was the parallel indictment of Dwayne Thompson for perjury, theft of government property, illegal tampering with government files, and everything else Pagano could think of to throw at him.

Despite the vow the DA had made to Wyatt, there was no apology to Marvin White. He was still a scumbag as far as Pagano was concerned; now he was an embarrassing scumbag, his Rodney King. And like King, he was convinced, Marvin would be back in the system again.

W
YATT WAITED AT THE
entrance to the jail. When Marvin came out, still bewildered and grimacing with the not-believing-it-yet smile of one who has been miraculously snatched from the jaws of death, clutching his meager parcel of belongings that had been taken from him when he was booked (minus the gun), he embraced Wyatt clumsily, his voice cracking with relief.

“I knew you was the right lawyer for me,” he told Wyatt gratefully, his face lighting up in a huge grin. “From that first day I met you.”

Wyatt drove Marvin home. On the way they made a detour to the hospital, where Dexter was still recuperating from his wounds. The two friends hugged and laughed.

“You did it!” Dexter proclaimed. He was sitting up in bed, looking good—he was wearing silk pajamas and his hair had recently been barbered; his cell phone lay on the covers at his side.

“He did it,” Marvin corrected Dexter, pointing to Wyatt. “My man—my
main
man!” he crowed exuberantly.

Wyatt hoped Marvin had learned his lesson. But down inside, not very deep, he doubted it.
The next time you’re in trouble, kid, don’t call me, he thought. Because I won’t be there for you again.

He didn’t say any of what he was thinking. He stood at the edge of the room, watching the two friends celebrate—one for his freedom, the other that he was alive.

They had strung a banner across the street leading into Sullivan Houses:
Welcome Home, Marvin.
Wyatt’s Jag was surrounded by scores of kids as he slowly drove down the street to the front of Marvin’s apartment. As soon as Marvin got out of the car he was engulfed, his mother leading the charge, leaping bodily into her son’s arms, knocking him over.

“Pray thanks to Jesus, you’re home!”

“Yeah, I’m home, Mama,” Marvin said, picking himself up. “I’m home for good.”

Jonnie Rae grabbed Wyatt in a bear hug. “I can’t never repay you,” she gushed, her heavy body pressed up against his, the smells of her sweat and her kitchen wafting off her. “There’s no way I can ever thank you for helping my boy like you did.”

“It was my job,” he told her. “And I was happy to do it.”

He was happy, he realized. Not only for the process, which he had loved; but also for the personal connection. He had saved a man’s life.

A man who had tried to kill another man, over money. And might well do so again.

That was the future, over which he had no control. He had to savor what he had now, this moment, because that was his life.