Lassiter 06 - Fool Me Twice (35 page)

She took the oath, told us her name was Dr.
Ivy Chin, with degrees from Berkeley and Harvard Medical School,
internships and a residency at Mass General, plus extensive
training in pathology at a variety of big-ticket hospitals. For the
past five years, she’d been the chief deputy medical examiner for
Pitkin County.

“
Did you have occasion to
perform an autopsy on the body of Mr. Kit Carson Cimarron?” McBain
asked.

“
Yes.”

Dr. Chin first saw the body in the morgue,
cowboy boots hanging over the end of the steel tray. “I observed a
major head wound, which I ultimately concluded to be the cause of
death. There was what appeared to be an entrance wound in the area
of the right ear and an exit wound in the temporal bone just above
the left ear. From outward appearances, it had the characteristics
of a gunshot to the head.”

“
What did you do
then?”

“
I ordered X rays of the
head to determine if any projectiles were inside the skull. There
were none. With scalpel, I refracted the scalp which was bloody
underneath. Then I sawed through the skull front to back and
removed the skullcap. I noted lacerations in the dura, both
subdural and arachnoid. Additionally, there were multiple
hemorrhages and disruption of the brain tissue. Near the exit
wound, there were fractures radiating throughout the
skull.”

“
At this point what had you
concluded?”

“
That a projectile had
entered Mr. Cimarron’s right ear and exited the temporal bone of
the skull above the left ear.”

“
Then what did you
do?”

“
I removed the brain and
did the usual.”

Easy for her to say.

“
Yes, Doctor, and what was
that?”

“
Well, I examined the
brain, of course. It was quite sodden with blood. I weighed it and
replaced it in the skull.”

McBain ran through a series of photographs,
trying to get Cimarron’s bloody brain on display in front of the
jury. Patterson objected, and the judge, bless his heart, sustained
on the ground he’d already let in a police photo of Cimarron lying
in a pool of blood, and his rule was one gory photograph per
trial.

Dr. Chin identified a nail in a little
Baggie that the police had given her. It had been removed from a
saddle and had been admitted into evidence when the crime scene
technician testified. Dr. Chin’s tests revealed the presence of
Cimarron’s blood, tiny fragments of his skull, and chunks of his
gray matter, though it actually looked tan. She concluded that the
nail had, in fact, been the projectile.

“
What did you do
next?”

“
I completed an autopsy of
the entire body.”

“
Any other
abnormalities?”

“
Some coronary
atherosclerosis, but that’s not what killed him.”

“
And what did kill Mr.
Cimarron, Dr. Chin?”

“
A three-inch steel nail
fired from a power tool directly into and through Mr. Cimarron’s
brain.”

“
This nail?” McBain asked,
holding up state’s exhibit seventeen.

“
It would certainly appear
so.”

“
To a reasonable medical
certainty?”

“
Yes, in my opinion, to a
reasonable medical certainty.”

Patterson was brief. There was little to be
gained, and it doesn’t do you any good to get whacked twice.

“
Dr. Chin, other than what
you have described, were there any other injuries to the
head?”

She put on a pair of glasses that dangled
from a chain around her neck and took a moment to review the
autopsy report.

“
On the back of the skull,
there was swelling that was evidence of trauma with a blunt
object.”

“
Based on your examination,
can you tell us what caused that trauma?”

“
An object made of wood. We
removed several splinters that were embedded in Mr. Cimarron’s hair
and scalp.”

“
Can you tell us the
severity of the blow?”

“
Not precisely.”

“
Well, can you tell us
whether the blow was severe enough to fracture Mr. Cimarron’s
skull?”

“
The skull fracture I
described radiated from the site of the exit wound and was caused
by the projectile. The blow to the back of the head did not cause
it.”

“
Would the blow to the back
of the head have been sufficient to render Mr. Cimarron
unconscious?”

Dr. Chin closed her eyes and thought about
it. “It could have, but that is not to say that it did.”

“
I understand,” Patterson
said, nodding.

I was glad someone did.

“
Anything further?” Judge
Witherspoon asked. “The jury looks hungry.”

Me too. Autopsies do that to a guy.

Patterson allowed as how he was finished.
McBain had no redirect examination, and everybody gathered up their
coats, scarves, and gloves and left for the lunch recess.

***

Edie Laquer was thirty-eight, suntanned, and
athletic. She worked as an assistant vice president at Southern
Federal in downtown Miami. Her job this week was to fly to Houston
on

Continental, change planes, fly to Denver,
take a commuter flight to Aspen, get a cab to the Little Nell Hotel
at the foot of Aspen Mountain and check into a
four-hundred-dollar-a-night room. The next day, she had eggs and a
bagel at sunrise, rode the lift to the top of the mountain and
skied until noon, then changed clothes, walked down Spring Street,
past Le Tub, a bicycle shop, Wienerstube German restaurant, past
Hyman Avenue and Hopkins to Main Street, where she turned left and
continued two blocks to the courthouse. Edie Laquer carried a thin
file of documents to the second floor, where she spent
approximately ninety seconds on the witness stand authenticating my
banking records. Whatever the glories of our justice system,
efficiency is not among them.

Judge Witherspoon admitted the records into
evidence, so the jurors would have documents showing that
seventy-five thousand dollars was deposited into my account. When I
testified, you could be sure the prosecutor would have a few
questions about the transaction.

Edie Laquer left the courthouse, and the
wheels of justice continued to turn. Housekeeping is what lawyers
call it. The official seal of the secretary of state of Florida was
emblazoned on the certificate of incorporation of Rocky Mountain
Treasures, Inc. The shareholders’ agreement also came into
evidence, as well as the prospectus, and various books and
records.

As a case builds, you get the drift of where
the state is going. The prosecutor was taking no chances on the
issue of motive. It wasn’t just the lust for Cimarron’s woman that
drove this brutal man. It was greed for Cimarron’s money, too.
Already, I was imagining McBain’s cross-examination.

So, Mr. Lassiter, correct me if I’m wrong,
but didn’t you embezzle seventy-Jive thousand dollars from Mr.
Cimarron’s company and thereafter stalk Ms. Baroso to Colorado
where she was visiting him, trespass on his property at night,
sexually assault Ms. Baroso, then viciously attack Mr. Cimarron,
finally killing him by shooting a steel nail through his brain?

Yes, it’s true! All of it! And not only
that, I also picked protected wildflowers on state-owned lands.

My mind does that in trial sometimes, takes
flight on winged journeys. Now, everything seemed so ludicrous it
would be funny if it weren’t so damn real. What had happened? A few
months ago, I was a moderately successful trial lawyer doing his
best in an imperfect world. Now, I was caught up in…what did
Patterson call it last night? A Kafkaesque tragedy.

Right. One of the few books I read in law
school that wasn’t filled with legal citations and jurisprudential
mumbo jumbo was The Trial. To this day, I can remember the first
line. “Someone must have been telling lies about Joseph K., for
without having done anything wrong, he was arrested one fine
morning.”

Hey, Joseph K., this is Jacob L.

Me too.

CHAPTER 24

WHO DROPPED WHOM?

“
How long have you known
the defendant?” Mark McBain asked.

“
Years,” Abe Socolow said.
“Ever since he started practicing law. He was an assistant public
defender, and I was an assistant state attorney.”

“
You know him
well?”

“
Yes.”

“
Both in and out of
court?”

“
Yes.”

“
The two of you speak
freely with each other?”

“
I like to think
so.”

“
Now, Mr. Socolow, did
there come a time when you and the defendant had an occasion to
discuss Mr. Cimarron?”

“
Yes. About six months ago,
the two men had an altercation in Miami.”

“
Please tell the jury
exactly what you said to the defendant and what he said to
you.”

Socolow sighed and glanced at me. He didn’t
want to be here. He looked as out of place on the witness stand as
I did in the client’s chair. We had been adversaries for a long
time, but there was always a certain amount of respect. Now he was
being asked to tattle. His long, lean frame hunched forward. His
complexion was more sallow than usual. He looked as if he hadn’t
gotten much sleep last night. Good, that made two of us.

“
Jake…Mr. Lassiter wanted
to press charges against Mr. Cimarron for a fight that took place
in the home of Josefina Baroso. In fact, Mr. Lassiter swore out an
affidavit so that Mr. Cimarron could be arrested for assault and
battery. I contacted Mr. Cimarron who said he’d be happy
to—”

“
Objection,
hearsay!”

“
No!” I tugged at
Patterson’s sleeve. “Let him answer.”

“
Why?”

“
Trust me.”

The judge cleared his
throat,
ah-hem
,
and looked at us with the same bemusement one might have when
watching a dozen clowns tumble out of a car at the circus. “Is
there an objection?”

“
Objection withdrawn, Your
Honor,” Patterson said, graciously.

“
You may continue, Mr.
Socolow,” the judge said.

“
Mr. Cimarron said he’d be
happy to return to Miami and face assault charges, or if Mr.
Lassiter wanted, the two of them could go another couple of
rounds.”

A couple of the jurors looked surprised, and
I winked at Patterson.

“
And what did Mr. Lassiter
say?”

“
He said, ‘To hell with
that. Next time, I’ll just shoot him in the kneecaps.’

Damn, I’d forgotten that.

The lady schoolteacher gasped. The judge
shook his head. A reporter for the local fish-wrapper scribbled
away in the front row of the gallery. Next to me, Patterson turned,
shielding his face from the jury, and gave me a withering look.

“
In the kneecaps,” McBain
repeated, as if once weren’t enough.

“
Yes, that’s what he
said.”

“
Are you aware of any other
verbal threats made by the defendant?”

“
Yes. About two weeks
before my conversation, he told Dr. Charles Riggs—”

“
Objection, hearsay.”
Patterson rose halfway out of his chair. “In fact, hearsay within
hearsay.”

“
Not so,” McBain responded.
“Mr. Lassiter is here and can refute the statement if he so wishes.
Additionally, he can call the doctor to testify if he denies the
statement was made.”

“
You’re both barking up the
wrong tree,” the judge said. “Send the jury out for a short
break.”

The bailiff escorted the jurors into their
little room, and the judge turned to McBain. “I assume your witness
is going to testify that the doctor told him Mr. Lassiter
threatened Mr. Cimarron.”

“
That’s it, Your Honor. We
attempted to serve a subpoena on Dr. Riggs, but he avoided service.
In fact, he nearly ran down our process server in his pickup and
screamed gibberish at him.”

That wasn’t gibberish. It was Latin, Marcus
Ineptus.

“
Mr. Socolow,” the judge
said. “Was the defendant present when the doctor told you of his
threat?”

“
No, Your Honor. I did
repeat the statement to him, however.”

“
And did he respond by
denying he made the threat?”

“
No, Your Honor, he did
not.”

Patterson was prancing in front of the
bench. One of my threats was quite enough for the jury’s ears, and
Patterson knew it. Experienced lawyers know what points are worth
fighting for, and this was one of them.

“
Your Honor, a man has a
right to confront his accusers,” Patterson said, “and when he’s
faced with hearsay, he is deprived of that right. This testimony is
highly prejudicial, inflammatory, and if I may say so, might well
be grounds for reversal if a conviction results.”

Judge Witherspoon narrowed his eyes at my
bantamweight lawyer. I’ve never met a judge yet who likes to be
reminded of his fallibility. “That’s what we’ve got appellate
courts for, Mr. Patterson. Please feel free to appeal me on
anything you like.”

“
Your Honor,” McBain began,
“the statement is not hearsay…”