The Other Shoe (39 page)

Hoot Meyers declined to redirect.

There was a small chance, a wild hope that he might present the whole of the state's case before five o'clock. Meyers called the medical examiner to the stand, elicited Dr. Fitzroy's credentials and a brief description of his arrangement with Conrad County, a county whose curious deaths were not yet sufficient in number to warrant a full time ME. He was summoned as necessary from Kalispell. And,
yes, following the aforementioned night in August, he'd examined the decedent.

“Dr. Fitzroy, in the simplest possible terms, what caused Calvin Teague to die?”

“Blunt force trauma to a site bordering the parietal and occipital zones, which in turn caused the brain to swell, probably quite rapidly. A severe concussion.”

“Would it be accurate to describe it in layman's terms as a blow to the back of the head?”

“Yes. Not the very back, but yes, that's essentially it. The swelling starts at the site of the blow, but becomes general at times, as it did here, and when it involves the brainstem even peripherally, then autonomic function ceases and mortality occurs very quickly.”

“Is it at all possible that this young man bled to death?”

“No. A scalp laceration can bleed quite a lot, but here the injury occurred in . . . The blow occurred where the young man's hair was quite thick, and the injury to his flesh was minimal, a fairly slight lesion. Then, too, the heart would have ceased pumping very soon after the blow was delivered. It was probably more like a steady leak than any serious bleeding.”

Mrs. Teague moaned and buried her face in her husband's chest.

“How much force,” Meyers asked, “does it take to cause the kind of concussion you observed in Mr. Teague?”

“The force of the actual blow is just one factor. But you find it doesn't take a lot in some cases. The brain can be a very willful organ, and very fragile; it survives impossible injuries at times, and at times succumbs to fairly slight ones.”

“In short, though, a blow caused this death? A blow to the back of this young man's head?”

“Yes.”

“The state has nothing more at this time.”

Giselle Meany's whole urinary tract felt heavy and hot. She'd been trying to keep her voice lubricated by drinking water. She'd devised her line of interrogation for the doctor just two nights before, and her notes were essential; notes spread in front of her on the counsel table, a client indifferent at her side. “Dr. Fitzroy, how many head injuries would you estimate you've seen as a medical examiner and as a practicing physician?”

“There are probably ways I could assemble those numbers, but . . . a thousand. It would be very safe to say I've seen a thousand such injuries. More of them in my living patients, of course, but it's quite a common cause of death in forensic practice as well.”

“Were these all homicides or attempted homicides, these head injuries you've seen?”

“No,” said Fitzroy dismissively.

“What percent of these injuries, then, were from blows inflicted by other people?”

“Percent? I couldn't begin to estimate without an extensive review of my records.”

“Is it more than half?” she asked.

“No. By no means.”

“People injure their heads falling down?”

“Yes.”

“Things fall on their heads? They're thrown from moving vehicles and animals?”

“Yes, and . . . yes. It's a vulnerable part of the anatomy, of course.”

“There are many possible sources of blunt force trauma, aren't there, Dr. Fitzroy?”

“Yes.”

“Would it be fair to say that the thousand head injuries you've seen have occurred in at least a hundred different ways?”

“Again, you're asking me to . . . ”

“Merely asking you to summarize your experience.”

“Heads are vulnerable. They are damaged in any number of ways, as is true of all physical injury to any part of the body.”

“Anything can happen?”

“It often seems that way.”

“Now, around the wound, such as it was, this small lesion you mentioned, what did you find? Was there any residue of any kind?”

“A certain amount of dried blood. I found no traces of anything extraneous, but there had been bleeding, which tends to flush away debris, and you have to understand that our budget is very . . . ”

“No residue?”

“None that I could see.”

“Nothing to tell you exactly what came into contact with this young man's head?”

“No. As was made clear in my report, I had no idea about that. Perhaps with better . . . ”

“Dr. Fitzroy, apart from the fatal injury, what was the condition of the body?”

“There were some first-degree burns, sunburn undoubtedly, on his nose and the tops of his ears, very common among pale-complected people. Extensive anterior bruising. Bruises on his back, the backs of his legs, his buttocks, one heel. The state of lividity of these injuries would indicate they came about at some point preceding his time of death.”

“What would have caused all these bruises?”

“As you yourself have established,” Dr. Fitzroy exulted, “it may have been anything.”

“But you don't know what caused the bruises?”

“No.”

“You cannot determine exactly what caused any of the injuries you observed on the deceased?”

“No. But the most probable . . . ”

“Thank you,” said Giselle, “but we can't indulge in speculation here, doctor.” She could not remember having been happier. “Nothing further at this time, Your Honor.”

Hoot Meyers once again declined to redirect. He was attempting to have the bailiff call the state's final witness when Judge Samara intervened, “The court hasn't given you leave, Mr. Meyers, to call that witness, and the court does not intend to. Not today.” The judge then continued, silently, to look upon Meyers, and he looked upon him long enough for nearly everyone to guess there must be some significance in it, and then he addressed the jury. “I'm going to call it a day for you folks. You'll not be sequestered, which means I'm trusting you to go home tonight and not talk about what you've seen and heard here today with anyone, not even among yourselves. We've got the television people and the newspaper people here, and you'll have to leave it up to them to do the reporting. If you were to have any improper contact with someone, anyone, before we reach a verdict, then you could scotch the whole thing, and we'd have to start all over again. I'll warn you now, that's expensive, and you can be required to pay for it if I find that it was your fault. It does not appear that this is going to be a very long trial, and the court expects that the case will be in your hands some time tomorrow. In the meantime, go home, have a barbecue if it isn't too chilly, or do something that takes your minds off it, so you can start fresh tomorrow. We'll need you back here not a second later than nine o'clock tomorrow morning.”

The jury filed out, but before Judge Samara closed session he said, “Ms. Meany, I'll see you and your client and the county attorney in my chambers.”

This was the pinhole, Giselle feared. Now something was happening to her seamless defense. She knew it had gone too well. While
she'd been enjoying herself so much, something had gotten by her. What had put the judge in his snit?

In half the judge's chambers, a room fit for storage, sat Judge Samara behind his completely empty desk, and into the other half of it were squeezed the clerk of court, the court reporter, Henry Brusett and Tubby Ginnings, and Hoot Meyers and Giselle, and a climate developed at once among them as on the airless floor of a rain forest. Things had been going far too well, Giselle thought. Judge Samara's self-regard was such a large and unchartable territory that it was impossible to anticipate how and where he might take offense, and he was pursing his lips, waiting for the court reporter to set up again, and Giselle awaited trouble.

“This is District Judge Carbon Samara,” he said when the court reporter gave him the nod, “in closed session, and stating: On September 2 of this year, I gave the Conrad county attorney leave to file an Information in the instant case, the State of Montana versus Henry Brusett. In so doing, I found and affirmed that there was probable cause to go forward with a charge of deliberate homicide against Mr. Brusett, a homicide alleged to have been committed on the person of one Calvin Teague. The court wishes to make a distinction at this time. The court may, when considering whether probable cause has been established, take into account the suspect's silence. When I permitted the county attorney to file these charges, it was my understanding that he would be supplementing his case in some way sufficient so that he might reasonably hope to prevail at trial where Mr. Brusett's silence could not be used against him. I placed my trust, perhaps unwisely, in the county attorney's experience and judgment to build a case he could conscientiously bring to trial.”

He nodded to the court reporter, who raised her eyebrows and let her machine stand idle as she left the judge's chambers, followed by the clerk of court.

“Hoot,” said Judge Samara when they had gone, “I know what you're doing in there. You arranged all this just to publicly humiliate your sheriff's department? Maybe they deserve it, it's not exactly a crack unit, I'll agree. But this is not the place for it. You don't educate these clodhoppers in my courtroom. It seems to me you're trying to descend to their level. This is just so half-assed it's embarrassing. I'm embarrassed.”

“It happens,” said Meyers. “Embarrassment. Probably good for the soul.”

“What?”

“Humility, huh?”

“No,” said the judge. “No thanks. I drive a hundred miles each way, every day you drag me down to this . . . On or off the record, Mr. County Attorney, you're still subject to contempt of court. I'm letting you know something right now—if you don't get something very solid out of the one witness you've got left tomorrow, then there's a good chance that I'd rule favorably on a motion by Giselle for a directed verdict. You haven't established a prima facie case so far, and from where I'm sitting, it doesn't appear that you even tried. If I make such a ruling, Hoot, I'm considering sanctions against your office. I may just have you pay for this little boondoggle out of your budget. If this proves to be a complete waste of time, the county attorney's office may be paying for it.”

“You'd be a long time collecting,” said Meyers. “I guess you could get it out of my salary. Unless I quit.”

“Before you get yourself into some kind of contempt that causes a mistrial here, Mr. Meyers, I'm going to wrap this up. I will grant you this much: We must be going at some kind of record pace for a murder trail—but it's embarrassing. This has been, and I'll say it in Mr. Brusett's presence, a damn poor showing. Just a friendly word of advice to a fellow member of the bar, Hoot: Get some counseling if you need it. You're not yourself.”

“Well, let's hope not.”

S
HE WAS FINALLY
able to meet with her client again. They'd been given ten minutes alone together in the jury room, the room where she'd first talked to him and where she'd stumbled into her unshakable faith. This time, though, they stood near the windowed wall, and this time the larch were turning on the mountains. In all the year, this was the hour, the day, the month when the light would be most filled with longing, and she meant to hold on to this moment for a very long time. “Well, you mule-headed old . . . guy. This looks like it might be turning out pretty well, after all. Doesn't it? Don't get me wrong, it's been a very precarious ride, but one thing about it, if you win one, really win one, then it's over. Your guy just walks away, and it's over. But I'd have a win. Man, you cannot know what this means. How do you feel, Henry? Did you understand that in there? Know what the judge was saying?”

“Fine,” said Henry, distracted. His wife was down on the tawny grass, strolling the courthouse lawn.

“Henry, Henry, I think we may have this thing just about won. It'll come down to Karen now, and she tells me she's not giving them anything. She's always given me the impression that she doesn't intend to help them. And they need a lot of help. Ooh, Henry, if I'm not very much mistaken, I think you're good to go. Almost. Acquitted. What would you think about that?”

“I'm glad you're happy. So what would she have to do, just sit there?”

“About that, yeah, and unless I'm mistaken, that's exactly what she intends to do.”

“Can she get in trouble doing that?”

“Conceivably, but I don't think so. I really don't think she will. There's a few charges they could threaten, but that wouldn't get anything out of her. Come on, Henry, you should be happy too, the judge as good as told us. I think by lunch tomorrow . . . You may owe me lunch, buddy. I may even let you buy me a drink. What do you say?”