Authors: Michael Nava
Lanyon glanced at Rossi. “Where is he, Dom?”
“In the hallway.”
Lanyon ordered his bailiff to bring the criminalist back into the courtroom, and he was escorted to the sidebar with the rest of us.
Handing him the pictures, Lanyon asked, “Are these the photographs you developed from the roll of film that Detective Morrow gave you?”
He hurried through them. “Yes, sir.”
Lanyon inclined his head toward me. “Satisfied?”
“I renew my objection on other grounds,” I said quickly.
“State them,” the judge said.
“Your Honor, is this supposed to be my client in these pictures? That’s ridiculous. You never see his face. Any resemblance is too vague to put these into evidence.”
Lanyon looked at the top picture. “For the purpose of this hearing, Mr. Rios, I think the resemblance is sufficient. I will admit them.”
“Your Honor, I’d ask that you clear the courtroom before allowing any further testimony about these pictures,” I said, clutching at straws. “This could ruin whatever chances my client has of getting an impartial trial.”
Lanyon smiled grimly, his revenge complete. “This is a public proceeding, Counsel. Your request is denied.”
“I’d like to show them to my client,” I said.
Lanyon shrugged. “Okay. Let’s mark them and I’ll call a recess.”
Rossi said, “The People ask that these twelve photographs be marked in order, as People’s exhibits 1 through 12.”
“They will be so marked.”
“I would move them into evidence.”
“I object for the reason I stated at the bench.”
Lanyon said, “Objection noted and overruled. The photographs are received. We will take a fifteen-minute recess.”
He handed me the photographs and left the courtroom.
We’d been huddled around the bench, audible only to the reporter. I took the pictures and walked back to Paul. He looked angry and puzzled.
I sat down. “Do you recognize these?”
He went through them quickly, without expression. When he got to the last one, he turned it over on top of the others.
“No,” he said, quietly.
“Are these pictures of you?”
“No.”
“Did you get this film from McKay?”
“No,” he said, a third time, in the same level tone. “Is that what they say?”
“That’s what they’re leading up to.”
“It’s a lie.”
I turned to him and said, “You have to tell me the truth.”
“I didn’t take any film from McKay,” he replied. “These pictures were not developed from the film in my car. That’s not me in them. Is that plain enough?”
“Yes.”
He muttered, “This is a fucking nightmare.”
When court resumed, Morrow took the stand again and described the pictures. There was dead silence in the court as he droned on without emotion, describing each one until he reached the last, which was the first picture I’d seen: “This one is the same female child. Again, there is a nude white male in the picture and he’s uh—he appears to be committing an act of cunnilingus on the girl.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Rossi said. “I have nothing further.”
“Mr. Rios?”
“Good afternoon, Detective,” I said, picking up my legal pad and making my way to the podium.
He did not reply to my greeting.
“Detective, you were in charge of the search of Mr. Windsor’s house on the evening of July twenty-seventh, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“And, in fact, you were the officer who sought the warrant, is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Now, Detective, isn’t it also true that you were the investigating officer when my client was charged with child molestation four years ago?”
Rossi said, “Objection. Relevance.”
I addressed Lanyon. “It goes to this witness’s bias.”
Lazily, Lanyon said, “Sustained.”
“You knew Mr. Windsor prior to being assigned to investigate these charges against him, didn’t you?”
I’d barely got the question out before Rossi objected.
“Sustained,” Lanyon said.
“Your Honor, I’d like to make an offer of proof,” I replied.
Gimlet-eyed, Lanyon looked at me. “I can’t conceive of any offer you could make that would change my mind. The objection’s sustained, Counsel. Ask your next question.”
“Detective, how long were you and your men at the Windsor residence the night you executed the warrant?”
Suspiciously, Morrow said, “About three hours.”
“Can you give the exact times?” I asked glancing up at him. “Do you need to look at your report?”
“I got a copy,” he said, and flipped through some pages. “We arrived at 5:13
P
.
M
. and we left at 8:30.”
“And while you were there you searched the entire house?”
He set the report down on the ledge of the stand. “Every room.”
“Thoroughly?”
He cast a bemused looked at Rossi, and then answered. “I’d say so, yes.”
“And you didn’t find a weapon, did you?”
“No.”
“Now you heard the testimony of Officer Mitchell this morning describing the scene of the murder, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“And you heard him talk about the amount of blood that was present in the room, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Now Officer,” I said, leaning toward him across the top of the podium, “you didn’t find any traces of blood anywhere in the Windsor house, did you?”
“No, I didn’t,” he said, adding quickly, “He had two days to—”
I cut him off. “Excuse me, Detective. I’m sure Mr. Rossi will give you a chance to explain your answers. Now, did you obtain fiber samples from the carpet in Mr. Windsor’s car?”
He looked a little worried as he said, “We didn’t do that.”
“No? Well, would it have been useful to take such samples to have them analyzed for traces of blood?”
Grudgingly, he said, “Maybe.”
“Now, did you talk to the clerk who was working registration the night that Mr. McKay was murdered?”
“I sent someone out to interview him.”
“With pictures of Mr. Windsor and his car, correct?”
I could feel the tension rising between us. “That’s right, Counsel. It’s in the police report.”
“And it’s also in the report that the clerk failed to identify either Mr. Windsor or his car,” isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Now was there someone, a guest, in the room adjacent to Mr. McKay’s room the night he was murdered?”
“Yeah, he lives in Oregon.”
“And you haven’t been able to contact him, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Even though you’ve had almost six weeks now to do it?”
Morrow scowled.
I scowled back. “Detective?”
“We haven’t contacted him.”
I paused, pretending to make a note. “What time did Vega give you the film?”
“I don’t remember. Not long after we got there.”
“More than an hour?”
“No. Half-hour maybe.”
“Half-hour,” I repeated. “So, before six?”
“Something like that,” he allowed tensely.
Carefully, I asked, “And what time did you book the film into evidence?”
He shot Rossi another look, this time of disbelief.
“I’m going to object,” Rossi said, struggling to his feet.
Quizzically, Lanyon asked, “On what basis?”
“It’s—” he cast about. “It’s irrelevant.”
“Overruled on that ground. Answer the question.”
“I booked it that night, when we got back to the station,” Morrow said. “I don’t remember when, exactly.”
I pressed him. “Then give me your best estimate.”
Morrow worked his brow for a moment. “I can’t tell you without looking at the log in the evidence locker. It was before midnight.”
“Before midnight,” I repeated, this time actually jotting a note, to obtain a copy of that page of the log. “So you may have had the film in your possession for as long as six hours after it was given to you?”
I spoke quickly, anticipating an objection. I was not disappointed.
“Your Honor,” Rossi said, “this is improper cross-examination. We established chain of custody without objection. He can’t go into it now.”
Lanyon pretended to give the matter some thought. “Yes, I’ll sustain the objection.”
“I’d like to be heard,” I said.
“I’m listening,” Lanyon said.
“The detective testified in direct examination that he booked the film into evidence. Asking for details is well within the scope of cross-examination.”
“The objection is sustained,” he replied.
There’s an expression lawyers use, when they find themselves in out-of-town courts where everyone tends to close ranks against outsiders. They say they’ve “been hometowned.” I was being hometowned, but good.
“I have no further questions.”
“Mr. Rossi?”
Laboriously, Rossi set about rehabilitating Morrow’s testimony, trying to imply through his questions that Paul would have had two days during which to destroy any evidence that might link him with McKay’s murder. I spent another half-hour going through the various forensic techniques that the Los Robles Police Department had at its disposal for the analysis of physical evidence, few of which had been used in the McKay investigation. Rossi got another ten minutes worth of re-redirect, and then it was over. Morrow stepped down. The prosecution rested. The defense rested.
We didn’t waste much time on argument. Lanyon’s evidentiary rulings had made clear what the outcome would be.
“The court finds the evidence is sufficient to hold the defendant to answer. Trial is set in the superior court, Judge Phelan, in three weeks. The defendant is remanded into custody until then. Court is in recess.”
Phelan, the judge who had refused to dismiss the child molestation charges against Paul three years earlier. It was Lanyon’s parting shot.
“I’ll talk to you back at the jail,” I told my exhausted client as the bailiff led him out of the court. I scanned the room for Sara, but she’d already gone. As I was gathering up my papers, Rossi came over to me.
“Nice job, Henry.”
“For a Star Chamber,” I replied, shutting my briefcase. “You and Lanyon hometowned me there when I was taking Morrow on chain of custody. I want a copy of the evidence locker log, by the way. I’ll get a court order if necessary.”
Rossi put up a pudgy hand. “Hey, hey, relax, man. You don’t need a court order. I’ll get it to you tomorrow.” He sat in the chair that Paul had occupied. “Why don’t we get down to dealing, Henry.”
I stopped my fidgeting. “No deals, Dom.”
“Even with the pictures? Or do you think Judge Phelan’s going to keep them out?” He smiled. “Phelan makes Lanyon look like William O. Douglas. He’s a hanging judge, Henry.”
I didn’t think he was bluffing. “I’m obligated to communicate any offer to my client,” I said, “if you have one.”
“Manslaughter,” he replied.
“Manslaughter?” I repeated. “You must think less of your case than I do.”
“I’d say my chances of winning are about even,” Rossi said, loosening his tie. “Those are decent odds for me. Not so good for you.” He got up. “Think it over, Henry.”
“My client says he’s innocent.”
Rossi smiled. “That’s why I asked you to think it over.”
“I
’M MISSING DINNER,”
Paul said as I sat down across from him at the table in the jail room where we talked. The J. Press sack suit he’d worn at the hearing had been replaced by jeans and a blue work shirt, transforming him from the superannuated college sophomore he’d seemed in court to a tired-looking con.
“I figured you might,” I replied, opening my briefcase. I extracted two cans of 7-Up, some candy bars and packets of crackers and cheese and arranged them on the table between us. I’d had to threaten to obtain a court order to get the sheriffs to let me bring the food in.
He smiled wearily. “Are you trying to set up a Twinkie defense?” he asked, choosing a Mars bar and a bag of M&M’s. Holding up a red M&M, he added, “I thought they’d stopped making these.”
“Someone started a letter-writing campaign and got the candy company to start making them again.” I opened a 7-Up and took a swig. It was as warm and thick as the air in the room. “It’s funny what people get themselves worked up about.”
He ate the candies one at a time. “Did it go as bad as you thought it would?”
“Pretty much,” I replied. “Lanyon let the DA get away with a lot, but with those pictures I don’t think the outcome would have been different anywhere else.”
He stopped eating. “Why didn’t you argue that they were faked?”
“The criminalist testified at the bench that those pictures were the same ones he developed from the film Morrow gave him,” I said.
“He could’ve switched the film,” Paul insisted.
“Without knowing what was on it?” I asked. “That’s a stretch, Paul.”
“You really don’t think much of me, do you, Henry?” he asked, slowly opening a packet of cheese and crackers. “You probably never have.” He bit into a cracker. “I remember when I was a kid I used to try to tag along with you and Mark when you’d go running. As soon as you guys saw me, you’d take off so fast that I couldn’t keep up.” He dropped the uneaten part of the cracker to the table. “I bet you never knew how hard I tried.”
“You want me to apologize for things I did when I was fifteen?”
“I want you to understand,” he said roughly. “You believe that I lied to you about why I went to see McKay because Mark told you so, so naturally you’re going to believe the cops over me about the pictures. You’re still running ahead of me, Henry. You and Mark. You and the cops and the DA and the judge. You’re still running with winners.” He smiled contemptuously. “But maybe you’ve forgotten something. You’re a queer. Queers aren’t winners. Not in their book. In their book, you and I are the same.”
“And so I’m supposed to believe whatever bullshit story you tell me, one pervert to another? One loser to another? Is that it, Paul?”
He brought his fist down on the table, scattering M&M’s like tiny billiard balls. “One man to another. Is that too fucking much to ask?”
“Tell me about the pictures,” I said.
“I told you about the pictures.”
“Then tell me how I can prove they’re not you.”
He jerked his chair away from the table and stood up. “Talk to her. Maybe she saw me.”