“But it wasn’t buried, was it? It was more like it was just put there. In a hurry.”
“Objection!” Alex called out, rising from his seat. “Calls for conjecture.”
“Sustained,” the judge agreed.
Luke crossed the room to the jury box. He handed the picture to juror number one, who looked at it closely for a moment, then passed it on. While the jurors were examining the photo, one after another, he returned to the podium. “Except that the remains were in a patch of brush, they were visible. Is that right?” he asked. “It didn’t look like there was any attempt to bury them, or to hide them, did it?”
“No,” Keith answered. “It didn’t appear that there was.”
Luke looked at the jury, then back to Keith. “Thank you. No further questions.”
Marlon Perdue, the forensic detective from the coroner’s office, sat comfortably on the stand. This was nothing new to him—he had testified in dozens of trials, including several murder trials.
After establishing Perdue’s bona fides, Alex walked him through the sequence of events from the precise time he arrived at the ranch, supervised the transfer of the remains to the autopsy room at Cottage Hospital, and learned that the victim had been shot. Several slides and photographs clarified his testimony. Then Alex took him back to the day when he returned to the ranch to continue his investigation, noticed that the Colt revolver was out of place in the gun case, discovered that the case was unlocked, discussed with Keith Morton the suspicious nature of that, and took the gun into evidence and delivered it to the testing lab in Goleta. It was a straightforward presentation, unemotional, clinical. A professional doing his job.
When Alex was finished, Luke walked to the podium. “Good morning, Detective Perdue,” he greeted Marlon cordially.
“Good morning, counselor,” Perdue replied.
“We’ve known each other for some time, haven’t we?”
Perdue nodded and smiled. “Going on two decades.”
“You were one of my favorite detectives,” Luke told Perdue. “A straight shooter and a total pro. I told you that on more than one occasion, didn’t I?” It was a statement, not a question.
“You did,” Perdue confirmed. “And I appreciated it.”
Alex rose from his chair. “With all due respect to the mutual admiration society these men have for each other, where is this going?” he asked. “What does it have to do with this trial?”
Judge Martindale peered down from the bench to Luke, as if to ask, “What does it?”
“It doesn’t,” Luke said affably. “I just want everyone to know that I think Detective Perdue is first-rate, and that I have never, or almost never, questioned his veracity.”
At the prosecution table, Alex and Elise exchanged a glance. Where is this going, they wondered. Alex thought about getting up again to move this along, but decided to wait it out and see what developed.
Luke turned to the court aide who was manning the slide projector. “Would you put up the slides that show where the remains were discovered,” he asked.
The lights dimmed slightly as the slides were projected onto the screen. Luke looked at them for a moment, then turned back to Perdue.
“How many situations such as this one have you been involved in, detective?” he asked. “Finding the remains of a body that turned out to have been deliberately killed, rather than having died by accident.”
Perdue thought for a moment. “About a dozen, I’d guess.”
“So you’re an expert on the subject, as the District Attorney earlier proclaimed.”
“I think I know what I’m doing, after all these years,” Perdue responded modestly.
Luke turned to the screen. “Take a look at these pictures for a moment, will you? The remains are clearly visible, aren’t they.”
“Yes, they are.”
“There wasn’t much attempt to conceal them, was there? The body was just dumped there.”
Alex half-rose in his chair, as if to object that this was speculation, but thought better of it—Perdue was his witness. He didn’t want to disparage his own witness’s credibility. It could undercut the credibility of his other expert witnesses. He eased back into his chair.
“I’d say that’s right,” Perdue answered. “Whoever tossed it there didn’t try to cover it up.”
“Somebody carried the body out there from somewhere else, tossed it into the bushes, and took off. Would that be how you’d imagine it happened?”
“Yes.”
“When you arrived on the scene…” Luke paused. “Let me take a step back. Were you the first officer on the scene?”
Perdue shook his head. “No. Some sheriffs from the local office got there before I did.”
“Had they secured the crime scene?”
Perdue frowned. “More or less.”
“More or less?” Luke pounced. “What does that mean?”
Before Perdue could answer, he continued, “Was it secured as tightly as you would have liked? As you would have done, if you’d gotten there first?”
Perdue shook his head. “No.”
“There had been a fair amount of milling around, wasn’t there.”
“Yes.”
“So you weren’t able to check the area for distinctive footprints, were you? Because too many people had already tramped around on the ground.”
Unhappily, Perdue answered, “That’s correct.”
“So you were never able to match up any footprints to any of Steven McCoy’s shoes. Or anyone else’s.”
“No,” Perdue acknowledged. “We didn’t get any.”
“Did you get any footprints that led from the house to where the remains were discovered?”
Again, a shake of the head. “No.”
“That would have been helpful, wouldn’t it?” Luke asked. “If you had found footprints leading from the house to the ravine? If they had matched up with the defendant’s that would have been a solid piece of evidence, correct?”
“It would have been, yes,” Perdue answered.
“Or conversely, if a different set had been found, it would have been pretty good evidence that someone else carried that body out there.”
“That would have been a possibility,” Perdue conceded.
Luke leaned back from the podium. “No further questions. At this time.”
He walked back to the defense table. As he passed Alex and Elise, he noticed, to his enjoyment, that they were slumped down in their chairs.
“I want to caution you in advance,” Alex Gordon warned the jurors. “The pictures I’m about to show you are graphic and horrific. I doubt that any of you have ever seen anything this disgusting, but unfortunately you’re going to have to now.”
Judge Martindale intervened. “I want to throw in my warning, too,” he said, looking first at the people sitting in the jury box, then out to the spectators, particularly the members of Maria’s family and her supporters. “If you can’t handle this, leave now. I won’t tolerate any outbursts in this courtroom.”
The room went dark as a series of images of Maria Estrada came up, taken first where she was found, out on the ranch, and then at the autopsy room at the hospital. She looked more like a collection of protoplasmic slime that had been thrown into a bag than a human being. Her arms and legs were like cooked strands of spaghetti. You could barely tell there was a face.
There was a moment of hushed silence, a collective gathering of breath: then a wail erupted from the section behind the prosecution table. Maria’s mother was shrieking, her body rocking back and forth.
She’s never seen these, Luke thought in anger. Alex hadn’t shown them to her. He had sacrificed any shred of decency toward this grieving mother to make sure he’d get maximum outrage now.
You want to win this too badly, he thought. There are lines you don’t cross. You just crossed one.
He felt Steven slumping next to him. He put a hand on his shoulder. “Hang in,” he whispered. “This is as bad as it’s going to get.”
Throughout the courtroom there was muted sobbing and murmuring, but the only loud noise came from Maria’s mother. Judge Martindale tolerated her outburst for a few seconds, then he brought down his gavel.
“I can understand how terrible this must be for you, Mrs. Estrada,” he said, addressing her. “But you have to control yourself, or I’m going to be forced to remove you from my courtroom.”
The distraught woman either didn’t hear him, or was incapable of stopping. Her sobbing became louder, more pitiable. As if to further punctuate the darkness and despair of the moment, a rolling clap of thunder boomed into the room.
Martindale rapped for order. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have you taken out, Mrs. Estrada,” he told her. He signaled to a couple of courtroom deputies who were standing against the wall.
Luke stood up. “Your honor,” he called out over the commotion.
Martindale looked at him. “What is it?”
Luke glanced at the prosecution table. Oh, how you’re loving this, he thought. “We don’t object to this show of emotion,” he told the judge. “Any mother would react the same way. If I may suggest a five-or ten-minute recess, so she can regain some composure, I think we could move on. It’s her daughter. More than anyone, she deserves to be here.”
The mood was muted. The slides were no longer projected onto the screen. Mrs. Estrada was still crying, but quietly, into a handkerchief. Her friends and family hovered around her, forming a protective cocoon.
Alex walked Dr. Atchison through the autopsy process. The condition of the body, how he had quickly found the bullet, the events that transpired after that. When he was finished his questioning he walked back to his seat without looking at Luke.
Luke, sitting at the defense table, leafed through some notes. A feeling of antsiness pervaded the chamber as he paged through them, his face down. “Are you going to cross-examine this witness?” the judge finally asked him.
Luke looked up. “Of course I am, your honor.” He found what he was looking for. He approached the podium, carrying a few pages in his hand. “When you examined the victim, did you check to see if she had ingested any drugs prior to her death?” he asked.
“Yes, I did,” Atchison answered.
“What did you find?”
“There were traces of Tetrahydrocannabinol in her system.”
“Which is commonly known as THC, the active ingredient in marijuana, is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“So shortly before she died, Maria Estrada smoked marijuana.”
“That would be my conclusion, that’s correct,” Atchison answered.
“What about semen?” Luke continued. “Did you find any samples of semen in the body?”
Alex stood up quickly. “Objection, your honor,” he said forcefully. “The victim’s sexual conduct isn’t relevant. We are not alleging rape, or any other sexual activity in conjunction with the charges.”
Martindale gave Luke a “show-me” look.
“Her sexual conduct is important, for two reasons, your honor,” Luke argued. “First, it shows a pattern of promiscuity. An eighteen-year-old girl who had semen DNA in her remains, particularly if there were multiple samples, could be characterized as someone who had easy dalliances with men, any one of whom could be as strong a candidate for having killed her as my client. And second, if none of those samples matched up with his, that would exonerate him as having had sex, and would cast aspersions on whether he was ever with her at all.”
Martindale looked at Alex, then back at Luke again. “I assumed this might come in, so I’ve already thought about it,” he said. He looked at the jury. “I’m going to overrule the prosecution’s objection and allow this line of questioning.”
Alex shook his head angrily. “Exception,” he barked.
“Noted,” Martindale answered calmly. “You may proceed,” he told Luke.
“Thank you.” Luke turned to Atchison again. “Did you find semen samples in the victim?” he asked again.
“Yes,” Atchison answered.
“How may different strands of DNA did you find, doctor? In other words, how many different men did Maria Estrada have sexual intercourse with shortly before she was killed.”
Atchison glanced at his notes. “I found three distinct samples.”
“So she had sex with at least three men shortly before she died,” Luke pressed.
“Yes. There could have been more,” Atchison amplified. “If she had sexual partners who used a condom, their DNA would not be present.”
Luke stepped back for a moment. “You seem to be saying she didn’t practice safe sex, is that right?” he asked. “Having sex with multiple partners and not using protection isn’t very smart, is it?”
Alex jumped up again. “Objection!” he called out. “Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained,” Martindale ruled. “Strike the question. Do you want to rephrase?” he asked Luke.
Luke shook his head. “No, that’s all right.” The jury had heard it—that was all he cared about. “Getting back to the DNA,” he said to Atchison. “Where you able to match the DNA you recovered from Maria Estrada to anyone?”
“No,” Atchison answered. “We weren’t.”
“Did you take a DNA sample from Steven McCoy?”
Atchison nodded. “We did that immediately after his arrest.”
Luke gathered his notes. “Did his DNA match up with the samples you got from the victim?” he asked.
“No,” the doctor answered conclusively. “There was no match.”
The other technicians made their brief appearances: the expert who took and matched Steven’s fingerprints to the murder weapon, and Dana Wiseman, the bullet expert. They gave their findings crisply, concisely, professionally. Luke’s cross-examinations of them were perfunctory—you can’t argue hard facts, so you don’t. Get the witnesses off the stage as fast as you can. At a quarter to five in the afternoon, Judge Martindale brought the trial to a close for the day.
Overnight, the rain had stopped. The sky was still low and leaden, but for the moment, the city was dry.
The redheaded salesgirl who had sold Maria the earrings fidgeted as she sat on the witness stand. She was overdressed and had too much makeup on; she looked like a runner-up from a television reality show. She described the events as she had told them to Detective Rebeck. She knew Maria Estrada by sight—Maria was a frequent shopper, and sometime shoplifter, from their store. They kept a sharp eye on Maria whenever she came in.
When Alex was finished, Luke got up and took the podium. “How’re you doing, Ione?” he asked. Her name was Ione Skye Purcell. Her parents had been Donovan fans, Luke assumed. A piece of particularly obscure trivia from the rock ’n’ roll memory shelf of his brain.