Private Vegas (21 page)

“Your neighbor gave me this picture of you and a man you may have had a date with tonight.”

The camera image jiggled as Degano took a photo from his inside jacket pocket, showed it to Carmody, then flashed it in front of his phone. “Is this the man who hurt you?”

Carmody’s one good eye opened a fraction of an inch. She said, “Rick.”

Degano said, “Ms. Carmody, I want to be sure. Is this the man who hurt you? Rick Del Rio?”

Two EMTs got between the camera and the patient. We could hear Carmody say “Rick” again. Degano’s voice was heard thanking Ms. Carmody, saying that he would be in touch. Then the picture went dark.

Caine had told me that I was the only person who could persuade the jury that Rick Del Rio, this tough, former U.S. Marine, was innocent of beating his ex-girlfriend nearly to death.

Now this.

What in God’s name could I say to counteract Carmody’s heartrending testimony?

CAINE MADE SOME notes on his tablet, then got to his feet and approached the witness.

“Sergeant Degano, you saw that Ms. Carmody had suffered grave injuries to her head. You testified that she was going in and out of consciousness. And yet you trusted the veracity of her testimony?”

“I had no choice. For all I knew, this was her last hour on earth.”

“I understand. But when you showed her the picture of my client and asked if he was the one who hurt her, is it possible she didn’t understand your question?”

“I don’t understand yours.”

“Let me rephrase it, then,” said Caine. “Ms. Carmody had been physically and emotionally traumatized and had lost a lot of blood. Isn’t it possible that when you asked her who hurt her and showed her the picture of Rick Del Rio, she said ‘Rick’ because it was his picture?”

“I asked. She answered.”

“Detective, how long have you been a police officer?”

“Eighteen years.”

“When you ask a person to make an identification, isn’t it standard practice to show them a lineup, or a photo array?”

“There was no time to pull one together.”

“So you violated procedure, and now we cannot be sure what kind of ID the victim made, can we?”

“I had the man’s picture in my jacket pocket.”

“Just answer the question, please, Detective. If you could have, you would have shown her an array, yes or no?”

“Yeah. In a perfect world. A world I don’t happen to live in.”

“Thanks, Detective. I have no further questions.”

ADA LEWIS CALLED his next witness, Dr. William Triebel, a neurosurgeon of note at Cedars-Sinai. Triebel was clean-cut, fifty, his face lined from the sun. He looked confident and competent, and when he spoke, his testimony was delivered in a crisp, no-bull way.

Dr. Triebel described types of traumatic brain injury, gave a quick course in bleeding and swelling in the brain. He said that Vicky Carmody had a subdural hematoma and an intracranial hemorrhage, and he categorized her injuries as catastrophic.

“And you operated on her, Dr. Triebel?” Lewis asked.

“Yes. I did. I evacuated the subdural hematoma, managed the swelling, and all I could do about the focal hemorrhage inside the brain was wait and pray.”

Lewis asked his witness, “What’s her prognosis?”

“Guarded for survival,” he said.

“Will she be able to walk?”

“It’s too soon to tell.”

“Doctor, is it fair to say that June thirteenth was the last normal day Vicky Carmody will ever have?”

Caine shot up from his seat, said, “Objection. The doctor has testified that he has no way of knowing what to expect for Ms. Carmody in the future.”

“Let me rephrase that,” said Lewis. “If Ms. Carmody survives, is it likely that she will fully recover from this vicious beating?”

“In a word, no.”

“That’s all I have for Dr. Triebel. Thank you, Doctor.”

Then Lewis spoke in the general direction of the defense table. “Your witness.”

Caine stood and walked toward the witness stand.

“I have a couple of questions, Dr. Triebel. Regarding the injuries to Ms. Carmody’s brain that you describe as catastrophic. You’ve said that she suffered most of the trauma to the brain stem and the frontal lobe. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And do I understand correctly that these are the parts of the brain that control motor function, memory, and speech?”

Lewis spoke from his seat. “Objection, Your Honor. The doctor fully explained the extent and type of injuries to the court.”

“I’ll allow it anyway,” said the judge. “Some of us wouldn’t mind hearing this again. Please continue, Mr. Caine.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Dr. Triebel, shall I repeat the question?”

The doctor said, “That’s not necessary. Yes, the brain stem and the frontal lobe control motor function, memory, and speech.”

“Thank you. Now, Dr. Triebel. After help arrived many hours after the attack, Ms. Carmody was interviewed by the police, and she responded to questioning. Is it likely that her memories of the attack were affected by the trauma she sustained?”

“Maybe yes. Maybe no. Could go either way.”

“Well, then, is it fair to say that any testimony she gave in this traumatized condition was questionable, even unreliable?”

The doctor folded his hands in front of him. “The brain is an amazing organ. Ms. Carmody was unconscious when she was admitted to the hospital. Without evaluating her brain function at that time, we can’t know if Ms. Carmody remembered the attack accurately or not.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Lewis had put the doctor on the stand to testify about how much damage the victim had suffered at her attacker’s hands. I liked the way Caine had turned the evidence around to question Carmody’s ability to know what had happened to her.

I hoped at least one juror saw it as reasonable doubt.

As the witness stepped down from the box and left the courtroom, Dexter Lewis exchanged a few words with his co-counsel. Then the ADA stood, buttoned his jacket, said to the judge, “The People rest, Your Honor.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” said the judge. “Mr. Caine? Are you ready to present your case?”

Caine said, “Yes, Your Honor. The defense calls Mr. Jack Morgan.”

I WALKED TO the box, put my hand on the Bible, and swore to God I would tell the truth. I hoped I could do that. I hoped I wouldn’t have to lie.

I sat down and looked across the blond-wood floor to the defense table. Rick’s expression was tight with pent-up emotion, like he was doing everything in his power not to blow.

Eric Caine, my good friend, an excellent lawyer, and Rick’s defender, smiled as he came toward me.

He stopped a few feet from where I sat and said, “Mr. Morgan, you and I know each other pretty well, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, we do.”

“I’m employed by your firm as your in-house counsel, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So I want the jury to know that you are here today as a
character
witness for Mr. Del Rio and that you have no firsthand knowledge of the crime that was perpetrated on Ms. Carmody.”

“That’s right.”

Caine paused for a moment, then said, “Mr. Morgan, how long have you known Mr. Del Rio?”

“I’ve known Rick for ten years. We served in Afghanistan together.”

“Will you tell the court about that?”

“How much time do we have?”

Caine smiled. He said, “As much time as you need.”

I had rehearsed a few lines to get myself started, but now, as I looked at Rick’s face, I forgot what I was going to say.

But the images, they were there—with sound and the stink of fear and in living color. That night, when we were shot out of the sky, I remember what affected me most deeply: the dead and dying men, and the relief in Del Rio’s face after he’d brought me back to life.

But that was
my
story.

Rick had a story too, and there was a part of it that we had never talked about and that he wouldn’t want me to reveal.

But I had to tell it now if I was going to help him.

I wanted to tell the jury that Rick talked to the dead.

THERE WASN’T A sound in the room, just expectant faces, every one of them turned toward me.

I began to talk about the night we were transporting troops from Gardez to the base in Kandahar. I said that I was piloting the aircraft, that Del Rio was my copilot, my wingman, and that we had fourteen war-weary Marines in the cargo bay.

“Night flights are exceptionally—hazardous. Even with NVGs, even with our heightened awareness of anomalies on the ground, there are ditches and shadows where the enemy can hide.”

I said, “We never saw the ground-to-air missile that slammed through the belly of the CH-46, knocking out our rear rotor, sending us into a death spiral thousands of feet straight down. That same missile set off ordnance inside the chopper and blew up the fuel tanks and started the fire that burned our helicopter from the inside out.”

I looked at the faces of the jurors and told them that against terrible odds, we landed the aircraft with its struts down, and that Del Rio and I got out of the Phrog alive and uninjured. My voice cracked when I told them that when I reached the wreckage of the cargo bay, I was presented with something akin to Sophie’s choice.

“You’re supposed to take the man that has the best chance of survival. That’s what you do—but it was dark. Men were screaming in agony, begging not to be left to be burned alive. I loved them all, but I grabbed Corporal Danny Young,” I said. “I didn’t know if he would make it, but he was closest to the door.

“I carried him to safety, and I had just put him down when the helicopter exploded. It’s a concussive explosion. The ground
erupts
. The air
shatters
.

“I was hit in the chest by a chunk of flying metal, and my protective armor stopped it from going through. But the force stopped my heart. That’s what Rick told me later. My heart stopped and I died.

“But Rick didn’t let me die. He stayed with me, pounded my chest until I was breathing. Because of him, that man sitting there, I am alive. But Danny was killed by the blast. All of our brothers in the cargo bay—dead.”