Silent Witness (56 page)

Tony tried to stay calm. ‘She didn't help you, for sure. But no one is going to take her apart – including me.' His voice softened. ‘After all, she's right about the fetus, about the anal intercourse, even about the brand of condom you used. As for the rest, Saul's been doing this for years –'

‘When was the
last
year, Tony? This may be a sentimental journey for you, but it's my life that's on the line here – my future, my marriage, everything.' Sam stood abruptly. ‘I sit here, waiting to say I'm innocent until I want to fucking scream. And
you
sit here, cool as ever, and put me in the trembling hands of some prehistoric sot.' Placing his palms flat on the table, he leaned toward Tony with his face red, his forehead damp. ‘It's because you think I'm guilty, isn't it? That all I deserve is a half hearted effort by a lawyer who'll be fucking my wife the night after they ship me off for a lifetime of sex in the prison shower room. If you're not fucking her already.'

Staring up at Sam, Tony felt his jaw work. ‘You're scared,' he said softly. ‘I understand that. But try not to make losing quite so attractive to me. . . .' Abruptly, Tony stopped himself. ‘I didn't mean that. And you'd better not mean what you said about Sue. Because I am very, very tired of counting up all the things she doesn't deserve. . . .'

‘Look –'

‘No.
You
look.' Tony's voice rose. ‘You're getting a goddamned good defense from me, pal – there may be better lawyers out there, but not many. So if I decide to take a break before my victory lap,
you
can take a moment to thank me. Instead of slandering your wife and reminding me of how pleasant
my
life was before that poor pregnant girl went off the cliff. However the hell
that
happened.' Pausing, Tony mastered his own emotions. ‘As for Saul, I wouldn't sacrifice one friend to give another friend something to do. But before you open your mouth again, I'll thank you to remember that Saul
is
my friend. Just like Sue.'

Sam stared down at Tony. ‘We're both tired,' he said at length. Abruptly, he collapsed in the chair across from Tony, face buried in his hands, and emitted a deep breath. ‘I never sleep now. I just never fucking sleep. I lie there, watching the digits move on our alarm clock, and there's nothing I can say to her. Minutes, then hours, letting her pretend to sleep, and all I've got to hold on to is something I can't share with her. Because I'm the only person in the world who
knows
I'm innocent.' Sam looked up again, and his face suddenly seemed haggard. ‘For me, innocence isn't a presumption, Tony, or a job. It's not about how good a lawyer you are. Try to imagine what it's like to know that I'm innocent and sit there, while all the mistakes I ever made – everything I'm ashamed of – makes me look not just disgusting but
guilty
. . . .' He looked down. ‘I guess you do understand that. Some of it, anyhow.'

‘Some of it,' Tony said at last. ‘Except for whoever murdered Alison, I was the only one who knew. Almost everyone else thought it was me. So I can see why it matters to you. Just like it “mattered” to me.'

‘
You
matter to me.' Sam reached out, his hand covering the top of Tony's. ‘I'm not like that, Tony. Please, believe me.'

Tony looked into Sam's light-blue eyes, silently pleading, and felt the cost of friendship, the incalculable ways, at first unimagined, through which one person's connection to another can alter the lives of both. ‘Then trust me,' Tony answered. ‘We're going to get you out of this. No matter how it looks.'

Watching Saul stand, then shuffle ponderously toward Kate Micelli, was painful to Tony. Saul was seventy, Tony guessed, and with a sudden sadness he knew that Saul would not reach eighty: the years of neglect, the drinking, the weariness of trial after trial, were like a weight he carried. Though he had a certain dignity, his voice was rough and quavery.

‘Good afternoon, Dr. Micelli.' Saul was quiet for a moment; Tony felt Sam tense, as if helplessly watching a once great actor forget his lines. Abruptly, Saul said, ‘Three blows to the head, right?'

‘That's my opinion, yes.'

‘Wouldn't there be blood spatter?'

Micelli folded her hands. ‘Not from the first blow, I believe. That would simply break the skin. But probably from the second and third.'

Saul listened, head cocked as if to hear. ‘All right. Now let me assume that the blows were administered by your hypothetical killer. Where would this blood spatter go?'

Micelli gave him a look of exaggerated patience. ‘In your question, Mr. Ravin, are you assuming that the killer is standing, holding the victim upright, or on the ground?'

Saul's smile was almost bashful. ‘That's a good point. Why don't we start with both killer and victim on the ground?'

Micelli frowned. ‘In that case, you'd have blood spatter on the ground, and on the victim's face and hair.'

Saul put both hands in his pockets, fumbling for imaginary change. ‘What about your hypothetical killer?'

‘Probably on
his
face and hair.'

‘This blood on the ground. Would it be substantial?'

‘It could be, yes.'

Slowly, Saul nodded. ‘But you don't think it happened that way, do you . . . ?'

‘What way?' Micelli said with faint irritation.

The jury watched Saul in puzzlement, reflecting Micelli's apparent disrespect. ‘Oh,' Saul said. ‘Sorry. I meant that you don't believe that the killer struck the victim while both were on the ground, do you?'

Micelli hesitated. ‘No. I don't.'

Pausing, Saul gestured to the jury. ‘Could you share with the jury why that is?'

Micelli would not look at them. ‘There were significant blood spatters on Marcie Calder's sweatshirt and jeans.'

Saul placed one hand to his face, so innocently pensive that, for the first time, Tony wanted to smile. ‘So your hypothetical killer was
standing
, holding the victim upright?'

‘This is what I believe, yes. . . .'

‘Then what do you believe the
victim
was doing?'

‘I don't know.'

Saul smiled. ‘I understand – of course you don't
know
. Let me put it this way, Dr. Micelli. During your autopsy, did you discover any evidence that Marcie Calder was struggling?'

‘No.'

‘No skin beneath her fingernails. Or bruises on her neck or body, like those which might have been inflicted on a struggling victim by a person of considerable strength?'

Micelli frowned again. ‘No.'

‘All right. This hypothetical killer – if he was standing, what kind of spatter would he have on him?'

‘There would likely be blood on his face and arms and upper torso.'

‘A lot of blood?'

‘There could be, yes.'

‘Also blood on the ground?'

‘Some.'

Saul paused and took an audible rumbling breath, as if too many rapid questions had winded him. Tony wondered if this was true or an act – an attempt to distract Micelli, or to cover a pause for thought. But Tony took the moment to survey the room: the jury, engaged now; Stella, alert, her left hand poised over a legal pad; Karoly, looking curious for once. Abruptly, Saul said, ‘But there was no blood on the ground above the cliff – whether lying down, or standing up, no blood at all.'

‘It had been raining, Mr. Ravin.'

Saul smiled again. ‘That may be part of your
answer
, Dr. Micelli. But it wasn't my question. So, again, was there any blood whatsoever on the ground? Or on the grass?'

‘No. The rain could have washed it away.'

‘I see.' Saul paused for a moment. ‘Just like it could have washed away blood on the cliffside if Marcie fell by accident?'

Micelli hesitated. ‘I suppose so.'

‘Or on a rock?'

‘It could.' Micelli's tone was condescending. ‘But you'll remember, Mr. Ravin, that the police found a rock with Marcie Calder's hair and blood. The lab confirmed that.'

Saul looked abashed. ‘Sorry. I wasn't clear. I was talking about the
second
rock.'

Micelli's brow knit. ‘I don't understand you,' she said with faint annoyance.

‘Okay. Let's suppose for a moment that – despite what you surmise – Marcie Calder fell down the cliff by accident. Can I ask you to assume that? Just for the purpose of my question.'

‘All right.'

‘You don't think, in that case, that Marcie Calder's head would have hit the same rock three times, do you?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Indeed, her head likely would have had to hit three rocks.'

‘In your scenario, yes.'

‘Then there'd be no blood on the first rock, would there? Because, as you say, the first blow would tear the scalp without causing spatter.'

‘True.'

Saul considered her. ‘What about the second rock, in my scenario.'

‘There would be blood on it, yes.'

‘Less blood than the third?'

‘Yes. But the police found no such rock, you may recall. Indeed, there weren't any on the side of the hill.'

‘But there were at the bottom, right? Several rocks of a fair size.'

‘But none with blood.'

Saul ignored this. ‘How did the rocks get there?' he asked.

‘I don't know.'

‘Any chance they were knocked down the hill by Marcie's fall?'

‘I don't know.' Micelli grimaced, and then tried to look judicious. ‘There's always a chance, Mr. Ravin. But as to whether they caused injury, none had blood.'

‘Because of the rain? Isn't it true that the second rock, in my scenario, would have less blood than the last?'

‘Yes.'

‘Which, during the rain, could have washed off.'

Micelli sat back, answering at a staccato clip. ‘My opinion as to cause of death is a mosaic, Mr. Ravin – not a laundry list. The nature of the wounds, the absence of contre-coup brain trauma, and, yes, the single bloody rock seven feet from the body,
all
support my belief that Marcie Calder was killed by another above the cliff and thrown over the side already dead.'

Turning from her, Saul walked to the defense table, pouring a glass of water as Sam looked worriedly up at him. Then Saul turned to Micelli, studying her as he sipped the water. ‘Dry throat,' he said to her. ‘Tell me, Ms. Calder must have fallen with considerable force, correct?'

‘It would seem so, yes.'

‘And the blows to her head also required considerable force?'

‘Yes. I said that.'

Saul put down the glass. ‘Couldn't Marcie's head have hit the bloody rock you did find with
considerable
force, accounting for the blood on the rock and on her clothes, while causing the rock to roll down the hill another seven feet? It was round, after all, and about ninety-five pounds lighter than Marcie.'

Micelli stared at him. ‘You've just given me
several
assumptions, Mr. Ravin.

Saul smiled. ‘Sorry. I guess my question was kind of a mosaic. Please let me break it down.' Pausing, he walked toward her and asked, ‘The spatter could have happened when Marcie's head hit a rock, correct?'

‘It's theoretically possible –'

‘Particularly because the spatter is concentrated on her right sleeve and not the front of her sweatshirt.'

Micelli paused. ‘True.'

‘In theory, the fall could have left blood on the second or third rock she hit.'

‘Theoretically.'

‘And the force of a one-hundred-five-pound girl, falling down a steep cliff and hitting a rock with her head,
could
cause that rock to continue down the hill at a greater speed. Enough to travel another seven feet.'

‘Possibly. But that's a lot of coincidences.'

Saul folded his arms. ‘My only point,' he said mildly, ‘is that you can't know
what
happened, can you? Just as you admitted earlier.'

‘No. I can't. All I can do is consider what the medical evidence, taken as a whole, tells me about the circumstances of Marcie Calder's death.'

Saul nodded. ‘I understand. As I recall, another part of that evidence is the injuries to Marcie Calder's skin – the “leathery” nature of the skin and the absence of blood on the surface.'

Micelli gave him a guarded look. ‘Yes.'

‘Wouldn't rain have somewhat the same effect, causing the scraped areas of Marcie's skin to pucker?'

Micelli paused, gazing down; watching, Tony knew that she was reminding herself that she was a scientist, not a partisan. ‘It could,' she allowed. ‘The exposed part of Marcie's skin was somewhat like that of a person who'd been too long in the bathtub. Especially her hands and fingers.'

‘All right. And rain would also tend to wash away blood, and alter the color of both wounds and normal skin. Particularly because Marcie Calder ended up lying on her back, with the surfaces of her skin exposed.'

Micelli considered this. ‘Yes,' she announced. ‘It obscured the nature of her injuries. But to me, they still appeared postmortem. Particularly the lacerations to her face.'

Glancing at Frank and Nancy Calder, Tony saw that they were mute, still; their numbness seemed permanent now.

‘But don't those very lacerations,' Saul pointed out to Micelli, ‘suggest that she slid down the hill on the right side of her face, and thus could have hit the right side of her head on a rock or rocks? Causing three indentations quite close together?'