Tragic (24 page)

“To a reasonable degree of scientific certainty?” Karp asked.

“Mr. Miller matched to a very high degree of scientific certainty; only one in five billion people would have an identical DNA sequence.”

Karp walked over to the prosecution table, where he put the beer bottle down and picked up a clear jar containing a liquid. He returned to the witness stand and handed the jar to Swanburg. “Have you seen this container before?”

“Yes, it’s a container from my laboratory,” Swanburg said, turning the jar around so that the jury could see markings on the side. “See, it’s got our logo and it’s date and time stamped.”

“Were you able to determine the jar’s contents?” Karp asked.

“Yes, indeed, I transferred it there after testing in order to preserve it for the defense laboratories,” Swanburg said. “Basically, it’s a combination of water, urea, creatinine, uric acid, and
trace amounts of enzymes, carbohydrates, hormones, fatty acids, pigments, and mucins, as well as inorganic ions such as sodium, potassium, chloride, magnesium, calcium, ammonium, sulfates, and phosphates.”

Karp smiled. “Please tell us how you would describe the contents in everyday terms.”

“Human urine.” Swanburg chuckled. “Pee-pee.”

“Thank you.” Karp grinned. “Doctor, are you able to test urine for DNA?”

“Oh yes,” Swanburg said. “DNA in urine comes from nucleated cells that line the bladder and ureters. A small number of cells are fluffed off every day, and with the techniques that are available today, DNA profiles can be obtained from a very small number of cells.”

“Were you able to match this urine sample to a DNA profile?” Karp asked.

“Yes, as with the tobacco spit, it was a match for William Miller.”

“Doctor,” Karp said as he returned the jar of urine to the prosecution table and picked up the envelopes Fulton had used to collect cigarette butts, which he handed to Swanburg, “have you seen these envelopes before?”

Squinting through his reading glasses, Swanburg reached out for the first envelope that Karp handed up to him. “Yes. There are my initials in the top corner on the left, and the date I received it in my lab.”

“Would you open the envelope marked People’s Exhibit Eighteen, collected from the area in front of the Hudson Day School in close proximity to the Carlotta residence, and describe the contents,” Karp directed.

Swanburg did as told, then looked back at the jurors. “There are five partially burned cigarettes, or cigarette butts, if you prefer.”

“And do you recognize them?”

The scientist smiled. “Yes, we’re old friends. I marked each with a small blue dot that is also visible in ultraviolet lighting.”

“What can you tell the jurors about these five cigarette butts?”

“Well, they are all the same brand, Belomorkanal, which is somewhat unusual in the United States, though more prevalent in Russian immigrant communities,” Swanburg said. “They are manufactured in St. Petersburg and are considered a poor man’s cigarette even there.”

“Anything more?”

“Um, yes, at least three of these butts contained tobacco from a similar batch and likely were from the same pack.”

As Swanburg spoke, Karp glanced at the jury and was pleased to see how intently they were following the forensic testimony. “And were you able to determine who smoked the cigarettes?”

“Yes, again, to a high degree of scientific certainty,” Swanburg said, then backtracked. “Actually, cigarette butts have a fascinating history in the annals of forensic criminal investigations. One of the very first uses of bloodtyping to solve a murder occurred in the late 1880s. A quick-thinking detective, who was aware of the brand-new science of blood typing, was following the suspect in a murder case when he saw the man smoke a cigarette and throw the butt on the ground. He picked up the butt and had it tested. The smoker’s blood type matched that of the perpetrator of the crime and he was convicted. Of course, blood types are much more common among people. Advances in DNA testing have enabled us to go beyond that and compare saliva DNA, even dried saliva, on a cigarette to a suspect’s DNA, which is a much more exact science for identifying people.”

“And you were able to do that in this instance?”

“Yes, for four of the butts from this envelope,” Swanburg said, this time looking over at the defense table. “They matched to a very high degree of scientific certainty the DNA of the defendant, Alexei Bebnev.”

Karp retrieved the envelope from Swanburg and handed him another. “Do you recognize People’s Exhibit Nineteen, which was collected from the lawn in front of the Carlotta house?”

“Yes. Same thing; there are my initials and the date,” Swanburg said and opened the envelope. “It contains one butt with a blue mark on it.”

“Were you able to determine who smoked the cigarette?”

“Yes, again, DNA testing indicated to a very high degree of scientific certainty that the smoker was Alexei Bebnev.”

With his eyes on the defense table, where Bebnev nervously licked his lips and DiMarzo hung his head, Karp walked back to the prosecution table and exchanged the two envelopes for two more.

“Doctor, I am handing you envelopes marked People’s Exhibits Twenty-One and Twenty-Two, collected from an alley in Hell’s Kitchen,” Karp said. “Do you recognize them and their contents?”

Swanburg glanced at the envelopes and nodded. “Yes, one is an envelope I received that originally contained a dozen cigarette butts; it now contains three Belomorkanal butts, or what’s left of them after testing,” he said. “The other is an envelope from my office, and it now contains the other nine butts.”

“Why did you separate them?”

“Because the three were all the same brand and tested positive for Mr. Bebnev’s DNA,” Swanburg said. “The other nine were a variety of brands and did not have Mr. Bebnev’s DNA, nor any other defendant’s DNA on them.”

After getting the envelopes back from Swanburg, Karp returned to the prosecution table one more time and picked up another envelope, People’s Exhibit 23 marked for identification, “containing a cigarette butt collected from the floor of the vehicle registered to William Miller.” He then went through the same process of identifying the envelope and asking if Swanburg had been able to determine who had smoked the cigarette.

This time, the portly scientist shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s Belomorkanal, but it was quite crushed and I was not able to get a good enough DNA specimen to test.”

“Thank you, Dr. Swanburg,” Karp said and looked at Judge See. “No further questions.”

Over at the defense table, Bebnev grabbed the arm of his attorney and said something. Clooney nodded and rose to his feet, though he remained behind the defense table.

“Dr. Swanburg, for all of your comprehensive tests and scientific knowledge, you do not have any evidence that Mr. Bebnev placed those cigarette butts either across the street from the Carlotta residence, next to the driveway, or in Mr. Miller’s car, is that correct?”

Swanburg looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess logic would dictate otherwise, but you’re correct. I can prove he placed those cigarettes in his mouth, but not that he left the butts in those areas.”

“Then if someone was attempting to frame Mr. Bebnev, it might be a good idea to collect cigarette butts from his home or while in a bar and then plant them to be found by someone else, correct?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Karp said. “I ask for a good faith offer of proof to justify Mr. Clooney’s suggestion of a frame.”

“Your Honor, given all the reports we’re now reading about people who are unjustly convicted of murder who are on death row, I believe I am permitted to delve into this area,” Clooney said.

“Do you have anything more concrete, Mr. Clooney, other than reports in newspapers to suggest in this particular case that there may have been wrongdoing committed by the police or District Attorney’s Office?” the judge asked.

“Not right now; that’s why I want to get answers,” Clooney retorted.

“Then I am going to sustain the objection, direct the jury to please disregard Mr. Clooney’s question, it will be stricken from the record, and I admonish you, Mr. Clooney, that you should not engage in this conduct again unless you have a good faith basis backed up by facts that relate directly to this case.”

Embarrassed and not even bothering to look at the gallery
anymore, Clooney sat down, and Frank DiMarzo’s attorney, Irv Westin, stood. “Dr. Swanburg,” he asked, “in all of that testing you did—of cigarettes and beer bottles and saliva—was there any evidence connected to my client, Frank DiMarzo?”

“I believe that there were some hair samples taken from the car that matched Mr. DiMarzo,” Swanburg replied.

“Would you consider it unusual for Mr. DiMarzo’s hair to be found in a vehicle owned by his best friend?”

Swanburg pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. That’s pretty logical to assume.”

Westin smiled as if he’d scored an important point. “Thank you. No further questions.”

As Swanburg stepped down from the witness stand, Judge See looked at Karp. “I believe we have time for you to call another witness,” he said.

“As a matter of fact, I have one who should just about take us to the end of the day,” Karp said. “The People call Randy McMahon.”

Vince Carlotta’s driver walked into the courtroom like a man carrying an enormous burden on his broad shoulders. His head and eyes were down as he took the stand and, after reciting his working relationship with Vince Carlotta, he soon broke down after Karp asked him to recount the events of the night his boss was shot and killed.

“I wasn’t where I should have been,” the former Golden Gloves heavyweight boxer wept. “I should have never gone to get the car and left him alone. But he told me to go with Sal Amaya.”

“And Sal Amaya is Charlie Vitteli’s bodyguard?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

McMahon recounted how he’d arrived back at the scene in time to see two men wearing masks run across the street and jump into a car. “An old Delta 88 with gray primer on the trunk.”

“Did you get a license number?”

Shaking his head, McMahon wiped at his eyes. “No, I messed
up, but I didn’t know what was going on,” he said. “Not until I looked across where they’d been and saw several men around someone on the ground. It wasn’t until I got out of the car and ran over there that I knew it was . . . it was Vince.”

On cross-examination, Clooney asked if the only witnesses to the actual shooting were Charlie Vitteli, Joey Barros, and Jackie Corcione. But the defense attorney was surprised by his answer.

“Yeah, well, no . . . maybe . . .” McMahon stumbled. “There were these three women . . . sort of street people, dressed in rags and old coats, who were hanging out down the sidewalk when I went to get the car. But I don’t know if they saw anything. They were gone when I got to Vince.”

During the last witness prep session the evening before McMahon testified, he had informed Karp of this recollection. Immediately, Karp dispatched Fulton to locate the women and learn what if anything they’d seen of value. However, the detective was unable to locate anyone who fit that description.

Wondering if the women had anything to do with Dirty Warren’s assertion that street gossips claimed there were other witnesses to the murder, he watched McMahon step down from the witness stand. So far the little news vendor had been unable to confirm the rumors but had told him just that morning that they had not gone away.

“I think it’s time for us to adjourn for the day,” Judge See said. He dismissed the jury and the people in the gallery began to file out.

Facing Karp, the judge asked, “Mr. Karp, how many more witnesses will you have?”

“Just a couple more, Your Honor,” Karp replied. “And I believe we should be done by noon tomorrow.”

“Very well,” the judge said. “Then, Mr. Clooney, please be prepared to begin at that time. Will you be giving an opening statement now?”

“Indeed, I will, Your Honor,” Clooney announced loudly for the members of the media that lingered in the courtroom.

“We’ll look forward to it, Mr. Clooney,” Judge See said. “Court is adjourned.”

Gathering his papers and notepads, Karp was just about to say something to Guma about the three women when he heard a voice behind him.

“Mr. Karp?”

Turning, Karp saw one of the tough-looking men who’d been attending every day of the trial. The group of men generally sat a few rows back on the prosecution side of the aisle, and he’d noticed that the others all seemed to defer to this man; a tall, thin but muscular-looking individual with a permanent five-o’clock shadow. He walked up the aisle to the wooden gate separating the well from the gallery.

“Can I help you?” Karp asked.

“My name’s T. J. Martindale,” the man said without offering his hand to shake, though his voice wasn’t unfriendly. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute. It’s about Vince’s murder and who’s behind it.”

“What do you have?” Karp said as he motioned to the approaching court security officer to back off.

Martindale looked him hard in the eyes, his brow furrowed. “I’d like to speak in private, if you don’t mind.”

“Were you friends with Vince?” Karp asked, surprised by his own question.

Martindale’s face suddenly softened in sorrow. “More like his brother,” he said.

The two men held each other’s gaze a moment more and then Karp nodded. “Let’s go to my office. We can talk there.”

“T
HE
P
EOPLE CALL
A
NTONIA
C
ARLOTTA
.”

The courtroom buzzed excitedly for a moment as all eyes followed Karp’s to where the witness would appear.
All the world’s a stage and we are but players in it,
Karp paraphrased in his mind as the young woman, only recently returned from four months in Italy, entered, her eyes shiny with tears and fear.

With her lustrous dark hair piled high atop her head, luminous eyes, full lips, and willowy figure, she was stunning, and moved as though playing a part in a drama.
Comes now the beautiful widow to confront the villains who murdered her husband.
But he noticed when he spoke to her earlier that morning the lines around her eyes and the sadness within them remained. It was no play, and he knew from talking to her that she was still just “going through the motions” of living.