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Dan felt he’d done a decent job so far of reminding the jury that there were lots of possibilities and that no evidence pointed with absolute certainty toward Ossie.
The key words being, so far. If he could deal with the remaining evidence as effectively, they might stand a chance.
During the break between witnesses, he contemplated ditching his cane. He felt much sturdier. Maybe that was buoyancy emanating from a cross that went well—and maybe that was completely delusional—but he felt he could survive without it. His ribs still hurt like the blazes, but the cane wasn’t helping with that, and he worried that the jury might suspect the cane was some sort of sympathy play. He decided to tentatively try crossing the next witness without it. He’d stay close to the table, just in case.
He noticed more of the Coleman clan sneaking into the courtroom during the break. Phil joined his father and Benny, though he didn’t look like he wanted to be there. He wondered how anyone who had done two tours of duty in Afghanistan could stand Dolly’s attempts to tell everyone around her what to do.
Before he looked away, Dolly motioned for him. Her version of a royal summons, he supposed.
He approached cautiously. “If you’ve come to see Ossie on the stand, you’re early.”
“No,” Dolly said, “we’ve already heard his sad story. It won’t be improved by the witness stand.”
“Then what brings you here?”
“May I remind you, Mr. Pike, that this trial concerns the violent death of a member of our family? We are very determined to see that justice is done.”
“And a potential threat to your inheritance is eliminated.”
She drew herself up. “Justice, Mr. Pike. Perhaps you’ve heard of the concept.”
“Just didn’t know you were all that fond of Harrison.”
“I loved that boy,” Zachary Coleman said, cutting in. “Can’t believe he’s gone. Losing two sons...” He shook his drooping head. “It’s too much. Too much.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“Everyone I love disappears,” Zachary muttered.
“Not true, Papa.” Dolly patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve still got Benny and me. We will not desert you.”
Zachary looked at her but said nothing.
He tried to think of something to break the silence. “I’m afraid you haven’t picked the most exciting day to attend. Primarily technical and forensic witnesses today.”
To his surprise, Benny spoke. “I like tech. Thought about being a research scientist when I was younger.”
He tried not to appear skeptical. “Indeed.”
“Yes,” Dolly murmured. “Till he discovered that it required intelligence.”
Benny chuckled. “My wife is such a kidder.”
“When he learned that,” she continued, “Benny decided a better choice might be managing his father’s estate. Since it doesn’t actually require him to do anything—”
“I have to—”
“—that a child couldn’t do.”
He decided to make a hasty retreat to the defense table. These people were a thousand times nastier than the trial was likely to get.
Kilpatrick called a few more necessary if unexciting witnesses. A toxicologist to provide more information about the poison on the syringe. The lieutenant who was the first to arrive at the crime scene. Zachary Coleman wheeled to the front of the courtroom and testified about his net worth. None of it was in question—presumably Kilpatrick wanted to create a motive.
He didn’t even cross. He’d save his ammunition for when it could really do some damage.
After the mid-afternoon break, Kilpatrick called the St. Pete PD’s expert on dactylograms—fingerprints—to the stand. Dr. Brenda Palmer had testified on many previous occasions in a calm and matter-of-fact manner. Wire-rimmed spectacles. Small scar beneath her left ear. About a size six.
Fingerprint evidence wasn’t nearly as certain as people thought it was from watching television, which he had gone to great lengths to prove last time he saw Palmer on the stand. He had a hunch that this time she would be much more careful about what she said.
Kilpatrick spent about five minutes establishing her credentials, then brought the witness’ attention to the syringe, specifically, a three-quarter thumbprint found at the base of the syringe plunger.
“Could you describe the print in question?”
“Certainly. I found a near-full ten-point ridge match between the print taken from the syringe and the prints taken from the defendant after his arrest.”
“Can you put that in layman’s terms?”
“Sure. You probably already know that everyone’s fingers have ridges on them, and the ridges vary significantly from one person to the next.” He noticed that Palmer did not claim, as she had on previous occasions, that everyone’s fingerprints were different. That was an old cliché that had never been proven, and he demonstrated during a previous trial that it was possible for prints from two different people to look quite similar, especially when only viewing a partial print. As here. “Our natural body oil causes an impression of those ridges to be left on a flat adhesive surface when touched. We have a system for reading those prints at strategic points. That’s how we determine whether there’s a match.”
“And was there a match in this case?”
“There was. The print on the syringe matches the prints from the defendant.”
“Any room for error?”
“No. The match is clear.”
“Thank you. Pass the witness.”
Was it his imagination that the witness tensed when she saw him approach? Had prior experience left her apprehensive? He’d like to think so. Better than thinking she was holding back laughter because he looked so silly trying to inch forward without his cane.
“You mentioned that you found a ten-point match, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But the system you and most fingerprint analysts use to compare prints has twelve points, doesn’t it?”
“That’s correct.”
“So two of the points didn’t match?”
“Two of the points weren’t present. As I said, this was a partial print.”
“Since you didn’t have all twelve points, the reliability of the match decreases significantly, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, I would disagree with that statement. For the ten points available, the match is strong.”
“But the fact that you don’t have all twelve points increases the chance that you may have a false positive, right? That the two prints could be similar, but not identical.”
“I find that highly—”
“In fact, doesn’t the International Association of Crime Analysis advise against even offering an opinion on prints when you don’t have twelve points?”
Her shoulders rose. “That organization tends to be rather conservative.”
“It’s the organization that lays out the ethical rules for your profession.”
“Guidelines, not rules.”
“And you’re violating those guidelines by testifying.”
She craned her neck. “I make my own judgments about when it’s appropriate to testify, on a case-by-case basis. In this instance, I felt that the commonality on the ten points we had was sufficient to merit offering a professional opinion.”
He took a step closer. “Did the DA weigh in on that decision?”
“I’m...not sure what you mean.”
“The District Attorney very much wanted you to take the stand against my client, didn’t he?”
“I would assume the prosecutor always wants his staff—”
“No, it’s more than that. He told you he wanted you to testify. Am I correct?”
She hesitated before answering. “I...did have a conversation with the District Attorney about this case.”
“And he instructed you to testify.”
“He told me he hoped I could support the strong case they were building.”
“And you did what he wanted. Even though it put you in conflict with the professional guidelines of your profession.” He pivoted toward the jury box. “Once again, we see that the law enforcement community was intimately involved and extremely determined to build a case against my client.”
“Objection,” Kilpatrick said. “That’s not a question. More like a summation.”
“I’ll withdraw it.” Since the jury had already heard it. He plowed ahead. “When did you receive the syringe?”
Palmer glanced at her report, then announced the date.
“That was four days after it was recovered. Four days after my client was arrested.”
“I believe that is correct.”
“Do you know where the syringe was during those four days?”
“No.”
“Do you know who had possession?”
“No. But we have strict chain-of-custody procedures at the department. We make sure everything is handled properly.”
“I’ve already heard enough to call that statement into question. And of course, if the police are the ones behind the frame, putting the syringe in their custody is no protection at all.”
“Objection,” Kilpatrick said. He was becoming visibly incensed.
“I’ll withdraw. But you will acknowledge, Dr. Palmer, that if a member of the police force wanted to get at that syringe during this four-day period, they probably could’ve managed it?”
She squirmed. “Possibly...”
“Probably. And they fingerprinted my client almost immediately after he was arrested, didn’t they?”
“That is standard procedure.”
“So someone could have reproduced that thumbprint from the exemplar taken from Ossie. Could’ve pressed it onto the base of the syringe.”
“Objection,” Kilpatrick said. “There is no evidence—”
This time he stood his ground. “I didn’t ask the witness if it happened. I asked if it was scientifically possible.”
“Then—he’s calling for speculation.”
“Which I can do, given that this is the cross-examination of an expert witness. You are capable of offering an opinion as to whether a fingerprint could be reproduced on another surface in four days’ time, aren’t you, Dr. Palmer?”
Despite the pending objection, she answered. “Yes. It could be done. It’s essentially what we do in the lab to run our tests. We don’t tamper with the original. We copy the print to a surface we can safely run through analysis.”
“Are you the only person on earth who knows how to do that?”
“Of course not.”
“My point exactly. Thank you. No more questions.”