A Plague of Secrets

22

Braun called a recess as soon as Hardy sat down. While Maya was in the restroom, Hardy pushed his chair back to the bar rail and turned around, resting his elbow on it. “Well,” he said to what he hoped was his private little fan club of Kathy, Harlen, and Joel Townshend, “I think I got a few licks in, anyway. How’d it play out here?”

“Excellent,” Joel said.

Joel had become a rather more enthusiastic partner in Maya’s defense since the arrest. Of course, this had come at the expense of a seismic shift in his worldview. Before the weekend of Dylan Vogler’s death he’d never had occasion to think that the world wasn’t at base a fair and equitable place. He’d always had enough money and social standing to remain above the little mundane headaches that most people faced constantly-household bills, fights about money or time or chores. If he wanted to go out to dinner, they hired a babysitter and didn’t care what the meal cost. If he and Maya were tired or bored, they’d go spend a night or two in Napa or Carmel to rejuvenate themselves. Their friends were people more or less like them. And other people he met tended to be polite, at least to him personally. Perhaps even more fundamentally, he never really had to prove himself to get a loan or make a connection; he got the benefit of the doubt.

And now, not just suddenly but seemingly instantaneously, all of that had ended. The properties against which he’d taken out more loans to finance other properties and ventures were no longer rock-solid as collateral. His social life, with his wife incarcerated in the county jail, essentially vanished. He found himself amazed by how completely life changed when you got accused of wrongdoing. At first he’d held to the belief that this whole affair was just a mistake and if he could just find the right person to talk to and explain everything, it would all go away. He and Maya would go back to their real life.

But by now he had come to realize that this wasn’t going to happen. He and his wife were somehow “in the criminal justice system,” and this more than anything meant that the benefit of the doubt had evaporated. No one in the system was inclined to believe anything he said. The motivations for anything he did got skewed and twisted by people who started out by considering him, if not a criminal, then at least a shady character. And once they had that mind-set, nothing was going to change.

Now he was going on to Hardy: “I like the way you laid this conspiracy these people have cooked up right out there.”

“Me too,” Hardy said. “I couldn’t believe Braun let it in, but if she was going to let me, I sure as hell was going to run with it.”

“My concern,” Harlen Fisk said, “is it’s going to turn up the heat on Glass.”

“Let it,” Kathy West declared. “Harlen and I showing up here ought to be enough to do that. I welcome it. And, Diz, you just declared open war, which also suits me fine. Jerry Glass has got nothing on us. This will all get litigated away in civil court, but in the meanwhile this is where we fight it, where it can do Maya the most good.”

“It’s great you both came down for this,” Hardy said to Kathy and Harlen. “It was really a good idea, Kathy. Let them know we’re not cowering and hiding and plotting some backroom deal. I think it’s really shocked them.”

The mayor nodded. “That was my intention.”

“Are you planning on coming in every day?” Hardy asked.

This brought a smile. “When I can, maybe I will, if it will have some strategic value for you. But day-to-day, I’ve still got this city to run.”

“I should be here most days,” Fisk said. “Wave the flag for my sis.”

“So what’s the next step?” Joel asked.

“Witnesses,” Hardy replied. “We get down to it.”

If Paul Stier felt he’d taken a few hits from Hardy’s opening statement, or harbored any residual resentment at Judge Braun, he showed no sign of either as he stood in the center of the courtroom. “The People call Sergeant Lennard Faro.”

The head of Crime Scene Investigations stood up in the second row of the gallery and came through the door in the bar rail and up to the witness stand. Well-dressed as always in snug tan pants, a pink dress shirt, and a subtly shimmering light brown sports coat, he cut a dashing figure very much at odds with that of most other cops. With his spiky dark hair, gold stud earring, and well-trimmed goatee, he might have been a young graduate student or fashion designer; but even so, his experience and ease on the witness stand soon verified the credentials he outlined to Stier as they began-fourteen years on the force, the last eight with the CSI unit, the last six in charge of it.

“Now, Sergeant, what is your role at these crime scenes?”

“My team of three officers and I search the general area for physical evidence that might be related to the crime. We collect as evidence anything of interest. We also photograph the victim and the scene to try and create a record of everything at the scene as it was when we found it.”

Though a bit unusual, since murder trials often began with forensic and medical evidence, Hardy thought Stier’s decision to call Faro first was a good bit of strategy. This would put evidence at the crime scenes into the trial at the outset, potentially rebutting Hardy’s contention in his opening statement that there was little or no physical evidence tying Maya to the murders. It was also a prime opportunity to get pictures of the victims in front of the jury-real human beings who’d been murdered.

“Sergeant, were you present at the scene of Dylan Vogler’s murder?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And would you tell the jury how you proceeded?”

“Sure.” Faro, the consummate witness, nodded and came forward in the witness chair, turning slightly to be facing the jury. “I arrived at a few minutes before eight with three other crime-scene technicians.”

“Would you describe the scene as you found it?”

“It was a Saturday morning, nice day, and patrolmen from the local precinct had already cordoned off the site with police tape. Their lieutenant, Bill Banks, was also at the scene.”

“Did it appear that officers had appropriately preserved the scene so that you could begin your investigation?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Describe, please, the body of the victim.”

“Mr. Vogler’s body was lying on the ground in a paved alley by the back door of his business. He showed signs of a gunshot wound in the chest.”

“Showing you People’s One through Six, do these appear to be photographs accurately depicting Mr. Vogler’s body in the alley as you first saw it?”

“Yes, they do.”

“After the scene was photographed, did you conduct a search of the alley to determine what, if any, evidence might be present at the scene?”

“Yes, I did.”

Hardy knew that, in fact, all four crime techs had searched the alley. But if any of the other three located something, they would call Faro over without touching it, and he would photograph and collect the evidence. That way, Faro could testify to finding each piece of evidence without needing to have the other three come to court. “Among other debris, I found one.40-caliber brass bullet casing and a.40-caliber Glock semiautomatic handgun.”

Stier went through the same process of authenticating and introducing the photos of the items as they were found at the scene. Then he went to his counsel table and retrieved two evidence containers that held the items. He had them marked as People’s Exhibits and showed them to Faro. “Now, Sergeant, do you recognize these?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Please tell the jury what they are.”

This allowed Faro to repeat for the third time-in case one of the jury members was actually so dense that they’d missed it the first two times-his account of finding the gun and the casing in the alley. Whatever else Stier might be, he was professional and methodical. He went through the same process having Faro describe where and how he found the bullet in the stucco wall. Photos of the bullet hole and the projectile itself went into evidence.

For the next twenty minutes they went over all of the things Faro had not found in the alley, although he had looked for them. No other casings, no other weapons, no other bullet strikes on any of the walls or surfaces. No signs of blood, no footprints. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in that alley. He even described, though they did not physically produce, the bag of garbage they packaged up for later examination at the lab-the Coke cans, cigarette butts, and, not surprisingly, about a dozen coffee cups.

Having finished the crime scene, Stier moved on to work Faro had done at the lab. As well as working at crime scenes Faro wore a second hat as a firearms examiner in the lab. Stier went through his extensive training and experience and qualified him as an expert, and then led him through the process of comparing the bullet from the wall to the gun-test-firing the weapon and comparing the known bullet microscopically to the bullet in evidence.

As Hardy knew he would, he said that although the bullets appeared similar in class characteristics and likely came from the same sort of gun, there were insufficient details on the recovered slug to say with absolute certainty that it had come from the gun in the alley.

Stier knew that this was not his strongest point, and he moved to buttress it. “Tell the jury, please, what tests, if any, you ran on the spent casing, and what results you got.”

“The brass casing is part of a round of ammunition used in the.40-caliber Glock. The marks on the base of the casing-caused by the weapon’s firing mechanism-were consistent with other markings we could create on other bullet casings fired from the same weapon.”

“Does that mean the casing necessarily came from the weapon found in the alley?”

“No. Like the bullet, it came from a Glock.40, but I can’t say with certainty it was that same Glock.40.”

“But of course, Sergeant, you found no other bullets or casings in that alley, correct?”

“Right.”

Hardy knew that this was a repetitive and therefore objectionable question, but that objecting would only draw more attention to something he hoped the jury would not focus on. So he let it go.

Stier saved the best for last. “Sergeant, is there a database that firearms examiners can access to determine ownership of a handgun?”

Hardy knew that this was gilding the lily-any cop could access this database. Even a clerk could access the database. Stier’s question suggested that this was some sort of secret database and that you had to be a member of a club to look at it. But there was nothing Hardy could do about it. Once again, he had to tip his hat to Stier for knowing his business.

“Yes, there is a database. The gun had a registration number, and I ran that.”

With a brightness implying that this was all new to him, Stier glanced over the jury, sharing with them his enthusiasm for the hunt. “A registration number? You mean the gun was licensed to an individual?”

“Yes.”

“And who is that person, Sergeant?”

“The defendant, Maya Townshend.”

A wave of energy swept through the gallery. Stier paused just a moment for dramatic effect, until the room was dead silent again.

Hardy knew that this was a low point, and that it was just going to get worse when the fingerprint examiner told the jury that Maya’s fingerprints were on the magazine that held the ammunition on the weapon from the alley. The best Hardy could hope for from the fingerprint expert was going to be a discussion of an unidentified partial fingerprint on the spent casing.

But since Hardy knew that ultimately that print could have been left by anyone who ever handled the ammunition, who worked where it was manufactured, or clerked in the store where it was sold, that was precious little.

Stier took the opportunity by a sideways glance to include the jury in his acknowledgment of the witness. “Thank you, Sergeant.” Then, somewhat to Hardy’s surprise, Stier half turned to look at him. “Your witness, Mr. Hardy.”

Hardy’s surprise came from the fact that he’d expected Faro to remain on the stand to testify about the Preslee crime scene, but apparently Stier had an alternate strategy in mind for that portion of the People’s case. For now, Hardy had a job to do, and he squeezed his client’s arm and rose with a show of confidence from their table.

“Sergeant Faro,” he began, “in your testimony today, talking about the alleged murder weapon, the Glock.40 and the brass casing and bullet that you found at the scene of Mr. Vogler’s murder, you used the words consistent with several times, did you not?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Tell the jury, please, what you mean by that phrase.”

After a moment’s hesitation Faro shrugged. “I’m not sure I know a better word. We fired a few rounds from the gun in the lab and compared the indent left by the firing pin on those casings to the gun from the alley and they were virtually indistinguishable from one another.”

“Virtually indistinguishable? Do you mean to say that they were exactly the same?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t say that the casing came from the gun, can you, Sergeant?”

“No.”

“And that’s because your virtually indistinguishable markings were in fact so few in number that they don’t permit a comparison. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“To make a point, Sergeant, your name has an A. R. in it, doesn’t it?”

Stier spoke up from behind him. “Objection. Irrelevant.”

Braun let her curiosity overcome her distaste for Hardy. “Overruled.”

Faro spoke up. “Yes, it does. F-A-R-O.”

“Well, so does mine, Sergeant. H-A-R-D-Y. Does that mean we have the same name?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Hardy.”

Braun reminding him that she was aware that she’d been ruling in his favor more often than was her wont, but that his leash was very short now, and tightening.

“Sergeant, how many Glock.40s are there in the world?”

“Objection! Speculation.”

“Overruled, Mr. Stier. You qualified Sergeant Faro as a firearms expert.”

Hardy fenced with Faro in this vein for a moment before concluding. “In other words, Sergeant Faro,” he said, “you can’t tell this jury that this casing came from this gun, can you?”

“No. I cannot.”

“And in fact, aren’t there thousands of other Glock.40s that could have left this casing?”

“Yes, there are.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Hardy kept his face impassive but brought his hands together in muted delight. “Now, as to the bullet itself, the.40-caliber slug that you’ve identified as the bullet that killed Mr. Vogler. Again, you used the words consistent with. Sergeant, did you not run a ballistics test on this slug?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And aren’t ballistics tests conclusive?”

“Generally, yes, they can be.”

“When are they not?”

“Well, when the slug is deformed or mutilated.”

“And was the slug deformed or mutilated?”

“No, not too bad. It was embedded in stucco and wood, but it was okay.”

“And so, was your ballistics test conclusive?”

Faro shot a quick, impatient look over to Stier, shook his head at Hardy. “No.”

Hardy put on an expression of mild surprise. “No? Why not?”

“Because like with the casing, this particular bullet lacked sufficient microscopic detail to permit a conclusive match.” Faro seemed to feel obliged to defend his inability to give more conclusive evidence. “This particular type of weapon has a type of unique hexagonal rifling in the barrel that tends not to leave the marks necessary for an exact ballistics comparison.”

“So, again, Sergeant, let me ask you. Is it possible that the slug that we have here did not come from the gun owned by Maya Townshend?”

This time, since it was foreordained, and though he clearly hated the pass to which he’d come, Faro didn’t struggle with his answer. “Yes.”

After a small pause, Hardy went on. “Sergeant, did you and your crime-scene unit get called to the scene of Mr. Preslee’s murder?”

“Yes, we did.”

A confused frown. “Well, Sergeant, it’s true, is it not, that you found not one shred of evidence inside Mr. Preslee’s home indicating that Maya Townshend had ever even been inside the place, much less murdered anybody there?”

As Hardy had anticipated, Stier was on his feet immediately. “Objection. Beyond the scope of direct examination. We’ll get to the Levon Preslee murder scene in due course.”

“Sustained.”

Hardy didn’t care. He knew he’d gotten on the boards first with that crime at least, making his point in front of the jury. Hardy came back to the witness. “No further questions.”