A Time for Mercy

43

Tuesday morning arrived with dark skies, a line of storms, and eventually a tornado watch for Van Buren and the surrounding counties. Heavy rains and winds began pounding the old courthouse an hour before the trial was to resume, and Judge Noose stood at his window with his pipe and wondered if he should delay matters.

As the courtroom filled, the jurors were guided to the box and given a round tin badge with the word JUROR stamped in bold red letters across it. In other words: No contact, keep your distance. Jake, Libby, and Portia deliberately waited until 8:55 to enter the courtroom and begin unpacking their briefcases. Jake said good morning to Lowell Dyer and complimented him on such a nice white jury. The prosecutor had a hundred things on his mind and did not take the bait. Sheriff Ozzie Walls and his entire uniformed force were seated in the front two rows behind the State’s table, an impressive show of police muscle. Jake, who had subpoenaed all of them, ignored his former friends and tried to ignore everyone else in the crowd. The Kofers were packed together behind the deputies and ready for battle. Harry Rex, dressed casually, was three rows behind the defense table and watching everything. Lucien, clear-eyed and pretending to read a newspaper, was in the back row on the State’s side. Carla arrived in jeans and sat in the third row behind the defense. Jake wanted all the eyes he could trust to observe the jurors. At nine o’clock Drew was led into the courtroom from a side door with enough police protection to save the governor. He smiled at his mother and sister seated on the front row less than ten feet behind him.

Lowell Dyer looked at the crowd, noticed Kiera, walked over to Jake, and said, “Is that girl pregnant?”

“Yes, she is.”

“She’s only fourteen,” he said, rattled.

“Basic biology.”

“Any idea who the father is?”

“Some things are private, Lowell.”

“I still want to talk to her during the first recess.”

Jake sort of waved at the front row as if to say, “Talk to whoever you want. You’re the prosecutor.”

Lightning cracked near the courthouse and the lights flickered. Thunder shook the old building and for a second the trial was forgotten. Dyer asked Jake, “You think we ought to ask Noose to delay this a bit?”

“Noose’ll do whatever he wants.”

Rain began pecking at the windows as the lights flickered again. A bailiff stood and called the court to order. Everyone rose respectfully as His Honor lurched to the bench and took his seat. He pulled his mike closer and said, “Please be seated.” Chairs and pews cracked and floors squeaked as everyone resettled themselves. He began, “Good morning. Assuming the weather cooperates, we will get on with this trial. I’d like to repeat my admonition to the jurors to refrain from discussing anything to do with the trial while you are in recess. If anyone approaches you or in any way tries to engage you, I want to know about it immediately. Mr. Brigance and Mr. Dyer, I assume you want to invoke the Rule.”

Both nodded. The Rule required all potential witnesses to be absent from the courtroom until after they had testified, and either side could invoke it. The Judge said, “All right. If you have been subpoenaed to testify in this trial, I’ll ask that you leave the courtroom and wait outside in the hallway or some other place in the building. A bailiff will find you when we need you.” Confusion reigned as both Jake and Dyer instructed their witnesses to leave the room. Earl Kofer did not want to do so and stormed out angrily. Because Jake had subpoenaed Ozzie and his thirteen deputies, he insisted they all leave. He whispered to Josie and Kiera and they left to hide in Land Records on the first floor. Bailiffs and clerks pointed here and there and escorted the witnesses from the courtroom.

When things settled down, His Honor looked at the jury and said, “Now, we will begin this trial by allowing the attorneys to make brief opening remarks. And since the State of Mississippi has the burden of proving its case, it will always go first. Mr. Dyer.”

The rain stopped and the thunder was moving on as Lowell walked to the podium and looked at the jurors. A large white screen hung on a bare wall opposite the jury, and with the push of a button Dyer displayed the handsome smiling face of the late Stuart Kofer, in his full deputy’s uniform. He gazed at it for a second, then addressed the jurors.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this was Stuart Kofer. Age thirty-three years old when he was murdered by the defendant, Drew Gamble. Stuart was a local boy, born and bred in Ford County, graduate of Clanton High School, a veteran, two tours in Asia, a distinguished career as a law enforcement officer, protecting the public. In the early hours of March twenty-fifth, as he was sleeping in his own bed, in his own home, he was shot and killed by the defendant, Drew Gamble, sitting right there.”

He pointed as dramatically as possible to the defendant, who was sitting low between Jake and Libby, as if the jurors were not sure who exactly was on trial.

“The defendant got his hands on Stuart’s own service gun, a nine-millimeter Glock pistol.” Dyer stepped to the table where the court reporter was taking it all down, picked up State’s exhibit number one, and showed it to the jury. He placed the weapon back on the table and continued, “He took it, and with deliberate will and premeditated intentions, pointed it at Stuart’s left temple, and from a distance of about an inch, he pulled the trigger.” Dyer pointed to his own left temple for even more drama. “Killing him instantly.”

Dyer flipped a page of his notes and seemed to study something. Then he tossed it on the podium and took a step closer to the jury box. “Now, Stuart had some problems. The defense will attempt to prove—”

Jake was itching to interrupt. He jumped to his feet and said, “Objection, Your Honor. This is the State’s opening, not mine. The district attorney cannot comment on what we might attempt to prove.”

“Sustained. Mr. Dyer, just stick to your case. This is an opening statement, ladies and gentlemen, and I caution you that nothing either lawyer says at this point is in evidence.”

Dyer smiled and nodded as if the judge had somehow vindicated him. He continued, “Stuart was drinking too much, and too often, and he had been drinking during the night before he was murdered. And he was not a pleasant drunk, prone to violence and bad behavior. His friends were worried about him and were discussing ways to help him, to intervene. Stuart was no choirboy and he was struggling with his demons. But he answered the bell every morning for work and never missed a day, and when he was on duty he was one of the finest deputies in Ford County. Sheriff Ozzie Walls will testify to that.

“Now, the defendant was living in Stuart’s home, along with his mother and his younger sister. Josie Gamble, his mother, and Stuart had been together for about a year, and, to say the least, their relationship was rather chaotic. Josie Gamble’s entire life has been chaotic. But Stuart provided her and her kids with a good home, a roof, plenty to eat, warm beds, protection. He gave them security, something they had known little of. He took them in and he took care of them. He really didn’t want any kids, but he welcomed them and didn’t mind the added financial burden. Stuart Kofer was a good, honest man whose family has lived in Ford County for generations. And his murder was senseless. Murdered, ladies and gentlemen, Stuart Kofer was killed by his own gun while sleeping in his own bed.”

Dyer paced a bit and the jurors absorbed every word. “As the witnesses come forward, you will hear some awful testimony. I ask that you hear it, consider it, but also consider where it is coming from. Stuart is not here to defend himself, and those who attempt to disgrace his good name have every reason to portray him as a monster. At times it might be difficult not to be suspicious of their motives. You may even feel sympathy for them. But, I ask you to do one thing as you consider their testimony. Ask yourself, over and over, the same question, and it’s simply this: At that crucial moment, did the defendant have to pull the trigger?”

Dyer backed away from the jury box and took a step closer to the defense table. He pointed at Drew and asked, “Did he have to pull the trigger?”

He walked to the State’s table and sat down. Brief, to the point, and very effective.

His Honor said, “Mr. Brigance.”

Jake stood, walked to the podium, picked up the remote, punched it, and the smiling face of Stuart Kofer disappeared from the wall. Jake said, “Your Honor, I will defer until the State has rested.”

Noose was surprised, as was Dyer. The defense had the option of opening now or later, but it was rare that a lawyer passed up the opportunity to sow seeds of doubt at the very beginning. Jake sat down and Dyer gawked at him, confused, wondering what trick he was trying to pull.

“Very well,” Noose said. “That’s up to you. Mr. Dyer, please call your first witness.”

“Your Honor, the State calls Mr. Earl Kofer.”

A bailiff at the door stepped into the hallway to find the witness, and Earl soon appeared. He was led to the witness stand where he raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth. He gave his name and address and said he had lived in Ford County his entire life. He was sixty-three years old, married to Janet for almost forty years, and had three sons and a daughter.

Dyer pressed a button and a large image of a teenage boy appeared. “Is this your son?”

Earl glanced at it and said, “That was Stuart when he was fourteen.” He paused for a second and added, “That’s my boy, my oldest son.” His voice cracked and he looked down at his feet.

Dyer took his time and finally pressed the button again. The next image was of Stuart in a high school football uniform. “How old was Stuart in this photo, Mr. Kofer?”

“Seventeen. He played for two years before he messed up his knee.” He groaned loudly into the mike and wiped his eyes. The jurors watched him with tremendous sympathy. Dyer pressed the button and the third photo of Stuart appeared, this one of a smiling twenty-year-old in a crisp army uniform. Dyer asked, “How long did Stuart serve his country?”

Earl gritted his teeth, wiped his eyes again, and tried to collect himself. He struggled to say, “Six years. He liked the army and talked of making it a career.”

“What did he do after the army?”

Earl shifted uncomfortably and in measured words said, “Came home, worked a couple of jobs in the county, then decided to go into law enforcement.”

The army shot was replaced by the familiar one of a smiling Stuart decked out in a full deputy’s uniform.

“When was the last time you saw your son, Mr. Kofer?”

He bent forward and collapsed as tears ran down his cheeks. After a long awkward gap, he tightened his jaws and said, loudly, clearly, bitterly, “At the funeral home, in his casket.”

Dyer studied him for a moment, to prolong the drama, and said, “I tender the witness.”

Jake had offered to admit in pretrial filings that Stuart Kofer was indeed dead, but Dyer refused. Noose believed that a proper murder trial should begin with some tears from the victim’s family, and he was not alone. Virtually every trial judge in the state allowed such needless testimony, and the Supreme Court had approved it decades earlier.

Jake stood and walked to the podium to begin the ugly task of tarnishing the reputation of a dead man. He had no choice.

“Mr. Kofer, was your son married at the time of his death?”

Earl glared at him with unbridled hatred and said, simply, “No.”

“Was he divorced?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Twice.”

“When did he get married the first time?”

“I don’t know.”

Jake walked to the defense table and grabbed some papers. He returned to the podium and asked, “Is it true that he married one Cindy Rutherford in May of 1982?”

“If you say so. That sounds right.”

“And they divorced thirteen months later, in June of 1983?”

“If you say so.”

“And in September of 1985 he married one Samantha Pace?”

“If you say so.”

“And eight months later they were divorced?”

“If you say so.” He was snarling, spewing venom, obviously disgusted with Mr. Brigance. His cheeks, wet only moments earlier, were fiery red, and his anger was costing him sympathy.

“Now, you said that your son talked about a career in the army. Why did he change his mind?”

“I don’t know, don’t really remember.”

“Could it have been because he was kicked out of the army?”

“That’s not true.”

“I have a copy of his dishonorable discharge. Would you like to see it?”

“No.”

“Nothing further, Your Honor.”

“You are excused, Mr. Kofer,” His Honor said. “You may take a seat out there. Mr. Dyer, call your next witness.”

“The State calls Deputy Moss Junior Tatum.”

The witness was retrieved from the hallway, entered a packed but silent courtroom, nodded at Jake as he passed him, and stopped by the court reporter. He was armed and in full uniform, and Judge Noose said, “Deputy Tatum, state law prohibits a witness from taking the stand with a gun. Please put it right there on the table.” As if coached, Tatum placed his Glock next to the one used in the murder, in plain view of the jurors. He swore to tell the truth, took his seat, and answered Dyer’s preliminary questions.

On to the night in question. The 911 call came in at 2:29 a.m. and he was dispatched to the scene. He knew it was the home of Stuart Kofer, his friend on the force. The front door was unlocked and slightly open. He entered cautiously and saw Drew Gamble sitting in a chair in the den, looking out the window. He spoke to him and Drew said, “My mother’s dead. Stuart killed her.” Tatum asked, “Where is she?” He said, “In the kitchen.” Tatum asked, “Where’s Stuart?” He said, “He’s dead too, back there in his bedroom.” Tatum eased through the house, saw a light on in the kitchen, saw the woman lying on the floor with the girl holding her head. Behind him, at the end of the hall, he could see feet hanging off the bed. He walked to the bedroom and found Stuart lying across his bed, his pistol a few inches from his head, and blood everywhere.

He returned to the kitchen and asked the girl what happened. She said, “He killed my mother.” Tatum asked, “Who shot Stuart?”

Dyer paused and looked at Jake, who was getting to his feet. As if rehearsed, he said, “Your Honor, I object to this testimony on the grounds that it is hearsay.”

His Honor was waiting for this. “Your objection is noted, Mr. Brigance. For the record, the defense filed a motion to limit this portion of the testimony. The State responded, and on July the sixteenth I held a hearing on the motion. After full and spirited argument from both sides, and being fully briefed, the court ruled that this testimony is admissible.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Jake said and sat down.

“You may proceed, Mr. Dyer.”

“Now, Deputy Tatum, when you asked the girl, Miss Kiera Gamble, who shot Stuart, what did she say?”

“She said, ‘Drew shot him.’ ”

“What else did she say?”

“Nothing. She was holding her mother, crying.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went to the den and asked the boy, I mean, the defendant, if he shot Stuart. He did not respond. He just sat there looking out the window. When it became obvious he wasn’t talking, I left the house, went to my patrol car, and called for backup.”

Jake watched and listened to his friend, a guy he’d known throughout his career, a regular at the Coffee Shop, an old buddy who would do anything he asked, and he wondered, briefly, if his life would ever be the same. Surely, as the months and years passed, it would return to normal and he would not be viewed by the cops as a defender of the guilty, a coddler of criminals.

Jake shook it off and told himself to worry about the future next month.

Dyer said, “Thank you, Deputy Tatum. I have no more questions.”

“Mr. Brigance?”

Jake stood and walked to the podium. He glanced at some notes on a legal pad and took in the witness. “Now, Deputy Tatum, when you first entered the house you asked Drew what happened.”

“That’s what I said.”

“And where, exactly, was he?”

“As I said, he was in the den, sitting in a chair, looking out the front window.”

“As if waiting for the police?”

“I guess. Not sure what he was waiting for. He was just sitting there.”

“Did he look at you when he said his mother and Stuart were dead?”

“No. He just kept looking out the window.”

“Was he in a daze? Was he frightened?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t stop to analyze him.”

“Was he crying, emotional?”

“No.”

“Was he in shock?”

Dyer rose and said, “Objection, Your Honor. I’m not sure this witness is competent to give an opinion as to the defendant’s mental state.”

“Sustained.”

Jake continued, “And you then found both bodies, Josie Gamble’s and Stuart Kofer’s, and you spoke to the girl. Then you walked back to the den, and where was the defendant?”

“As I said, he was still sitting at the window, looking out.”

“And you asked him a question and he didn’t respond, correct?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Did he look at you, acknowledge your question, your presence?”

“No. He just sat there, like I said.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Dyer?”

“Nothing, Your Honor.”

“Deputy Tatum, you are excused. Please get your gun and have a seat in the courtroom. Who’s next?”

Dyer said, “Sheriff Ozzie Walls.”

A moment passed as the courtroom waited. Jake whispered to Libby and ignored the stares from the jurors. Ozzie, with the swagger of a former professional football player, strode down the aisle, through the bar, and to the witness stand where he was disarmed and sworn to tell the truth.

Dyer began with the routine questions about his background, election and reelection, his training. Like all good prosecutors, he was methodical, almost tedious. No one was expecting a long trial and there was no hurry.

Dyer asked, “Now, Sheriff, when did you hire Stuart Kofer?”

“May of ’85.”

“Were you concerned about his dishonorable discharge from the army?”

“Not at all. We discussed it and I was satisfied that he got a raw deal. He was really excited about law enforcement and I needed a deputy.”

“And his training?”

“I sent him to the police academy down in Jackson for its two-month program.”

“How’d he perform?”

“Outstanding. Stuart finished second in his class, got really high marks in everything, especially firearms and weaponry.”

Dyer ignored his notes, looked at the jurors, and said, “So, he was on your force for about four years before his death, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And how would you rate his work as a deputy?”

“Stuart was exceptional. He quickly became one of the favorites, a tough cop who never shied away from danger, always ready to take the worst assignments. About three years ago we got a tip that a drug gang out of Memphis was making a delivery that night at a remote spot not far from the lake. Stuart was on duty and volunteered to have a look. We weren’t expecting much — the informant was not that reliable — but when he got there he was ambushed and took fire from some pretty nasty guys. Within minutes, three were dead, and a fourth surrendered. Stuart was slightly wounded but never missed a day of work.”

A dramatic story, which Jake knew was coming. He wanted to object on the grounds of relevance, but Noose would probably not stop the action. The defense team had discussed it at length and had finally agreed that the heroic story could benefit Drew. Let Dyer portray Stuart as a total badass, deadly with firearms, a dangerous man to be feared, especially by his girlfriend and her kids who were helpless when he got drunk and slapped them around.

Ozzie told the jury that he arrived at the scene about twenty minutes after the call from Deputy Tatum, who was waiting at the front door. An ambulance was already there and the woman, Josie Gamble, was on the stretcher and being readied for the trip to the hospital. Both of her children were seated, side by side, on the sofa in the den. Ozzie was briefed by Tatum, then walked into the bedroom and saw Stuart.

Dyer paused, glanced at Jake, and said, “Your Honor, at this time the State would like to show the jury three photographs of the crime scene.”

Jake stood and said, “Your Honor, the defense will renew its objection to these photographs on the grounds that they are inflammatory, grossly prejudicial, and unnecessary.”

Noose said, “Your objection is noted. For the record, a timely objection was filed by the defense and on July sixteenth the court held a hearing on this matter. After being fully briefed, the court ruled that three of the photos are admissible. Your objection, Mr. Brigance, is overruled. As a word of caution, to the jurors and the spectators, the photos are graphic. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have no choice but to examine the photographs. As for anyone else, please use your own discretion. Proceed, Mr. Dyer.”

Regardless of how shocking and horrible they were, crime scene photos were rarely excluded in murder trials. Dyer handed a color eight-by-ten to Ozzie and said, “Sheriff Walls, this is State’s exhibit number two. Can you identify it?”

Ozzie looked, grimaced, said, “This is a photo of Stuart Kofer, taken from the doorway of his bedroom.”

“And does it accurately portray what you saw?”

“Afraid so.” Ozzie lowered the photograph and looked away.

Dyer said, “Your Honor, I’d like permission to hand the jurors three copies of the same photo, and to put the image on the screen.”

“Proceed.”

Jake had objected to blasting the blood and gore on the big screen. Noose had overruled him. Suddenly, there was Stuart, lying across his bed, his feet hanging off the side, pistol beside his head, with a pool of dark red blood soaking the sheets and mattress.

There were groans and gasps from the spectators. Jake stole a few glances at the jurors, several of whom looked away from the photos and the screen. Several others glared at Drew with pure contempt.

The second photo was taken from a spot near Stuart’s feet, a much closer view of his head and shattered skull, brains, lots of blood.

A woman behind Jake was sobbing, and he knew it was Janet Kofer.

Dyer took his time. He was playing his strongest hand and making the most of it. The third photo was a wider shot and clearly revealed the sprayed blood and matter across the pillows, headboard, and wall.

Most of the jurors had seen enough and were preoccupied with their feet. The entire courtroom was stunned and felt as though it had been assaulted. Noose, sensing that everyone had seen enough, said, “That’ll do, Mr. Dyer. Please remove the image. And let’s take a fifteen-minute break at this time. Please take the jurors to the jury room for a little recess.” He rapped his gavel and disappeared.

Portia had found only two cases in the last fifty years in which the Supreme Court had reversed a murder conviction because of gruesome and hideous crime scene photos. She had argued that Jake should object, but only for the record and not too strenuously. An overabundance of blood and gore might actually save their client on appeal. Jake, however, was not convinced. The damage was done, and the damage, at that moment, seemed insurmountable.

Jake began the cross-examination of his former friend with “Now, Sheriff Walls, does your department have a protocol for internal affairs?”

“Sure we do.”

“And if a citizen has a complaint against one of your men, what do you do about it?”

“The complaint has to be in writing. I review it first and have a private conversation with the officer. Then we have a three-person review panel — one current deputy, two former ones. We take complaints seriously, Mr. Brigance.”

“How many complaints were filed against Stuart Kofer during his time as your deputy?”

“Zero. None.”

“Were you aware of any problems he was having?”

“I have — had — fourteen deputies, Mr. Brigance. I can’t get involved in all of their problems.”

“Were you aware that Josie Gamble, Drew’s mother, had called 911 on two prior occasions and asked for help?”

“Well, I was not aware of it at the time.”

“And why not?”

“Because she did not press charges.”

“Okay. When a deputy is dispatched after a 911 call to the scene of a domestic disturbance, does he file an incident report afterwards?”

“Supposed to, yes.”

“On February the twenty-fourth of this year, did officers Pirtle and McCarver answer a 911 call at the Kofer residence, a call made by Josie Gamble, who told the dispatcher that Stuart Kofer was drunk and threatening her and her kids?”

Dyer jumped to his feet and said, “Objection, Your Honor, calls for hearsay.”

“Overruled. Continue.”

“Sheriff Walls?”

“Not sure about that.”

“Well, I have the 911 recording. You want to hear it?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Thank you. And Josie Gamble will testify about it.”

“I said I’d take your word for it.”

“So, Sheriff, where is the incident report?”

“Well, I’ll have to go through the records.”

Jake walked to three large storage boxes stacked together beside the defense table. He pointed to them and said, “Here they are, Sheriff. I’ve got copies of all of the incident reports from your office for the past twelve months. And there’s not one here filed by Officers Pirtle and McCarver for February twenty-fourth in response to a call by Josie Gamble.”

“Well, I guess it was misplaced. Keep in mind, Mr. Brigance, if no charges are filed by the complaining party, then it’s really no big deal. Not much we can do. Oftentimes we’ll answer a domestic call, settle things down without taking any official action. The paperwork is not always that important.”

“I guess not. That’s why it’s missing.”

“Objection,” Dyer said.

“Sustained. Mr. Brigance, please refrain from testifying.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Now, Sheriff, on December the third of last year, was Deputy Swayze dispatched to the same house after a 911 call from Josie Gamble? Another domestic disturbance?”

“You have the records, sir.”

“But do you have the records? Where is the incident report filed by Deputy Swayze?”

“It’s supposed to be in the file.”

“But it’s not.”

Dyer stood and said, “Objection, Your Honor. Does Mr. Brigance intend to introduce into evidence all of the records?” He waved at the boxes.

Jake said, “Certainly, if necessary.”

Noose removed his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes, and asked, “Where are you going with this, Mr. Brigance?”

The perfect opening. Jake said, “Your Honor, we will prove that there was a pattern of domestic abuse and violence perpetrated by Stuart Kofer against Josie Gamble and her children, and that it was covered up by the sheriff’s office to protect one of its own.”

Dyer responded, “Your Honor, Mr. Kofer is not on trial and he’s not here to defend himself.”

“I’ll stop you at this time,” Noose said. “I’m not sure if you’ve established the relevance.”

“Fine, Judge,” Jake said. “I’ll just call the sheriff back to the stand during our defense. No further questions.”

Noose said, “Sheriff Walls, you are excused but you are still under subpoena, so you need to leave the courtroom. After you get your gun.”

Ozzie glared at Jake as he walked by.

“Mr. Dyer, please call your next witness.”

“The State calls Captain Hollis Brazeale of the Mississippi Highway Patrol.”

Brazeale looked out of place in a sharp navy suit with a white shirt and red tie. He zipped through his qualifications and many years of experience, proudly informing the jury that he had investigated over one hundred murders. He talked about his arrival at the crime scene and wanted to dwell on the photos, but Noose, along with everyone else, had seen enough blood. Brazeale described how his forensic team from the state crime lab pored over the scene, taking photographs and videos, collecting samples of blood and brain matter. The Glock’s magazine held fifteen bullets when fully loaded. Only one was missing, and they found it buried deep in the mattress near the headboard. Their tests matched it to the pistol.

Dyer handed him a small plastic zip-bag holding a bullet and explained that it was the one found in the mattress, and it came from the pistol. And asked him to identify it. No doubt about it. Dyer then pressed a button, and enlarged photos of the gun and bullet appeared. Brazeale launched into a mini-lecture about what happens when a bullet is fired: Primer and the powder explode within the cartridge, forcing the bullet down the barrel. The explosion produces gases that escape and land on the shooter’s hands and, often, his clothing. Gases and gunpowder particles follow the bullet and can provide evidence of the distance between the barrel and the entry wound.

In this case, their tests revealed that the bullet traveled only a short distance. In Brazeale’s opinion, “Less than two inches.”

He was cocksure of his opinions and the jurors listened intently. Jake, though, thought the testimony was dragging as it went on and on. He stole glances at the jurors, one of whom glanced around as if to say, “All right, all right. We get it. It’s pretty obvious what happened.”

But Dyer plowed onward, trying to cover everything. Brazeale said that after the body was removed, they took the sheets, two blankets, and two pillows. The investigation was routine and not complicated. The cause of death was obvious. The murder weapon was secure. A suspect had confessed to the murder to another credible witness. Later that Sunday morning, Brazeale and two technicians went to the jail and fingerprinted the suspect. They also swabbed the suspect’s hands, arms, and clothing to collect gunshot residue.

Next was a symposium on fingerprints, with Brazeale working through a series of slides and explaining that four latent prints were removed from the Glock and matched to partials taken from the defendant. Every person’s prints are unique, and, pointing to a thumbprint with “tented arches,” he said there was no doubt the four prints — three fingers and one thumb — were left on the gun by the defendant.

Next was a windy, technical analysis of chemical tests used to find and measure GSR — gunshot residue. No one was surprised when Brazeale finally reached the conclusion that Drew had fired the weapon.

When Dyer tendered the witness at 11:50, Jake stood, shrugged, and said, “The defense has no questions, Your Honor.”

Noose, along with everyone else, needed a break. He looked at a bailiff and said, “We’ll be in recess. Is the lunch prepared for the jurors?”

The bailiff nodded.

“Okay, we’re in recess until one-thirty.”