The Last Innocent Man

2

Afog bank drifted across the sand, obscuring the terrain of the endless beach. Monica stopped, terrified and alone. She turned slowly, looking for a landmark, but the fog had made subtle changes and she felt lost.

The fog lifted for a moment, and a figure, half-shrouded by the mist, floated away from her. She ran after it, lifting her legs high to avoid the sand that clutched at her ankles. She must not fall or the sand would suck her down.

The fog was drifting back and her quarry was slipping into the shadows. She ran faster, the pounding of her heart drowning out the cadence of the incoming tide. Faster. She was losing ground. Faster. She was falling, screaming, flailing helplessly as she hurtled downward into darkness.

Then the beach was gone, and the only part of her dream that remained was the beating of her heart.

Monica looked around the room. It was her bedroom and she was sitting up in her bed, drenched in sweat. The clock read sixA.M. She could try to sleep for another half hour, but she was too wound up.

Monica turned on the light and went into the bathroom. The face she saw in the mirror was pale and had bags under the eyes. Not good, she thought, but it would not get better if she did not get a decent night’s sleep.

She had been exhausted during jury selection, and her opening statement lacked the punch of David’s emotional declaration of his client’s innocence. Monica had watched the jurors as she outlined the evidence she would produce at trial. They had listened attentively, and she was convinced that they were responsible people who would convict Larry Stafford if they believed he was guilty. But would they believe that, or would David fool them?

Fool them. That was an odd way to describe the function of the defense bar, but Monica felt it was an accurate description. When they had lived together, David often talked of himself, self-deprecatingly, as a magician whose job it was to make people see what was not there and to conceal what was there. Monica believed that Larry Stafford killed Darlene Hersch, and she was afraid that David would make her evidence disappear with a wave of his verbal wand.

Monica opened the refrigerator and took out a container of orange juice. She put a kettle of water on the stove and tried to decide between cold cereal and frozen waffles. She settled for two pieces of whole-wheat toast.

Judge Rosenthal had been chosen to preside at the trial, and David did not object, even though Rosenthal had issued the search warrant. Jury selection had taken longer than expected because of the difficulty in finding twelve Portland residents who had not formed an opinion about the “Policewoman Murder.” Monica and David had agreed on a jury shortly before noon on the second day of trial. They had concluded opening statements after lunch, and she had presented the testimony of Dr. Francis R. Beauchamp, the medical examiner, before Judge Rosenthal had called a halt to the proceedings for the day.

The coffee was bitter and Monica grimaced as it went down, but she needed the caffeine. The toast was burned, too. Shit! She felt like smashing something. Not a good way to begin the most important day of the State’s case. She tried to calm down.

Monica was always tense when she was in trial, but it was worse when she tried a case against David. She was a highly competitive woman who enjoyed winning. When Monica tried cases against other attorneys, she thought of them strictly in business terms. She could never think of David that way. Even after all these years she was still a little in love with him, and she knew it, so she overcompensated whenever they were matched against each other, and ended up pushing herself harder than she had to, out of fear that her feelings for him would influence her performance.

There was an added reason for her anxiety this morning: Ortiz and his surprise witness. Last night, after court recessed, she had been making notes on Beauchamp’s testimony when Ortiz and Crosby came into her office. She was in a foul mood and wanted to leave, but the two policemen seemed excited.

“Beauchamp was pretty convincing, I hear,” Crosby said, settling into a chair. Dr. Beauchamp was a frustrated actor with a knack for describing fatal wounds that made them appear more revolting than a color photograph ever could.

“All Beauchamp established was that Darlene Hersch was struck in the abdomen and neck, then had her throat slit. He didn’t establish who did it,” Monica replied testily.

“I don’t think pinning this on Stafford is going to be a problem anymore,” Ortiz said with a confident smile.

“I’m glad to hear that, Bert. I thought we had problems.”

Ortiz’s face clouded over. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

“The case is flimsy. No offense, Bert, but all we have is your ID based on a few seconds’ observation after you had been struck on the head hard enough to require hospitalization. I’m beginning to think we may have moved too fast on this one.”

“You can stop worrying, because I’ve got the man who is going to do it to Mr. Stafford.”

Monica put her pen down and waited for Ortiz to continue. Ortiz had a tendency to be dramatic, and he paused to heighten the tension.

“Remember Ron called you when Stafford was arraigned and asked you to oppose bail?”

“Yes,” she said, turning toward Crosby. “You said that another officer was certain that Stafford had beaten up a prostitute and was going to try to find the police reports. I also recall being put off by you every time I’ve asked you about that report,” she added angrily. “I put myself on the line at the bail hearing because of your assurances.”

“You have every right to be angry, Monica,” Crosby said sheepishly. “Tracking down our witness just took longer than we thought.”

“You have a witness who saw Larry Stafford beat up a prostitute?”

“Exactly,” Ortiz said.

“Who is it?” Monica asked.

“Cyrus Johnson.”

“Cyrus-Jesus, Bert. I’m not going to vouch for the credibility of a known pimp and dope dealer.”

“Who else would be able to testify about Stafford’s sex habits? It’s the fact that he’s a pimp that makes him credible.”

“Bert, you’ve seen David operate. Do you know what he’d do to Johnson? The man sells dope to schoolchildren, for Christ’s sake.”

“If you’re afraid of Nash, you shouldn’t be trying this case,” Ortiz said, suddenly very angry.

Monica jumped to her feet. “Get out of my office,” she shouted. “I’m not going to take that shit.”

Crosby put his hand on Ortiz’s elbow and Ortiz was immediately contrite.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I think you’re a hell of a good lawyer. It’s just…well, the case means a lot to me and I want to make sure Stafford doesn’t get away.”

Monica sat down and leaned back in her chair. The outburst had taken a lot out of her.

“Apology accepted. The case is getting to me, too.”

“Will you at least talk to Johnson and read this police report?” Crosby asked, placing the report in front of her.

“Yeah. I didn’t really want to go home, anyway. But you two are going to stand me dinner. I’m starving.”

The interview with Johnson created more problems than it solved. The man was smooth, and she could not determine if he was telling the truth. True, the story he told her was the same story he had told the police two years ago, but he had reason to lie to the police then, and he was in trouble, and obviously anxious to deal now. Monica wanted to convict Stafford, but she would not put on testimony she believed might be perjured.

Even if the story was true, she did not know if she could get Johnson’s testimony into evidence. Johnson would be testifying that Stafford had committed a prior criminal act, and the rules of evidence forbade the introduction of that type of evidence, with only a few narrowly defined exceptions. Monica was not convinced that Johnson’s evidence fell under any of them. David was an expert on the rules of evidence, and she would have to research the question of admissibility thoroughly, because she knew how hard David would fight when he learned about Johnson.

Monica finished combing her hair and put on her coat. Her key witnesses, Grimes and Ortiz, were scheduled to testify today. If they survived David’s cross-examination, she might not have to put on Johnson.

“And what happened then, Mr. Grimes?” Monica asked. The motel clerk had just taken the stand and had been preceded by several laboratory technicians, a supervisor from the Motor Vehicles Division who established Stafford’s ownership of the Mercedes, and Detective Crosby, who testified about the search of Stafford’s house.

“I gave her the key and she left. I went back to readin’, and the next thing I know, I hear these screams.”

David leaned forward and began making notes about Grimes’s testimony on a yellow legal pad. Larry Stafford sat beside him at counsel table, looking businesslike in a conservative dark-blue three-piece suit. David had intentionally dressed more casually than his client to give the jury an initial visual impression that Stafford, not he, was the defense attorney.

“Where were the screams coming from?” Monica asked. David heard Stafford shift nervously in his seat. He glanced at his client and caught him looking over his shoulder at the crowded courtroom. Stafford was looking for his wife, and David felt a slight pang of conscience that momentarily dampened his otherwise expansive mood. David knew where Jenny was and why she was late for court this morning. They had spent the night together, and she had returned home to change while he dressed for court.

“Did you notice Jenny this morning?” Stafford whispered, as if reading David’s thoughts. There was an edge to Larry’s voice, and an air of tension around him that David had noticed since the start of the trial. David expected a person on trial for murder to be nervous, but he sensed that there was something else eating at his client and that it concerned Jenny.

“She’ll be along,” David whispered back. “And don’t look so down in the mouth. Take notes and concentrate on the witnesses, like I told you. I don’t want the jury to see your interest lag for one second.”

“I couldn’t tell who was screamin’ at first,” Grimes continued, “so I went outside in the lot. The motel rooms are behind the office, and I had to go around the corner of the building. That’s when I seen this guy come bustin’ out of twenty-two.”

“Did you get a good look at the person you saw running away?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t. He was runnin’ too fast and there’s a lot of shadow up there.”

“Go on.”

“Well, by now the screamin’ had stopped, and I looked up at twenty-two to see if anyone’d come after the one that run out. I seen the door was wide-open, but no one was comin’, so I started across the lot to see what’s what. Just then this car came from the rear parking lot. It was the same one the girl’d come in, but she wasn’t in it.”

“Who did you see in that car?”

“It was a man drivin’, but I didn’t get a clear look at him.”

Monica stood up and walked across to the witness box. “Mr. Grimes, I hand you what has been marked as State’s exhibit number five, and I ask you if you recognize the car in that picture.”

Grimes took the color photograph of Stafford’s Mercedes and studied it carefully.

“I can’t say for sure, but it’s like the car that girl came in.”

“Thank you,” Monica said, returning the exhibit to the bailiff. “After the car left the lot, what did you do?”

“To tell the truth, I wasn’t too anxious to find out why there’d been all that screamin’, but I got to thinkin’ that someone might be hurt up there, so I went up to the room. That’s when I seen ’em.”

“Who was that?”

“Well, the lights were out, so I didn’t see her at first. The man was lyin’ with his head against the bed. He was bleedin’ and I thought he might be dead. Then I seen he was breathin’, so I went to use the phone. That’s when I saw her. You see a lot workin’ in the hotel business, but that was terrible. I ran outa there and called the cops from my office.”

“And did the police come?”

“A few minutes later. An ambulance came too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grimes. I have no further questions.”

“Mr. Nash,” Judge Rosenthal said, nodding in David’s direction.

David took a final look at the report Detective Crosby had made of his interview with Grimes, and Terry Conklin’s report of their interview. It was quiet in the courtroom, and David could hear a juror shifting in his seat and the nervous drumming of Stafford’s fingers on the wooden table.

“Just a few questions, Mr. Grimes. As I understand your testimony, you did not get a good look at the man who was driving the Mercedes while Darlene Hersch was registering.”

“That’s right.”

“And you did not get a good look at him when he ran out of the room where the murder was committed?”

Grimes nodded.

“Did you get a look at him as he drove out of the parking lot, after the murder?”

“Like I said, not a clear look.”

“Did you see his hair well enough to describe it to the jury?”

Monica had been going over her notes and listening to David’s examination with half an ear. Now she lowered her pen and concentrated. She could tell from David’s tone that something was up.

“Yeah, I seen his hair,” Grimes answered. “Just for a second, but I seen it.”

“Did the driver of the Mercedes have blond curly hair like Mr. Stafford?”

Grimes leaned forward and studied Larry Stafford.

“Could he turn around?” Grimes asked, turning toward the judge. “I only seen him from the back.”

“That’s up to Mr. Nash,” Rosenthal replied.

“Certainly,” David said, and Larry stood up and turned his back to the witness stand.

“I don’t remember it lookin’ like that,” Grimes said decisively.

“How would you describe the driver’s hair?”

“Well, like I said, I only seen it for a second, but it looked brown-colored to me, and he had one of them cuts that came down a ways.”

“Thank you. I have nothing further.”

Monica reread the police report on Grimes rapidly. There was nothing about hair color in the report. She turned to the third page and saw why. The son of a bitch was going back on his statement to the police. This was bad, because Grimes had the appearance of an honest witness. His testimony about the hair color could be crucial in a close case.

“Mr. Grimes,” Monica asked, “how well lit is the parking lot at the Raleigh?”

Grimes tilted his head back and furrowed his brow. “Not too good over by the side near Tacoma Street, but there’s plenty of light from that McDonald’s. Bothers some of the customers sometimes.”

Monica felt her stomach tighten. Damn, she’d just made it worse. She hated surprises in trial, and this was a bad one. She decided to back off on the lighting.

“Was the murderer’s car moving fast when it left the lot?”

“I’ll say. It just come whippin’ around that corner. He screeched his tires when he did that, and that’s why I looked over.”

“So you just had a brief view of him?”

“Right. Like I said, I wasn’t concentratin’ on him much. I was lookin’ up at the room.”

“Do you remember being interviewed by Ronald Crosby, a Portland police detective, on the evening of the murder?”

“Was that the fella that bought me coffee?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Grimes.”

“Nice fella. He even sprung for a doughnut. Not as tight as some a them cops I know.”

Someone laughed in the back of the courtroom, and the judge rapped his gavel. Monica waited for the jury’s attention to return to the witness stand.

“You never told Detective Crosby that the man had long brown hair, did you?”

“He never asked.”

“But he did ask you if there was anything about the man you could remember, did he not?”

“I don’t recollect the whole conversation.”

“Do you remember saying that the man did not make much of an impression on you and Detective Crosby asking you if you remembered his hair, eyes, or anything else about him and your answering ‘No’?”

“That sounds right. Only I was talkin’ about when the girl come in. He never asked about when the fella drove off.”

Monica looked as if she were going to ask another question, then thought better of it.

“Nothing further,” she said.

Judge Rosenthal looked at David, who merely smiled and shook his head.

“Nice going,” Larry whispered.

“That’s what you pay me for. If I do as well with the next witness, we’ll be in good shape.”

“Who’s the next witness?” Stafford asked David.

“The State calls Bertram Ortiz,” Monica said.

Direct examination was easy for Ortiz. The questions were almost identical to the direct examination during the bail hearing, and he had gone over his answers with Monica several times. First he described the stakeout and the beige Mercedes. Then he recounted his surveillance during the drive to the motel. He told the hushed courtroom of his violent encounter with the man who had murdered Darlene Hersch, his reaction when he saw Larry Stafford in the courthouse corridor, and the results of the search at Stafford’s house. Then, as the jurors leaned forward, caught up in the tension of the moment, Ortiz turned toward the defense table and pointed his finger at the defendant. Direct examination was over, and Monica nodded to David.

Ortiz turned toward the defense table and waited for cross-examination to begin. His hand had been steady, and there had been no tremor in his voice when he identified Larry Stafford, because he had learned from dozens of experiences on the witness stand to control his nerves, but the fear of what David might do to him was there.

David did not rush his questions. He smiled at Ortiz and leaned back in his chair. He wanted Ortiz to wait, and he wanted to build on the tension that already permeated the courtroom.

“Officer Ortiz,” he asked finally, “what day was Darlene Hersch killed?”

“June sixteenth,” Ortiz answered tersely. He was determined to answer only what he was asked and to volunteer nothing. The less he said, the less information Nash would have to work with.

“Thank you,” David said politely. “And when did you see Mr. Stafford in the courthouse hallway?”

“Early September.”

“Some three months after the murder?”

“Yes.”

David stood up and walked to an easel that the clerk had placed between the witness stand and the jury box. David flipped the cover page from a large drawing pad over the top of the easel and revealed the diagram of the motel room that Ortiz had drawn at the bail hearing.

“During a prior hearing in this case, I asked you to draw this sketch and to indicate your position and the killer’s position at the moment you saw his face, did I not?”

“Yes.”

“And is this an accurate representation of those positions?”

Ortiz studied the drawing for a moment, then nodded.

“I believe at the hearing you stated that, at the moment you saw the killer’s face, his left arm and leg were inside the room a bit and his body was at a slight angle, with the right arm and leg outside the door?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, you were struck immediately upon entering the motel room, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“The lights in the room were out?”

“Yes.”

“You fell, twisted, and your head struck the bed?”

“Yes.”

“How long would you say you had a good view of the killer’s face?”

“A few seconds.”

“Five to ten?”

“A little more than that.”

David picked up the transcript of the bail hearing, consulted an index card, and flipped to a page.

“At a prior hearing in this case, did you not testify as follows:

“’Q: So you saw him for a few seconds?

“’A: Yes.

“’Q: Less than a minute?

“‘A: Maybe five, ten seconds. But I saw him.’”

“I think that’s right.”

“So the only time you saw the killer’s face was for five or ten seconds after you had been struck on the head and before you lost consciousness?”

“Yes, but I saw him clearly. It was Stafford,” Ortiz blurted out. Monica expected David to object to the unresponsive answer, but David merely smiled.

“You are certain of that?” David asked. Monica was puzzled. Why was David giving Ortiz a chance to repeat so damaging a statement?

“Positive.”

“Yes. I believe, at the prior hearing, I asked you, ‘You are certain?’ and you replied, ‘I will never forget that face.’”

“Yes, I said that,” Ortiz answered nervously. He had forgotten that he had given that answer at the bail hearing.

“But the impossible happened, did it not?”

“What do you mean?”

David strolled over to the far end of the counsel table and picked up a stack of papers.

“Were you hospitalized after the blow to your head?”

“Yes.”

“Was Dr. Arthur Stewart your treating physician?”

“Yes.”

“How long were you in the hospital, Officer Ortiz?”

“About a week.”

“How long did you continue to see Dr. Stewart for problems relating to the blow to your head?”

Ortiz could feel the sweat forming on his brow. Why didn’t the bastard ask the question Ortiz knew he would ask?

“I stopped two weeks ago.”

“Mid-October? Is that when he released you?”

“Yes.”

“You had a concussion, did you not?”

“Yes.”

David paused and the smile disappeared. “And you could remember nothing about what happened inside that motel room from June sixteenth until September? Isn’t that true?”

“I remembered parts of what happened. It was-”

“Mr. Ortiz…Pardon me. Officer Ortiz,” David said, his voice cutting like a knife, “I have here copies of your medical records from Good Samaritan Hospital. On September third, did you visit Dr. Stewart?”

“Uh, I…It could have been that date. I had an appointment in early September.”

“You don’t remember?” David asked with a smirk.

Ortiz felt his body tighten. He wanted to strike out at David. He felt like a butterfly pinioned on a board, waiting for dissection.

“Objection,” Monica said, standing. “Mr. Nash is arguing with the witness.”

She could see the danger signs and had to give Ortiz a chance to collect his thoughts.

“Yes, Mr. Nash,” the judge said, “just ask your questions.”

“Very well, Your Honor. Officer Ortiz, did you not tell Dr. Stewart during your September visit, a few short days before you arrested Larry Stafford, that you could not remember what happened inside the motel room and that you could not remember what the killer looked like?”

Ortiz did not answer immediately. He stared at David and at Stafford. Stafford stared back.

“Well, Officer?” David asked sharply.

“Yes.”

“You had amnesia, did you not?”

“Yes, if that’s what you call it.”

“What do you call it?”

“I mean…”

Ortiz stopped. David waited a moment, watching the jury.

“Officer, if I understand your testimony, you first saw the Mercedes from a distance of one city block?”

“Yes,” Ortiz answered quickly, grateful that the subject had been changed.

“Then you followed it from a distance of approximately two city blocks?”

“Yes.”

“And, finally, you saw it briefly as you drove by the motel lot?”

“Yes.”

“Those were the only times you saw the car that evening?”

“Yes.”

“And you did not know what model and year the car was until you checked with the Motor Vehicle Division?”

“I…It’s the car I saw,” Ortiz answered weakly.

David picked up three color photographs from his table and walked over to the witness stand. Monica drummed the tip of her pen on her desk. Ortiz was in trouble, and she did not know how much longer he would be able to stand up under David’s questioning. She had Dr. Stewart on call to testify that Ortiz, and others with amnesia caused by a concussion, could recall with complete accuracy events they had forgotten. But for the jury to believe in Ortiz’s recall, they had to believe in Ortiz.

“Will you study these three photographs, please?” David asked Ortiz. The policeman shuffled the photos until he had viewed all three.

“Would you tell the jury what they are?”

“They appear to be a beige Mercedes-Benz.”

“Same type that Mr. Stafford drives?”

“Yes.”

David smiled at Ortiz and took back the pictures.

“I have no further questions.”

Monica could not believe it. She had seen David tear witnesses apart and she knew his technique. He always softened them up, as he had Ortiz, with questions that would shake their confidence. Then he progressed from point to point, ending with a series of questions that involved a major point in their testimony. The questions about Ortiz’s amnesia had been expected, but she also expected more. Ortiz had been touched by David, but not badly shaken. She wanted him off the stand quickly, while he was still basically intact.

“No further questions,” Monica said.

“Call your next witness.”

“Dr. Arthur Stewart, Your Honor.”

Ortiz wanted to discuss the case as soon as she left the courtroom, but she told him to wait until they got to her office. Dr. Stewart had been excellent and David had not scored many points. She had rested the State’s case at the end of his testimony without calling Cyrus Johnson.

“But why?” Ortiz demanded when he and Monica and Crosby were alone.

“Because it wasn’t necessary and I did not want to risk it.”

“You haven’t shown any motive. Johnson can establish that this guy is an S-M freak.”

“Or make it look like we’re trying to railroad him with perjured testimony. Look, Bert, we already have a motive. He is a member of a big law firm, but not a partner. He is married to a wealthy woman. If he is arrested for prostitution, his career and marriage could be over. What more do we need? Besides, you were terrific.”

Ortiz shook his head. “I don’t know. That business with the amnesia. Don’t you think…?”

“I was in the courtroom, Bert,” Crosby said. “You came off just great, and that doctor cleared that whole business up. I was surprised how easy Nash went on you.”

“Yeah. That has me worried, too. Why do you think he let up?”

“I don’t know,” Monica said, “but let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“If it was a gift,” Ortiz said. “That son of a bitch has something he’s not telling you about. I can feel it.”

Monica shrugged. “I’m not going to worry about it now.”

“And you can still use T.V. in rebuttal, right?” Ortiz asked.

“Bert, I don’t trust him. He’ll do anything to get out of this dope charge.”

“I don’t think so,” Ortiz said, shaking his head vigorously. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Well, if the case goes as well as it has so far, it will all be academic.”

“Mr. Stafford calls Patrick Walsh, Your Honor,” David said, and the clerk left the courtroom to summon the witness. David took the opportunity to collect the exhibits he would use and to review his notes on Walsh’s testimony.

The defense was going well. David had started by calling several of Larry’s friends and business associates, who testified to his good character. They had painted a picture of a newly wed, young professional who possessed a sense of humor and a dedication to his work. Monica, through cross-examination, brought out the fact that Larry had been passed over for partner by his firm, but Charlie Holt, the witness, had handled that line of questioning well. David thought this revelation had provoked sympathy from the jurors.

David used Barry Dietrich, the partner with whom Larry had met on the evening of the murder, to bridge the gap between the character witnesses and those witnesses who would establish Stafford’s defense. Dietrich was not enthusiastic about testifying. With the exception of Charlie Holt, the partners at Price, Winward had been reluctant to get involved in the case. However, once on the stand, Dietrich had done well.

The courtroom door opened, and a tall, angular redheaded man with a slight limp walked to the stand. David looked back toward him and noticed Jenny seated on the aisle at the rear of the courtroom. They had been together often during the last month, treating each moment alone as if it might be their last. David loved Jenny. He knew that now. Often, when they were lying together, David wondered what would happen to them when the trial ended. If Larry was free, would Jenny go back to him? David was weak and vulnerable at such moments. He would hold Jenny, afraid of what might happen if he let her go.

“Mr. Walsh, how are you employed?” David asked once the witness had been sworn.

“I’m a zone distribution manager for Mercedes-Benz of North America.”

“What does a zone distribution manager do?”

“For sales purposes Mercedes has divided the United States into zones and subzones, and I’m in charge of sales in the San Francisco zone, which covers the Pacific Northwest and Northern California. I order all the cars for the zone and distribute them to the dealers in the subzones.”

David picked up the photograph of Larry’s Mercedes and handed it to the witness.

“How long have you been with Mercedes-Benz, Mr. Walsh?”

“It will be twenty-two years this April.”

“I’ve just handed you a photograph which has been marked as State’s exhibit five, and I ask you if you can identify that car for the jury.”

“Certainly. This is our model 300SEL, 1991. It is beige in color.”

“What does 300SEL mean?”

“The 300SEL is a four-door sedan with a gas engine. Three hundred is the engine size. S means the car is one of our super-class models, the largest sedan we sell. E means the car has fuel injection. L stands for a long wheel base.”

“Do you also sell a 300SE model?”

“Yes, we do. That model looks identical, but it’s four inches shorter.”

“Thank you. Now I am handing you three other photographs,” David said, handing Walsh the pictures he had shown to Ortiz on the preceding day. “Can you identify the cars in those pictures?”

Walsh studied the photographs, then stacked them and turned toward the jury as David had instructed him to do at their pretrial meeting. He held up the top photograph.

“This photograph, which is marked defendant’s exhibit seven, is a beige Mercedes-Benz.”

“Is it a 1991, 300SEL?”

“It is not. It is a 1981, 300SD.”

Several of the jurors leaned forward, and Monica cocked her head to one side, focusing her attention on the witness.

“And exhibit eight?”

Walsh held up a picture of another beige Mercedes.

“This is a 1985, 300SE model.”

There was a stir in the courtroom.

“And the final car?”

“Exhibit nine is a 1987, 420SEL.”

“If I told you that a person who had viewed those photographs had described all three cars as being the same type as the defendant’s 1991, 300SEL, would you be surprised?”

“Not in the least. From 1981 to 1991 Mercedes-Benz made several models in that basic body style that were, with minor differences, very similar. From 1981 to 1983 there was a model 300SEL, a four-door long-wheel-base sedan. From 1981 to 1985 there was the model 300SD. In 1984 and 1985 there was a 500SEL and the 380SE. From 1986 through 1991 we had a model 560SEL, which was similar in appearance

to the 300SEL and the 420SEL. And we had a diesel engine car in 1986 and 1987 with the same body. In 1990 and 1991 we had diesel models 350SD and 350SDL.”

“With all these cars looking so similar, how were you able to tell that the three cars in exhibits seven, eight, and nine were not the 300SEL?”

“Exhibit seven shows a 1981, 300SD. The most obvious difference is that the 300SD is four inches shorter. If you look at the front and back doors and windows, you can see that they are roughly the same size in the 300SD, but the back door and window of the 1991, 300SEL are longer than its front door and window because of the longer wheel base. This difference is obvious to me but would not be noticeable to someone who is not familiar with Mercedes-Benz body types.

“The 1985, 380SE in exhibit eight is also shorter, and the wheel design is different. The 1991 car has a solid disk where a hubcap would normally be, but the 1985 car has a concave disk with a center hub about the size of the fueltank cap.”

“Mr. Walsh, what discernible difference is there between the 1991, 300SEL and the 1987, 420SEL, the car in exhibit nine?”

“Mr. Nash, there is no difference at all. Not even an expert can tell the difference between those two cars. I knew they were different only because I supplied you with the photograph.”

“Was there any difference in the number of cars sold for the four models in the four photographs?”

“No. They all sold roughly the same in all four years.”

“And what color was the most popular color for the four models we have been discussing?”

“Beige.”

David turned and smiled at Monica. To the witness he said, “Thank you, Mr. Walsh. I have no further questions.”

“And how are you employed, Mr. Waldheim?” David asked the distinguished-looking businessman who had just taken the witness stand. Across from David, Monica listened with one ear as she carried on a hurried conversation with Detective Crosby. Walsh’s testimony had hurt, and she wanted Crosby to start looking for ways to rebut it. She was painfully ignorant about cars and had asked no questions of Walsh. That meant that, as of the moment, Ortiz’s testimony about the Mercedes was virtually worthless.

“I am the vice president in charge of menswear for Sherwood Forest Sportswear.”

“Where are your headquarters located?”

“Bloomington, Illinois.”

“And that is where your office is?”

“That is correct.”

From a pile of exhibits David selected the shirt that had been seized from Stafford’s house and brought it to Waldheim.

“I hand you what has been marked as State’s exhibit twenty-three and ask you if you recognize this shirt.”

Waldheim took the shirt and examined it. “Yes. This is part of last year’s summer line.”

“Would you tell the jury how many of these shirts your firm distributed nationally.”

Waldheim turned slightly and addressed the jury.

“Last year was a very good year for menswear. This particular shirt was one of our most popular items. I checked our records before flying here, and I would say that we sold some five thousand dozen of this shirt nationally.”

“How many shirts are five thousand dozen, Mr. Waldheim?”

“Well, one thousand dozen equals twelve thousand shirts, so…let me see…sixty thousand shirts.”

“And that is a round figure?”

“That is correct. The actual number was in excess of five thousand dozen.”

“Mr. Waldheim, are you aware of the shirt patterns used by your competitors?”

“Certainly. We have to keep tabs on the competition.”

“To your knowledge does Sherwood Forest, or any other shirt manufacturer, make a shirt with a pattern similar to this shirt?”

“Yes. That forest pattern was so successful, especially in this area of the country, that we put out another similar line, and so did two of our competitors.”

“Thank you, Mr. Waldheim. Nothing further.”

Monica had been doing some calculations while David questioned Waldheim. There is a rule of cross-examination which holds that an attorney should never ask a witness a question unless she knows the answer. Monica had a question she wanted to ask, and Waldheim’s testimony was so damaging that she decided to break the rule.

“Mr. Waldheim, your company distributes shirts nationally, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“How many of the shirts you were just shown were distributed in this state?”

“Uhmm, something in excess of one hundred dozen, I believe. The shirt did very well here.”

“And of those one hundred dozen, how many were distributed in Portland?”

“I’m not certain, but I would guess more than half.”

“So we are talking about approximately six hundred shirts in the metropolitan area?”

“A little more than six hundred. Yes.”

“Nothing further.”

Monica was troubled. She had softened the impact of Waldheim’s testimony a little, but six hundred shirts was still a lot of shirts, and there were all those knockoffs from other companies. David was starting to cut away the basis for Ortiz’s identification, and if he did that successfully…

There was a stir in the courtroom and Monica looked around. While she had been lost in thought, David had called his next witness-Jennifer Stafford.

Jennifer walked to the stand without looking at David, but she did pause momentarily by Larry’s side. The look she gave him was one the jury could not see and David could not read.

Jennifer took the oath, then seated herself in the witness box. She sat erect, her hands folded primly in her lap. There was a trace of tension at the corners of her lips, and a tightness about her that betrayed her uneasiness. When David addressed her, she jerked slightly, as if she had experienced a minor electric shock.

“Mrs. Stafford, are you employed?”

“Yes,” she answered softly. The court reporter glanced at the judge, and Judge Rosenthal leaned toward the witness.

“You’ll have to speak up, Mrs. Stafford,” he said gently.

“Yes, I am,” Jenny repeated.

David noticed that Larry was leaning toward Jennifer, listening to her testimony with an intensity that David had not noticed when the other witnesses were on.

“Where do you work?”

“I teach second grade at Palisades Elementary School.”

“How long have you been teaching there?”

“This will be my third year.”

“How long have you and Larry been married?”

“A little less than a year,” she answered, her voice breaking slightly from the strain. David waited for her to compose herself. He fought the urge to go to her and hold her.

“Can you remember when you first saw your husband on June sixteenth of this year?”

“Yes. We got up together and ate breakfast. Then Larry went to work.”

“Was he acting unusual in any way?”

“No.”

“When did you next see him?”

“Around eight o’clock, when he came home from work.”

“Was it unusual for Larry to work so late?”

“No. His job was…is very demanding. He would often keep late hours.”

“Tell the jury what happened after Larry came home.”

“We just watched some television. I can’t even remember what. Then we had a snack and went to bed.”

“You and Larry sleep together?”

“Yes,” Jennifer said, blushing and looking at her lap.

“Where was Larry when you woke up the next morning?”

“In bed.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that he left your bed at any time that evening?”

“No. I’m a light sleeper, and I would have heard him if he got up.”

David paused. He had established Larry’s alibi. There was no reason to ask any more questions, and he wanted to make Jenny’s ordeal as easy as possible. He turned toward Monica.

Monica acknowledged David’s nod. Jennifer Stafford had been very believable, and her alibi would be difficult to break down. She did not know what to do to attack it, and she was beginning to feel helpless. She had put an investigator on the Staffords and had come up with nothing. She risked a look at David. He was chatting with the defendant, looking very sure of himself. Monica felt herself tighten with anger. She could not lose this case. She had to do something. But what?

“Mrs. Stafford, you are a wealthy woman, are you not?”

“Objection,” David said, standing.

“This goes to motive, Your Honor,” Monica replied.

“We went through this before, Mr. Nash, in chambers. You may have your objection.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Monica said. “Are you a wealthy woman, Mrs. Stafford?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that. I am well-off financially.”

“If neither you nor the defendant were working, could you get by?”

“Larry wouldn’t accept my money. He-”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Mrs. Stafford.”

“I don’t need to work,” Jennifer said stiffly.

“But your husband does?”

“He has saved money from his job. He works very hard and-”

“Your Honor,” Monica interrupted, “would you please instruct the witness to confine her answers to the questions?”

“Yes, Mrs. Stafford. Answer only the question put to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Jennifer answered nervously. Monica was pleased with the course of the questioning. Stafford’s wife was becoming defensive, and that would help cast doubt on her credibility.

“You purchased your house for four hundred seventy-five thousand dollars, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Stafford could not have purchased the house without your money, could he?”

“No,” Jennifer answered. She was angry and David began to worry.

“In fact, if you and he were divorced, it would seriously alter his lifestyle, wouldn’t it?”

“Objection,” David said.

“Sustained. That is highly speculative, Ms. Powers.”

“I withdraw the question,” Monica said, satisfied that the jury had got the point.

“Mrs. Stafford, do you love your husband?”

David looked up. He knew that her answer would mean nothing, but he tried to read something in her eyes: a message he hoped he would see there.

Jennifer hesitated a second and Monica noticed. She wondered if the jury had, and she turned in its direction.

“Yes,” Jennifer answered softly.

“Would you lie to help him?”

“Yes,” she answered, “but I did not lie, because I did not have to. Larry was with me, Miss Powers. He couldn’t have murdered that poor woman.”

David selected the Georgetown for lunch because it was dark and the individual wine-red booths provided privacy.

“I was so frightened,” Jenny said.

It was the first time they had met during the day someplace other than his office. David reached across the narrow table and touched Jenny’s hand.

“You were fine.”

“And Larry?” she asked.

“He was fine, too. The trial is going very well.”

Judge Rosenthal had called a recess for lunch as soon as Larry had finished testifying. Stafford had been nervous but had handled himself well. On direct, David had limited himself to asking the defendant where he had been on the evening of the murder and filling in items of his biography that had not been provided by other witnesses. On cross, predictably, Monica had delved into Larry’s feelings about not making partner and asked about his relationship with his wife. Stafford was well prepared to handle this line, as David, playing the role of district attorney, had grilled him far worse in the jail than Monica did on the stand. David enjoyed Monica’s frustration as it became clear that she was making little headway. Her final questions concerned Stafford’s sex life, and David felt they were sufficiently embarrassing so that the overall effect was to create sympathy for his client. When Monica asked her final question, “Have you been with a prostitute in the past two years?” Larry’s answer-“Why would I do that, when I have a wife like Jenny, who loves me?”-had caused several of the jurors to nod their heads in approval.

“Do you…will you win, David?” Jenny asked.

“It’s impossible to say, but I feel good about the case. I believe in Larry. I could see his sincerity when he testified. I’m a pretty good judge of people, and if I’m getting these impressions, I’m sure the jurors are, too.”

Jenny looked down at the table for a moment. She seemed troubled.

“What’s the matter?” David asked.

“I’ve decided, David,” Jenny answered in a hushed voice. David felt his heart leap. Was she saying good-bye? Was this the end of his dream?

“No matter what happens, I’m going to ask Larry for a divorce. Then, if you want me…”

“Want you? God, Jenny, you don’t know what this means to me. I love you so much… Don’t cry.”

Jenny’s head was lowered, but even in the dim light he could see tears coursing down her cheeks.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” a voice from behind David said. Jennifer looked up, startled, and David turned rapidly. Thomas Gault was standing over the table, a sly grin looking diabolical in the frame of his Chinese mustache.

“I saw you two over here and thought maybe I’d get me a scoop.”

“Gault,” David barked angrily, “this is a private meeting.”

“But you and the lady are public people. I have my duty as an agent of the press to seek headlines wherever.”

Gault stopped suddenly when he noticed Jenny’s tears. The smile disappeared.

“Say, I am sorry. I didn’t realize…It’s so dark in here.”

He whipped out a handkerchief and held it toward Jenny. She looked at David, puzzled.

“It’s okay,” Gault said. “I’ve been there. Had my own trial. For murder, too,” he said with a trace of pride. “But Dave got me off and he’ll clear your husband. Don’t you worry.”

Jenny continued to stare at the handkerchief, which drooped from the end of Gault’s hand like an ill-cared-for flag. David saved the situation by proffering his own, which Jenny took quickly.

“Look, Tom, Mrs. Stafford is upset and we would like a little privacy.”

“Sure thing. And I am sorry. Didn’t mean to…you know.”

“Sure. And, Tom, if you want a scoop, come to court this afternoon. My last witness is going to be a doozy.”

Gault brightened.

“Now, that’s the spirit. I’m givin’ you great press, buddy. Sorry again, Mrs. Stafford. Your husband’s got a great lawyer.”

Gault left and the couple said nothing for a moment. Then Jenny asked David, “What’s going to happen this afternoon?”

David felt a surge of excitement and smiled. “Oh, I’m going to hammer the final nail into the State’s coffin. But I don’t want to talk about that now. I want to talk about us.”

“Mr. Conklin, during your years as an investigator have you developed an expertise in the area of photography?”

“I have.”

“Would you tell the jury what training you have in this field?”

Terry turned toward the jury and smiled. He was an old hand at being in the witness box and appeared to be completely relaxed.

“I received my initial training in the Air Force, then studied by correspondence through the New York Institute of Photography. For a short time, after the Air Force and before I went into police work, I owned a photo studio and worked as a cameraman for KOIN-TV.

“When I was with the Lane County Police Department, I set up their photo lab, and, since going into private practice, I have done all of the accident and special photography for several law firms in town.”

“Have you ever won any prizes for your work?”

“I’ve won several awards over the past ten years. In fact, I won the blue ribbon in two categories at the last Multnomah County Fair.”

“Did I contact you with regard to assisting me in the investigation of the Larry Stafford case?”

“Yes, Mr. Nash, you did.”

“In this capacity, did you take any photographs at the Raleigh Motel, room twenty-two?”

“I did.”

“What was your assignment with regard to these photographs?”

“Well, as I understood it from talking to you, I was to take a photograph inside the motel room where the murder occurred that would accurately portray how a person standing where the killer stood on the evening of the crime would look to a person in the position Officer Ortiz was in when he saw the murderer.”

There was a stir in the courtroom, and several of the jurors made notes on their pads.

“How did you prepare yourself for this assignment?”

“First I visited the motel room with you and got a feel for the layout and the lighting. Then I read the police reports and sat in at a hearing when Officer Ortiz drew a diagram of the positions of everyone in the room at the time of the commission of the crime.”

David pointed to the easel. “Is that the diagram?”

“Yes.”

“So you really got the information on the positions from Officer Ortiz?”

“That’s right. His statements under oath and his written report.”

“What information did you have with regard to the lighting in the motel room on June sixteenth?”

“As I understood the testimony and the report, there were no lights on when Officer Ortiz entered the room, but there was a large globe light that illuminated the landing.”

“Where was this globe light situated?”

“To the right of the door, on the outside.”

“Were there any other lights?”

“Only those in the street. Neon signs, headlights. Things like that. The side of the motel away from the office is not well lit.”

“What did you do next?”

“A few weeks after the hearing, when I had the information about the positions of the people involved, I hired an individual who is the same height as Mr. Stafford to accompany me to the Raleigh Motel. I received permission to enter the room from the manager, Mr. Grimes, and I proceeded to set up my camera at the same height Officer Ortiz would be if he was lying in the position he described. I then put the model where the murderer was supposed to be.”

“What position was that?”

“I had him stand at the door frame, leaning into the room. His body was at a slight angle, with his right leg and arm outside the door and his left leg and arm just inside the room. The model was instructed to look down toward the camera.”

“When were these pictures taken?”

“At night, about the same time as the murder.”

David approached Conklin and handed him three photographs.

“I hand you what have been marked as defendant’s exhibits number twelve, thirteen, and fourteen. Can you identify them for the jury?”

“These are three photographs taken in the motel room by me.”

“Tell the jury what they portray.”

“Okay,” Terry said, holding the first picture up to the jury. “Exhibit twelve is a picture of a man standing in the doorway of room twenty-two. This is the model. He is standing exactly as described by Officer Ortiz at the hearing.”

“Can you see the man’s face, Mr. Conklin?”

“No, sir, you cannot.”

Someone gasped and the jurors wrote furiously. Monica was straining to see the photograph.

“Your Honor, I’ve never seen these pictures,” she shouted. “I object to…”

“Yes, Mr. Nash. The jury should not see these pictures until they have been admitted into evidence. Show them to counsel, please,” Judge Rosenthal said.

David smiled. The uproar over the improper way in which he had introduced the pictures would heighten the jury’s suspense and the impact the pictures would make. He had counted on Monica’s objection, and she had not let him down.

Monica scanned the pictures. She could not believe it. With the globe lamp outside and the model’s head just inside the door, shadows obscured the face. It was impossible to make out the features. The other two photos were taken with the model standing straight up and leaning outside the door. In the last picture, with the head tilted back, you could make out some features, but not many, and the shadows still obscured most of the detail. Ortiz’s identification had been completely impeached. She turned toward David as she began to make her legal objection to the pictures and saw the smile he hid from the jury. She felt her blood rise. Then she caught Stafford out of the corner of her eye. He too was gloating.

Judge Rosenthal was ruling in favor of the admission of the pictures into evidence, and Conklin was continuing his testimony, explaining the technique he had used to produce the photographs, but Monica only half heard it. She was seething, burning. She could not let David get away with this. She was not going to let that smug son of a bitch walk out of this courtroom scot-free. He had suckered her with those pictures, but he hadn’t won yet. Monica picked up her pen and doodled the name Cyrus Johnson on her witness list.