Write to die, p.17
Write to Die, page 17
“It could have been hard to find. By chance, I just happened to notice it.”
“And you cut that piece of carpeting out, right?”
“Yes.”
“And took it back to the lab for it to be analyzed?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t do the analysis yourself, did you?”
“No.”
“Besides blood that turned out to be from Mr. Harold, did you find any other blood on the carpeting?”
“Yes.”
“And were you able to identify the person or persons from whom that blood came?”
“Yes. Almost all of it was the blood of the victim, Joseph Stanton.”
“Almost all of it? Does that mean that you collected blood that was ultimately found to match persons other than Mr. Stanton and Mr. Harold?”
“Yes. There was a single spot about halfway between the desk and the door that tested positive for blood but remains unidentified as to source.”
“Was that spot—let me call it the mystery blood spot—larger than the spot identified as Mr. Harold’s blood?”
“Objection,” Trucker said. “Calling it the mystery spot suggests something not in evidence, namely that it is a mystery.”
“Overruled,” Judge Gilmore said. “You may answer.”
“Maybe two or three times the size of the spot from Mr. Harold.”
“So the Harold spot, let’s call it, might have been from a single drop of blood?”
“I don’t think a blood drop is an exact enough unit of measure to say.”
“Okay, would it be fair to say that the mystery spot, which was two to three times as large as the Harold spot, came from two to three times as much blood as the Harold spot?”
“That would be a fair assumption.”
“Did you request that the DNA from the mystery blood spot be compared to DNA data in the FBI’s DNA database?”
“Yes, but there were no matches.”
“What about the state of California’s DNA database?”
“Yes, and again, no hits.”
“What about the LAPD’s DNA database?”
“Again, no hits.”
“Did you request that the DNA from the mystery blood spot be compared to the DNA of all other people who work at the studio?”
“Yes, but the blood-analysis report says that it wasn’t felt practical to gather blood samples from every studio employee, since there are thousands. So they took reference samples from everyone whose name was on the guest register for Mr. Stanton’s office that day and the three days beforehand and from those who worked on the same floor.”
“Because they felt that people are usually murdered only by people who work on their own floor?”
“Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”
“Sustained. That was funny, Mr. Zavallo, but you know, this is not really the place for funny.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Honor, I’ve unwittingly violated that unwritten local court rule about humor in courtrooms.”
“Which rule is that, Mr. Zavallo?”
“Humor shall be initiated only by the court.”
The judge quirked her lips but said nothing in response other than, “Please resume your questioning.” Rory wondered whether the judge and Zavallo knew each other, and, if so, how intimately.
Zavallo resumed. “Mr. Gonzalez, do you know if any effort was made to take DNA samples from employees who used to work on Mr. Stanton’s floor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or former employees who might have had a grudge against Mr. Stanton?”
“I don’t know.”
“I notice, Mr. Gonzalez, that you used the passive tense in your original answer about whether all studio employees were tested. ‘It wasn’t felt practical,’ you said. Do you know who actually thought it wasn’t practical?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Did all of the studio employees from whom they sought to take blood samples cooperate?”
“So far as I know, yes.”
“But no matches to the mystery blood spot were found?”
“No.”
“Mr. Gonzalez, did you test the entire five hundred square feet of dark brown nubby carpet for indications of possible blood?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Gonzalez hesitated. “Well, it’s just not very practical.”
“Is it just that it costs too much for all that luminol to spray the whole thing?”
“Uh, I don’t know how much luminol costs, so I’m not sure.”
“Oh right, you’re a city employee, so cost doesn’t matter much.”
“Objection, Your Honor, he’s harassing the witness.”
“Sustained. Cut it out, Mr. Zavallo.”
Zavallo pressed his palms together and bowed his head slightly as if praying for forgiveness. “Sorry, Your Honor.” Turning back to the witness, he said, “Mr. Gonzalez, let me ask it this way: you could have sprayed the whole carpet with luminol, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“With a dark brown carpet, it’s hard to identify by eye what looks like a bloodstain. And since luminol also glows blue when it comes in contact with bleach and certain other old cleaning solvents, among other things that might be on the rug, testing a five-hundred-square-foot rug is likely to yield dozens or even hundreds of false positives.”
“How would you test all those spots?”
“You’d have to test every spot that glowed blue under luminol, using more sophisticated tests that can positively identify human blood. So, as a practical matter, you’d have to remove the entire rug and take it back to the lab.”
“And the LAPD doesn’t ordinarily make that kind of effort?”
“The FBI does, but we normally don’t.”
“To go back to not testing the entire rug for a moment, is it possible that the rug has bloodstains from still other people that didn’t get identified?”
“It’s . . . possible, I suppose.”
“One final question, Mr. Gonzalez. The Harold blood spot, did someone tell you where to look for that particular spot?”
“Yes, come to think of it. My supervisor, Mr. Agape, suggested I search there.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, but I’d suspect that—”
“Your answer is ‘No,’ is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“I have no further questions at the moment, Your Honor, but we reserve the right to recall this witness during our own case.”
Sarah poked Rory and whispered, “Zavallo didn’t dig for the why of the rope piece.”
Rory shrugged. “Maybe he couldn’t figure out where to start.”
“Mr. Trucker,” the judge was saying, “do you have any redirect?”
“Yes, Your Honor. One question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Mr. Gonzalez, before Mr. Zavallo cut you off, you were about to say why you suspected your supervisor suggested you look by the door. Please tell us why.”
“Because someone fleeing a crime scene has to go through the door to get out of the room, so if they’re injured and dripping blood, the pathway to the door is a logical place to look.”
“I have nothing further, Your Honor.”
“Recross, Mr. Zavallo?”
“Yes. Mr. Gonzalez, did your supervisor actually say to you that you should look by the door because it was a logical place to look?”
“No.”
“He just said, ‘Look over there,’ right?”
“Correct.”
“Your Honor, I realize I do have one more question,” Zavallo said. “With apologies to the court and Mr. Trucker, may I be permitted to ask it out of order?”
“I have no objection,” Trucker said.
“Go ahead, Mr. Zavallo.”
“Mr. Gonzalez, when did you last personally see the small rope fragment—if that’s what it is—about which Mr. Trucker asked you earlier?”
“This morning, before I left to come here.”
There was a small stir in the courtroom. Rory didn’t know exactly where Zavallo was going, but wherever it was, he liked it.
“Why did you look at it before you came here?”
“Mr. Trucker asked me to.”
The stir in the courtroom was larger this time. Rory noticed that Judge Gilmore, who had been relaxed into her chair, had sat forward and was watching the witness carefully.
“Did he say why he wanted you to look at it?”
“Just to see if it was still in the forensic-evidence room.”
“And it was?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say why he wanted to know if it was still in the forensic-evidence room?”
“No. Not exactly.”
Rory looked over to Trucker to see if he was displaying any concern about the direction of the questions, but he looked nonchalant.
“Not exactly?”
“Well, he was carrying a list of items of evidence gathered at the crime scene and checking to see if all of them were still there.”
“Carrying a list of items? So does that mean he came personally to your facility to ask you about it?”
“Yes.”
“Was that unusual?”
He paused, then said, “A bit.”
“When was the last time he came to you?”
“Maybe two years ago.”
“Did he have anything else with him this time?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Did Mr. Trucker say anything at all as to why he was interested in the small rope fragment?”
“No.”
“Even if he didn’t say right then, do you know why he was interested?”
“Objection,” Trucker said. “No foundation and calls for speculation.”
“Overruled. You can answer.”
“No, I don’t know why he was interested.”
“I have no further questions.”
“Mr. Trucker, redirect?”
Rory looked at Trucker sitting there, clearly thinking whether to let it be or try to repair the impression there was some skulduggery at work. In the end, he let it go. “No further questions.”
“Mr. Trucker, please call your next witness,” Judge Gilmore said.
Rory leaned over and whispered to Sarah, “Zavallo seems to have this well in hand. We need to grab lunch and get ready for our own hearing. So let’s go.”
“Mr. Harold said he wanted us here.”
“I know. But we’ve got an obligation to the client in the other case.”
Chapter 27
They walked out of the courthouse and crossed the street to Grand Park, which swept from City Hall on their left to the Music Center on their right, blocks away at the top of the hill.
“It’s a pretty view,” Sarah said.
“Yes, in an LA kind of way, it is,” Rory said. “Let’s talk about our case for a moment, and then we’ll think about lunch.”
“Sounds good. But we need to sit and talk somewhere we can’t be overheard. Let’s sit on that bench over there.” She pointed to a steel bench about ten feet away.
Once they had sat down, Sarah looked around and said, “Okay, this seems safe, because we’re screened by those trees in front of us.”
“Screened from what? I mean, who do you think might be listening, and how would they do it?”
She turned and pointed to the top of the Criminal Courts Building, now behind them. “If that bald guy sat up there with a certain kind of parabolic microphone, he could hear everything we’re saying.”
“Why would anyone want to bother? Our case doesn’t exactly involve national security.”
“Was I followed or not, Rory?”
“That’s true. You were. And I forgot to tell you—it just skipped my mind somehow amid all the craziness—that I might have been, too.” He pulled out his cell phone and clicked up the photo Madge had sent him. “This guy was in the restaurant the other day when I had lunch with a cop friend.”
“Shit,” Sarah said. “I think that’s the same guy who was at Sylvie’s house when I was there. Does he look like the guy in the red Honda?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
Rory’s cell phone rang, and he answered.
“Hi, Quentin. What can I do for you?”
He listened for a moment and said, “Uh-huh. Sure. Can do. Tomorrow morning works if it’s really early, because Sarah and I will probably have to be in court for our civil case by eight.” He listened again for a few seconds and then said good-bye.
“What was that about?” Sarah asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. But first, back to the guy who was following me.” He held up his cell again, with the guy’s picture displayed. “Are you sure this is the guy who saw you at Sylvie’s house?”
She peered at it. “Yes.”
“Why would he want to follow me, too?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me, okay?”
“I’m not. I swear. I just really don’t know what’s going on. When I find out, I will tell you. I promise.”
“Okay.”
“What did Zavallo want?”
“They’re at a break in the trial. He and Hal want to meet me tomorrow before their hearing starts to talk strategy in the case.”
“You’re getting sucked into this criminal case. Is that really what you want?”
Rory smiled a big smile. “It’s not being ‘sucked in’ when all they’re doing is consulting me for my profound wisdom.”
“You have a huge grin on your face. A Duchenne smile.”
“What?”
“It’s a broad smile that indicates true happiness. Uses muscles both below the mouth and above, including around the eyes. Very hard to fake. Named for the nineteenth-century French neurologist who discovered how it works.”
“Some people smile with only the bottom of their mouths?”
“Uh-huh, like flight attendants.”
“Well, aren’t we full of information? Where did you learn all that?”
“I minored in neuroscience as an undergrad.” Sarah twisted around again and peered up at the top of the courthouse. “Let’s get up and walk. I thought I saw the glint of the sun on a lens up there.”
Rory rolled his eyes. “You know, I’m not used to hanging out with paranoids.”
“You think the guy who followed you to the restaurant was a figment of my imagination?”
“Fair point, although nobody’s been up on top of a building yet. But, okay, fine. Where do you want to go?”
“You pick.”
“Let’s walk down Spring Street toward downtown.”
As they walked, Rory said, “I’m nervous about our hearing this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“You know, sometimes when people get a second bite at the apple, they do better. Especially when they tasted your defense with their first bite. And Kathryn certainly learned a lot on that first round in front of Judge Cabraal, even though there were only sworn declarations and no live witnesses.”
“In other words, she’s had time to regroup and gather more evidence.”
“Yes, or make it up.”
“Not much you can do about it.”
“As you’ll learn with time in the trenches, Sarah, there often is something you can do about a problem if you think on it hard enough. But in this case I’m most worried about Mary Broom as a witness, and I haven’t yet come up with a plan.”
“Why are you worried?”
“Maybe she really did spend ten years in an ashram, but she’s still a world-famous actress. In the first hearing, she only got to say something in writing. Here she’ll be acting live, and acting can be persuasive.”
“Not much you can do about that, either.” She glanced over at the entryway to a nearby building. “Did you see a bald guy dart in there?”
“No. Sarah, maybe you should go live in a city where all the guys are either young or wear toupees.”
She stopped walking abruptly and fixed him with a stare. “You shouldn’t make fun of the attention I pay to things going on around me. The world is a much more dangerous place than you imagine. And I’d think that guy spying on you in the restaurant should make that manifest to you.”
Just as she finished speaking, a rock the size of a softball crashed down on the sidewalk in front of them and shattered into three pieces. The biggest chunk hit Rory in the leg as Sarah jumped out of the way of another.
“Go, go!” She shoved him hard toward the entrance to the building next to them, which had an overhang. Once they were in the doorway, Sarah said, “Are you okay?”
He rolled up his right pant leg to the knee, and they both looked at it. “I’ll be OK. It’s just a small bruise.”
“It doesn’t look as if it broke the skin.”
“No, I don’t think it did. Let’s just let it go. Probably just a weird coincidence of some kind.”
“Or someone was trying to kill us. If that rock had hit either one of us on the head, we’d probably be dead.”
“Why would anyone want to kill us?”
“Good question. I’m going inside to try to find the security guard. Keep an eye on that rock. We don’t want anyone messing with the evidence.”
He stood for a few minutes, rubbing his shin and looking at the shattered rock. Sarah was right. It could easily have killed one of them.
After a few minutes, she returned with, as luck would have it, a tall, nearly bald man wearing mirrored sunglasses and said, “This gentleman reports they’ve been having some problems lately with kids sneaking up to rooftops in this area and dropping things off the edge.”
The man introduced himself as George Rutherford, the building’s chief of security. He reached out and shook hands with Rory. “I’m deeply sorry about this. Unfortunately, this has been happening often in this neighborhood of late, and the culprits have figured out how to escape quickly, so no one’s ever been able to find them, even though we search the building after it happens.”
“It’s not a big deal, Mr. Rutherford,” Rory said. “I’m a little shaken up, but I’m okay.”
“Your colleague tells me your leg was hit by a piece of the rock. We can supply a car to take you to an ER if you want to have it checked out.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the offer, but no need. I’m fine. And we have to get back to court very soon.”
