“The hardest thing in the world is to get a doctor to say another doctor is wrong,” Mary Lou says. “I can’t tell you how many malpractice cases our firm defends every year for the insurance companies, legitimate stuff, not ambulance chasing, where the physician is clearly incompetent, and you can’t even get his hospital to deny him privileges, let alone become a party to a decertification proceeding.”
“They’re worse than lawyers,” Paul notes with his usual dry wit.
The humor falls on deaf ears. We fidget, looking at each other, at the walls.
“It’s too late to call anyone else now,” Paul observes, checking his watch, “even on the west coast. We’ll have to start in tomorrow.”
“We’re in court tomorrow,” I reply, testy. I hate being caught up short. I say it: “I hate being hung out to dry like this. I feel like a rank amateur.”
“That’s not fair,” Mary Lou protests. “To yourself or the rest of us.”
I know that, but so what? We got caught with our pants down today, and all the world was watching.
“And it wasn’t in any of the discovery,” she adds. “We don’t have a crystal ball to tell us what
might
jump out.”
“We’re
supposed
to know what’ll jump out,” I rant. “That’s what a good lawyer does. That’s what we get paid for.” I’m illogical, I hear it in myself even as I speak, but I can’t help it. I’m freaked.
“Maybe we should’ve checked into Rita Gomez’s story more carefully,” Tommy ventures cautiously.
“Like how?” I snap.
“She had mentioned heating up knives. Maybe we should’ve checked to see if there was a fire up near where the body was found, for instance.”
“Rita Gomez’s story is a piece of shit from beginning to end is why we didn’t check out stuff like that,” I answer. “We’ve proven that in open court.”
“The jury’s still out, counselor,” Paul gently chides me.
“Meaning?” I challenge. I’m a bitch tonight, I’d probably take my own child’s head off if she looked at me sideways.
“The fact that you don’t believe her doesn’t mean the rest of the world automatically doesn’t, too,” he replies evenly. Paul’s not a fighter like me; he doesn’t like a fire burning in his guts, but in his quiet, unassuming way he stands up for what he thinks. It’s one of the qualities I prize in him; normally.
“Are you saying you think there might be some truth to what she says?” I fire back.
“Will …” Mary Lou tries to deflate the tension.
“I think they raped her, yes,” Paul answers calmly.
“They’re not charged with rape,” I flash back at him.
“You asked if I believed any of her story.”
“Okay. Let’s say they did rape her. What does that have to do with murder?”
“They say they didn’t.”
“It’s a moot point,” I tell him.
“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”
“Guys. Stop this bickering. We have work to do.” Mary Lou steps between us. Tommy’s to the side; he wants no part of this.
“If she’s telling the truth about that, which I tend to believe,” Paul continues, “and they’re lying, which I also believe, then maybe other parts of her story are true, and maybe other parts of theirs aren’t. It’s not a moot point, Will.”
I exhale slowly.
“You think they’re guilty, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you do.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “But I do know that they’re guilty of something; something connected to this case.”
“They didn’t kill this guy.” I’m churning inside, I’m a dervish spinning out of control. “Don’t you know that? By now don’t you at least know that?”
“I’m not as convinced as you, no.”
We stare hard at each other. It’s a déja vu moment—we happen to be in the conference room, the same room I was in when Fred and Andy lowered the boom, and as was the case in that incident, we’re on opposite sides of the table.
“Then why the fuck did you take the case?” I demand.
“Because I needed it,” he answers honestly. “And they needed me.”
“They needed somebody to fight for them, tooth and nail,” I tell him. I’m yelling.
“I am,” he answers. He’s still calm, at least outwardly.
“Opening the door on the goddam hot knives shit, that was really fighting for them,” I throw at him without thinking. As soon as I say it I wish I hadn’t.
“Will! You’re out of line!” Mary Lou is in my face.
“I know I am, I know I am,” I answer as fast as I can. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I’m sorry, Paul,” I tell him.
“You didn’t mean it,” he says. “We’re all testy tonight.”
I slump against the wall.
“Moseby set us up, the bastard. He set us up and we walked right into it. Right over the goddam cliff, like lemmings. I thought I had the slimy bastard’s number and he outfoxed me like I was a first-year law student.”
“It’s one point, Will,” Mary Lou says. “It’s not the case. We have a good case.”
“We shouldn’t have let it happen that way,” I reply. “We can’t afford mistakes.”
“We’ll be okay,” she says. “Once we start presenting our witnesses that testimony will be all washed away.”
This is the woman talking, not the lawyer. She’s trying to help me, soothe me. I wish I could let her.
“Hey, listen,” Tommy kicks in. “If it hadn’t been introduced this way, they’d have found another way to get it in. Paul just happened to be in the line of fire. It could’ve been any of us. They want to win this case and they’re not going to play by the rules unless the court forces them to.”
He’s right. I can feel the anger ebbing out of me. It isn’t Paul’s fault. He’s doing the best he can. And if in his gut he doesn’t believe in their innocence, completely or even partially, so what? A lawyer can defend a guilty client as well as he can defend an innocent one. If all your clients had to be innocent, most of them wouldn’t have lawyers. It’s one of the best parts of the system.
As we’re breaking up, Paul puts a fatherly arm around my shoulder.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I will be. I just hate surprises.”
“We all do.” He smiles at me. “I had an ulcer once, because I got pissed off one time too many. Like you’re doing. You do the best you can, Will, but you can’t let it kill you.”
The problem is, it’s the fire that sustains me. If it ever goes out inside, I won’t be worth a shit as a lawyer; and right now, that’s all there is to me that is worth a shit.
“
YOUR HONOR.
We would move at this time for a continuance of sufficient time in which to analyze this portion of Dr. Grade’s testimony and to procure an expert of our own.”
We’re in Martinez’s chambers. Us and Moseby.
“We object, your honor,” Moseby says.
“I figured you would,” Martinez says. He leans forward in his chair.
“I can’t do it,” he tells us. “I
won’t
do it. That testimony yesterday resulted from your actions, not the prosecution’s. I’ve got a jury impaneled here. I can’t stop this trial now, not for this.”
He glances at Moseby, back at us.
“Here’s what I’ll do for you, though. You can supplement your witness list. I shouldn’t allow it, but I want to give you every opportunity. We’ll be in trial another week or so. If you’re going to find an expert, that should give you enough time.”
I’d like to thank you for your help, judge, but I can’t. The possibility of finding a credible expert, acquainting him with the case, and convincing him to testify against a fellow doctor, are somewhere below the proverbial slim or none.
“
IT’S A SIMPLE PROCEDURE,”
Grade says. It’s an hour later, we’ve reconvened.
He’s talking to Moseby but looking at the jury, patiently leading them. “Not at all complicated. Something struck me when I first viewed the corpse. Granted, it had been decomposing for a few days, and was certainly not in good shape, but something about it seemed out of the ordinary.”
“Which was?” Moseby asks.
“That there was, as has been noted, hardly any bleeding. Forty-seven knife stabs, some of them rather deep, there should have been bleeding.”
“Why wasn’t there, then?” Moseby continues his questioning. “Why wasn’t there more blood?”
“Because,” Grade says, and now he leans forward, he’s going to say something important and he wants the room to know it, and they do, judge and jury are leaning forward with him, “the wounds were cauterized as they were being made.” He stands, picks up the pointer lying next to the easel. “May I?”
Martinez nods. Grade steps down from the stand, comes around to the easel. He points to one of the wounds in the photograph.
“As you can see, there’s darkness around these edges. Like a crust.” He moves the pointer around the wound.
I can see the dark contours around the wounds; I thought they came from the traumatic impact the knife had on the body, that’s the way it had been explained to me. I don’t see any crust, but it’s only a photograph.
“You can see this dark crust around almost every wound on the body,” Grade says, pointing to various knife wounds in the picture. “I came to the conclusion that they were formed by heat. The heat cauterized the wounds and stopped the bleeding. It’s common in medicine.”
“Are you saying, then, Dr. Grade,” Moseby asks slowly, dramatically, “that these wounds were caused by …”
“Hot knives. Yes.” Grade finishes for him.
“That each time before the victim was stabbed,” Moseby continues, “forty-seven times in all, the people who stabbed him heated the knife and then stuck it in?”
Grotesque bastard. The jury hears that, they’re lapping it up, it’s drawing them in like moths to a flame.
“That is exactly what I am saying.” Grade puts the pointer down, resumes the dock, but remains standing, towering over everyone but Martinez.
“That’s an interesting conclusion, Dr. Grade,” Moseby says, “but not very common. In fact I’d never heard of it until you mentioned it to me.”
No shit, I think. Neither had anyone else. Except the state’s star witness.
“I agree,” Grade answers. “And if I hadn’t come across this theory only a short time before I examined this corpse, it would have slipped by me completely.”
“In a medical journal?” Moseby asks.
Grade nods. “I don’t recall exactly which one—I read so many. You have to, to stay current. As I remember, the doctor who wrote it was an expert on homosexuality and in particular homosexual murders.”
I can feel the heat rising from Lone Wolf. Jesus, we don’t need this. This guy’s liable to freak right here if he’s wrapped into a gay killing. I lean towards him.
“You better control yourself, man,” I warn him.
“If that motherfucker calls me a faggot I’m going to tear his fucking heart out,” he growls.
“You do,” I hiss at him, “and you’re sealing your verdict.”
He scowls at me.
“I mean it,” I say.
He sits back, seething. Just get us through this, Lord, without it blowing up in our faces, that’s all I’m asking.
“It’s your opinion, then, doctor, that this murder has homosexual overtones?” Moseby asks.
I grip Lone Wolf’s wrist, hard. His teeth are grinding so tightly he could fracture his jaw.
Grade refers to a folder. “Rectal smears taken from the victim’s anus revealed sperm,” he says. “That’s in the report.”
“I know that, doctor,” Moseby states. “I just wanted to make sure it was part of the trial record.”
Asshole. A straight-forward lawyer would’ve presented that in an honest way. This is more bullshit playing to the crowd.
Grade puts the folder aside. “If I could add something …”
Moseby smiles at him. “Of course, doctor. You’re the expert.”
“Even if there had been no sperm present I would have drawn the same conclusion.”
“That it was a gay murder.”
“The man’s penis was cut off,” Grade says with a show of disgust, almost as if he has to spit to cleanse his mouth. “It was a heinous and brutal and disgusting act. Whoever did that is sick.”
A rumble moves through the courtroom. The jury sits tight-lipped. Several look over at my clients.
“I must add,” Grade continues, “that whoever did do it has to have some sexual problems. Some conflicts about his …” he pauses; then pointedly, “or
their
sexuality.”
“Objection!” I shout.
“Sustained. Witness will refrain from supposition of that nature,” Martinez tells Grade.
“I’m sorry, your honor.”
“Strike that last sentence,” Martinez instructs the court reporter.
Big fucking deal.
“About this homosexual killing … excuse me, this possible homosexual killing …”
“Objection!” Mary Lou’s on her feet. “There’s been no introduction of homosexuality or any sexual conduct regarding this killing,” she says. “The mere fact that the victim’s anus contained sperm does not mean that anal intercourse and the murder occurred at or around the same time. They’re two entirely separate issues.”
“Over-ruled. This murder is sexual on the face of it. They cut off his penis.” Martinez turns to Moseby. “Continue, counselor.”
Shit. We’ve lost him, for now at least.
“We have a possible homosexual killing,” Moseby says. “How does that tie into a motorcycle gang?”
I object again. “Since when is Dr. Grade an expert on motorcycle organizations, your honor?”
Grade smiles at Martinez. “Let me assure you that I’m not.” He adds almost disdainfully: “In the slightest. But there is extensive literature in many psychiatric and psychological publications that talks about the male bonding in motorcycle gangs, particularly those characterized as outlaw gangs, and homosexuality. It’s common knowledge.”
“In other words, doctor, this murder had definite homosexual overtones, and the makeup of motorcycle gangs, the psychiatric profiles as it were, also show homosexual components, in psychiatric and medical terms,” Moseby says.
“Without any doubt.”
“
You’re dead, motherfucker! You hear me? You’re fucking dead!
”
Lone Wolf has jumped up as if he’s about to leap the table and attack Dr. Grade with his bare hands.
“You’re dead, man! I’m gonna tear out your fucking heart and I’m gonna fucking eat it!”
It’s bedlam. Martinez yells, “Bailiffs!” I’m holding onto Lone Wolf in a bear hug. The others are shying away. The jury is half-standing, ready to bolt.