“Then she disappeared.”
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?” Martinez asks.
“They wiped her records out. Like she was never there.”
“They can do that?” Martinez asks.
“It’s done all the time.”
I glance over at Robertson. His jaw is open in absolute disbelief.
“It is?” Martinez says.
The nerd looks at him with disdain.
“Judge … haven’t you ever heard of computer crime? Hacking?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what this was. They just did it in-house, instead of someone like me doing it from the outside. Same difference. Now you see it, now you don’t.”
“I see … I think,” Martinez says slowly.
“You don’t. Not really,” the nerd tells him. “But it’s okay. All you have to know is, somebody erased the files. Rita Gomez? She was there, then she wasn’t. Instantly.”
Martinez looks at Bonfiglio like he’s a species never before seen on this planet.
“All right. But if she was erased from the records, how did she show up again?”
Mary Lou and I exchange a secret smile. We had asked the same question as the sun was coming up this morning.
“They screwed up,” the nerd tells him.
“How?” Martinez asks.
“They erased her off the regular computer. But they didn’t erase her off the backup computer.” He smiles triumphantly. “Probably ’cause whoever did it, some nurse or some other flunky, didn’t know there was one. But there was.”
Martinez steeples his fingers.
“Is this common?” he asks.
“Backup computers, or erasing files?” the kid counters.
“Both.”
The kid nods.
“Erasing official files is common?”
“CIA does it every day,” Bonfiglio informs him. “Couple million times a year. It’s the modern way to rewrite history, judge.”
Martinez nods dumbly. He is not of the modern age, like this snotty punk.
“What about backup computers?” he asks Bonfiglio.
“It’s common in institutions. The police, FBI, military … and hospitals. Too easy to lose information. It’s a fail-safe method, like Dr. Strangelove.”
“Dr. who?”
“Never mind. Inside joke. You’re obviously not a Kubrick freak, judge.”
Martinez pops the $64,000 question.
“I would assume these backup computers are not open to public use,” he says.
“Nosirree. Definitely not.”
“Then how did you get in?”
The nerd puffs up like Jose Canseco after he’s hit a home run.
“The computer hasn’t been built that I can’t get into, judge. Not if I work at it hard enough and long enough.”
“How long did it take you to get into this one?” Martinez asks.
“Thirty seconds,” the nerd answers.
“Thirty seconds? You must be a genius at this,” Martinez exclaims in open admiration, which is pretty interesting considering the nerd just admitted breaking the law.
“This is true.” Bonfiglio pauses. “Of course, I already knew the password. I happened to have needed to get into that particular computer last year to help some friends check their records regarding prescriptions for certain pharmaceutical substances.”
If I ever have the need for designer drugs I’ll have him put a prescription into the computer for me like he did for his friends at Saint John’s. He must make a pretty penny off that little scam.
Martinez lets that pass.
“So you got into this backup computer …” he pauses.
“That has lots of raw data the regular one doesn’t, that’s it, you’ve got it,” the nerd finishes for him. “And there was little Rita Gomez, front and center. The computer doesn’t lie, judge. Just the people who screw around with it.”
“It’s simple. The police couldn’t take the chance of officially admitting Rita Gomez to the hospital. Because someone else might have questioned her before they could program her.”
It’s the following morning. I’m standing in front of Judge Martinez. Everything’s as it was yesterday, except Sanchez and Gomez are absent from the proceedings. I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts they won’t be seen in here again unless they’re under subpoena.
“That’s pure conjecture,” Robertson says. He’s glum; his objection comes without force.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Martinez replies. To me: “Continue your thought, Will.”
Familiarity from Martinez. We’re definitely getting somewhere.
“That is my thought, your honor. If she had gone public at that time, who knows what she would have said? She is telling us now that she was forced into making a false statement. This new information indicates to me that she’s telling the truth now, and lied at the trial because she was scared for her life, literally. If they did what she says they did, who knows how far they would have gone?”
Martinez nods in agreement. He turns to Robertson.
“Do you have anything to say about this?”
“This doesn’t prove my people were lying,” Robertson says, grasping desperately at a straw, “it merely shows that records were tampered with at some unknown time. Somebody could have put this entry in later, to try and discredit us.”
“You really expect me to believe that?” Martinez asks in astonishment.
“I’m saying it’s a possibility,” Robertson insists stubbornly. “If this hacker that the defense presented yesterday could get into confidential files that easily, and add material as he said he did, he or someone else with his expertise could have inserted her information in there.”
“Yes,” Martinez says. “But I don’t think that’s the case here.” He pauses. “I don’t think you do, either.”
Robertson doesn’t reply. He sits down heavily, glancing at Moseby, then away, in disgust. He’s starting to doubt his own people; it shows clearly in his face.
That doesn’t mean that he thinks my clients are innocent. Short of Jesus Christ Himself coming back to earth and proclaiming it, John Robertson will go to his grave convinced that they murdered Richard Bartless; not because of hard evidence, but because of
who they are
. And no evidence that I can present will ever change his mind, because he’s bought into it too deeply.
DR. GRADE SETTLES HEAVILY
into the witness chair, his dour demeanor a clear indication to me that he’ll be attempting to maintain his attitude of condescending superiority; but that posture’s wearing thin, and the good doctor knows it. This case is changing, the ground beneath him is less secure than it was before. His unusual, daring medical opinion had dovetailed beautifully with Rita’s testimony, the one authenticating the other, but now her support is gone, and his findings will have to stand on their own. That has to be undermining, even for a man with his overweening ego.
Once again, the pictures are placed in front of him. Once again, he gives the impression of studying them carefully. By now I’m sure he’s memorized them.
“Same pictures as before?” I ascertain.
“They are.”
“Good.”
There are copies in the courtroom. Martinez follows along with his, Robertson with his, Mary Lou and the bikers with ours. I touch various wounds on Grade’s set with my ballpoint pen.
“Knife wounds,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Here … here … here …” Showing where I’m pointing to Judge Martinez, to the prosecution table. Tracing them on the black-and-white pictures, everyone tracing his copy along with me.
“Yes.”
“Caused by knives that were heated to the cauterization point.”
“That is my testimony, sir.”
“And you first learned about this theory in a medical journal which you unfortunately are unable to this day to remember the name of.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I give him the photos to hold, walk to my table, where Mary Lou takes a magazine out of a manila envelope and hands it to me. I walk back to the stand, hold the magazine out to Dr. Grade.
Modern Abnormal Pathology
, March 1983.
“Could this be the magazine in question?” I ask.
He opens it, skims the table of contents, flips to the article in question.
“Yes. This is it.” He turns to Judge Martinez, a look of relief combined with arrogance spread across his face. “There can be no question now of my truthfulness, your honor”; swiveling back to face me: “or my integrity.” He smiles again. “I’m glad someone finally found it. Where, may I ask, did you find it?”
“In a medical library.” I answer casually.
Ellen, my intrepid researcher, found it. She’s been looking for the goddam thing since the trial. She sweated blood to find it—it’s an obscure publication, it was a one-in-a-million fluke that Grade had come across it in the first place, particularly since the magazine had folded a few issues after this article came out, and had no circulation in the profession to begin with. She’d found it just a few days ago, in the University of Idaho Medical School Library. It was the two hundred and forty-third source she’d checked.
Judge Martinez doesn’t come out and say so, but I know that he’s baffled. He’s at a loss as to why I’m seemingly happy about discovering a piece of evidence that is so damaging to my case, and then compounding the problem by introducing it into evidence, which I’m under no obligation to do. I’m sure he was expecting us to hammer at Grade about this article, claiming that it never existed and was part of a collusionary effort to frame my clients. Now I’ve legitimized Grade’s theory and seemingly hurt my cause.
Robertson stares at me in almost euphoric disbelief; you just blew your brains out, asshole, his look says, I didn’t even have to, you did it for me.
Martinez calls for a recess so he can read the article.
“We’d like to see it, too, your honor,” Robertson asks.
“Make him a copy,” Martinez instructs his bailiff. “Make a mess of them—we’re going to need them.” He looks around. “If no one has anything further to add we’ll recess for one hour.”
I speak up before he gavels.
“One more question for Dr. Grade, your honor.”
Testily: “Go ahead.”
“To your knowledge, Dr. Grade, have there been any other articles published about the ‘hot knives’ theory.”
“Not to my knowledge,” he answers.
“You keep current with these things—these developments in forensic pathology.”
“I am as current as any coroner in the country,” Grade replies icily. “Any reputable coroner or pathologist will attest to that.”
“I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that,” I reply with an equal share of contempt as I turn my back on the flatulent asshole.
Mary Lou and I hang out with the bikers in the otherwise empty courtroom while we wait for the various interested parties to read the article.
“They must think we’re crazy,” Mary Lou observes. “You hang with fuckers like us, you got to be,” Roach tells her. “But it’s okay … we still love you.”
“Are you sure you want to introduce this evidence, Will?” Martinez asks Mary Lou and me. He’s summoned us to his private chambers.
“Yes, your honor,” I answer.
“It’s hurtful to your argument. An argument, I might add, that’s been going well for you.” He looks pained, like we’re undercutting him. “You can withdraw it from the record,” he adds. “We’re not at trial here.”
“We want it in. We want all the cards laid on the table,” Mary Lou says forcefully.
Martinez sighs heavily. “It’s your hearing. I hope you know what you’re doing. I hope your clients know.”
FRANK SUGARMAN
, M.D., Ph.D., coroner for the city of Saint Louis, noted author and lecturer on causes and effects of violently-produced death, strides down the aisle and takes the stand, his ‘I do’ in response to the oath booming through the still courtroom. Sugarman’s a robust fifty, a tall, burly hell-raiser, kind of a medical Gerry Spence in terms of courtroom notoriety, one of the top forensic pathologists in the country. He often testifies as an expert witness in important murder cases, and his opinions are taken seriously. He’s a gun who carries major weight.
He’d flown in last night; Mary Lou, Ellen and I spent several hours going over the original trial transcript (especially Grade’s testimony), reviewing the crime photos of the body, and dissecting the article I would later that day introduce in court. Sugarman had been alternately bemused and angered.
“I know Milt Grade,” Sugarman had told us, “his reputation is okay, although in my opinion outdated. But this,” meaning the conclusions Grade had drawn, “is terrible. It’s every coroner’s nightmare. Makes us all look like a bunch of snake-oil faithhealers.”
I think back to Hardiman, to his prowess at healing using snakes and faith, but keep my mouth shut. This isn’t the time for arguments about religious belief versus scientific inquiry.
“So you’ll have no qualms about refuting him, on our behalf?” I ask.
“None whatsoever.”
I place the packet of photos of Richard Bartless’s mutilated body in front of Sugarman. He looks at each in turn, studies them carefully, hands them back to me.
“These wounds, Dr. Sugarman.” I point to several of the wounds, in various pictures. “What would you judge them to be?”
“Knife wounds. Either a hunting-type knife or something from a kitchen. You can see serrated-edge marks on several of them,” he says, pointing to different wounds in the pictures.
I look; I don’t see the distinction. Martinez motions to me to hand up the pictures, squints at them.
“I’m not seeing what you’re referring to, doctor.”
“It’s hard for a layman. Get me a magnifying glass and I can show you.”
We wait while a marshal hunts one up. He hands it to Sugarman, who stands at his chair so he and Martinez are on the same level.
“Here,” Sugarman says, pointing with a wooden match he’s taken out of his pocket, which he uses to light his Macanudos. “Here, here, and here.”
Martinez squints, concentrating.
“Yes,” he says. “I can see that.” He turns to Sugarman. “What does this mean?”
“Couple of things. First, all the wounds were inflicted by one knife. The serration marks are closely-enough identical to say that with pretty fair certainty.”
“I’ll accept that,” Martinez says.
I’m not looking at the photos with them; Sugarman and I covered this ground last night. Robertson, on the other hand, is poised on the edge of his chair like a hound pointing, waiting his turn to get a look.