A door opening in the back of the room catches my eye. Grade has quietly entered, sits down in the last row of benches. When he sees me look in his direction he turns away.
I turn back to Sugarman.
“Anything else, Dr. Sugarman?” I ask.
“They weren’t made while the victim was alive,” Sugarman says.
I look back at Grade again. He’s staring straight ahead, his face bloodless.
“Not alive,” I repeat.
“No.”
“Because the victim didn’t bleed from his wounds,” I say.
“Yes, but that’s not the important reason.”
“What is the important reason?”
“All the wounds are identical,” he says. “Same size, same shape.”
“But that’s because only one knife was used, isn’t it?”
He shakes his head in irritation.
“The reason the wounds are all the same size and shape is because the guy was dead. Corpses don’t move.”
“But what about Dr. Grade’s ‘hot knives’ theory? That the wounds were cauterized.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“You’re alive,” Sugarman says. “Somebody’s trying to stick you with a white-hot knife. I don’t care how many people are holding you down, you’re going to struggle like a madman. And when you do get stabbed, you’re going to twist and writhe like a fish trying to throw a hook. You’re going to tear your skin where that knife’s sticking in it. Your wounds are going to be torn, ragged, especially from the serrations. It’s going to tear you every which way until you’re too weak to fight. None of these wounds were lethal in one shot, which would be the case if the knife had penetrated the aorta or carotid.
“They didn’t kill him,” he states firmly. “A bullet through the brain did. Those stab wounds occurred some time after the victim was killed. They’re all the same size: they had to be.”
Martinez is riveted by Sugarman’s testimony, while Robertson frantically studies the pictures.
I walk to the defense table, pick up a copy of the magazine article that had turned Grade on to the ‘hot knives’ theory. I hand it to Dr. Sugarman.
“Have you ever seen this article?” I ask.
“You showed it to me last night.”
“Before then.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember when?”
“When it was initially published. Shortly after I assumed my present position.”
“What was your reaction to it?”
“After I stopped laughing? I thought it was the most irresponsible piece of garbage I’d read in my professional career. Dangerously so.”
“Did you give it any credence?”
“Of course not. It was written by an obvious crackpot. It has no substantiation whatsoever in medical fact.”
“What was the consensus in the field of pathology?”
“What I’ve just said. A tale told by an idiot.”
“Did anyone in your field of forensic pathology—anyone well known—do anything to rebut this article?”
“Yes. I did.”
“What did you do?”
“I conducted a series of experiments that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, not only to me but to several colleagues, that the theory was impossible, without foundation. It couldn’t happen.”
“Did you publish your findings?”
“Yes, I did.”
I cross to the defense table, pick up a medical journal, hand it to him.
“Is this your article?” I ask.
“Yes, it is.”
“I’d like to submit this to the court, your honor. It is from the
American Journal of Pathology
, dated November 1983.”
I hand it up to Martinez, who looks at the title.
“This magazine is considered one of the benchmark journals in your field, is it not?” I ask.
“It is,” he replies.
“They wouldn’t publish anything they didn’t believe was factual and correct.”
“They would never have published something this sloppy,” he says, brandishing the ‘hot knives’ article.
“How would you categorize the ‘hot knives’ theory, then, doctor?” I ask.
“If it’s me and you and a couple ol’ boys sitting ’round the campfire swapping lies, I’d categorize it as a crock; no offense meant, your honor,” he says to Martinez with a smile. “In scientific terms, it’s up there with the flat-earth theory. Pure uninformed bunk. You couldn’t find another reputable pathologist in the country who would think of subscribing to it.” He pauses. “I hate to say this about a colleague, especially one with Milt Grade’s reputation, but I was shocked when I heard he based his testimony on it.”
“Especially since there had been your follow-up article,” I say.
“I guess Dr. Grade didn’t see it,” he says. “Although I’m surprised, because everyone in the field reads that journal.”
“He must’ve missed that issue,” I volunteer.
“Pretty unfortunate if he did,” Sugarman replies. “But he must have. He never would have used that bogus theory otherwise.”
Robertson buries his head in his hands.
I look to the back of the courtroom. Grade is gone, the massive oak door slowly swinging closed in his wake.
“WE MOVE THAT THE RESULTS
of the original trial be over-turned, your honor, because of tainted, coerced, and falsely-obtained evidence, and that all charges against our clients be dropped.”
Robertson objects. He’s a pit-bull, he’ll never let go.
“I’ll give you an answer in the morning,” Martinez says. He’s dragging; the testimony we’ve introduced has knocked him for a loop. He presided over a false trial, and it’s killing him inside.
He withers Robertson with a look as he walks out.
“I hope I helped,” Sugarman says.
“You definitely did,” I assure him.
“Grade.” He shakes his head in disgust. “They ought to put his sorry ass out to pasture.”
Mary Lou and I gather our papers, head back for the office. We have hours of work ahead of us, and when we go home neither of us will sleep a wink.
W
E’RE IN JUDGE MARTINEZ’S CHAMBERS
. Robertson stands apart from Mary Lou and me, ramrod-straight.
Martinez turns to me. “My hands are tied, Will. I can’t dismiss outright, much as I want to. Miss Gomez says she lied before; she probably did, but it’s one statement against the other, which you know under these circumstances is considered subjective evidence and not legal cause for overturning the verdict, certainly without going to trial again. Neither is Dr. Sugarman’s testimony, although I devoutly believed it.”
“What about the falsifying of the hospital records?”
“That’s a separate issue.” He turns to Robertson. “Which I hope the authorities will vigorously pursue.”
“We’re looking into it, your honor,” Robertson tells him.
“Don’t take your time,” Martinez snaps. He turns to me with real compassion.
“I’m sorry. My hands are tied,” he reiterates. “Unless the prosecution wants to consider dropping charges,” he says pointedly.
“We don’t, your honor.” Ever the righteous man.
Martinez is trying; I give him credit. Better a late convert than never at all.
He looks over our witness roster.
“I see you have only one more name on your list … Scott Ray …”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Will his testimony be addressing anything that gets to the heart of this case? Otherwise I believe I have enough information on which to base my decision.”
“I think you’ll find him an enlightening witness, your honor.”
“All right then. Let’s have him.”
“C
ALL SCOTT RAY TO THE STAND.”
He walks forward, this pretty-boy hustler/Jesus freak in a fresh-bought Sears, Roebuck suit.
Robertson looks at the witness. He doesn’t know who Scott Ray is, but he won’t waste any time trying to find out.
Let him try. by the time he Knows, it’ll all be over, one way or the other.
Scott Ray solemnly swears to tell the truth, so help him God.
I approach my witness.
“Mr. Ray. Could you tell this court where you were and what you were doing on the night Richard Bartless was murdered?”
It was a couple days before the killing. Maybe three. Driving from down south, West Texas, Lubbock, Mule Shoe, crossing into New Mexico at Clovis, where Buddy Holly and the Crickets recorded “That’ll Be the Day” and “Peggy Sue” at Norman Petty’s studio. Buddy Holly—the guy was a fucking musical genius, no question. Detouring there, looking at the old place like visiting a shrine, thinking if it hadn’t of been ol’ Buddy done it, it could’ve been me. That’s the way my luck always runs, too late and bad.
The idea was to drive up to Denver and look for a straight gig, chill out from OD’ing on the fucking and dealing, that shit will ultimately lead to an early grave if you don’t give it a rest occasionally. But the car was fucked, it was fucked when he bought it and it was fucked ever since, piece of shit, fucking salesman saw him coming, unloaded his primo lemon. That’s what happens when you trust human nature, it’ll fuck you every time. He was able to limp it as far as the outskirts of Santa Fe, then it just up and died completely, leave it to the vultures. Nobody’d pick him up hitch-hiking, he had to walk four miles into town in the heat and dust.
On automatic pilot he made his way to a high-class gay bar and set up for business in the men’s room. By closing time he’d worked half a dozen sorry faggots into sucking him off behind the closed door of the shitter, at fifteen bucks a pop (he could always get it up, no matter how often he came, it was natural to him, something he was born with; it came in handy in circumstances such as these), then to top off the evening he tailed the last cocksucker, a middle-aged drunk, to the parking lot in back, where he mugged and rolled him. Candy from a baby, motherfucker never knew what hit him. He came away with close to three hundred in cash and a shitload of credit cards, which he used to rent a car (he’ll abandon it on the street when he’s ready to split), secure a decent room, buy a new wardrobe, and withdraw a thousand dollars in automatic teller cash advances before dumping the hot plastic down the sewer: the dumb shit had his secret code in his wallet, folded up next to his driver’s license. The way to do stolen credit cards is to not get greedy, use them and lose them fast before they’re reported.
Flush with cash, decent wheels, and new rad threads, the following night he’s at the Dew Drop Inn, looking for pussy. (He’s not a gay, no fucking way, he’ll let them suck it but he won’t do them, you close your eyes it could be a chick, it’s like a whore fucking; a job.) And in walked Richard, and it was like ‘hey dude, let’s party,’ ’cause it was obvious they weren’t like the usual clientele that hung in here, they had some class, him and Richard, that was obvious from the get-go. He had the money, when you’ve got it, spend it, that was his motto, so they picked up a couple whores and a bottle of quality tequila, scored a lid of primo weed (Richard was well-connected locally in that regard), and drove in his rental car, a 5.0 Mustang convertible, black on black, to a nearby roach-motel, where Richard was staying.
He and his whore fucked and sucked the night away; a little bondage, some golden showers, the usual. Richard didn’t do so good—his whore told Scott’s whore the next morning he didn’t do nothing; too drunk, too high. Scott knew better: Richard was a closet fag, an experienced hand could tell right off. He, Scott, didn’t give a shit one way or the other; sex is sex, what’s the difference? Whatever works for you. He personally could take it any way it came, he considered himself lucky that way.
So what if Richard was gay? Scott could swing every which way but loose, as long as he didn’t have to play the girl. He drew the line there—he’d pitch but he wouldn’t catch, he’d let the faggots suck him off, but he wouldn’t suck, and no fist-fucking, none of that shit. He was, is, and forevermore would be, straight. A man. He made sure everybody knew that. The chicks he hung with knew it for sure; he was a cocksman supreme, they all told him so.
Okay, maybe he’d been a pussy in prison, the one or two times he’d been in, but that was inside, you’re fighting for your life every second in the joint, sometimes that’s the only way; to be some boss motherfucker’s honey, so you can stay alive and get some priority favors. But everybody knows jail is different, the rules are suspended. Plenty of straight dudes have to be Barbie in prison, that’s the way it is, pure and simple. It has nothing to do with being a man in the free world. Not a fucking thing.
The next night he motivated down to the Dew Drop Inn again, it was a righteous place to hang out, plenty of hot-to-trot chicks looking for a real man like himself. Richard was there and attached himself to Scott right away, which was okay ’cause Scott knew he’d want to score some more dope and Richard could put him with the right people. So then Richard introduces him to this skank maid from the motel called Rita who’d come with him, they’d hitch-hiked ’cause Richard’s car wasn’t running. Scott remembered her from the night before. She had offered herself to Scott, practically thrown herself at him. Scott had told her thanks but no thanks, he had higher standards than that, he didn’t need a beauty queen or nothing like that to get him wanting to fuck, but this chick was ragged, a blind man could see she’d been to hell and back as far as who she fucked was concerned, she could be carrying every disease known to man, and some that hadn’t been discovered yet. Pasadena on Rita Gomez, then and now.
Richard obviously liked her, though; maybe she could get him hot to trot, people are weird in what turns them on, live and let live, that was Scott’s motto, whatever turns you on. Party forever and fuck the rest, that was another of his mottos.
Tonight was a bummer. The women weren’t responding. There were enough of them, some of them pretty good, but either they were all with guys or they gave him the cold shoulder. The ones that let him know they were available were below his standards, spoiled goods. It was obvious that being with Richard and his ranked-out motel maid was a turnoff, the chick had absolutely no class and it rubbed off on him by association. If he was going to score some pussy tonight he was going to have to dump Richard and Rita and find another bar.
Before that, though, he wanted to get high, so he and Richard went outside to smoke a doobie. Richard had good weed and plenty of it; that made up for most of his negatives. Rita tagged along. She was already high, she didn’t know Scott existed, which was fine with him.