At this point the only reason I can come up with to put her on is to give the jury a taste of who she is. There has always been an incongruity between Laurie's demeanor, her persona, and the crime she is accused of committing. Dylan's task, even with the overwhelming evidence in his favor, has first been to get the jurors to consider Laurie capable of such an act. The more they get to know her, the harder it will be for them to believe it.
If Laurie does testify, she will be the last witness we call. Tomorrow morning will be considerably less dramatic, but it's important that we get off on the right foot. I have no doubt that if the jury were to be polled right now, they would vote to convict. Which means we have twelve formerly open minds to win back.
THOUGH THE PROSECUTION
BUILDS THEIR
case brick by brick in logical order, my style of defense is to shoot random darts, jumping around so they won't know where the next attack is coming from.
Our first witness is Lieutenant Robert Francone, the officer who directed the Internal Affairs investigation of Dorsey. Since Celia Dorsey told me that her husband was in cahoots with an unidentified lieutenant, in my mind everyone with that rank is a suspect. However, Francone is widely considered above reproach, and Pete Stanton endorses that view.
I take Francone through the particulars of the investigation. He's not hostile, just reluctant, viewing the material as not meant to be public. Nevertheless, the information ultimately comes out, and the portrait painted of Dorsey is that of a corrupt cop, selling out to, and profiting from, the criminals he was sworn to combat. Those criminals will have to go unnamed during this trial, as per an edict Hatchet issued earlier in the case.
"So Ms. Collins was correct in her initial report about Dorsey?"
He nods. "She was, although she was just skimming the surface. Most of it was brought out by our subsequent investigation."
"Did you think it was proper that he only received a reprimand?" I ask.
"That's not really my area. My job is just to report the facts."
"Then let me ask it a different way. Were you surprised when he received only a reprimand?"
"Yes."
"The people Dorsey was involved with, the criminal element you refer to, would you consider them capable of murder?"
He says yes quickly, before Dylan has time to object to my improper question. Since the jury has heard the answer anyway, I withdraw the question.
I get Francone to say that there were no complaints of any kind directed at Laurie in all her time on the force, and then turn him over to Dylan.
"Lieutenant Francone," Dylan begins, "regarding these alleged mob people you say Alex Dorsey was involved with, to your knowledge, did any of them ever cause him harm?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"And they were in something of a partnership, is that right? Both sides benefited from the relationship?"
"Yes."
Dylan then asks him a few questions about the type of violence organized crime generally practices, and he says that decapitations and body burnings are very atypical.
Dylan lets the lieutenant off the stand, satisfied that he's done little damage to the prosecution. He's right: All we've managed to show is that Dorsey was not a choir-boy and hung around with dangerous people. There is absolutely no evidence that those people had anything to do with Dorsey's death, but unfortunately plenty that Laurie did.
Next up is Celia Dorsey, a less important witness for us than she would have been if we were still contending that Dorsey is alive. Her testimony is a self-indictment of a wife looking the other way while her husband descended into a life of crime and violence.
With quiet dignity, she talks about their life together, about his increasing secrecy, the talks with the mysterious other lieutenant that she overheard, and his stealing their money before leaving.
"And he was gone for a week before the murder?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Were the police looking for him?"
She nods. "Yes. I told them that I didn't know where he was. But that if Alex didn't want to be found, they wouldn't find him."
"Why did you say that?"
"He was too smart. And he used to brag about being able to disappear, to blend in so well that he couldn't be seen. Said he learned it in Vietnam."
"But whoever killed him found him," I point out.
She shakes her head. "I don't think so. I think whoever killed him wasn't somebody he was hiding from. It had to have been somebody he trusted."
Dylan objects that this is speculation, and Hatchet sustains.
"What else did you hear him say about how he might disappear?"
"He said he would fake his death. That they might bury his coffin but that he wouldn't be in it."
I've debated with Kevin whether I should open the door to Celia's "fake death" story, and we decided it was something we needed to do, if for no other reason than to have the jury know we didn't create the idea out of thin air.
I turn her over to Dylan, who treats her fairly gently but makes the point that she has no actual knowledge of what happened to Dorsey, just theories.
Hatchet sends the jurors off on their lunch break, after which we catch a break of our own. One of the jurors has taken ill, either a bad stomach virus or food poisoning. Hatchet sends everyone home for the day, giving us some much-needed additional time in the process. A key strategy in our defense will now be hoping that whatever the juror has, it's contagious.
But I have to assume that the worst will happen, that the other jurors will stay healthy. Therefore, I must prepare for tomorrow's witnesses tonight, which will make for an excruciatingly boring evening.
The two witnesses we are likely to get to tomorrow are a blood spatter expert and a retired medical examiner. Their testimony, which I hope will be significant, will also be dry as dust, and Kevin has to force me to concentrate on the nuances of it. He knows this stuff better than I do, and I offer to let him handle at least one of the witnesses, but he thinks I have developed a good rapport with the jury, and to change lawyers, even for one witness, would be messing with that chemistry.
It's not until almost eleven o'clock that he feels secure enough with my grasp of the subjects to head home. I'm not tired, so as I do almost every night, I take paperwork that I have gone through countless times and go through it again.
It is a curiously relaxing part of my routine. I take a glass of wine and the documents into the den, and Tara grudgingly joins me on the couch. I hope to find something significant but don't expect to, since I've been over these things so many times before. So if I uncover a gem, wonderful. If not, my expectations are low enough that I'm not disappointed.
Tonight's no-pressure reading includes the respective military records of the recently murdered partners in the Green Beret firm of Dorsey, Cahill, and Murdoch. There simply has to be a connection between these men; the computer-masked, anonymous tipster was certainly right about that.
I wonder if she knows that by simply giving me Murdoch's name, she caused his death.
I am simultaneously all-powerful and all-oblivious.
The detail in the files is extraordinary. My admittedly uninformed mental picture of the military experience in Vietnam includes jungles, napalm, land mines, snipers, and daring chopper missions. Yet based on the size of these reports, half the people we had there must have been typists. Every hangnail, every training proficiency score, every reported enemy sighting, every move they must have made ... it's all been dutifully chronicled.
I start out by taking Dorsey's file and randomly picking out items from his time in Vietnam. I then compare them to the two others, in the hope that there might be some overlap. For instance, if Dorsey went to the hospital for a vaccination, I look to see if by chance Cahill and Murdoch were there the same day. Their meeting could have been brief and appear inconsequential in these reports, but it could have somehow triggered the devastating events that have led us to where we are today.
I'm on my fourth glass of wine, and Tara has long ago fallen asleep with a chewy half hanging out of her mouth, when I notice something startling. Though the chronology of Dorsey's Vietnam stay covers eleven single-spaced pages, on page nine there is an entry dated August 11, 1972, and then the next entry bears the date February 4, 1973. The two notes seem to be completely ordinary events, and there is no indication of any reason for the six-month gap.
I can feel my pulse start to race as I grab Cahill's file and look for his records during that same six-month period. Sure enough, he is unaccounted for in that time as well, and Murdoch's file, as I expect, is identical in that respect. I'm so excited that if Tara's paws weren't under her chin as she sleeps, I would high-five her.
I can't keep this to myself, so I wake Laurie and tell her what I've discovered. Her reaction is identical to mine: She understands that this could be the break we've been searching for, yet she's all too aware that we have no idea what it means.
I place a call to Captain Reid's office at Fort Monmouth, knowing he isn't there but leaving a message for him to call me back as soon as he can tomorrow morning. I hang up and go upstairs to the bedroom, barely reaching the top of the stairs before the phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Captain Reid here. How can I help you?" he says in his crisp, professional tone.
I'm amazed he has called me back so quickly, and I apologize for disturbing him this late at night. He doesn't react either way, so I quickly get down to why I called, describing the six-month gap in the records of all three men.
There is a noticeable delay in his answer, and when he does speak, it is the first time I have heard him sound tentative and unsure of himself. "There are a number of possible explanations. Record keeping in wartime is not the most accurate, and--"
My bullshit meter is clanging so loud I'm afraid it will wake the neighbors. "Captain Reid," I interrupt, "it is vitally important I get to the truth, and really quickly. I believe that what I've discovered can be very significant, and I need your help in explaining it to me. Please."
Another pause, and then his voice is softer and even more serious. "I was not in Vietnam, so what I'm about to tell you is not something I know from personal experience. As it relates to your case, you should simply consider it informed speculation."
"Fine."
"It may not be true, and even if it is, it may not be true in this particular case. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"I must have your word that you will never reveal where you heard this."
"You have my word." I hope this preamble is over before the jury reaches a verdict.
"I am told there was a practice of bringing together the most elite members of the Special Forces, often from different divisions, and sending them out in small groups to operate behind enemy lines. Actually, the way the battlefield was drawn in Vietnam, it would be more correct to say 'among the enemy' than behind their lines."
"Operate in what way?" I ask.
"In any way they saw fit," he says. "There were no rules, there were no restrictions. Their mission was to create havoc and destruction, by any means they deemed appropriate."
"Was there any accountability?" I ask.
"I'm not sure you understand what I'm saying. During the times these men were operating, they did not exist. Existence is a prerequisite for accountability, don't you think?"
I'm afraid I know the answer to my next question. "Is there any way I can obtain proof, written proof, that these men were together in one of these squads?"
He hesitates again. "I doubt that even Lieutenant Colonel Prentice could access that information."
I thank Reid, and warn that I may be calling upon him again. Then I spend the next hour processing what I've learned and trying to figure out how I can learn more.
I have no concrete proof that these three men were together in Vietnam, yet I'm certain they were. But even if I do prove it, so what? How does it make Laurie any less guilty, in the eyes of the jurors, of the murder of Alex Dorsey?
Unfortunately, not only are the jurors' eyes clear, but their stomachs are healthy, and the trial resumes at nine in the morning.
Every subject you can name, every single one, comes with a coterie of experts. And the places these experts hang out are the courtrooms of America.
Our first witness today is Dr. Brian Herbeck, widely considered the nation's foremost authority on the spattering of blood. We are paying him ten thousand dollars to impart that expertise to the jury, who will hear how much he is making and will no doubt hate him for it.
Once I establish Dr. Herbeck's considerable credentials as an expert, I have him examine the bloodstained clothes of Laurie's that were behind Hinchcliffe Stadium. He has of course previously examined them, and we've rehearsed exactly what he is prepared to say.
Dr. Herbeck points out in excruciating detail the pattern of blood spatter on both the front and the back of the blouse. His position is that they are essentially matching, which means that, while the blouse may belong to Laurie, neither she nor anyone else was wearing it when it became bloodied. The blood was applied to the front, and it caused a contact stain by going through to the back. If there had been a person in the blouse, he contends, the blood would never have reached the back.
It is a logical, albeit boring presentation, and as Dylan rises to cross-examine, his expression is sort of bemused, as if he and the jury have to deal with eccentrics like this and they might as well do it with a smile.
Dylan has obviously been well schooled in this area, and his cross-examination is impressive. He takes the good doctor back over the clothing, stain by stain, pointing out those areas that don't match quite so perfectly. Dr. Herbeck has answers for each of Dylan's points, but by the time it's all over, there's no way the jury could find any part of the testimony particularly compelling.
All in all, it's a depressing morning. My hopes are beginning to rest almost entirely on the outside investigation we are trying to conduct into the experiences of the three men in Vietnam. An investigation that has every possibility of going nowhere.
Kevin, Marcus, and I have lunch together in the court cafeteria, and they bring me up to date on our progress, or lack of it. Kevin has talked to the lieutenant colonel, who checked and confirmed Captain Reid's view that the information is not accessible. Marcus has learned about the crimes Murdoch committed to get himself put in jail, but this doesn't seem to shed much light on our case.
Having finished his lunch, Kevin cleans up the leftovers on Marcus's tray and my own. He seems about to ask the people at nearby tables if they're going to finish theirs, when Pete Stanton comes over. He had been in an upstairs courtroom testifying on another case and is just checking in to see how we're doing and to lend moral support.