Though Jonah is depressed, we have one advantage in the social skirmish to win empathy with the jury. It is Jonah's affable nature.
He tends to smile at the world, all the jurors as they come and go from the jury box, at the older women, and the young checkout girl from Vons, the car salesman from auto row, and the schoolteacher from the South Bay as well as the man who does bookkeeping for a large commercial nursery out in La Mesa. Some of them actually smile back.
This last, the bookkeeper, is a concern. Ryan fought hard to keep him on the panel, and by the time the accountant popped up we had used up our peremptory challenges and were shooting blanks.
People with ledgerlike minds can be a problem when it comes to weighing evidence. They like things that add up at the bottom of every column.
Unfortunately, the facts in a criminal trial, like most of the true mysteries of life, are seldom that neat. When chaos happens meticulous minds tend to impose their own sense of order, filling in gaps of reasonable doubt with assumptions based on probability.
Scientists, engineers, and mathematicians are seen to be high risks for the defense. Give them a problem and they are trained to solve it, sometimes bending jury instructions along the way.
It is just that kind of reach that Ruben Ryan is hoping for. His case is entirely circumstantial, the kind that put most defendants in prison blues, and filled the cells of death row at Quentin.
Today Ryan works the angle of death. The medical examiner, a beady-eyed little man wearing round horn-rims with glass as thick as a telescope lens. His name is Howard Morris. He is telling us how it happened, making sure the jury understands that Suade didn't die of old age.
"You autopsied the body?" says Ryan. He works from the podium.
"I did"
"Can you tell us the cause of death?"
"Two bullet wounds, one of which was fatal," he says. "The fatal round entered the victim at the mid-thoracic region on the left side.
About here." Morris points to his own chest with a finger just below the left breast pocket of his shirt, opening his coat for the jury to see.
"It passed through the intercostal muscles missing the ribs, perforating the left lung, and severing the aorta."
"And that was what caused death, the severing of the aorta?"
"Yes. I would estimate that she died within thirty seconds.
Certainly less than a minute after receiving this wound."
"The other bullet. You say that the wound from that round was not fatal?"
"That's correct. It passed through the right chest wall at an oblique angle, fracturing two ribs, exiting the chest and entering the right arm where it lodged in the area around the elbow."
"But that would not have been fatal?"
"No. Not with proper treatment."
"Did you recover that bullet as well?"
"I did."
"And was it the same as the first in terms of type and caliber?"
"It was. Nine-millimeter pistol round," he says.
"Do you have any opinion as to the distance these bullets may have traveled before they struck the victim?" Morris thinks for a moment, makes a face as if in judgment, then says, "Close range."
"Were they contact wounds? Do you know what I mean by that?" says Ryan.
"Maybe you should explain for the jury," he says.
"A contact wound is generally one in which the muzzle of the weapon is held against the body at the time it is discharged, fired."
"And were either of these wounds contact wounds?"
"I would say probably not. If they were, they were incomplete."
"What do you mean by incomplete?"
"What I mean is that the muzzle was not completely pressed against the victim. What you would call a hard-contact wound."
"And how did you determine this?"
"In a hard- or direct-contact wound there would be soot and metallic particles, vaporized metal from the bullet and the cartridge case, maybe some primer residue and powder particles driven into the wound track along with the bullet."
"And was there any of this residue in either of the wound tracks you found in the victim? Ms. Suade?"
"Not that I could detect."
"So would you say that the muzzle of the murder weapon was not held directly against the body of the victim?"
"That would be the conclusion I would draw," says Morris.
Ryan mulls this over for a moment, thinks, looks at the ceiling.
"Let me give you a hypothetical," he says. "Let's suppose that the assailant was seated in the driver's seat of a medium-sized vehicle, and that the victim was seated in the passenger seat of that same car. A distance of say two, two and a half feet. And let us suppose that the assailant fired two rounds at that distance into the body of the victim.
Would the wounds in this case be consistent with those facts?"
"I would say so. Yes," says Morris.
It's clear where Ryan is headed; cold-blooded, all the signs of an execution except that here the bullets were not pumped into the back of the victims head. He collects his papers and steps away from the podium.
"That's all I have, Your Honor." I get up, take a yellow notepad with me, and another sheaf of papers, typed forms stapled together.
"Doctor, you said there were two items you would look for in determining whether there was a contact wound involved in this shooting. Residue in the wound tract is one of them?"
"That's correct."
"And you say you found none of that?"
"That's right."
"Did you examine the victim's clothing?"
He nods.
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes."
"Did you find any powder tattooing on the victim's clothing?
You know what that is, don't you?" Morris handles it well, doesn't display any lapse of thought or judgment here. Just a simple, straight
"Yes."
"Could you tell the jury what tattooing is?"
"Generally lesions, reddish-brown or orange-red around the entrance wound of a bullet."
"That's if they're on the skin of the victim, right?"
"Correct." "But they could also be masked by heavy clothing if the victim were wearing such garments? I mean to say, isn't it a fact that in such a situation evidence of tattooing might appear on the clothing, not on the skin?"
"I've seen that," he says.
"Did you find any evidence of tattooing on the victim's clothing in this case?"
"There was some," he says. "But that can occur out as far as eighteen to twenty-four inches."
"I'm not asking you that. I'm asking you if you found evidence of tattooing, hot particles of powder and escaping gas from a firearm's discharge on or near the entrance wounds or point of bullet impact on the victim's clothing?"
"I found some," he says.
"Thank you. Now this would indicate that the muzzle of the firearm that fired the two shots was close enough to leave these marks from hot powder residue, correct?"
"As I say, eighteen to twenty-four inches," says Morris.
"You're saying that the muzzle of the firearm when fired was that far away?"
"It could have been," says Morris. He's looking at Ryan now.
"That's for a thirty-eight caliber, isn't it, Doctor? Aren't we talking a smaller round here? Less powder in the cartridge?"
"I don't know," he says.
"Isn't it a fact, Doctor, that the two bullets in question were not nine-millimeter rounds, but three-eighty caliber, what's known as a nine-millimeter kurz, or short, round?"
"They were nine millimeter in diameter." he says. Morris trying to make it clear that he didn't deceive the jury, just misled it a little.
"You know what a kurz round is, don't you?"
"Yes."
"And do you know the difference between that type of round and the nine-millimeter luger round?"
"It's shorter?" Morris says it with a little rise in the voice on the word shorter, as if it's a question, then smiles as he looks at the jury.
Gets a few chuckles.
"Doctor, isn't it normal procedure in an autopsy to weigh bullets removed from a body to determine the grain weight of those bullets?"
"Yes."
"And did you weigh these bullets?"
"I did."
"Do you recall the grain weight of the two rounds in question?"
"I'd have to look at my report," he says.
"May I approach the witness?" I ask Peltro.
He nods. I have the stapled sheaf of paper in my hand. I show it to Morris.
"Page five of the autopsy report," I tell the court. Ryan flipping pages.
"Looks like ninety-four point three grains on one, and the other was fragmented. Hit the bone," he says. "That one was only eighty-two, with fragments."
"Let's concentrate on the bullet weighing ninety-four point three grains for the moment." I turn, heading back toward the rostrum.
"Is that the usual grain weight for a nine-millimeter bullet?"
"Your Honor, this goes beyond the size and caliber of the round," says Ryan.
"If the witness knows, he can answer the question," says Peltro.
"I'm not sure," says Morris. He's looking for a way out, taking the judge's lead.
"Doctor, isn't it a fact that the normal weight for a ninemillimeter bullet, the usual store-bought round, is a hundred and fifteen grains?"
"A hundred and fifteen sounds right," he says.
"And yet both of these bullets are well under that weight." He says nothing, just nods.
"Do you know the grain weight of a three-eighty or short nine-millimeter bullet?" He makes a face, a dozen expressions of concession, then comes up with it off the top of his head. "Ninety-five grains?" He says it like a question, but it's clear he knows the answer.
"Right. So isn't it likely these were three-eighty rounds?"
"Probably," he says. "Still nine millimeter in terms of caliber." He won't give up on the point.
"But in a smaller cartridge, right?"
"Probably."
"And less powder in that cartridge?"
"I would say so."
"So your estimates of the distance, the maximum distance, I might add, for tattooing aren't correct at eighteen to twenty-four inches, are they?"
"That's approximate," he says.
"Isn't it more likely that the maximum range is closer to twelve inches?"
"It's possible," he says.
All I'm going to get from the witness, little victories composed of possibilities.
"Now that's the farthest distance we're talking about, isn't it?" I start to bear down.
"Perhaps." I look up at him.
"Yes," he says.
"Wasn't there scorching on her vest?"
"There was some scorching."
"Wouldn't this point to a much closer shot than your previous testimony would indicate?"
"As I said, these are estimates of range. Of the distance."
"Isn't it possible that the victim could have struggled for the weapon in question?"
"What do you mean, 'struggled'?" he says.
"Doctor, did you find powder residue on the victim's hands?"
"Defensive wounds," he says. "This would be expected if she had raised her hands in a defensive gesture as the gun was being fired." I begin paging through his report as he studies me from the wit ness box through spectacled Coke-bottle bottoms.
"Doctor, did you bag the hands of the victim at the scene?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I didn't think it was necessary."
"Isn't it usual procedure in most homicides to place a victim's hands in paper bags, tie them off around the wrist to preserve trace evidence under the fingernails?"
"Sometimes," says Morris. "Depends on the crime."
"I see. And for what kind of crime would you bag the victim's hands?" He thinks for a second. "A rape where the victim was killed," he says. "You might find skin or hair under the fingernails."
"What else?" He looks around, searching his mind. "A stabbing where there might have been a scuffle. Fight for the weapon."
"What else?" He shakes his head, not sure, run out of answers.
"Isn't it a fact. Doctor, that proper procedure calls for the bagging of the victim's hands in virtually every homicide to prevent cross contamination?"
"Some people might do it," he says. "It's a matter of judgment."
"Is that right? Your judgment?" He nods.
"And yet your report shows gunpowder residue on the victim's hands?"
"As I said, evidence of defensive movements on her part," says Morris.
"On the back of the victim's right hand?" I say.
This stops him.
"Is it usual for a victim to extend her hand with the palm facing herself in a defensive gesture?"
"It's possible if she didn't have time," he says.
I slap his report on the podium. "Isn't it a fact, Doctor, that the powder residue you found on the victim's right hand is consistent with her holding the gun? That, in fact, you found residue on her other hand as well, and that both hands were on this weapon when it was fired?"
"Objection, Your Honor. There's no evidence that the victim shot herself." Ryan's on his feet.
"I didn't say that."
Ryan has planted the seed. I make the most of it. "But now that counsel mentions it, there may be as much evidence for suicide in this case as for murder."
"I object." Ryan pounding on the table now.
"The jury will disregard the last comment," says Peltro. "Mr. Madriani, we'll have no more of that."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"I ask that the question be stricken," says Ryan.
"What was the question?" says the judge.
"I asked the witness whether the gunpowder residue found on the victim's hands was consistent with her holding the gun."
"And I object," says Ryan. "The question contains an inference unsupported by the evidence."
"What inference is that?" I ask.
He looks at me, refusing to explain in front of the jury, maybe dig himself in deeper. He knows I'm headed toward Suade's little gun.
Peltro's waving us toward the bench, telling the jury to take a break.
They file out, one of the bailiffs right behind them.
"What's this about?" Peltro looking at Ryan down from the bench. He doesn't have a clue as to where I'm going because we have deferred our opening until the start of our case. I had to do this in order to preserve comment on Ontaveroz, in hopes that I can find the evidence.
"He's trying to make my witness put the gun in the victim's hand.
There's no evidence she shot herself," says Ryan.
Two reporters from the front row start edging forward, leaning toward the railing, seeing if they can catch what's happening.
Peltro sees them, gestures with a forefinger. "Maybe you'd like to get some coffee outside," he says. And lose their seats to the horde in line? They sit back down.
Peltro looks at me. "There is evidence," I tell him, "that the victim owned a gun. A three-eighty-caliber pistol." With this, his eyebrows arch. He looks at Ryan.
"There's absolutely no evidence she had it at the scene," says Ryan.
"There's no evidence she didn't," I say. "You didn't find the weapon," I remind him.
"Are you arguing that this is the murder weapon?" Peltro's asking me.
"We're saying it's a possibility. Your Honor."
"Do you dispute that she owned a gun?" He's back to Ryan.
"No, Your Honor."
"Have you found that gun? The one she owned?" Ryan shakes his head.
Peltro's heard enough. He leans back in his chair. "I'm gonna allow the question," he says, and motions us back. They bring the jury back in.
Like calisthenics, jack-in-the-box, these people may get more exercise than they want.
"Doctor Morris. I ask you again, isn't it a fact that the evidence of gunpowder residue round on the victim's hands is wholly consistent with her holding the gun?"
"It's possible," he says. "It's not entirely clear."
"Fine. Let's concentrate on the right hand," I tell him. "Are you familiar with the concept of blow back as it relates to the discharge of a firearm?"
"I think so," he says.
"And what is your understanding of that concept?"
"That somebody holds a gun and fires it, that some residue floats back over the hand of the shooter."
"And where does it float? Over the palm?"
"No."
"Because the palm is closed, holding the gun, right?"
"Yes."
"So where do you find this residue. Doctor?"
"Over the back of the hand," he says. He touches the crotch of his right hand between the forefinger and thumb, brushing toward the wrist.
"And where did you find the gunshot residue on the victim's right hand?
Wasn't it in precisely this area?"
"Some of it," he says.
"Thank you, Doctor."
chapter Nineteen.
this evening Murphy is waiting For us. sitting, on the stoop out in front of the office when Harry and I get back from court. I'm toting my briefcase full of papers. Harry's behind me with a rolling dolly, one of those fold-up contraptions people use to carry luggage on at the airport. He's carting two large sample cases full of documents and an open cardboard box on top, documents of evidence in the state's case along with items we may use ourselves to cross their expert witnesses.
"Why the hell don't you return your messages?" says Murphy.
"I've been tryin' to reach you for two days." He's up on his feet as he sees us rolling past Miguel's, the hot sounds of salsa coming from the jukebox inside.
"You find Bob and Jack?" I ask him.
"Next best thing," he says. "I located Jason Crow. Jessica's old boyfriend." The luggage handler from the airport.
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in the passenger seat as Murphy guns his beat-up Chevy Blazer past the Gaslight District and up Golden Hill.
Contrary to the name, the area is anything but.
The neighborhood sits above downtown, south of Balboa Park. It's on the edges of aging light industry: here there are mostly apartments, run-down old homes carved into flats.
Murphy turns down one of the side streets south of Market, goes two blocks, looking for an address, a piece of paper in his hand as he steers.
"There," he says. He pulls over to the curb in front of a large three-story wood-framed house. In its time it might have been part of doctors' row, but its time is long gone. The white clapboard siding is badly in need of paint. Hanging over the edge of one of the gutters on the roof, off the side, is an old television antenna, a relic from the fifties. It's clinging to a single frayed remnant of wire that probably hasn't carried a signal in thirty years. One of the windows in the front is punched out, the pane replaced by a piece of plywood weathered enough to look as if it's been there at least a decade.
There are lights on upstairs, in the front and along the side. Two naked bulbs lighting up the porch.
Murphy's looking out the other way, off to his left now, checking something written on the scrap of paper in his hand.
"Little Datsun over there," he says. "That's Crow's. I got the license from DMV. He bought it about a week ago, paid cash. But the seller filled out the papers. Guess he was afraid Crow'd hit somebody and he'd get sued. It's how I got the address."
"Sounds like Crow's come into some money," I say.
"Probably somebody else's," says Murph.
We get out. Close the doors quietly and climb the wooden front steps.
Murphy checks the gang of nameplates next to the line of bell buttons on the wall by the front door. One of them I can see is a name penned in block letters, ballpoint ink on paper a little cleaner than the rest.
Murphy turns to me and holds up three fingers, then finds the button that corresponds and presses it. Doesn't wait, presses it again.
Punching it fast like the key on a telegraph. We can hear it buzzing somewhere upstairs.
"Whaddaya want?" Not a friendly tone, a voice like it's coming from a tin can on a string. It pours from a squawk box over the door, round cover with vents cut in it.
"Some kids beat the shit out of a car across the street," says Murphy.
"Gray Datsun. Somebody said it belonged to you."
"What the fuck? Who is this?"
"A neighbor," says Murphy.
"Gimme a second." We wait, maybe ten seconds, then the sound of boots on the wooden stairs inside. Counting the cadence of steps, vision of hands on the banisters, skipping two steps at a time, sailor on a ladder.
Shadow on the glass of the front door. He turns the lock and opens it up, throws the screen door out, like tuck whoever happens to be standing there.
But Murphy's already stepped aside. He's standing between me and Crow, so that Crow, when he steps out the door, walks right into Murphy's fist, shot from a cannon at crotch level.
There's a groan, a good octave higher than the average male's range.
Crow doubles over onto his knees on the wooden porch, both hands going for the jewels, but a beat too late.
"Jeez! Did ya hurt yourself?" Murphy's over him now, grabbing one arm, forcing it up behind Crow's back, turning the fingers and wrist for maximum effect. He's like a gnome, little man with magical powers. He lifts Crow off the floor.
"Ohhh, shit." Crow's face is a shade of purple I've not seen on human skin before.
"Matter of leverage," says Murphy as he looks at me over his shoulder, pushing Crow ahead of him up the stairs. "All depends what hurts more,"
he says. For the moment it's Crows wrist, arm, and elbow, though his testicles aren't doing too well either. Bent legs shuttling up the stairs, stumbling as they go, one hand twisted up nearly making it to the back of his head, the other buried between his legs. "What do they say about idle hands?" says Murphy. "Devil's workshop." Two minutes later we're inside Crow's apartment, the door bolted and the shades drawn.
The place is like a rat's nest. Part of a hamburger with fuzz growing on it sits on its gold foil wrapper on a card table. Around it I count at least six open beer cans, two of them on their sides.