"That's true," says Angelo.
"Is there a test that you can administer on a decedent to determine if at some point they have issued such an involuntary noise from the vocal box following death?"
"No."
"So you cannot tell us with certainty that in fact Brittany Hall issued a death rattle after seven-thirty p.m. or any other time?"
"Not with certainty," he says.
"You don't know, do you?" A grudging expression from Angelo. "No." "Isn't it possible that the sound the neighbor heard in her apartment that evening, the noise she reported at seven-thirty, was in fact the victim, Brittany Hall, calling out for help as she was attacked?"
"Objection, speculation," says Kline. "Sustained."
"But you cannot say with certainty that it was a death rattle?" "Not with certainty," he says.
"Now, you talked about the wounds suffered by the victim, and particularly the first blow to her head, which I believe you stated would have rendered the victim unconscious. Is that correct?"
"That's right."
"Is it not possible, Doctor, that if the victim were surprised by the first blow, and rendered unconscious by it, that her attacker might not have been overpowering in terms of strength?" He gives me a quizzical look, as if perhaps he doesn't follow this.
"Is it not possible, Doctor, given the element of surprise, that the attacker in this case could have been a woman?" As I say this, I am looking not at the witness, but at Acosta, who suddenly brings his gaze up to meet mine. It is the first time I have ever broached the subject and it seems to catch the Coconut by surprise.
"It's possible," says Angelo.
I move on.
"In your opinion, would it have been possible for the victim to have regained consciousness after receiving this initial blow?"
"Not in my view. No." "And why is that?"
"The extensive cranial damage, total failure of the frontal bone, and the consequent trauma to the frontal lobe of the brain. This would have resulted in a massive concussion and immediate loss of consciousness." I start to break in, but Angelo is not finished. As long as I've opened this door, he's going to put the screws to me.
"Then the loss of brain fluid and bleeding from the head wound would have brought on hydraulic shock, a dramatic loss of blood pressure. No, she could not have regained consciousness, not without dramatic and immediate medical intervention, and even then I'm not certain it would have been possible. There would have been massive and permanent brain damage."
"Are you finished?" He smiles at me, unless he can think of something more damaging in the next second or two.
"Then I take it that in your opinion it would not have been possible for the victim to have issued any kind of a voluntary cry after the initial blow to the head?"
"Except for a death rattle," he says.
"Which you have acknowledged you cannot prove occurred." There is a grudging acceptance of this from the doctor.
"Is it not physically possible, Doctor, that the victim might have cried out, briefly, in the instant that she was attacked from behind, just before her head was struck?"
"Objection. Calls for speculation," says Kline.
"Your Honor, I'm not asking whether the victim did cry out, I'm asking whether in the scientific medical opinion of this witness there was anything that would have prevented her from doing so."
"Overruled," says Radovich.
"You can answer the question," I tell Angelo. He'd prefer not to.
"The assailant did have his hands around her throat."
"Did you find that there was damage to the victim's larynx?" I already know the answer from the autopsy report.
"No."
"Was there any injury to Ms. Hall's voice box that would have prevented her from calling out in that instant before the head injury was inflicted?" "No."
"So it's medically possible that the sound that the neighbor heard at approximately seven-thirty that evening was a cry from the victim at the moment she was being assaulted, is it not?" Angelo looks to Kline for a fleeting instant.
"It's medically possible," he says.
That is the problem with circumstantial evidence; it nearly always cuts in more than one direction.
"You testified earlier that there was a good deal of bleeding as a result of the victim's injuries. Is that correct?"
"Yes." Angelo is down to one-word replies. "You saw the victim's apartment, did you not?" "Yes."
"And there was a great deal of blood on the carpet?" "Yes."
"As well as on the wall, the blood-spatter evidence you referred to earlier?"
"Yes."
"Well, in a case involving so much blood, if the body were moved, say by vehicle, wouldn't you expect to find blood, at least traces of blood, in that vehicle?"
"Not necessarily," says Angelo. "If the heart stopped pumping, the blood flow would stop. Also if the body were wrapped, as in this case in a blanket, you might not find much if any blood transferred to a vehicle."
He smiles at me. This was not helpful, and he knows it. The cops found no evidence of blood in Acosta's county car.
"Still there was blood on the blanket, wasn't there?" "Some," he says.
"You examined the blanket, did you not. Doctor?" "I did."
"And tell me, Doctor, did you not find blood on both sides of that blanket?" For this he has to review his notes. While he is reading I find one of the photos, a shot of both sides of the blanket.
"Doctor, People's thirty-one, already in evidence." I point to the photograph. "Isn't it evident from the photograph that there is blood on both sides of the blanket, the side coming into contact with Brittany Hall's body as well as the side facing out?" He studies the photo from a distance, adjusting his glasses. "It would appear so," he says.
"Wouldn't this be evidence of the fact that there was sufficient blood to seep through the blanket?"
"Not necessarily," he says. "It's possible that the blood on the out side of the blanket was blood that was transferred from the carpet around the area by the body, when the killer initially wrapped the victim."
"Are you saying that's what it is?"
"I believe from my examination of the blanket that's what occurred.
The blanket was not saturated with blood. Also the patterns of blood on the outside of the blanket revealed drag marks, like minute brush strokes," he says. "I believe these were caused by the blood-soaked car pet fibers as the blanket was dragged across them in the process of wrapping the body."
"Still, if there was blood on the outside of that blanket wouldn't you expect to find traces of that blood transferred somewhere to the interior of a vehicle if the blanket and the body were placed in that vehicle?"
"Again, not necessarily," says Angelo. Like a dog scrapping over a bone, he is not going to let it go. He knows that the cops will never be able to explain the absence of blood in Acosta's car after the jury has seen photos of the veritable river of blood in Hall's apartment.
"It's possible that the blood on the outside of the blanket could have dried before the body was placed in the vehicle. Especially if it were transferred blood from the carpet. It would only be a light coating on the outside of the fabric. It would dry quickly," he says.
"How quickly?"
"There are a lot of variables. A large pool of blood could be expected to dry perhaps in twenty-four hours. But something like this, a light coating of transferred blood, could dry in a matter of minutes.
It depends on the environment." He sits back, satisfied that he has dodged this one.
"But the pool of blood. What's on the carpet, that would take longer?" "Yes."
"Then perhaps you could explain to me, Doctor, how it would be possible for someone to wrap the body of a victim, dragging a blanket through a pool of blood as you have described, and at the same time avoid stepping in that blood?" From the look in Angelo's eyes I can tell that he sees the dilemma. If Acosta wrapped the body and stepped in the blood, why wasn't it carried on his shoes to the car?
"Again," he says. "It could have dried."
"So in your view, the killer stood around the apartment while the blanket and his shoes dried?"
"It's one explanation." Though by the look on his face it is not one he is happy with.
"And can you explain to the jury, Doctor, in your view, why the body was moved?" Angelo sits looking at me, stone faced. It is as if he has not expected this. The first time I have seen surprise.
"What is your theory on this. Doctor?" Kline tries to save him with an objection, that it's beyond the witness's expertise. Radovich gavels it down on the basis that Angelo has already gone too far in his explanation of how the body was moved.
"You can answer the question, Doctor," I tell him. "In your opinion, why was the body moved?"
"I'm not sure," he says.
"You have absolutely no explanation?" The tone of my voice makes this sound like some major scandal.
Mean slits for eyes from Angelo on the stand. "You can offer nothing?" I say.
Faced with the alternatives, no explanation, and one that makes no sense, Angelo goes the wrong way.
"The killer may have panicked." The company line.
As the P-word leaves his lips I can tell that he would die to take it back. Two of the jurors suppress smiles in the box. The image that he draws is as clear as it is ridiculous; a panicked killer in the process of moving a body for reasons that no one can adequately explain, standing around in the carnage of a murder scene, waiting for blood on a blanket to dry.
ENTER TO THE SOUNDS OF SOFT STRINGS, A quartet of violins playing on the balcony overhead, something from The New World Symphony the timbre of Dvorak.
Lenore is dressed to the nines: a black evening gown cinched close at the waist and sleeveless, three-inch patent leather heels. She carries a tiny black sequined bag under one arm, her other hand holding mine.
Tonight her silken black hair is up, shimmering like a raven, set off by earrings and a string of pearls that match the white other eyes and the flashing enamel of her smile.
Overhead in the large gathering room is a glittering chandelier, some thing that no doubt came around the horn after the gold rush. We are here in the old governor's mansion, now a museum, with two hundred other swells. The purpose is to be soaked for the latest cause, what passes for political good works. The governor wants to be president.
The place is filled with high binders and wire pullers of the lobbying variety, all oozing their particular brand of oily amiability. There are more politicians here this evening than you can count on the floor of Congress during the average workweek, all trying to climb the political bean stalk to dine with the giant.
The tickets for this, a GOP fund-raiser, have come from a judge, a friend who is soliciting a place on the court of appeals, favors from the governor. He bought a table and I am expected to make an appearance, though Lenore and I are flying under false colors. She is a Democrat.
I'm a committed political agnostic.
"I've never seen so many Republicans in one place," she says. Lenore assesses this scene with all the fervor of a farmer observing weeds in his rows of corn.
"The flavor of the month," I tell her. In this town you can do a different fund-raiser every night, all of them stoking the coals of somebody's burning ambition.
"Do I look okay?" she asks.
"Like you own the place," I tell her. It is only a mild exaggeration. I would not admit to anyone the spike of adrenaline to my ego as I sauntered up the steps with this woman on my arm. At least a dozen heads, male and female, turned to look. Lenore is an eye-catcher at most times.
When bedecked as she is tonight, she stops traffic.
She whispers to me through clenched teeth. "Majordomo off to your right, " she says. Lenore wags her head a little, and I see the governor and his entourage. It is not that Lenore is impressed. It is more a sighting on the order of whale watching, which makes me wonder what she might do if she had a harpoon.
Lenore smiles and nods as we pass a group of people. I suspect that she thinks I know some of these. What Lenore doesn't realize is that they are all looking at her. She reaches out to squeeze a hand, another woman lawyer she knows from some club.
I glance over at the governor and the circle that has surrounded him. With so many people sucking up to kiss his ass at one time we should have a low-pressure trough over the city any second.
Through all of this, people talking in each ear at once, the governor has both hands plunged into his suit pants pockets like a hard rock miner looking for a nugget he has misplaced.
"Is that a Republican thing?" asks Lenore. "What?"
"Playing with himself," she says.
"Maybe you'd like an introduction?" I ask her. She laughs. "You know him?"
"No."
"Then what am I doing with you?" she says. "I'm the only one you know with an invitation."
"That can easily be remedied," she tells me, and drops my hand. I call her a harlot.
She calls it networking, We wander toward the throng holding forth near a long table in the dining room. This is set with immense ice carvings and hors d'oeuvres, prawns on a silver platter, a guy pouring champagne, a dozen different labels at the other end. All of this is no doubt offered for the cause by the wine and spirits lobby, something to sweeten political dispositions.
There are members of the state senate and assembly, and congress men I have seen only on the tube. Some guy, as I pass, is talking about the president's chief of staff, as if he lived with him. There are more names being dropped here than paratroopers on D-Day, enough bull shit to fertilize Kew Gardens for a decade.
I peruse the table through a gap in the bodies.