Part 49 (1/2)

”Rigor mortis had been fully set and she was coming out of rigor mortis,” says the detective. ”Also, with the dried bloodstains underneath her head-the blood was thick and coagulated and the outer edges of the blood were dried into the carpet-it seemed to me she had been there probably for twenty-four hours.”

Polansky and Doan both look up. Twenty-four hours would put time of death at late afternoon the previous day.

”She had been dead for twenty-four hours?” asks Polansky.

”That's correct,” says Garvey.

Doan looks hard at the witness, trying to make Garvey think the answer through.

”So it would have been your conclusion she had to have been killed at least at five P.M P.M. on the twenty-first?” says Polansky.

Garvey realizes. ”I take that back. No, I'm sorry. I got confused. I meant at least twelve hours.”

”I thought that's what you meant,” says Polansky. ”Thank you. No further questions.”

On redirect, Doan goes back to the recovered hairs, but that only allows Polansky, in his follow-up questions, to suggest again that the detective was not interested in pursuing all the evidence: ”If you checked those hairs, you would have been able to determine whether they belonged to Mr. Frazier or Ms. Lucas or someone else. Is that not true?”

”If we did a comparison between their hairs we can tell if they were similar,” repeats Garvey wearily.

”Which you had the ability to do, but you didn't do it,” says Polansky.

”I felt no need to do it,” says Garvey.

”That's a pity, sir. Thank you.”

The last comment gets to Doan, who turns in his chair to look at Polansky. ”Come on,” he says sarcastically. Then Doan looks up at the judge. ”I have no further questions.”

”You may step down, sir,” says Gordy.

The first day ends. In the corridor five minutes later, Garvey encounters Polansky and feigns anger, c.o.c.king a fist as if ready to throw a punch. ”You miserable shyster,” he says, smiling.

”Hey, now,” says Polansky, a little defensive. ”Nothing personal, Rich. I'm just doing the job.”

”Oh, I know it,” says Garvey, hitting the defense attorney's shoulder. ”I got no complaint.”

But Doan is not so easily mollified. Walking back to his office with Garvey, he issues a few choice epithets for his worthy adversary.

The hairs, the Newports-that was smoke, the raw material of any good defense attorney. Smoke is the theory that says: When you don't want to argue the state's evidence, create your own. No doubt Robert Frazier is ready to take the stand and declare that Vincent Booker buys Newports.

Garvey knows the cigarette pack could be a problem and he apologizes to Doan. ”I'm sure I dealt with it out at the scene. I just couldn't remember the specifics, though.”

”Don't worry about it,” says Doan charitably. ”But can we-”

”I'll check with Jackie or Henrietta right away,” says Garvey, ahead of him. ”Larry, I'm sure it was Lena's cigarettes, but I just don't remember who told me.”

”Okay,” says Doan. ”The bulls.h.i.+t about the hair, I could care less, but he made some points on the cigarettes. We've got to shoot that down.”

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 20.

On the second day of the trial, Larry Doan moves quickly to make up for lost ground.

”Your honor,” says Doan, as court comes to order. ”The state at this time will recall Henrietta Lucas for two questions.”

Polansky can see what is coming.

”Miss Lucas,” asks the prosecutor, ”were you aware at the time of the death of your mother whether she smoked?”

”Yes,” says Lena's older daughter.

”Do you know, approximately, when she started smoking?”

”Around the beginning of this year.”

”And,” asks Doan, ”whatbrand of cigarettes did she smoke, if you know?”

”Newports.”

Polansky, sitting at the defense table, shakes his head. But he is not quite ready to give in. On the cross, he works hard to suggest that Robert Frazier spent more time with his lover than her grown daughter did and that he would be in a better position to know whether Lena was smoking or not. He tries to suggest that it was oddly coincidental that a forty-year-old woman would start smoking two months before her death. He asks the daughter whether she had discussed her testimony in detail with the prosecutor, suggesting to the jury that she may have been led to her answers. It is a good effort; once again, Polansky earns his money. Still, when Henrietta Lucas leaves the stand after five minutes' testimony, the cigarette pack is no longer a real threat.

Doan follows her with John Smialek, who describes the autopsy and the nature of the wounds and brings in as evidence a series of black-and-white photos depicting the injuries in detail. More than the scene photos, the antiseptic shots from the overhead camera on Penn Street catch the excess of violence: three gunshot wounds-one with thick powder burns to the left side of the face, one to the chest, one to the left arm; eleven stab wounds to the back, plus superficial cuts to the neck and lower jaw; defense wounds to the palm of the right hand. In the form of ten graphic pictures, admitted over the continuing objection of Robert Frazier's attorney, Lena Lucas is allowed her day in court.

But the morning's testimony is merely prelude to the real battle-a war of credibility that begins later in the day when a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl, obviously terrified, walks past Robert Frazier and takes the stand.

Romaine Jackson is literally shaking as she takes the oath; the jurors can see that. She sits demurely, hands in her lap, face locked on Doan, eyes unwilling to acknowledge the tall, dark man at the defendant's table. In Doan's worst nightmare, he sees this witness-this essential witness-collapsing from fear. He sees her unable to answer, unable to tell the truth about what she saw from her window on Gilmor Street that night, unable to recall the things that they had talked about in the pretrial interviews. All of which would be understandable, even forgivable: The state of Maryland will not allow her to cast a vote or buy a beer, but the state's attorney will nonetheless ask her to identify a murder suspect in open court.

”My name is Romaine Jackson,” she says softly, responding to the clerk's questions. ”I live at Sixteen-o-six West Pratt Street.”

”Miss Jackson,” says Doan soothingly, ”try to keep your voice up so the ladies and gentlemen of the jury can hear you.”

”Yes, sir.”

As slowly, as calmly as possible, Doan takes her through the foundation questions and back to that night on Gilmor Street, back to the moment when she happened to be looking out of that third-floor window before falling off to sleep. The girl's answers are close to monosyllabic; the court clerk reminds her once again to speak into the microphone.

”At some point, did you have an occasion to see your neighbor Charlene Lucas outside of your apartment?” asks Doan.

”Yes.”

”Would you tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury approximately what time it was when you saw her?”

”Eleven o'clock going onto twelve.”

”Was she by herself or with someone else?”

”Yes,” says the girl. ”A man.”

”Do you see that individual in court today?”

”Yes, sir,” says the girl.

”Would you point that individual out?”