Part 12 (1/2)

”You weren't undecided about how to do it, were you? That was the obvious way?”

”It was the obvious way,” he agrees.

”Except there was no gla.s.s,” I say, taking some papers from Kevin. ”Your Honor, here is an inventory of the boat that night. All the gla.s.ses were clean and put away in the cabinet. There were none on the table or on the sink. There were none anywhere except the cabinet.”

”Maybe he cleaned it,” Dr. Turner says, making the cla.s.sic mistake of answering a question that wasn't asked.

I nod. ”Right. He was willing to have someone find his own dead body, but a dirty gla.s.s would have just been too embarra.s.sing.”

”Perhaps he took the pills over the sink, cupping water in his hand.” Dr. Turner is feeling trapped, even though he has no reason to be. He's a scientist, not a cop, and he shouldn't feel that he has to defend the investigation. But that's how he feels, and I'm going to take advantage of it.

”A whole bottle of pills?” I ask, not bothering to mask my incredulity.

”It's possible.”

”There were no traces of Amenipam found in the sink. Do you find that desperate suicidal people who've just committed a violent murder are usually that neat?”

I move on to the pill bottle itself, which we have asked to be brought to court. I show it to Dr. Turner and ask him to read the label and tell me what pharmacy it came from.

”There is no label,” he says. ”It's been torn off... There are traces of the back of the paper.”

”According to the police reports, the detached label was not found on the boat, and seventy-one pharmacies nearest to Mr. Evans's house were canva.s.sed. None had provided the prescription. Can you explain that?”

He shrugs. ”He didn't want anyone to know where he got it.”

”Is it illegal for a pharmacy to dispense Amenipam?”

”Not with a prescription.”

”Is it hard to get a prescription for it?”

”Depends on the doctor, and what the patient tells him.”

I nod. ”How about 'I'm not sleeping well'? Might that do the trick?”

”Depends on the doctor,” he repeats.

”In your experience, is it likely that a suicidal murderer would care if people knew where he got his prescription?”

Coletti objects, and Judge Gordon sustains. I let him off the stand, having made enough points to satisfy myself.

In fact, all the morning witnesses have gone as well as we could have hoped, but the gallery and press in attendance have barely been paying attention. It is as if they have been watching the undercard before a heavyweight champions.h.i.+p fight.

Our lunch hour is spent in an anteroom finalizing our plans. Karen will be bringing Reggie into the courtroom, and she will have a key role in our success or failure. She admits to being nervous but swears there is no chance she will screw things up.

I'm fairly confident, based on Reggie's pizza box trick at my house, but I'm still nervous myself. Lawyers don't call witnesses unless they know exactly what they will say, and I am violating that princ.i.p.al today. Reggie will speak through his actions, and I am far from certain what he will ”say,” especially in the new surroundings of the courtroom, with so many people watching him.

”Just try to keep him as calm as you can,” Laurie says to Karen. ”Keep petting him, and talk to him in a soothing voice.”

Karen nods. ”I will. We'll be fine. Right, Reg?” She pats him on the back as she talks, but he remains noncommittal about his testimony.

Karen and Richard will be the two humans with the most responsibility in this afternoon's session. My role will be mostly to watch and hope, a situation guaranteed to leave me frustrated. But we all know on whom everything is riding.

Reggie is going to be the main event.

”THE DEFENSE CALLS Reggie Evans,” I say, and everyone turns toward the rear of the courtroom. Reggie Evans,” I say, and everyone turns toward the rear of the courtroom.

The door opens, and Karen walks in with Reggie alongside her on a leash. She looks serious but relaxed, and he seems a little scared. I can tell this because his tail is down behind him, a sure sign that he is not comfortable. As Laurie instructed, Karen reaches down and pets him gently on the side of his head, and the net effect is to keep him amazingly calm.

Reggie handles pressure a h.e.l.l of a lot better than I would.

Everybody in the gallery strains to get a look at them as they walk down the long aisle toward the front of the room. It reminds me of the footage I've seen of the Ali-Foreman fight in Zaire, as Ali and his entourage worked their way down to the ring.

Karen brings Reggie all the way to the witness stand. He has not seen Richard yet, because he's facing the other direction. This is how we planned it. I even had Richard wear aftershave to mask his scent. It's unlikely Reggie would have smelled him from this distance, with this many people, but I didn't want to take any chances. This had to be fully ch.o.r.eographed.

”Your Honor,” I say, ”with the court's permission, Mr. Evans will take over.”

”Go ahead,” Judge Gordon says, and Karen turns toward Richard, who is about twenty feet away from her. In the process, Reggie turns as well.

Reggie is looking in Richard's general direction, without reacting, for about five seconds, but it feels like five hours. The thud that can be heard in the courtroom is my heart hitting the floor, as my plan appears not to be working.

Suddenly, Reggie seems to focus in on Richard, and it is as if he had been jolted by electricity. He explodes toward Richard, and the leash comes out of Karen's hand. ”Oh, my G.o.d, I'm sorry!” she lies, since letting him get away is exactly what I've instructed her to do. But her apparent distress is so real that even I almost believe it.

Reggie flies through the air and lands on Richard, knocking him backward over his chair. The three bailiffs don't have a clue what to do, and no apparent desire to try to restrain Reggie. I doubt that their handcuffs would fit on his paws, anyway. For now they are just content to watch.

Even Judge Gordon seems mesmerized by the spectacle, though he recovers fairly quickly. He starts to slam his gavel down, yelling for order, though none is forthcoming.

Richard, a look of pure joy on his face, finally makes it to his feet. ”Sit, Reggie,” he says, and Reggie immediately a.s.sumes a sitting position, as if waiting for the next command. The only sign to connect him to the chaos he has just caused is the fact that he is panting from the exertion.

It is a demonstration stunning in its simplicity; just by those two words Richard said all there was to say. No reasonable person could have witnessed what just took place and continue to have any doubt that Reggie is Richard's dog.

It turns out that Coletti is not a reasonable person. ”Your Honor, may we approach the bench?” she asks.

Judge Gordon grants her request, and Coletti and I walk up for a private conference. ”Your Honor, the defense should be admonished for that performance. It runs completely counter to what was agreed upon. The dog was supposed to be kept on the leash, under control.”

I laugh. ”Under control? It would have taken a marine battalion to keep him under control. He was seeing his owner for the first time in five years.”

”That owners.h.i.+p is still to be determined,” Coletti says.

”Were you in the courtroom just now?” Judge Gordon asks her. ”Did you see what I saw?”

”I saw a demonstration that might well have been staged,” she says.

I shake my head in exaggerated amazement. ”Staged? He's a dog; he's not DeNiro.” He's a dog; he's not DeNiro.”

”Ms. Colletti,” Judge Gordon says, ”if the state wants to continue this, then the defendant can put the dog through whatever tricks they have planned. But I am telling you, as far as the court is concerned, this is the defendant's dog.”

Coletti can tell that she has pushed this as far as possible. ”We can end it here.”