Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (best fiction books to read TXT) 📗

Good witnesses know how to counterpunch. "I realize Dr. Ling has the same employer as Mr. Socolow, but—"

"I object to that!" Socolow bounded toward the podium, but I elbowed him aside.

"The medical examiner is supposed to be an impartial servant of the people," I bellowed. "The defense asks that the court admonish the doctor—"

"All right, all right." The judge waved at us with the gavel. "Jake, you ask questions. Doctor, you answer them simply and directly. Abe, you sit down."

No harm, no foul.

I decided to go off in another direction. "Doctor, what is sudden cardiac death syndrome?" I asked.

She seemed to sigh. "It is the unexpected death due to either too fast or too slow a heart rate combined with respiratory arrest."

"Sudden cardiac death is not an ailment in itself, is it?"

"No, it's a comprehensive term that describes a method of death usually accompanied by ventricular fibrillation."

"As with Harry Bernhardt?"

"Yes."

"And what are the causes of sudden cardiac death?"

"There are many. Heart disease. Hypertension. Certain rare disorders such as Romano-Ward, plus external causes such as electrocution or acidosis as a result of chronic alcoholism. It has many etiologies."

"Including those cases where no objective evidence can be found that caused the heart stoppage?"

She paused. "Yes."

"In other words, if the heart fails in an otherwise healthy person, you might very well determine it was sudden cardiac death syndrome?"

"You might, yes, in certain cases."

"But not in a case where the state attorney has filed murder charges?"

"Objection!" Socolow bounded to his feet. "Argumentative."

"Sustained."

I was thinking about sitting down. I had made my point, such as it was. But sometimes, I try to make it twice. I know better than to ask a "why" question on cross-examination of a state witness, particularly someone experienced at testifying.

"Broadly speaking, how many causes of death are there, Dr. Ling?"

"Four. Natural, accident, suicide, and homicide."

"And you listed homicide as the cause of Harry Bernhardt's death?"

"Yes."

"Though it could very well have been listed as natural, based on sudden cardiac arrest syndrome?"

"That is not my opinion."

"O-pin-ion," I said, tasting the word and finding it bitter. "Defined as your belief, your idea, your notion of what may have happened?"

Socolow's chair scraped the floor. "Objection, Your Honor. Dr. Ling has been qualified as an expert and is entitled to express her opinion without Mr. Lassiter's sarcasm."

"So she is," I responded. "But I am reminded of Justice Bok's classic statement that an expert opinion is just a guess dressed up in evening clothes."

"Your Honor!" Socolow pounded his table this time, and the judge waved his gavel at me, sort of penalizing me fifteen yards for unsportsmanlike conduct.

"Mr. Lassiter, you know better than that," the judge said icily. He turned to the jury box. "The jury shall disregard Mr. Lassiter's last statement."

I didn't mind the instruction. In my experience, jurors forget most everything I say, except what the judge tells them to disregard.

So here I was, the morning after.

Taking stock of my life. And my client's. Wondering how I let myself get entwined with her body and her case. A lawyer must care deeply about the client's fate, but not too deeply. For the same reason a surgeon shouldn't operate on his spouse, a lawyer shouldn't sleep with his client. Too much at stake. Way too much.

"What's going to happen today?" Chrissy asked. She was nibbling some raisin toast she had blackened on the number nine setting.

"The guy from the gun shop will be first. He'll testify you bought the Beretta on June thirteenth, three days before the shooting. On cross, I'll bring out that you used your own name and ID and properly registered the gun. There may be another housekeeping witness or two, but then Abe will rest, and it'll be our turn."

"What about my brother and Larry?"

"Abe doesn't need them. Probably doesn't want them either. Abe's got great instincts. If he senses those two are trouble, he won't call them."

"Are they trouble?"

"Look, even if Schein whispered in your ear that you should kill your father, you're still technically guilty. But jurors do strange things. Look at the O. J. Simpson case. A couple jurors thought he killed his ex-wife but were so offended by Mark Fuhrman that they went along with the acquittal. Part of a defense lawyer's job is to get the jury mad at somebody else."

She moved close to me. A charred crumb stuck to her pouty lower lip. "So you'll put them on the stand?"

I took her in my arms. "I'll call Schein. His tapes both help and hurt us, but I don't have a choice."

"Will it work? Will the jury get mad at somebody else?"

"Sure," I said. "Probably at me."

27

Bird Spit Soup

There were no surprises. Just the procession of reliable witnesses, Abe Socolow finishing his house, sanding the wood, applying a slick coat of paint and then another. Waterproof, hurricane-proof, Lassiter-proof.

At precisely 4:30 P.M., the witnesses having testified, the last of the exhibits having been identified, marked, and admitted, the judge turned to Abe Socolow and waited. The lanky prosecutor pulled himself out of his chair, dusted imaginary lint from his trousers, stood ramrod-straight, and announced crisply, "The state rests." He made it sound so triumphant, Hannibal crossing the Alps, that I half expected a corps of buglers to accompany him.

"Very well," Judge Stanger said. "We start with the defense case at nine A.M. tomorrow." He banged his gavel and sent us on our way.

The pickup truck arrived at the house just after eight P.M. with its precious cargo: my nephew, my granny, and my doc.

"Jake, I believe that gray-and-white bird in the chinaberry tree is a swift," Doc Charlie Riggs said.

"Uh-huh."

"It's too dark to see it clearly right now, but in the morning, I'll check it out."

"Sure, Charlie."

Granny hauled her wicker basket into the kitchen. A checkered cloth covered the goodies, and for some reason I thought of all those movies where the prisoner gets the gift of a pie with a file or gun inside. "Criminy, Doc! Jake's in no mood