“ Walker put the gun down.”
“Did Michael Walker say anything?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” says Kate, increasingly exasperated. “This is nothing but hearsay.”
“Overruled,” says Rothstein.
“What did Michael Walker say, Ms. Richardson?”
“‘This shit ain’t over, white boy. Not by a long shot.’”
“No further questions, Your Honor,” says Howard, and Kate is already up out of her chair.
Chapter 93. Tom
I LEAN IN close to Dante, figuring he needs some reassurance. “This isn’t going to be as much fun as Mammy thought,” I say.
“Ms. Richardson, what do you do for a living?” Kate begins.
“I’m unemployed at the moment.”
“How about last summer? What were you doing then?”
“I was unemployed then too.”
“So you’ve been unemployed for a bit more than a moment, Ms. Richardson. How long exactly?”
“Three and a half years.”
“You seem bright and personable, not handicapped in any way. Is there a reason you haven’t been able to find a job?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“Did you come to Mr. Wilson’s estate alone that afternoon?”
“I came with Artis LaFontaine.”
“What was your relationship with Mr. LaFontaine?”
“Girlfriend.”
“Were you aware at the time that Mr. LaFontaine had spent a dozen years in jail for two separate drug convictions?”
“I knew he’d been incarcerated, but I didn’t know for what.”
“Really? Did you know that according to police your former boyfriend was and remains a major drug dealer?”
“I never asked him what he did for a living.”
“You weren’t curious how a man with no apparent job could drive a four-hundred-thousand-dollar Ferrari?”
“Not really,” says Richardson, the trill in her voice long gone.
“Are you in a relationship right now, Ms. Richardson?”
“Not really.”
“You aren’t involved with Roscoe Hughes?”
“We date some.”
“Are you aware that he has also served time for a drug conviction?”
“I don’t ask about the specifics.”
“But I do, Ms. Richardson, so could you tell me, do you date drug dealers exclusively or just most of the time?”
“Objection,” shouts Howard.
“Sustained,” says Rothstein.
Mammy Richardson has been skillfully discredited as a witness, but she can defend herself a little too.
“Why?” she asks, squaring her shoulders at Kate and putting her hands on her ample hips. “You want me to fix you up?”
Chapter 94. Tom
NEXT UP, DETECTIVE Van Buren. He takes the stand and, among other things, says that a call had come to the station establishing that someone matching Dante’s description tossed a.45-caliber Beretta in a Dumpster behind the Princess Diner. After Barney’s testimony, Rothstein offers an hour recess for lunch, but the stone plaza outside is so hot and shadeless that despite the anemic air-conditioning in the courtroom, the crowd is relieved to get back to their seats.
Once they’re settled, Melvin Howard pops right up from his table and approaches the bench with a large plastic bag in each hand.
“The state,” says Howard, “submits to this court as evidence the forty-five-caliber Beretta recovered behind the Princess Diner in Southampton early on the morning of September twelfth. Henceforth referred to as Exhibit A. And a red Miami Heat basketball cap recovered at eight thirty-eight MacDonough Street in Brooklyn four days later, from here on referred to as Exhibit B.”
Howard then calls a second member of East Hampton ’s finest, Officer Hugo Lindgren.
“Officer Lindgren, were you on duty the morning the defendant turned himself in?”
“I wasn’t assigned to work that day, but I got a call to come in. I arrived at the police station just after Van Buren and Geddes.”
“Were you privy to anything that the defendant told the detectives that morning?”
“Yes, the discussion about the gun. I retrieved it from the Princess Diner.”
“Tell us about it, please.”
“At about five thirty in the morning, five thirty-three to be exact, an anonymous call came into the station and was routed to my desk. The caller reported that a few hours before, he’d seen a man discard a weapon in the Dumpster behind the Princess Diner.”
“Did the caller describe the man?”
“Yes. He said the man was extremely tall and African American.”
“What did you do then?”
“I drove to the diner with Officer Richard Hume. We found the weapon in the garbage.”
“Is this the weapon that you found that morning?”
“Yes, it is.”
When Howard informs Rothstein he has no further questions, Kate stands to face off with our old buddy Lindgren one more time.
“According to the defendant and receipts, what time was Dante Halleyville at the diner that morning?” she asks.
“Between two thirty and two thirty-seven a.m.”
“And what time did you get to the police station?”
“A little after five.”
“So the caller, whoever it was, sat on the information for three hours.”
Lindgren shrugs and frowns. “People are resistant to get involved.”
“Or maybe the caller just waited for you to get to the station, Officer Lindgren. Now why in the world would that be? Hmmmm?”
And Dante whispers to me, “She’s damn good.”
Yes, she is.
Chapter 95. Kate
THE NEXT MORNING, Melvin Howard, who is patiently and pretty skillfully building the state’s case block by block, puts Dr. Ewald Olson on the stand.
Olson, an itinerant forensic scientist, travels the land from courtroom to courtroom offering his expert testimony to whoever is willing to pick up the tab. He arrives with his own video setup and an assistant, who controls it from a laptop. Only after Olson has spent nearly an hour going through every last published article and citation does the assistant DA turn his attention to the images on the monitor.
“Dr. Olson, could you tell us about the photograph on the left?”
“It’s an enlargement of the recovered forty-five-caliber shell that entered and exited the skull of Patrick Roche,” says Olson, a tall, stooped man with a crawling monotone.
When he says all there is to say about the bullet, he talks about the Beretta and all the tests performed on the inside of its barrel.
“The photographs on the right,” says Olson, wielding a red laser light, “are impressions taken from the Beretta’s barrel. As you can see, the markings on the barrel conform exactly to the markings on the bullet.”
“And what does that indicate?”
“That the bullet that killed Patrick Roche was fired from the recovered weapon.”
“Based on twenty-eight years as a forensic scientist, Dr. Olson, how certain are you that this is the murder weapon?”
“Entirely certain,” says Olson. “Barrel and bullets are a perfect match.”
At noon, Rothstein mercifully recesses for lunch, but an hour later, Olson picks up where he left off, this time going through a similarly exhaustive drill with the fingerprints found on the handgun.
“As you can see,” says Olson, “the set of prints taken from the handle is an exact match to the prints later taken from Walker ’s right hand.”
“Dr. Olson, is there any doubt that the prints on the recovered weapon belong to Michael Walker?”
“Every print is unique, Mr. Howard. These could belong to no one other than Michael Walker.”
Then Howard holds up Exhibit B, the red Miami Heat cap found in the Brooklyn apartment where Walker was killed. He asks Olson to compare two more sets of fingerprints displayed on the monitor.
“The prints on the left, Dr. Olson,” asks Howard, “whom do they belong to?”