Nelson retreats to the counsel table and flips through several stacks of papers, finally finding what he wants. He looks up at Blumberg, who by now is starting to show fine drops of perspiration on his forehead.
“Doctor, do you often testify in criminal cases?”
“I have testified in them before.”
“But is that your regular venue? Isn’t it true that you usually appear in civil cases?”
Sensing a more friendly line of inquiry, a concession on the part of Nelson that perhaps the witness is a little out of his field, Blumberg concedes the point with a smile and a warm nod. He’s patting his forehead with a handkerchief now, sensing that the worst may be over.
I look over and there is now a small line about where the knees would be on Harry’s stick figure, and another, heavier line, like a broad beam going up the page, a little taller than the figure, and then again a heavy line over its head.
“Doctor, do you recall testifying in the case of Panicker v. Smith, a case involving wrongful death, the hit-and-run of a little boy, two years ago?”
“I don’t … I don’t know. I can’t remember every case I’ve ever testified in.”
“I can imagine.” There is more than a little sarcasm in Nelson’s voice.
“I have a transcript here, doctor. A transcript of your testimony in that case I’d like to show it to you and ask whether that transcript might refresh your recollection.”
Blumberg is moving around now in his chair like a man forced to sit in his own stool.
O’Shaunasy has picked up her pencil.
Nelson shows the document to him. Blumberg won’t touch it, like it’s some corrosive acid. Nelson has to prop it on the railing of the witness box as the witness lowers his head and aims his spectacles to examine the cover page.
“I see I’m listed there as a witness,” he says. “That means I must have testified.”
“It would appear so, doctor. Do you recall the case now?”
“Faintly,” he says.
“Right. In part, the issue in that case involved the time of death, when the little boy died. You appeared for the defense, the insurance company representing the alleged driver. Does that help you at all?”
Cheetam’s on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor, we haven’t had an opportunity to see this transcript.”
Nelson retreats to the counsel table and pulls another copy from the pile of papers and drops it unceremoniously on the table in front of Cheetam, who begins to scour it for significance.
“During your testimony you were questioned as to the clotting properties of blood. Do you recall that testimony, doctor?”
There’s a shrug of the shoulders. “Not precisely.”
The drops of perspiration have now turned into a river, flowing south around the eyes, along the sideburns, and down Blumberg’s collar.
“In that case the driver claimed mat he was home with his wife at the time that the little boy was killed. You were asked about the time of death and you based your opinion on lividity, the fact that blood had clotted in the body, and the length of time it took for such clotting. Now do you recall your testimony, doctor?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Well, let me help you, doctor.” Nelson opens the transcript to a page marked by a large paper clip. “And I quote:
“ ‘COUNSEL: Doctor Blumberg, how long would it take for blood to clot in the capillaries of the body following death?
“ ‘DR. BLUMBERG: An hour to an hour and a half.’
“Do you remember now, doctor?”
There is only strained silence from the witness box.
“And yet today you sit here and you tell us that in the present case, it would not be possible for the victim to have bled in the elevator because blood clots in the body within fifteen minutes after death. Which is it, doctor-an hour and a half or fifteen minutes? Or does it depend on which side is paying you?”
“Objection, Your Honor” Cheetam is on his feet, wailing in protest.
“Withdraw the last question, Your Honor. I move to have the transcript in Panicker v. Smith marked for identification, Your Honor.”
“Any objection, Mr. Cheetam?”
Cheetam drops into his seat, silent at the table, and shakes his head. “Expert-shit.” It is whispered under his breath to no one in particular.
“What was that, counsel?”
“No objection, Your Honor”
I look over. Harry’s doodle is now complete, the noose about its neck, the body hanging through the trap door under the gallows-the hanging man. I notice that Talia has seen it. She is now looking at me, forlorn.
It is the problem with expert opinion, especially when stated by those with the intellectual flexibility of a Blumberg. Their babble is so voluminous they forget what it is they have said. One would believe that the forces of nature at play in each trial are somehow subject to differing, more supple rules than those that govern the affairs of mere mortals.
Tony is seeing me alone today. There is no beaming smile, no beefy grin. Today he is all business, sitting at the stone desk next to the hollow elephant’s foot overflowing with papers, the refuse of a day’s labor.
“I hear things are not going well with Talia,” he says.
“An understatement,” I tell him.
Skarpellos has been noticeably absent from the preliminary hearing. But then his only real concern in Talia’s plight is commercial, acquiring Ben’s interest in the firm as painlessly as possible.
“You must have guessed by now why I’ve called you. You know that Gil Cheetam is unable to try the case if Talia is bound over.”
Thank God for little favors, I think. I nod.
“This financial arrangement that we have can’t go on forever,” he says.
Skarpellos has seen the inevitable. He’s drawing a line in the sand, unwilling to spring for the costs of a criminal trial that could strain the resources of the firm.
“I thought you had an arrangement with Talia.”
He makes a face. “Of a sort,” he says. “Nothing ironclad. She has to sell Ben’s interest in the firm. I’m an interested buyer.” The Greek is shopping for a deal.
“The lady needs a good lawyer,” he says. “Are you interested?”
“You missed your calling, Tony. You should have been a matchmaker.”
At this he smiles a bit, a little mercantile grin.
“I would think that the question of who Talia wants as her lawyer is a matter for Talia,” I tell him.
“Not as long as I’m paying the freight.”
“A secured loan,” I remind him.
“Not if she’s convicted. The law will not allow her to share in the assets of the deceased if she murdered him.”
“Do you believe she did it?”
“Oh, I’m not judging her,” he says. “This is business. I do have to look after the security for our loan.”
“You forget that part of Ben’s interest in the firm is Talia’s community property. That’s hers no matter what happens.”
He makes a face, like “This is piddling, peanuts not to be worried about”
“She’ll have a tough time spending it if she’s convicted. But why should we argue,” he says. “We have a mutual interest. I want to help the lady. I assume you want to do the same.” His arms are spread in a broad gesture of brotherly love-and now there is the beaming grin. “If we, all three, benefit from the experience, so much the better.” He reaches for one of his crooked cigars from a gold-plated box on the desk, then leans back, reclining in his chair.
I pray silently that he will not light it.
“Let’s get to it, Tony. What is it you want?”
“I want to make you an offer,” he says. “First, I think you should talk to Talia about taking the case.”
“Why? Why me?”
“You’re familiar with it. You’ve worked with Cheetam closely”
“Don’t saddle me with that,” I say.
He laughs. “Well, the man’s busy.”
“No, the pope is busy. Gilbert Cheetam is the bar’s answer to Typhoid Mary. You show him evidence and he says the hell with it. You give him leads that, if he followed them up, might blunt part of the prosecution’s case, he drops them. If it isn’t an ambulance, he won’t pursue it.”