Ben stopped when he was exactly twenty feet away from the stand. He addressed his client. “Ray, would you come here, please? And bring that box on the floor.”
Bullock slowly rose. “Your honor, I object. I don’t know what Mr. Kincaid is trying to pull-”
“Well, if you’ll sit patiently for a minute,” Judge Kearns said, interrupting, “you might figure it out.”
Ouch. That put Bullock back in his seat in a hurry. Ben positioned Ray at the twenty-foot mark, then turned away from the front of the courtroom and opened the box. He removed a can wrapped up in a paper bag so that only the top showed, then handed it to Ray.
“Sergeant Murphy,” Ben announced, “I have re-created the scene just as you described it. The same man, the same distance, another can partially concealed by a paper bag-with just as much showing at the top as you say was visible when you spotted Ray on the street. The only real difference is that the lighting in here is much better than it would have been on the streets at six-thirty in the evening, and you’re not in a moving car, so you’ll be able to take a much more careful sustained look.”
Bullock saw what was coming and did his best to stop it. “Your honor, again I object. This re-creation has not been staged under controlled circumstances-”
“I’ll allow it,” Kearns replied.
“Furthermore, the jury could be unduly influenced by a test that in no way indicates what happened on the evening of-”
“I’ll allow it,” Kearns repeated, a bit more forcefully this time. “Mr. Kincaid, you may proceed.”
“Thank you, your honor.” He returned his attention to the witness. “My question is pretty simple, Sergeant Murphy. What is Ray holding in his hand?”
Murphy sat silently, not saying anything. He made a few furtive glances in the direction of the prosecution table, but Bullock couldn’t help him now.
“I’m waiting for an answer, Officer. What is Ray holding?”
Murphy continued to stare at the defendant intently, but he did not respond.
“He’s the same distance away from you that he was on the night you searched him, Sergeant. Maybe even closer. Surely if you could tell what he was holding then, you could do so now.” Ben paused. “If you could tell what he was holding then.”
Murphy still did not answer.
“Okay, I’ll make it easier for you. Consider it a yes-or-no question. Is he holding a beer? Or any other alcoholic beverage that would give you a legal right to search? Please bring your twenty years of experience to bear and give the jury an answer.”
Murphy stood up and continued to stare at the bag in Ray Goldman’s hand. Ben could easily imagine the thought process running through his brain. It had to be tempting to take a guess. After all, he had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. He could say it was a beer, just like before (and Ben hoped he would, because it was actually a can of Pepsi One). But if Murphy got it wrong, it would be a disaster for the prosecution. Ultimately, he decided to play it safe-and to answer the question honestly.
“I can’t tell,” he said quietly.
“Excuse me?” Ben said. “What was that?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Is it a beer? Or just soda pop?”
“I can’t tell.”
Ben turned toward the jury, a look of amazement on his face. “Officer Murphy, has anything happened to your eyesight between the day of the search and the present day?”
“No.”
“Has there been some profound diminution of your mental or physical faculties?”
Murphy pursed his lips. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Is there any reason to believe your powers of perception have been reduced since the time of the search?”
“No.”
“No, I thought not.” Ben approached the bench. “Your honor, this was an illegal search, without probable cause. I move that the search and all evidence collected as a result be suppressed.”
Kearns didn’t hesitate. “Done.”
“Your honor!” Bullock raced to the front. “This little courtroom prank has no bearing-”
“Don’t bother, Mr. Bullock.”
“But this witness is an honest, truthful servant of-”
“Mr. Bullock!” Kearns aimed his gavel in the direction of his nose. “Throughout my career as a judge, I have always shown a great deal of respect to the representatives of the district attorney’s office. But if you press me on this, that could change.” He slammed down his gavel. “Let’s take a recess.”
For the first time since the trial began, Ben did not have to push his way through a mob of reporters to get out of the courtroom. He assumed they were all huddled around their cell phones, calling in this surprising development.
Ray was on the other side of the hallway, joyously embracing his girlfriend, Carrie. She was a secretary he’d met at the chemical plant where they both worked. Ray was passionately in love-for the first time in his life, he said-and they had been planning to marry. Before this disaster descended upon them. Carrie had been supremely patient throughout the protracted pretrial ordeal-but Ben knew that wouldn’t last forever.
Not far away, Ben noticed a teenage girl staring at Ray and Carrie. She had short black hair and was leaning on a cane. Ben didn’t have to ask who she was; he’d interviewed her beforehand and had seen her sitting in the courtroom gallery every day since the trial began. She was Erin Faulkner, the girl who’d miraculously managed to escape being chained up in the basement. The only survivor of the Faulkner family.
Ben assumed she was less than delighted about the elimination of key evidence against the man accused of sadistically killing her entire family. But the look in her eyes at that moment, as she gazed at Ray, puzzled him. Was she suppressing the bitterness and hatred she must feel toward him? Ben scrutinized her face more carefully. There was definitely something going on in her head. But what was it?
She turned and, all at once, their eyes locked. Ben felt an icy twinge at his spine. He quickly averted his eyes and, without even thinking about it, wrapped his arms around himself. Defending murder cases was one thing. But this he did not need.
“Sudden chill?”
To his relief, Ben saw his legal assistant, Christina McCall, standing beside him. She was wearing purple-tinted glasses, a waist-length jacket with a fake fur collar, a short, psychedelic orange skirt, and high hip boots.
“Just in from the Sonny and Cher concert?” Ben asked.
“No. Just in from the clerk’s office, where they’re all abuzz about how you knocked Bullock’s feet out from under him.”
“I did my best.”
“You did better than that. One good cross and-voilà! The prosecution case is dead in the water.”
“I never make predictions. It isn’t over till it’s over.”