"You're saying that your wife researched phenelzine on your computer?"
"It's a possibility if she had some question."
"Did she have her own computer?"
"She did."
"Did she routinely use your computer?"
"Not routinely. And not at length. But my computer was right outside our bedroom, so occasionally, she'd tell me and use it for a second."
I never heard about that happening, but it was possible with my mom. Overall, she probably would have preferred to have a computer strapped to her hip. Molto has proved those courtroom sayings about not gilding the lily. The last series of questions feels like it's helped my dad, and Molto, who is not especially poker-faced, seems to know it, frowning at himself as he strolls around. It's not hard to see why Tommy has been successful as a trial lawyer. He's sincere. Maybe misguided. But he comes across like somebody with nothing up his sleeve.
"To be clear, Judge, do you agree that your wife did not die accidentally?"
Because my dad has instructed Sandy to be frank with me about the evidence, I've known in advance about almost everything I've heard in court. My dad hasn't wanted me taken by surprise. And I've rolled it over, talked to Anna about it when she would listen, even made some notes now and then. But to think about your father killing your mother is even worse than thinking about your parents having sex. A part of your brain is just like, "No way, dude." So I've never seen as clearly how these things cascade backward in time. If my mom didn't die accidentally, then she also probably wasn't taking the phenelzine daily. And if she wasn't taking the phenelzine daily, she had no reason to renew the scrip. It means-or seems to mean-it was my dad who wanted the pills. And there's only one conceivable reason for that.
"Mr. Molto, again, I am not a pathologist or a toxicologist. I have my theories, you have your theories. All I know for sure is that your theory is wrong. I didn't kill her."
"So you still say it could have been an accident?"
"The experts say it could have been."
"So if your wife was possibly taking one pill every day, that would mean, wouldn't it, that she handled that pill bottle on four different occasions, right?"
"That's what it would mean."
"And yet, Judge, your wife left no fingerprints on that bottle, is that correct?"
"That's what Dr. Dickerman said."
"Now, Judge, there was a total of twenty-one pill bottles taken from your wife's medicine cabinet and inventoried by Officer Krilic."
"So he testified."
"And according to Dr. Dickerman, your wife's fingerprints appear on seventeen of those bottles. And on two others, there are smudged prints that cannot be positively identified, although he found points of comparisons on each that match your wife's. All true?"
"I remember the testimony the same way."
"Judge, how many times have you been involved as a prosecutor, a trial judge, and an appellate court judge in cases in which fingerprints were offered in evidence?"
"Certainly hundreds. Probably more."
"And so is it fair to say, sir, that over the course of the years, you have learned a great deal about fingerprints?"
"We can quibble about how much, but yes, I've learned a lot."
"For thirty-five years now you've been called upon in one capacity or another to make judgments about the quality or failings of fingerprint evidence. Right?"
"True enough."
"Could we call you an expert?"
"I'm not an expert like Dr. Dickerman."
"No one is," says Molto.
"Just ask him," says my father. This could come across as a cheap shot but the jurors saw Dickerman up there and several of them laugh out loud. In fact, the laughter grows in the courtroom. Even Judge Yee manages a quick chuckle. Molto too has enjoyed the remark. He shakes a finger at my dad in admiration.
"But you know, Judge, that some persons characteristically leave fingerprints on a receptive surface like these pill bottles, don't you?"
"I know, Mr. Molto, that it basically comes down to how much your hands sweat. Some people sweat more than others. But the amount that somebody sweats varies."
"Well, can you agree that somebody who printed on nineteen-or even seventeen other bottles-can you agree that it would be unusual for that person to handle this bottle of phenelzine four times"-and now Molto again holds up the actual bottle, in the plastic envelope sealed with evidence tape-"and leave no fingerprints?"
"I can't say that for sure, Mr. Molto. And frankly I don't recall hearing Dr. Dickerman say it, either."
On the stand, Dickerman had clearly given Jim Brand, who questioned him, less than Brand hoped for on this point. Back at the office, Stern and my dad had said that happened with Dickerman regularly. He took it as proof of his eminence that he was
unpredictable.
"By the way, is Dr. Dickerman a friend of yours?" Molto asks.
"I would say yes. Just as he's a friend of yours. We've both known him for a long time."
Trying to insinuate that Dickerman might have been tilting his testimony toward my dad, Molto has come up on the short end of the exchange.
"Well, let's be clear, Judge. There are only two bottles in your wife's medicine cabinet on which we can say without doubt that her fingerprints don't appear. True?"
"Apparently."
"And one is the bottle of sleepers you picked up the day before she died, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And that bottle is full, right?"
"Right."
"So leaving the unopened sleeping pills aside, the only bottle in your dead wife's medicine cabinet on which the experts can say definitively that her fingerprints are not present, Judge-the only container is the bottle of phenelzine, correct?"
"There are no identifiable prints of Barbara's on the bottle of phenelzine, and as you point out, on three others."
"Move to strike," says Molto, which means he thinks my dad didn't answer the question.
Judge Yee asks to have the question and answer read back.
"Answer may stand," says Yee, "but, Judge, only one opened bottle where expert can say for sure, no sign of your wife fingerprints. Yes?"
"That's fair enough, Your Honor."
"Okay." Yee nods for Molto to go on.
"But on the bottle of phenelzine-on that bottle the only prints which appear, Judge, are yours? Right?"
"My prints are on that bottle and on seven others, including the sleeping pills that were unopened."
"Move to strike," Molto says again.
"Sustained," Yee says somewhat darkly. He gave my dad a chance not to screw around and he didn't take it.
"So far as we can tell from the fingerprints, you are the only person who handled the phenelzine."
Already chastened by the judge, my dad answers more carefully.
"Considering only the fingerprints, that is true, Mr. Molto."
"Very well," says Tommy. He seems to realize only after he has spoken that he sounded as though he were imitating Stern. One of the jurors, a middle-aged black guy, picks up on that and smiles. He seems to love what Tommy is doing. Molto is back at the prosecution table, paging through his yellow legal pad, a sign that he is again changing subjects.
"Good time for a break?" the judge asks.
Molto nods. The judge knocks his gavel and calls a five-minute time-out. The spectators rise and buzz at once. My dad has been a big deal in Kindle County for decades now, especially in the kind of crowd that wants to come and watch a trial. Call it what you like, bloodlust or lurid curiosity, but many of them are here to see the mighty fall, to reconfirm that power corrupts and that overall, you're better off without it. I'm not sure there is anybody but me left out here in these seats who is still hoping my dad is innocent.
CHAPTER 26
Nat, June 22, 2009
While a witness is on the stand, no one is allowed to talk to him about his testimony, including his lawyers. Stern and Marta nod at my dad from the prosecution table, and Sandy makes a little fist to tell him to hang in, but neither approaches him. I feel bad about this. It comes too close to the reality of what's been going on to have him shunned by everybody in the room, so I go up just to ask if he needs another glass of water. He answers with another indifferent shrug.