And that’s what he did. On direct. Cross was another matter.
Again, Terry took the reins. “You’re the leader of a white supremacist group, aren’t you?”
“That I am.”
“And your group isn’t fond of liberals, is it?”
Dominic wrinkled his brow, wondering where this was going. I could’ve objected, but I didn’t want the jury to think I was protecting a skinhead, so I sat back.
“Not their biggest fans, no.”
“In fact, your group hates the Hollywood elite, doesn’t it? You think they’re all minority- and fag-loving liberals, don’t you?”
Dominic shrugged. “They are, aren’t they?”
This drew a few titters from the audience and some lip-twitching from the jurors. It was the first comic relief in the trial and everyone appreciated it, regardless of who’d provided it and how.
“And yours isn’t the only group who hates the Hollywood liberals, is it?”
“S’pose not.”
“Thank you. Nothing further.”
“People?” the judge asked. “Redirect?”
I was about to let it go, but then I decided to try and make a point.
“Do you even know who this defendant is, Mr. Rostoni?”
“Sure. He’s a big-time manager. Partner of that director, Antono…something.”
Ouch. Since when did this cretin know anything about Hollywood business? My bad. I’d violated the old saw: never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer. Keeping a neutral expression, I tried again. “Is that something you found out after this case made the news?”
“Nah. I knew about them ’cuz that director guy used a coupla my bikes in a film.”
“So you had no problem doing business with him, liberal or not?”
“His money’s still green.”
I’d lucked out.
“Thank you, Mr. Rostoni. Nothing further.”
“Defense?” The judge asked. “Any re-cross?”
“Briefly,” Terry said, rising slowly.
“Then I take it that some of your employees or ‘club’ members have been to Mr. Powers’s studio?”
“Probably. Delivering bikes and whatnot.”
“Ever deliver to Mr. Antonovich’s home?”
Dominic sniffed and thought a minute. “Not that I know of.”
“It’s possible though, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rostoni.”
And there it was, Terry’s point: people who had it in for Antonovich and Powers had access and opportunity to hurt them, know things about them-and, of course, set them up. Likely? No. But the beginnings of a basis for “reasonable” doubt? Absolutely.
The judge looked at me. “People? Anything in light of that?”
“No, thank you, Your Honor.”
“We’ll take our afternoon recess,” Judge Osterman said. He turned to the jury. “Folks, you’d be wise to use this time to stretch your legs and get ready for our last session of the day. See you back here in fifteen minutes.”
67
I pulled out my checklist for Dorian’s questioning after the jury had filed out.
“Which DVDs do you want me to load?” Declan asked.
I told him, and started to review my notes. Bailey leaned in to whisper to me. “You probably want to think about giving him a witness. Just to let him feel like a real boy.”
I nodded. “But not Dorian-”
“God no. Just wanted to mention it so you could keep it in mind for later.”
“You’re right.” I hadn’t wanted to throw him into this snake pit with Terry, but I could let him handle some witnesses whose testimony wouldn’t draw a lot of fire. I jotted down a few names that immediately came to mind.
Dorian was a strong witness, but she was a tough one. She wouldn’t be pushed one centimeter farther than she intended to go and she never stretched beyond the most restrictive explanation of the physical evidence. If she didn’t see it, she wouldn’t say it, and she had no hesitation pushing back in ways that made the unfortunate lawyer regret the day he was born. No one was immune, as many an unwary prosecutor who’d been dressed down by her in front of a jury had learned the hard way. The judge came out and called for the jury, and Bailey went to bring her in.
“People?” the judge said. “Your next witness?”
“The People call Dorian Struck.”
Dorian strode up to the witness stand. I’d coordinated the photographs and videos to illustrate her testimony with a very bare bones “what did you see, what did you collect” series of questions. We moved through the evidence collection quickly, the only embellishment being her description in stultifyingly boring detail of the careful measures she’d taken to protect each piece of evidence from degradation or contamination. The soil and plant debris on the victims and on Brian’s and Averly’s cars, the fingerprints on the cars, the blood on the trunk of Brian’s car, and the hairs in Averly’s car. I ended her direct examination with the only analysis she’d performed.
“Did you do a microscopic examination of the hair you recovered from the driver’s and the passenger’s seats in Jack Averly’s car?”
“Yes.”
“Now, a microscopic examination cannot tell you for sure that a hair found at a crime scene matches one person to the exclusion of all others, correct?”
“Correct. It’s not DNA. We speak in terms of consistency, not matches.”
“Bearing that in mind, did you compare that hair from Averly’s car to any party involved in this case?”
“I compared the hair to every party in this case who might have contributed that specimen. That includes the victims, their friends and relatives, Mr. Powers, and Mr. Averly.”
“As a result of the comparisons you conducted, what did you conclude?”
“First, I found that many of the hairs in the Mustang were consistent with the hair of Jack Averly.”
“No surprise since that’s his car, right?”
“Surprising or not, that’s what I found.”
I noticed that a couple of the jurors’ lips twitched at that response.
“Were there any hairs in that car that were not consistent with Jack Averly’s?”
“Yes. There were several on both the driver’s and the passenger’s seats that were not consistent with Mr. Averly’s hair samples. I found many of those hairs to be consistent with the hair samples I myself took from the defendant, Ian Powers.” She went on to describe where in the car Powers’s hairs were found.
With another criminalist, I would’ve covered the gaps I knew Terry would go for. But knowing Dorian as I did, I left them alone. She could take care of herself and it’d come off better on cross. “Nothing further.” I passed the witness to the defense.
Terry moved to the lectern. I sat back to watch the show.
“You found hairs that didn’t match either Jack Averly or Ian Powers, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s common to find stray hairs or fibers that can’t be identified as having come from any known party, right?”
Clever. That question ensured that Dorian would give Terry a helpful answer and make Terry look smart.
“Correct. It’s Locard’s exchange principle: ‘Every contact leaves a trace.’ Meaning that every person takes some trace and leaves some trace of himself-or herself-at any location visited. So the unidentified hair could be from someone at the car wash, or a hitchhiker, or a neighbor.”
“Or those unidentified hairs could have come from the person who framed Ian Powers?”
With any other witness I would have objected. But Dorian’s answer would be better than any objection I could make. And this frame-up nonsense was the whole defense theory. I didn’t want the jury to think it worried me.
Dorian raised an eyebrow. A big warning sign if you knew her. “I have no evidence to show that anyone was framed, Counsel. There were hairs in that car that were not consistent with either Jack Averly’s or your client’s hair. That’s all I can say.”