“That girl in the skinny jeans and heels, is that you?”
Mackenzie visibly gulped at the sight and I saw her scan the audience nervously. I’d bet she was looking for her father. “Y-yes.”
“And who’s that boy-or, rather, man-standing with his arm around you?”
“I don’t know. Just a guy.”
“Isn’t he a bouncer at the Viper Room?”
“I-I guess so.”
Terry put another photograph on the monitor. “That blonde girl in the leopard tube top and sequined miniskirt, is that Hayley?” Between the hair, the makeup, and the getup, she looked at least twenty. A very experienced twenty.
At the sight of her friend, Mackenzie’s lips trembled. “Y-yes.”
“And who is this man standing behind her with his arms around her waist?”
“That’s-that was her boyfriend. Before Brian.”
“He worked for a casting director, and he was about twenty-five years old, right?”
“Yeah-yes.”
Mackenzie looked down at her lap and blinked quickly. I hoped that Terry had pushed it too far, that this cross was starting to alienate the jury, but a fast glance in their direction told me otherwise. Nearly all of their expressions had hardened.
“Now, when Hayley told you she’d be gone for a little while and not to tell anyone, you didn’t know what she was planning?”
“No.”
“But now you know she and Brian were setting up a fake kidnapping to get money from her father, right?”
“I-yes.”
“And when Detective Keller first questioned you, you didn’t tell her about your last conversation with Hayley, did you?”
Mackenzie shook her head.
“You have to answer out loud.”
“No.”
“You told the detective that you had no idea what had happened to Hayley after you left Friday morning, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“But that wasn’t exactly true, was it?”
“No.”
“Thank you. Nothing further.”
“-but I didn’t know what to do!” Mackenzie continued, her voice trembling with grief. “I promised Hayley…I promised her…” Mackenzie’s voice trailed off.
Terry went back to her seat and Bailey escorted Mackenzie out of the courtroom. I clenched my fists as a hard ball of anger burned in my stomach. Mackenzie didn’t deserve this, but there was nothing I could do about it right now. It was on to the physical evidence and my next witness, hacker-or rather “sniffer”-Legs Roscoe.
He’d cleaned up considerably for his television debut. No spikes, no piercings-though I could see the telltale holes on his nose and ears. He even managed to look embarrassed about “cyber-sniffing” Brian’s ransom note at the coffee shop.
“I’m not proud of this. It’s just a game, you know? I do it because I can. I’ve never harmed anyone, blackmailed anyone, or anything sleazy like that.”
“And you’re sure the person you ‘sniffed’ was Brian Maher?”
“One hundred percent.”
“And the girl with him was Hayley?”
“No doubt about it at all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Roscoe. Nothing further.”
And of course, no cross for Legs. Terry loved this testimony. It was further proof that our two victims were extortionists trying to squeeze a cool million out of Hayley’s father.
The next witness was brief and easy: the LAPD computer expert who confirmed that the ransom note sent to Russell had indeed been sent from a laptop or desktop. No cross. No reason for it. And then it was on to our soil expert.
You know how voices can give you a sense of what a person looks like? Sterling Numan’s deep, almost operatic-sounding baritone painted a picture of a large man, or at least a medium-sized man with a big barrel chest. Since I’d never met him in person, that was the mental image I’d been working with. So when a wiry little guy-five feet seven inches, tops-came bouncing into my office, tie swinging, schoolboy hair slicked to one side, and introduced himself, I’d had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
I’d given him my standard advice for testifying, otherwise known as the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. He’d assured me he was very comfortable with juries. My bad. I neglected to ask whether the feeling was mutual.
“Dr. Numan, please give us your credentials.”
He swiveled in his chair to face the jury-which I hate-and proceeded to rattle off a list of degrees, accomplishments, and publications in a tone so condescending and self-congratulatory, I’d have thought it was a sketch right out of Saturday Night Live. I hoped things would improve when we got to the meat of the matter.
“Did you examine the soil samples removed from Brian Maher’s car, Jack Averly’s car, and Hayley’s body?”
This time he turned to face the jury before I’d even finished the question. I was tempted to grab the baseball off the bailiff’s desk and throw it at him-but I was afraid I might miss and hit a juror. My arm is a little unpredictable.
“First of all, the correct name for these ‘soil samples,’ as you call them, is particulates. It’s important to use the correct terminology because each technical appellation has its own specific meaning…”
“Technical appellation.” Kill me, just kill me. He started to roll through a list of all of these magic words. When he came up for air, I jumped in.
“Thank you, Dr. Numan. Did you determine the general location where those particulates came from?”
He shot me a look of annoyance at the interruption, then turned back to the jury. “Yes. I am able to determine the origin of particulates to a somewhat specific degree, though of course I cannot pinpoint the origin to a source within a small circumference…”
Blah, blah, blah. Incomprehensible. I badly needed this answer to be in English. It was the whole point of his testimony. I sliced in when he took a breath.
“Dr. Numan, forgive me. Those are a lot of big words. Could you help me out and give the Soil-or rather Particulates-for Dummies version?”
He shot me an imperious glance, then swiveled back to the jury. “Of course. I was able to determine that the origin of these particulates was limited to a somewhat specific locale…”
And off he went once again, if anything, even less comprehensible than before. I gave up. There was just no way to make him juror-or human-friendly. Eventually, though painfully, I dragged him to his conclusion-I think: that both cars and Hayley’s body showed signs of having been in the locale of Boney Mountain.
But by that time I thought I could hear jurors snoring. I hoped to wake them up with one last piece of evidence I hadn’t mentioned during opening statements.
“I want to shift gears now and ask about another location: Fryman Canyon, the location of the ransom drop. Were you able to tell whether Jack Averly’s car had been in Fryman Canyon recently?”
“I examined samples taken from that location using a variety of testing methods…”
Incredibly, he got more long-winded with every answer. I imagined calendar pages turning before he finally gave his conclusion: that he could not find soil or plant evidence to indicate that Averly’s car had ever been in that location.
Translation: if Averly’s car hadn’t been in Fryman Canyon, Averly hadn’t picked up the ransom money. Ian Powers had retrieved it.
By the time I was done, I suspected the jurors hated me for putting this guy on. I passed the witness to the defense, hoping they’d spend enough time with Numan to get their fair share of juror wrath.
Wagmeister did the cross this time-a clear sign that Terry knew she didn’t have to worry about this evidence. Unfortunately, Wagmeister kept it short and sweet. He had Numan admit again that soil analysis can’t pinpoint exactly where in a given area the cars had been, then wrapped it up succinctly.
“And you cannot say, Dr. Numan, exactly when those particulates got on the cars, can you?”