His statement was brief but cheesy. “Every trial is a long and winding road, and just like that road, it has its bumps. But I have every faith that ultimately, justice will prevail.”
The press began to shout questions before the period could even be heard at the end of that line.
“Do you still believe justice means Ian Powers gets convicted?”
“How do you expect to get a conviction now that your most important evidence has been discredited?”
“Wasn’t the blood the only thing that really showed Ian Powers was involved in the murders?”
Vanderhorn held up his hands. “I’m going to let my lead prosecutor speak to the specifics.” He stepped aside and gestured for me to take his place on the hot seat. “Ms. Knight?”
I tried to salvage what I could from the wreckage that was our case. “While the blood is important, it’s far from the only critical piece of evidence that proves Ian Powers murdered these two young victims.” I listed the rest of the evidence we’d presented and tried to show that we still had a strong case. The truth was, we didn’t.
With no solid proof of motive, we were completely dependent on the physical evidence. And the blood was the strongest. No other piece of evidence tied Ian as surely to the murders.
Even the fingerprints on Brian’s trunk weren’t a slam dunk. We couldn’t prove they were left there at the time of the murder, and besides, after the drubbing Gelfer had taken, everything that came out of the LAPD crime lab would be suspect. All it would take now to blow down the house of cards was a couple of decent defense experts. There were thousands who’d jump at the chance for the free publicity this case would give them.
After I’d been grilled, baked, and fried for ten minutes, Sandi put me out of my misery.
“That’s all for now, folks. Thanks for listening.”
She escorted me out, and Declan, who’d been standing near the door, followed. Sandi gave me a pat on the back. “Ya done good, kid. I’ll spare you the usual platitudes.”
“Thanks, Sandi.” I took out my key to open the door to my office.
“But you know, it ain’t over till it’s over.”
“Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” I said. Bailey opened the door from inside.
Sandi shrugged, gave Bailey a nod, and left.
“Have fun?” Bailey asked.
“Not as much as when a defendant tried to stab me with his pencil, but close.”
“I don’t know how you did it,” Declan said. “I’d have lost it for sure. Especially with that Times reporter. What a dick.”
“Yeah, they’ve been hating this office for a long time,” I said.
“They’re no fans of LAPD either,” Bailey said. “Anyway, I have news…sort of.”
I looked at her, puzzled.
“Cliff Meisner called, so I took it for you. He said to tell you he found an ‘open port’ on Ian’s computer, whatever that is.”
I didn’t know either, so I called him back. Bailey’s cell phone rang, and she got up and signaled she’d be right back.
Cliff had the unenviable task of trying to explain it to me, one of the computer illiterati. “It’s…let me just put it this way. Most computers have only a few ports and they’re all identified. Having an open port is a big red flag. So something’s up with Ian’s computer. I just don’t know what, and I don’t know how long it’ll take me to figure it out. Could be a month or so.”
I’d be out in Antelope Valley handling illegal fireworks cases by then. I thanked Cliff and hung up. The odds were that this “open port” business had nothing to do with our case, but long odds were all I had left. The only question was, how could I get some answers before the case ended? I folded my arms and hunched over. There had to be something. And then I sat up. There was.
72
“I’d ask what got me the pleasure and honor of this call, but I can probably guess,” Graden said, a smile in his voice. “What do you need, Rachel?”
“Advice from a nerd.”
“Fire away.”
I told him what Cliff said about Ian Powers’s laptop. “But he needs at least a month to figure it out. Said going through every possibility takes time, and I guess it’s not his only case-”
“That sounds about right. And you’ve got, what? A couple of weeks?”
“I wish. Now that my case is in shreds, Terry’ll want to get it to the jury as fast as possible.” I told him about the DNA debacle. “My guess is we don’t even have a week before I start rebuttal.”
“Less than a week? That’s…” Graden fell silent for so long I started to wonder if he’d hung up. “I was about to say that’s impossible, and it might be. But the idea I just had…well, the problem is, you won’t want to put this person on the stand. So if something does come of this, I don’t know how you’ll get it into evidence.”
“I’ll drive off that bridge when I come to it. I really can’t be picky about anything at this point.”
“Okay. I’ll get right back to you. Hang tight.”
“I have a choice?”
I sent Declan home. No reason why we all had to sit in Doomsville.
“But you’ll let me know if you need anything, right? I’ll just be sitting around-” Declan said.
“Hopefully getting drunk-”
“But first I’ll be working on getting bios for these mystery defense witnesses.”
Terry had finally given us her witness list just before we left court. As predicted, it was mostly defense experts who’d grind our DNA into even finer dust and trash most of the other physical evidence too. I recognized one of their names: Owen Poplar, a print “expert”-aka whore for hire-who surfaced whenever the price was right to show why prints didn’t match and how they could be planted.
But there were a few names that had no title or description. Naturally, Terry hadn’t taken any written statements, so we had no idea who they were or what they’d have to say. I planned to demand that the judge impose sanctions for this typical defense shell game first thing in the morning.
“Thanks, Declan. Let me know if you come up with anything. But don’t feel obligated to stay sober on my account.”
After Declan left, I went to work on my cross-examination for the experts. But regardless of the problems or issues they raised, the bottom line for my cross would be the same: You can’t say it isn’t Ian’s hair, Ian’s blood, or Ian’s fingerprints, can you? The only weak spot was that the defense didn’t have to prove it wasn’t Ian’s hair, blood, or prints. They only had to raise a reasonable doubt. And I’d already done that for them.
Bailey came back, which provided a welcome distraction from my morbid ruminations. I told her what Cliff had said, and that I’d put Graden on it.
“Great idea.” She sat down and put her feet up on one of the storage boxes under the table where I kept old cases. “I checked out the mystery witnesses on the database. Nothing on them in California. I’ve got someone checking the national sources.”
My cell phone played the first bars of “I Shot the Sheriff”-the new ringtone I’d given to Graden just for giggles. Who says I don’t spend my time wisely?
“Can you and Bailey get over here with that laptop in the next half hour?”
“Gee, I don’t know, we were going to go get mani-pedis.” I rolled my eyes. “We’ll be there in ten.”
I called Cliff, and twenty minutes later we were in Graden’s office, laptop in hand.
Graden was looking particularly sharp today, and I found myself momentarily distracted as I enjoyed the view.
“I assume you meant it when you said you were desperate,” he said with a questioning look.
“Trust me,” Bailey said. “She meant it.”