“At this time I don’t,” I answer, and of course Dan Steward is letting her get away with it.
“Do you know how old she is?”
“No.”
“Can you estimate?”
“I haven’t examined her yet.”
“But you’ve obviously seen the body,” Donoghue continues. “You must have an opinion.”
“I haven’t formed any opinions yet.”
“The body is that of an adult female, correct?” She keeps going because Steward isn’t stopping her.
“That’s correct.”
“Older than sixteen? Older than eighteen?”
“It’s safe to say the body is that of a mature adult female,” I reply.
“Possibly in her fifties?”
“I don’t know her age at this time.”
“I repeat the word possible. Is it possible she’s in her late forties, in her fifties.”
“It’s possible.”
“With long white or platinum-blond hair.”
“That’s correct.”
“Dr. Scarpetta, are you aware that Mildred Lott is fifty and has long, very platinum-blond hair?”
Speaking of her in the present tense, as if she’s not dead. If she’s not dead, then her husband couldn’t have had anything to do with murdering her.
“I’m vaguely aware of her age and that her hair has been described as platinum blond,” I reply.
“With the court’s permission, at this time I’d like to play footage from Fox News that shows Dr. Scarpetta pulling this body out of the Massachusetts Bay earlier today.”
If jurors even consider the body is Mildred Lott, they won’t believe she could have been murdered more than six months ago.
“I’d like to access this Fox News footage on the Internet and play it on the flat screens in the courtroom so everybody can see what I’m talking about.”
Dan Steward’s case is cooked.
“Your Honor, I object,” Steward says.
I glance back at him, and he is on his feet again and looks more bewildered than angry.
“On what grounds, Mr. Steward?” The judge’s face is stony, and he sounds annoyed.
“On the grounds that playing such news footage is irrelevant and immaterial.”
“Your Honor, quite to the contrary,” Donoghue argues. “The footage absolutely is relevant.”
“I’m also very much bothered by the fact that a segment of Fox News, or any televised news, is edited,” Steward says to the judge. “And not edited by police but by a television network or show.”
“And you know for a fact what Ms. Donoghue wants to show the court was edited?” the judge asks.
“My assumption is it would have to have been edited, Your Honor. News programs aren’t in the habit of showing raw uncut footage. I’m asking that you prohibit this videotaped footage and any such footage during this trial.”
Could you be any weaker? I think, with frustration.
“Generally, TV shows aren’t admissible.” The judge sounds bored. “What is your point, Ms. Donoghue?”
“My point is very simple, Your Honor. The footage edited or otherwise shows very clearly the dead body of what appears to be an older woman who had been submerged in cold water and certainly didn’t, quote, turn into soap.”
“Your Honor, this is ridiculous. This is a stunt,” Steward protests in his irritating voice.
“May I continue, Your Honor?” Donoghue asks.
“If you must.”
“So either Dr. Scarpetta’s statement about what happens to a dead body after it’s been submerged in cold water is incorrect or the dead body she just recovered from the bay earlier today is some older woman who hasn’t been dead and submerged in the water for an extended period of time. Your Honor, let’s just be blunt. How do we know this dead body that’s just turned up isn’t Mildred Lott? And if it might be Mildred Lott, then my client certainly couldn’t have killed her, since he’s been in jail for the last five months, held without bond, because Mr. Steward unfairly convinced the court that Channing Lott is a flight risk because of his wealth.”
“Your Honor, she’s turning this trial into a carnival!” Steward exclaims.
“The video clip is less than half a minute long, Your Honor. I’m only interested in showing a close-up of the dead body as Dr. Scarpetta is swimming with it to the Coast Guard boat.”
“I’m going to overrule your objection, Mr. Steward,” the judge says. “Let’s watch the video and try to move on so we’re not here until midnight.”
nineteen
IT’S CLOSE TO SIX P.M. WHEN WE REACH THE LONGFELLOW Bridge in pouring rain and solid traffic, returning to Cambridge after one of the worst experiences I’ve ever had in court.
“I don’t care what anybody says, there’s something suspicious about why he let her get away with that,” Marino hammers the same point, making me crazy with his speculations and theories of plots and plans and possible conspiracies. “It’s one thing for the judge to be an ass because you pissed him off, and I warned you about being late.”
I don’t want to hear another word about it.
“As you’ve pointed out more than once? Since that Supreme Court ruling we’re going to be jerked around more than ever, hauled into court all the time for nothing. But you can’t just show up when you decide.”
I’m in no mood to be lectured.
“But irregardless”—he uses a non-word of his that drives me mad—“the assistant U.S. attorney’s supposed to be on your side.” He turns up the windshield wipers full tilt, his reading glasses on the tip of his nose, as if they somehow will help him see in a downpour.
“I was a defense witness, not a prosecution witness,” I remind him.
“And that’s suspicious, too. Why didn’t Steward subpoena you? He had to know you were a sitting duck because of that e-mail about Mildred Lott turning into soap, so he should have beaten Donoghue to the draw. Then you would have been his witness. He would have qualified you as an expert instead of her doing it, and you wouldn’t have been put through the mill with all these personal questions that sure as hell didn’t make you look good.”
“No matter who ordered me to court, I was going to end up there, and Donoghue would have asked whatever she wanted.”
“You’re her witness and on her side, and still she does that to you?” he persists, and I can’t stand it when he gets this way, defending me after it’s too late, when he couldn’t have changed anything to begin with.
“It’s not about taking sides.” My patience is almost shot.
“Oh, yeah, it is. Everything’s about taking sides.” Marino leans on the horn and yells, “Move, butt munch!” He honks again at the taxi in front of us, and the rude noise goes through my brain like a spike. “Like, whose side is Steward really on? You were the last defense witness, and he didn’t bother to cross-examine you, just let that damn news clip hang in the air?”
“There really wasn’t anything to ask me. I don’t know the identity of the body we recovered from the bay, and that was made clear.”
“Huh. Well, the way he handled you makes me wonder if maybe he’s secretly in league with Donoghue, maybe getting paid under the table or has a promise of it if Channing Lott gets off. How do you know his billions of dollars aren’t what’s tipping the scales of justice in this case? Jesus! The asshole’s tapping his brakes on purpose, wanting me to rear-end him! Move it, fuckwad!” Marino opens his window and gives the taxi driver the finger. “Yeah, go ahead and stop and come over here, see what I do to you, piece of dog shit!”
“For God’s sake, can we do without the road rage?” I ask. “Let’s just get there in one piece, please.”