“So as you sit here today, you don’t know with certainty whether that tool, the one in evidence, or for that matter any tensioning tool was used in this case, do you?”
“There’s not much in life that any of us know with absolute certainty,” he says.
“That’s not an answer to my question. Do you know with certainty whether that tool or any similar tool was used to kill Kalista Jordan?”
“No.”
Harry and I could have objected to this evidence, the tensioning tool, at the preliminary hearing before the trial, where Crone was bound over. We didn’t. It was a tactical decision. Now the state has relied on a piece of evidence that they cannot tie to the crime. Nor can they prove that a similar device was used. Voids like this can be filled later with reasonable doubt during our closing argument.
“You testified earlier that this particular cable tie, the one taken from around the neck of the victim, is unusual, that you wouldn’t expect to find it in your local hardware store. Is that right?”
“I think I said it was heavy-duty,” says de Angelo.
“Would you like me to have the record read back?” I ask him.
“I may have said it would be difficult to find.”
“In fact you stated that you couldn’t expect to find it in your ordinary hardware store, that you’d probably have to order it from an industrial supply house. Your words.” I’m reading from a legal notepad. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“I think so.”
“Are you telling us that cable ties of the kind used to kill Kalista Jordan are rare?”
“I don’t know how you define ‘rare,’” he says. “They’re not as common as lighter-weight cable ties,” he says.
“Would it surprise you if I told you I managed to purchase two dozen cable ties just like that one”-I point to the murder tie in the bag-“at five different stores right here in the San Diego area?” As I ask this, I am pointing to a large paper bag that Harry has picked up and placed in the center of our counsel table.
“Objection,” says Tannery. “Assumes facts not in evidence. Counsel’s trying to testify.”
“I only asked him whether he would be surprised.”
“I’ll allow the question,” says Coats.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, during the course of your investigation didn’t you check the local stores to determine whether this type of cable tie was readily available in the area?”
“We looked.”
“How many stores did you check?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Isn’t it a fact, Lieutenant, that you don’t know how many of these cable ties are sold in this area in a given week, or a month, or a year?”
De Angelo doesn’t respond.
“Objection. Compound question,” says Tannery. “Over what time frame?”
“Fine, let’s start with a week. Do you know how many cable ties like this are sold in this area in a week?”
“No.”
“Do you want to try monthly?” I ask.
I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t. So can the jury, several of whom are still looking at the bag on the counsel table.
“Do you know whether you might have a few cable ties like this one in your basement at home, Lieutenant?”
He doesn’t answer, but looks at me with a death wish.
“So you can’t tell us how rare they are?”
“I never said they were rare. That’s your word.”
“Fine.” I leave it alone. The cable ties aren’t rare. “Do you have any idea what these ties are used for? I mean besides strangling people.”
“Industrial uses.”
“For example?”
“Electrical wiring. To bundle up large groups of wires.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you need ’em for.”
“Do police ever use cable ties like these?”
He makes a face, thinks about it. “Sure. They might.”
“What for?”
“Crowd control. In lieu of handcuffs. Sometimes it’s necessary to use ties like that.”
“The same kind?”
“Probably lighter weight. They wouldn’t be that strong.”
“Fine. So there’s a lot of reasons people might keep cable ties on hand that have nothing to do with murder?”
“I suppose.”
“And also the tools to tighten them?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, isn’t it possible that a homeowner might keep ties like this, and a tensioning tool like that one in front of you, at home to tie up old newspapers, or bundle up trash, or to gather branches after pruning a tree?”
“I suppose.”
“I mean, are we all to assume that everybody who purchases cable ties intends to use them to strangle somebody?”
There is actually some giggling in the jury box with this question.
De Angelo doesn’t respond.
“Maybe we should license them like firearms,” I say.
“Objection.” Tannery’s on his feet.
“Sustained. Mr. Madriani.”
“Sorry, Your Honor.”
“Then it’s entirely possible that Dr. Crone had the tensioning tool in his house and the ties in his pocket for just such a legitimate purpose? To tie up newspapers, or bundle trash?”
“If you say so.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I suppose.”
“That’s all.”
“Redirect,” says the judge.
Tannery is on his feet before I can get out of the way. I seem to have provoked some ire. If he has a weakness, it is a fuse that is a little short for the courtroom.
“Lieutenant, can you tell the jury when you found the cable ties in the pocket of the sport coat belonging to the defendant? The precise date?” he says.
“It was April fifteenth.” This is on the tip of de Angelo’s tongue.
“That was two days after the victim’s body was found on the beach. Is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And the tensioning tool that you found in the defendant’s garage. Was it in plain view?”
“No.”
“I mean, was it hanging on a hook over the workbench with the other tools?”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Did it appear to you that this tool was being concealed, hidden from view?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled,” says Coats.
“It did. It looked like somebody had pushed the tool to the back of the shelf under the workbench, and placed this piece of carpet over the top of it so you couldn’t see it.”
This begs the question why someone who has used a tool and cable ties to commit a cold, calculated murder would keep such evidence in his garage and in the pocket of his favorite sport coat in the closet. But these are questions better posed to the jury in our closing than to de Angelo on the stand, who no doubt would lecture me on the stupid things that perpetrators do, even perps who are highly educated.
chapter seven
William Epperson is the mystery man in our case. Tonight Harry and I are pondering our notes on this particular enigma. Everything we know about the man is spread out on a dimly lit table in the lounge of the Brigantine. This has become our after-hours conference room, a short walk from the office, down the jungle path.
It is after ten, and the dinner crowd has long since departed. Harry is nursing a scotch and soda. I am doing soda straight up, avoiding a buzz in the morning when I have to be in court. The era of the hard-drinking trial lawyer is in decline. An older generation, with blown kidneys and liver failure, have imparted their message. The final nail was pounded into that particular coffin by the state bar that now appoints guardians to take over the practice of anybody who comes to court glassy-eyed, with an odor of alcohol on his breath. So I walk the straight and narrow for my own sake as well as for Sarah’s. You think about things when you’re a single parent.
“So when do you think they’ll put him up?” says Harry. He’s talking about Epperson on the stand.
“Not yet. It’s too early.”
We know almost nothing about him, so we have some ground to make up.
“According to the bits and pieces,” says Harry, “he’s the closest thing Kalista Jordan had to a friend in the lab. Stood by her during her travails with Crone, at least according to the others. And, besides the killer, he was one of the last people to see her alive.”